Milty gave vent to an anguished groan, wrung his hands.
“Don’t you know what you’re doing to me?” he challenged Asa. “Into that obituary I poured all my years of experience ...”
“Yeah,” frowned Asa. “One year and two months, to be exact.”
“You’re killing me!” wailed Milty. “Time and time again, you cut my reports to shreds ...!”
“Redundancy and repetition, boy,” said Asa. “Mortal sins of our profession. But I’m a patient man. I predict, after a few more years with the Sentinel, you’ll have learned how to report the facts concisely, without superfluous embellishment.”
“It isn't superfluous embellishment!” raged Milty. “It’s creative genius—sheer brilliance wasted on the readers of this inconsequential tabloid! And you’re stifling that creative genius ...!”
“If it’s getting stuffy in here,” drawled Asa, “you could always open a window.”
Milty turned, reeled to his chair, flopped into it. “Condemned,” he complained. “Condemned to obscurity! How could he do this to me? It’s inhuman that a son should be exiled by his own father!”
“Oscar had just two choices, as I see it,” mused Asa. “Get you out of town—or get himself laughed out of town. You wouldn’t expect him to exile himself, would you, boy? After all, he’s an important man—owner and manager of the Times-Herald ...”
“I’m important, too!” protested Milty. “The whole culture-starved country is waiting to read my inspired prose, my soul-stirring poetry!”
“Never was a time,” smiled Asa, “that America couldn’t be patient—if needs be. You’ll get your chance—maybe. Meantime, you have to learn the essentials of your trade, one of which is never publish a word about any unverified incident, any unconfirmed report. Don’t be so damn gullible. Last month, you wrote a four-page report about your interview with Wes Hardin. Same smart-aleck was Georgie Collins, a man old enough to be Hardin’s grandfather. And Hardin’s in jail—many a long mile from Utah Territory. I damn near published that report, but only because I was tempted to hand my readers a few laughs.”
“Condemned ...!” Milty shook his head, shuddered. “Trapped! Derided and abused ...”
Back at the Welcome Hand, the Lone Star Hellions slid their empty glasses along to the proprietor and ordered refills. Larry asked, casually:
“Who was that jasper—the fancy-talker?”
“Bein’ strangers hereabouts,” grinned Day, “I guess you never heard of Milty Ricks. Say! I sure admire your sense of humor, gents. You caught onto the joke real fast—tellin’ Milty you were Valentine and Emerson.”
“Well,” grunted Larry, “we’d scarce ever lie about a thing like that.”
“We’re a couple real honest hombres,” Stretch virtuously assured the saloonkeeper. “Couple do-right Texas boys.”
Day’s eyebrows shot up. “Hey! You really are Valentine and Emerson—Larry and Stretch?”
“But don’t let it throw you,” drawled Larry. “We ain’t nothin’ to brag about.”
“Hey, fellers!” Day called excitedly to his fellow-citizens. “They weren’t foolin’! They’re the genuine Valentine and Emerson—the Texas Hell-Raisers!”
The West’s most notorious trouble-shooters fidgeted and grimaced, as all eyes turned towards them.
Two – Sorry Saga of Milty Ricks
There was ample justification for the interest shown in the tall, battle-hardened drifters. In more than a decade of roaming the wild southwest, these nomads from the Lone Star State had challenged and fought many a denizen of the owlhoot trail.
They supported law and order, but on their own terms. Their attitude towards all duly-appointed law officers could best be described as one of grudging tolerance.
Despite all this, despite their notoriety, they weren’t braggarts. At this moment, with every man in the Welcome Hand eyeing them with avid interest, they felt downright uncomfortable.
“Your next drink,” Billy Day gleefully announced, “is on the house.”
Larry, who hankered to change the subject, nodded his thanks and repeated his query.
“The fancy-talkin’ jasper—what about him?”
“You interested?” challenged Day.
“Just casual,” shrugged Larry. “Me and Stretch don’t run into many hombres as uppity as him.”
“Uppity,” chuckled the saloonkeeper, as he poured refills. “Yep, that’s Milty. As uppity as they come. Just about the braggin’est young feller I ever knew. Figures himself to be the smartest newspaperman in the whole country.”
“How’d he get that way?” wondered Larry.
“Born that way is my guess,” shrugged Day. “Born rich, he was.”
“In New York, he said,” prodded Larry.
