Larry and Stretch 13

by Marshall Grover

“It could be we’ll have to tag ’em all the way to that mine,” warned Larry. “The Lucky Dutchman.”

  Moving through the foothills, they were obliged to slow their pace. Their quarry weren’t all that far ahead, and Larry was loath to risk their hearing the extra hoofbeats—a warning counterpoint to the plodding of the other horses. At the beginning of the first long ascent, they backed their mounts into the concealment of a rock-cleft. Larry stood on his saddle to cautiously follow the progress of the six horsemen, and didn’t lower himself until they had turned the first sharp bend high above.

  “Here we go,” he grunted. “But slow and careful.”

  The track proved to be as narrow as the one they’d travelled yesterday, on their way up to the reservation. Larry took the lead and his sorrel climbed gingerly, picking its way with care, always skittish of the increasing elevation, as indicated by the depth of the ravine to their right. Within a very short time, that ravine became deeper, its floor that much further away.

  They rounded the first bend and, catching no sight of their quarry, pushed onward. A second bend was negotiated, then a third. By now, they were a goodly distance up the mountainside. The breeze was colder and, by rising in their stirrups and craning their necks, they could see the near edge of the gigantic shelf. They were close to their goal, but closer still to disaster, because they had been spotted by Rube Sunday.

  Nine

  The Hard-to-Kill Texans

  The six horses stood nose to tail, nudging the cliff face. Ellis had twisted in his saddle and was covering the Apaches with his rifle. Collier was staring anxiously at Sunday, who lay on his belly at the extreme edge of the trail, intently staring downward.

  “Are you dead sure, Rube?” he demanded.

  “Ain’t a doubt about it,” muttered Sunday. “We’re bein’ bird-dogged—by a couple hombres that enjoy to poke into other folks’ business.”

  “You mean you recognize them?” frowned Collier.

  “We’ve seen ’em before,” Sunday sourly assured him. “Come take a look for yourself.”

  Collier dismounted, stepped gingerly to the edge of the trail. His eyes followed Sunday’s pointing finger to a spot far below. Along the next strata of the zigzag, two riders were advancing, slowly but steadily.

  “There’s no doubt they’re following us,” drawled Collier. “And their curiosity could be dangerous.”

  “Too damn dangerous for my likin’,” growled Sunday. “Why’d they have to show up at a time like this—right when we’re near ready to clinch our deal with the Apaches?”

  “That’s a question they’ll never answer,” said Collier, grimly. “We’ll have to dispose of them, Rube. Shut their mouths.”

  “It’s as good as done,” Sunday assured them. “From here, me and Arnie can pick ’em off easy. Time enough to come back and get rid of the bodies after we’ve settled our business with these Injuns. Go ahead, Webb. You keep them bucks covered, while me and Arnie take care of these proddy Texans.”

  Collier drew his Colt, returned to the horses and, by raising a finger to his mouth, cautioned the Apaches to silence. Ellis swung down and toted his rifle to where his crony lay. They bellied down side by side.

  “All right,” said Sunday. “I’ll take the first one. You get a bead on his sidekick. We both cut loose together, savvy?”

  “Okay.” Ellis grinned a cruel grin, as his finger curled about the trigger. “The skinny one’s for me—and I’m ready when you are.”

  The range was considerable, but they were confident—over-confident.

  “Now!” said Sunday.

  Both rifles barked in unison, the two shots merging as one. Through the wreathing smoke from the barrels, they saw their victims plunging from their saddles, then disappearing beyond the edge of the trail. Sunday chuckled elatedly, and remarked,

  “It’ll be a long drop for ’em—a long, long drop.”

  “They won’t know about it,” Ellis coolly asserted. “I’ll swear I hit my mark dead-center.”

  “Makes no never-mind,” shrugged Sunday, as he rose to his feet. “If our bullets didn’t kill ’em, they die anyways. Fallin’ that far, a man’d break every bone in his carcass.”

  For Larry Valentine, the few moments following that crackle of rifle fire had been fraught with tension. He hadn’t lost consciousness, despite the crushing impact of the bullet, an impact so powerful as to drive him out of his saddle. He was all too aware of his grim predicament, knew he was sliding down a steep slope. His hands were clawing desperately, instinctively. He grasped earth that crumbled between his fingers patches of brush that came away from the cliff face, spattering dirt into his face.

