Larry and Stretch 9

by Marshall Grover

  He suited the action to the words, advancing to where Austin lay. Then, as he began raising the bulky hardcase, Larry called a curt command.

  “Drop him!”

  Stretch let go. Austin flopped on his back, groaning. Grim-faced, Larry strode across to crouch beside the gun-hawk. His hands gripped Austin’s ankle and hauled upward, exhibiting the bottom of the boot for Stretch’s inspection.

  “Remind you of anything?” challenged Larry.

  “Damn right,” growled Stretch.

  There could be no mistaking the significance of this find—a bent nail—securely embedded in the heel of Austin’s boot. Larry studied it intently.

  “It looks like,” frowned Stretch, “this hombre was one of the skunks that drygulched Weaver. Well, maybe these other two were in on it.”

  “Safe guess,” grunted Larry.

  “So now what?” Stretch demanded.

  “Just this once,” said Larry, “we have to play it legal.”

  “You mean deliver these galoots to the law,” prodded Stretch, “instead of fazin’ a confession out of ’em? Aw, hell!”

  “We made old Luke a promise, remember?” said Larry. “If we take the law into our own hands, we’re apt to tangle with the sheriff, and maybe end up in jail. How can we ride for Luke, if we’re stuck in a cell? I don’t cotton to it any more than you do, but we’ll have to play it straight. You fetch their lariats. We’ll truss ’em to their mounts and take ’em in.”

  The reception accorded the Texans and their prisoners at the county law office left much to be desired, from Larry’s point of view. Ed Loomis’s attitude was belligerent right from the start, and the deputy took his cue from his chief.

  “Any arrests that’s made in this here territory,” Loomis coldly informed Larry, “I’ll make ’em! You’re no lawman. You ain’t even a sworn-in posse man!”

  Somehow, the drifters managed to keep a rein on their tempers. They stood by Loomis’s desk in the shabby office, building smokes and, with as much patience as they could muster, endured Loomis’s bitter tirade. Murch, Wilson and Austin had been freed of their bonds and were positioned with their backs to the rear wall, interjecting heatedly, demanding the return of their weapons. Kellogg squatted by the street door, scowling at the tall Texans. When his chief paused for breath the deputy threw in his ten cents’ worth.

  “You whupped the tar outa Murch and his pards, it looks like,” he observed. “I reckon that’s enough. No reason you should arrest ’em.”

  “I’ll be glad to tell you the real reason we arrested ’em,” drawled Larry, “just as soon as your boss quits hollerin’.”

  “I’ll take no lip from you!” fumed Loomis.

  “Are you gonna listen?” demanded Larry.

  “Say your piece,” growled the sheriff, “and say it fast.”

  “My partner and me,” frowned Larry, “we scouted the bend where Del Weaver was ambushed ...” He went on to describe the all-important boot-mark and, while talking, he kept his eyes on the three hardcases, studying their reaction. Murch and Wilson suddenly became impassive, but the same couldn’t be said for Austin. The big man was badly scared. “That print,” he concluded, “matches up with what you’ll find in the big hombre’s boot—a bent nail stuck under the heel.”

  There was a tense silence. Kellogg broke it with a pensive remark.

  “Could be coincidence, Ed, but we oughtn’t take a chance on it.”

  “Austin—siddown,” ordered Loomis. “I want to take a look under your boots.”

  “Couple loco saddlebums,” scowled Murch, “tryin’ to play detective.”

  “Facts is facts,” said Kellogg. “I’m curious to know how and when Austin left a boot print way out to White Rock Bend.”

  “You ain’t half as curious as me,” breathed Loomis. “Siddown, Austin!”

  Austin flopped into a chair. Loomis knelt and examined the underpart of his boots, paying special attention to the embedded nail.

  “All right, Austin,” growled Loomis. “What’s your story?”

  The burly man licked his lips, shrugged and mumbled: “It don’t prove nothin’. What I mean—I been out to the Bend often enough, and I could easy leave tracks out there, but it don’t foller I was there when Weaver got jumped.”

  “The track I found,” said Larry, “was fresh. Just fresh enough to be made at the same time Weaver was killed.”

  “How about Murch and Wilson?” Kellogg asked his chief.

