Larry and Stretch 13

by Marshall Grover

  Along the cliff face, he found footholds all the way to the center of the shelf, thus bringing himself directly above the roof of the cabin. He darted a glance toward the Apaches. Their backs were turned. He couldn’t see Ellis and the other man, so could only hope they were still watching their cohorts down by the bend. It had to be now. He couldn’t wait any longer.

  When he dropped, he landed on all fours on the flat roof. Rising up fast, he hurried to its outer edge and leapt over. The thud of his fall alerted the two men standing at the corner of the building. They whirled, gasping oaths, reaching to their holsters. He drew, cocked and fired, all in one flashing movement, and Ellis stumbled backward with his right shoulder bloody. The ’breed promptly darted out of sight around the corner,

  From the corral, the Apaches were advancing on him. He flicked a glance over his shoulder and found that he had landed only a few feet from the cabin’s open doorway. One backward leap carried him across the threshold. He swung the door shut, raised the bar, then dropped it into position. Almost immediately, Mochita’s head and shoulders, plus the gleaming barrel of the repeater, appeared in the window to the left of the door. Larry held his gun-arm across his chest, aimed for the rifle’s muzzle and squeezed trigger. With the report of the report, he was rewarded by a startled yelp from the son of Gayatero. The window was suddenly vacated.

  Two windows, he noted. The one at the side and another in the front wall, some five feet from the door. He had downed one of them, but that left nine, if he included the three Apaches.

  The climbing, jumping and jolting had affected his wound. His dented rib ached considerably, but he ignored the pain. He was reacting instinctively, by back-stepping toward the cabin’s rear wall, and only then did it occur to him to throw a glance over his shoulder. An oath escaped him.

  That rear wall was constructed of planks nailed in the upright position. There was a sizeable opening at its center, oblong-shaped. From this aperture, a whole section of boards had been removed. But it wasn’t the opening that won Larry’s attention. What mattered was piled neatly in the area beyond. Obviously, the cabin had been built against a shaft entrance, and for just one purpose—to provide an effective hiding place for a rich prize. There they were—the crates hijacked from the Lowell-Taft wagons—some of them containing the all-important repeaters, masterpieces of the gunsmith’s craft—some of them containing the ammunition for those repeaters, 44.40 caliber. One crate had been opened. The rifles were in plain sight.

  “Get him out of there!” It was Collier’s voice, edged with fury.

  Larry had never felt happier, never so much in command of an invidious situation. He was actually whistling a Texas ditty, as he overturned the table, laid it across the tunnel entrance and settled himself behind it. The dusky visage of the half-breed appeared at the front window, behind the muzzle of a leveled Colt. The weapon roared and the slug came too close for Larry’s comfort, fanning his face. He hammered back and returned lire, his six-gun’s barrel steadied on the edge of the table. The half-breed unleashed a cry of anguish, dropping his gun and clasping his hands to his face. Blood was trickling through his fingers, as he slowly slumped out of sight.

  “Bein’ outnumbered,” Larry remarked aloud, “ain’t such a gosh-awful strain. Not when you’re well armed.”

  Ten

  The Britches of Sergeant Boyle

  Stretch Emerson’s descent of the mountain track was made at breakneck speed and with scant respect for life or limb.

  As he took to the open country, Stretch scanned the terrain eagerly. It didn’t seem long since the Lone Star Hellions had taken pains to avoid contact with 9th Cavalry patrols. Now, the position was reversed, in no uncertain terms. He needed to contact a patrol.

  When he spotted the eight blue-uniformed riders, he forgot the smarting of his shoulder wound, forgot that his mount was badly winded and needed to rest, forgot everything save the dire need to fetch help for his partner.

  The soldiers had just emerged from a strip of chaparral. They had spotted him and were reining up. Their leader was bulky in his saddle and florid, thick-necked, all too familiar.

  “My gosh,” reflected Stretch. “It’d have to be him. Boyle—of all people!”

  He brought the pinto to a slithering halt a few yards from the sergeant’s pony.

  “Sarge,” he gasped, “you gotta come along with me. Larry needs help!”