“Yep,” nodded Day. “Milty comes from the big town—and he ain’t about to let us forget it. Hicks, he calls us. Hicks and rubes and layabouts.”
“Tell me a thing,” frowned Stretch. “If this Ricks hombre hankers so bad for the big town, why don’t he go back there? Why does he stay in Doone City?”
“Compared to New York,” mused Larry, “it must seem like a half-alive burg.”
“Milty don’t have no choice,” sniggered Day. “He got run outa New York—by his own pappy!”
“His own pappy?” blinked Stretch.
“Listen,” grinned Day, “ain’t one of us’d blame old Oscar Ricks for what he did. Guess you’ve heard tell of Oscar Ricks, huh?”
“Nope,” grunted Larry. “Never did.”
“Millionaire,” Day explained. “Rich as they come. Owns the biggest newspaper in the big town—the Times-Herald. That’s a mighty important newspaper, you know what I mean? Well, I can tell you why Oscar shipped Milty out here to Utah. Got the whole story from Asa Baintry, so it’s no secret. Hell! Everybody knows!”
“Everybody ’cept us Texans,” Stretch reminded him.
“The way I heard it,” Day continued, “Milty gets a mite careless, acts a mite too rash, when he thinks he’s onto a big story. Back when he got out of college and started workin’ on his pappy’s paper, some fool told him Lillian Russell got poisoned by a feller she turned down. Well, ’stead of checkin’ on it, Milty writ a big story about it and a fancy obituary and everything—and it damn near got published! Somebody else remembered to check on it, just in time. Old Oscar was sore as a new boil!”
“Yeah,” grinned Larry. “Thing like that wouldn’t make him happy, I guess.”
“But a boy like Milty just never learns,” chuckled Day. “Couple months later, he was moseyin’ past one of them big New York opry houses. Some fool female came runnin’ out, hollerin’ ‘Fire!’. The way it turned out, a feller was readin’ his newspaper in the lobby and lightin’ a cigar—you know what I mean? Newspaper caught fire accidental. Wasn’t no call for the female to get fazed, but I guess she was the nervous kind. Anyway, she come runnin’ out and bumped into Milty and all Milty could see was the smoke—and what d’you suppose he did? Did he hustle inside to check? No siree, boys, not Milty. He hightailed it to the Times-Herald office, figurin’ to write up the story before any other newspaper got it.”
“What story?” frowned Larry.
“Why ...” Day guffawed, pounding his counter with the flat of his hand, “about how that opry house got burned to the ground, and how the firemen were riskin’ their lives and—and stuff like that. But—this time—his pappy wasn’t on hand to stop him, and the boss-editor was home with a bellyache that day.” He grinned into their faces. “Can’t you guess the rest? Times-Herald put out a special edition about that fire—and got laughed offa the streets—because the whole town could see the opry house was still standin’. Opry house manager just trod on that paper and had the ashes swept outa the lobby—and that was that. That was the big fire!”
Larry grinned wryly, took a pull at his drink.
“I could damn near feel sorry for this Milty hombre,” he declared, “if he wasn’t so blame sassy.”
“well,” said Day
, “that did it. That really did it. Old Oscar cussed him good, told him as how he’d never work for any New York paper till he’d learned his trade proper. Banished him from the big town, he did. Yep. Milty calls himself an exile, and I reckon that’s just what he is. Oscar sent him out here to Doone County to work on the Sentinel. You see, Asa Baintry that runs the Sentinel is an old pard of Oscar’s.”
“So he’s keepin’ an eye on the boy—that how it goes?” prodded Larry.
“Empty glass,” observed Stretch, “is the saddest sight in the whole world.”
Day took the hint and poured refills. As the Texans began disposing of them, he frowned, rubbed at his jaw, and confided, “Milty might still get to write a big story, here in Doone City. This town’s got troubles, believe you me.”
“Bad troubles?” enquired Larry.
“Bad enough,” sighed Day. “Could be the Utes’ll bust offa the reservation any time now, and come a’raidin’. Reservation is over to Artega Springs—a mite too close to town for my likin’. Wouldn’t take ’em more’n a half-day’s ride to reach Doone City, and ...”
He broke off. His quiet conversation with the Texans was being rudely interrupted. Two of his customers—big, hard-faced hombres in cowpokes’ garb—had risen from their chairs and were glowering at the strangers, deliberately goading them. And their voices were so loud that Larry and Stretch couldn’t help hearing.
