Larry and Stretch 13

by Marshall Grover

  “If I may be permitted to …” began Kerwin.

  “Silence!” repeated Stone, at the top of his voice.

  “I must remind you,” frowned Vaughan. “Your blood pressure ...”

  “Plague take my blood pressure!” stormed Stone. “What is the meaning of this outrage? Sergeant Boyle! Corporal Cusack! You are regimentally undressed—worse than regimentally undressed!”

  “This lame-brained badge-toter,” complained Boyle, “didn’t give me a chance to explain.”

  “I’ll give you that chance—you incompetent, bungling jackass!” roared Stone. “And, by thunder, your explanation had better be convincing—or you’ll find yourself confined to the stockade—indefinitely! Indefinitely, I say!”

  “It’s this way, Colonel, sir,” explained Boyle. “Me and Corporal Cusack went to this here bathhouse ...”

  “To take a bath,” interjected the corporal.

  “And some sneakin’ sonofagun,” scowled Boyle, “stole our clothes—everything except our underwear.”

  “They must’ve reached through the window for it,” opined the corporal.

  “I’ll allow we maybe lost our heads,” shrugged Boyle, “when we climbed outa those tubs and found we’d been robbed.”

  “And so,” breathed Stone, “you barged out into the street! Men of the Ninth—my command—making a spectacle of yourselves! By Judas, it’s a wonder you had sense enough to don your underwear!”

  “I’m a fair-minded man,” Upshaw stolidly repeated. “You give me your guarantee they won’t do it again, and there’ll be no charges brought against ’em.”

  “It must’ve been those damn-blasted Texans!” fumed Boyle.

  “Hold on now ...” began Upshaw.

  “Hold on be damned,” growled Boyle. “You don’t know ’em the way we do.” He appealed to the grim-faced Stone. “I ask you, Colonel sir. Who else would have the gall, the almighty nerve ...?”

  “By Judas ...!” gasped Stone. He pounded the desktop with his clenched fist. “It had to be them!”

  “You got no proof!” protested Upshaw.

  “We’ll find proof soon enough,” retorted Stone. “Captain Kerwin!”

  “Sir?” The captain froze to respectful attention.

  “Take a detail,” ordered Stone. “Six men. Go to Bosworth at once. Ascertain the whereabouts of Valentine and Emerson—then conduct a search. You know what to look for. If they’re in possession of those uniforms ...!”

  “You got to promise me somethin’, Colonel,” pleaded the sheriff.

  “What the devil are you babbling about?” challenged Stone.

  “The charge,” Upshaw carefully pointed out, “would be theft of army property—wouldn’t it? That makes it a military matter, and I got no authority to military prisoners in a civilian jail.”

  “You’ve made your point, Sheriff Upshaw,” said Stone. He smiled bleakly. “Have no fear. I shall insist that you accompany Captain Kerwin’s search party. But this will be a military arrest. Having located the evidence, the captain will bring those insolent Texans back to his camp. We have no guardhouse, but we do have a stockade—in which those blasted Rebs will become permanent residents.” He snapped his fingers. “On your way, Captain!”

  Kerwin hustled to obey.

  With Upshaw tagging him, he hurried to the horse corrals and, en route, beckoned a half-dozen husky troopers.

  They reached town soon afterward, and it took Upshaw, only a few minutes to confirm that the drifters had checked into the Lincoln House. A startled desk clerk supplied the number of their room. Up the stairs marched the captain and his detail with an apprehensive Upshaw in close attendance.

  A trooper made to pound on the door. Upshaw hastily restrained him.

  “Don’t do that, for gosh sakes! What d’you want to do—rile ’em up?” He nodded apologetically to the captain. “With your permission ...”

  “By all means,” shrugged Kerwin.

  Upshaw rapped gingerly, and very quietly. From beyond, Larry Valentine calmly announced,

  “It’s unlocked.”

  Upshaw opened the door. The troopers forged in after him, determined and truculent, and the drifters remained where they were sprawled on their beds, smoking. Not by the flicker of an eyelash did they suggest apprehension, guilt, indignation; they were taking it very calmly.

  “Valentine—Emerson ...” smiled Kerwin.

