Larry and Stretch 9

by Marshall Grover

  “Stretch—watch yourself!”

  The rider swung at him again—and missed—and two could play at the same game. Larry jerked his Colt, hunched his shoulders and lashed out. The barrel glanced off the chin of his would-be assailant. With a startled yelp, the man dropped his weapon and his rein. He was pitching over sideways and had no option but to ease his boots from his stirrups. Without waiting to see him drop, Larry transferred his attention to the man at his left.

  He winced as a gun-barrel smote his left shoulder, and then Texas horsemanship was brought to bear on the opposition. At his command, the sorrel surged forward at increased speed. He drew his left boot from his stirrup, rose in his saddle, lifted his boot and planted it against the other rider’s hip, lunged with all his might. The man keeled over sideways and went down.

  Stretch’s jubilant whoop won him a quick glance from his partner. He had reached out to seize the neckerchief of the third rider. The man struggled and lashed at him with his six-gun, but in vain. Stretch suddenly jerked back on his rein, so that the pinto’s impetus was abruptly checked, with devastating consequences for the hardcase. He was hauled from his saddle and clear over his horse’s rump. Stretch released his grip and, in a wild somersault, the man hurtled to the ground.

  “Three down!” Stretch yelled to Larry. “And seven to go!”

  “Take a look back there!” called Larry. “It’s a sad day for anything on wheels!”

  And so it seemed. While they watched, a buggy cart lost a wheel and overturned, flinging its driver clear. Further back, a wagon lay upside-down. Away to their right, a salty farmer was beginning a futile attempt to repair a damaged wagon-tongue.

  “Keep ’em movin’!” barked Larry.

  Their animals had not yet begun to tire, and were proving their ability to stay well ahead of the opposition. They gave them full rein and pressed on northward at a hard gallop. Closer and closer they drew to the mesquite where the spares had been planted. Their weather-beaten faces creased in knowing grins, as they passed the brush and sped onward. Then, after advancing some distance, they glanced back. Two of the pursuing horsemen—Neech and Bale—were hustling their mounts into the mesquite.

  It took Neech precious minutes to realize:

  “They aren’t here!”

  “They have to be!” protested Bale. “This is the exact place, the boys stashed ’em!”

  “We’ve been tricked,” breathed Neech, “and I think I know who to blame!”

  “Those Texans?” blinked Bale. “Hell! How would they know?”

  “Don’t waste time asking damn fool questions!” scowled Neech, as he wheeled his mount.

  Other riders were spurring their horses into the brush. Bale called to them and waved them on.

  “Where’s those spares?” demanded Murch.

  “Gone!” fretted Bale.

  “Stay after those damn-blasted Texans!” ordered Neech.

  Ten – The Promised Land

  Squatting on the ledge beside his hobbled horse, Hutch Kellogg finished his austere breakfast of cornbread sandwiches and canteen-water and began rolling a cigarette. Some short distance behind and above the deputy, Cole Wilson drew his six-gun and threw a glance to the south. There was dust on the horizon. In a matter of moments, the first riders would appear.

  Kellogg scratch a match for his cigarette, yawned boredly and checked the mechanism of his shotgun. Then, laying that heavy weapon aside, he reached for his field-glasses and rose to his feet. He was standing there, the glasses trained on the horizon, when Wilson silently descended upon him with his Colt swinging. The barrel crushed the crown of Kellogg’s Stetson. He grunted once, flopped to his knees and pitched forward on his face.

  Cole Wilson stepped over the prone body of his victim and sauntered to the rim of the ledge, to follow the approach of the lead riders. Still the dust on the horizon. They were coming slow, he reflected. Well, at least four of them should be advancing at speed, since they would be riding fresh mounts. He waited, patiently at first, then with his tension increasing. All his attention was focused on the area to the south.

  Kellogg was slow in all ways—slow-thinking, slow to anger, slow of movement. Naturally, he wouldn’t revive quickly. But he was reviving. His eyes opened for a brief moment, some ten minutes after Wilson had laid him low. His left cheek was pressed to the flat surface of the ledge. He squinted dead ahead and saw first the boots, then the legs, then the whole back view of his assailant—and recognized him. His head ached and his vision was blurred. Wisely he reclosed his eyes and waited.

