Larry and Stretch 5

by Marshall Grover

  “I burned Dad’s map,” she told him, “after I’d made an accurate copy.” She held up the shawl for his inspection. “And here it is.”

  Larry took the shawl, examined it a few moments, whistled softly. Smokey asserted, soberly, “They’re called the weaker sex, but that’s just a foolish rumor. Good grief! Who but a woman would think of such an idea?”

  “I’ll need money,” Anna pointed out. “As much as I can get—and as quickly as possible. I’m practically a pauper.”

  “Not while ever you own this doggone shawl,” growled Larry.

  “But the map is no use to me,” she explained, “unless I can prove that it’s genuine. As for the silver, how can I trade it for cash? First, I have to finance a mining operation so that the silver can be offered for sale.”

  “All right now.” Larry nodded slowly. “Here’s how I see it. The fastest way you can get money is to send somebody to Moon Mountain. Just a couple men would be enough. With your map to guide ’em, they could find the silver lode, fill a couple sacks and tote the stuff back to Blanco Roca on mules. Then the bank takes care of your silver, or maybe you’ll sell it to one of the minin’ outfits hereabouts.”

  “That,” said Anna, “is what I had in mind. I’ve no talent for bossing a mining operation, Larry. If some big company offered a fair price, I’d sell the claim.”

  “From what I’ve heard about Moon Mountain,” muttered Smokey, “I’d say you could name your own price—and get no arguments. You’ll be a wealthy woman, Anna.”

  “First things first,” she countered. “It has to be a secret for the time being. Dad paid a terrible price for his bragging.” She stared hard at the Texans. “I need the help of men who can be trusted—men like Larry and Stretch.”

  Larry grinned wryly, nudged Stretch, and asked, “You in the mood for a ride to the high country?”

  “Any time you’re ready,” drawled Stretch.

  “All we’ll need,” decided Larry, “is a couple pack mules, some pickaxes, provisions and the map.”

  “I have a good friend,” said Anna, “who can be trusted to keep our secret. He understands about maps and prospecting.”

  “He’d make a copy for us?” prodded Larry.

  “He’d do anything for me,” she sighed. “I might’ve married him—but for Chip Layton.”

  “You’re referring to Pete Davidson, of course,” frowned Smokey. To the Texans, he explained, “Pete manages the Mid-Town Hotel. A good man. The reliable kind. As well as making a clear copy of Anna’s map, he could give you plenty of useful advice.”

  “All right,” nodded Larry. “We’d better go talk with this Davidson hombre.”

  By nightfall, preparations for the expedition to Moon Mountain were well under way. Anna’s big news had stunned the unassuming Pete Davidson.

  “Things have sure changed,” he told her. “I’ll help you all I can, Anna. Bring your baby to the hotel and there’ll be a fine bedroom waiting for you—the best in the house. And I’ll copy your map, too. Anything you want.”

  After supper that evening, with Anna and her child safely installed at the hotel, the Bugle Call office seemed much quieter. The Lone Star Hellions were seated on the front porch, quietly discussing the journey they would begin on the morrow. A carefully-drawn copy of the map, complete with compass-points, now reposed in Larry’s hip pocket. It was their intention to start off in the early afternoon, devoting the morning to the vital chore of hiring mules and purchasing digging tools.

  Smokey was inside, happily engaged in setting up type. They could hear his tuneless whistling, and Stretch was idly wondering how the newspaperman could whistle with his pipe in his mouth, when the small woman came out to join them.

  Little Esther’s face was clearly visible in the bright moonlight, and Larry perceived that she was agitated.

  “Somethin’ frettin’ you?” he enquired.

  She heaved a sigh, and reflected, “A woman can be married to a man for years—and still find him unpredictable.”

  “You talkin’ about your husband?” he prodded.

  “He has made up his mind,” she nodded. “I can’t talk him out of it. He told me of his decision, right after supper.” She sighed again.

  “So?” he demanded.

  “So ...” She heaved a third sigh, more expressive than the other two, “… you won’t be travelling to the mountains by yourselves. My husband is determined to ride with you.”

  “Him?” gasped Stretch. “Not a chance! Nothin’ doin’!”

