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In the Arizona Territory, Bosworth County was in a state of tension, its citizens living in fear. Six soldiers and two civilians had been wantonly murdered. An entire shipment of repeating rifles, capable of swift and accurate fire, had been hijacked.
Army Intelligence was baffled. The county law officers were becoming desperate. And then, as quietly as a raging Texas tornado, Larry and Stretch arrived. The West's rowdiest troubleshooters were buying into a grim intrigue ready to risk their lives in a fight to the finish against the forces of lawlessness.
LARRY AND STRETCH 13: FOLLOW THE TEXANS
By Marshall Grover
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
First Smashwords Edition: April 2018
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
One
The Unavailable Major Telliger
“They’re coming now,” said Webb Collier. “Choose your targets, boys, and make every shot count. Remember, we’re leaving no witnesses.”
He lay prone with the stock of a rifle tucked snugly against his right shoulder and the barrel pointed at the oncoming wagons and escort. The stake-out was perfect, this vantage point ideal for Collier’s evil purpose; the flat summit of a twenty-foot mound of lava-rock, within close range of a lonely section of the trail to Bosworth.
Three hard-faced men were sprawled to Collier’s left, three more to his right, and all lining rifles on the approaching vehicles. Collier’s chief henchman in this nefarious enterprise, a burly, pig-eyed rogue named Rube Sunday, spat on the sun-baked surface of the rock and remarked,
“So that’s Stone’s idea of a good enough escort, huh? Just a half-dozen troopers. Hell! They won’t know what hit ’em.”
“Aim for the wagon-drivers and the soldiers,” muttered Collier. “Try to shoot clear of the cargo. We—uh—wouldn’t want to damage any of that beautiful merchandise, would we?”
Sunday chuckled softly, and on came the wagons, two of them, big, strong, heavy-laden vehicles, drawn by eight-horse teams—a sure indication of the weight of the cargo. The drivers were elderly and veterans of the freighting trade, so those broad-backed teamers were behaving exactly as they should. Close behind the second wagon rode the smooth faced officer in charge of the escort-party, a slim, boyish lieutenant. Behind him, four troopers rode two abreast. The fifth trooper was riding level with the seat of the first rig.
With cold-blooded patience, Collier waited until the wagons and escort were close, so close that it would be well-nigh impossible for his cohorts to miss their targets. Then quietly, he gave the command.
“Let ’em have it.”
Seven rifles barked and crackled in angry challenge. In that first burst, both wagon-drivers were killed instantly, also the trooper riding level with the first rig, also one of the troopers in back. Desperately, the young lieutenant reached to his holster, and the other troopers made haste to ready their carbines—but too late. They were being raked by a second fusillade. Two bullets struck the lieutenant and drove him out of his saddle. The other horses were suddenly riderless. In the dust, six soldiers of the 9th Cavalry lay sprawled in the ugly postures of violent death. One of the drivers lay sideways on his seat. The other had pitched to the ground.
Collier’s voice was as steady as ever, as he drawled his next command.
“Climb down. Make sure of them.”
Sunday and three of his sidekicks descended from the mound and hustled to where their victims lay. The rifles barked again. In response to Collier’s orders, the remaining ambushers climbed down and hurried into the timber to the right of the trail. They reappeared a few moments later, leading a formidable procession of mules, hefty pack-animals bred to tote sizable loads. Collier descended unhurriedly and lit a cigar.
In his advanced thirties, he was darkly-handsome, a dandy rigged in the traditional garb of the professional gambler—beaver hat, black frock coat, grey striped pants, fancy vest and cravat, snow-white linen. His accomplices were garbed as miners. Already, they were hard at work, transferring the precious cargo from the freight-wagons to the waiting mules.
Sunday came to Collier to report, “No survivors.”
“I should hope not,” grinned Collier.
“I’ll say this for you, Webb,” drawled Sunday. “When you plan a deal, you sure plan it right.”