  Another ten minutes, and Wilson was cursing excitedly. Two riders were advancing fast, veering away to the right to enter the copse. The distance was considerable but, with the aid of the deputy’s field glasses, he easily identified them. Those proddy Texans! Why were they headed for the timber? He switched his gaze further south and spotted the other riders. Neech and his six cohorts were coming on, but slowly, on horses that were lathered and panting.

  Neech and his men were still a hundred feet from the timber when the Texans reappeared. At first, it seemed they were still riding the same horses, but Neech and his men—and Wilson—soon realized that the sorrel and pinto forked by Larry and Stretch were fresh animals. Beside himself with rage, Neech yelled commands to his cohorts.

  “After them! Follow them into the canyon—and don’t give them a chance to sink a marker!”

  With Bale tagging him, he headed into the timber. The third and fourth spare horses were hobbled there. Cursing bitterly, they dismounted and ran to the fresh animals.

  “It had to be them!” panted Bale. “They must’ve sneaked out and ...”

  “All right, all right!” snarled Neech. “They won’t get away with it!”

  Beyond the timber, the Texans turned in their saddles and eyed the oncoming riders. Neech and Bale were quitting the cottonwoods and coming on fast.

  “From here on,” Larry calmly opined, “it’s gonna get rougher.”

  “What the hell?” grinned Stretch. “Only seven of ’em.”

  “C’mon,” growled Larry. “Let’s find a prime section for Luke.”

  The spare sorrel had a fine turn of speed; the pinto too. At a headlong rush, they covered the last open area fronting the canyon gate, with Neech and Bale following close and the others strung out behind. Noting this, Wilson decided it was time for him to move. He retreated to where his horse awaited, sparing no glance for his victim, who was still immobile.

  Kellogg didn’t stir until Wilson had departed. Then, as the clatter of hooves receded, he rolled over and rose to his knees. Mumbling oaths, he crawled to where his shotgun lay, gathered it up and struggled to his feet.

  The ledge was a lofty vantage point, affording him a clear view of the events taking place—and about to take place—north of the canyon gate. He could see Wilson descending by the north slope, a steep grade that would take him to level ground some ninety yards west of the entrance. And he could see Larry and Stretch, who had forged through the opening at a breakneck gallop and were advancing to one of the first marked sections.

  Under these hectic conditions, they were unable to give much thought to the selection of a suitable site for the Sorleys. They spotted a flag and had only a few moments in which to note the section beyond, barely long enough to establish that it was cut by the creek and well sheltered by a stand of cottonwood.

  “Get it done fast, runt!” yelled Stretch. “They’re closin’ in!”

  Larry rode to the flag, reined up in a flurry of dust and unhitched his stake. As he dismounted, they heard the clatter of hooves to their rear. Neech and Bale were entering the canyon now and, slowly but surely, their hirelings were following. Grim-faced, Larry crouched by the flag and jabbed his stake into the ground beside it.

  “That’s it, big feller,” he muttered, as he returned to the sorrel and remounted. “Far as I’m concerned, old Luke’s got himself a piece of land—and plague take any hombre that tries to jump this claim.”


  “Company comin’,” Stretch warned.

  “That ain’t company,” growled Larry. “That’s trouble—and I’m ready for it.”

  All seven riders had entered the canyon. They were fanning out to surround the Texans, and an eighth—Wilson—was approaching from the west.

  “We get rid of these two!” Larry heard Neech call to his men. “Then we secure those other claims!”

  Slowly, the circle formed. As yet, they weren’t close enough for accurate pistol-shooting—but that would come. The Texans emptied their holsters and traded glances.

  “We’re wide open,” muttered Stretch. “Nary an inch of cover—unless we make a run for it.”

  “You feel like runnin’ from these coyotes?” asked Larry.

  “No more’n you do,” grinned Stretch. “Let’s take our chances, runt.”

  “When they close in,” said Larry, “hit the dirt—and let ’em have it.”

  They eased their boots from their stirrups, cocked their weapons and patiently awaited the inevitable. Somewhere to the west they heard a new drumming of hooves. Stretch darted a quick glance in that direction, and observed:

  “That looks like the deputy—ridin’ like crazy.”

