Larry and Stretch 5

by Marshall Grover

  “Thanks for the refills, Toby,” muttered Larry. Jaeger returned to the bar. Larry stared hard at the medico. “So that’s how it stacks up, Doc. You claim the Torrance woman is a lame-brain—and she’s the only party that ever saw Anna’s kid.”

  “For heaven’s sakes, Valentine,” mumbled Kyle, “you can’t accuse her of ...!”

  “It’s a mite early,” said Larry, “for me to accuse anybody of anything. All I got is hunches.”

  “Why would she do such a thing?” challenged Kyle. “Why hand a white baby to an Indian? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Larry downed his beer, nudged Stretch with an elbow. Stretch’s flagon was raised brimming, and lowered drained. He burped, shoved his chair back and asked, “Where’re we goin’?”

  “To find the preacher’s wife,” said Larry, “naturally.” He looked at the frowning physician. “Where do we find her, Doc?”

  “At home, maybe,” sighed Kyle. “The house alongside the chapel—two blocks downtown. And I’m warning you, Valentine, you’ll have to be mighty patient. Don’t try to bully her.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Larry, “I’ll treat her gentle.”

  A few moments later, the Texans finished their short walk to the house of worship. They had made their approach along the opposite side of Main Street and were about to cross over, when they spotted the black-suited clergyman. The Reverend Torrance was emerging from the small house and, with stately tread, moving towards the chapel. Larry watched him move through the street doorway.

  “She could be still in the house,” he told Stretch, “all by herself.”

  “And so?” prodded Stretch.

  “And so,” said Larry, “I’d admire to parlay with her—and no interruptions—specially from the preacher. That clear enough for you?”

  “Aw hell!” protested Stretch.

  “Nothin’ to it,” said Larry. “All you have to do is keep him busy while I chew the fat with Amelia. Better give me a quarter-hour. Or longer—if you can stall him.”

  Stretch blinked apprehensively towards the chapel entrance, and asked, “How in tarnation do I keep him in there? What do I say to him? I never could parlay with a sin-killer.”

  “Go ahead,” ordered Larry. “You’ll think of somethin’.”

  Eight – No Genuine Papoose

  When the taller Texan came trudging down the center aisle with his hat in his hands and his spurs jingling, the gaunt, dreamy-eyed clergyman was seated at the harmonium, softly sounding chords. At the stranger’s approach, he raised his eyebrows in polite enquiry.

  “Yes, brother? May I help you?”

  Stretch came to a halt beside the harmonium.

  “Well—uh—I figured maybe I could help you, Reverend.”

  “How?” frowned Torrance.

  “Why—with your choir, maybe,” suggested Stretch.

  “You’re an experienced choir-master, perhaps?” Torrance smiled eagerly. “Our choir is so small—only five voices. But, with proper training ...”

  “Well, no,” frowned Stretch. “I ain’t no choir-master, Reverend. But, if you only got five voices in your choir, maybe you can use one more. Make it an even half-dozen, huh?”

  The preacher eyed him dubiously.

  “You don’t look like a choir-singer,” he pointed out.

  “I sing fine,” Stretch cheerfully informed him. “Try me!”

  The voice was willing enough. It had resonance—the nasal kind—and it had volume. Torrance was prepared to be patient. He improvised an accompaniment to a well-known hymn, which Stretch chanted with noisy gusto. Wincing, but not wishing to offend this unconventional volunteer, the preacher played on.

  Larry, meanwhile, had been ushered into a primly furnished parlor by the stout, bright-eyed Amelia. He had rapped gently. He had greeted her with scrupulous courtesy. And he had given her a shrewd once-over. Already, he was agreeing with Doc Kyle. Amelia was a ditherer, and no mistake.

  Perched on the edge of an overstuffed chair, trading polite smiles with her, he came straight to the point.

  “You recall Anna Layton, ma’am? The way I hear it, you took care of her awhile back—when she was havin’ that baby?”

  Amelia’s face clouded over. She nodded, heaved a sigh.

  “Ah, yes. Such a sad business. Are you a relative, Mr. Valentine?”

  “Well, no,” said Larry. “But me and my partner got to be friendly with Miss Anna and—uh—we’d admire to fetch flowers for the little feller’s grave. Kind of show our respects—you know what I mean?”

