Larry and Stretch 4

by Marshall Grover

  Lunt’s pleas were curtly cut short.

  “Don’t mumble of justice for the Utes,” Stone snapped. “Those reservation savages will get exactly what they deserve. I’m here to organize the defense of your community, and that is my primary concern.”

  “You don’t understand. Colonel,” protested Lunt. “It’s too early to think of defense measures. Whites have been breaking the treaty. Not Utes. Little Cloud is trying to hold his people in check, and ...”

  “Enough,” scowled Stone. “I’ve heard enough.” He grimaced in distaste. “Indians are naught but a damn nuisance at any time. If Little Cloud’s bucks stay on the reservation, there’ll be no cause for military action.”

  “They’ll stay ...” began Lunt.

  “Nonsense, man,” growled Stone. “It’s obvious Judge Pyle anticipates some outbreak—an uprising in the immediate future—otherwise the Ninth would not have been called into Utah Territory. Well, let them break out. They’ll live to regret it, believe me.” He nodded impatiently to the bug-eyed mayor. “We should reach Doone City by noon. This company moves fast. I thank you for your suggestion that we establish our headquarters on Pike Flats.”

  “Gentlemen,” grunted Pyle, “we need delay the colonel no longer.”

  He turned his mount. Riding abreast, the reception committee began its return to Doone City.

  The entry of the Ninth Cavalry triggered off a joyous demonstration in the big town. Locals thronged the sidewalks of Main Street and climbed to rooftops to lustily cheer the long column of blue-uniformed troopers advancing from the south end. In the lead came the colonel, austere, expressionless, except for an occasional grimace of impatience. As Larry and Stretch were well aware, Stone was one hundred percent army, from his dandruff to his corns. Civilians were second-class humans—soldiers the salt of the earth. Such was Stone’s attitude, and it showed in his lofty unconcern for the applause of the local citizenry.

  Buttons gleaming, drums drumming, horses stepping high, the soldiers paraded along Main towards the northern outskirts. Sergeant Hal Boyle, thickset, muscular and florid, sat his mount squarely and flashed many an arrogant grin at the civilians. His chest inflated somewhat, any time he matched stares with a kerchief-fluttering woman, because he considered himself to be an irresistible ladies’ man. This was the Ninth’s day. The limelight belonged exclusively to the parading troopers. Every civilian eye was on the column.

  Well—all except two pairs of eyes. Boyle scowled resentfully. How dare any of these rube civilians ignore the glorious Ninth? He was riding level with a hotel. The second storey verandah was crowded with local dignitaries cheering their heads off and waving energetically, so that the two Texans were that much more conspicuous, their aloofness that much more obvious. They were straddling the porch-rail, slumped in postures of bored indifference. Neither of them deigned to glance towards the street. Larry was boredly reading a newspaper. Stretch was whittling.

  Recognition smote Boyle like a physical blow. He cursed under his breath.

  “Those two again! Those smart-aleck, good-for-nothing saddle bums! Those Texas no-accounts ...!”

  Their aloofness was a personal insult, deliberate, contrived. His blood boiled, and he made himself a promise. As soon as he was off-duty, he would pay Doone City a visit, backed by a half-dozen well-chosen troopers—the tough kind, who would welcome a little action. The hell with Valentine and Emerson. Their own mothers wouldn’t recognize them by the time the army got through with them.

  By one-thirty, tents were being raised on Pike Flats, latrines were being dug and sentries posted. Personal quarters of the commanding officer were erected and occupied in less than thirty minutes, and Old Glory fluttering proudly from the flagpole. In town, Main Street returned to normal, except for the inclusion of many blue-uniformed figures among those travelling the sidewalks. The hotel porch was deserted now, save for Larry and Stretch, and a lugubrious Marty Lunt. To his new allies, the Indian Agent gloomily recounted his brief conversation with the formidable Colonel Stone.

  “No good can come of Stone’s attitude,” he fretted. “I never in my life met such a proddy officer. He’s the kind that might just use up all of Little Cloud’s patience. Highfalutin’. A loudmouth. Hell, you’d think the army was all that mattered.”

  “With old Morty Stone,” drawled Larry, “the army is all that matters.”

  Lunt eyed them worriedly.