  “We got no time to fret about him,” drawled Larry. “Neech and his pards are close enough to call a showdown.” He swung his six-gun toward the advancing hardcases and yelled a warning. “That’s far enough! This claim is staked, and nobody takes it away from us!”

  “Shoot them down!” roared Neech. “Get rid of them fast—and pull up that stake!”

  The circle of riders was closing in. Some of Neech’s men were actually taking aim at the Texans—when Kellogg arrived. Recognizing him, Neech unleashed a venomous oath and curtly berated the nonplussed Wilson.

  “I told you to keep him out of our way!”

  “You’re all under arrest!” bawled Kellogg.

  “The hell with him ...!” snarled Wilson, as he swung his gun toward the oncoming rider.

  And then it happened. The Texans were being given a head start in the matter of triggering the conflict, because Kellogg wasn’t waiting. Rising in his stirrups, the deputy discharged a barrel of his shotgun, with devastating results. Buckshot riddled Wilson and stung his horse. The animal reared, throwing its rider and the other horses began prancing in confusion.

  Quickly, Larry and Stretch went to ground, leaping from their saddles and sprawling on the grass, rolling, then cutting loose with their Colts. All around them, the guns roared, but confusion was their ally—confusion, and a plodding lawman too angry to be scared. Larry’s first wild shot sent Bale plummeting from his mount. His second missed Neech by a hair’s breadth. Neech forged toward him, shooting fast. A tongue of fire licked at his left upper arm. He winced, rolled again and triggered his third shot, saw the boss-thief shudder in his saddle and begin toppling.

  Stretch was on his knees, his forearms horizontal with the ground, his matched Colts roaring in fierce challenge. Kellogg had been knocked to the ground by a bullet, but was still in business. The second charge from his scattergun emptied another saddle. One of Stretch’s bullets grazed Murch’s head. Murch keeled over sideways and struck ground shoulders first.

  A rider dismounted, the better to draw a bead on the Texans. Stretch knocked him sprawling with a well-aimed slug, and yelled a query to his partner.

  “You hit?”

  “Scratched,” growled Larry. “Watch out for them other two!”

  But that warning was unnecessary. Demoralized by the fast shooting of the Texans, the survivors of Neech’s force were wheeling their mounts, about to begin a retreat. Stretch called after them.

  “I got a bead on you both. Too late to make a run for it, boys. You’re still in range.”

  “Drop the guns!” ordered Larry.

  As an additional discourager, he aimed and fired. One of the hardcases felt the air-wind of that slug—and that was enough. He dropped his weapon and raised his hands. His sidekick hastily followed his example.

  “Down!” snarled Kellogg.

  They dismounted. The deputy picked himself up and, oblivious to the pain of his bloodied left leg, glowered at the sprawled bodies of the dead and wounded. Larry squatted cross-legged and began reloading, the while he fired a query.

  “You totin’ any liquor, by any chance?”

  “Bottle of rye in my saddlebag,” muttered Kellogg.

  “Fetch it,” Larry ordered Stretch, “and don’t drink it all. You’ll have to doctor us.”

  “Sure,” nodded Stretch. “Just set quiet.”

  Larry was content to sit and smoke, but not Kellogg. One by one, the deputy unhitched marker-stakes from the saddles of the outlaws’ horses. As he piled them on the ground, he sourly asserted:

  “These here candidates are disqualified—all of ’em.”

  “All except that one,” drawled Larry, nodding to the Sorley marker.

  “That’s all right,” frowned Kellogg. “I saw you sink that stake fair and square. But—by Judas—these other lousy claim-jumpin’ sons of bitches ...!”

  “Take it easy,” grinned Larry. “You’re leakin’ blood all over Luke Sorley’s section.”

  A few yards away, the pallid Russ Bale rolled over on his left side and began begging for help.

  “A doctor ...!” he panted. “You—got to fetch a doctor! I’m sinking fast ... I—”

  Kellogg limped across to the gambler, and no further. Suddenly weak from loss of blood, he flopped on his backside. Larry rose up and trudged across. When Stretch joined them, hefting the whiskey bottle, Larry said:

  “Feed the deputy a shot and pour some on his wound. I can wait.”

