“So he is,” observed Larry. “Well, maybe he’ll stay asleep while we irrigate—and then we’ll buy a drink for him.”
The night air was chilly. He covered the babe’s face with a fold of the blanket, as he nudged the batwings open and ambled into the barroom. Then, suddenly self-conscious, he lowered the bundle slightly, still gripping it firmly, but walking with his left thumb tucked into his pants’ belt. Miraculously, Sam slept on.
They made their way through the milling throng of roisterers and found leaning space within finger-crooking distance of Bennett’s boss-barkeep, the heavy-jowled Toby Jaeger. With a grin of anticipation, Stretch propped an elbow on the bar. Larry gently placed his precious bundle on the bar-top, nodded, and said, “Two beers—tall and cold—in a hurry.”
“Just bring the barrel,” Stretch cheerfully suggested.
“Against the rules,” grinned the barkeep.
He filled two sizeable flagons, slid them across, accepted payment and made change. By the time he placed the coins before Larry, the flagons were empty, and the drifters were smacking their lips. Jaeger whistled softly, eyed them admiringly and said, “Two more?”
“Friend,” sighed Larry, “that’s a mighty unnecessary question.”
“Cornin’ up,” chuckled Jaeger.
He drew refills, slid them across without sparing a glance for the bundle on the bar. The old, knife-scarred piano was temporarily silent, but there was still plenty of noise. Locals and miners were patronizing the gambling layouts, heavily. Despite the general din, however, the four brawny men at the table nearest the bar were able to overhear the brief exchange between the barkeep and the newcomers.
Jaeger asked the usual questions, which the Texans answered without hesitation, since the questions weren’t overly personal. Where were they from? Where were they headed? And, of course, their names.
“Valentine,” said Larry.
“Emerson,” said Stretch.
Jaeger’s eyebrows shot up.
“Larry and Stretch?” he gasped.
“Stop sweatin’,” grinned Larry. “We’re right partial to bartenders.”
“Toby ...” Bennett called to him from over by the gambling tables, “what’re you hollering about?”
“Hey, Eddie!” grinned Jaeger. “Who d’you suppose these hombres are? Larry and Stretch!”
The clamor abated abruptly. For a long and silent moment, the tall strangers were subjected to a curious scrutiny. Over in the far corner, a gray-haired pipe-smoker rose from his seat and grinned eagerly at the Texans. He was fortyish and bespectacled, garbed in a rumpled suit of gray broadcloth.
“Toby,” he called. “You wouldn’t fool an old customer, would you?”
“Gospel truth, Smokey,” declared Jaeger. “Take a good look at ’em. You’ve seen their pictures often enough.”
“Hellions, they call ’emselves. Is that right?”
This last scathing challenge was drawled by one of the brawny hombres seated near the bar. He rose from his chair, massive, florid, red-haired and truculent. His three cronies turned to stare at the drifters. Larry studied their reflections in the mirror behind the bar, and assured them, “We don’t call ourselves hellions.”
“That’s what ever’body else calls us,” explained Stretch, “and it’s kinda exaggerated, on accounta we’re plumb peaceable.”
“They don’t look so salty to me,” the redhead jeeringly informed the barkeep.
“Easy now, Big Red,” frowned Jaeger. “No call for you to act unsociable.”
“Peck,” called Bennett, “I don’t want any trouble in here. The Bonanza’s supposed to be a friendly house.”
Big Red Peck ignored these reprimands and advanced closer to the strangers. One by one, his sidekicks nudged back their chairs and got to their feet. Larry sighed resignedly. Stretch grinned and remarked, “Here we go again.”
“The hell with it,” muttered Larry. “I’m gettin’ weary of tanglin’ with these hardcases, every place we go.” He nodded significantly to the immobile bundle on the bar. “And this is one time we don’t want any rough stuff—because of you-know-what.”
“Heck,” frowned Stretch. “I was forgettin’.”
“Well don’t forget,” advised Larry. “Just this once, we ain’t fightin’. It wouldn’t be safe. We have to look out for our—uh—responsibility.”
“All right then,” Stretch grudgingly agreed. “No fightin’.”
Big Red spoke up again, loudly, aggressively.
“Who in hell do they think they are? Heroes? They don’t look like heroes.”