  The seven troopers said nothing. They had met the tall Texan before, and not sociably. They eyed him sourly, while Boyle delivered himself of a stream of invective, and asserted,

  “I’ve made myself a promise, by glory. I’m gonna break every bone in your no-good Texas carcass—for what you did to Cusack and me!”

  “Who’s Cusack?” blinked Stretch.

  “Corporal Cusack!” snarled Boyle. “You stole his uniform—same time you stole mine—you lousy, sneakin’ thief!”

  “For gosh sakes,” fretted Stretch, “I got no time to tangle with you now.” And he thought to add, “Besides, I’m plumb innocent. I didn’t steal your doggone duds.”

  “Cool your saddle!” barked Boyle.

  “Go on, Sarge,” urged a trooper. “Beat his brains out.”

  “You lame-brained fools!” fumed Stretch. “This ain’t no time for fightin’ with each other! If you hanker for a hassle, do like I’m tellin’ you. Come back with me—back to the mountains. Larry’s trailin’ the same bunch that …”

  “As well as beatin’ your brains out,” said Boyle, as he swung to the ground, “I’m gonna spread your nose clear over your face. You hear me, Emerson? I said get off that horse!”

  Stretch lived a moment of anguished indecision. Nothing caused him greater pleasure than the furious gymnastics of an all-in brawl. He could have enjoyed blacking the sergeant’s eyes and loosening his teeth—at any other time. Larry’s orders had been explicit. Find help. Bring reinforcements back to the high country.

  Boyle was striding toward the winded pinto, bunching his fists and repeating his demand that Stretch dismount. It seemed there was only one thing Stretch could do. He did it, at such bewildering speed that Boyle and his men were taken by surprise. As fast as they could blink, Stretch’s matched .45s cleared leather, cocked, the left-hand gun pointed unerringly at Boyle’s broad chest, the other weaving in a slow half-arc to cover the bug-eyed troopers.

  “Damn you ...!” began Boyle.

  “Hush your doggone mouth,” growled Stretch. “Do like I’m tellin’ you—and do it fast.” To the troopers, he drawled an order. “Unbuckle your side arms. Hurl ’em clear. The carbines too. Anybody makes a rash move, I swear I’ll let daylight through your lard-bellied sergeant.”

  The troopers hastily rid themselves of their weapons. Boyle moved slower. Glowering at the muzzle of the Colt pointed at him, he unbuckled his side arms. Then, to his chagrin, Stretch voiced another order.

  “Now strip off your britches.”

  Boyle started convulsively.

  “No ...!”

  “Don’t gimme no ‘no’s’,” Stretch scowled ferociously. “I get your britches—or you get a bullet. Make up your mind!”

  The sergeant trembled in impotent rage and perspired profusely as he raised the bottom part of his tunic and unstrapped his pants belt. The britches were a tight fit, albeit brand new issue. To remove them, he was obliged to first remove his boots. He did so, to the accompaniment of much imaginative profanity and many an aspersion on the mating habits of Stretch’s ancestors. Lithely, Stretch dismounted.

  “Back away,” he ordered Boyle. “Back far away. The rest of you useless Yankees—cool your saddles. Go on now! Climb offa them prads and back away.”

  The troopers dismounted. One of them cast a longing glance at his fallen carbine, but was discouraged by the Texan’s right hand Colt. They backed away, all of them. When they were a full twenty yards from where he stood, Stretch scooped up Boyle’s britches and leapt astride Boyle’s horse, guessing it to be fresher than his own overworked pinto
. He took the rein, holstered his Colts and dug in his heels. Raising a derisive Rebel yell and waving the britches like a flag, he started the sergeant’s pony racing back to the foothills.

  “That does it!” gasped Boyle. “That really does it! Get your weapons, men. Remount! I’ll fix that Texas polecat if I have to chase him from here to Wyomin’!” He dashed to where his boots lay, began pulling them on. “Trooper Haggerty—I’m ridin’ double with you. Emerson’s pinto ain’t worth a damn. C’mon, men ...!”

  A few moments before reaching the foothills, Stretch glanced backward. Boyle and his troopers were doing exactly what he had hoped for—chasing him. Bueno. This was the easy way, and a damn sight faster than trading gab with the unimaginative sergeant. He chuckled elatedly, knotted the britches about the saddlehorn and rode on.