  Nine – Westbound

  “We travel faster alone,” Larry vehemently declared.

  “And easier!” asserted Stretch. “A greenhorn like him would slow us down.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier,” Esther challenged, “to let him ride along with you—rather than have him following behind? As long as you knew he was somewhere behind, you’d be worrying about him.”

  “You mean you don’t care if he comes with us?” demanded Larry.

  “I care a great deal,” she frowned, “but I realize the futility of arguing with him. For as long as I’ve known him, he has yearned to meet you, talk with you, ride with you. He sees this as his big chance. Can’t you understand that?”

  “Well ...” began Larry.

  “He’ll cause you no trouble,” she murmured. “At least—I hope not.”

  “She hopes!” groaned Stretch.

  “He’d take his turn at cooking,” Esther assured them. “As a matter of fact, he’s quite a good cook. And he’s healthy enough—willing to handle his share of chores. He isn’t the bravest man I ever knew—bless his impulsive heart—but that isn’t important, is it? You don’t anticipate there’ll be any danger?”

  “Well, no,” frowned Larry. “We likely won’t run into any trouble at all.”

  “Then please don’t object to his going with you,” she begged. “Let him live his great adventure.”

  “Runt ...” began Stretch.

  “What the heck?” shrugged Larry. “I guess we could get used to him.”

  “On the evening of your return to Blanco Roca,” smiled Esther, “I’ll prepare a very special supper. Roasted chicken with greens and mash. Blueberry pie and cream …”

  “Like you say, runt,” frowned Stretch, “we could get used to him.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Esther gratefully acknowledged. “You’re very generous.”

  “It ain’t generosity,” Larry dryly assured her.

  “It’s your roasted chicken,” muttered Stretch, “with greens and mash and blueberry pie ...”

  Later, when they ambled into the office, Smokey grinned at them from behind his briar, and announced, “I’ll be coming with you tomorrow, boys. Hope you don’t object?”

  Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch shrugged and flopped into a chair. Grudgingly, Larry told the newspaperman, “That’s okay. We don’t mind at all.”

  Larry’s eyebrows shot up. Smokey had produced something from a bottom drawer of his desk and was exhibiting it for their inspection. Stretch sat bolt upright, blinking. Larry moved closer to the desk and stared at the massive weapon, the largest, heaviest and most powerful pistol ever manufactured under the Colt brand, one of the rare thousand.

  “Hell’s bells and Holy Hannah,” he breathed. “A Walker!”

  “Some shooter, huh?” grinned Smokey. “You don’t see a Walker Colt every day of the week. I paid thirty dollars for it a few years back. Brought it off a whisky drummer.”

  Larry studied it intently. In Smokey’s small fist, it appeared uncommonly hefty. The era of the percussion pistol had passed. Nowadays, the cartridge-toting .45 was the popular handgun of the wild frontier.

  “Smokey,” he frowned, “have you ever fired it?”

  “Well, no.” Smokey sounded apologetic. “I know very little about firearms. But I take good care of it. It’s loaded, and in good working condition.”

  “So don’t point it at me!” scowled Larry. “You got any notion how that cannon kic
ks? The slug would blow me out into Main Street and the recoil would shove you clear through that rear wall.”

  “I’ll bring it along,” announced Smokey.

  “Don’t get any wild notions,” countered Larry. “We’ll be ridin’ easy and peaceable. Nothin’ to do but read the map and find our way to the Cabot claim.”

  “The unexpected always happens,” insisted Smokey.

  ~*~

  For the four peace officers of Blanco Roca, the midnight to dawn patrol was the chore least favored. Marshal Fames considered a peace officer should be on duty, available to handle any emergency during the wee small hours.

  On this occasion, it was Wade Stabile’s turn. He was trudging the Main Street boardwalks at three-ten a.m., hefting a sawn-off shotgun and only half-listening to the sounds of revelry from the saloons.

  The assay office, he noted, was in darkness. He dawdled on until he came to the lawyer’s abode. No sign of Halsey either. Well, that was no surprise. By now, Halsey and the brothers Markham would be fast asleep. Light from a streetlamp was hitting the front windows of Halsey’s establishment, illuminating a section of the interior. He glanced inside, casually at first, then with increasing interest. The lawyer’s office seemed uncommonly bare. Nothing to be seen on the desk so often littered with papers. Could that mean …?