  And then, some forty feet from below the trail, his hefty body was jolted by sudden contact with an outcropping, a rock ledge that did not give way. His legs dangled, but he was braced on his elbows, and making himself a fervent promise.

  “This is as far as I drop!”

  Pain bedeviled his ribs, as he planted his hands on the ledge and hauled himself upward. Grunting Lone Star profanity, he flopped on his left side and took a moment to examine his wound. Finding the battered slug was no difficult chore, under the circumstances. He extricated it with thumb and index finger from the wreck of the timepiece in his right side vest pocket. Small wonder his flesh was bruised and bloody, and probably a rib dented. The bullet had driven the metal casing of the watch hard against him.

  His pulse quickened, as he thrust his head over the side of the ledge to begin scanning the lower reaches of the cliff face. Almost immediately, he spotted his partner. It would have been difficult for him not to do so, because Stretch’s fall had been checked just a short distance below the ledge. The taller Texan didn’t look at his best from this angle, upside down, his long legs and lean buttocks protruding from a thick clump of brush. Urgently, Larry called to him. “You okay, big feller?”

  “Oh, fine,” came Stretch’s muffled reply. “I ain’t like ordinary folks. I relish gettin’ stuck this way—butt up and head down. It’s fun.”

  “How bad are you hit?” demanded Larry.

  “Shoulder smarts some,” grunted Stretch. “Maybe that slug only creased me, but it sure packed a wallop.”

  “Listen to what I’m tellin’ you,” muttered Larry. “I’m on a hunk of rock just atop of you. Maybe it’s strong enough to hold the both of us. If I’m wrong, we’ll find out soon enough—the hard way.”

  “I hear you,” said Stretch.

  “I’m gonna swing over and hang on by my hands and elbows,” said Larry. “If you can get your skinny carcass untangled from that bush, rise up and grab my legs, you could climb over me and up to the ledge. You got that?”

  “I got that,” Stretch assured him.

  “I’m swingin’ over now,” called Larry. “When you unfold, you’d better pray that bush don’t come free.”

  Once again, he hung with his legs dangling, his hands and arms pressed hard against the surface of the ledge. Stretch was then obliged to perform the acrobatic feat of turning himself right side up, while still clinging to the bush. How he achieved this was something Larry would never know, because he didn’t look down. Stretch squinted upward, decided his partner’s feet were just close enough. He jackknifed, then straightened fast, throwing his arms up. Every sinew of Larry’s powerful body seemed to take the strain, as Stretch’s arms wound about his legs.

  “That’s it!” he panted. “Keep comin’, big feller. Grip the back of my belt, then force yourself up.”

  It was as though some outsized, incredibly heavy insect were crawling up his back. Stretch gripped at his belt with one hand, grasped at his shoulder with the other. The strain was tremendous, but mercifully brief, because it took the taller Texan only a few seconds to get a hand-hold on the ledge. He hauled himself up and swung over. In the process, his right boot struck Larry’s head. Larry cussed, but not heatedly, and then Stretch was leaning over, seizing a fistful of the back of his vest, and muttering,

  “Up you come,
runt.”

  Larry again swung onto the ledge. They lay close together, propped on elbows, trading wry grins.

  “Not this time, huh, runt?” grunted Stretch.

  “Not this time,” Larry agreed. “But no thanks to Collier and his pards.”

  “Yeah,” frowned Stretch. “It had to be them. They must’ve spotted us.”

  “If they were all that hot to get rid of us,” muttered Larry, “it figures they got plenty to hide.”

  “Meanin’ hijacked rifles?” challenged Stretch.

  “I don’t mean hijacked apples,” growled Larry.

  He tugged out the tails of his partner’s shirt, tore off a strip and used it to bandage the ugly bullet-gash at Stretch’s left shoulder. The bleeding eased, but not till the makeshift bandage was sodden and streaked with red. Stretch winced and mumbled an oath or two, then squinted at Larry’s right side. Larry reported the destruction of his watch, and added, “But I ain’t complainin’.”

  “No,” grinned Stretch. “I wouldn’t, if I was you. That doggone timepiece saved your life. You wouldn’t feel so spry now, if that slug hadn’t been stopped. Looks like it would’ve plowed between your ribs and into your belly. You wouldn’t like that.”

