Larry and Stretch 17

by Marshall Grover

  “I claim the black-haired one!” he was yelling. “And I’ll marry her if I have to!”

  He landed on the porch and tried to leap past Larry, who nimbly tripped him. As he began falling, Larry delivered a hard kick to his rear section. Marie Dupont’s would-be swain careered sideways, hurtled over the rail and pitched into the alley.

  By now, the Texans were perspiring and panting, but willing to keep up the good work. The local male population was converging on the stage depot in increasing numbers and it seemed the riot would continue indefinitely—until Big Dora and the law arrived.

  She had made an accurate guess as to the cause of the commotion. From a distance, she had sighted the cursing crew of the stagecoach and the rearing, startled teamers, the milling throng of miners. There could be only one reason for such a fracas. New women had come to New Strike.

  Close behind Big Dora came the resolute if perplexed Marshal Wedge and Deputy Leemoy, both hefting shotguns and yelling with all the strength of their lungs. It was the loud roar of the shotguns discharging skyward that momentarily froze the rioters, but it was the formidable weight of Big Dora and the power of her profanity that scattered them.

  “Vamoose—you good-for-nothin’ skirt-chasers!” she boomed.

  “Clear the street!” yelled Wedge, as he discharged the second barrel of his shotgun.

  “Break it up!” roared Leemoy. “You damn-blasted mangy sons of …!”

  To the ladies from ’Frisco, the imaginative profanity of Big Dora and the lawmen was almost as frightening as the clawing hands and dilated eyes of the local miners. They clung to each other and stared in acute disbelief, while their protectors achieved the seemingly impossible. The riot was being broken up in no uncertain terms. Of all the men who had tried to molest the new arrivals, there wasn’t one brave enough to defy Big Dora. The weight of her personality had turned the tide, and now the rioters were in retreat. As a token gesture, Wedge and Leemoy had manacled four rowdies who were too befuddled to offer resistance. The crisis was over.

  The stage crew finally ceased cursing. Wedge and Leemoy hauled their prisoners to their feet.

  “We’d best get these hotheads to jail in a hurry,” Wedge wearily remarked to Larry. “The Professor’s back there all by himself.”

  From the side alleys, representatives of New Strike’s more or less respectable element now appeared. Bessie Marriot, with her husband in tow, hurried to the porch to greet the newcomers.

  “Mrs. Dexter—Mrs. Dexter …!” called the mayor’s wife. “It’s me—Bessie Marriot!”

  “Hold your doggone horses, Bessie,” scowled Dora. With her plump left shoulder, she nudged Bessie aside. Gasping, Bessie reeled and slumped against her husband. Up the steps moved the big woman, to stare belligerently at the beautiful blonde. “So you’re the gal she sent for, huh? You’re Leona Dexter?”

  “Yes—yes!” Leona nodded eagerly. “And you …?”

  “I’m Dora Keen,” growled Dora, “and I’m about to save you two thousand dollars.” She jerked a thumb to indicate the red-faced Bessie. “You don’t owe this money-grabbin’ baggage one thin dime, not one red cent. She figured to pass me off as your mother—so how d’you like that?” Arms akimbo, she confronted the ’Frisco ladies. The Frenchwoman was eyeing her curiously. Leona was becoming downright apprehensive. “Kind of a tall story, huh, lady? Me—mother to a high-born gal like you?”

  “Please!” breathed Leona. “I have to know the truth!”

  “That’s what you’ll get from me, ma’am,” frowned Dora. “Nothin’ but the stone-cold truth.” She turned and glowered at the Marriots. “From the likes of Bessie Marriot, you’d get nothin’ but wild guesses, crazy lies, a mess of hogwash.”

  “If you aren’t my mother …” began Leona.

  “We’ll talk about it at my place,” said Dora, briskly. “Larry—Stretch—bring ’em along.”

  She turned and hurried away towards the saloon. The Texans doffed their Stetsons and nodded to the ladies, who gingerly advanced to the steps and descended to the sidewalk.

  “Sorry you got such a rough welcome,” offered Larry, as he took Leona’s arm and began escorting her across the street!

  “I’ve never been so terrified in my whole life! It was—all so frightening—so primitive!” she gasped.