  “Well, well, well,” grinned Larry.

  “We’ve seen him before,” Stretch recalled.

  “Name of Kirby?” prodded Larry.

  “Kerwin,” corrected the captain.

  “Oh, sure,” nodded Larry. “How you been?”

  “Middling,” shrugged Kerwin. “Sorry about this, but …”

  “You tell us why you got these blue-britches stampedin’ all over our room,” suggested Larry, “and I’ll tell you if you need to apologies.”

  “It was the Colonel's idea,” Kerwin explained.

  “And that’s a fact,” asserted Upshaw. “The Colonel went off half-cocked.”

  “Allow me to explain,” said Kerwin. “It seems two cavalry uniforms are missing, Valentine. Sergeant Boyle and Corporal Cusack were visiting the bathhouse for the—uh—customary purpose, and ...”

  “To look at him,” mused Stretch, “I’d never believe he bathed regular.”

  “We oughtn’t be too hard on Boyle,” Larry charitably opined. “Him and the Colonel got hurt bad in the war.”

  “I didn’t know Colonel Stone and the sergeant had suffered serious injuries,” frowned Kerwin.

  “You bet they did,” said Larry. “They lost their britches and got frost-bit backsides.”

  “Well ...” chuckled Kerwin, “we’d best not go into that.”

  Upshaw fidgeted nervously, as he told them,

  “The Colonel figures it was you stole those uniforms.”

  “Now how,” wondered Larry, “did he ever get such a notion?”

  “Your word would be good enough for me,” Kerwin assured them. “However, I have my orders. The Colonel insisted I search your quarters.”

  “Go ahead, Captain.” Larry gestured nonchalantly. “Search all you want.”

  That search was brief, but thorough. Kerwin’s men went over every inch of the room and its contents, checking the dresser, the closet, the two pack-rolls, the mattresses and even the balcony outside the window. One of the troopers unwrapped Larry’s recent purchase and exhibited it for Kerwin’s appraisal.

  “A repeater, Cap’n. Forty-four-forty—and brand new.”

  “Very observant of you, Trooper Barfett,” said Kerwin.

  “Well—uh—Captain ...” shrugged the trooper.

  “Even from this distance,” said Kerwin, “I can see it’s a different brand to those in the stolen consignment.” He nodded affably to the Texans. “Besides, Valentine and Emerson aren’t hijackers—or cold-blooded murderers.”

  The search continued for a few more minutes. At the end of that time, it was patently obviously that the bedroom contained naught but the usual furnishings and the weapons, clothing and personal effects of its occupants. Kerwin thanked them for their courtesy and apologized for the intrusion. Larry flashed him a knowing grin and drawled a warning.

  “Never let the Colonel know you apologized to us. He’d nail your hide to the wall.”

  Civil and military authority departed. The drifters resumed their prone positions.

  “Ain’t Stone a mean one—ain’t he now?” mused Stretch. “If there’s one breed I can’t abide, it’s a Texas-hater—like Stone and Boyle. They must’ve been born suspicious. Just because Boyle and that skinny corporal lost their soldier-suits, Stone sends a search party direct to us Texans. It grieves me, I’ll tell you that. It grieves me deep.”

  “It grieves me too, big feller,” yawned Larry. “But I’m glad you stashed those soldier suits at Little Lew’s.”

  Early the following morning, the Texans quietly departed Bosworth, ambling their mounts out of Mai
n Street and heading in a northerly direction. The sack containing the stolen cavalry outfits was hitched to Larry’s saddlehorn. In his saddle-scabbard rode the all-important repeater.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Deputy Creel hurried to the Lincoln House and fired an urgent query at the desk clerk, who replied,

  “No. They haven’t checked out. They said they’d be back.”

  “Aw, hell,” sighed Creel. “I guess it was too much to hope for.”

  Having cleared Bosworth’s northern outskirts and given Camp Stone a wide berth, the drifters were mutually agreed that they had two excellent reasons for avoiding army patrols. One—an encounter with a patrol might delay, or even prevent their reaching the shielding brush described by Martha Lowell, and the track beyond. Two—some conscientious N.C.O. might become curious as to the contents of the sack. Under the circumstances, such curiosity might prove awkward for them.

