Larry and Stretch 12

by Marshall Grover

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  CONTENTS

  About This Book

  One-The Captive

  Two-Man on a BlackHorse

  Three-Lament of the Lone Star Ranger

  Four-Skinned Knuckles in the Morning

  Five-Red Ruthy Shumack

  Six-Hunters North

  Seven-Homer’s Solilioquy

  Eight-Whiskey and Remorse

  Nine-Deed of Daring

  Ten-Back to Amariillo

  About the Author

  Copyright

  THE STAKES WERE HIGH AND DANGER RODE IN THEIR SHADOW!

  The owlhoot pack was moving north, led by Craig Harnsey, the audacious bandit who had fooled the lawmen of Winfield County. Their destination was a lonely section of the railroad route, their goal a bank strongbox.

  In hot pursuit came Larry and Stretch, the West's busiest troubleshooters, ignoring the risks and plunging headlong into danger.

  Also involved in this hectic adventure were the misfits—Homer Peck, the jilted railroad guard embarking on a brief career of grand larceny; Burch Tatum Junior, the clumsiest Ranger ever to ride out of the Lone Star State; Red Ruthy, the salty ranch girl who hankered to tangle with a horse thief.

  One – The Captive

  Stewart Clough, deputy sheriff of Winfield County, was less than eighty yards from the Settlers’ National Bank when the sound of shooting halted him in his tracks. He called a warning to his fellow citizens, as he whirled and started toward the bank.

  “Run for cover! Get the women and kids off the street!”

  There was a second shot—then a third. Gun-toting strangers—as rough a collection as Clough had ever seen— were spilling out of the bank. One hefted several canvas sacks of a kind familiar to the deputy, who had ridden escort on many a cash shipment. He counted eight horses at the bank’s hitchrack.

  “It’s a hold-up!” he roared.

  He emptied his holster and began running toward the bank. The eight, already mounted and hustling their horses into the street, saw him coming and triggered discouragement. Thoroughly intimidated by a bullet that kicked up the dust at his feet, another that whined past his head, he changed direction and made for the boardwalk at his left.

  Other guns were heard, as he leapt over a drinking trough and sprawled behind it. Rifles crackled above the harsh booming of six-shooters and the ominous roar of shotguns. The law-abiding citizens of Winfield, indignant at this violent invasion of their peace-loving hometown, were retaliating energetically, if not accurately.

  Only one of the eight invaders was injured. He toppled from his mount and sprawled in the dust, while his seven cohorts dug in their spurs and raced their animals away from the bank, heading north along the main stem. Clough cursed luridly upon noting that the all-important sacks were lashed to the saddlehorn of one of the fleeing riders. He aimed, fired, missed and cursed again, then broke cover and hurried to that sprawled figure.

  His superior, the pudgy man hustling uptown from the direction of the law office, bellowed a query. Sheriff Ezra Mole was some fifteen years older than the scrawny, hawk faced Clough, an irascible lawman of unprepossessing demeanor and restricted imagination.

  “Who is it?” he wanted to know. And, “Which way’d they go?”

  “Uptown,” yelled Clough. “They’ll likely head east for the mountains.”

  “I want volunteers for a posse!” Mole was bellowing at the top of his voice, his round, fat face as red as beetroot. “Get saddled up fast, boys! Somebody fetch my horse!”

  He joined Clough, who had reached the wounded owl-hoot and was rolling him over on his back. Clough swore vehemently.

  “Hey, Ezra, ain’t we seen this ugly face before?”

  “It’s Harnsey!” breathed the sheriff. “Yeah! The almighty Craig Harnsey hisself. He’s wanted all over. Stage hold-ups, bank-robbery, murder …”

  “He ain’t hurt bad,” Clough observed. “Slug only creased his left arm. Must’ve knocked himself out when he hit the dust.”

  “Here comes Doc Webb,” announced Mole.

  “Better send him into the bank first,” suggested Clough. “Look—there’s Carlyle, the cashier.”

  Slump-shouldered and ashen-faced, the cashier showed himself on the bank porch. He bled from two wounds, the left thigh, the right arm. Urgently, he called to the approaching medico.

  “Hurry, Doc! They shot Mr. Perry!”

  As the doctor hustled up the steps, Mole assured him,

  “You don’t have to worry about this lousy owlhoot, not till you’ve tended Morg and the cashier.”

