Larry and Stretch 13

by Marshall Grover

  “There was a full investigation, of course,” Lansing went on. “Unfortunately, Major Vaughan’s findings revealed the drivers and escort had been dead several hours. The hijackers had time to obliterate their back-trail while carrying the shipment away.”

  “You fear these rifles will be transferred to Gayatero—is that it?” challenged Telliger.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Lansing pointed out, “that renegade whites have armed a whole tribe of hostiles. And, treaty or no treaty, Gayatero must still be regarded as a hostile. Yes, that’s what we’re afraid of.”

  “Any chance he already has the rifles?” frowned Telliger.

  “It’s possible,” said Lansing, “but I don’t think so. As soon as the news reached him, Colonel Stone alerted all his men. Every approach to the mesa is being patrolled. I don’t see how the shipment could be transferred unbeknownst to the army. On the other hand, it’s a big country, and these hijackers have proved themselves to be a highly organized group.”

  “No tracks to be followed,” reflected Telliger. “A bloodthirsty old white-hater like Gayatero would give his last squaw to get his hands on those new repeaters. And, somewhere in Bosworth County, the hijackers are planning ways and means of getting the shipment past Stone’s patrols. That does seem an obvious assumption.”

  “Who else would the rifles be intended for?” shrugged Lansing. “What does one do with a shipment of stolen weapons? Negotiate with the nearest general store? Hardly. Sell them one by one to drifting cowhands? Hardly.”

  “Hardly,” agreed Telliger.

  “So there you have it,” said Lansing. “The entire county has been combed by civilian posses organized by Sheriff Upshaw, in cooperation with Stone’s own scouting parties. Six days of intense effort, and never a clue to the identity of the hijackers—or the location of the stolen shipment. An ugly situation, Max.”

  “Jethro,” Telliger abruptly abandoned the formalities, “you’re in a fix.”

  “You always did have a talent,” sighed Lansing, “for understatement. The whole damn problem has been dropped into my lap—which shouldn’t surprise you.”

  “Yes—yes—naturally,” nodded Telliger. “Theft of army equipment, on such a large scale. Intelligence couldn’t be kept out of it. Our pigeon, Jethro.”

  “It might have been kinder,” Lansing chided himself, “if I’d told you nothing about the case.”

  “I’m glad you did, Jethro,” muttered Telliger.

  “You’ll resent every minute of your convalescence,” Lansing predicted, “and probably give Catherine merry hell—because it promises to be a long convalescence.”

  “Too long,” growled Telliger. “By the time I’m fit to sit a saddle, it’ll all be over. Gayatero will have the rifles. Gayatero—or the Ninth Cavalry—depending on who acts fastest, Jethro ...” He raised himself higher on his pillows, squinted thoughtfully at the tip of his cigar, “would you be prepared to take a chance, in a case of such magnitude? I mean, the implications are worse than frightening. Armed with those new repeaters, Gayatero’s braves would be the greatest threat the army has had to face since the days of Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. The potential danger is almost too harrowing to contemplate and, against all that, my suggestion may seem—well—downright ridiculous.”

  “I’m desperate,” frowned Lansing, “and willing to listen to anything.”

  Telliger paused to rehearse his speech with care. Then, “Don’t explode,” he begged, “until you’ve heard me out.”

  “Proceed,” begged Lansing.

  “Would you agree,” challenged Telliger, “to enlisting the aid of a couple of civilians, persuading them to investigate the theft of those repeaters in an entirely unofficial capacity ...” He raised a placating hand, as Lansing opened his mouth for an automatic protest, “if you were assured that those civilians were men of uncommon ability, with a fantastic record—success after success ...?”

  “Who in blue blazes,” demanded Lansing, “are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about a couple of Texans,” said Telliger, “whom you may or may not have heard about. I’m familiar with their reputation. As a matter of fact, I’ve been reading about them for many years, and not only in the newspapers. Reports of their exploits are on file at the Pinkerton headquarters, and even with our secret service.” He grinned, somewhat sheepishly. “Although we’ve never met, I’m what you might call an admirer of these certain parties. I was—uh—hoping to meet them—socially—because they happen to be currently resident in this fair city.”

  “Max Telliger,” breathed Lansing, “I asked you a straight question.”