  “Grave?” she whispered.

  “Why, sure,” he nodded. “I figured you’d know just whereabouts the baby was buried.”

  “I doubt if I could remember,” she murmured, “after all this time.”

  “It wasn’t all that long ago,” he reminded her. “Ten-twelve months?” He took a chance, played his ace. “How about the undertaker? Maybe I should ask him?”

  She started convulsively, raised a hand to her breast. “No—no! Don’t talk to Mr. Wilkie!”

  “Why not?” he relentlessly enquired.

  “I have nothing further to say!” she panted. Rising, she pointed to the door. “Please leave, Mr. Valentine!”

  “Before I go,” said Larry, “there’s somethin’ you ought to know.”

  “I won’t listen!” she gasped.

  “A little while back,” he told her, “me and my partner got jumped by a party of Piutes ...”

  “This is of no interest to me!” she breathed.

  “... with a baby,” finished Larry. “And I don’t mean a Piute baby, ma’am. This kid is white. A woman gave him to a Piute right here in Blanco Roca, and claimed he belonged with the reservation folk—his own people, she said.” He lit his cigarette, eyed her steadily. “That was you, wasn’t it? You gave Anna’s baby to that doggone Injun.”

  “But my intentions were good,” she protested. “My only concern was for that unfortunate girl. I wanted to save her the grief—the anguish ...!”

  “By lyin’ to her?” Larry frowned incredulously. “Tellin’ her the kid was born dead? How could that save her any grief?”

  “Don’t you see?” She gestured wildly. “She couldn’t have known of her husband’s Indian blood. Obviously, she assumed him to be a white man. But blood will out, Mr. Valentine! The child was so—so red! The jet-black hair—the red skin ...!”

  “You thought Anna’s kid was Injun?” he blinked.

  “I did it for her sake! Better she should believe her child dead—than to suffer the shame of bearing a redskin’s son! I was sure the Indians would give him a home.”

  Even now, he found it hard to believe. It was ridiculous. Worse than ridiculous. Outlandish. But hadn’t Doc Kyle warned him? Amelia Torrance was a do-gooder, well meaning, but muddle-headed—and incredibly ignorant. Well, there was nothing to be gained by reproaching her.

  He retrieved his Stetson, got to his feet.

  “Don’t fret about it anymore,” he muttered.

  “I was so sure ...!” she groaned.

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “You meant well.”

  He quit the parlor, drifted out into the street. Right away, an unnerving sound smote his ears, coming from the direction of the chapel. The harmonium was emitting weird noises—and so was a certain Texan. He grinned knowingly, turned towards the chapel, then paused. A familiar voice was hailing him.

  Doc Kyle arrived, his eyebrows raised, his manner apprehensive. “You’ve been talking to Amelia?” he asked.

  “And then some,” growled Larry. He flicked his cigarette-butt away. “You wouldn’t believe it, Doc, if you didn’t hear it with your own two ears.”

  “Are you telling me,” challenged Kyle, “that your hunch paid off?”

  “In spades,” nodded Larry.

  “But that—that’s crazy!” breathed Kyle.

  “I guess,” mused Larry, “when Amelia butts into somethin’, it always ends up crazy. Doc, you’ve delivered many a babe.”

 
; “Hundreds,” said Kyle.

  “Well,” said Larry, “Anna’s baby was mighty red, and that ain’t unusual, is it?”

  “Not unusual at all.” Kyle shook his head. “It happens all the time. They start off red, begin developing their natural complexion after the first few weeks.”

  “That,” grinned Larry, “is how Sam started off, and I guess he must’ve been the first newborn baby Amelia ever got close to.”

  “She thought the kid was Indian—so she gave him to the Piutes?”

  “That’s how it was,” nodded Larry.

  It took the medico all of a minute to regain control of himself. This was no place for profanity—the chapel was less than twenty yards away—but he made an exception. Then, when he had finished cussing, he reflected, “The news will give Anna quite a jolt.”

  “You thinkin’ her nerves will go haywire?” frowned Larry.

  “The shock,” opined Kyle, “may do more good than harm. After all, she’ll have cause for joy. But we have to break it to her gently.”

  “If she rouses before you show up,” promised Larry, “we won’t tell her a thing. You can handle all the talkin’.”