  “Not one little bit,” Larry assured him. Gingerly, he rose to his feet and stared up toward the next strata of the zigzagging track. It seemed a long way distant, and the cliff face appeared treacherous, pitted in places, with many small outcroppings of rock and brush. “Time for us to move, big feller.”

  “Where the hell can we go?” demanded Stretch. “We’re stuck on this consarned ledge.” He edged to the outer side, peered down into the dizzy depths. “Goin’ down wouldn’t be any blame use. Too tricky.”

  “Up is best,” decided Larry. “But we don’t both have to risk our necks. Chances are our horses are still up there. If one of us can make it to the trail, knot both lariats together, rig a noose and pass it down to the other ...”

  “That’ll be my chore,” insisted Stretch. “I only got winged. It don’t hurt worth a damn and, besides, I got longer arms than you, so I can reach further.”

  “The hell with that,” said Larry. “We’ll toss for it.” He dug a dollar piece from his pocket “Heads I go. Tails you stay here.”

  He tossed the dollar, caught it and was about to open his hand, when Stretch sadly chided him.

  “For ten years or more, you’ve been cheatin’ me with that trick. Heads you go. Tails I stay behind. Ain’t you ashamed?”

  “You mean ...” Larry eyed him in acute shock, “you were always wise to it?”

  “Nope,” said Stretch. “Never caught onto it till now.” He held out a hand. “Gimme the dollar.” Larry surrendered the coin. Stretch flicked it and caught it, closed his hand. “Heads you go—tails I go. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough,” shrugged Larry.

  Stretch opened his hand.

  “Tails.” He made to pocket the dollar. Larry made a growling sound. “’Scuse me.” He returned the coin to Larry, rose to his feet and stared upward. “Well—here goes nothin’.”

  Larry boosted him. He began his climb slowly, pressing his lean frame against the surface of the cliff, taking a hard pull at every outcropping before daring to trust it with his entire weight.

  It seemed an eternity before he was rolling over onto flat ground, the surface of the mountain track. The sorrel and the pinto stood fifty yards further along.

  At his call, the horses obediently trotted back to him. He unhitched both lariats, uncoiled them and secured their ends, tying his knots with scrupulous care. One end of that long line he fixed to the pinto’s saddlehorn. The other he fashioned in a slip noose. Then, positioning himself directly above the ledge, he called down to Larry and began lowering the noose. In less than a minute, Larry was taking delivery of it, slipping it under his armpits and pulling it tight. “Now hang onto the line,” ordered Stretch. “Dig in with your boots as you come up. I’ll keep the pinto movin’.”

  He took the pinto’s rein. The line became taut. For a brief moment, the pinto stood braced. Then, urged on by its master’s voice, it plodded forward along the trail. Down below, Larry was swung leftward with his legs dangling. He gripped the line tighter, slammed hard against the cliff face and used the toes of his boots to good advantage, getting leverage. Three feet upward—seven feet—then—twenty—and the lariat wasn’t fraying; a fact for which he was deeply grateful.

  “Nice goin’, big feller,” he acknowledged, when, a short time later, he was struggling over the rim of the trail. He extricated himself from the noose, emptied his holster and checked the loading of his Colt, an unnecessary, automatic action. As he resheathed the weapon, he quietly announced, “We got unfinished business.”

  “And then some,” Stretch agreed. “I’m a mite curious to take a look-see at that Lucky Dutchman mine.”

  “You’ll see it,” Larry grimly promised, “after me. I’m headed up there by myself.”

  “Well, damn-it-all ...!” began Stretch.

  “Just this once,” explained Larry, “we’re gonna ask for help. You’re goin’ back down the track and away to the flats, and …”

  “You mean all the way back to town?” frowned Stretch.

  “I don’t reckon you’ll have to travel that far,” opined Larry, “to find one of Stone’s patrols.”

  “Maybe I don’t hear so good.” Stretch eyed him incredulously. “You’re tellin’ me to fetch help—fetch one of them consarned patrols? Hell, runt, there couldn’t be more’n a half dozen of Collier’s pards up there. We could take ’em—without any help from the dad-nabbed cavalry.”

