“Fake Utes?” blinked Milty.
“Tell you all about it,” promised Larry, “while we’re ridin’.”
He swung astride the sorrel. Milty clambered up behind him, while Stretch straddled his pinto and hustled it through the timber to the trail. Through the forest they moved, slowly, cautiously with Larry nonchalantly describing the thieves to the nonplussed New Yorker. And, just as nonchalantly, he declared his intention of tracking the thieves all the way to their destination.
“We’ll tag ’em home, spy on ’em till they’ve stashed their loot. Then—we move in and take ’em.”
“But we’re outnumbered,” fretted Milty. “Shouldn’t one of us ride to town and summon the sheriff?”
“That,” Larry patiently explained, “would cost us some time—and time is runnin’ out for us.”
“And for the Utes,” reflected Stretch.
“Specially the Utes,” nodded Larry. “Let me ask you somethin’, Milty. What d’you suppose is gonna happen, when the folks off that train reach Doone City, and blab to Johnson about how they were raided by a Ute war-party?”
“Well,” frowned Milty, “the sheriff will report it to Colonel Stone—naturally.”
“And the colonel?” prodded Larry.
“I see what you mean,” muttered Milty. “The potentialities of this situation are—quite frightening. Colonel Stone will feel compelled to order a reprisal attack against the Indians.”
“It’s my hunch,” growled Larry, “that the whole damn Ninth will be ordered to Artega Springs. Old Vinegar-Puss would never pass up such a chance. As for that bull-roarin’ sheriff, he’ll take it for granted the loot is hidden somewhere on the reservation.” He stared ahead, thoughtfully. “That’s how these sidewinders planned it. They wanted the Utes should be blamed for what they did.”
“Hey, now,” frowned Stretch. “That’s why this whole territory is so all-fired jumpy—and why Little Cloud’s braves have been itchin’ for a fight. These same train-wreckers are the skunks that started the trouble.”
“Bet your life on it, big feller,” nodded Larry.
“Treachery at its worst,” breathed Milty. The enormity of it shook him to the core. “Deliberately goading the redskins, for the sake of covering up their own crimes. Actually disguising themselves as Indians ...!”
“Yeah,” grunted Larry. “It ain’t purty.”
“They must be stopped,” declared Milty.
“They’ll be stopped,” Larry grimly assured him. “And I aim to take some of ’em alive—still tricked out in their war paint and Ute bonnets. We’ll take ’em with us, all the way to Artega Springs.” He added, soberly, “If you’re a prayin’ man, you better pray we get there in time to stop the colonel.”
At the south end of the timber, they reined up again. Larry moved forward on foot to scout the terrain ahead. The bogus Utes were barely visible now. They had crossed a barren plain and were disappearing across the horizon. Larry signaled his companions to join him. As he remounted, he briskly announced, “We’re gonna take a chance—cross the flats in a hurry. If any of ’em double back, they’re bound to spot us.”
He urged the sorrel to speed. They descended to the flat country and moved on at the gallop, covering the ground fast. Beyond was another stand of timber. After penetrating it, they forded a narrow creek, climbed to the summit of a rise and found themselves surveying rangeland dotted with the brown hides of grazing longhorns. Larry ordered his sidekicks to retreat a way, while he again put his binoculars to good use.
It looked like any other small ranch house—except for the war painted riders dismounting by the corrals. Two men entered the house. The others moved around back, to where the surface of a waterhole caught the reflection of the sun. Carefully, he scanned the surrounding terrain. The closest cover, he observed, was a full fifty yards to the rear of the ranch buildings, a stretch of mesquite. To reach it, they would have to ride a wide half-circle. A frontal approach would mean immediate detection and, crossing open prairie, they could be picked off with ease.
He rejoined Stretch and the newspaperman, curtly described the set-up, and told them, “This way will be a mite slow for my likin’, but better than gettin’ blown out of our saddles. We’re gonna ride around to the brush in back of the house.”
“And then?” prodded Milty.
“And then,” he shrugged, “I’ll figure our next move.”
