Larry and Stretch 17

by Marshall Grover

  “Any time Everard parleyed with Osmond and Birell,” complained Stretch, “he sure played it cozy. Or maybe some of these folks are lyin’. They saw him, but they just ain’t talkin’.”

  “No,” sighed Larry. “I don’t think they’re lyin’. The hell of it is Everard could’ve sneaked into the Gold Queen a dozen times without bein’ seen. Or, if he was seen, he was forgotten.”

  “It’s too early for us to quit,” opined Stretch.

  “Who said anything about quittin’?” growled Larry. “C’mon. Let’s find some more folks and ask some more questions.”

  At 5 p.m. of that day, Mrs. Vernon Dexter III returned to the luxurious Dexter home in the Nob Hill district of San Francisco. The handsome gig in which she traveled was drawn by two matched bays and driven by one of her husband’s servants, an austere old family retainer garbed in sober black. For the blonde, fashionably-gowned and vividly-beautiful Leona, the past several hours had been worse than hectic. She had finished her packing, with the assistance of her faithful personal maid, an excitable Frenchwoman named Marie Dupont, and now she had completed an even more important chore—the complicated task of arranging transportation from San Francisco to New Strike.

  There had been difficulties, despite the fact that New Strike was located less than two hundred miles from the west coast. The train bound north-east from San Francisco, at eight o’clock that night, could take its passengers no farther than Hatton City, near the California-Nevada border—for the excellent reason that the railroad ended at Hatton City. Fortunately, an eastbound stage was scheduled to depart from Hatton City one hour after the train’s arrival, and the first team-switch would be made at New Strike.

  “Thank heaven for the railroad—and the stage-lines!” gasped Leona, as she descended from the gig. “Do you realize what this means, Marie? We’ll be in New Strike—I’ll be seeing her—the day after tomorrow!”

  The raven-haired Marie was only seven years older than her mistress and almost as beautiful. Chattering in her native tongue, she alighted and followed Leona up the walk to the front porch. Only when Leona reminded her that her own knowledge of the language was limited did the Frenchwoman check herself. In heavily-accented English, she declared:

  “It should be the husband who makes such arrangements—the tickets—the seats—the travel …”

  “But poor Vern can’t be in two places at once,” Leona pointed out. “He had to finalize certain business matters and …” She broke off, frowning worriedly. The front door had been opened by a plump housemaid who appeared somewhat apprehensive. “Charlotte—what on earth is the matter?”

  “So much trouble, ma’am!” wailed the housemaid. “All the comin’s and goin’s. First the doctor—then the …”

  “The doctor?” challenged Leona.

  “For who?” demanded Marie.

  “For whom,” Leona absently corrected, as she moved into the richly-carpeted hallway. “Charlotte—don’t just stand there—blinking at me. What is it?”

  “Mr. Vernon …” sighed the housemaid. “An accident …”

  “Oh, no!” groaned Leona. “Where is he?”

  “In the bedroom, ma’am,” sighed Charlotte. “All bound up with bandages—and bein’ so brave about it all …”

  “Marie,” said Leona, as she hurried to the stairs, “wait for me in the upstairs parlor.”

  She gathered her skirts and, at unladylike speed, climbed the stairs three at a time. In the upstairs corridor, she made straight for the open doorway of the main bedroom and, as she drew closer, breathed a sigh of relief. A familiar aroma caressed her nostrils. Cigar smoke. The distinctive, expensive brand smoked by her husband. If the patient was able to smoke, it seemed unlikely his injuries could be fatal.

  Vernon Dexter III looked somewhat inelegant at this moment, though his servants had installed him in the most handsome four-poster in all of San Francisco. He was garbed in a nightshirt. His head was bandaged. His right arm was in a sling, his left leg in splints. Ruefully, he flashed his wife a grin and waved his cigar.

  “Come in, my dear, come in.”

  She was shocked, but reassured. Somehow, she managed to summon up an answering smile, as she moved across to the bed and bent to kiss him.

  “Vern Dexter—what in the world …?”

