Larry and Stretch 9

by Marshall Grover

  The discussion continued while, in the Lone Star hayloft, Larry fidgeted and fretted, with sleep eluding him. Inevitably, Stretch awakened and mournfully enquired:

  “Do you gotta keep proddin’ my doggone face with your doggone knee?”

  “Go back to sleep,” growled Larry.

  “Who can sleep,” challenged Stretch, “with you rockin’ the hay? What’s frettin’ you, runt?”

  “Same old thing,” muttered Larry. “Too many questions and not enough answers. Who wanted Weaver dead? Who wanted Austin dead?”

  Down below, they heard Brazos’s voice raised in anger.

  “No, Georgie! Not one critter left. Sure, I know you need a fast horse to ride in the damn-blasted race—but they all been hired out! You tried Brannigan’s? No luck? How about Doolan’s? Same thing? Well, I can’t help you. Seems like Neech rented every good cayuse in the whole blame territory …”

  Larry crawled to the edge of the loft and cocked an ear. One name had been repeated, and more than once. Neech.

  “Some hombre name of Neech,” he remarked to Stretch, “hankers to win himself a piece of that canyon.”

  “Hankerin’ awful hard, it seems like,” was Stretch’s comment. “Any hombre that’d hire up every fast horse ...”

  “Hush up,” grunted Larry. “I want to hear this.”

  “I’m sayin’ it ain’t fair and square,” Brazos’s visitor was complaining. “There oughta be a rule agin it.”

  “Gotta agree with you on that, Georgie,” drawled Brazos.

  “What I mean,” muttered George, “Neech owns the Lucky Chance Saloon. He’s got plenty dinero and he lives high off the hog. Ain’t that enough for him? Does he have to own the whole damn canyon—all for hisself?”

  “The rules say only one man to a section,” Brazos pointed out. “But there’s no rule agin Neech’s pards sellin’ him their stakes, after they’ve claimed their sections.”

  “Still say it ain’t fair ...” lamented Georgie, as he went his sorry way.

  Brazos made to return to his cabin beside the barn, but turned to gaze up to the loft, as Larry called to him.

  “Come on up here and talk, Brazos. We’ll be ridin’ in that race tomorrow—and you seem to know more about the rules than I ever learned.”

  Nine – The Vital Miles

  For quite some time thereafter Stretch abandoned all hope of peaceful slumber. Brazos joined them in the loft, hefting a pint of rye. The bottle was uncorked and passed from hand to hand, and Larry’s memory was hard at work. He was recalling the few moments he had spent in the Lucky Chance Saloon, and the fact that Murch and Wilson had some association with the owner.

  “This Neech hombre,” he asked Brazos, “would he be a tall, good-lookin’ dude, kinda gray above the ears ...?” He offered the horse-dealer an accurate description of the saloon owner, then asked, “You got any ideas why this Neech cornered the market on fast horses?”

  “It’s like I told Georgie Prescott,” shrugged Brazos. “Neech is givin’ hisself ten chances at winnin’ the race—and that could mean the whole ten sections of Carew Canyon—all for Neech.” He eyed Larry curiously. “You know Neech?”

  “Only to look at,” frowned Larry. “What kind of a jasper is he?”

  “When I start trustin’ rattlesnakes,” sneered Brazos, “I’ll start trustin’ Lew Neech.”

  “What’s in it for him—I wonder?” mused Larry. “I can savvy why a sodbuster would crave a piece of that canyon land, but what’s in it for a gambler?”

  “I couldn’t guess why Neech wants the canyon,” muttered Brazos. “All I know is he sure does want it. Any hombre that’d hire up so many horses, pay the entrance fee of nine other jaspers, as well as payin’ them to ride for him ...”

  “Is that a fact?” prodded Larry.

  “Stone-cold truth,” nodded Brazos. “The word’s been out for quite a spell. Any hombre wants to earn a fast dollar, all he has to do is tote a stake for Lew Neech.” He grinned wryly. “But I can tell you one rider Neech could never hire—and one horse he couldn’t hire, buy or steal.”

  Larry propped his chin in his hands, stared thoughtfully at the horse dealer.

  “Meanin’ Del Weaver?”

  “And Snow-Boy,” sighed Brazos. “Man, oh man! What a horse! Straddlin’ that calico, Weaver could outrun any horse in the whole Kansas territory. Yes siree, boy.”