“They look like a couple dirt-poor saddlebums with no brains,” observed one of the other roughnecks. And he added, sourly, “No guts neither.”
Without deigning to glance at them, Larry said, “Back away, boys. This ain’t our night for fightin’.”
The third hardcase contributed his ten cents’ worth. “What makes Texans so tough?” he wanted to know. “Far as I can see, Texans ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of blow-hards.”
“Texans ain’t worth a hill o’ beans,” opined the fourth rowdy. “And that goes double for Texas.”
Stretch made a choking sound, finished his beer and turned to look at the last speaker.
“Shorty,” he grunted—and the man was at least six feet tall—“you oughtn’t talk unkindly of Texas.”
“Red,” frowned the second hardcase, “I’m weary of these no-accounts already. Why don’t we throw ’em out?”
“Good idea, Jubal,” grinned Big Red. “Let’s just do that.”
“Now, look ...” began Larry.
“Shuddup and fight!” roared Big Red.
“Hold on now ...!” called the saloonkeeper.
But his protests were falling on deaf ears, because the local rowdies were already moving in for the attack. Big Red rushed Larry, just as Larry stepped clear of the bar. Larry shifted quickly, but left his right boot in the redhead’s path, and the big man tripped over it, to hit the floor with a resounding crash. Simultaneously, Stretch singled out the man who had insulted the Lone Star State, and avenged the insult with a mighty uppercut. His victim retired spectacularly, performing a perfect back-somersault and demolishing a chair.
Hurriedly, Larry snapped an order to the barkeep. Nodding to the precious bundle, he told Jaeger,
“Keep your hand on that. It’s valuable.”
He ducked in haste. Big Red was on his feet again, and swinging. One of the ham-like fists missed Larry’s face by a hair’s breadth. He parried a second wild swing, after which his knuckles mingled with Big Red’s whiskers. Big Red hit the floor again.
Jaeger placed a protective hand on the blanket-wrapped bundle, but without glancing at it. All his interest was focused on the wild melee of heaving bodies, flying fists and threshing legs. He had seen his share of saloon brawls, but none to compare with this. Jubilantly, he yelled to the gray-haired pipe-smoker, “How about this, Smokey? I bet you never thought you’d live to see the day!”
The man called Smokey now stood atop a table in the corner, the better to follow the progress of the ruckus.
Bennett was still yelling protests, though his chances of ending the battle with mere words were less than nil. He groaned in anguish as another chair was demolished. Stretch had used it as a club.
Larry whirled to meet the attack of another brawler, just in time to take a driving left flush in the face. He reeled, but rallied quickly and began meting out punishment. His left was skinned against the buckle of his attacker’s pants-belt, as he jabbed hard at his midriff. His right stung, as it made violent contact with the man’s bristly chin. The man gasped, spat blood and doubled over, clutching at his belly. Larry spun him around and swung a hefty kick to his behind, sending him hurtling across the barroom.
Big Red was again advancing on Larry, and Stretch was energetically trading blows with yet another optimist, when all hostilities were suddenly checked. A cry was heard—a sound alien to the atmosphere of a boomtown saloon.
Jaeger started convulsively and whisked his hand away from the bundle on the bar-top, as though it had become red-hot. Larry mouthed an oath. Stretch stopped hitting his opponent, who promptly sank to the floor. Big Red, in the act of aiming a punch at Larry, whirled and gaped.
“What’s that?”
Again, Sam opened his mouth and wailed. Bennett came hustling toward the bar and, in his haste, stumbled over the wreckage of a chair and measured his length. Sam wailed again and again—louder and louder.
“A baby!” breathed Big Red.
A baby! The word was carried from mouth to mouth. The brawl was quickly forgotten by the few brawlers still on their feet. Big Red anxiously enquired of Larry, “Is he okay?”
“How do I know?” grimaced Larry.
He hurried to the writhing bundle, gathered it into his arms. Big Red crowded close, and the entire assembly followed suit, all cramming toward the bar for a glimpse of the wailing infant.
“I can’t see a thing!” complained a small man on the outer fringe of the throng.
“Here he is!” grinned Big Red. He took Larry by surprise, snatching the bundle from him and then holding it high, one-handed. Sam got both arms loose and waved them frantically. “Take a look! Ain’t that the purtiest little varmint you ever seen?”