  “Their names? Well ...” Telliger fidgeted uncomfortably, “their names are Valentine and Emerson. More affectionately referred to as Larry and Stretch and, sometimes, by other and more flamboyant aliases. The Texas Hell-Raisers. The Lone Star Hellions—and so forth.”

  “Great fire and thunder!” gasped Lansing. “The men you speak of are naught but fiddle-footed roughnecks—drifters—a couple of brawling troublemakers ...”

  “Jethro,” said Telliger, “they’re everything you accuse them of being—but they have other talents of which you’re obviously unaware. One of them—Valentine—is a natural-born detective. It’s common knowledge that both the Remington and Pinkerton agencies have tried to hire him.”

  “You did fall on your head!” accused Lansing. “Or perhaps you’re in shock, Major Telliger! Damn-it-all, what you suggest is madness!”

  Two

  The Available Texans

  Catherine Telliger paused outside the closed bedroom door, balancing a tray containing coffee-pots, cups and a platter of sandwiches. For a few moments, she debated with herself as to whether she should intrude. She could hear only one voice—Colonel Lansing’s.

  “Preposterous ...!” she heard Lansing bellow. “The most outlandish—insane—unpardonable—a blatant contradiction of all official procedure ...!”

  There was a brief pause during which she could barely hear her husband’s voice, after which the colonel took over again.

  “And if they fail? What then, Major Telliger? You make me the laughing stock of the entire service—jeopardize my career ...?”

  “This,” Catherine decided, “may take longer than I imagined.”

  She returned to her kitchen to replace the coffee-pot on the stove. In the bedroom, Lansing was pacing back and forth beside the bed. Sparks flew from his cigar. His moustache bristled and his eyes gleamed—but he forced himself to heed Telliger’s words.

  “A revolution in Mexico, you say?”

  “On the grand scale,” Telliger nodded vehemently. ”I don’t exaggerate when I say the government might have been overthrown, had the anti-revolutionaries not sent for Valentine and Emerson.”

  “Fantastic!” snorted the colonel.

  “But easily verified,” said Telliger. “All you need do is wire Mexico City, check with the President’s secretary. And somebody else you might care to contact—Horace D. Brill.”

  “Brill?” Lansing eyed him challengingly. “I know Brill. Ex-Governor of Colorado.”

  “Then you may recall,” said Telliger, “that he was kidnapped during a tour of the state.”

  “Vaguely,” frowned Lansing. “Only vaguely. That was quite some time ago. Are you going to tell me ...?”

  “I’m telling you Brill was rescued by the men you call shiftless brawlers,” declared Telliger. “And try this on for size, Jethro. They received a citation from the War Office.”

  “Valentine and Emerson?” blinked Lansing. “Impossible!”

  “Check with the War Office,” grinned Telliger. “By coincidence, the citation was read in grateful acknowledgement of their pulling the U.S. Army out of a tight fix.”

  “The entire U.S. Army?” Lansing sarcastically challenged.

  “Not quite,” chuckled Telliger. “Just the entire Ninth Cavalry.”

  “You wouldn’t make such claims,” sighed Lansing, “if th
ey couldn’t be verified.”

  “On your way out,” advised Telliger, “tell Cathy to give you a brandy—and then do the sensible thing, Jethro. Go talk to them. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, you won’t have to beg, and you may rely on their discretion.”

  Lansing nodded slowly.

  “All right, Max. I’m a drowning man—ready to clutch at a couple of Texas straws.” He opened the door. “Where do I find them?”

  “When last I heard of them,” said Telliger, “they were holding court at Fort Gale’s most expensive hotel, the Beaumont Regal. It seems they hit this fair city with four thousand dollars burning holes in their pockets, and almost a quarter of that sum has been expended in—uh—a prolonged celebration. They’ve been entertaining—for three days.”

  “I pray I’ll find them sober,” scowled Lansing.