  One patrol was moving across the skyline atop a barren ridge some two miles from town. They escaped attention by the simple expedient of descending into a nearby basin and remaining there until the patrol was out of sight. The second patrol they spotted just as they were about to emerge from a stand of cottonwood. Discreetly, they stayed inside the timberline and patiently followed the progress of the blue-uniformed riders. That patrol rode within twenty yards of them but, fortunately, did not veer toward the trees.

  From the cottonwoods to the flats east of Sun Dog Mesa, they narrowly escaped the attention of two other patrols. At speed, they made for the thick brush. Their horses were panting a protest, by the time they were dismounting and leading them into the mesquite. Stretch breathed a sigh of relief, as he knuckled perspiration from his eyes.

  “Close—huh?”

  “Too close,” growled Larry. “I don’t know if Stone’s patrols are ever gonna find those hijacked repeaters, but I’ll say this for ’em. They sure are a consarned nuisance.” They penetrated deep into the brush, not pausing until they were in sight of its far end, and the beginning of the narrow track that led upward to the mesa. While Stretch peeled out of his clothes, Larry emptied the sack. The tunic, britches, boots, hat and side arms of the corporal were passed to Stretch. Quickly, Larry stripped to his underwear and donned the uniform once worn by the burly Sergeant Boyle.

  “These here boots,” Stretch complained, “are too blame tight for me.”

  “Quit beefin’,” growled Larry. “This little chore won’t last all day. We’ll be back here—changin’ into our own duds—before you know it.”

  “You hope,” scowled Stretch.

  Fully-uniformed, they gave each other a keen once-over. Stretch grimaced in disgust, and Larry nodded sympathetically.

  “Yeah, I know what you’re thinkin’. Couple do-right Texans like us—all duded up in Yankee outfits.”

  “Well …” Stretch shrugged philosophically, “I guess it’s for a good cause.”

  They stowed their clothing and weapons under a rock, remounted and took to the winding mountain track. If they felt uncomfortable in their borrowed garb, they tried not to show it. There had been other occasions, other crises during which they had concealed their true identity. When it suited his immediate purpose, the wily Larry wasn’t above practicing the arts of deception, subterfuge and camouflage. And his lean sidekick invariably went along with it.

  At intervals, as they climbed higher, they cast cautious glances back to the flatlands. No patrols in sight at this time. In any case; the track would be barely discernible from down below. Larry, riding in the lead, scanned the area ahead and above, and drawled a warning.

  “Gettin’ near the lip of the mesa, big feller.”

  “Uh, huh,” grunted Stretch. “Inside a couple minutes, them consarned Apaches’ll be all around us—and then what?”

  “Just leave all the talkin’ to me,” ordered Larry. “Whatever I say, you follow my lead.”

  “Don’t I always?” sighed Stretch.

  The track seemed to end abruptly. They were moving onto level ground, the rolling green plateau dotted with the lodges of the Sun Dog Apaches, as aggressive a tribe as had ever plagued the Arizona Territory. Smoke wafted skyward from many camp fires. Squaws and papooses froze into immobility, warily eyeing the slowly approaching riders. The younger ones, swarthy braves of arrogant demeanor, mustered in force and converged on them. Somehow, Stretch managed to summon up a guileless grin. Larry raised a hand in the peace sign and announced,

  “Greetings to our red brothers. We come to speak with the great chief, Gayatero.”

  Mochita, well to the fore of the grim-faced braves, gestured impatiently and said,

  “White-eyed soldiers already have searched our lodges for the long guns.”

  “Howdy,” greeted Larry. “You speak good English, huh? Well, we haven’t come here to search your lodges. Our mission is peaceful—you savvy?”

  “I am Mochita,” frowned the chiefs son, as he subjected Larry to an intent scrutiny. “Son of Gayatero.”

  “I am Sergeant Appleyard,” declared Larry, “from the Army Ordnance headquarters of Fort Gale. And this ...” He nodded to Stretch, “is Corporal Peachtree. We come in peace—but we bring a warning.”