  “Weaver wouldn’t have ridden for Neech?” challenged Larry.

  “Not to save his life,” growled Brazos. “They wasn’t exactly partial to each other, if you know what I mean.”

  “Runt,” frowned Stretch, “are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

  “Sure,” nodded Larry. “But there still has to be a reason. Tell me somethin’, Brazos. Did Neech have some kind of grudge against Weaver—bad enough to want him dead?”

  “He had reason to hate Weaver’s innards,” frowned Brazos. “But—bad enough to kill him? I ain’t so sure about that.”

  “They tangled?” asked Larry.

  “A while back,” said Brazos. “I wasn’t there, but I heard about it. Ain’t much happens in the county that I don’t hear about sooner or later. Seems Weaver proved Neech’s roulette table was rigged. Well, you can bet Neech never forgave him for that—but I dunno if he’d try to get Weaver killed.”

  “Hold on now!” breathed Larry.

  “Uh, uh,” grunted Stretch. “Ol’ Larry has just thunk him a thought.”

  “It’s a question,” Larry quietly told them, “the kind of question I’d admire to know the answer to.”

  “Such as?” prodded Stretch.

  “Such as,” said Larry, “would Neech hire Austin to ambush Weaver—just to make sure he couldn’t ride in the big race? You heard what Brazos said. If Weaver and the calico weren’t dead, they’d surely win that race. And it looks like Neech wants every acre of the canyon. Not just nine-tenths, but all of it.”

  “That’s a helluva reason for killin’ a man,” scowled Brazos.

  “It might’ve been reason enough,” Larry retorted. “But that depends on why Neech wants the land.”

  “I just thought of somethin’,” Stretch announced.

  “Go ahead,” offered Larry. “Surprise me.”

  “If this Neech hombre,” said Stretch, “had a notion how fast our prads can run, maybe we’d get ambushed!”

  “You could be right, big feller,” mused Larry.

  “If I was a mite younger, and hadn’t hired out my best horses,” drawled Brazos, “I swear I’d pay my ten dollars and join in the fun tomorrow.” He grinned mirthlessly, as he added, “It’s gonna be a rough race, in more ways than one. I betcha Neech’s bully-boys’ll be foulin’ every other rider.”

  That observation made an impression on Larry. He rolled over and sat bolt upright. Briskly, he fired a command at Stretch.

  “Put your pants on.”

  “What’s up?” demanded Brazos. “You goin’ someplace?”

  “Damn right,” said Larry, “and we ain’t walkin’—so I’ll thank you to saddle a couple horses for us, Brazos.”

  “What I wanta know,” growled Stretch, “is where in tarnation are we goin’?”

  “We’re about to take a twelve-mile ride,” Larry told him. “The six miles to Carew Canyon—and home again. We’re goin’ quiet and we’re ridin’ wary. Come tomorrow, I aim to be sure I know every yard of the route.”

  “You don’t have to fret about that,” offered Brazos, as he began descending the ladder. “They got it marked out already, with flags and signposts.”

  The bell in the steeple of Becksburg’s Baptist chapel was chiming eleven p.m. when the drifters quietly departed the big town and rode out to the flats north of the outskirts. Here, the official dais had already been erected, also a gaily-festooned tent in which the officials of the town council would shelter from the harsh sun while awaiting the results of the race, to be relayed by Deputy Kellogg. Larry wasted no time in inspecting this area. His main concern was
the actual route, the marked-off terrain to be traversed by the horses and wagons of three-score land-hungry optimists.

  They rode between the flags for four miles, letting their mounts chose their own pace, so as not to tire them before the return journey. And, while they rode, their eyes were busy, noting landmarks, checking distances.

  Larry suddenly reined up and held a finger to his lips. “Whatsamatter?” Stretch demanded.

  “Listen,” frowned Larry.

  Stretch listened and, after a few moments, the sound was repeated. From somewhere to their left—the nicker of a horse. They stared hard in that direction and noted the strip of thick mesquite.

  “You curious enough,” Larry asked, “to take a look.”

  “Let’s just do that,” grunted Stretch.

  They idled their mounts into the brush. Two saddled horses were staked out in there—racy-looking animals. For a full ten minutes they scouted through the mesquite, but without finding any other sign of life.

  “Where,” Stretch wondered, “are the hombres that belong to these horses?”

  “That’s a good question,” drawled Larry.