  “You boys already met Colonel Stone?” he challenged.

  “Why, sure,” nodded Larry. He grinned wryly. “Not sociably, mind.”

  “Hell, no!” chuckled Stretch.

  “We tangled with him a couple times,” shrugged Larry.

  “Well, consarn him, he fazes me,” growled Lunt. “I tried to warn him that he oughtn’t go prodding the chief, but he just wouldn’t listen. What’s gonna happen, Larry, if those troopers ride out and bushwhack a couple Ute braves?”

  “Little Cloud wouldn’t take it kindly,” guessed Larry.

  “Just knowing the army’s here is enough to make Little Cloud good and sore,” complained Lunt. “I understand him, Larry, and I can guess what he’ll say. He’ll say, ‘If you whites don’t want to trust us Utes, we’ll give you a damn good reason for distrusting us.’ And you can’t blame him for feeling that way.” He scowled towards the north end of town. “Somebody ought to set Stone straight on this deal, explain the whole problem to him. But who? Who’s he gonna listen to?”

  “I don’t reckon he’d listen to us Texans,” frowned Larry. “But we’ll try, anyway. Yep. We’ll go visit with the colonel and tell him a thing or two.”

  “He won’t much appreciate that,” predicted Stretch, with a sly wink.

  “The hell with that rock-faced old Yankee,” muttered Larry. “For once in his life, he’ll have to admit there’s two sides to every question—and that Texans don’t talk hog-wash.” He dug out his makings, began building a smoke. “We’ll give him time to settle in and polish his saber. Then we’ll go pay him a little visit.”

  They gave their potential host another thirty minutes to settle in, then quit the hotel and ambled towards the boardinghouse, intending to collect their horses. Many a trooper was in evidence now, but they spared the soldiery naught but a casual glance—until they were belligerently accosted in the mouth of a blind-end alley.

  Their immediate surroundings were, as future events would prove, of strategic importance. The alley was blind, but a door opened onto it at the blind end. This was an alternative exit from the Sheppard Tonsorial Parlor, a barbershop much favored by Doone City’s elder citizens. And Judge Ezra Pyle was opening that door, just as the Texans came back-stepping along the alley, retreating before the advance of leering Sergeant Boyle and six hefty troopers.

  Pyle withdrew into the doorway, pulled the door almost shut. Through the narrow opening, he viewed the ensuing commotion with intense interest. Boyle stood braced, within arm’s length of the Texans. His sidekicks fanned out behind him. For the Lone Star Hellions, there was no way out of that alley—except through seven trouble-hungry soldiers. Boyle chuckled softly, and announced, “I knew, if I waited long enough, I’d run into you no-accounts again!”

  “Just goes to prove,” suggested Larry, “how lucky a man can be.”

  “Unlucky for you, Valentine!” breathed Boyle. “You and your skinny saddlepard. I owe you plenty. You think I’d forget how you made fools of us in Arizona, a year back?”

  “I guess,” shrugged Larry, “you got a long memory.” He glanced past the burly sergeant, nodded knowingly. “You got six blue-britches to back your play, Boyle. You sure they’ll be enough?”

  “Plenty!” snapped Boyle. “I’m gonna beat your brains out, Valentine, and then I’m gonna have you thrown into the calaboose for disturbin’ the peace! So how d’you like that?”

  “You could maybe do it,” Larry calmly conceded, “but it’ll take more than seven of you. You want us to wait while you send for reinforcements?”

  Boyle swo
re luridly, scowled over his shoulder at his cohorts and asked, “Do we take that kind of sass from bigmouthed Texans?”

  “What’re we waitin’ for, Sarge?” grinned one of them.

  Larry crouched, as Boyle sprang at him. Simultaneously, Stretch hustled forward to meet the rush of three charging troopers—and the battle was on with a vengeance. Boyle finished his rush by pitching clear over Larry’s back, because Larry met him head-down, ramming his shoulder against his midriff, then straightening up and heaving. Another heavy-fisted soldier materialized in front of Larry. He parried a jabbing left but took a swinging right flush in the face. The blow sent him reeling, but he rallied quickly.

