Larry and Stretch 13

by Marshall Grover

  “It isn’t Boyle,” Larry was grateful to observe. “Look—he’s wavin’ to us.”

  “Kerwin, huh?” frowned Stretch.

  “Kerwin for sure,” nodded Larry. “I’d as lief parley with him than any other blue-britches.”

  “Well,” shrugged Stretch, “at least he’s friendly.”

  Eight

  The Challenge

  After the exchange of greetings, Kerwin shoved his hat back off his brows, folded his hands over his saddlehorn and showed the drifters a bland grin.

  “You’ve disappointed the Colonel,” he confided.

  “How come?” demanded Larry.

  “He had plans for you,” said Kerwin. “The stockade. Hard rations. Leg-irons. Everything except a firing squad. Of course, he was counting on my catching you red-handed—with the stolen equipment in your possession.”

  “Well,” said Larry, “we sure hate to disappoint old Vinegar-Face.”

  “Speakin’ for myself,” growled Stretch, “I got no sympathy for a hombre that don’t have no faith in his fellow men—like the Colonel, f’rinstance. The way he always suspicions us Texans—it’s plumb uncharitable.” With great self-righteousness, he appealed to the captain. “I ask you fair and square—do we look like the kind of hombres that’d steal a couple soldier suits? Well, do we?”

  “I refuse to answer that question, Emerson.” grinned Kerwin. “Rumor has it that life becomes hectic for any official incurring the wrath of the Lone Star Hellions. Let’s just say I prefer to remain neutral—in a friendly way.”

  “Your patrols makin’ any progress, Captain?” asked Larry.

  “We’re following orders,” frowned Kerwin. “Keeping the entire area under surveillance—or at least trying to. It’s a big country, Valentine. I wish I could take an oath that none of those repeaters have reached Gayatero. I’d feel a lot easier.”

  “But, like you say, it’s a big country,” nodded Larry, “and you’re feared the shipment might get sneaked past your patrols.”

  “I’m afraid it could be done,” said Kerwin. “Naturally, the Ninth will do its damnedest to prevent it.”

  “We sure wish you luck,” offered Stretch.

  “How about yourselves?” prodded Kerwin. “Just what are you doing in this territory?”

  “Snoopin’.” Larry said it without hesitation. “Scoutin’. Checkin’ around.”

  “For what?” demanded Kerwin.

  “Couldn’t you guess” challenged Larry. “Look, Captain, this ruckus is apt to touch a whole lot of people. Ordinary townfolks, as well as the army. When me and my pardner heard about those hijacked repeaters, I got curious.”

  Kerwin digested that slowly, then commented,

  “I suppose any law-abiding citizen is entitled to conduct an investigation—independently.” He eyed Larry intently. “Is that what you’re doing?”

  “Kind of,” shrugged Larry. “And I don’t reckon Stone’d appreciate it. He’d likely claim we were tryin’ to steal his thunder.”

  “He’d say,” opined Stretch, “it’s none of our business.”

  “It’ll be everybody’s business-like it or not,” sighed Kerwin, “if Gayatero starts another war.”

  “Meantime,” suggested Larry, “what Stone don’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “I believe I understand you, Valentine.” The captain grinned wryly. “And what of your investigation? Any results?”

  “Not yet,” said Larry. “We’re still snoopin’.” He jerked a thumb toward the mountains. “How about the high country? Did your search parties travel clear up to the peaks?”

  “All the way,” Kerwin assured him. “And, of course, the Lucky Dutchman was included in that operation. One of our patrols was assigned to that section as soon as the ambush was reported.”

  “Lucky Dutchman?” prodded Larry.

  “That’s a gold mine,” said Kerwin. “Not a paying proposition, from what I hear. But a half-dozen optimists are working it. The Sunday outfit.”

  “Sunday?” Larry darted a quick glance at Stretch.

  “That’s a name we’ve heard before,” frowned Stretch.

  “I guess he’d be the same hardcase we tangled with yesterday.”

  “As I recall it,” said Kerwin, “Sergeant Grisson was in charge of that particular detail.”

  “And he checked Sunday’s camp real careful, huh, Captain,” mused Larry.

