Larry and Stretch 4

by Marshall Grover

  The grapevine extended all the way downtown to the Sentinel office, per medium of an excited local. Asa listened to the informant, nodded placidly and told the suddenly alert Milty, “It sounds like it’d be worth looking into!”

  “That,” breathed Milty, “is a masterpiece of understatement.” He leapt to his feet, reached for his derby. “By Julius Caesar, I saw them—spoke to them—and never realized they were the genuine Larry and Stretch!”

  “Could be an interesting item in it,” shrugged Asa. “Best you hustle up to the courthouse and get all the facts.”

  “This time,” declared Milty, with many an extravagant gesture, “the Sentinel is going to beat the Enterprise to the punch!”

  He dashed out into the street and made for uptown, moving as fast as his legs could carry him. By the time he was drawing level with the Welcome Hand, his throat was dry and he was actually tempted to pause for liquid refreshment. The place was still closed. He made to move on, but halted upon hearing his name called. A small, birdlike man had emerged from the side alley and was urgently crooking a finger. Milty knew him only slightly, and was ignorant of his background and reputation—and this was unfortunate.

  “Mr. Ricks—you know me,” grinned the little man.

  “The face is vaguely familiar,” frowned Milty, “but I don’t recall the name.”

  “Getz. Herb Getz.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, Getz?”

  “For just one dollar, Mr. Ricks, I can do you a big favor and save you a heap of time.”

  “I don’t understand ...”

  “On your way to the courthouse, ain’t you? Heard about the big ruckus, didn’t you? Valentine and Emerson—shootin’ it out with damn-near a dozen hardcases …”

  “What?”

  “I seen Kirby Upshaw sashayin’ into the courthouse. He’ll learn all about it, I guess, but it’ll take quite a while for all them witnesses to say their piece, won’t it? And, meantime, I can tell you everything you need to know, because I seen the whole thing. And—and then you can put out a special edition one jump ahead of the Enterprise. Ain’t that how you newspaper fellers work?”

  Milty’s eyes glowed. His pulse quickened.

  “Six Doone County fellers got gunned down by them crazy Texans,” grinned Getz. “Boy—you never seen such a hassle in your life. First, a couple Box B rowdies braced Larry and Stretch in the saloon. Then, after Larry and Stretch shot ’em, they busted out into the street and started throwin’ lead all over!”

  “Wait—wait!” panted Milty, as he fished out pad and pencil. “Start at the beginning ...”

  “This is gonna cost you a dollar,” Getz reminded him.

  Milty eagerly parted with a dollar. Getz bit it, slipped it into a pocket. Then with Milty hanging on his every word and scribbling busily, the little man unfolded his tale, and Milty’s excitement knew no bounds. A story of sensational proportions! The notorious Lone Star Hellions on a trigger-happy rampage! Getz was nothing if not thorough. As well as estimating the number of dead and wounded, he listed names, which were carefully noted by the gullible scribe.

  The hearing of evidence at the courthouse had not yet concluded when Getz finished his lengthy report. Elated, flushed with excitement, Milty hotfooted it back to the Sentinel office. One dollar richer, Doone City’s most notorious liar squatted outside the Welcome Hand and waited for it to reopen for business. Herb Getz had a thirst, and this was a permanent condition. As well as being the territory’s most entertaining liar, he was its best-known barfly, a whisky-head who had won many a free drink by his prowess at prevarication. And few locals resented this talent. To be lied to by Herb was considered an amusing diversion, comparable with adding one’s voice to a barbershop quartet, or watching a dog-fight. Milty’s reaction, of course, was destined to be somewhat less charitable.

  He barged into the office, perspiring, his handsome face creased in a grin of triumph.

  “Eureka!” he chortled. “The story of the century!”

  Tub winked at his boss, and remarked, “The boy’s plumb frisky, huh, Asa?”

  “Maybe a mite too frisky,” frowned Asa.

  “A first-hand account from an eyewitness!” gasped Milty, as he flopped into his chair and began writing. “By Julius Caesar, wait till you read this! Larner—prepare for a new front page. Asa—this warrants a special edition. Would you ignore an opportunity to steal a march on Upshaw?”