  “As if you need to tell me,” snapped Dr. Howard Webb. At times, this venerable-looking physician could be twice as irascible as Mole.

  “Anything for me, Sheriff?”

  This query was voiced by the blunt-featured, heavy-jowled Otto Klemper, editor and owner of the Winfield “Clarion.” Not unexpectedly, the newspaperman was well to the fore of the crowd converging on the bank. Cold-eyed, humorless and Teutonic, he stood beside Mole and inspected the still-unconscious outlaw.

  “Why, sure, Otto,” nodded Mole. “Help yourself and make the most of it.”

  “I get the impression you’ve identified him,” said Klemper.

  “Damn right,” frowned Clough. “Craig Harnsey — nothin’ surer.”

  Klemper’s eyes gleamed.

  “This is the leader of the famous Harnsey gang?” he demanded.

  “This is him,” growled Mole.

  Several locals had ventured into the bank. Now, one of them hustled out to loudly report,

  “Morg Perry’s hurt bad. Doc dunno if he’ll live or die, and it looks like Ash Carlyle is gonna be laid up a long time.”

  “C’mon …” Mole nodded to Clough. “Let’s get this skunk stashed tight in a cell. If he bleeds to death, it’s okay by me.”

  So much for the Harnsey gang’s raid on the Settlers’ National Bank in Winfield, South Colorado Territory. The notorious Craig Harnsey was in custody, while a heavily-armed posse, led by the county lawmen, hunted his cohorts throughout the surrounding countryside, while the Clarion editor composed a report of the outrage with his assistants standing by to set up type for a special edition, and while the seven fleeing bandits easily eluded their pursuers.

  When it came to tracking sign, any twelve-year-old boy— playing Indian—could have shown Mole and Clough a few pointers. Moreover, among the two dozen locals who volunteered for that posse, there wasn’t one with any talent for tracking a quarry. There were horse tracks to be followed, of course, but only for a few miles. Beyond Foley Creek, Harnsey’s minions took pains to obliterate their back-trail. The posse kept right on searching, but all to no avail.

  By early afternoon of that day, the seven desperadoes had penetrated deep into the Aguila Hills, west of the county seat. They were encamped, with guards posted. And, for the present, this was as far as they would go.

  “Until we know whether the boss is dead or alive,” declared Quint Spring, “we’re stayin’ put. He never ever run out on any of us. Least we can do is hang around a spell.”

  He was a lean, shaggy-haired rogue, a veteran like the rest, black-bearded, with hazy grey eyes and bulbous nose. The loot, still intact in its canvas sacks, had been packed into his saddlebags. He squatted beside the picket line in the sheltered cleft, traded stares with his companions. Only one of them had felt the bite of a Winfield bullet. Only one—outside of Harnsey himself. It wasn’t a serious wound. His name was Brackett, and he was submitting to the rough survey of arrogantly handsome hardcase named Newcombe.

  “Maybe Craig’s a goner,” drawled Newcombe. “On the other hand, maybe they only winged him. Like Quint says, we ought to hang around and make
sure—either way.”

  ”Anyone want to argue about that?” asked Spring. Nobody wanted to argue about it. “Bueno. So we stay put.”

  Harp Newcombe finished tending Brackett’s superficial wound, then hunkered down on his heels and began building a smoke. He was thirty, with well-chiseled features, wavy dark brown hair and a hard-muscled body, ruggedly healthy but, like his companions, a venal, larcenous misfit, antisocial, a veteran of the owlhoot trail.

  “Just one thing, Quint,” he frowned. “How do we find out about Craig?”

  “Only one way,” shrugged Spring. “I have to send a spy into that consarned town.”

  “It can’t be rightaway,” warned Newcombe. “There’ll be posses out for us.”

  “Yeah.” Spring nodded in grudging agreement. “We’ll have to wait a while.”

  “You decided who you’re gonna send?” demanded Newcombe.

  “Mitch,” said Spring, and he grinned wryly. “Who the hell else?”