  “Naturally,” nodded Kerwin. “The tunnels. The cabin. The whole operation. Routine procedure, Valentine. Results negative.” He checked his watch. “It’s time for me to take this patrol back to headquarters.”

  “We’ll be seein’ you,” grunted Larry.

  The Texans refrained from further comment until Kerwin was out of earshot. Slumped in their saddles, with their right legs hooked about their pommels, they watched the patrol resuming its journey southward. Stretch, though his talent for intrigue was somewhat less than his partner’s, was adding two and two, and coming up with a dark suspicion.

  “We figured Sunday for a real hard case, didn’t we? And we didn’t take kindly to that tinhorn—and now we learn Sunday bosses a claim up in the mountains—and ...”

  “And it’s likely,” opined Larry, “that Collier was up there visitin’ with Sunday, just before I spotted him.” He nodded pensively. “Sunday and Collier are tied in, maybe.”

  “Quite a combination,” scowled Stretch. “I wouldn’t trust neither of ’em no further’n I could kick a buffalo—with my feet tied.”

  “The Lucky Dutchman,” reflected Larry, “was searched by a patrol.”

  “Which didn’t find no stolen repeaters,” Stretch reminded him. “Well—what now?”

  Larry made his decision quickly.

  “What I need,” he declared, “is a stake-out. Someplace between the foothills and the reservation. And someplace high. You know what I mean? High enough for me to see a sizeable chunk of this territory through the field glasses.”

  “It’s gettin’ dark,” said Stretch. “We’d better find it fast. What’s more, I’m hungry.”

  “We’ll eat,” Larry promised. “But it has to be cold chow, on account of we ain’t lightin’ no give-away fire.”

  The shadows of dusk were lengthening into evening, when Larry next called a halt. He had found what appeared to be an ideal location. The clearing was deep in the heart of a mesquite clump, and the mesquite was less than thirty yards from a lone pine, a tree of uncommon height. To the south was a dried-out arroyo of which they were unaware, thanks to the increasing darkness. After dismounting, Larry squinted up to the lofty top-section of the pine and asserted, “I could climb damn-near to the top and, from up there, I bet I could see for miles.”

  “Clear back to the foothills,” guessed Stretch, “as well as clear across to Sun Dog Mesa. But you ain’t about to climb up there rightaway, are you?”

  “No,” frowned Larry. “Not much chance Gayatero would send out a war-party before sun-up. Apaches don’t work that way.”

  “Bueno,” grunted Stretch. “So we get to eat, and catch up on our shut-eye.” He off-saddled and hobbled the horses and dug provisions from his saddlebag.

  It wasn’t the first time they had dined on such humble fare—a couple of cans of cold beans, a chunk of almost-stale bread, a few pieces of jerky. Stretch complained, but not bitterly. They made the most of it and tried to forget that their bankroll, snug in Larry’s hip pocket, amounted to a useful three thousand dollars. With such a sum at their disposal, they could have been dining first-class in some expensive Bosworth restaurant.

  With the dawn, all parties destined to be involved in the day’s grim drama were astir and beginning their preparations. The Texans weren’t about to risk detection by lighting a fire for hot coffee. However, they had no aversion to hard liquor before noon; they didn’t hesitate to fortify themselves with hefty slugs from the bottle from Larry’s saddlebag. After this early morning libation, Larry slung his field-glasses crosswise from his left shoulder, advanced
to the pine and began his climb to its lofty heights. Stretch remained in the clearing with the horses.

  At the Sun Dog Mesa reservation, Mochita and two braves of his choice lithely mounted their ponies and rode to the east lip of the mesa.

  Simultaneously, Rube Sunday and Arnie Ellis were riding down the mountain track to the foothills of the Santa Rosas, intending to stake out in the arroyo well in advance of the appointed time.

  And, in a Bosworth livery stable, the saturnine, uncommunicative Webb Collier had completed negotiating the hiring of a clean-limbed bay; the proprietor had saddled the animal and accepted payment, and Collier was swinging astride. As on previous occasions, he quit town quietly, determined to avoid, at all costs, the early patrols from Camp Stone.

