The special guest didn’t stay for coffee. After thanking Sadie for the invitation, he announced, “Asa is preparing a special edition to mark the coming of the cavalry. Of course, he can’t manage it without me. I bid you good evening, Miss Clifford.”
The Texans found a forlorn Sadie at work in the kitchen when they drifted in there to say hello. She acknowledged the intrusion with a futile attempt at a smile, and murmured, “What do I do wrong? Why doesn’t he like me? You saw how he acted. Consarn that man—he doesn’t know I’m alive.”
Stretch straddled a chair, absently surveyed the kitchen. Larry took up a cloth and began drying the dishes passed to him by the redhead—and talked.
“When you’re fishin’,” he sagely reminded her, “you got to use the right bait. The way it looks to me, you’ve been throwin’ the wrong bait to that scribbler.”
“What more can a girl do?” she challenged. “Heck, Larry, I wore my prettiest gown and fixed my hair special
“Sure,” he grunted. “You look just fine.”
“And I tried to get him talking,” she complained. “I was polite all the time. One way or another, I did my darnedest, and still he acts like he—he doesn’t even hear me!”
“You oughta listen to ol’ Larry,” muttered Stretch. “He never got hooked hisself, but he savvies all about this courtin’ thing. Any gal heeds what Larry says, she’s just bound to end up with the feller she hankers for.”
“What did I do wrong?” demanded Sadie.
“Well,” frowned Larry, “you can’t hook a hombre like Milty by just feedin’ him beef stew and talkin’ his head off.”
“Is that what I was doing?” fretted Sadie.
“Don’t feel bad about it,” he soothed. “Everybody makes mistakes.”
“Tell me one other thing I can do,” she offered, “anything at all—to get him interested in me—and I swear I’ll do it.” She nodded emphatically, passed him another dish. “Go on, Mr. Expert Valentine. I’m in your hands.”
Larry dried the dish, set it down, reached for another. “Milty,” he reflected, “is all caught up in his scribblin’.”
“As if I didn’t know,” sighed Sadie.
“If that’s all he cares about,” said Larry, “you’ll just have to forget the beef stew trick and the supper invites and the chasin’. Go after him another way—the smart way. Use the right bait.”
“Which is?” she prodded.
“Make like you’re interested in what he writes,” suggested Larry.
“I wouldn’t have to pretend,” she murmured. “He’s the only writing man I’ve ever known—and I just love him so much it makes me ache.”
“But it has to be handled smart,” warned Larry. “You have to pick your own time and place.”
“Some place romantical,” suggested Stretch.
“Like far from town,” Larry went on, “where it’s quiet and peaceful and you can be all by yourselves. You got a buggy?”
“Surrey,” she frowned.
“Surrey’d do fine,” he decided. “First you go to see him, savvy? Just sashay into that Sentinel office and make your play, tell him how you’re itchin’ to hear them poems of his. He’ll likely want to read ’em at you rightaway, but you tell him you got a better idea. A picnic.”
“Yup.” Stretch nodded approvingly. “A picnic is purty. I dearly admire a picnic.”
“It don’t matter a hoot in hell what you admire,” countered Larry. “This picnic is just for Sadie and her man.”
“Aw—well ...” shrugged Stretch.
“I reckon he’ll go along with it,” Larry assured Sadie. “You think he’d pass up a chance to drive out to some lonesome place—by the creek, maybe—and bend your purty ear with his poems?”
“And then?” she demanded.
“Can you swim?” he asked.
“Like a fish,” she smiled.
“That’s another thing,” he frowned.
“What other thing?” she prodded.
“Milty,” he opined, “is the kind of hombre that has to feel important. Yeah—he craves to be a hero.” He eyed her pensively. “You know a quiet place—out by the creek?”
“Why, sure,” she nodded. “Out by Silver Butte. It’s beautiful country, and quite a ways from town.”
“Bueno,” said Larry. “It oughtn’t be hard for you to make him play hero. He has to save your life, savvy? When a man saves a gal’s life, it makes him feel closer to her—if you know what I mean. So—all you got to do is fall in the creek.”
“Fall in the creek?” she blinked.