  Stretch, meantime, had subdued two of his attackers by grasping the collars of their blouses and ramming their heads together. The third assailant kicked Stretch in the belly. In retaliation, Stretch seized him bodily, lifted him and hurled him at his cronies, all of whom promptly collapsed in disorder. Boyle struggled to his feet, leapt at Larry from behind. Larry stumbled three yards with the heavy N.C.O. clinging to his back. Then, raising his hands, he got a grip on Boyle’s hair and tugged hard. Boyle yelled an oath, unwrapped his arms and was hauled head-first over Larry’s shoulders.

  To the watching Judge Pyle, the end was never in doubt. Boyle, bloody-nosed and irate was yelling at the top of his voice—some kind of war-cry, a signal to all soldiery within earshot. More troopers were pouring into the alley—five of them—then an additional four—then more—so that the Texans were being borne down by sheer weight of numbers.

  The judge had seen enough. He closed the side door, moved through the barber shop and made his exit through the regular entrance. A short time later, as he rode along Main on a hired saddler, he frowned towards the county law office and saw the aftermath of the affair—two battered but still-grinning Texans being herded into the sheriff’s domain by a heavy force of soldiers. His mood was grim, as he rode north to Pike Flats. Doone City had needed the protection of the army. Through his intercession, that protection had now arrived, and he was grateful—grateful, but not intimidated, not so overawed that he could condone what he had just witnessed. Civilians subjected to bullying by soldiers? No. This would not be tolerated.

  At Pike Flats, the transformation had been completed. Two miles of once-deserted flatland was now the temporary camp of the Ninth Cavalry, with orderly rows of tents, picket lines, fatigue-workers—everything army-style, with strict attention to detail. He might have been a Ute spy, for the challenge he won from a sentry.

  “You’ve seen me before, Trooper,” he chided the guard. “Judge Pyle. I was with Mayor McAdams today, when we rode out to welcome your commanding officer. I’m here to see him, so kindly permit me to pass.”

  “That way, Judge,” frowned the guard.

  He nodded towards a tent somewhat larger than the others. Pyle walked his mount over there, swung down and approached the opening, to be greeted by the orderly-officer, a heavily mustached young man who introduced himself as, “Captain Ralph Kerwin, Your Honor, at your service.”

  “For that courteous greeting,” said Pyle, “I thank you. And now, may I have a few words with Colonel Stone?” Moments later, he was seated in Stone’s private quarters. The colonel, he observed, didn’t seem any too pleased to see him—and said as much.

  “You will appreciate,” Stone frostily suggested, “that I am a busy man. I have precious little time to spare in conference with civilian visitors.”

  “I get the impression,” countered Pyle, “that you aren’t overly fond of civilians, Colonel Stone.”

  “Some civilians,” retorted Stone, “aren’t overly fond of soldiers.”

  “Do you condone that attitude,” challenged the judge, “in the enlisted men? Must I assume that soldiers will be permitted to browbeat the citizens of this community—even to the point of physical violence?”

  “Judge Pyle ...” Stone eyed him sternly, “you’d better explain that question.”

  “That,” frowned the judge, “is the purpose of this visit.”

  Five – The Sensation-Seeker

  The colonel hadn’t thought to offer his caller a cigar. Pyle didn’t think it likely he would, so lit one of his own. Through the blue haze, he squinted at the hard-faced Stone.

  “Two civilians,” he announced, “have just been hustled into the county jail—after a violent disagreement with a large body of soldiers.”

  “That’s only to be expected,” said Stone. “You don’t imagine I have facilities for civilian prisoners in this camp, surely? We’re under canvas. Any civilian troublemakers apprehended by my men will have to be accommodated in Sheriff Johnson’s jail.”

  “These two men,” declared Pyle, “should never have been arrested. They were set upon, Colonel Stone, deliberately prodded into a fist-fight by seven of your enlisted men, led by a somewhat belligerent sergeant.”

  “So early?” Stone raised one eyebrow, smiled mirthlessly. “We’re here but two hours and, already, you civilians come running to me with complaints of …”

  “Rowdyism,” scowled the judge. “Calculated browbeating of two civilians.”

  “Of course ...” Stone’s smile became even colder, “there are reliable witnesses who will claim that my men were to blame for this disturbance?” His lip curled in disdain. “Civilian witnesses?”