  “We ain’t been near White Rock Bend in a coon’s age,” declared Murch. He scowled defiantly at Larry. “Let’s hear you prove we was!”

  Larry ignored him, and concentrated all his attention on Austin.

  “He ain’t the smartest killer I ever saw,” he told Loomis. “Maybe it wasn’t all his idea. Maybe somebody put him up to it.” He eyed Austin coldly. “It might go easier for you if you tell us who.”

  “Wait a minute—wait a minute!” raged Loomis. “Who are you to interrogate my prisoner? You butt outa this, Valentine!”

  “I’ll butt out,” Larry offered, “when I hear just what you aim to do with these jaspers.”

  “It’s plain enough I gotta hold Austin,” said Loomis. “He’s got plenty questions to answer, and maybe a couple days in jail will loosen his tongue. But you can’t give me one scrap of evidence against Murch or Wilson. Well? Can you?”

  “That’s a fact,” Larry agreed.

  “Hutch,” said Loomis, “stash Austin in a cell. Then give these other hombres their hardware and turn ’em loose.”

  “Murch and Wilson,” frowned Kellogg, “’most always run with Austin.”

  “I know it,” nodded Loomis, “but that don’t prove anything. We can’t hold ’em ’less we got some proof they were with Austin …” He stared hard at the big man, “when and if Austin triggered Del Weaver.”

  “But, damnitall ...!” began Austin.

  “Shuddup, Pike,” grinned Murch. “Any fool lawman can make an arrest. Makin’ the charge stick is somethin’ else again. Don’t fret yourself, Pike. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”

  Kellogg unlocked the cellblock door and gestured for Austin to precede him. They moved into the stone-floored corridor, watched by the Texans and by Austin’s cronies. To Larry, Loomis asserted:

  “It’s our chore from here on—understand? I don’t take kindly to drifters that butt into law business, and don’t you forget it.”

  Larry was only half-listening. Already, his thoughts were turned from Loomis to the crime itself—and the question of motive.

  These were local hard cases. Would they have ambushed Weaver, would they have butchered him so treacherously, merely for the few dollars in his pockets? It was possible but, to Larry’s way of thinking, none too probable. Could somebody else, a fourth party, have ordered the ambush? Murch and Wilson appeared mighty sure of themselves now. Why? Because they were confident their crony would be extricated from this predicament? Yes, and this suggested the involvement of a fourth party.

  “Well?” challenged Loomis. “What’re you jaspers waitin’ for?”

  Grinning, Murch and Wilson hurried away. And the Texans also withdrew, but at a slower pace. Outside the law office, they paused to compare notes.

  “It ain’t so good, them other two runnin’ loose,” Stretch opined. “Too bad we didn’t find their boot-tracks at the bend.”

  “Uh huh,” grunted Larry. “They were likely there with Austin, but it has to be proved.”

  “I know what’s frettin’ you,” muttered Stretch. “You’re still wonderin' why they ambushed Weaver.”

  “When I know why,” said Larry, “maybe I’ll know who put ’em up to it.”

  “Sure,” Stretch agreed. “But how do you find out?”

  “For a starter,” Larry decided, “I’ll be mighty interested in any visitors that come a’callin’ on this Austin hombre.” They led their borrowed mounts back to the Lone Star Corral and, for some ten minutes or so, questioned the obliging Brazos. He knew
the three hardcases, but only by reputation.

  “Two-bit gunhawks,” was how he described them. “I could believe they’d drygulch Weaver, but I’m damned if I could give you a reason. Anyway, why fret about the reason? If you found track of Pike Austin out there ...”

  “In court,” Larry opined, “a smart lawyer might claim the boot-mark don’t prove anything. We figure Austin was there, handlin’ his share of the shootin’, but what we figure ain’t important. What matters is how a jury looks at it. A lawyer could convince a jury that Austin made those tracks some other time.”

  “So you think you know who killed Weaver,” frowned Brazos, “and you still ain’t satisfied.”

  “That’s about the size of it, Brazos,” grinned Stretch. “A mystery is one thing ol’ Larry just can’t abide. He has to have an answer for everything.”

  “All right, big feller,” said Larry. “We’re goin’ back and keep an eye on that calaboose. If Austin gets any visitors I want to know who they are.”