“Nothin’ to it,” he grinned. “You fall in, scream for him to come pull you out. Tell him you can’t swim. That’ll be Milty’s big chance, and you can bet he won’t hold back. No siree, Sadie. He’ll leap in and haul you out and, from then on, I guarantee he’ll feel ten feet tail, and you’ll be the apple of his ever-lovin’ eye.”
“That,” declared Sadie, “is the darnedest notion I ever heard of. It’s dishonest and sneaky and lowdown and—oh, Larry!” She rushed at him impulsively, clasped her soapy hands about his neck and kissed him. “It’s the most wonderful idea, and I’ll do it! I’ll do exactly as you say!”
“Well, okay,” he chuckled.
~*~
Over the next two days, the tension seemed to ease. No marauding Utes were sighted by homesteaders in the outlying areas, nor did Little Cloud complain of fresh atrocities to the uneasy Marty Lunt. The territory seemed unnaturally quiet. Many a local, of course, believed the Ninth Cavalry to be directly responsible. A show of armed force had convinced the Utes that they’d better not budge off that reservation, by golly.
Larry was inclined to be skeptical. While disposing of a tall beer at the Welcome Hand, he confided to Stretch, “I got a hunch about the sidewinders that lynched that Ute. Somethin’ tells me they were Doone County men, and they’re still here, stayin’ quiet, waitin’ for somethin’. That’s my hunch, and it’s frettin’ me.”
“You and your hunches,” shrugged Stretch.
“They have to be more than just Injun-haters,” opined Larry. “There’s somethin’ I don’t know about.”
“Likely plenty you don’t know about,” drawled Stretch. “Hell, runt, you can’t peek inside the brain of every hombre in this territory—like he’s got a glass skull.”
“Since you and me threw in with Marty,” Larry pointed out, “things have been quiet. Why?”
“Maybe on accounta the army is here?” suggested Stretch.
“Could be,” mused Larry. “But I ain’t sure.”
They finished their drinks and sauntered out into the sunlight. After a brief conference on the opposite sidewalk, they decided that the time was ripe for another visit to the Lunt cabin, out by the reservation, and another exchange of theories. Then, on their way to the boardinghouse, they encountered a radiant Sadie. She was strolling towards them, a fetching figure in soft blue gown, flimsy chapeau and brand-new slippers, with her auburn hair glowing in the morning sun. Jauntily, she twirled her parasol. The Texans, and every other male in sight, paused to follow her progress.
When she joined them, she wistfully commented, “If I could get Milty looking at me the way those layabouts do, I’d have no more problems.”
“You never looked so gosh-durn purty,” declared Larry.
“Fancy as a Christmas tree,” observed Stretch.
“I’m going along to the Sentinel office now,” she confided, “to give Milty his big chance.”
“Lotsa luck,” offered Stretch.
“Don’t overdo it,” Larry warned her. “Slow and easy, savvy? Bedazzle him—but don’t push too hard—else he’s apt to turn leery.”
He patted her shoulder reassuringly, doffed his Stetson. She flashed them a smile and hurried on, while, at the Sentinel office, the self-styled genius read his latest creation, an engagement announcement.
“When the sullen heat of summer becomes the rusty luster of fall, Hildegarde Julitha Peck, of this fair city, will
be united in holy wedlock with Bartley Amos Hackenbury, of Cripple Gulch. Affectionate congratulations are extended to these perfectly-matched lovebirds, offspring of worthy pioneer stock. The joys and heartache they will share together ...” He broke off, stared incredulously at his handiwork. “By Julius Caesar, that’s beautiful! I excel myself, each time I put pen to paper. What a tragedy that I should be confined in this half-alive settlement, my genius wasted on peasants ...”
“You said something, boy?” Asa raised his head.
“Speaking my thoughts aloud,” frowned Milty.
Tub winked at his employer and said, with heavy emphasis, “Well, you know what that means.”
And then, suddenly, the dingy, paper-littered office seemed transformed. Sadie had arrived and was standing by the knife-scarred counter, smiling winsomely at her man. Asa accorded her a genial nod.
“Morning, Miss Sadie. Something we can do for you?”