  He fitted two fingers into his mouth and whistled a signal to his sidekick—a few bars of “Dixie”. Almost immediately, the weird noises ceased. The harmonium became silent, and a grinning Stretch came hustling out of the chapel to join them.

  Back at the Bugle Call office, the Leonards listened—wide-eyed and open-mouthed—to Larry’s report of his interrogation of the preacher’s wife. Little Esther was overcome. She sank dazedly into a chair, while Smokey stuffed rough-cut into the bowl of his pipe and fervently declared, “Amelia Torrance ought to be sent away—for the good of the community. The woman’s a menace!”

  “I’m gonna miss Sam,” muttered Stretch. He brightened somewhat, as he added, “But he’ll be okay from here on. Got himself the purtiest momma in the whole blame territory.”

  “Think of it,” mused Esther, as she glanced towards the stairs. “She’s sleepin’ up there—right beside her own son.”

  Presently, she returned to her kitchen. Smokey settled himself at his desk, armed himself with foolscap and pen and nodded cheerfully to his guests.

  “Shall we continue, boys? You were about to describe the stampeding of the Box Seven herd by Cole Banning’s gunmen.”

  They picked up where they had left off. Larry flopped into a chair, rolled and lit a cigarette and continued dictating to the journalist’s fast-moving pen. He had found the solution to a mystery. Now, he could relax, and live up to the bargain he had made with the inquisitive Smokey—a first-hand account of his battle with the Banning gang, in exchange for room and board.

  It didn’t occur to him, at this time, that Anna Layton’s future was still uncertain. Unwittingly, he was using the vital shawl as an antimacassar. As far as he was aware, the only threats to Anna’s safety were now being prepared for burial at the Wilkie Funeral Parlor. He knew nothing of the brief conference now ensuing in the office of the Markham brothers.

  Wade Stabile sauntered in just as a couple of miners were making their exit. The brothers greeted him with bland smiles. Kane positioned himself by the street door, ready to warn of the approach of possible eavesdroppers. Garth chuckled softly, and said, “Excellent, Wade. You did well.”

  “That’s putting it mild,” muttered Stabile. “It’s sewed up neat now. They’re dead—and the law is satisfied.”

  “And, of course,” mused Garth, “the map has been returned to the fair Anna.”

  “No problem there,” suggested Kane. “We got us a copy, and that’s all that matters. The way I hear it, she’s a mighty sick woman. Be quite a spell before she can organize an expedition to Moon Mountain. In the meantime, we’ll make our move.”

  “Better not wait too long,” frowned Stabile.

  “It’ll be soon,” Garth assured him. “The three of us will leave town quietly and head for the Calaveras sometime within the next twenty-four hours. I propose to take a half-dozen pack mules, Wade.”

  “And then what?” demanded Stabile.

  “I’ve studied Cabot’s samples,” said Garth. “The stuff is better than eighty per cent pure. In a matter of mere hours, we can collect sufficient to keep us in luxury the rest of our lives. Of course, we’ll have to market the stuff, but that’s no problem. We’ll come back to Blanco Roca, show our load to the McDonogh Combine’s representatives and let them bid on it.”

  “You, Kane and the lawyer-man?” challenged Stabile.

  “Why, certainly,” smiled Garth. “No need for you to come along, Wade. Besides, your absence from town would cause comment.”

  “All right,” nodded Stabile, “but what about my share of the loot?”

  “You’ll draw your twenty-five per cent,” Garth told him, “after the McDonogh outfit pays us off.”

  “Don’t you fret on that score, Wade,” grinned Kane. “We’re all in this together—all four of us.”

  “We’ll be far beyond the foothills of the Calaveras, four days from now,” Garth calculated, “and the map doesn’t cover a wide area. It shouldn’t take us more than three more days to reach Moon Mountain. We’ll spend one day transferring the silver to our pack mules, and another five on the return journey to Blanco Roca.”

  “Sounds okay,” shrugged the deputy. “All right, Markham. I’ll check with you when you get back.”

  Punctually at three p.m., Doc Kyle hustled into the Bugle Call office and was ushered upstairs by Esther. The Texans followed quietly, with Smokey close behind. About the open doorway to the bedroom they hovered, watching, as the medico seated himself beside his patient. In his makeshift crib, the infant threshed his chubby legs. Kyle took Anna’s hand, nodded to Esther and muttered, “I could use some coffee.”