  Through the foothills and all the way to the beginning of the mountain track, he deliberately slowed his pace, to permit his pursuers to keep him in sight—if not in shooting range. When he began his journey to the higher regions, Boyle’s party never once hesitated. They kept coming.

  Soon, they heard the ominous thunder above—the sullen booming of six-guns, the harsh crackle of rifle fire.

  “I dunno what that shootin’s all about,” panted Boyle, “but I reckon we’d best find out. Keep movin’, men!”

  Meanwhile, the other half of the Valentine-Emerson partnership was still in good spirits. Any time a head or a gun appeared at the windows, Larry snapped a shot at it, effective discouragers that kept Collier and Company very much at bay. Holes suddenly appeared in the panels of the door. They were directing their fire through it, he realized. Bullets slammed into the dealwood of the overturned table, some gouging chunks from its edges. Coolly, he lined a fully-loaded repeater at the door and, in one energetic burst, emptied it. Outside, he heard his attackers scattering in disorder, and Collier’s shouted rebukes.

  “Rush the windows!”

  “Yeah—try that!” Larry loudly invited. “Rush the windows! All it can cost you is a faceful of hot lead!”

  From where he lay sprawled, reloading his overheated Colt, Sunday glared resentfully at the redmen. Mochita and his cohorts had decided against further participation in the fighting, and seemed to derive grim pleasure from watching the whites locked in conflict. They had retreated into the corral and were chattering among themselves. Jimmy Red Cloud lay dead beside the cabin, his face a bloody mess. Arnie Ellis had crawled to cover; his shoulder wound had put him well and truly out of action.

  Collier and the others were crouched behind whatever cover they could find, fanned out to all sides of the cabin, rising up at intervals to snap shots at the windows. Impatiently, Sunday called to the boss hijacker.

  “We’re gettin’ no place fast, Webb! With all that hardware in back of him, he can hold us off for months! We gotta figure some way to draw him outa there!”

  “He holds all the aces, damn him,” muttered Collier.

  “Offer him a deal,” urged Sunday. “What the hell, every man has his price.”

  Collier had to admit the possible merit of this suggestion. He mentally rehearsed his offer, then began yelling it to the Texan in the cabin—just as Stretch arrived at the last bend.

  It was one of those rare times when the brain of the taller Texan worked at double its normal rate. Collier’s voice carried to his ears with infinite clarity. He reined up: drew his Colts and patiently waited for his pursuers to arrive. They arrived, only a few moments later. Boyle’s mouth was open for a bitter harangue.

  “Button the lip!” snapped Stretch. “This was the only way I could get you up here.”

  “What ...?” began Boyle.

  “Just shuddup!” growled Stretch. “And use your doggone ears!”

  Boyle and his men cocked their ears, the while they hefted their weapons and traded puzzled frowns.

  “I have no fight with you Valentine—or whatever your name is!” Collier called to the man in the cabin. “You’ve seen what’s stored in there—but can you imagine its worth?” And then the eavesdroppers heard the familiar voice of Larry Valentine—loud and aggressive.

  “I know what this shipment means to the Apaches, Collier! This shipment of repeaters—all this ammunition—you hijacked it! You and your sidewinder pards!”

  “I had a damn good reason, Valentine,” retorted Collier. “I needed to trade with Gayatero! Use your head! There’s a fortune waiting for us at Sun Dog Mesa, a fortune in raw gold—stolen by Gayatero’s braves a year ago! Do you want to pass up such a chance? I’m offering you a fat share, Valentine. You could get out of this mess alive—and rich! Let me send my men in to collect those repeaters. They’ll come unarmed. I give you my word ...”

  ‘That’ll be the day!” jeered Larry. “If you think these new guns are gonna win you a fortune, you’re out of your cotton-pickin’ mind. Every shooter in this shipment is goin’ right where it belongs—Camp Stone!”

  Stretch cocked his Colts, glared challengingly at the wide-eyed Boyle.

  “Well?” he prodded. “What’re you waitin’ for? It sounds like ol’ Larry’s found them hijacked repeaters—and the skunks that hijacked ’em. Do you tag along with me, or do you set there and think about it?” He added a last insult, as he urged his borrowed mount to movement. “Hell, Sarge, you got nothin’ to think with!”