“No loop-holes, Rube,” said Collier. “The army will never know to whom the quartermaster-sergeant released the information. By now, our friend the sergeant is well and truly dead, and dead men fell no tales.”
“The army,” Sunday cheerfully predicted, “is gonna be plumb puzzled—and sore as a new boil.”
Gesturing nonchalantly to the sprawled bodies, Collier asked,
“You’ve made sure?”
“Certain sure,” growled Sunday. “Buzzard-bait—all eight of ’em.” His cronies were making short work of a heavy chore. Despite the considerable weight of the long boxes, they were being toted from the wagons and lashed to the mules at brisk speed. “Ammunition, too,” Sunday observed. “Easy pickin’s, huh, Webb? Everything we need to talk a deal with a certain party—and all in one big passel.”
“He’ll be satisfied,” Collier coolly assured him. “More than satisfied. I’m not expecting any arguments.” He jerked a thumb. “Get back up top, Rube. It isn’t likely there’d be anybody close enough to hear those shots, but ...”
“Not this far from town,” asserted Sunday.
“But,” insisted Collier, “let’s not take any chances. You keep your eyes peeled, while we finish unloading. I’ll call you when we’re ready to move.”
Thanks to the energetic endeavors of the hijackers, the mules were laden and ready to move within a very short time. Sunday descended from atop the mound and announced, “Nary a soul in sight.”
“Fine,” nodded Collier. “We’ll move back to the horses and head for the creek. You pass the word to Arnie and the half-breed.”
“Don’t you fret about a thing, amigo,” grinned Sunday. “When it comes to killin’ a back-trail, there ain’t an Injun as smart as Ernie Ellis or Jimmy Red Cloud.”
From the scene of their bloody triumph, the hijackers led the mules northward through the timber to the shallows of Trumble Creek. And, for every foot of the way, two members of that venal band devoted themselves to the all-important task of erasing tracks. It was a tricky chore requiring expert knowledge; Ellis and the half-breed were in their element.
Reaching the creek, the cavalcade proceeded upstream for several miles. Their ultimate destination was the Sierra Santa Rosa, the mountain chain north of the county seat. There, many years ago, prospectors had abandoned all hope of striking it rich, There were still unclosed shafts to be found, as Collier well knew. He had planned this coup with infinite care and an alert eye to all details; the stolen shipment was on its way to a safe hiding-place.
Exactly one week later, nine-thirty of a sunny morning in early spring, Colonel Jethro Lansing, of U.S. Army Intelligence, strode toward a neat
white house in Fort Gale’s residential sector. He looked brisk, efficient and agile, despite his advanced years. He was almost sixty and, unless one peered closely at the lines of his craggy face, the grey in his bristling moustache and crinkly hair, he could pass for a man not yet fifty.
After ringing the bell at the front door of the cottage, he removed his hat and held it in the crook of his left arm. The door was opened by Catherine Telliger, wife of Major Maxwell Telliger, an officer with whom Lansing was closely acquainted. She was forty-two and still attractive, with a clear complexion and firm figure.
“Colonel Lansing! What a pleasant surprise!”
“Catherine, my dear,” said Lansing, “it must be almost ten years since I asked you to call me Jethro. A confirmed bachelor of my caliber enjoys to be addressed by his Christian name—by a woman as beautiful as your good self.”
“And, after ten years,” chuckled Catherine Telliger, “you’re still a shameless flatterer—even worse than Max.” She ushered him into the hallway, took his hat and hung it on a peg. Then, frowning, she asked, “Was it an army matter you wished to discuss with him?”
“I’m afraid so—yes,” he nodded. “My apologies, Catherine. I realize he’s on leave, but ...”
“It isn’t a question of whether Max would be willing,” she explained. “Haven’t you always referred to him as the most available officer of your entire command?”
“Good old Max,” chuckled Lansing. “Not only the most available, but the best, the smartest, the most audacious—ah!—when I think of all Max has achieved during his distinguished career ...!”