  “Men of peace,” countered Mochita, “make no threats.” His eyes flashed. Stretch fidgeted uncomfortably, and remarked,

  “This buck is just proddy enough to be a blame nuisance.”

  “Easy,” grunted Larry. He showed the braves a reassuring grin, then stared hard at Mochita. “This warning will be given in friendship—not as a threat. I speak straight. Now—take me to Gayatero.”

  Mochita, conscious of the expectant scrutiny of his fellow braves, pretended to deliberate Larry’s request. Larry waited patiently, figuring he had Mochita’s measure. Finally, after a muttered command from the chief’s son, the braves moved to either side, clearing a path for the bogus cavalrymen. Larry and Stretch dismounted. Larry eased the wrapped repeater from his saddle-sheath, nodded genially to Mochita, who turned and strode toward the lodge of his father.

  With three squaws and a dozen semi-naked papooses in close attendance, the old chief was seated some fifteen feet from a campfire. His lined face was impassive, his eyes as expressionless as a sidewinder’s. Noting the attire of his visitors, he rose up and gestured towards his lodge. Larry shook his head and suggested,

  “It will be better if we parley out here, Chief. My words are for all your people.”

  Gayatero resumed his squatting posture, eyed his son enquiringly.

  “Only two,” said Mochita. “They come from the big camp of the Long Knives.”

  “Fort Gale,” offered Larry. “The Ordnance headquarters.” He stood with the wrapped repeater under his left arm, and accorded the chief a respectful salute. “I have told your son we come in peace, Gayatero, and this is true. My chiefs have faith in your word. They know you honor the treaty, and that no Apaches rode with those who stole many long guns from the Army.”

  “I have heard of these new guns,” muttered Gayatero. “It is said they fire many times.”

  “Repeaters, they’re called,” drawled Larry. “Many were stolen. The guns—and the bullets for them.”

  “This is nothing to Gayatero,” countered the chief. “My braves do not steal, do not kill white-eye soldiers.”

  “Chief,” frowned Larry, “we don’t know who stole those guns, but one thing we do know. These are guns which must not be used. Devil-guns is what we call them.”

  Seven

  Bad Medicine

  “Gayatero knows nothing of these devil-guns,” mumbled the chief, “or of those who steal them.”

  “The great white father,” Larry solemnly intoned, “knows Gayatero speaks with straight tongue.”

  “Gayatero,” said the chief, with unblushing hypocrisy, “never lies.”

  Just as shamelessly, Larry replied,

  “We believe you, Chief. All white men trust Gayatero.”

  “Uh,” grunted Gayatero.

  “But,” said
Larry, “there are evil ones—dishonest palefaces—who would deceive the Apaches.”

  “No paleface can deceive my father,” muttered Mochita. “He is too wise.”

  “He is wise,” Larry agreed. “But the white thieves are men of great cunning, and my chiefs have sent me to warn him.”

  “About devil-guns?” Gayatero’s unwashed visage showed a flicker of expression at last.

  “Yes,” nodded Larry. “All the long guns stolen from the army.” He had wearied of mincing words and was eager to make his point. Well aware that many Apaches savvied Spanish he resorted to that tongue. Rightaway, a large proportion of his listeners—Gayatero and Mochita included—showed increased interest. “Those guns were being sent to Colonel Stone, a great friend of the Apaches. The Colonel had orders to send them back to Fort Gale, but he did not receive this order until after the shipment was on its way. The guns could not be used, Gayatero. The makers discovered a defect in the whole batch. Here—I show you one of these long guns—of the same kind that were stolen.”

  He unwrapped the repeater, offered it for the chiefs inspection. The braves drew closer, eyeing the weapon with a kind of hunger. Gayatero’s brown hands trembled slightly, as he tested its balance. In Spanish almost as fluent as Larry’s, he opined, “Such a fine weapon could have no defect.”

  “I don’t lie to you, Gayatero,” said Larry. “My chiefs fear that the thieves may try to give, sell or trade these guns to your braves. You must not permit this. To hunt with such a weapon means death—for sure.”

  “Death?” prodded Gayatero.

  “For the man behind the gun,” stressed Larry.

  “Go ahead—Sergeant Appletree,” drawled Stretch. “Show ’em.”