“Just a few words with Milty,” she murmured, “if he can spare the time.”
“Of course,” said Milty.
He rose from his desk, moved unhurriedly to the counter and eyed her enquiringly. She dropped her voice until it was naught but a husky whisper, and still the inquisitive Tub and nonplussed Asa heard her clearly.
“I was hoping Mr. Baintry could spare you—tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t quite understand ...” began Milty.
“There’s a quiet place out by Silver Butte,” she explained. “The weather is fine and—well—we shouldn’t waste it, should we? I thought we could have a picnic out there. I’d fix us a wonderful lunch, and we could take my surrey.”
“Miss Clifford ...” he frowned reproachfully, “a journalist rarely has time for picnics.”
“But I’m so eager to have you read to me,” she murmured. “All this time, I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask you.”
“Read to you?” he blinked.
“Your poems,” she smiled. “Oh, Milty, I’ve never known a real poem-writer before, and ...”
“Poet,” he corrected.
“And there’s so little genuine culture west of the Mississippi,” she breathlessly continued. “A girl like me, Milty, just starves for the sound of real poetry!”
“Ah, yes.” He nodded sympathetically. “How very true.”
“You’ve written so much,” she sighed. “So many wonderful poems—and I’ve never read them—nor heard them.”
“Amazing,” he breathed. “Never once did I suspect that you were—uh—so interested.”
He studied her intently, as though seeing her for the first time. She leaned closer to him.
“Tomorrow morning then—very early? If we leave around seven-thirty, we could reach that beautiful spot by the creek before ten o’clock. Think of it, Milty! You could read to me from ten o’clock till noon. And then—a beautiful lunch. Chicken and greens. Elderberry wine ... .”
“I’ll ask Asa ...” he began.
Gruffly, Asa called to him.
“You’ve been overworking, son. Take tomorrow off.” Milty colored. It was the first time Sadie had ever seen him blush; she hadn’t imagined him capable of it.
“Thank you for the invitation,” he muttered, “and for your interest in my literary endeavors.”
“You’ll call for me?” she smiled. “Tomorrow morning—seven-thirty?”
“My pleasure, Miss Sadie,” he nodded.
“I’m so glad,” she murmured, patting his hand. “And now I must get on with my marketing.”
“May I accompany you?” he courteously enquired. “Perhaps you’ll permit me to carry your packages. If you’ll just wait till I collect my hat and coat ...”
The young couple left the office a few moments later. Tub turned from his press, scratching his head.
“Always figured Sadie Clifford for a right smart little lady,” he growled. “Now—I ain’t so sure.”
“The girl must be out of her mind,” frowned Asa.
“I heard what she said,” scowled Tub. “She wants he should read at her. She’s gonna sit and—and listen to all that mish-mush he writes. Hell! That’s an awful thing!”
“What can have possessed her?” wondered Asa.
“You could’ve put a stop to it,” accused Tub. “You didn’t have to give him all that free time—a whole day.”
“Charity begins at home,” countered Asa, “and my office is like home to me. Think of it, Tub. For one entire day, somebody else will have to listen to him. Don’t we deserve it? We’ve suffered enough—you and me.”
~*~
That day, the Texans covered quite a stretch of the territory. It didn’t seem likely they would locate any well-hidden camp occupied by rough characters who just might have been responsible for the attacks on the Utes, but Larry was becoming increasingly impatient, willing to clutch at straws. A week had passed since their parlay with Marty Lunt, and still no clues as to the identity of the renegades.
Their travels took them across the railroad tracks and up a steep grade to the summit of a butte. Sadie had offered vague directions as to the location of the spot she considered ideal for a picnic. Could this be Silver Butte? They descended its far slope and rode across green country to ford the creek.
“Anywhere hereabouts,” observed Larry, “would be a fine place for Sadie to court her man.”
“What frets you most, runt?” Stretch impatiently enquired. “Findin’ them renegades—or gettin’ Sadie hitched to Milty?”
“I’d admire to tend both these chores,” declared Larry.
“We’ve checked every mile of this territory,” mused Stretch, “and no sign of any secret camp. Well now, does that give you any ideas?”
