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Contents
About the Book
One – Plan of Attack
Two – Sorry Saga of Milty Ricks
Three – The Squaw Man
Four – The Army vs Larry And Stretch
Five – The Sensation-Seeker
Six – The Wooing of Milty
Seven – Storm Warnings
Eight – Man-Trackers
Nine – How to Get Answers
Ten – Fools Rush In
About Marshall Grover
The Larry and Stretch Series
About Piccadilly Publishing
Copyright
TEXANS STICK TOGETHER … IN A FIGHT TO THE FINISH
Utah Territory was a long way from the Lone Star State, but Larry and Stretch found other Texans there—a worried squaw man and a beautiful redhead—fellow Texans in need of their help.
Once again, the Nomads from Texas find, themselves involved in danger, intrigue and sudden death—distrusted by the forces of law and order—opposed by the entire 9th Cavalry—challenged by the lawless.
Larry Valentine could never turn his back on a mystery, or a fight. With Stretch Emerson as his willing shadow, and a New York journalist as interested observer, hard-hitting Larry once again proves that outlaws can’t win, when they challenge the Lone Star Hellions …
One – Plan of Attack
“I always did say,” drawled Tolin, “the only good Injun is a dead Injun.”
He lit a cigar, hooked a leg about his saddlehorn and grinned at his handiwork. His two sidekicks threw nervous glances to right and left. One of them asserted, “We oughta be movin’ on. Could be more Utes hereabouts.”
“No.” Tolin shook his head. “This buck was out by hisself—huntin’.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Well, he’s through huntin’—for all time.”
“The Ute chief,” opined the third man, “is gonna be hoppin’ mad.”
“That’s how Werris wants it,” shrugged Tolin. “The Utes hoppin’ mad—the whites stiff-scared.”
He eyed the dead brave a few more moments. Some short time before, the three hardcases had come upon one lone hunter, stalking game within the boundaries of the Artega Springs reservation of Central Utah Territory. The brave wore no war paint, for the Indian wars had ended in this section some seven years before. The one-man hunting expedition had been rudely interrupted by the three palefaces—Jack Tolin, boss of the JT spread, and two JT riders. Now, the brave hung from a cottonwood limb, limply, no longer struggling. For him, death had come fast.
At Tolin’s command, the killers began putting distance between themselves and the scene of their treachery.
They were moving onto JT range when Tolin spotted the lone rider coming up from the south. He reined up a moment, shading his eyes against the sun glare. Then: “That’s Chad,” he announced.
“You sure?” frowned one of his companions.
“Yep.” Tolin nodded emphatically. “Chad for sure. Maybe he’s got the word.”
He led his men across open prairie, waving a greeting to the oncoming rider. Tolin was a lean one, sallow-complexioned and lank-haired, with cold gray eyes and thin-lipped mouth. And, in his philosophy, there was little capacity for mercy or remorse.
His visitor shared that attitude. Chadwick Werris was a keen-eyed forty-year-old, heavyset and running to fat, but well barbered and cultured, a man capable of fitting into the most distinguished company. The theater had been Werris’ profession. As an actor, he hadn’t been overly successful, but had learned a great deal, tricks of the trade that had proved useful in later years. He was currently filling the position of assistant-manager of the Central Utah Mining Company, which operated some distance south of Doone County. Like Tolin, he was a man without conscience.
The hardcases intercepted him at a bend in the trail. Greetings were exchanged, after which they turned their mounts and rode slowly towards the JT headquarters. In response to Tolin’s eager query, Werris calmly replied: “Yes—the time has come. We can complete our plans now.”
“They’ve set a date,” prodded Tolin, “for movin’ the shipment?”
“A definite date,” nodded Werris. “And the security arrangements are pretty much what I anticipated.”
“Just how much,” demanded Tolin, “will that gold-shipment be worth?”
“In California,” smiled Werris, “the whole bundle can be unloaded for a tidy sum.” He confided his estimate of the proceeds, and the figure won startled gasps from Tolin’s sidekicks, Tolin whistled softly. “For that big a pay-off,” drawled Werris, “I think you’ll agree any risk is worth the taking.”