“Jethro,” said Catherine, “I’m terribly sorry, and I’m sure Max will be even sorrier.”
“About what?” demanded Lansing.
“Just this once,” she sighed, “he is not available.”
“Nonsense,” snorted Lansing. “He has never failed me yet. After every secret mission—no matter how dangerous—he just can’t wait to resume duty. Your husband is tireless, Catherine. Tireless, dauntless, wise beyond his years ...”
“Thank you,” she gravely acknowledged, “on Max’s behalf. But I repeat, Jethro, he is not available. He can’t accept an assignment.”
“I think you’d better explain,” said Lansing.
“I think Max had better explain,” she countered. “This way, Jethro.” She ushered him along the hall to the open doorway of a bedroom, gestured for him to enter. “Max, dear. You have a visitor.”
“Colonel!” Her husband sat up in bed, flashed his superior officer a pleased grin. “By glory, it’s good to see you. Come in. Pull up a chair. Cathy—fetch coffee.”
“Rightaway,” smiled Catherine.
Lansing trudged to a chair and seated himself. The chief of Army Intelligence was wont to describe Major Telliger as his best and most valued officer, an investigator of rare and varied talent—and well-nigh indestructible. At this moment, however, Telliger didn’t appear indestructible or valuable. How could he, with his right arm in a sling and his left leg in splints? To add to the colonel’s dismay, Telliger wore naught but the bottom half of his longjohns. His torso would have been bare, but for the adhesive tape wound tightly from armpits to belly.
Noting his chief’s reaction, Telliger abruptly ceased to be cheerful.
“The leg,” he penitently reported, “is fractured in two places. The arm injury is less complicated, a clean break. And—uh—three cracked ribs ...”
“You were involved in a violent brawl,” guessed Lansing. “The Fort Gale sheriff was in difficulties, so you went to his aid.”
“Well—no,” frowned Telliger.
“A wagon-team bolted?” suggested Lansing. “You halted them, and were injured in the process?”
“Well—no,” frowned Telliger.
“No?” Lansing turned beetroot-red, wrung his hands and raised his voice to a parade-ground bellow. “Exactly what in blazes did happen to you?”
With his good hand, Telliger gestured apologetically. “The fact is, Colonel, I fell off a ladder.”
“You—what?” breathed Lansing.
“A stupid accident,” muttered Telliger. “It happened yesterday, so I’m not surprised you haven’t heard.”
“I came directly to your billet, Major,” snapped Lansing. “So grave is the matter I had to discuss with you.”
“I was—uh—replacing shingles on the roof,” sighed Telliger. “My foot slipped. I fell. And—uh—that’s it, Colonel. I assure you I feel worse than foolish. All this damage—caused by a mere fifteen foot fall ...”
Lansing produced a ’kerchief and mopped at his brow, the while he worriedly inspected his host. The major was in his mid-forties and, despite receding hair and a tendency to obesity, still a handsome man. A ready wit and a keen intellect lurked behind that jovial exterior, as Lansing well knew. It was a tragedy that he should find the Department’s most intrepid officer in this condition at this time, and he said as much.
“Max—this is a tragedy.”
“Not all that tragic,” protested Telliger. “Damn-it-ail, Colonel, it could have been worse.”
“When I say it’s a tragedy,” muttered Lansing, “I refer to the undeniable fact that you are incapacitated, incapable of accepting an assignment. And, believe me, this would have been one of the most important assignments of your career.”
“How about Carmichael,” suggested Telliger, “or Scott?”
“Both serving as witnesses at a court-martial in Colorado,” growled Lansing.
“Captain Ross?” frowned Telliger.
“On duty in South Wyoming,” said Lansing. “The Cheyenne situation. I daren’t re-assign him at this time.”
“Kirsch?” asked Telliger. “Donlevy? Boulton ... ?”
“Good men,” shrugged Lansing, “but a shade too raw for a job of this kind.”