  At this same time, in the office above the Lucky Chance, Murch and Wilson were reporting to an impassive Russ Bale and a scowling Lew Neech. And, though they tried to discount the potential danger of this reversal, Neech was hard to convince.

  “You claim I can count on Austin to keep his mouth shut,” he growled. “Can I stake my life on that? How do I know Austin won’t turn yellow and start shooting off at the mouth, after a few days in Loomis’s jail?”

  “Would he do that?” wondered Bale. “Hell, Lew. If he talks, he condemns himself.”

  “Pike ain’t the smartest jasper I ever knew,” frowned Murch.

  “He might crack,” Wilson admitted. “He just might.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” muttered Neech. “And I don’t aim to take any chances. There’s too much at stake. If Loomis starts plaguing me with accusations, if I’m charged as an accomplice in the Weaver killing …”

  “You’d have to cut and run,” mused Bale. “And you’d have to forget about owning Carew Canyon.”

  “Austin ...” Neech said it between his teeth, “has to be quietened—permanently.”

  “He’s stuck in jail,” Bale reminded him, “so it won’t be all that easy.”

  A sudden thought occurred to the saloonkeeper. He fired a query at the hardcases.

  “Where did they put Austin? Which cell?”

  “Couldn’t tell you which cell,” frowned Murch. “But we saw Kellogg puttin’ him away. Some cell on the right side of the jail.”

  “The right side?” prodded Neech. “You’re dead sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” nodded Murch. “It was a right-side door Kellogg opened. Why?”

  “That makes it easier,” muttered Neech. “Considerably easier.” He opened a draw of his desk, rummaged inside. “If Austin can be drawn to his cell-window—he can be quietened, and I can stop worrying.”

  “Just what do you have in mind?” frowned Bale.

  “I’m gallows-bait,” Neech curtly declared, “if Austin starts talking a deal with the law. It’s Austin or me, the way I see it. And it surely isn’t going to be me!” From the drawer he produced a pistol which he placed on the desktop. His three-man audience studied it with interest, a weapon of little known make, a Lynch and Varley .36. It looked fragile with its long, slender barrel and its almost uncurved butt.

  “I never seen such a shooter before,” mumbled Wilson.

  “It don’t look worth a damn,” was Murch’s blunt comment.

  “Don’t sell it short,” grinned Neech. “It packs as much wallop as the old Navy Colts. Same caliber. It makes accuracy easier because the grip is steady. But, best of all, it isn’t too noisy. It doesn’t roar like a .45. It barks.”

  “You aim to use that on Austin?” challenged Murch.

  “Any objections?” countered Neech. “Remember, Murch, your neck is at stake. If you three had been carrying the bounty I paid you, Loomis would have found it for sure, and he’d have gotten mighty curious about it. You came close to filling a cell along with Austin. Well, your luck held, but don’t push it.”

  “Keep dealin’ it out,” shrugged Murch. “You’re the boss.”

  “An hour from now,” said Neech, “you and Wilson will pay Austin a sociable visit. Loomis might refuse permission; on the other hand, he mightn’t. That’s a chance we’ll have to take. It’s my guess he’d lock you in the cell with Austin, after you’ve surrendered your hardware.”

  “You aim to gun Pike while we’re with him?” blinked Murch.

  “You’d be unarmed,” Neech reminded him, “so you’d be in the clear.”

  “How do you figure to handle it?” demanded Bale.

  “They made it easy for me ...” Neech grinned coldly, “when they stowed Austin in one of the right-side cells.” He illustrated his point by sketching a rough design on paper. “Those cell-windows overlook an alley—right? What’s on this side of the alley? The old Sheldon store—empty. It’s been empty a long time.”

  “I know the Sheldon building,” frowned Bale. “There aren’t any windows opening on to that alley.”

  “I don’t need a window,” Neech retorted. “A crack in the wall is room enough.”

  “And the Sheldon building is right next door to this saloon,” mused Bale, “which makes it that much easier for you. You could sneak in from the back alley.”

  “I’ll take my time about that,” said Neech. “Any time within the next hour. The alley isn’t busy, this time of day, but Main Street is as noisy as ever. I reckon it can be done. I can shut Austin’s mouth without raising a racket, and be back here before Loomis realizes what has happened.”

  “Where do we fit into this?” demanded Wilson.