  “Well …” Larry shrugged philosophically, “you’re a long ways from home, ma’am. New Strike is a mite different from ’Frisco—as if you haven’t noticed.”

  From then on, the Texans refrained from comment. This was to be Big Dora’s play. They were to be on hand,-but only as witnesses, and as bodyguards to the beautiful visitors. The big woman was awaiting them in the saloon entrance. She led them through the barroom and up the stairs to her private office, invited them to seat themselves, then begged Larry and Stretch to:

  “Sit guard on that door. I don’t want anybody bustin’ in on us.”

  Stretch closed and locked the door, began rolling a cigarette. Larry stood beside him.

  “Mrs. Keen ...” began Leona.

  “It ain’t ‘Mrs.’,” Dora corrected. “It’s ‘Miss’. I was never married, never had no young’uns.” She flopped into the chair behind the desk, sighed heavily. “All right now, dearie, I know who you are and why you’re here. Read all about you in the newspapers. You sent a letter to Mayor Marriot—right? Sure. And that fool wife of his tried to bully two thousand dollars out of you. It’s because of her that you came to New Strike.” A thought suddenly occurred to her. “Hey. Where’s your husband? What kind of a man would let a girl like you travel all this way by herself?”

  In a few sentences, Leona described her husband’s mishap and confessed her hasty decision to make the journey without him, against his wishes.

  “Poor Vern will be furious,” she predicted. “But I had to do it, Miss Keen. Surely you can understand?”

  “Oh, sure,” shrugged Dora. “I understand. But it’s too bad you took off on such a wild goose chase. I’m sorry about your father, dearie. Whatever he told you—well—maybe he thought it was true …”

  “Would he deliberately lie to me,” challenged Leona, “at a time like that?”

  “I don’t reckon so,” drawled Dora. “Like I say, he thought it was true. A mistake and a lie are two different things. Where did he get his information? It don’t matter anyhow, because he was wrong. Dora Nadine Green is dead. This I can guarantee, on account of she was a friend of mine.”

  “Cherie …” began Marie.

  “You ain’t gonna weep,” Dora opined, still staring hard at Leona. “It wouldn’t help any, and it wouldn’t make much sense. Until a little while ago, you scarce even heard of your mother. I’d say it’s a mite late for mournin’, dearie.”

  “You—knew her?” prodded Leona.

  “We were good friends, back in Plainview, Texas,” said Dora. “But don’t get me wrong. She wasn’t like me. She was a real lady. Never worked in any saloon, not after your pa took you to ’Frisco. Lived respectable, she did. She—uh—she was a seamstress. Only reason we got along so well was we had somethin’ in common. We were around the same age—and there was this.” She exhibited her left hand. “Both of us missin’ a finger—same finger on the same hand. And our names were almost the same.”

  “A great coincidence,” frowned Leona.

  “So now you know why Bessie Marriot got the wrong idea,” said Dora. “Trouble with her, she’s got no imagination. You were lookin’ for a woman with a finger missin’, so Bessie elected me. Am I the only female west of the Mississippi that’s missin’ a finger?”

  “I suppose not,” sighed Leona.

  “Your ma died peaceful,” offered Dora, “if that’s any satisfaction to you. It was a long time back.”

  “She never …” faltered Leona, “never tried to reach me.”

  “The way I heard it,” said Dora, “she made some kind of deal with your father. She wanted you to have the best of everything. Whatever she did, she meant well, so think of her
kindly.” She fidgeted impatiently. “Well? You satisfied?”

  Leona, nodded slowly.

  “Yes, Miss Keen, I’m satisfied—and deeply grateful to you—for all you’ve told me.”

  “Bon” frowned Marie. “Is finished then? We go home now, cherie. Your husband ...”

  “Poor Vern,” said Leona, with a rueful smile. “I must send him a wire. He’ll be so worried.”

  “When you wire him,” frowned Dora, “tell him you’re on your way home. You can’t stay in New Strike, dearie. What nearly happened a little while ago—well—it could happen again.”

  Larry finally voiced a query.

  “How soon can they get a stage west?”