“Put him down, you doggone fool!” yelled Larry.
“Hell, Valentine,” protested the redhead, as he lowered the writhing babe and cradled him in his arms. “I wouldn’t hurt this poor little critter, not to save my life.”
“He never cried so loud before!” fretted Stretch.
“Damnitall, why wouldn’t he cry?” challenged Larry. “He’s likely hungry again—and scared stiff!”
“He sure ain’t scared of me,” bragged Big Red. He bowed his head to the tiny upturned face, bared his big teeth in what was obviously intended as a reassuring grin. “Howdy, little feller. You ain’t scared of Big Red, huh? Go on, boy. You tell ’em.”
Sam told ’em—in no uncertain terms. His wailing increased in volume, much to the big man’s chagrin. Impatiently, Larry separated Sam from the amateur nursemaid. Holding the babe close to his chest, he growled a one-word command to Stretch.
“Milk.”
Stretch pounded the bar-top and barked an order to Jaeger.
“Fetch milk—muy pronto! We gotta have milk for the kid!”
“But—for gosh sakes ...” protested the barkeep, “we don’t serve milk in the Bonanza!”
Stretch’s patience was low and his rage high. He reached out, seized Jaeger by his shirtfront and began shaking him, as he yelled, “So go milk a cow!”
“Wait a minute,” called one of the percenters. “That baby won’t stop crying with all these hombres crowding him—scaring him half to death.” She began forcing her way to Larry’s side—no mean feat, considering that she was small of build. “Back away, boys! Give the kid air!”
“Do like Marj says, boys,” begged Bennett. “Quit crowding!”
The sightseers retreated a few paces, all but Big Red, who insisted on staying close to the babe. Gently but firmly, the blonde, assertive Marj took Sam from Larry.
“If you can help, ma’am ...” he began.
“First thing we have to do is get this place cleaned up,” she briskly announced. “Big Red—you tote your broken-nosed pards out of here.”
“Sure, Marj,” shrugged the redhead.
“Toby,” snapped Marj, “get rid of those busted tables and chairs. Sadie ...” She called to one of her colleagues, “… hustle along to the McGann hash-house and fetch a jug of milk—tell McGann it has to be fresh. You, you and you—bring that table over here.” The topers jumped to obey her. Carefully, she laid Sam on the tabletop and unwrapped him. “Hmm! He needs changing. Eddie—go get a clean towel.”
“It’ll be too big,” mumbled Bennett.
“Tear it in half,” said Marj.
Half of a fairly clean towel was hastily procured. As Marj began removing Sam’s sodden bandanna-diaper, she frowned at the gaping audience and hurled another command.
“Turn your backs!”
Everybody turned their backs, Larry, Stretch and Big Red included. When Larry finally dared her wrath by frowning over his shoulder, the bandanna had been replaced by the torn towel, but Sam was still complaining. The blowsy Sadie returned a few moments later, triumphantly exhibiting a jug of milk.
“Get that milk heated,” ordered Marj. “Then fetch a spoon—and it better be clean.”
For a while, the Texans could afford to relax. They leaned against the bar and, without waiting to be asked, Jaeger poured two stiff shots of rye and slid them to their waiting hands.
“On the house,” he muttered. “Hell, what a ruckus! When the kid started hollerin’ ...”
“Sam’ll be okay,” opined Larry.
“If we can find him a place to sleep,” Stretch reminded him.
To the barkeep, Larry explained, “We’ve been lookin’ all over.”
“For a spare room?” frowned Jaeger. He shook his head emphatically. “You got no hope in this man’s town, boys. Blanco Roca is full to bustin’.” He glanced beyond him, grinned knowingly. “Here he comes. I knew he’d be itchin’ to gab with you.”
“Who?” demanded Larry.
“Smokey,” said Jaeger. “Smokey Leonard. We call him Smokey because that doggone pipe is scarce ever out of his gabby mouth.” He leaned closer to them, and confided, “There’s folks in this town claims Smokey sleeps with it—still stuck in his face. I bet his woman gives him hell. Little Esther’s her name—a right tidy little lady.”
Larry enquired, “Does Smokey run a room and board, by any chance?”