  “Haven’t you guessed?” challenged Neech. “Clear enough, isn’t it? You’ll pay Austin a call, an hour from now. You’ll trick him into looking out his cell window. His face against the bars is all the target I’ll need. When he flops, you’ll yell blue murder—to cover yourselves. Maybe they’ll be suspicious, but they can’t prove a thing against you.”

  Within thirty minutes of Austin’s incarceration in the county jail, news of his arrest was being circulated far and wide. Ed Loomis was the direct cause of this. Being friendly with the “Herald” editor, he considered it obligatory that he should visit Gifford and tell him the score. From the “Herald” office the word spread fast throughout town and was picked up by a Bar A puncher, who promptly hot-footed it back to the Alden headquarters.

  Loomis was still with his journalist friend, sampling bourbon in the “Herald” office and Deputy Kellogg was on duty at the law office, when Murch and Wilson arrived to demand audience with the prisoner. By then, Lew Neech had gained entry to the disused building on the opposite side of the adjoining alley, and had chosen his vantage point. The board-wall of the old store was cracked in many places. Through one of those cracks he could keep both side windows of the jailhouse under observation.

  But Larry and Stretch had noted the arrival of Austin’s cronies, and were immediately suspicious.

  Seven – Lynch-Party

  “Back already,” Stretch observed.

  “Back already,” nodded Larry. “And that deputy ain’t the brightest badge-toter I ever knew.”

  They occupied cane-back chairs on the boardwalk opposite the jailhouse. It was early afternoon now, and it seemed their vigil was being rewarded. Maybe it didn’t mean anything, this visit by Murch and Wilson. Then, again, maybe there was some significance to it.

  “You think they’d try to bust Austin outa there?” asked Stretch.

  “It’s been done before,” growled Larry. “The deputy’ll take their hardware—but maybe he won’t think to check ’em for a sneak-gun. If they could slip a derringer to Austin, for instance, he could bust out any time he wants.”

  “We’d better mosey over there,” Stretch decided.

  They crossed Main Street in a hurry, mounted to the law office porch and strode through the street doorway, arriving just as the depu
ty emerged from the cellblock. Two rolled gunbelts reposed on the desk. Kellogg hung his key ring on the peg, eyed them suspiciously.

  “You again? What d’you want?”

  “What did they want?” countered Larry.

  “Murch and Wilson,” frowned Kellogg. “Well, they stopped by to visit with Austin, and that’s okay by me, ’long as they abide by the rules.” He nodded to the desk. “They’ve checked their guns.”

  “For all you know,” scowled Larry, “those two jaspers were sidin’ Austin—when he ambushed Weaver!”

  “We’re holdin’ Austin on suspicion,” Kellogg doggedly pointed out. “But we got nothin’ on them other two. The hell with it, Valentine. You can’t come bargin’ in here—tellin’ us how to handle our chores—hey ...!”

  He yelled a protest, as Larry brushed past him and unhitched the key ring.

  “I’ll check your prisoner personal,” Larry grimly asserted, as he hustled into the cellblock with Stretch in tow.

  “Damnitall!” protested the deputy. “What the hell d’you think you’re doin’ ...?”

  He had to break into a brisk canter to tag the fast-striding Texans along the corridor to Austin’s cell. Murch and Wilson were in there, their backs to the bars. Murch was offering Austin a cigar. The prisoner was seated on the bunk under the window, frowning uneasily.

  “Did you search these galoots for a hide-away gun?” challenged Larry, who was now unlocking the cell-door.

  “Well—uh—no,” frowned Kellogg. “But …”

  “But nothin’,” snapped Larry, as he shoved the door open. “You’ve got just one lead on the Weaver murder. If you lose him, what’s left? Nothin’. You’re back where you started.” With Stretch close behind, he moved into the cell and nodded to the startled visitors. “You and you. Turn your backs and raise your paws.”

  “What the hell ...?” began Wilson.

  “Do like Larry says,” scowled Stretch. “You turn leery on us and, by glory, you’ll wish you’d never got born!”

  “Now look, Valentine …” Kellogg tried again.

  But the Texans weren’t listening. Quickly but thoroughly they searched the two hardcases. Stretch found a jack-knife and tossed it out into the corridor, to the accompaniment of much cussing from Murch. Larry then forced them to remove their boots, which he upended, but found empty.