“The hell with the risks!” Tolin chuckled elatedly. “Follow my orders to the letter,” said Werris, “and I guarantee the risks will be minimized.”
Full details of the plan to plunder a northbound gold shipment were kept under Werris’ hat, until he was moving into the JT ranch house, followed by his host and the other JT hands. Tolin ran a five-man outfit. His neighbor, Steve Britt of the Box B spread, could supply an additional seven. An even dozen in all—twelve hardened cutthroats—would be involved in the enterprise planned by the unscrupulous Chad Werris, and individual payoffs would be so substantial as to guarantee the full co-operation of every participant.
Bottles were uncorked. Drinks were poured. After sampling his drink, the pudgy man smacked his lips and said, “Britt and his men are all primed, I presume?”
“Just a’rarin’ to go,” grinned Tolin.
“After this conference,” frowned Werris, “you’ll ride over to Box B and pass them the word. This will be our final council before the great event. I doubt if I could absent myself again without inviting comment. Today, I’m supposed to be visiting an ailing relative in Leesburg.” He leaned back in his chair, placed the tips of his fingers together. “What about the Doone County set-up at this time? Are the locals still jumpy?”
“That’s a nervous town,” Tolin assured him. “Sheriff Johnson keeps tellin’ the citizens they got nothin’ to fret about, and the Indian Agent calls Johnson a fool, says it’s only a matter of time before the Utes come a’raidin’.”
“Nobody suspects you?” challenged Werris.
“We’ve been workin’ quiet,” said Tolin. He grinned cruelly. “Givin’ them reservation Utes a real bad time—you know what I mean? Couple weeks back, one of Steve’s boys caught a squaw. By the time she made it back to the reservation, she had plenty to holler about. And, just this mornin’, we found us a Ute buck and strung him up.”
Werris showed no distaste for these unsavory details. His smile was bland. “Excellent.” He nodded approvingly. “I imagine, by now, Little Cloud is finding it difficult to keep his braves in check.”
“That’s how you wanted it,” shrugged Tolin. “You know me, Chad. I always deliver.”
“You have the disguises well-hidden?” demanded Werris.
“Nobody’s gonna find that stuff,” said Tolin.
“The wigs will stay in place,” asserted Werris, “if you fix them exactly the way I demonstrated. As for the paint, you know how it has to be applied. Outwardly, you’ll all pass as Ute braves—on the warpath. You’ll use rifles of the kind owned by the reservation Indians. And the whole deal will be handled very quickly. Remember that, my friends. Speed and efficiency. There’ll be survivors of the wreck, of course, and a great deal of confusion, but, confused or not, they’ll be in no doubt as to the identity of the raiders. The Utes will be blamed.”
“Which means we get away clear,” grinned Tolin.
“You’ll return to your headquarters,” nodded Werris, “by the route already decided upon. The shipment will be cached until such time as we deem it safe for th
e JT and Box B outfits to make a combined cattle-drive into California. When that time comes, you may be sure nobody will suspect that the stolen shipment is secreted in your chuck wagons.”
“I said it before and I’ll say it again,” muttered Tolin. “You’re one smart hombre, Chad. You’ve thought of everything.”
“Just be sure you understand exactly what has to be done,” frowned Werris. “Beyond the California line, you’ll wait for me at the rendezvous—or you may find me there when you arrive. From that point, we move on to our final destination, where the shipment will be exchanged for hard cash.”
“That’s understood,” drawled Tolin. “Now—when does that train move?”
“Departure time,” announced Werris, “will be five-thirty on the morning of the twenty-fifth. We should reach Carrizo Bend at approximately ten-fifteen. The shipment will be in the baggage-car, packed in wooden crates. Of course, you’ll not waste time trying to move those crates from the car.” He smiled complacently. “You’ll break out the gold—with tomahawks—and transfer it to sacks.”
“You’ll be in that baggage-car, I guess,” prodded Tolin.
“Myself and three guards,” nodded Werris. “There will be two special guards in each of the passenger-cars. Maybe they’ll be out of action, but I can offer you no guarantees on that score. It will depend on how badly the northbound is damaged, when the engine jumps the tracks.”