Riding double, bounced by movement of the sorrel’s rump, wasn’t exactly Milty’s idea of comfortable travel. To his credit, he clung to Larry’s pants-belt and refrained from complaining. Any discomfort, he reasoned, could be endured. If he survived this adventure, what a story he would have to tell! He, the exile, would be vindicated, hailed as a journalist of exceptional talent and courage. The story would surely reach the New York dailies, after which his sire would welcome him back with open arms.
They skirted JT range at high speed, descended to a serpentine arroyo and followed its winding course all the way to the mesquite. There, they dismounted hastily. The Winchesters were drawn from their sheaths and fully loaded. To Milty’s horror, Larry passed both rifles to him.
“Wh-what am I to do with these?” he gasped. “I know nothing of firearms!”
“Stretch’ll show you how to use ’em,” muttered Larry. “It don’t much matter if you hit anybody—just so long as you keep ’em busy.”
“But—I might be shot!” protested Milty.
“We’ll sing purty at your funeral,” Stretch consoled him.
Larry crept through the mesquite to its outer edge, checked the scene by the waterhole. Four of the half-naked men were in the pool, washing the paint from their bodies. Three others stood nearby, still arrayed in their disguises. A bottle was being passed from hand to hand.
Seven in plain sight. Where were the other five? Inside the house no doubt. He snapped his fingers. Stretch and Milty came forward to join him. The taller Texan squinted towards the waterhole, and remarked, “Tricky.”
“Uh-huh,” nodded Larry.
“When we break from this brush,” drawled Stretch, “we’ll be wide open. Them three fake Injuns’ll have plenty time to reach their hardware.”
Larry’s gaze switched to the pile of clothing to the right of the pool. At this distance, the coiled gunbelts looked like so many slumbering reptiles—and just as dangerous.
“The four hombres in the water,” he told Stretch, “are all yours. I’ll take care of the other three.”
Nine – How to Get Answers
Milty grasped the Winchesters to his chest, blinked apprehensively at the trouble-shooters. Their cold calm seemed, to a man of his background, downright incongruous. Or maybe ‘eerie’ was a better word. They were discussing what promised to become a fight to the death with superior forces, and their attitude seemed as detached, as casual as if they were debating the relative merits of beer and whisky.
“Hard and fast would be best, I reckon,” suggested Stretch.
“Spring a surprise—yeah,” nodded Larry. “I’ll stay on foot. By the time I get in range of those three fake Utes, maybe they’ll be ready to shoot back.”
“How about me?” demanded Stretch.
“You ride in,” decided Larry. “Get your horse to runnin’ as soon as they spot me. Make straight for the waterhole. You ought to be able to settle their hash before they get time to climb out.”
“Catch ’em with their pants down,” grinned Stretch. “Yup. That’s purty.”
“When the shootin’ starts ...” Larry turned to frown at Milty, “you’ll head out front.”
“Out f-f-front?” faltered Milty.
“Ought to be plenty cover for you out there,” opined Larry. “Stash yourself behind a trough, or in the corral. Then use those rifles. Keep shootin’ at the front door and windows. I calculate there must be five of ’em inside. Well—I want ’em pinned down till Stretch and me are ready to bust in there.”
“But ...!” began Milty.
“I�
�ve told you what to do, scribbler,” growled Larry. “We don’t have time to jaw about it.” He looked at Stretch. “Ready?”
“Born ready,” Stretch assured him, as he retreated to the pinto.
Gun in hand, Larry broke cover and began his run. He was bent double and moving fast, less than thirty yards from the three men beside the pool, when one of them whirled and saw him. In response to Larry’s wild rebel yell, Stretch broke from the mesquite, straddling his pinto and urging it to speed.
Larry kept on running. When he came to a halt, one of the pseudo Utes had reached his weapon and was swinging it towards him. Larry’s Colt roared. The report mingled with the thudding of the pinto’s hooves, as it pounded past him and on to the waterhole, where the four bathers stood momentarily transfixed. Larry’s victim loosed a yell of pain and dropped his Colt. His naked right arm showed an ugly blotch of bright red, as he stumbled back and measured his length.
From then on, it seemed to the confused Milty that everything was happening fast—too fast for him to make sense of it. Yet, like a fast-moving automaton, he hustled to follow Larry’s instructions, bounding past the waterhole towards the front of the house. Never in his life had he moved so quickly.