  Back on Main Street, Colonel Lansing adjusted his hat at a rakish angle, squared his shoulders and began striding toward the heart of this busy metropolis. And, for Fort Gale, “metropolis” was not too grandiloquent a word. In the northeastern corner of the Arizona Territory, no settlement had thrived as rapidly as had bustling, progressive Fort Gale. It owed its existence and its growing prosperity to a combination of successful enterprises; the territory surrounding it was uncommonly fertile. There were vast expanses of rich graze for the many local cattle ranches. There were other areas in which a whole community of farmers harvested bumper crops. In the hill country to the east, armies of prospectors were winning the “happy yellow” from creek-banks, draws, tiny canyons and pitted slopes.

  Small wonder that Fort Gale was booming. The broad main stem was lined with structures somewhat more impressive than Lansing had seen in other frontier towns, and its boardwalks thronged with well-heeled miners and cattlemen. As for the Beaumont Regal, that dignified three-story edifice in the heart of the business sector, its facade was so imposing as to hold its own with the best hotels of uptown ’Frisco.

  He strode to the reception desk and stood frowning at the two men behind it. They greeted him politely and somewhat wearily. The manager introduced himself.

  “John Wyvern—at your service, Colonel. If you wish accommodation, may I present my clerk, Mr. Will Sneddon.”

  “Thank you,” Lansing acknowledged. “No, I don’t need accommodation. I’ve called to visit two of your guests.”

  The Beaumont Regal’s manager was pudgy, well-groomed and apprehensive. He wore, to Lansing’s discerning eye, what could only be described as a haunted look. The Beaumont Regal’s reception clerk—also pudgy and well-groomed—appeared to be in a similar condition. Wyvern gripped the edge of the desk and seemed to cringe from Lansing, as he asked,

  “Which—two—guests?”

  “Their names,” said Lansing, “are Valentine and Emerson.”

  Their reaction intrigued him. Wyvern turned red about the ears and bowed his head. Sneddon made a choking sound. “Is something wrong?” Lansing impatiently demanded.

  “I’m shocked, Colonel, deeply shocked,” muttered Wyvern. “Those two roughnecks have turned this establishment—the most respectable and exclusive hotel in Fort Gale—upside down.”

  “They threw a party,” groaned Sneddon.

  “To which they invited,” breathed Wyvern, “all the scum of Fort Gale—the tinhorns, the dead-beats and layabouts, the out-of-work cowboys, the painted harpies from the hell-houses …”

  “Noise!” panted Sneddon. “Good grief—the noise!”

  “I hear no noise,” frowned Lansing.

  “The lull,” said Wyvern, “before the resumption of the storm. They’re only waiting to regain their strength. I’m deeply shocked, sir, that an officer of your high rank and gentlemanly bearing should associate with such riff-raff.”

  “Damn-it-all, man!” barked Lansing. “I’m not here to join a confounded party!”

  “Please don’t shout,” groaned the clerk. “I’ve had not a wink of sleep since those Texans arrived.”

  “Perhaps the army has come to eject them?” Wyvern eyed Lansing hopefully.

  “Nothing of the sort,” snapped Lansing. “All I want is a few moments of their time. It’s a personal matter—and confidential.” He stared hard at Wyvern and asked a fair question. “If Valentine and Emerson have been causing such a disturbance, such damage to the hotel, why haven’t you summoned your local law authorities?”

  “Oh, hell ...!” gasped Sneddon.

  “Control yourself,” chided the manager.

  From atop the stairs, Lansing heard a male voice raised in raucous song. Then, with keen distaste, he followed the progress of the elderly, heavyset local as he descended to the lobby. The bulky man was brandishing a half-empty bottle. He wore a three-day beard and a vacant expression, and his eyes were bloodshot. Half-way down, he lost his foot, fell and rolled the rest of the way. Groggily, he regained the perpendicular and steered a course for the entrance, grunting a greeting to Lansing en route.

  “Hi ya, Corporal.”

  It took him quite some time to negotiate the revolving door, he departed four times and returned just as often. At his fifth attempt, he made it to the street.

  “That,” Wyvern sadly informed Lansing, “is Jacob Burns.”

  “Our sheriff,” sighed Sneddon.

  “You can't be serious,” protested Lansing.

  “Sheriff Burns was serious.” Wyvern recalled, “when we first sent for him to restore order. That was on the first night of the party.”

  “Three nights ago,” mumbled Sneddon. “It’s been terrible—terrible ...”