  “Can I think about that?” Asa soberly enquired. He rose up, stuffed rough-cut into the blackened bowl of his old bent-stemmed briar, got the pipe working, then, ambled over and positioned himself behind Milty’s chair. Pensively, he watched the story taking shape, and occasionally relayed snatches of it to the grinning printer. “Valentine and Emerson—on a trigger-happy rampage ...”

  “Sounds big,” Tub conceded.

  “Seems they shot quite a few important citizens,” observed Asa. “Mayor McAdams—Deputy McGreeley—Reverend Hosking and Mrs. Ogilvie from the Bon Ton. Uh-huh. Quite a story—like the boy says.”

  “I haven’t half finished!” enthused Milty.

  “Stay with it,” shrugged the secretly-amused Asa. “Only—uh—cut your adjectives and adverbs to only a quarter as many. This is a cowtown shoot-out, Milty. Not the assassination of Abe Lincoln.” He retreated to the press, nudged the printer and whispered orders. “Get up to the courthouse, Tub, and find out what really happened.”

  “Who d’you suppose,” wondered Tub, “fed Milty all this doggone poppycock?”

  “Had to be a professional,” opined Asa. “Not just any gabby towner. An expert. A liar that prides himself on his ability.”

  “Herby Getz would be my guess,” grinned Tub.

  “And mine,” sighed Asa. “Get going, Tub.”

  The printer made a quiet exit, while Milty scribbled on. Asa returned to his desk, seated himself and puffed a blue cloud. At the end of a paragraph, Milty paused to read his stirring words aloud.

  “‘Sudden death on the sunlit streets of a terrified town’,” he quoted. “‘The victims writhing in the dust—groaning from the agony of their wounds …’” He half closed his eyes, shook his head dazedly. “By Julius Caesar—that’s beautiful! It tugs at my heart. I—I could almost weep!”

  “Well,” frowned Asa, “that makes two of us.”

  Tub Larner waddled through the courthouse entrance in time to hear the judge sternly announcing:

  “On this occasion at least, it is obvious that our famous visitors are innocent of any premeditation. I have taken into account the testimony of reliable witnesses, and have no option but to agree that Messrs. Valentine and Emerson were the victims—rather than the instigators—of this violent commotion. The other prisoners, Grady and Hodge, are notorious trouble-makers. They attempted assault and battery on Valentine and Emerson. And—uh—Valentine and Emerson defended themselves.”

  “That’s puttin’ it mild, Judge!” chuckled Billy Day.

  “Order!” barked Pyle. He pounded with his gavel to subdue the laughing onlookers. Then, “I fine Grady and Hodge twenty dollars apiece. Should they be unable to produce that sum, they will spend thirty days in the county jail.”

  “We can pay,” scowled Grady.

  “Sheriff Johnson,” said Pyle, “you may collect the fines—and discharge Valentine and Emerson from your custody. But ...” he eyed the Texans sternly, “they will remain after court adjourns, as I have something to say to them.”

  At the rear of the crowd, the printer nudged a local of his acquaintance, and asked, “How big a ruckus, Dan?”

  “Not so big,” grunted the local. “The Texans whupped Grady and Hodge is all.”

  “That’s what I figured,” grinned Tub, as he turned to leave.

  Three – The Squaw Man

  Judge Pyle banged with his gavel and announced, “This court is adjourned.”

  The crowd slowly filed out. Grady and Hodge paid their fines, collected their hardware from the deputy and trudged towards the entrance. As they dre
w abreast of the seat occupied by the elderly man in the buckskin jacket, Hodge leered contemptuously and said:

  “Howdy—Injun-lover.”

  The small man ignored them. His gaze was fastened on the few men remaining in the courtroom—the judge, the two lawmen, the tall Texans. After Grady and Hodge had departed, he rose up and moved closer to the bench to hear the judge’s words.

  “I know you well by reputation,” Pyle was coldly informing the drifters. “While I realize that many of the stories told about you have been garnished and exaggerated, I do concede the element of truth. Undoubtedly, there have been occasions upon which the law-abiding citizens of these wide frontiers have had cause to thank you for your intervention—your violent intervention—in times of crisis. I must warn you, however, that rowdyism will not be tolerated in this community.”