Out front, he scampered to a drinking trough, flopped down behind it, dropped one Winchester and readied the other. The front door opened. Tolin, garbed in his own clothes, briefly appeared there. His face was grim and his right fist gun-filled. Milty pointed the rifle in that general direction and pulled the trigger. The weapon bucked in his grasp, barked harshly. The slug went high, kicking chips off a roof-shingle, but Tolin hastily retreated into the house, slamming the door.
Into the waterhole barged the taller Texan, still astride. The pinto reared and kicked wildly, raising spray and causing the bathers to scatter. Swaying sideways, Stretch swung mightily with his right hand Colt. The barrel inflicted concussion on an unprotected skull. Another bather made to clamber up from the left in an attempt to unseat the invader. Stretch deftly unholstered his left-side Colt. It rose and fell, and his attacker flopped back into the water, semiconscious.
Larry’s second and third adversaries had reached their weapons and were ready to challenge him. He went to ground, stretched out his right arm, cocked and fired fast, as their bullets spattered about him. A slug tore at his left shirt-sleeve, ripping the material but missing his flesh by a fraction of an inch. One of the owlhoots sagged to his knees, his gun dropping from a mangled and bloodied paw. The other, his head grazed by Larry’s third well-aimed bullet, jerked convulsively, spun like a dervish and pitched flat on his face.
Still aground, Larry rolled over and ejected his spent shells. The pinto was up to its belly in water, threshing wildly. Stretch was sliding from his saddle. His four victims were invisible until, one by one, he hauled them from the pool. He was dumping the fourth, when a gun roared from a rear window of the house. The bullet had been aimed at his head, but a mite too high. His Stetson abruptly departed. He cursed, dropped to one knee and returned fire. The window shattered.
“Get out front with Milty!” yelled Larry, as he finished reloading. “I’ll move in the back way!”
“Watch yourself, runt,” warned Stretch.
Bent double, he scuttled to the near corner. Larry, his eyes fixed on the rear door, began running again. He had almost reached the back porch, when the door swung open. The burly man barging out was Steve Britt, and he was armed with a shotgun, a weapon held in high respect by the battle wise Larry Valentine.
He wheeled and ran towards the barn. As the scattergun roared, he threw himself flat. The charge missed its mark, but Britt didn’t think so. He came hustling out into the rear yard, making straight for Stretch’s pinto. Before swinging into the saddle, he discarded the heavier weapon and unsheathed his Colt.
“Get offa the pinto!” ordered Larry, as he leapt to his feet.
Britt cursed, wheeled the animal and dug in his spurs. As the pinto bore down on him, Larry hastily sidestepped. He caught a blurred impression of Britt’s unprepossessing countenance and the blue-black muzzle of a Colt, as he drew a bead and fired. Britt gasped an oath, slumped in the saddle, then keeled over sideways. Larry whirled and dashed to the porch.
He could still hear shooting from the front of the house—the crackle of a Winchester, the booming of Colts. By now, he guessed, Stretch would be adding the weight of his guns to the battle. As he moved into the kitchen, a man in Ute rig came stumbling through the doorway opposite. Despite the disguise, Larry recognized him as the hefty Grady. Grady was bleeding, fast losing consciousness. He collapsed in an untidy heap.
Larry stepped over him, entered a short, dingy hallway and hurried through to the front room—a parlor as untidy as the kitchen. The three remaining thieves were crouched by the front windows, trading shots with their attackers. Tolin had found time to bathe and change into his regular attire. His cohorts still wore Ute outfits. Grim-faced, Larry pressed his back against the wall of the corridor. When he called his curt challenge, only his gun-hand and portion of his face were visible to the three gunhawks. “You’re all through! Drop the guns!”
Tolin spun around, his Colt belching fire. Larry’s weapon roared, as the outlaw’s bullet fanned his face. He saw Tolin shudder from the impact of the slug striking his chest, saw another man turning towards him, and growled: “I wouldn’t!”