  “You still bleedin’?” Stretch demanded.

  “No,” frowned Larry. “You doctor the deputy. I’ll tend this jasper.”

  “A doctor ...!” began Bale.

  “Stay quiet,” Larry gruffly ordered. He knelt beside the stricken gambler and studied his bloodied chest. Then, gingerly, he unfastened the red-stained shirt to check the wound. It interested him more than somewhat. He was laughing inwardly, but his face was grim as he remarked, “Bad. As bad as I’ve ever seen.”

  “You mean ...?” Bale eyed him, aghast.

  “I mean you couldn’t last,” sighed Larry. “’Specially if Doc Drew tried diggin’ for the slug.” He examined the course of the bullet with some interest, paying special attention to the contents of the gambler’s inside coat pocket. “If you got anything to tell us, you’d better say it fast.”

  “By Judas,” grunted Kellogg, “I always was leery of Neech and Bale. I guess I oughtn’t be surprised ...”

  “Your sidekick,” Larry prodded Bale, “wanted the whole damn canyon. Isn’t that so?”

  “A fortune,” groaned Bale. “We’d have been—sitting on a fortune.”

  “How come?” demanded Larry.

  “Railroad ...” Bale licked his lips, sighed heavily. “They want Carew Canyon—for a right-of-way. St. Louis and Western Railroad. Lew got the word from somebody on the inside—feller name of Croshaw. We were gonna—claim on every section—then hold out for our own price.” Stretch, who was anointing the deputy’s gashed calf with raw whiskey and fashioning a makeshift bandage, drawled a suggestion.

  “Ask him about that Austin hombre.”

  “How about that?” Larry challenged Bale. “What d’you know about Austin?”

  “Lew gunned Austin,” mumbled Bale. “He—he had to. He was afraid Austin would turn yellow—and talk.”

  “About ...” prodded Larry. Bale hesitated, and Larry made a show of rechecking his wound. “It’s stopped bleedin’—and that’s a bad sign. Go ahead. The truth can’t hurt your partner. He’s as dead as he’ll ever be.”

  “Lew,” frowned Bale, “paid three of ’em to—ambush Del Weaver. He didn’t want Weaver to ride Snow-Boy today.”

  “Austin ...?” asked Larry.

  “And Wilson,” nodded Bale, “and Murch.”

  “Nice goin’, runt,�
� grinned Stretch. “Now we know everything.”

  “Uh huh,” grunted Larry. “Two thousand dollars’ worth.” He patted Bale’s shoulder. “All right, mister. On your feet.”

  Bale’s eyebrows shot up.

  “You crazy or something? I’m dying!”

  “Deputy,” said Larry, “loan me your manacles.” Stretch unhitched Kellogg’s manacles and tossed them to Larry, who jerked Bale to his feet, pulled his hands behind his back and secured his wrists.

  “This isn’t human!” Bale loudly protested.

  “You’ll have your day in court,” Larry grimly assured him. He then emptied the gambler’s inner pocket and exhibited the contents, a thick leather wallet, punctured by a bullet, a deck of cards, also punctured, a heavy metal cigar case, badly dented. In his left hand, he hefted the spent slug for the surprised appraisal of Stretch and the deputy—not to mention Bale. “My bullet hit him from the side, plowed clean through the wallet and a deck of cards, dented his cigar case and rammed it against his chest. The force of it was enough to knock him offa his cayuse and gash his chest, but not enough to kill.”

  “You tricked me!” groaned Bale. “Damn you to hell!”

  “I thought he was a goner,” frowned Kellogg.

  “And he thought he was a goner,” grinned Larry.

  A small portion of the whiskey was used to sterilize Larry’s shallow arm-wound. The greater part of it was transferred to the interior of Deputy Kellogg, for the purpose of boosting his strength. By the time the next candidates came struggling into the canyon, the wounded Bale and Murch were secured to their horses and the unhurt captives bound hand and foot. The dead were left where they lay, for the time being. Two trouble-shooters and a hard-toiling deputy had completed their labors and were taking their ease, awaiting the arrival of the official party.