Arizona Wild-Cat (Larry & Stretch Western. Book 2)

by Marshall Grover

  “Sammy’s a good boy,” avowed the little widow. “I’m sure he’s very efficient in the office.”

  “I got no complaints about Sammy,” nodded the lawman. “I got him that job, because I figured it’d please you ...”

  “It did please me, Buckley. It pleased me very much. I’m beholden to you.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, main reason I want to get back there is to make sure Sammy’s safe. He’s your son and—uh—anybody that belongs to you always gets my full protection.”

  “Now that’s a nice thought, Buckley. A real nice thought.”

  Along the sidewalk, a townsman came running towards them, his coat-tails flying in the afternoon breeze.

  “Land sakes!” murmured Hildy. “It’s Charlie Bean—and running like the wind. I declare I haven’t seen him move so fast since his wife was having her seventh.”

  The townsman came to a trembling halt and grasped Trumble by the shoulder.

  “Buck!” he whooped. “Wait’ll you hear! Man, oh man! The whole town’s talkin’ about it. Never thought I’d live to see the day ...!”

  “Dear me!” Hildy Foy raised her eyebrows. “Whatever’s the matter, Charlie?”

  “Your boy up and did it, Hildy!” gasped Bean. “Single-handed!”

  “Did what?” demanded Trumble.

  “Captured and arrested the four galoots that held up the stage! And wait till I tell you who they are. They’re the Morey gang—that’s who! The Morey gang!”

  A smile of motherly pride spread over Mrs. Foy’s plump face.

  “Well now,” she beamed. “Isn’t that nice?” She looked at the footpath, on the street side of her fence, and shook her head, worriedly. “Dear me!” she breathed. “Poor Buckley has fainted. You’d best go fetch Doc Leeds, Charlie. I’m afraid that long ride was too much for Buckley. He’s not as young as he used to be ...”

  ~*~

  The blond man finished counting the large stack of banknotes, folded it carefully, pressed it into an already over-stuffed cashbox, and transferred the cashbox to the safe. As he swung the safe door shut, he threw a cheerful grin at his companion, and said:

  “That’s a nice haul for one day. Pour us a drink, Ed.”

  Ed Larchmont, a broad-shouldered man in a tight-fitting store suit, rose from his chair and ambled over to a sideboard. While he measured out a couple of drinks, his cousin, the blond man, relaxed in a chair, with his fingers laced behind his head and a long cigar jutting from his mouth. Jay Endean was wearing an expression of placid self-satisfaction, and he had ample justification for feeling that way. By putting on a bold front, by dazzling the citizens of this isolated community with his fine speeches and grand manners, he was acquiring a fortune.

  “An easy touch, Ed,” he grinned, idly studying the chandelier above his head.

  This room, unlike the other rooms in Larchmont’s hotel, had a chandelier, a four-poster bed, and many other refinements. It was one of three large adjoining rooms and was dubbed, by Larchmont and his staff, the Royal Suite. It was just right for a high personage like Jay D. Endean. For Endean was a man of fine taste, particularly where his own personal comfort was concerned.

  “I’ve been in this burg a long time longer than you, Jay,” grinned Larchmont, passing a drink to his cousin. “I know these locals. Told you they’d be an easy touch, didn’t I?”

  “And you were right, Ed,” nodded Endean, sipping at his bourbon. “They’re green as grass. By the time they get wise, you and I will be on our way to ’Frisco. And, in the meantime, we continue to enjoy the support of their revered Mayor Burden.”

  Larchmont chuckled, admiringly.

  “You sure don’t miss a trick,” he acknowledged. “Even I didn’t know about Burden’s past.”

  “A man with a guilty secret,” shrugged the blond man, “is fair game. Poor Burden! I could almost feel sorry for him.”

  “Who do you think you’re fooling?” leered Larchmont. “You never ever felt sorry for anyone—in your whole life.”

  They were interrupted then, by a knock at the door. Endean raised a well-manicured forefinger, winked, and murmured, “Five will get you ten that our unwilling ally is paying us a visit!”

  Larchmont, with complete confidence in his cousin’s sixth sense, raised his voice and called for their visitor to enter.

  “It’s not locked, Al. Come on in.”