  His suspicions aroused, he hurried around to the rear doorway and tried it. Locked. But a back window had not been secured—and that was a bad sign, a sign to confirm his suspicions. He raised the window, clambered through and struck a match. By its light, he located a lamp and got it working. Then, quickly, he moved about the office and into Halsey’s bedroom. No sign of a valise—not even a carpetbag. And no clothing in Halsey’s dresser!

  In a matter of minutes, he was making a similar search of the Markham premises, and with the same result. Positive indications that his fellow-conspirators had run out on him! Grim-faced, he began canvassing the nearby livery stables. A jack-of-all-trades, rudely roused from slumber, answered his questions. Sure—six pack mules and three saddle horses had been hired out to Lawyer Halsey and the Markham brothers. When? Right after sundown. No—they didn’t say how long they’d be gone, but paid for two weeks’ hire of the animals.

  Stabile returned to the law office, helped himself to a stiff shot from the marshal’s private bottle and did some fast thinking. Was he jumping to conclusions? Maybe—and maybe not. Garth Markham was a deep one. If they intended returning to Blanco Roca for the sharing of the spoils, why had they taken all their personal possessions? It didn’t add up—or maybe it did—to a double-cross! With the map to guide them, they could make their way to Moon Mountain and load those pack mules with a fortune in silver. Then, if they kept pushing west, they could be out of the mountains and crossing the Nevada-California border inside four days—and where would that leave him? Right here in Blanco Roca, minus his share of the silver!

  “You won’t get away with it, Markham,” he muttered. “When you dig that raw silver from the innards of Moon Mountain, I’ll be breathing down your neck—damn your double-crossing hide.”

  By four-fifteen a.m., his horse was ready for the trail, his pack roll secured, his saddlebags bulging with provisions. He would never return to Blanco Roca, of that he was certain. As for the marshal, well, it might be wise to give himself an edge. A well-chosen lie was all it took to satisfy a lawman as slow-thinking as Corey Fames. He paid a brief visit to the small room and board establishment on Helena Road—Deputy Paulson’s retreat. Young Brad came awake in a hurry, when Stabile barged into his room and shook his shoulder.

  “Who—what ...?” he demanded.

  “This is an emergency,” muttered Stabile. “Listen careful. I spotted Johnny Vance just now—headed east out of town.”

  “Hey!” frowned Brad. “We got a file on that Vance jasper. He’s wanted all over—but I swear I never figured he’d come as far south as Blanco Roca!”

  “It was Vance all right,” asserted Stabile, “and I’m going after him. You tell the marshal I mightn’t be back for three-four days—savvy?”

  “Yeah, sure. Anything you say. But ...”

  Stabile didn’t wait for further queries. This would be enough, he assured himself, as he hustled out into Helena Road and swung astride his horse. Fames would have an explanation for his chief-deputy’s absence. It would be four days before Fames would expect him back and, by then, he would be dogging the trail left by the double-dealing Garth Markham. Like the Markhams and Halsey, he would never return to Blanco Roca.

  By mid-morning, he was riding the trail that led through the foothills of the Calaveras, a route dotted with the claims of lone-wolf prospectors. Three miles west of the foothills, the terrain was a question-mark shrouded in mystery, a forbidding region into which many an optimist had ventured, hoping to locate the legendary Moon Mountain.

  A white-bearded old-timer gave him a lead.

  “Three riders and a half-dozen mules? Yup. Spotted ’em a few hours back—over thataway ...” He pointed, “… headed straight for the timber.”

  Stabile had heard enough. In haste, he rode to the area indicated by his informant. The tracks were there, fresh and clear. Following them would be no difficult chore.

  ~*~

  Six sturdy pack mules—exactly the same number hired by Garth Markham and his cronies. The Texans rented theirs from the establishment run by the three Ward brothers, on the recommendation of Pete Davidson, after which they purchased digging tools from a hardware merchant, and a formidable supply of provisions from a general store.