  In the matter of a vantage point, Larry decided that he had chosen well. The upper section of the giant pine swayed slightly in the morning wind, but he was secure on his perch, straddling a bough thick enough to support his weight, with his back braced against the trunk. He used his glasses to good advantage and paid himself a compliment. This was the ideal lookout-post. From up here, he commanded a sweeping view of the eastern approaches to the mesa. Also by twisting slightly and swinging his binoculars to the north, he could check the timber and the foothills south of the Santa Rosas.

  The first horseman appeared almost two hours after Larry had taken up his position—two of them, approaching from the direction of the foothills. They toted rifles crosswise and their garb was shabby—and familiar. He adjusted his glasses and studied the duo with more than casual interest. As they drew closer, he was able to confirm his identification. Rube Sunday and friend—the same jasper knocked over the hitch rail outside the general store during the hassle of two days ago.

  He knew a few moments of apprehension, when the riders seemed to be steering a direct course for the mesquite. And then he noticed the track that had escaped his attention last night, a dimly-defined horse trail that skirted the brush. Sunday and his pard were following that trail. They passed beneath the pine, veered leftward and moved around the clump, pressing onward to the south.

  Following their progress, Larry saw them trading waves with a lone rider approaching from the general direction of the county seat. Again, he brought his glasses into closer focus, this time to establish that the third man was Webb Collier. Collier was first to reach the arroyo. He put his mount to its south slope and, in a matter of moments, was lost to Larry’s view. Sunday and Ellis performed a similar disappearing trick a short time later.

  Larry waited patiently, moving his glasses to cover the entire area, wondering if more riders would converge on that lonely arroyo so far from the regions patrolled by the men of the 9th. He waited another quarter-hour, before spotting the three riders advancing from the west. His heart leapt. Apaches!

  On the floor of the arroyo, Collier stood beside his horse, puffing at a cigar and keeping his gaze directed to the west. Sunday and Ellis were out of sight, huddled behind a cluster of boulders some twelve yards to Collier’s right. Their precautions amused him. Within a very short time, he would have cause to thank them. But. not at this moment. Right now, he felt supremely confident.

  He summoned up a bland grin of greeting, when the redmen appeared, moving into the arroyo from its west end. They came on slowly and steadily, led by Gayatero’s grimfaced son, and it didn’t occur to Collier to wonder why Mochita had brought company.

  The braves reined up. To Collier’s astonishment, Mochita greeted him by calling him a name. Several names.

  “White coyote! Traitor with split tongue! Liar ...!”

  “Hold on now, Mochita,” Collier protested. “We’re supposed to parley—not trade insults. What the hell is eating at you?”

  “No parley!” snarled Mochita. He pointed to Collier’s hired horse. “You ride with us—now.”

  “Where to?” demanded Collier.

  “You are prisoner of the Apaches,” muttered Mochita. “Outside the lodge of my father, the great chief, you will suffer punishment ...!”

  “White eyes tried to trick Apaches,” jeered one of the other braves.

  “Trick?” challenged Collier. “What trick? What the devil are you talking about?”

  “No more talk,” breathed Mochita. Again, he pointed to the bay. “You come now.”

  “Like hell I will,” growled Collier.

  “Like hell he will!” called Sunday.

  The braves suddenly froze. Only their eyes moved, slanting toward the rocks. Sunday and Ellis were on their feet, covering Collier’s challengers with their rifles.

  “It’s up to you, Mochita,” grinned Sunday. “Drop your muskets and stay alive. Do it fast or—so help me ...!”

  “Mochita,” frowned Collier, “you’d better do as he says.”

  The braves let their weapons drop. Ellis hustled forward and gathered them up. Unhurriedly, Collier emptied his shoulder-holster. He didn’t aim the short-barreled Colt at Mochita, but there was anger in his eyes and, for a few tense moments, the chief’s son was well and truly intimidated.

  “Lucky we was here to back your play, huh, Webb?” prodded Sunday.

  “So it would seem,” mused Collier. “All right, Mochita, I reckon you owe me an explanation.”

  Mochita spat in contempt.

  “Apaches owe the white eyes nothing! Nothing but death—slow death!”

  “Your father talked peaceable with me before,” Collier reminded him. “We made good medicine—and a deal. Now you treat me as an enemy. Why?”