“Just one,” frowned Larry.
“Such as?” prodded Stretch.
“They didn’t have to make camp,” muttered Larry, “nor find a hole to hide in. And why not? Because they live right here in Doone County, just like I first figured. They could be sodbusters or cowpokes. They might even be towners. After they lynched that Ute, all they had to do was kill their back-trail and head for home. That’s why we haven’t found any secret camp, big feller.”
“All right,” nodded Stretch. “But what’s in it for ’em? What do they win, if they prod the Utes into a fight? Lotta good folks could get killed. Where’s the profit to that?”
“If I could answer that question,” sighed Larry, “I wouldn’t be sittin’ this saddle with a frown on my doggone face.”
At sundown, when they returned to the boardinghouse, a triumphant Sadie informed them, “It worked! He’s calling for me tomorrow morning! We’ll have that picnic—and it’ll be quite a picnic, for my Milty!”
And, again, coincidence was buying into the drama. Tomorrow would be the twenty-fifth day of the month, the date set for the wrecking and plundering of the northbound train.
Seven – Storm Warnings
In the hour before dawn, Stretch Emerson rolled over, scratched his chest, yawned and blinked at the small glow in the gloom. The bedroom was almost pitch dark. Larry was obviously awake. The glowing cigarette proved it.
He yawned again, and complained, “You sure sleep loud, runt.”
“What the hell,” Larry sourly enquired, “are you gabbin’ about?”
“Did they ever come out into the open?” grinned Stretch. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? ‘Come out where I can see you,’ you hollered. ‘Come shootin’, you sneakin’ sidewinders.’ Who were you hollerin’ at, runt?”
“You’re loco,” growled Larry. “I scarce ever dream.”
“Well,” said Stretch, “you sure as hell dreamed last night—and loud. Couple times, I was afeared you’d get your paw to your iron and go to shootin’.”
“The hell with it,” muttered Larry.
“What’s eatin’ you, anyway?” demanded Stretch.
“You need to ask?” challenged Larry.
“Nope.” Stretch heaved a sigh. “I don’t need to ask.” Only too well, he understood t
he workings of his saddlepard’s mind. When it came to the unraveling of mysteries, Larry was the expert of this partnership. At the business of fighting, the mental activity, these were Larry’s specialty.
The one thing calculated to fray Larry’s nerves was an unsolved mystery. He was a hard-headed realist, a man with no trust in the inexplicable. As Stretch had often remarked, “Ol’ Larry has to know the whys and wherefores. If he don’t, he turns leery. Ain’t nothin’ he hates worse’n a mystery.”
“There has to be a reason,” Larry asserted now. “Damned if I’ll believe these renegades started fazin’ the Utes just to pass the time of day. They knew what they were doin’. They knew they could maybe start a shootin’ war in this territory.”
“So they did it a’purpose,” shrugged Stretch, “and you can’t figure the reason.”
“I hanker for coffee,” announced Larry, “and I’m powerful hungry.”
“Who ain't?” grinned Stretch, as he swung his legs to the floor.
Clad in naught but their Long Johns, they padded back and forth, lighting the lamp, pouring water into the washbowl, breaking out their razors, bathing and shaving.
“Sadie’s big mornin’,” Larry suddenly recalled, while drawing his blade over his stubbled jowls.
“Yup,” grunted Stretch. “She spread the word last night. Anybody wants breakfast this mornin’, they gotta help ’emselves.”
They finished their ablutions, donned their clothes and strapped on their hardware, then descended to the kitchen. Despite the early hour, Sadie was already there. Coffee bubbled on the stove. Garbed in crisp checked gingham and humming cheerfully, she packed cold food into a basket. Larry yawned, grinned at her and declared:
“If he don’t propose, he’s blind and stupid, and you’d be better off without him.”
“If I’m willing to listen to all that poetry,” she chuckled, “the least he can do is propose.”
Long before her escort was due to arrive, she was packed and ready, seated in the surrey out front of the house, the early sun catching the glints of her glowing auburn hair. Harnessed to the surrey were her matched charcoals, sturdy-looking animals itching to be on their way.
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