  “Just one,” retorted Pyle. “Myself. And I trust you’ll do me the courtesy of accepting my word.”

  Stone colored, nodded stiffly. “Naturally.”

  “Thank you,” Pyle caustically acknowledged. “And now, I presume you’ll order the immediate release of those prisoners, as well as taking disciplinary action against the soldiers in question?”

  He eyed Stone expectantly. The colonel gritted his teeth. “You come to me—making demands ...”

  “Not a demand, Colonel,” frowned Pyle. “A reasonable request.” He crossed his legs, pensively studied the glowing tip of his cigar.

  “Judge Pyle,” sighed the colonel, “I don’t need to be reminded that you have—uh—contacts in high places.”

  “It is my sincere hope,” drawled Pyle, “that this trouble with the Ute nations can be resolved without bloodshed.”

  “I’ve read the reports,” muttered Stone.

  “When your mission is completed,” said Pyle, “I shall certainly contact your superiors again and express my gratitude and admiration.” He added, meaningfully, “Or otherwise.”

  “You’re too kind.” Stone couldn’t restrain himself from sarcasm.

  “In the meantime,” said Pyle, “your troops are more than welcome to enjoy such hospitality as is available in Doone City. Any civilians found guilty of deliberately provoking your men will be severely dealt with in court but, naturally, I shall expect you to take similar action ...” he stared hard at the colonel, “when your own men are undoubtedly the aggressors.”

  “If you will give me the names of the arrested men,” scowled Stone, “I’ll order their immediate release.”

  “Valentine and Emerson,” said Pyle.

  Stone started convulsively. His ears reddened. He gritted his teeth, grimaced, clenched his fists.

  “You said ...?”

  “Valentine and Emerson,” the judge relentlessly repeated.

  Stone’s shoulders slumped. Huskily, he assured Pyle, “I’ll attend to it.”

  “My compliments, Colonel Stone.” Pyle got to his feet, nodded affably. “I bid you good-day, sir.”

  As he quitted the tent, he heard Stone summoning his orderly-officer. He smiled wryly, as he remounted and rode to the sentry-post.

  Within minutes, Captain Ralph Kerwin was riding fast into town, reining up in a flurry of dust outside the law office. And, as had so often happened in the past, fickle fate was favoring the Texas Hell-Raisers. A coincidence was about to assume some significance—the coincidence being that Kerwin had only recently been transferred to the Ninth Cavalry and was unaware of his commanding officer’s deep loathing for Larry Valentine and S
tretch Emerson.

  Briskly, Kerwin relayed Stone’s message to a somewhat bewildered Sheriff Johnson.

  “I wouldn’t ever argue with your boss, Captain,” frowned the sheriff, “but I’m a mite confused about this deal. What I mean, those Texans were brought in by a whole passel of soldiers. A sergeant name of Boyle claimed they started a fight with his men, and ...”

  “There was a misunderstanding, apparently,” shrugged Kerwin. “It would seem that these two men—Valentine and Emerson ...?”

  “That’s their names,” nodded Johnson.

  “ ... were actually set upon by Sergeant Boyle and company,” finished Kerwin. “An unimpeachable witness gave Colonel Stone the whole story, and now the colonel would be obliged if you’d release your prisoners.”

  “Whatever the colonel says,” shrugged Johnson, “is okay by me.” He raised his voice to summon his turnkey. “Curly!”

  The cell-block door was opened. A totally bald old-timer thrust his head into the office, eyed the sheriff enquiringly.

  “Bring those Texans out,” ordered Johnson. “They’ve been cleared, so we’re turning ’em loose.”

  “I’m sure thankful,” sighed the turnkey.

  “Why?” demanded Johnson.

  “Been playin’ poker with ’em,” frowned Curly. “And I swear that Valentine jasper can see clear through the cards. He just took me for every cent I had. Yeah. I’ll be glad to see the last of them two.”

  He retreated into the cellblock, jingling his key ring. Kerwin stood by the street-door, slapping his gauntlets against his thigh, frowning out into the street.

  “I have to locate Sergeant Boyle and his friends,” he told Johnson, “and order them back to camp. Have you any idea where I might find them?”