  All eyes turned to the man named by Harnsey’s second-in-command. Under their intent stares, Mitch Haines fidgeted uneasily. The eight desperadoes had entered Winfield quietly and unobtrusively, a short time before their assault on the Settlers’ National. They had refrained from covering their faces—faces that had adorned many a poster nailed to many a tree in the territories of the southwest, under the familiar heading: Wanted. Only one member of the band had approached the bank by means of a back alley, and with his face covered. Mitch Haines had worn a hood improvised from a flour sack. He was a thief and a killer, but hypersensitive, and with good reason. From his left ear, down his cheek and across to the right side of his chin ran a jagged scar, the grim legacy of some long-forgotten brawl in which his adversary had used a knife, or maybe a broken bottle. Haines’ description was not on file at any law office. In every nefarious enterprise, he kept his face masked.

  “You’ll do fine, Mitch,” drawled Spring.

  “Hell, Quint,” protested Haines. “You know I don’t cotton to towns—and folks … ”

  “You don’t like to be stared at,” shrugged Spring, “and I can’t say as I blame you. Still, we have to find out about Craig. Scar or no scar, Mitch, you’re the only one of us that could mosey into that burg without some sharp-eyed citizen peggin’ him for a Harnsey rider.”

  “Just what am I supposed to do?”

  “Use your ears,” grinned Newcombe. “You don’t have to open your mouth, Mitch. Just use your ears.”

  “If Craig is dead,” said Spring, “the whole town’ll be talkin’ about it. If he’s wounded, stashed in the Winfield calaboose, they’ll still be talkin’ about him. You’ll hear the talk. It’s that simple, Mitch.”

  Haines shrugged resignedly.

  “When do I go?” he demanded.

  “Day after tomorrow’ll be soon enough,” decided Spring. “Give ’em time to get weary of lookin’ for us.”

  ~*~

  Sometimes, news travelled slowly, almost at a snail’s pace, across the new frontiers. Sometimes, events of great importance were communicated far and wide at surprising speed, thanks to the services of Western Union and the swift circulation of various frontier tabloids. Otto Klemper’s newspaper enjoyed just such a wide circulation, so that the news of Craig Harnsey’s apprehension was being carried to all points of the compass less than twenty-four hours after the bank robbery. Also, the telegrapher at Western Union’s Winfield branch was prompt to wire the news to various colleagues, without waiting for the sheriff’s permission.

  And so it was that, very soon after Harnsey’s capture, the big news had leaked into the Lone Star State. At the Amarillo headquarters of the Texas Rangers, a certain high official received telegraphic confirmation of the rumors and was quick to act. He was known in Texas—through the South, in fact—as Colonel Tatum. The title wasn’t honorary—not by a long shot. In the War Between the States, Burch Tatum had fought with valor, winning his promotions in the field. After Appomattox, he had settled in Amarillo with his small family and, inevitably, had been offered a high post in the Lone Star’s famous law force. As a Ranger, he had continued to serve his home state with distinction.

  Twenty minutes after that telegraph message had been delivered to him, Burch Tatum was equipped with the documents necessary for the transfer of Craig Harnsey from a Colorado calaboose to the Amarillo city jail. An Amarillo judge had lost no time in issuing the all-important warrant of extradition.

  Tatum then sent for his son—and began gnawing at his fingernails. He was a big man, nearing sixty, but still tough, still durable. The weather-beaten, aggressive countenance was crowned by a mane of iron-grey hair, close cropped, crinkly. He always appeared rock-hard and assertive, except when dealing with his son. Burch Tatum Junior, sad to relate, bore little resemblance to his illustrious sire. He was handsome, but as inept as his father was precise, as guileless as his father was shrewd.

  He knew his son had arrived, though his office door was closed. From outside, he heard the familiar voice exchanging cheerful greetings with one of his aides. Then the clatter of a chair overturning, followed by a thud and a gasp. Yes, that would be Junior. Put him in a desert, pool-table flat, and Junior would still find something to bump into. A tanglefoot was Junior, the crabapple of his father’s eye.

  Tatum bowed his head, heaved a sigh of sadness and resignation. The door opened. His son strode into his presence and perched himself on a corner of the desk. As he leaned over and clapped a hand to his father’s shoulder, he managed to send a stack of official correspondence cascading to the floor, and to upset the ink pot.

  “Howdy, Pa! Hear tell you wanted to see me. What’ve you got for me? Special assignment, maybe?”