  “Not soon enough,” growled Dora. “Three days from now—and that’s too long for them to wait. It’s better they head for Hatton City. ’Frisco train leaves Hatton tomorrow night. They could make it, if they leave New Strike around sunup.” She got to her feet. “Larry—Stretch—I feel kind of responsible for these ladies. In a way, it’s my fault they’re here.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Miss Keen,” begged Leona. “You just hush up, dearie, and leave all the figurin’ to me,” countered Dora. “You’ll be safe enough in Hatton City, but I can’t say did same for New Strike.” She eyed Larry enquiringly. “How about it?”

  “You want we should escort ’em to Hatton City?” prodded Larry.

  “Bag and baggage,” said Dora. “Sunup tomorrow. I’ll supply a rig. Curly can drive and, if you and Stretch’ll ride escort on ’em ...”

  “Sure,” he nodded. “Be ‘glad to oblige.”

  “They can stay at the Eureka Hotel tonight,” decided Dora. “The manager—Burt Shaw—is a mighty rough hombre, and he owes me a couple favors. If I say the word, he’ll sit guard outside their door all night—with a shotgun.”

  And so it was arranged. Within the half-hour, Leona and her maid were safely installed in a hotel room and their baggage was being transferred from the stage depot.

  Big Dora handled to her daughter, gallantly, and with all the desperation of a devoted mother. Now, her feelings were mixed. She felt justified in what she had done, but was plagued by a deep sense of loss.

  “I couldn’t tell her the honest truth, boys,” she sighed. “There wasn’t any other way, was there?”

  Larry and Stretch had rejoined her in the office above the barroom. For as long as she needed to confide in them, they were willing to listen, although there were matters of greater importance requiring their attention. They listened patiently, until the big woman had talked herself breathless. Then, quietly, Larry reminded her of another predicament.

  “The Professor still needs our help.”

  “Well …” she shrugged forlornly, “I’m about ready to quit. I don’t know how I can help him, except to give Kurt Osmond what he wants. If Osmond can bribe some jasper and ...”

  “I’ve been thinkin’ about that,” said Larry. “And maybe Osmond could bribe a witness, but I have a better idea.”

  “You wasted a lot of time,” she pointed out, “askin’ questions, tryin’ to find out if Everard and Osmond were in cahoots. And where did it get you?”

  “I still say they were tied in,” insisted Larry, “and it’s my hunch Everard was armed when they shot him.”

  “When who shot him?” she demanded.

  “Osmond—or his partner,” said Larry. “One or the other. That’s the only way it stacks up, Dora. What’s more, they must’ve had time to unstrap Everard’s gun and make their getaway.”

  “You still can’t prove …” she began.

  “It has to be proved,” he countered, “and fast.”

  “Because,” Stretch reminded her, “our time is runnin’ out. We’ll be quittin’ this burg tomorrow mornin’—remember?”

  “I guess I was askin’ too much from you,” she murmured. “How can you prove it was Osmond or Birell that gunned Everard, if you’re halfway between here and Hatton City?”

  “I reckon it can be done—tonight,” said Larry. “But you have to do your share. We’ll need your help to set a trap for this Osmond jasper.”

  “Go ahead,” she offered. “Tell me what I have to do.”

  “You send for Osmond,” drawled Larry. “You tell him you’ll accept his offer—only you want more than a bribed witness to claim he stole Everard’s gun.”

  “How much more?” she demanded.

  “The gun,” growled Larry.

  “Hey now …!” she began.

  “It’s a long shot,” said Larry, “but it might work.”

  “If Osmond goes for it …” mused Stretch.

  “It’ll mean he has Everard’s gun,” declared Larry, “or he knows where to find it. And how could he know—unless he was there when Everard was shot?”

  Chapter Ten

  Trigger the Trap

  At 7 o’clock that evening, an outwardly bemused but inwardly elated Kurt Osmond answered Big Dora’s summons. Seated in front of her desk, he listened attentively to her fiat declaration and mentally congratulate himself. He had won. The issue was no longer in doubt—or so he thought.

  “Everard’s gun?” He pretended to be perplexed. “Well, I don’t know about that, Dora. Maybe you’re asking too much.”

  “It ain’t that I’m doubting your word,” said the big woman. “If you claim you can hire some galoot to testify he stole the gun off Everard’s carcass …”

  “I’m sure I can arrange that,” he nodded. “But—uh—locating the gun itself—this could be difficult.”