“They couldn’t be the real Valentine and Emerson,” declared one of the topers, a burly, heavy-jawed redhead. “From what I hear tell, them Texans’d have to be nine feet tall.”
“They don’t look so salty to me,” drawled his sidekick, an equally burly individual with pig-like eyes and an out-sized nose. “If this is Valentine and Emerson, I’m plumb disappointed. They look like a couple of no-account saddle bums.”
From his perch by the door, the old-timer croaked a reproach. “Ain’t you galoots got no sense at all? You oughta know better’n to brace the genuine Lone Star Hellions.”
“Pay no mind to Grady and Hodge,” Day begged the Texans. “They figure they’re the toughest jaspers in the whole county.” He grimaced nervously, as he added, “And they’re likely right.”
“Hodge,” grinned Grady, “I reckon we could take ’em.”
“Damn right we could,” chuckled Hodge.
Larry yawned, heaved a sigh. Squinting at Grady, he suggested, “Hot day. Too hot for fightin’. Where’s the sense to workin’ up a sweat over nothin’?”
“By glory,” jeered Grady. “This is Larry Valentine? Hell, all he does is gab!”
“Yeller, I reckon,” drawled Hodge.
“I always did say,” asserted Grady, “Texans is all gab and no guts.”
He advanced on Larry, swung a backhander. Larry took it on his right cheek, winced and cursed. He looked at Stretch. Stretch returned his look, grinned and shrugged.
“Not in here, boys!” mumbled Day. “Please—not in here!”
Hodge darted at Stretch, the while Grady shaped up for another swing at Larry, and what followed was as inevitable as day unto night. Stretch parried Hodge’s punch and jabbed with his left, abruptly checking Hodge’s advance. Larry ducked under Grady’s swing, drove a hard left and a harder right to Grady’s belly. Grady turned pallid, grunted wheezily and doubled over.
“Not in here ...” Day was still mumbling.
“Whatever you say,” shrugged Larry.
He spun Grady around, swung his right boot in a powerful kick to Grady’s exposed backside. Still doubled over, Grady hurtled all the way to the batwings and through to the sidewalk. Simultaneously, Stretch unwound an uppercut that sent Hodge back-stepping in the same direction. Again, the batwings creaked. Hodge stumbled out, tripped over the gasping Grady and measured his length.
The Hellions finished their drinks, traded wry grins.
“Here we go again,” observed Larry.
“Ain’t it the truth?” chuckled Stretch.
They strode to the batwings and out into the street. Grady and Hodge were picking themselves up, mouthing threats and beginning a second advance. The drinkers poured out of the Welcome Hand to view the proceedings, which were destined to be of short duration.
Grady charged Larry with his head down, obviously bent on butting him in the midriff—a futile strategy. Larry stepped out to meet him, swinging a savage uppercut. Grady came to attention, his mouth bloody, his eyes glazing, while Hodge barged at Stretch and swung a kick at his groin. Suddenly, Hodge was aloft. The onlookers gasped incredulously at this evidence of Stretch Emerson’s strength and dexterity. He had seized Hodge’s upraised leg and heaved. Then, while Hodge was horizontal, he ducked under him and straightened up, bearing him on his shoulders.
Glancing about for a suitable receptacle, Stretch decided that a nearby horse-trough would do nicely. In such matters, he wasn’t overly particular. If the local horses didn’t object, why should he? While Grady crumpled, Stretch toted the struggling Hodge to the trough and unceremoniously dumped him—face down. Hodge wallowed, spluttered, began clambering out.
“That’s all!” The harsh challenge smote the Texans’ ears with the impact of a thunderclap, because Doone City’s chief lawman was Doone City’s loudest talker. And the loud command was followed by the roar of a six-gun discharged skyward. “Unbuckle the hardware! You’re under arrest!”
Wincing from this onslaught on their eardrums, the drifters curiously eyed the approaching officers. There were two of them, the fat, florid-faced sheriff, the thin, lethargic-looking deputy. From just outside the batwings, Billy Day performed introductions.
“Sizeable gent with the gun-filled paw is Sheriff Rowley Johnson. Spare-built hombre is his deputy—Nate McGreeley.”
The sheriff glowered at the befuddled Grady, the waterlogged Hodge and the unruffled Texans—in that order.
“Now, look ...” began Larry. “Before you go off half-cocked ...”