  “Stupid accident.” He grimaced in disgust. “I was born in this house, Leona. Can you imagine how many times I’ve come up and down those stairs? In childhood, never a mishap. But now, in my twenty-seventh year, possessed of all my faculties and sound of wind and limb, I have to stumble like some tangle footed schoolboy. Third step from the top, damn it all. When I came to my senses—here I was—with old Doctor Lewis trussing me up as if I were a Thanksgiving turkey.” He grinned again. “Hardly dignified, is it?”

  “My poor darling,” she sighed.

  “I’m supposed to have concussion,” he drawled. “Well, old Jake Lewis may be right about that. Not much doubt about the arm. A clean break, he says. As for the leg, I hate to admit it, but I won’t be able to walk for at least another six weeks. Damned nuisance. It would happen now—of all times.” He reached for her hand. “I’m’ terribly sorry, my dear—I know how badly you wanted to make this trip. You’ve taken me into your confidence, and …”

  “I have no secrets from you,” she frowned. “When father told me the truth about my mother, I was determined to tell you.”

  “I’m glad you did,” he nodded. “Of course, it makes no difference to me. Some of my stiff-necked relatives would be horrified, but only because they have short memories.”

  “Short memories?” she prodded.

  He chuckled softly.

  “They conveniently forget the Dexter family skeletons. Some of my ancestors were, to put it mildly, a little on the shady side. As a matter of fact, my great-uncle Jethro was a buccaneer. Very successful, I might add.”

  “I’m not ashamed of her, Vern,” she murmured.

  “Why should you be ashamed?” he countered. “I look forward with pleasure to my first meeting with the enterprising Dora Green Storley. Any woman with the strength, the courage to operate a saloon in a rough mining town, well—it’s obvious she’s a rare one. A rough diamond, probably. And I have a soft spot for such women.” He heaved a sigh of regret. “But I’m sorry—very sorry—that we have to postpone our trip to New Strike.”

  Chapter Nine

  Reception Committee

  Leona Dexter tried, but failed, to conceal her bitter disappointment. Tears welled in her eyes. She bowed her head, fumbled for a handkerchief in the bodice of her gown, while her husband muttered a fervent apology.

  “I feel so infernally guilty, my dear, and so damned useless—knowing how much this means to you.”

  “He wasn’t raving,” she breathed. “I’m sure of that, Vern. He meant every word he said. She really is alive. And—after writing all those letters …”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “I must admit I never believed you could trace her, just by circulating letters of enquiry to all those border towns.”

  “And then,” she frowned, “to receive a telegram from a woman who actually knows her—who can actually take me to her …” She eyed him pleadingly. “Vern, you wouldn’t consider my going without you?”

  “You know that’s out of the question,” he chided. “Just you and Marie—two beautiful women—traveling alone to a rough mining town? I couldn’t permit it. When you go, you’ll have an adequate and attentive protector,” he smiled, squeezed her hand, “your obedient servant and husband, Vernon Farnsworth Dexter.”

  “Well …” she shrugged.

  “Don’t be disheartened,” he muttered. “In six weeks, I’ll be back on my feet, fit to travel, and your mother will still be there. It’s only a postponement after all.”

  “Six weeks,” she sighed.

  “Don’t brood about it,” he advised. “Send Remus to the railroad depot to bring our baggage back, and have him cancel our reservations. Also, wire that woman—what�
�s her name?”

  “Marriot.”

  “Yes. Send her another wire. Tell her you’ve been unavoidably detained and that you’ll—uh—complete your financial arrangement with her at a later date.”

  “Very well, Vern. I suppose that’s all I can do.”

  “Leona, my dear …” he eyed her soberly, “you could still be disappointed.”

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I’m so sure, Vern.”

  “Because you want to be sure,” he countered. “Admit it, Leona. You’re ready to clutch at straws. This Marriot woman may prove to be an opportunist. Her information may not be accurate.”

  “But her telegram …!” began Leona.