“It’ll be quite a wreck—I promise you that,” declared Tolin.
“I’m not worried,” shrugged Werris. “There’d be nothing to prevent my opening the side-door. I could jump to safety if there was any danger of the baggage-car overturning.” He finished his drink, donned his hat and got to his feet. “The horses?”
“Stashed and ready,” said Tolin.
“Remember,” cautioned Werris, “you ride bareback.”
“Don’t worry,” soothed Tolin. “We ain’t apt to forget that. We’ll be Utes—genuine Utes—on a rampage.”
“Careful strategy pays dividends,” said Werris. He nodded to Tolin. “Go see Britt at once. Name the date, but remind him of the need for secrecy. This would be a bad time for any of you men to become loose-tongued.”
“Don’t you fret on that score, amigo,” muttered Tolin. “We know how to keep our mouths shut.”
“Then I bid you adieu, for the present,” smiled Werris. “When next we meet socially, we’ll be Californians—driving a trail-herd to San Miguel—and prosperity.”
The architect of the proposed outrage was gone from Doone County before the passing of the next two hours, on his way back to the mining company’s headquarters at Sandlerville to the south. Jack Tolin obeyed his orders promptly, saddling a fast horse and heading for the Box B spread to confer with his other partner-in-crime, the hulking, unprepossessing Steve Britt.
~*~
Two days later, in the early afternoon, journalist Milton Ricks quit the office of the Doone City Sentinel and sallied forth for his after-lunch drink. For this purpose, he chose one of Doone City’s smaller saloons, the Welcome Hand. The proprietor of that establishment, one Billy Day, was a rarity among the local saloonkeepers in that he seldom if ever watered his stock of whisky, and Milty Ricks was a man who believed in taking his whisky neat.
Milty was a shade under six feet tall, a handsome, well-groomed young man in his late twenties, blond, with a carefully tended mustache to match his wavy thatch.
Milty’s chief failing was vanity. He was his own most avid admirer. He had faith in himself, considered himself to be God’s gift to the fourth estate, a scribe of uncommon ability. He resented Doone City as a town unworthy of his continued residence. Unhappily, he had no option but to remain here, working under the benevolent but astute eye of his boss, the Sentinel’s owner-editor.
Into the Welcome Hand he strutted, ignoring the derisive grins of Billy Day’s other customers. The regulars were seated at tables by the side wall. Two tall strangers were nursing double-shots of rye at the far end of the bar. Billy Day, a short, chubby veteran of his trade, was polishing glasses behind the counter. He grinned and winked at his cronies, as Milty breasted the bar, plonked a coin down and snapped his fingers.
“Innkeeper—my usual libation, if you please.”
“Hark at him!” sniggered a cowpoke.
“Howdy, Milty,” grinned the proprietor. He filled a glass, slid it across, accepted payment. “You want to interview me today, Milty?”
“Go to hell, Mr. Day,” sighed Milty.
Day’s grin broadened.
“Better interview me while you can, Milty,” he advised. “No tellin’ how long a feller like me can stay alive. I’m Billy the Kid—didn’t you know that? Yep. Billy the Kid—growed up, of course.”
“Don’t pay Billy no mind, son,” croaked the withered old-timer seated by the door. “You wanta write a story? Write about me. I’m Bill Hickok, in person. All that stuff ’bout me gettin’ back-shot in Deadwood—that was just lies.”
“And I suppose ...” Milty sneered, jerking a thumb towards the tall strangers at the end of the bar, “these two vagabonds will claim to be Larry and Stretch.”
The strangers lost interest in their whisky, long enough to give Milty an unhurried once-over. They were a formidable-looking duo. The shorter one was almost six feet three inches tall, dark-haired, muscular, square-jawed, with probing eyes and a face that was handsome, in a battered, weather-beaten way. A fine layer of alkali covered his well-worn range clothes. A Colt .45 was slung to his right leg from a well-stocked cartridge-belt. A sweat-stained Stetson was shoved to the back of his head. He didn’t smile, though a corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
The other man was even taller, almost six feet six, with unruly sandy hair, mild blue eyes and a lantern jaw. His ears stuck out. He was homely and, at first glance, painfully lean, a beanpole: But that leanness was deceptive. The taller Texan was a man of considerable physical strength and muscle-power. He wore twice as much hardware as his sidekick, a Colt holstered at either hip. Both men toted Bowie knives in sheaths affixed to their pants belts.