  “No gun,” frowned Dora, “no deal. The gun is my insurance, Osmond. Hobie Wedge might smell a rat He’s just smart enough to guess your hired man is lyin’—unless ...”

  “Unless the gun is recovered?” he challenged.

  “That’s how I see it,” said Dora. “Well? Can you deliver—or can’t you?”

  “I can try,” he assured her. “New Strike is full of sneak-thieves—scum who’d never hesitate to loot a dead body. I know them all.”

  “So check on ’em,” she suggested. “Find the jasper that stole Everard’s hardware. Chances are he hasn’t sold it yet. It wouldn’t be easy—peddlin’ a pistol as well-known as that gold-butted Colt.”

  “By George, you’re right,” smiled Osmond. He rose from his chair. “Why didn’t I think of it myself? Well, you always were a shrewd woman, Dora.”

  “Better get a hustle on,” she urged. “The Professor ain’t gettin’ any healthier in that lousy jail.”

  “Leave it to me,” drawled Osmond.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, another door opened. This was the door to the adjoining room, Dora’s bedroom, in which two patient trouble-shooters had been eavesdropping on her brief conference with Osmond.

  “You were right about that smooth-talkin’ skunk,” she growled. “He jumped to the bait.”

  “That bait,” Larry grimly promised, “is gonna choke him.”

  In good humor, and blissfully unaware that he was being followed, Kurt Osmond hurried back to the Gold Queen.

  When the Texans drifted in, Osmond was over by the roulette layout, engaged in muttered conversation with his partner. Just inside the batwings, Larry paused to give the scene a keen once-over, and to remark to Stretch.

  “I got a shrewd hunch where that gold-butted shooter is stashed. There’ll be an office upstairs—with a safe.”

  “You figure it’s in their safe?” frowned Stretch. “Hell—maybe they got rid of it.”

  “If they got rid of it,” countered Larry, “why is Osmond so sure he can find it?” He studied the stairs thoughtfully, pondering ways and means of invading Osmond’s private quarters from the front. To stride boldly to those stairs would be futile. He would be conspicuous—unless … “Cover for me,” he muttered. “I’m goin’ up there.”

  “Cover for you?” blinked Stretch.

  “Start a ruckus,” said Larry. “Keep everybody busy—so I’ll have time to snoop in Osmond’s office.”

  He
was hovering at the bottom of the staircase, and the partners were about to move away from the roulette layout, when Stretch triggered the fracas. For a hell-raiser of his rare talents, it was easy. He simply breasted the bar, loudly announced, “I can lick any man in the house!” then hauled a barkeep clear across the bar by his shirtfront. The barkeep cursed luridly and swung a blow at Stretch’s head. Stretch crouched and charged, ramming a shoulder into the barkeep’s midriff, forcing him clear across the room to collide with the men patronizing the roulette layout.

  For Larry, it had to be now or never. He climbed the stairs quickly, all the time staring backwards, carefully watching the Gold Queen’s staff. Nobody—Osmond and Birell included—glanced his way. Everybody was being kept occupied, by an expert.

  He hustled along the gallery, opening doors, looking into rooms. The third room was Obviously the saloon office, and did double duty as living quarters for one of the partners. As well as the desk, the safe and the liquor cabinet, it contained a bed and a sizeable wardrobe. He moved in, closed the door behind him and hustled across to the safe. A combination lock. How much time did he have? He was pondering whether to try breaking the combination or to lift the safe and toss it out into the street, when he heard the footsteps in the corridor outside, sounding sharp and clear above the din erupting from the barroom.

  A hiding place was what he needed now, so he headed to the clothes closet. The office door was opening, while he was back-stepping into the closet and pulling its door shut. Only by a fraction of a second did the disheveled partners miss seeing him.

  They moved in quickly. Birell kicked the door shut, mouthed an oath and bitterly complained:

  “That fool is wrecking the place! If he isn’t stopped …”

  “The hell with him—whoever he is,” growled Osmond. “In a little while, we’ll be able to refurnish the whole outfit. Money will be no problem, Rance!”

  “You said something about Everard’s hardware,” Birell reminded him, “just before that big galoot started throwing his weight around.”

  “Big Dora wants it,” smiled Osmond.