  “Bait,” he frowned. “An enticement to lure you to New Strike. She’ll be waiting for you at the stage depot. She’ll insist on being paid in advance. Then she’ll take you to some woman who vaguely answers the description given by your father—a woman who may not be the genuine Dora Nadine Green.”

  “No!” she breathed. “I refuse to believe that.”

  “It’s entirely possible,” he warned. “Anyway …” He nodded to the small table beside the bed, “I’m supposed to take those infernal pills now.”

  “How many are you to take?”

  “Two. I’ll take them now, and perhaps I’ll sleep awhile. Meantime, you can arrange for the return of our baggage.”

  “Yes, Vern. Whatever you say.”

  Leona opened the pill-box and poured a glass of water. He took two of the pills, accepted the glass and swigged a few mouthfuls. When she left him some five minutes later, his eyes were heavy-lidded and she was sure he would be sleeping deeply for several hours. Into the parlor she hurried, to quietly inform Marie:

  “We’re going anyway. We’ll be leaving on the eight o’clock train as arranged.

  Three hours later, when Vernon Dexter roused from sleep, he was conscious of a vague headache, a stiffness in his injured limbs and a raging hunger. Of all these discomforts, his first concern was for the latter. He rang for the butler and, when that portly and solicitous individual appeared, briskly ordered dinner.

  “Dr. Lewis said nothing about a light diet, so don’t stint me, Hobson. Tell Cook I want something substantial. A steak would do nicely—make it a big one. Potatoes, plenty of greens. And ask Mrs. Dexter to join me.”

  “I regret to inform you, sir,” muttered Hobson, “that madam is not here.”

  “Not here?” challenged Dexter.

  “She has left,” said Hobson, “with her maid.”

  “By Caesar’s ghost …!” began Dexter.

  “She instructed me to give you this note as soon as you woke,” said Hobson. He placed the envelope in Dexter’s good hand, bowed and retreated to the door. “Your dinner will be ready very soon, sir.”

  Grim-faced, Dexter shook the folded sheet from the envelope, spread it on the bedcover and read the brief message.

  “DEAREST VERN, FORGIVE ME. I MUST GO. PLEASE TRY TO UNDERSTAND, AND DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME. I WILL TELEGRAPH YOU REGULARLY, AND WILL REMAIN IN NEW STRIKE NO LONGER THAN IS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY. YOUR DEVOTED AND LOVING WIFE, LEONA.”

  “She’s done it!” he gasped. “Great suffering Jupiter—she’s done it!”

  The Texas Trouble-Shooters were lounging in sidewalk Chairs in the late afternoon, when the eastbound stage came rolling along Main Street towards the depot. Two of the half-dozen passengers were female and, on New Strike standards, outstandingly attractive. But, at the moment, Larry and Stretch were blissfully unaware of this fact. Moreover, they didn’t spare the passing coach as much as a casual glance, because they were immersed in their private conversation.

  To be more accurate, Larry was doing most of the talking. Stretch was listening with keen interest.

  “I could kick myself,” Larry sourly declared, “from here to the Utah border—for not thinkin’ of it before. I must be losin’ my grip, big feller, or maybe I’m just gettin’ old.”

  “You’re likely right,” agreed Stretch. He agreed promptly, and with his customary lack of tact. “You sure don’t look as spry as you used to.”

  “Right from the start,” growled Larry, “the case against The Professor depended on whether or not Everard was armed—right?”

  “Right,” nodded Stretch. “And he wasn’t.”

  “But this was the only time,” Larry pointed out. “And don’t that strike you as strange? Everard owned a mighty fancy hunk of hardware. He was plumb proud of it, used to wear it everywhere—and all the time.”

  “That’s what they say,” shrugged Stretch.

  “So the marshal found Everard and The Professor in a dark alley,” frowned Larry. “Everard was dead and gun-less. The Professor was alive—only half-awake, but alive—and heftin’ a gun, so everybody figured he shot an unarmed man.” He balled a fist and slammed it into his palm. “One little detail Wedge forgot—and the hell of it is I forgot, too!”

  “What little detail?” demanded Stretch.