  “That,” reflected Stretch, “was quite a speech.”

  “You catch his drift?” grunted Larry.

  “Well ...” Stretch shook his head perplexedly.

  Of the judge, Larry politely enquired, “You mind if I make it clear to my sidekick—what you just said?”

  Deputy McGreeley grinned behind his hand. Pyle frowned suspiciously, but nodded and said, “By all means.”

  “We have to stay out of trouble,” Larry told Stretch. “If we don’t, we’ll end up in the calaboose.”

  “Is that what he said?” blinked Stretch.

  “That’s what he said,” nodded Larry.

  “Sheriff Johnson ...” Pyle gestured to the boss-lawman, “you may return their weapons.”

  “Yessir, Judge!” roared Johnson.

  The Texans grimaced, traded rueful grins and accepted the coiled gunbelts offered them by McGreeley. Unhurriedly, they ambled along the aisle towards the entrance. The small man halted them a moment, confronting them and offering his hand.

  “My name is Lunt,” he told them. “Martin Lunt. I know who you are, and I want to ask if you figure to stay on in Doone City. Maybe it’s none of my business but ...”

  “We’ll hang around a spell,” shrugged Larry. He shook Lunt’s hand, eyed him curiously. “What’s it to you?”

  “I’ll explain that when we get together,” promised Lunt. “Look—do you boys have a place to stay?”

  “Only rid in a little while ago,” said Stretch. “Ain’t even checked our horses into a livery yet.”

  “You in the market for a fair-square boardinghouse?” asked Lunt. “Good chow? Cheap rates? And a stable in back?”

  “Sounds fine,” opined Larry.

  “All right,” nodded Lunt. “Sadie Clifford’s place on South Main. And could I join you there for a little parlay, after I get through talking to the sheriff?”

  “Well ...” began Larry.

  “I was born in Texas,” said Lunt, “and I’ll bring a bottle.”

  “That so?” Larry showed increased interest.

  “North bank of the Rio Grande,” grinned Lunt, “less than a mile from the Alamo.”

  “That bein’ so,” drawled Larry, “come as often as you want, and you don’t have to bring a bottle. We'll buy the liquor.”

  “Gracias,” acknowledged Lunt. “Be seeing you.”

  A contented grin creased his sun-browned countenance, as he watched the drifters moving out onto the street, but his expression changed abruptly when he turned to approach the bench. Pyle accorded him a nod and a frown. The lawmen eyed him expectantly.

  “What brings you here, Lunt?” demanded the sheriff. “More trouble?”

  “The worst kind,” sighed Lunt. He paused beside the lawmen, quietly acknowledged greetings. “Howdy, Judge—Sheriff—Nate.”

  “When a man gets to be Indian Agent,” frowned Johnson, “he has to learn to live with trouble.”

  “I’m an old hand at this game,” Lunt reminded them. “I understand the Utes and the Utes trust me. My wife is a full-blood. Up till now, I’ve managed fine. But—lately—”

  “What is it this time?” prodded Pyle.

  “A brave,” said Lunt, “was ambushed—and then lynched. Some of his pards found him strung up to a cottonwood, day before yesterday.”

  “Hell’s bells!” For once, Johnson didn’t bellow. His ejaculation was gasped out, softly.

  “I can damn near hear the war-drums already,” muttered the deputy. “Little Cloud’s bunch ain’t gonna hold still for that.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” nodded Lunt. “I’ve parlayed with the chief, of course. One thing you got to admit about Little Cloud. He don’t go off half-cocked. He’ll do his damnedest to keep his braves in line—even now.” He stared hard at Johnson. “But that’s not enough. The guilty parties have to be found and punished.”

  “I’ve been saying all along,” complained Johnson, “this thing is too big to be handled by just two lawmen. Somebody’s trying hard to stir up trouble ...”

  “All part of a deliberate conspiracy,” opined Pyle, “but to what end? What have they to gain by goading the Ute nations to rebellion?”

  “Judge,” said Johnson, “we got to face facts.”

  “I hope I’m not ignorant of all the implications,” Pyle coldly retorted. “It’s common knowledge that, in the event of an attack by the Utes, Doone City could never adequately defend itself.”