  “I’d go along with that notion,” said Larry, “if we only had our own skins to think of. But this is a big deal, amigo. Who shot us? It had to be Collier and his pards. And why? Because we were gettin’ too close. Too close to what?”

  “The hijacked repeaters,” nodded Stretch, “maybe.”

  “Right,” said Larry. “And nothin’ is as important as those repeaters. Not your life nor mine.”

  “So?” prodded Stretch.

  “So,” said Larry, “while I’m tagging Collier and those Apaches, you’ll be lookin’ for a cavalry patrol. Tell ’em what we saw, then bring ’em back here.”

  “Okay, runt,” said Stretch. “We’ll play it your way.” He swung astride the pinto, wheeled it and, as he rode past Larry, sketched him a brief salute. Larry mounted his sorrel and heeled it to movement, pressing on toward the next sharp bend of the track.

  During that slow progress up the mountainside, he lost all track of time. The sorrel plodded gamely, with Larry keeping it moving in the soft ground close to the cliff face, making as little noise as possible. His ears were cocked for the give-away sounds, the clatter of hoofbeats of the other horses, and his eyes were forever probing the terrain directly ahead.

  With startling suddenness, the big shelf was revealed to him. He rounded a bend in the heights and there it was. Hastily, he backed his mount around the bend to its lower section. He dismounted, hobbled the animal and proceeded on foot, moving cautiously to the bend and crouching for an intent appraisal of the scene now being enacted.

  At his present position, he was on a level with the shelf and all it contained—the cabin, the corral that accommodated—how many mules? Hell. So many? What did Sunday and his five sidekicks need with a whole herd of pack-animals? Of course, with so many mules at their disposal, it wouldn’t have been especially difficult for them to move the entire cargo of two freight wagons.

  The cabin door was open. In addition to Collier, Sunday and the three Apaches, he counted five other men. Three of these he recognized as having participated in the street brawl outside the general store. The other two were cast from the same mould. Hardcases. Bad medicine.

  His heart leapt as he followed the movements of the bogus miners and the three braves. Rifles were being toted out of that cabin and, even at this distance, they looked to be brand new. Sunday was loading them, giving t
he braves a demonstration. He triggered a couple of bullets skyward, handed one of the weapons to Mochita and pantomimed for him to test it—and Larry had seen enough.

  How had the search party failed to locate the missing rifles inside that cabin? Well, the answer to that query would have to wait. His immediate concern was to get as close as possible to the cabin—to get inside it, in fact.

  There was, on both side of this bend, a considerable growth of brush. It extended almost to the shelf. On the opposite side of the bend, he could see rock aplenty, ample hiding places. He scratched a match, touched the flame to the bushes at his right. Then, bent double, he hustled across the trail to the side nearest the cliff face. Here, he lit and dropped another match. The brush flared, while he climbed twelve feet up the cliff face to huddle within a cleft. He was now slightly closer to the shelf—between the shelf and the bend. If the hijackers reacted as he hoped they would ...

  Collier was first to become conscious of the smoke. He whirled, staring back along the trail. His shout alerted Sunday, who, after a quick glance, observed,

  “The brush has caught fire. Well—that happens. Maybe one of us threw a cigar butt, or ...”

  “Never mind how it happened,” growled Collier. “That fire could spread along the track—all the way to the cabin!”

  “Hey!” yelled Ellis. “All that ammunition ...!”

  “Fetch blankets and come with me,” ordered Collier. “Arnie and Jimmy—you stay with Mochita.”

  The Apaches, Larry observed, showed little interest in the fire, barely deigning to glance toward the bend. They were absorbed in the gleaming weapon now being examined by the elated Mochita. While Larry watched, the three redmen moved over by the corral. Ellis and his swarthy sidekick, the half-breed Jimmy Red Cloud, stood by the near comer of the cabin, calling advice to Collier and the others, who were hustling along the track, unrolling blankets with which to attack the flaming brush.

  Smoke was rising now, enough of it to shield Larry’s movements. From the cleft, he sidled along the cliff face toward the shelf, while Collier, Sunday and the other four passed directly beneath him, never glancing upward. Quickly, they applied themselves to the task of smothering the flames, slapping at the burning brush with the blankets. With six of them working at it, the fire would soon be extinguished. Realizing this, Larry tried to move faster.