  Tatum groaned inwardly, gritting his teeth. As though seeing him for the first time, he subjected his offspring to a keen scrutiny. Young Burch had the looks; no doubt about that. Tall, lean, dark-haired and passably handsome. It might even be claimed that he had an appealing personality. But why—why couldn’t he have inherited the ready intellect, the shrewdness of his sire? To Tatum, this was always a source of wonderment. Not that he could accuse his wife of having passed on any irresponsible instincts; Nora Jane being a quick-witted and worldly wise Texas lady, every inch as shrewd as her famous husband.

  He had said it before. Now, automatically, he said it again.

  “I just don’t understand it.”

  “Don’t understand what, Pa?” asked Junior.

  “The Tatums,” mused his father, are a famous Texas clan. Tatums have won honor and glory for the Lone Star. Never a Tatum that didn’t have twice as much nerve—and three times as much savvy—as any other man.”

  “That’s a fact,” Junior smugly agreed. “We’re a famous breed, us Tatums.”

  “All except you,” said Tatum. And he put it bluntly because, on Junior, diplomacy was always wasted. “You’re willing enough, son. I’ll grant you that. But you’re a bungler.”

  “Well, heck …” began Junior.

  “You’ve mussed up every routine chore I ever sent you to handle,” Tatum relentlessly reminded him. “You’d never have been allowed into the service but for my influence, the fact that I’m in charge of the Amarillo division. You’re a Ranger all right but you sure as hell don’t act like one.”

  “A few little mistakes …” shrugged Junior.

  “Mistakes,” growled Tatum, “which made me a laughing stock among my old friends. Mistakes which dishonor the fair name of the Tatums.”

  “Don’t you fret on my account,” grinned Junior. “You’ll be proud of me yet.”

  “To be proud of you,” muttered Tatum. “To have a reason to be proud of you—that’s what I dream about. And I guess that’s all it is. A dream. A crazy dream.”

  “I suppose,” mused Junior, “you’re thinking of that hassle last week—at the Silver Saddle Saloon.”

  “I’d give my right arm and all my teeth,” his father caustically retorted, “if I could stop thinking about that hassle at the Silver Saddl
e!”

  “The situation,” Junior patiently explained, “got a mite confused.”

  “You’re the one that got confused!” barked Tatum. “It was just a regular barroom brawl, until I assigned you to break it up!”

  “I made three arrests,” said Junior, triumphantly. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Just one thing,” replied Tatum. “None of those three hombres were involved in the fight. They were innocent bystanders—you lamebrained sonofa …” He gestured impatiently. “Well, never mind.”

  “I’ll make good,” promised Junior. “You’ll see.”

  “You’d better make good, by Julius,” scowled Tatum. “I’m about to give you one last chance to prove you’re a worthy Tatum—worthy to wear the badge of a Ranger. I say one last chance, and I mean one last chance! This is the one that matters, boy. You bungle this and, as sure as there’s Whiskey in Texas, I’ll disown you!”

  “You sound kind of …” Junior frowned uneasily, “kind of disappointed in me.”

  “How’d you guess?” sneered Tatum.

  “It’s the look in your eye,” fretted Junior.

  “Shuddup and listen!” snapped Tatum.

  “Sure, Pa,” shrugged Junior.

  “Stash these in your pockets and don’t lose ’em,” said Tatum, as he placed a sheaf of documents on the desk top.

  “What …?” began Junior.

  “Identification papers for you,” said Tatum, “and extradition warrants. Those warrants apply to any members of the Harnsey gang you should happen to arrest in Colorado Territory—not that I believe there’s one chance in a thousand you could. The most important warrant is for Craig Harnsey himself.”

  “The big boss, huh?” Junior was duly impressed. “I’ve heard of him. Got a real mean reputation he has.”

  “He’s likely feeling plenty mean right now,” shrugged Tatum, “but it won’t help him any. He’s wounded, and that’s another reason I’m assigning you to bring him in. Even a hombre as loco as you should be capable of riding escort on a wounded bandido. Now—about Harnsey! He’s wanted all over, but especially in Texas. I can’t keep count of how many stage coaches he’s raided or how many banks he’s robbed, but mostly he operated in Texas. I figure we got first claim on his mangy carcass, so I had Judge Stockton fix up an extradition warrant in one helluva hurry. You submit that warrant to the sheriff of Winfield County— that’s in South Colorado—and …”