  The door opened. Widow’s Peak’s mayor moved into the room, a troubled frown on his broad features. Al Burden, at fifty-three, was still a hard muscled man, square-jawed, deep-chested and clear-eyed. But the eyes that looked upon his fellow-citizens with such candid good humor, had begun wearing a sad, haunted look, ever since Jay Endean first arrived in the town. Widow’s Peak had first seen Burden in his thirtieth year. He had ridden into town, during the period when it was scarcely a town at all—just a cluster of adobe dwellings and a couple of stores. He had stayed on, becoming a familiar, and well-loved Widow’s Peak elder. The honor of being their mayor, was a distinction he had enjoyed for quite a long time. It never occurred to the town council to consider another man for the position. “Honest Al” had no opposition. Nobody had ever stood against him.

  He sank wearily into a chair, declined Larchmont’s offer of a drink, then bleakly studied the glass in Endean’s hand.

  “Still celebrating?” he asked coldly. “Had another good day, Endean? A nice profit, plenty of suckers lining up to fill your pockets?”

  Endean took that scathing rebuke, without turning a hair.

  “Relax, Al,” he smiled. “You live in a glass house. Ease up on the stone-throwing.”

  “You’ve blackmailed me into keeping my mouth shut,” growled the mayor. “You’ve forced me to support your campaign—but you haven’t got what it takes to make me like it!”

  “Look on the bright side,” urged Endean. “A lot of people have guilty secrets. You kept yours hidden for a long time—and there’s no reason why it shouldn’t remain hidden ...”

  “As long as I keep my mouth shut,” sneered Burden.

  “You haven’t got much choice, Al,” grinned Larchmont.

  “Don’t rub it in!” snapped Burden.

  “A fine wife,” said Larchmont, watching him intently. “A nice daughter. Neither of ’em know you’re an ex-convict ...”

  “And an escaped ex-convict to boot!” added Endean, slyly.

  Burden glared from one to the other, then passed a hand wearily over his eyes.

  “Over twenty years,” he groaned. “Too bad that record office didn’t burn down, some time.”

  “The records office of Hilton Penitentiary,” smiled Endean, leaning back and stretching his long legs, “is a fine piece of architecture, good, solid stone construction. I found it a fairly happy environment in which to work, during my—er—stay, as a guest of the Governor.”

  “Better than the rock-pile, huh, Jay?” chuckled Larchmont.

  “Much better,” agreed his cousin. “Prison librarian was a position for which I was admirably suited. Those lists I made, in my leisure moments—ah!—that was foresight!”

  “Just how long,” demanded Burden, “do you think you can keep it up?”

  “A few more weeks,” was Endean’s bland reply. “I’m waiting for the fall round-up. The cattlemen, and their hands, will jump at the chance to invest some of their profits.”

  “All my friends!” groaned Burden. “People who respect me, look up to me. I’m letting them down!”

  “That’s an impractical outlook,” reasoned Endean. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them. As soon as I’ve separated those cowpokes from a nice, comfortable pile of cash, I’ll disappear—quietly. When people find that I’ve left, and start complaining, you can claim that they’re not the only unlucky ones. You can say I cleaned you out.”

  For a long moment, Burden stared hard at his tormentor. Then he muttered an oath, and said, “I ought to tell the whole damn town about you. I ought to tell them everything—right now!”

  “
How would you handle that kind of chore, Al?” sneered Larchmont. “Would you just mosey up to Buck Trumble’s office and tell him you’re an ex-con? And how about your family? How does a man make his wife understand a thing like that? What would you say? ‘Sorry, Carrie, but I got some bad news for you. Twenty years ago I busted out of Hilton—’”

  “Shut up!” flared Burden.

  “Quit fighting, it, Al,” grinned Endean. “You’re licked and you know it. Accept the inevitable. Your hands are tied. Just go on doing what you’re told.” He produced an expensive gold watch, glanced at it and added, “You’re due to make a speech, on the City Hall steps, in five minutes. You’d better run along now, Al.”

  “And make it a good speech,” urged Larchmont, enjoying the mayor’s chagrin. “Just like all the other speeches. Tell ’em they’ll never get a chance like this again. More than double their money back, for every dollar invested. Make it good, Al.”