“Sorry—no,” said Jaeger. “He’s kind of a literary gent. Runs the newspaper next door. The “Bugle Call.”
“Another doggone scribbler,” sighed Stretch.
Smokey Leonard arrived, grinned affably at the Texans and told Jaeger, “Give my friends another drink, Toby, and charge it to my account.”
“How could we be friends of yours?” Larry challenged him. “You never saw us before in your whole life.”
“But I always think of you as my friends,” Smokey earnestly assured him, “because you’ve been lucky for me. Every once in a while, some Carson City sheet sends me a cut-down report about you. Then I write my own version of it—you know what I mean? Kind of—uh—dress it up a little ...”
“Add a lot of crazy lies,” sneered Larry.
“Journalistic license,” countered Smokey.
“Hell,” grunted Stretch, “he don’t even talk American.”
Smokey filled and lit his briar, puffed smoke at them and produced pad and pencil. “How about it?” he pleaded. “Couldn’t you spare me a few first-hand details about—uh—your recent adventures? The only time the “Bugle Call” shows a profit is when I run a Larry and Stretch story. Trouble is, I always have to get my facts second-hand. Now, if you’d grant me a personal interview ...”
“Nothin’ doin’,” growled Larry.
“Just a few words,” begged Smokey. “Anything at all!”
“Forget it,” said Larry.
“Hell!” protested Smokey. “When folks start forgetting you two, I’ll be out of business!”
Meanwhile, to the accompaniment of respectful applause from the miners, percentage-girls, townsmen and deadbeats, Marj finished feeding Sam. Cheerfully, she called to Larry, “He’ll be fine now, Texas. All he needed was a full belly.”
“Sure obliged to you, Marj,” Larry acknowledged.
“But it’s late,” she frowned. “A kid his age ought to be fast asleep by now.”
“Smokey,” said Jaeger, “you happen to know of a spare room in town? Larry and Stretch have been lookin’ all over.”
“Well now!” Smokey’s eyes gleamed, as he put a hand on Larry’s arm. “That gives me an idea! I believe we can come to terms, Mr. Valentine!”
Five – Menace in the Night
Stretch grimaced impatiently, downed his ref
ill, set his empty glass on the bar.
“Won’t he never quit gabbin’?” he complained, as he turned away.
Reasoning that Sam was a sight more appealing than the newspaperman’s blackened pipe, he drifted away from the bar and found an undamaged chair. Sinking into it, he grinned affectionately at the babe, who was now examining Marj’s face with a tiny hand.
Smokey had coaxed Larry into a corner for a private conference.
“As I understand it,” muttered the “Bugle Call” editor, “you need accommodation for yourselves and the baby. All right, Mr. Valentine, just how desperate are you?”
“Desperate enough,” Larry admitted. “Sam needs proper feedin’ and a soft bunk.”
“And there’s something I need,” Smokey pointed out. He puffed a blue cloud. Sparks flew from the bowl of his pipe. “Talk—and plenty of it! Talk about your feud with Colonel Stone. Talk about the Tait City affair, the search for the Woodridge heir, and all the other fights you’ve fought.”
Larry was feeling far from patient.
“Try to get this one idea straight in your brain, mister,” he muttered. “Us Texans don’t hanker to talk about ourselves.”
“I’m offering you a fair trade,” countered Smokey. “You give me what I need. Your companionship for a few days. Your confidence—and plenty of conversation. In return, I’ll give you what you need.”
“Meanin’ ...?” frowned Larry.
“My wife and I,” said Smokey, “have a bedroom and parlor above the office, and a kitchen out back. Nothing very grand, but adequate. You and Stretch could sleep in the parlor, and I’m sure my wife could rig some kind of bunk for the baby in the bedroom. Esther knows about babies. The child would be fed regularly—the right kind of food.”
Larry’s spirits rose. “You’re offerin’ to take us in?”
“Be glad to have you,” grinned Smokey.
“And all you want from us,” prodded Larry, “is we should answer your questions, talk about ourselves?”
“And permit me to quote you,” stressed Smokey.
“All right.” Under the circumstances, Larry didn’t see how he could refuse this eleventh-hour offer. “If it’s okay by your wife.”
Larry and Stretch 5 Page 5