The bogus Ute groaned a curse, dropped his gun and tried to raise his hands. He bled from two wounds. The other man was poised, bedeviled by indecision, when the left-side window was shattered by a hefty human missile well known to Larry. The taller Texan pitched through head-first, bearing the third man to the floor, and the struggle was short and violent. Stretch’s Colt rose and fell. The outlaw grunted once and, from then on, lost interest in the proceedings.
Stretch lurched to his feet, flashed his partner a bland grin, and asked, “How’d you make out?”
“Fair enough,” frowned Larry. “Did Milty stop one?”
“Nope,” said Stretch. He jerked a thumb. “Still out front—frettin’ like a turkey on the day before Thanksgivin’.”
“Get him in here,” ordered Larry. “We got chores.”
He wasn’t about to waste time in roping the two dead men to their horses. The JT spread boasted a chuck wagon and four strong-backed teamers in which the dead and some of the wounded could be transported to Artega Springs—along with the spoils. Every man was searched for concealed weapons and, though they groaned curses and complained of their wounds, they were tied hand and foot by their captors—two experts at the art of tight knots.
The four semi-naked men subdued by Stretch in the waterhole were roped to their own horses. The other half-dozen, along with the bodies of Tolin and Britt, were dumped into the wagon bed. After Stretch had harnessed the team and fetched Larry’s sorrel, they made a swift but rewarding search of the ranch buildings. In more ways than one, this was to be Milty Ricks’ day. It was actually Milty who, climbing into the hayloft of the barn, located the stolen gold.
His startled cry brought Larry running into the barn.
“Gold!” breathed Milty.
“The raw stuff,” observed Larry, “and plenty of it.”
“A king’s ransom,” declared Milty.
“You know somethin ?” mused Larry. “For the rest of their no-good lives, they could’ve lived high and easy. No more wreckin’ trains. No more killin’ harmless travelers.” His face hardened. “And no more playin’ Indian.”
“I saw them looting that baggage-car,” muttered Milty. “I watched it all—and never suspected they were white men.”
“You and the passengers,” nodded Larry. “Everybody. Yeah. That was how they wanted it.”
“And,” fretted Milty, “because of these unscrupulous bandits, this entire territory may be plunged into war.”
“Not if we can make it to the reservation ahead of the colonel,” countered Larry. “C’mon, Milty boy. We gotta get this gold stashed in the wagon.”
After ten more minutes, the sorry-looking procession was ready to move. Stretch was taking charge of the mounted prisoners. Larry tethered his sorrel to the tailgate of the wagon and, with Milty, climbed up to the seat.
“You know a fast route to the Springs?” called Stretch.
“I better,” growled Larry, as he flicked the team with the reins.
~*~
It was ten minutes after high noon, when the panting and lathered blacks pulled the bouncing surrey into Doone City’s main stem and on towards the law office. As they moved along the first block, they saw few locals.
But, by the time they came in sight of the sheriff’s headquarters, the locals were hastily emerging from the buildings lining Main Street, lured from lunch by the startling spectacle on the surrey-seat—red-haired Sadie, garbed in a rug.
Rowley Johnson, a napkin still tucked into his vest, came trudging out onto the front porch of his office to gape incredulously. Deputy McGreeley emerged, stood beside him and did likewise.
“Great jumping snakes!” boomed Johnson.
“I always did say,” drawled McGreeley, “you could drape a sack on Sadie Clifford, and she’d still be the purtiest female in Doone City.”
“That’s not a sack ...” Johnson was using his eyes to good advantage. “That’s a rug!”
The surrey rolled to a halt in front of the porch. Sadie leapt down, turned to assist the wounded conductor. During that hectic journey, the old railroader had lost consciousness twice. His eyes were open now, but he was weak from loss of blood. Werris helped him down, darted an impatient glance towards the lawmen, and called:
“Don’t just stand there! Send for a doctor!”
Fortunately for the injured man, one of Doone City’s physicians happened to be on hand. The scrawny, gray-haired Doc Nolan was fast approaching, toting his valise and gesturing for the patient to be toted inside. McGreeley performed that chore, while Sadie and Werris offered their report to the bewildered Johnson.
“The northbound?” Johnson shook his head worriedly. “Wrecked, you say? By—by Utes ...?”
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