  Little Esther seemed somewhat preoccupied during the midday meal. Her husband attacked his food with relish and bragged of the fame in store for him, the respect that would surely be accorded him by his colleagues of the big eastern news services, when he offered his story for syndication.

  “They’ll jump at the chance—you’ll see,” he promised the Texans. “How many journalists have had the rare privilege of riding to uncover a fortune in silver? I tell you, boys, it’s a story any journalist would give his eye-teeth to write.”

  “Smokey,” frowned Larry, “I keep tryin’ to make you understand. You could tag us for months—and never see a hassle, never hear a shot fired.”

  “Me and ol’ Larry just never hunt trouble,” asserted Stretch.

  “And that’s how it’s gonna be this time,” declared Larry. “No danger, no fightin’, nothin’ for you to write about. All we have to do is find Moon Mountain, dig some of that silver and come on home. Simple. Nothin’ to it.”

  “You can’t discourage me,” chuckled Smokey. “I know your reputation too well.”

  A short time later, they were ready to move out. In the small yard behind the newspaper office, the six-pack mules waited, joined by a tie-line. Larry’s sorrel and Stretch’s pinto, saddled and ready, stood by the animal that would tote their excitement-hungry companion, a rangy bay gelding. Smokey was making a great show of checking cinches, strutting from animal to animal. He didn’t possess a gunbelt or holster. The mighty Walker Colt—all seventy-three ounces of it—was rammed into the back of his pants, causing them to sag at the seat. He wore levis, high top boots and a Stetson, and, if he didn’t appear completely ludicrous, he certainly gave the impression of being out of his element.

  In the back doorway of her kitchen, Little Esther shook her head worriedly and frowned up at the Texans. “You won’t let him do anything rash—will you?” she begged.

  “Don’t be frettin’ about Smokey,” muttered Larry. “We’ll look out for him.”

  “Ready, boys?” called the newspaperman.

  “Born ready,” drawled Stretch.

  The Texans moved to their horses and swung astride. Stretch took the rope to which the mules were secured. Grinning broadly, Smokey hustled across to the bay and swung astride. The Texans nudged their mounts to movement. Out of the yard they rode, leading the pack mules.

  Two miles west of Blanco Roca, with the saw-toothed silhouette of the Calave
ras dead ahead, Larry again queried the newspaperman on the subject of his prized handgun.

  “Don’t you have a holster for that doggone cannon?”

  “Well, no,” shrugged Smokey. “But don’t worry about it. I can manage.”

  “You aim to tote it stuck in your pants—all the time?” challenged Stretch.

  “Where else can I carry it?” frowned Smokey.

  “A safer place,” opined Larry, “would be your saddlebag.”

  “No.” Smokey shook his head vehemently. “I want it where I can reach it in a hurry. Damn it all, my life could depend on a fast draw.”

  “Little man,” warned Larry, “you try for a fast draw with that big shooter—and you’re apt to lose your pants.”

  They rode another half-mile in silence. Larry had fished out the map and was studying it pensively. The markings were clear enough, he decided. They should reach the foothills by sundown. Then, making an early start on the morrow, they could penetrate the foothills and advance to the first landmark recorded by the old prospector. From that point, they would have to rely on Jordy Cabot’s directions.

  “First landmark,” he reminded his companions, “is a high boulder on a rise—crazy-shaped.”

  “I know that place,” offered Smokey. “Anvil Point, it’s called.”

  “We ought to spot it,” Larry predicted, “around mid-mornin’ tomorrow.”

  And that prediction was proved accurate. After breaking camp the following morning, they headed northwest and located Anvil Rock at exactly ten minutes after ten. The map was again consulted, after which they continued their journey, moving ever deeper into the awesome labyrinth of narrow ravines and timbered ridges.

  Far to the north, Wade Stabile came upon the Markhams and Tyler Halsey. His quarry had adhered to the directions marked on their map—with devastating consequences. When Stabile spotted them from his vantage point within a cedar-brake, their animals were stalled at the base of a towering cliff, a giant granite wall almost perpendicular. The three men were squatting close together with the map spread before them. And they were cursing bitterly, and so loudly that their voices reached Stabile with infinite clarity. Something had gone wrong. Garth Markham was livid with rage.