  “Devil-guns!” gasped Mochita. “You want give devil-guns to Apaches—kill many braves ...”

  “Talk slower, consarn you,” chided Sunday. “You ain’t makin’ sense.”

  “White eyes soldiers come to reservation,” muttered Mochita, “tell my father these long guns are bad—no use to Apaches.”

  “They lied to you!” snapped Collier.

  “They prove!” retorted Mochita. “They show how!”

  “What the hell ...?” began Ellis.

  “Shuddup, Arnie,” frowned Sunday. “We better let Webb handle this parley his own way.”

  Curtly, Collier interrogated the chiefs son. Mochita’s answers were prompt, bitter and punctuated with much profanity, Apache-style. Sunday and Ellis listened with their jaws sagging.

  “They’re crazy!” asserted Sunday.

  “No.” Collier slowly shook his head. “You can’t blame them for losing their heads.” He eyed Mochita thoughtfully. “You were tricked, my friend, but not by me. The white eyes soldiers lied to you. I speak straight. The long gun they showed to you was not of the kind I have promised to your father.”

  “More lies,” sneered Mochita.

  “By the great horned toad,” scowled Sunday, “I’d admire to teach this buck a lesson—kick him from here to Utah.”

  “Do you want to foul up the whole deal?” countered Collier, “spoil our one and only chance of getting our hands on the gold? Use your head, Rube. We can’t afford to lay a fist on these hotheaded bucks.” He looked at Mochita again. “Mochita, I will prove to you that I have not lied to your father.”

  “How you prove?” Mochita sourly challenged.

  “Arnie,” said Collier, “hustle back to wherever you left your horses. Fetch rope.”

  “What’re we gonna do with ’em?” demanded Sunday.

  “The only thing we can do,” said Collier. “Make them our prisoners—temporarily at least, just long enough to take them to the Lucky Dutchman.”

  “Well ...” Sunday frowned uneasily.

  “Can you think of any other way of convincing them?” challenged Collier. “They have to see for themselves, Rube. How else can we convince these hardheads that we haven’t tried to trick them? We have two choices, Rube. Either we let them examine some of those repeaters, prove to them that the merchandise is in good order—or we forget the whole thing. Is that what you’d rather do? Kiss goodbye to a fortune?”

  “It’s just I never did admire to argue with Inju
ns,” shrugged Sunday.

  Ellis fetched the rope, cut off three lengths and set about rendering the braves helpless. Their wrists were secured behind their backs. They could, Collier assured himself, negotiate the narrow mountain track without falling from their ponies. Weren’t the Apaches, and all other redskins, supposed to be expert horsemen? He swung astride the bay, restored his Colt to his holster and nodded affably to the scowling Mochita.

  “We go now, my young friend. Soon, you will handle these fine long guns—test them—prove to yourself that I have not betrayed your people.”

  “All right,” growled Sunday. “Let’s get movin’.”

  In the clearing, standing between the horses with their hands clasped about their muzzles, the taller Texan forced himself to patience. High above, his partner had trained his field glasses on the arroyo. The six riders reappeared now. Sunday was leading. After him came Ellis and the three Apaches, with Collier bringing up the rear. Quitting the arroyo, they came back along the seldom-used trail that skirted the mesquite. Larry studied them intently, as they drew closer to his vantage point. The redskins rode with their arms behind them. How about that? It seemed Collier and his sidekicks were the unpredictable kind. Usually, the Indians captured the white men.

  He waited only long enough to ascertain that the six riders were headed into the foothills, before beginning his descent.

  By the time he reached the clearing, Stretch had the horses saddled and ready to move.

  “I couldn’t see a blame thing,” he complained.

  “Fill your saddle,” ordered Larry. “I’ll tell you the whole score while we’re ridin’.”

  They advanced to the foothills with the horse tracks of their quarry clear before them. During that ride, Larry told of all he had witnessed from his vantage point. Then, while Stretch expressed bewilderment, Larry assured him,

  “I’m as puzzled as you. I keep askin’ myself why would Collier and his pards want to kidnap three Injuns.”

  “So,” guessed Stretch, “there’s only one way we can get an answer. We tag ’em.”