  “It’s ready to pour,” murmured Esther, on her way to the door.

  By the time Esther re-entered the room, toting a tray, the patient was wide-awake. She sat propped up by pillows, her face averted from the crib. Very seriously, she told Esther, “I have a recollection of causing quite a scene here. How can you ever forgive me, Mrs. Leonard?”

  “Esther’s a mighty patient woman, Miss Anna,” grinned Smokey. “She’s been a journalist’s wife for four years.”

  “That shawl ...” sighed Anna.

  “No call to fret about it,” muttered Larry. “We still have it.”

  “I don’t mind telling you the truth now,” she frowned. “Heaven knows I have no reason to keep secrets from you.”

  “Before you tell us anything,” advised Larry, “you’d better listen to somethin’ we got to tell you.”

  “Good news,” grinned Kyle. “A pleasant change, huh, Anna?”

  “Good news?” she prodded.

  “As good as you could hope for,” said Kyle. “You remember who tended you—ten months back—when you were about to increase the Blanco Roca population?”

  “Mrs. Torrance.” Anna shrugged uneasily. “But that’s all over now. I’m trying to forget ...”

  “That fool woman lied to you,” said Kyle, bluntly. “Your son wasn’t stillborn at all, but Amelia thought ...” He talked on, quietly but compellingly, driving the simple facts home. With some hesitation, Anna slanted her gaze to the crib. “The Piutes,” Kyle concluded, “realized the boy was no Indian, and insisted on giving him back to the whites. That’s how Valentine and Emerson became involved.” He gestured to the crib. “There he is, Anna. Your son.”

  “You’re—very sure about it?” she faltered.

  “I wouldn’t be telling you,” declared Kyle, “if I wasn’t absolutely certain.” He gestured to Esther, who lifted the babe from the crib and toted it across to him. For a few moments, he studied the tiny face. “Damned if there isn’t a resemblance at that. Uh-huh. The boy favors you, Anna. Well? Will you take our word for it?”

  And, at last, Anna said, “Let me see him.”

  Kyle placed the babe into her waiting arms. She began weeping, but not the w
ay she’d wept before. It was a rare moment, poignant, but with joy in it.

  “Anna,” Esther smiled, “it’s time for your son’s next meal. I’ll heat the milk—and perhaps you'd like to feed him?”

  “High time you learned how, Anna,” suggested Larry.

  Anna’s eyes were aglow. Tenderly, she held the chuckling infant to her bosom.

  “I’m so grateful to you all,” she murmured. “So—terribly grateful ...!”

  “I think your nerves will improve from now on,” said Kyle. “Forget your grief, Anna. Devote yourself to your son, and I guarantee you’ll be happier than ever before. Well ...” He got to his feet, nodded cheerfully to Smokey and the Texans, “… all’s well that ends well, huh, boys?”

  “This isn’t really the end of it,” frowned Anna. “After I’ve fed my son—with Mrs. Leonard’s help—I must talk to you again.” She eyed Larry beseechingly. “It’s terribly important, Larry.”

  “Take your time,” shrugged Larry. “We’ll be right downstairs when you want us.”

  Within the hour, Sam had been fed and was again peacefully sleeping. After insisting that she had never felt better in her life, Anna descended to the office and followed Esther into the kitchen. The Texans joined them there. Smokey, sensing that matters of great importance were to be discussed, closed and locked the street door before moving into the kitchen. En route, he took the shawl from the chair-back.

  “You were somewhat concerned about this,” he smilingly reminded Anna, as he placed it in her lap.

  “Yes.” She nodded pensively, fingered the heavy silk. “It’s all I have left—and even more important now I have a son to raise.”

  They eyed her curiously. Esther quietly assured her, “You owe us no explanation.”

  “I want to tell you anyway,” frowned Anna, “because I feel you’re the only people I can trust—and I have to trust somebody. There are things I must do, but I can’t do them alone.”

  She switched her gaze to Larry. “You know why those men broke into my room. They wanted the map bequeathed to me by my father.”

  “But they didn’t get the genuine map,” recalled Larry.