  “You was born suspicious, runt,” said Stretch, “so you think of an answer.”

  “All right,” said Larry. “Try this on for size. Could these horses be planted—so’s somebody can switch to a fresh mount tomorrow?”

  “You got a mean mind,” Stretch good-humoredly chided. “A real mean mind.”

  “I’ll lead one—you lead the other,” said Larry.

  They drew the riderless horses out of the brush and onward. A quarter-mile further north, they came to another stretch of mesquite—and two more staked-out horses. By then Stretch was developing some enthusiasm. Their survey of the land-rush route was assuming the atmosphere of a horse-hunt. But, as it happened, they located only the four planted animals.

  From within a copse of cottonwood, they stared across an expanse of flat country, the last mile to be traversed by tomorrow’s optimists. Beyond, they could see the southern gateway to the fertile canyon. It was narrow, Larry observed. Wide enough to permit passage of three horsemen riding abreast, but no wider. Narrow enough to give scope for dirty work—of which there would probably be plenty.

  “The more I see of this set-up,” he growled, “the surer I am it’s gonna be some rough race.”

  “Well,” frowned Stretch, “what do we do with these four cayuses?”

  “Check those animals close,” offered Larry. “Does one of ’em look kind of familiar to you?”

  “You mean the pinto?” asked Stretch. “Sure. It could near pass for my pinto.”

  “How about those two sorrels?” prodded Larry.

  Stretch studied the sorrels and the charcoal, but the sorrels in particular, and opined:

  “One of ’em could pass for your prad.”

  “Could,” declared Larry, “and will.”

  “How’s that again?” blinked Stretch.

  “Who do we know,” challenged Larry, “that’d pull such a low-down trick?”

  “Neech in my guess,” said Stretch.

  “Mine too,” nodded Larry. “Well, the hell with him. “He’s in for a gosh-awful disappointment—because we’re gonna leave these spare prads right here in the timber.”

  “Forever?” frowned Stretch.

  “Not forever!” Larry grimaced in exasperation. “Only till we reach these trees tomorrow on our own horses—which’ll be plumb tuckered out by then.”

  “We’re gonna switch to the pinto and the sorrel?” Stretch’s eyebrows shot up. “But damnitall, that wouldn’t be honest!”

  “I’m not talkin’ about what’s honest,” scowled Larry. I’m talkin’ about what’s smart. And don’t forget old Luke. He’s countin’ on us, so we can’t let him down.”

  “Well,” shrugged Stretch, “okay by me.”

  “Stake ’em out,” Larry brusquely ordered, “deep inside the timber.”

  He rolled and lit a cigarette, while Stretch was engaged in that chore. Then, at an easy pace, they began their return to Becksburg and the hay-loft above the Lone Star barn. The humor of the situation finally dawned on Stretch, who grinned a wry grin and remarked:

  “It’s like you say, runt. Neech and his pards are in for a gosh-awful disappointment.”

  “All’s fair,” opined Larry, “in love and war and crooked land-rush races.”

  Long before sunrise of that all-important day, Cole Wilson rode to Carew Canyon to take up his vantage point. The spot he chose, in dawn’s first light, appeared ideal for his purpose, a cleft of rock less than twenty yards to the rear of the ledge reserved as Deputy Kellogg’s observation post. Then, huddled on his haunches and gun in hand, he stared out across the approach to the south gate and followed the advance of a lone rider—the unsuspecting Hutch Kellogg.

  By eight-forty-five a.m., most of the candidates were in position on the starting area north of town. Towners were out in their Sunday-best and the hundred-yard-long starting line was nudged by as mixed a collection of wagons, buckboards, buggies and gigs as had ever been assembled in Beck County. Level with these vehicles were the horsemen, determined-looking hombres straddling every breed of cayuse from borrowed cow ponies and thoroughbred quarter-horses to docile plow-pullers.

  For this auspicious occasion, Sheriff Loomis had garbed himself in somber black broadcloth and a high beaver hat. His star gleamed from his lapel and his boots shone from much polishing.

  Land agent Gus Nyles, Editor Gifford and the mayor had pride of place on the official dais, occupying seats in the front row. To right and left of the area immediately fronting the starting line, locals were crowding six-deep, calling encouragement to the contestants. In every vehicle and on every saddle rode a white-painted stake showing the name of the owner. The rules were already well-known but, being a stickler for detail, Ed Loomis went over them again. His voice soared high above the chatter of the crowd.