“I suppose there’s nothing to be gained by your telling me about it,” said the major.
“You may as well hear it,” frowned Lansing. He produced two cigars, clamped one between his teeth, rose from his chair and passed the other to Telliger. The major accepted a light, grunted his thanks. Lansing returned to his chair, folded his arms and stared moodily at his host’s damaged leg.
“You’re familiar with the Bosworth County situation, I believe?”
“Bosworth County ...” Telliger half-closed his eyes and put his memory to work. “Two days west of Fort Gale. Cattle and farming. The county sheriff’s name is Upton ...”
“Upshaw,” corrected Lansing.
“Upshaw,” nodded Telliger. “Location of the county seat—a half day’s ride to the south of the Sierra Santa Rosa. And due west is Sun Dog Mesa, the Apache reservation. As I recall it, leadership of the Sun Dog Apaches was assumed by old Gayatero, after he last treaty was signed. Or has that sly old buzzard departed for the happy hunting grounds?”
“Gayatero,” said Lansing, “is still very much alive, and as tricky as ever. Trust him? We’d be delighted to trust him, but how can we? Do you trust a cougar—after locking him in a cage made of wood?”
“Neatly put, sir,” smiled Telliger.
“The Bosworth County population demanded army protection,” Lansing continued, “and it’s easy to understand why. They fear Gayatero’s braves will break the treaty and come a’raiding at the drop of a hat. The county seat could be wiped out. I say could be—but for the Ninth Cavalry.”
“So Bosworth,” prodded Telliger, “is under martial law?”
“Not officially,” said Lansing. “But the Ninth is camped at the town’s northern outskirts, and the areas east of the mesa are being patrolled constantly. The civilians feel safe for the time being.” His brow darkened and his eyes flashed.
“But they wouldn’t feel so almighty smug, if they realized the full significance, the potential danger behind last week’s incident.”
“You have,” Telliger solemnly assured him, “my undivided attention.”
“Rifles, Max,” breathed Lansing. “The very latest
models. Repeaters—capable of rapid fire. The Ninth was to be re-equipped, you see. A shipment was on its way to Bosworth, consigned to the garrison commandant. I believe you’ve heard of him?”
“The officer commanding the Ninth Cavalry ...” Telliger pursed his lips and thought a moment, “is Colonel Mortimer Stone.”
“That shipment was dispatched from Fort Gale,” said Lansing. “Enough of those new forty-four-forties to give the Ninth a tremendous advantage, should they ever have to go into action against the Apaches. The entire consignment was loaded into freight-wagons and proceeded to Bosworth under army escort.”
“Civilian freighters,” prodded Telliger.
“It seemed the best idea at the time,” nodded Lansing. “Headquarters was reluctant to use army vehicles.”
“Advertising,” mused Telliger.
“Yes.” Lansing shrugged helplessly. “They had the idea that an army wagon train would appear conspicuous and—uh—arouse too much interest. The entire operation, needless to say, was supposed to be a tight secret.”
“And what happened to the consignment?” demanded Telliger.
“The rifles have disappeared,” muttered Lansing. “In some remote corner of Bosworth County, the whole shipment was hijacked. Lieutenant Grierson was killed, along with the five troopers under his command. The wagon-drivers too. Their names were Lowell and Taft. They were partners, running a freight service operating out of Bosworth.”
“An Indian attack?” suggested Telliger.
“That was the obvious assumption, at the start,” said Lansing. “However, the Camp Stone M.O.—a Major Vaughan—performed postmortems and established that all eight men had been killed by regular rifle bullets of—uh—varying caliber. The only Indians in that region are the Apaches of the Sun Dog Mesa reservation. They’re allowed to own firearms for hunting, but no modern weapons, Max. Old stuff.”
“Sure,” grunted Telliger. “Old model carbines—for which they have to make their own loads. No cartridge weapons.”
Larry and Stretch 13 Page 1