  “They outnumber us,” fretted McGreeley, “and then some.”

  “For quite some time now,” said Pyle, “I’ve been considering the advantages of contacting certain influential friends in Washington. My brother—and several old friends of mine—occupy important positions in the War Department.”

  “But …” began Lunt.

  “My mind is made up,” said the judge, firmly. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I shall retire to draft a request to my Washington contacts.”

  With stately tread, he made his exit from the courthouse. Lunt blinked worriedly towards the entrance, and muttered, “That’ll be a mistake—a bad mistake.”

  “No offence, Lunt,” grunted Johnson, “but I reckon the judge knows what he’s doing.”

  “Well …” Lunt squared his shoulders, “the judge’ll do what he thinks is best—and so will I, by golly. So will I.”

  ~*~

  A pleasant surprise awaited the nomads from Texas. When they presented themselves at the Clifford boardinghouse, they were greeted with unexpected cordiality by an extremely attractive woman who looked to be no more than twenty-four years old. Sadie Clifford’s charms, moreover, were not confined to her pretty face and glowing auburn hair. From shoulders to feet, the gingham-garbed frame was perfectly-proportioned. She was beautiful, healthy and amiable. As if that wasn’t enough, she was Texan!

  “I guess that’s why Marty Lunt wanted you to check in here,” she smiled. “Marty always says we Texans should stick together—and who am I to argue?”

  She escorted them to a comfortable ground-floor room containing two beds and the usual necessities. They were more than satisfied, and said as much. The stable in the rear yard was small, but adequate. Stretch took care of the horses while Larry paid a fast visit to the nearest saloon to purchase a quart of rye. It took them only a short time to unpack their few personal effects and, while they were thus engaged, their beautiful landlady lingered in the open doorway, trading talk with them. After answering her many questions, Larry retaliated with what seemed a justified query.

  “How come a purty Texas gal like you ain’t wed yet? Must be a hundred bachelors hereabouts that’d give their eye teeth to get in double harness with you.”

  Sadie’s face clouded over. She sighed forlornly. Stretch threw his partner a reproachful frown, and opined, “You shouldn’t of asked her, runt. It looks like you hurt her feelin’s.”

  “There is a man,” murmured Sadie. Her voice became softer and her fine hazel eyes took on a dreamy expression. They listened respectfully. “A very special man, different from any I’ve ever known. He’s not much older than I, and he’s handsome ...” she paused to heave another sigh, “so terribly handsome!�
�

  “That helps,” opined Larry. “Gal like you ought never hitch up with an ugly jasper.”

  “Nope,” agreed Stretch. “That’d be a wicked waste.”

  “And his manners,” she enthused. “Oh, Larry, he has such wonderful manners. Just to have him walk past and lift his derby—makes a woman feel important. And he’s educated. A real gentleman.”

  “Cattleman?” prodded Larry.

  “No,” she frowned.

  Larry eyed her searchingly.

  “What line of business is he in?” he demanded.

  “He’s a writer,” breathed Sadie. “A journalist. His name is Milton—Milton Ricks. Isn’t that the most impressive name you ever heard? He works right here in Doone City.”

  “We already met him,” Larry recalled.

  “Isn’t he handsome?” she challenged.

  “Right good-lookin’ hombre.” Larry fidgeted uncomfortably. “But a mite—uh—well, never mind.”

  “I know what you were going to say.” Sadie chuckled softly. “Milton sounds like a stuffed-shirt, and terribly conceited. I know—but I love him anyway—love him with all my heart.”

  “Milty,” declared Larry, “is a mighty lucky man. I just hope he knows it.”

  “That’s what the trouble is,” complained Sadie.

  “What’s what the trouble is?” prodded Larry.

  “Milton hardly knows I’m alive,” she lamented.

  “That so?” Larry eyed her in disbelief. “He ever get a good close look at you?”

  “I kind of ambush him, every chance I get,” she confessed. “Oh—that man.” She frowned ruefully. “All caught up in his own importance. Never a thought to spare for me.”

  “Don’t you fret about it,” soothed Larry. “He’ll come round. Man ain’t been born that could say ‘no’ to a gal as purty as you.”