  Burden stood up, trembling with rage. Every instinct of the man demanded that he hurl himself at these smiling thieves, beating them with his huge fists, until they screamed for mercy. But his broad shoulders were slumped in abject defeat. They had him. They knew his secret and would rumor it abroad, if he showed signs of betraying them. Endean had him where he wanted him. He was licked.

  He left them, dragging his feet, as he wandered along the corridor and down the stairs. Within a few minutes, he was addressing a crowd of interested townsfolk, from the steps of City Hall, urging them to invest in the coming railroad, the railroad that would never come at all. There was no such organization as the Taylor-Ames Railroad Corporation. It was a figment of Jay Endean’s fertile imagination.

  ~*~

  Next morning, after breakfast, Larry Valentine and Stretch Emerson lay on their bunks, smoking and staring at the white-washed ceiling. Breakfast had been up to their expectations, the bacon had been crisp, the eggs just right. The nomads were at peace with the world.

  Conversation lagged. They had been together a long time, and had achieved a relationship in which lengthy speeches were expendable. For many years, their chief form of conversation had been a terse exchange of laconic comments.

  “Been in worse jails,” observed Stretch, blowing a smoke-ring and watching it waft towards the ceiling.

  “We sure have,” grunted Larry, sending a duplicate smoke-ring after his partner’s. “Remember that jail in Millsburg last year? Remember that sheriff, that fat jasper? What was his name?”

  “I done forget,” confessed Stretch. “But I do recall he was a real nervous ranny.”

  They discussed past jails, in which they had enjoyed free board, at some length. Then, as before, conversation lagged. Later, they heard angry muttering from the other end of the cell-block.

  “That Morey mob,” mused Stretch. “They’re sure takin’ it hard.”

  “That’s because they ain’t got clear consciences—like you and me,” opined Larry Valentine, smugly. “From what I hear tell, they’re wanted by ’most every star-toter in Arizona.”

  “Uh-huh. You figure they’ll try ’em right here, in Widow’s Peak?”

  “Nope. I heard that sheriff talkin’ to the old judge about ’em. Seems he has to hold ’em for the State authorities. They’re guilty of so many capers that the law boys’re workin’ like dogs, workin’ out a case against ’em.”

  “Psst!”

  The hissing sound intruded into the conversation, with startling suddenness. Stretch propped himself up on a bony elbow and frowned across at his friend.

  “Was that you?” he enquired.

  “Uh-huh,” Larry shook his head and sat up.

  “Psst!”

  “There it goes again,” reported Stretch, somewhat unnecessarily.

  Larry swung his stockinged feet to the stone floor, stood up and dragged his bunk over beneath the cell’s window. Standing on it, he was able to see through the bars, and into the alley behind the jailhouse. Stretch came over and joined him. They stared down at the diminutive figure in the alley, the snub-nosed girl in the shirt and pants, from the Square Deal Livery.

  “Psst!” she hissed, again.

  “Psst yourself,” returned Larry, politely. “If you’re lookin’ for Sad Sammy, he’s likely around front havin’ his hand shook.”

  “I didn’t come here to see Sammy Foy!” snapped the Arizona wild-cat. “I wanted to see you—and that skinny sidekick of yours.”

  “I guess,” frowned Stretch, “she means me.” He craned his neck over Larry’s shoulder and said, “Howdy, ma’am.”

  “I got a question to ask you two,” frowned Tess Hapgood.

  “Go ahead and ask,” invited Larry.

  Tess bit her lip, glanced quickly to right and left, then blurted it out.

  “Is it—is it true?”

  “Huh?”

  “Is it true—what they’re sayin’? About Sammy takin’ you two, single-handed? And—and the Morey gang, too?”

  “Shucks!” frowned Stretch. “You don’t think Mr. Foy would lie ’bout a thing like that, do you?”

  “Yes!”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s a coward! Always has been! How in tarnation could he arrest a couple of hardcases like you, and the whole Morey gang as well?”

  “’Cos he’s a lawman, ma’am. Lawmen’re always arrestin’ somebody. We just happened to be around and so was the Morey gang.”

  “But it don’t make sense!” protested Tess, vehemently. “How’d he do it? That’s what I want to know. How’d he do it?”

  It was a logical question, and a tricky one. The Texans exchanged thoughtful glances. As usual, it was left to Larry Valentine to come up with an inspiration.