  “Everard’s gun!” said Larry. “Where is it? Did Wedge think to check Everard’s room?”

  “Did you?” countered Stretch.

  “No,” scowled Larry.

  “You think that’s where it is?” prodded Stretch. “In Everard’s room?”

  “If it is,” breathed Larry, “The Professor is still in trouble. It’ll look like Everard went out and just left his hardware behind, because he wasn’t expectin’ to run into a shootout.”

  “But,” said Stretch, “if it ain’t in his room …?”

  “It means Osmond could be right,” said Larry. “Somebody could’ve stolen Everard’s gun right after the shootin’—and just before those miners came bustin’ into the alley.”

  “Well, the marshal likely checked Everard’s room already,” Stretch suggested.

  “I aim to find out about that,” said Larry.

  “All right,” shrugged Stretch. “Let’s go ask him.”

  They were rising from their seats when the shrill screams smote their ears. They tensed, staring towards the stage depot. There was much activity up there. The coach and team were only dimly visible because of the cloud of dust raised by the milling, yelling crowd of miners and townsmen converging on the depot porch, filling the street. “What the hell …?” began Stretch.

  “Those screams are female,” muttered Larry. “I’ll make you a bet what happened. All them woman-hungry fools have spotted a female on the coach, and now they’re scarin’ the daylights out of her.”

  “That’s, too big a hassle for Wedge and Leemoy to handle,” opined Stretch. “Well? What’re we waitin’ for?”

  “Who’s waitin’?” challenged Larry.

  They didn’t walk to the stage depot. They ran as fast as their long legs could carry them, because the screams were increasing. More than one woman was involved, Larry guessed, as he hurled himself into the fringe of the crowd. Stretch was at his side, using his elbows and knees. Any time a man tried to restrain them by force, they used their fists. They worked hard and with vigor, but it took them all of two minutes to reach the porch.

  The women had been forced to the front wall of the depot office by the struggling mass of masculinity. Larry flashed them a quick glance, just before he bent, grasped the legs of a bearded Lothario and hurled him over the veranda rail. They were disheveled and terrified, but he conceded there was ample justification for the riot. How often could these roughneck prospectors have seen women of such rare beauty? Not often—if at all. The flashing eyed brunette had gathered the blonde girl into a protective embrace and was screaming abuse at their would-be admirers.

  “She sure—talks fine Spanish,” panted Stretch, as he grasped two shirt-collars and rammed two heads together.

  Larry met the charge of a cursing rowdy with a driving left to the belly. As the man doubled, he unwound a wild uppercut that sent the hardcase hurtling back to the steps.

  “That ain’t Spanish she’s hollerin’,” he growled. “It’s French.”

  The p
orch was now occupied by the frightened women, the startled depot manager, the Texans and three whooping, yelling miners. The Texans positioned themselves between the miners and the women, took some punishment but dealt out twice as much and, in a matter of moments, their adversaries were sprawled on the sidewalk.

  A half-dozen more came struggling up the steps. Stretch dashed to that section of the porch and began discouraging them. As quickly as a man came within range of his fists, he was driven back. Larry strode to the porch rail. One jasper was trying to climb over it, two others were attempting to crawl under it.

  “Are they mad?” wailed Mrs. Vernon Dexter III. “Why should they want to murder us?”

  Over his shoulder, Larry cheerfully offered an explanation.

  “They ain’t tryin’ to kill you, ladies.”

  “What then?” wondered Leona.

  With his boot, Larry repelled one of the men trying to climb under the rail.

  “New Strike is an all-man town,” he told the ladies, “almost.”

  “Ain’t many women in this here territory,” offered Stretch. He cursed luridly, as a fist exploded in his face. His assailant aimed a second blow, but he ducked under it and swung a lusty uppercut that hurled the man down the steps. “The boys get a mite hungry, ma’am, if you know what I mean.”

  “They sure don’t aim to kill you,” called Larry.

  “That’d be a wicked waste. What they want is—well—never mind …”

  A scrawny local was vaulting over the rail; his right boot missed Larry’s head by less than an inch.