Having given the journalist a once-over, they nodded casually and acknowledged the accuracy of Milty’s remark, in accents that were unmistakably Texan.
“You’re right, mister,” drawled the dark-haired one. “I’m Valentine.”
“And I’m Emerson,” grinned the sandy-haired one. “Howdy.”
Billy Day pounded his counter and burst into hearty laughter. The drinkers joined in. Milty grimaced in disgust, finished his drink and turned to leave. Jeers and whoops followed him, as he strode majestically to the batwings. He paused there, glared disdainfully at his tormentors, and declared, “You’d have no time for flopping in taverns, if you were privileged to be residents of my hometown—the greatest, most progressive city in the new world.” He lifted his derby reverently. “New York! In that great metropolis, vagabonds and layabouts—barflies and misfits—are lost in the shuffle. New York belongs to the far-sighted, the visionaries, the intellectuals!”
“Must be room in New York for a few fools, Milty,” croaked the old-timer, “if that’s whar you was born and raised.”
That jibe won a further burst of laughter. Milty colored, turned on his heel and marched out into Main Street. His mood was grim, when he entered his place of employment.
The Sentinel boasted a three-man staff. Flabby, rotund Tub Larner, the printer and jack-of-all-trades, was munching an apple while making minor repairs to the press. The editor and owner, Asa Baintry, was seated at his desk in the corner. He acknowledged Milty’s return with naught but a preoccupied nod. He was sixty-two, small, gray-haired and mellow, a shrewd old veteran of his profession, forever garbed in rumpled black pants and threadbare vest, faded blue shirt and black string tie. His eyeshade and sleeve-protectors were a fixture. Milty suspected that he never removed them—even while sleeping. Resentfully, he announced, “They’re still baiting me—goading me—the good-for-nothing riffraff of this godforsaken community.”<
br />
Without looking up, Asa mildly remarked, “You have to expect it.”
“I expect respect,” retorted Milty. He drew himself up proudly. “Respect for a gentleman of the press!”
“That’s fine, Milty,” drawled Asa. “Just fine. Now, if it’s not too much trouble for you, I need an obit on Dick Pincus. His funeral was near two weeks back, so I guess it’s about time I ran an obit on him. Get on with it, Milty.”
“How long,” Milty sneeringly challenged, “do you imagine it takes a veteran journalist to write an obituary?” He patted his chest, thrust out his jaw aggressively. “A veteran of my standing? That obit was ready eight days ago. Here—”
He went to his desk, rummaged in the litter of paper thereon, took up a sheet and tossed it onto the editor’s desk. Asa adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles, smoothed out the sheet and patiently read the three closely-scrawled paragraphs. Some of it he read aloud.
“ ... honored citizen of this community—mourned by his hundreds of cohorts—the beating of the drum—the solemnity of the occasion ...”
“All that?” The printer looked up from his labors, blinked incredulously. “For old Dick?”
“Milty,” sighed Asa, “three paragraphs of such hog-wash is a mite too grand for a feller like Pincus. I—uh—appreciate your respect for the recently departed, but you’re forgetting Pincus was just a raggletail handyman working for the Jessup Livery Stable, a no-account that used to get drunk Saturday nights, beat up his wife every Sunday and didn’t have one real friend in this whole country.” He made a ball of the obituary, tossed it into his wastepaper basket. To the printer, he drawled a casual request. “Give me two lines on Pincus, Tub.”
“Usual stuff?” grunted Tub.
“Uh-huh,” nodded Asa. “Nothing fancy. You know how to run it. He died on such and such a date. R.I.P. That’s plenty.”
“It’s as good as done,” shrugged Tub.
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