  “He scared us,” he told Tess. “We didn’t dare try gettin’ away from him.”

  “He’s a real tough hombre, that Sad Sammy,” added Stretch.

  “He’s a no-account, barrel-bellied little coward!” flared Tess.

  “We don’t think so,” lied Larry, poker-faced. “And neither does the Morey mob.”

  That retort left the girl at a loss for words. She stood there a few moments longer, glaring up at them, suspicion in every square inch of her, distrust mirrored in the set of her determined chin. Then she gave an angry shrug, turned on her heel and stamped away down the alley. They watched her go, then got down from the bunk. Larry restored it to its former position and sprawled upon it. Stretch returned to his own bunk, frowned at the ceiling for a while, then said, “You know what I reckon, runt? I reckon you and me’re the biggest liars in the whole Territory of Arizony.”

  “Uh huh,” agreed Larry. “But, what the hell? He saved our lives, didn’t he?”

  Four – Revelations

  Two hours later, Buck Trumble ambled down the cell-block corridor, jangling his key-ring. He paused at the cell occupied by the wanderers from Texas, and gave them a slow, friendly grin—which was answered by a glare of suspicion. He felt no alarm, however, for the suspicious glare was not being directed at himself.

  The Texans were glaring at his key-ring.

  “Got good news for you two,” he told them.

  They made no rejoinder, asked no question, but kept glaring at the keys.

  “I’m turnin’ you loose,” Trumble went on. “Judge Walsh and me talked it over—and Solly Stryker says he won’t bring charges about the damage in his saloon. He says it was worth it, on account of it was the best scrap he’s seen in years.”

  Larry Valentine made a grimace of disgust and stood up.

  “Ain’t it always the way?” he complained, to an equally disgusted Stretch Emerson. “Minute we get comfortable, in a nice quiet jail, every blamed galoot wants to let us out!”

  “Undependable,” growled Stretch, reaching for his boots. “That’s what you sheriffs are, plumb undependable!” He added, with righteous indignation: “There oughta be a law against it!”

  “Don’t take on so,” chuckled the sheriff. “Unless I miss my guess, you’ll be back here in no time at all.”

/>   In the office he returned their personal belongings, the while eyeing them with quiet amusement. During his many years as a lawman, he had learned to divide the various occupants of his jail into three types—the thieves and killers, the harmless drunks and the itinerant, shiftless hell-raisers who lacked the instinct to settle down in this or any other town. Larry and Stretch, he felt sure, were such men.

  They strapped on their guns, bade him a frowning goodbye and stepped out into the sunlight. Stretch blinked, yawned, and said, “What now?”

  “That feller Stryker,” mused Larry, “that owns the Salted Mine. He had no way of knowin’ that we wanted to stay in jail.”

  “Yeah,” reflected Stretch. “And it was real neighborly of him, not bringin’ a charge against us. We oughta stop by his place and thank him.”

  “That’s what we oughta do,” agreed Larry. “And, anyway, I got me a thirst.”

  They sauntered along to the Salted Mine and went inside. For the time being the place was quiet. Stryker himself stood behind the bar, idly polishing glasses and puffing at a cigar-butt. He grinned a greeting, as they entered, and beckoned them to the bar. They breasted it, leaning their left elbows on the mahogany and rested their left feet on the brass rail.

  “Glad to see you,” beamed Stryker. “Your drinks’re on the house.”

  “First one’s on us,” contradicted Larry, gravely. “We owe you that, for not gettin’ leery about the damage we did.”

  “Fair enough,” nodded Stryker. “Redeye okay?”

  “Make it beers, tall ones.”

  Stryker poured three tall beers. They toasted each other and downed them. Over their second, the saloon-owner ran his eyes over them, admiringly, and said, “I been in this business a long time, gents. Seen me some fine scraps; but that one! Man—that was elegant.”

  Stretch lowered his eyes.

  “We do our best,” he acknowledged.

  “Saw a blacksmith take on five miners once,” recalled their host, “in a town called Cripple Dog Gulch. That was some scrap, too. They thought they had him beat, but he went away, got his hammer from his forge, came back and cleaned the whole place out, busted three skulls with that blamed hammer and wrecked every piece of furniture in the place. Took nine citizens to arrest him.”