  He rounded the bend fast and headed for the Lucky Dutchman at the gallop. Red-faced, Boyle bawled at his men.

  “Chaaarge ...!”

  The patrol rounded the bend in force, their mounts galloping close behind the Texan’s. Inside the cabin, Larry heard his partner’s wild whoop, the challenging Rebel yell.

  “Well,” he grinned, as he climbed over his barricade with his right fist full of Colt, “better late than never.”

  He hustled to the door, lifted the bar, then swung it open. Collier and Sunday were on their feet. The Apaches were clambering out of the corral, Mochita still brandishing a repeater. Sunday’s other cohorts quickly appeared, shooting wildly at the advancing troopers. The peaks echoed to the thunder of guns and the strident yells of angry men, and Larry had targets aplenty. On his way to the corral, Collier whirled and spotted him, raised his gun and took aim. Larry crouched with his Colt roaring and, for Collier, it was all over. He spun crazily with a red stain spreading over his shirt front.

  Sunday was running, panic-stricken. Larry saw Stretch easing his boots from the stirrups, hurling himself from his mount to land astride Sunday and force him to the ground. Sunday made a futile effort to regain his feet. Stretch hauled him half upright, then swung a wild uppercut that spread the burly hardcase flat on his bade, senseless.

  A hijacker turned his rifle on the troopers and paid the supreme penalty. Carbines barked. He pitched to the ground, flopping in an untidy heap. At the top of his lungs and in urgent Spanish, Larry yelled a warning to Mochita—but too late. The impulsive paleface-hater was aiming the repeater at a trooper, when Boyle’s Colt roared. The bullet knocked Mochita sprawling.

  “Hold your fire!” called Larry.

  And, abruptly, all shooting ceased. None of Collier’s men had emerged unscathed from the battle. Only one trooper was wounded. The two braves were crouched beside the unconscious Mochita, glaring balefully at the troopers, but making no move toward the fallen repeater. Over his shoulder, Larry snapped orders to the sergeant.

  “Rope the dead and wounded to their horses. Have your men tote the hardware out of the cabin and load it on the mules. Unless I miss my guess, you’ll find enough mules to carry the whole damn shipment.” He crooked a finger at his partner. “Stretch—give me a hand with Mochita.”

  “He done for?” enquired Stretch, as he stepped over the unconscious Sunday.

  “We better pray he ain’t done for,” growled Larry. “If this buck dies, Bosworth County’ll never be safe for whites.”

  In the late afternoon of that day, Colonel Mortimer Stone was rudely roused from a cat-nap. He rolled off his bunk while Captain Kerwin gestured urgently
from the flap of the tent.

  “You’d better come fast, Sir! We have quite an emergency on our hands!”

  “Control yourself, Captain,” scowled the colonel. “Be specific. Don’t stand there babbling like a junior lieutenant—fresh out of West Point.”

  “Colonel,” said Kerwin, “I couldn’t begin to describe it. Come see for yourself.”

  Stone brushed past the captain, strode out into the sunlight and stood blinking. It seemed every square foot of the camp was seething with activity. Major Vaughan was bawling orders. Troopers were unslinging crates from the backs of a long line of pack-mules, and Sergeant Boyle was adding the weight of his voice to the general confusion. Three Apaches were being hustled away to the camp infirmary, one of them on an improvised litter. With them went the wounded trooper, supported by two other civilians—also wounded.

  “That’s Valentine!” gasped the colonel, “and Emerson! What are they doing here?”

  Another of his aides, the heavyset Major Calvin McRae, hurried to his side, so excited that he neglected to salute or, indeed, to offer any kind of greeting.

  “The repeaters, Colonel! The entire consignment ...!”

  “Confound you, Major!” chided Stone. “Are you trying to deafen me?”

  “Those salty Texans!” chuckled McRea. “I got the whole story from Boyle.” He proceeded to assail Stone’s cars with a loud, exuberant description of the battle of the Lucky Dutchman, as reported by Sergeant Boyle. And, during this, Stone’s gaze drifted to the horses carrying the dead and wounded hijackers. “The nerve of those Texans!” grinned McRea. “One pinned those gunrunners down, while the other fetched one of our patrols. Every gun, Colonel! Every brand new repeater looted from those freight wagons!”