A third voice interjected now—softer than Johnson’s, but sharper, too, and more authoritative.
“Street-brawl, Sheriff?”
“Yessir, Judge!” boomed Johnson.
The newcomer was an old man, gaunt, white-maned, austere-looking, clad in a suit of black alpaca and a broad-brimmed planter’s hat, and he exuded authority. They didn’t have to guess at his identity, because Deputy McGreeley accorded him a respectful nod and greeted him.
“’Afternoon, Judge Pyle.”
The judge nodded curtly, scowled at the four brawlers, then snapped his fingers and jerked a thumb.
“Up to the courthouse, Sheriff. I’ll hear this case immediately.”
“Right away, Judge!” roared Johnson.
“Gents,” grunted McGreeley, “I’ll take them hoglegs.”
One by one, the warriors ungirded their loins. The four gunbelts hung heavily over McGreeley’s left arm, causing his shoulder to sag, as he helped Johnson herd the prisoners along Main to the courthouse. Judge Ezra Pyle led them, and the procession rapidly increased, because Billy Day hastily locked his premises and took off after them, tagged by the other witnesses.
Just as they reached the courthouse, an elderly man on a charcoal gelding reined up and called a query to the saloonkeeper. Day waved to him, cheerfully, and announced: “Some ruckus, Marty. You ever hear tell of Larry and Stretch? Well—they just now tangled with a couple Box B hands.”
Larry spared the newcomer only a casual glance, as he climbed the steps to the courthouse entrance, with Stretch beside him and McGreeley directly behind. The man looked to be in his late fifties. He was dismounting now, revealing himself to be small of stature, but durable-looking. His lined face was suntanned. The eyes were clear blue and quizzical. The drooping mustache was iron-gray, the thick hair worn long to the collar of his buckskin jacket, he tagged the crowd into the courthouse and, for a while, Larry spared him no further thought.
Pyle took his seat behind the bench, won silence by pounding with his gavel. Then, frowning at Johnson, he said, “I assume the charge will
be the usual destruction of property—disturbing the peace—disorderly conduct prejudicial to the welfare of law-abiding citizens?”
“No destruction of property, judge,” called Day. “The hassle started in my place, and there wasn’t any damage.”
“Disturbing the peace!” boomed Johnson. “Street-brawling!”
“Let us take the testimony of the witnesses,” frowned Pyle. “And, if you please, let us keep it orderly.”
The issue was never in doubt. Larry and Stretch stood at ease, somewhat bored, but maintaining an attitude of polite interest out of deference to the judge. Upon learning their identity, Pyle eyed them searchingly.
“The legendary Valentine and Emerson?” he challenged.
“We’re Valentine and Emerson, Judge,” Larry calmly assured him, “and we’re real enough.”
“I suppose it was inevitable,” sighed Pyle, “that you would appear before me—sooner or later.”
He listened to all testimony, but rarely glanced at the witnesses. Nor did he seem especially interested in Grady and Hodge. Most of the time, he was subjecting the Texas nomads to an intent scrutiny. The decision, of course, swung their way. Grady and Hodge weren’t exactly popular with the Welcome Hand crowd, Larry surmised. One by one, the drinkers emphatically named the Box B men as instigators of the brawl, stressing that the Texans hadn’t resorted to blows until they were forced to defend themselves.
During these proceedings, the Main Street grapevine buzzed with garbled reports of the commotion. Word reached Kirby Upshaw, the skinny, sharp-featured editor of the Doone City Enterprise. And, having a nose for news, Upshaw personally hustled to the courthouse to collect all the facts. Any disturbance involving the Lone Star Hellions, he reasoned, must be regarded as newsworthy.
The Enterprise was a busier tabloid than that presided over by the gentle Asa Baintry. It boasted a five-man staff and a wide circulation, and was published twice weekly, or more frequently if special editions seemed justified by current events. The Sentinel, on the other hand, went to press once every nine days—roughly speaking. Upshaw dealt with the up-to-the-minute news, while Asa concentrated more on such run-of-the-mill items as the fluctuating prices of beef and corn, reports of church socials, folksy editorials and birth, death and marriage announcements. Locals never thought of the Enterprise and Sentinel as rival newspapers. If Asa and Upshaw were rivals, they were mighty friendly about it. Friday nights, regularly, they played checkers. Sunday nights, the Baintry and Upshaw families took turns to invite each other to supper.
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