  “Everybody quiet down ...!”

  The locals eyed Loomis expectantly. He stood at the outer edge of the official dais, brandishing his Colt.

  “We gotta be sure every man savvies the rules of this here race, so I’m gonna tell you just one more time ...”

  Sitting their mounts in relaxed posture, the Texans dragged on the last cigarettes they would smoke before the end of this hectic adventure. Their marker-stakes were lashed to their saddlehorns. Stretch boredly listened to Loomis’s harangue, but Larry, who had heard it all before, singled out the opposition and subjected them to an intent scrutiny.

  Neech and Bale, with their eight hired riders, were positioned some short distance to Larry’s left, all of them sitting horses obviously bred for speed. Neech straddled a handsome charcoal, Bale a clean-limbed sorrel, Murch a frisky pinto. Grinning inwardly, Larry tried to visualize their reaction upon reaching the brush and failing to locate their so-carefully planted substitutes. He was, he noted, being singled out for the saloon owner’s attention. Murch had nudged Bale who, in turn, nudged Neech and nodded in Larry’s direction. Neech showed particular interest in Larry’s sorrel and Stretch’s pinto. To Murch, he muttered an order to be relayed to the other hardcases.

  “Pass the word along. I want my men to keep their eyes peeled for those Texans. They’re sitting fast horses, if I’m any judge.”

  “All you gotta do is say the word,” offered Murch, “and we’ll ...”

  “You know what I want,” drawled Neech. “At the finish, I don’t want to see hide nor hair of those troublemakers.”

  Simultaneously, Larry was imparting a warning to Stretch.

  “They’re talkin’ about us, big feller. Likely figurin’ how they’ll faze us out of the race.”

  “You can’t hear what they’re sayin’,” Stretch mildly protested.

  “I don’t have to hear,” growled Larry. “I know what they’re talkin’ about, because I feel it in my bones.”

  “Well,” shrugged Stretch, “your bones was never yet wrong.”

  “
Soon as the sheriff starts us off,” muttered Larry, “ride fast and wary. Don’t let any of Neech’s pards crowd you.”

  “ ... after enterin’ the canyon by the south gateway,” Loomis droned on, “you ride or drive to the section of your choosin’ and you sink your marker. Don’t try to leave the canyon until nine other parties have staked their claims, else some jasper’s apt to get hisself trompled at the south gate. And don’t anybody try to jump a claim already staked by some other candidate. Remember, my deputy is waitin’ out there to make sure you all abide by the rules. Anybody tries to jump a claim, Deputy Kellogg’ll disqualify him—and arrest him. Well, now ...” He unholstered his Colt, lifted his bushy eyebrows in query. “Anybody got any questions? No? All right. Wait for the signal ...”

  He hammered back, pointed his six-gun to the sky. The drivers of the motley collection of vehicles released their brakes and leaned forward on their seats. Some raised their whips in anticipation. Every rider—with the exception of the Texans—became tense. Larry and Stretch merely unhooked their right legs from their saddlehorns and flicked their half-smoked cigarettes away.

  The report smote every ear with the impact of a cannon’s roar, and the line of vehicles and horsemen moved forward in a surging wave. The air filled with a confusion of wild cheers, strident whoops and thundering hooves and, almost immediately, these sounds began decreasing in volume for the Texans, because they were fast putting distance between themselves and the main body. The sorrel and the pinto took to the flats at speed, racing neck and neck.

  After the first hundred yards, Larry threw a glance over his shoulder. Already, two wagons were out of the race. A team had shed its harness. A wagon-tongue had broken. A half-dozen riders were advancing fast, goaded on by Neech’s shouted commands. All this, and the ground vibrating to the thunder of hooves, might have frayed the nerves of men less seasoned to trouble than the Lone Star Hellions. They traded grins of anticipation and heeled their mounts to a further burst of speed.

  Another hundred yards, and some of Neech’s hirelings were drawing level with the lead riders. Into the short distance separating the Texans, two riders urged their horses. Simultaneously, a rider came up on Larry’s left. They were almost stirrup-to-stirrup, and it immediately became obvious that these three were here to baulk them. To Larry’s right, a rider emptied his holster and swung wildly. The barrel of his naked Colt missed Larry’s face by inches. He cursed luridly and yelled a warning to his partner.