  “Our sheriff,” declared Wyvern, “was never a man to condone rowdiness—or so we thought. He went up there with the intention of ejecting those Texans—and all the other riff-raff.”

  “And then?” prodded Lansing.

  “And then,” frowned Wyvern, “he made the mistake of admitting that he too is a Texan. They invited him to stay—and this is the first we’ve seen of him since. Colonel, are you laughing? I see no humor in this ghastly state of affairs.”

  Lansing regained his composure.

  “Couldn’t you order them to leave,” he suggested, “for non-payment of rent perhaps?”

  “How can we do that?” countered Wyvern, “They paid for a week in advance. They have ample funds.”

  “Valentine was flashing a wad of hundred dollar bills,” said Sneddon, “thick enough to choke a horse. And they’ve been spending it like water. Their bill for liquor, food and musicians ran to almost a thousand dollars in the first three days.”

  “You said musicians?” blinked Lansing.

  “They hired the entire hotel orchestra,” muttered Wyvern. “It didn’t play loud enough, they said, so they also hired the Fort Gale brass band.”

  “Well,” said Lansing, “if you’ll kindly tell me the number of their room ...”

  “Suite Twenty,” shrugged Wyvern. “The bridal suite, on the top floor.”

  Resolutely, Lansing turned away from the desk and marched to the stairs.

  Arriving at the door numbered “20”, the colonel rapped loudly. A voice called to him from somewhere beyond, in an unmistakable Texas drawl.

  “It’s unlocked. If you’re sober, stay out. If you’re drunk, c’mon in and have yourself a hair of the dog.”

  He turned the knob, shoved the door open and moved into the room. He had to shove at the door because of the human impediment huddled behind it. Thunderation. Was the man dead? He certainly appeared lifeless. A small, sad-looking fellow in somber black, clutching a violin to his chest. His eyes were open, but was he seeing? Lansing raised him to his feet, and urgently enquired,

  “Are you all right?”

  The man was alive. He proved it by speaking.

  “Better than ever, I believe. Yes, Sergeant. Professor Emerson’s Lone Star Elixir has made a new man of me—just as he promised. Goodnight, Sergeant.”

  With that, the little man toted his violin to the door, opened it, strode out into the corridor and collapsed.

>   “Shut the door,” said the brawny man rising from the chaise lounge.

  With some astonishment, Lansing surveyed the suite. The furniture, drapes and glassware were in a sorry condition. Had it been a mere party, or a pitched brawl? From a chandelier dangled a lariat, the bottom end fashioned into a hang-noose. He was grateful to observe that the noose was unoccupied. The window was open. From where he stood, Lansing could see the balcony beyond, most of which was occupied by a blonde female of generous proportions who slumbered on two chairs; she was talking in her sleep.

  An adjoining doorway was open. Lansing walked to it, fearful as to what he might see. For a few moments, he frowned into the bedroom. Onto the big double bed had been packed seven snoring locals, a stuffed moose-head complete with antlers, a plaster statue of the Venus de Milo, a bass-fiddle and an uncountable number of empty bottles. He grimaced, pulled the door shut and turned to face the man who had addressed him.

  “I’m looking,” he announced, “for Valentine and Emerson.”

  “You’re lookin’,” grunted the brawny man, “at half the outfit. If your luck holds, you’ll get to see both of us.”

  “Which one ...?” began Lansing.

  “I’m Larry Valentine,” said the brawny man. “Who’re you?”

  “Colonel Jethro Lansing—of Army Intelligence.”

  “That so? Well, pull up a chair, Colonel.”

  Lansing found an undamaged chair, seated himself and subjected Larry Valentine to a searching scrutiny. The notorious trouble-shooter seemed unruffled by that intense appraisal—if, indeed, he was aware of it. He stood by the lounge, yawning, rubbing at his bare chest. All he wore was a pair of black evening pants. It was obvious to Lansing’s discerning eye that Larry was severely hung over. Three days stubble showed on his weather-beaten, ruggedly handsome face. Though bootless, he looked to be almost six feet three inches tall. He was dark-haired and square-jawed. Even in his present reduced condition, he looked formidable, and Lansing was impressed.

  “Where,” he enquired, “is your friend?”

  “Meanin’ Stretch,” grunted Larry.