Larry and Stretch 10

by Marshall Grover

  “And if we stay right here?” she asked.

  “It wouldn’t be much better,” opined Tom. “Only difference is we’d die slower. What d’you say, Bart?”

  “I reckon that’s about the size of it,” sighed Bart.

  “Well ...” Sarah Ann leaned closer to him, “aren’t you scared?”

  He didn’t answer at once. He took time to think about it, and the other women were suddenly silent, eyeing him expectantly.

  “Being scared,” frowned Bart, “won’t help us one little bit. I’m no braver than the rest of you, but I’m telling you that fear is useless at a time like this. And that’s all I’ll say about it.”

  They were silent for quite some time, hugging the shade of the rock formation and perspiring as much from despair as from the heat. All around them, the merciless sun played its cruel jests, raising heat-shimmers, baking the dusty terrain. Tom Shackley saw a mirage, but recognized it for what it was, and offered no comment. Theodore sat with his chin propped in his hands and wondered if he had ever known such loneliness. Loneliness, he reflected, was a natural consequence of marriage to a woman of Lavinia’s caliber. His only consolation was his youngest daughter, so unlike her mother, so unlike Elmira and Harriet. He stared away to the north, then twisted and peered southward, then to the west, squinting against the heat-haze. What he saw there caused his breath to catch in his throat. He waited to regain control of himself, before daring to ask:

  “Is it possible for—for several people to see the same mirage—suffer the same hallucination—simultaneously?”

  Tom raised his head, blinked at him.

  “How’s that again?”

  “I was so sure ...” Theodore licked his lips, gestured to the west. “I thought I saw—movement—dust. Could it be my imagination?”

  Tom rose to his feet and stepped but into the harsh sunlight. For a long moment, he stood with his face turned to the west.

  “Anything?” asked Bart.

  “Well,” frowned Tom, “maybe I’m dreamin’.”

  Sarah Ann rose up and trudged across to join him. Bart began the effort to raise himself. Theodore made to assist him, but he shook his head and said:

  “No. Save your strength. I can—make it.”

  He came upright with his head swimming. For a brief moment, he feared he might faint, but the spasm passed. Slowly, he moved forward to stand between Tom and the girl. What Theodore Newbold had seen was more than a dust-puff now. Two shapes were slowly but surely approaching through the heat-haze.

  “Riders!” gasped Tom. “It’s gotta be riders!”

  “Oh, Bart!” breathed Sarah Ann. “If only it’s true ...!”

  “It’s true enough,” Bart nodded emphatically. “We aren’t dreaming, and your father’s eyes played him no tricks. I see two riders. They’re coming on steady.”

  “They’ll help us!” panted Tom. “They’re just bound to help us!”

  The other women were on their feet and moving out into the sunlight. Gruffly, Bart called a warning.

  “Cover your heads. This sun’ll scramble your brains quicker than you can wink.”

  Some two hundred yards from the rock-mound, the taller Texan cheerfully remarked, “Another waterhole.”

  “Right enough,” nodded Larry. “Anyways, that’s what the map says.”

  “We’re doin’ fine,” opined Stretch. “We got us four canteens and we’ve been workin’ on only one of ’em—and it’s still half-full.”

  “Be grateful to old Henry,” drawled Larry. “I wouldn’t relish this blame desert without a map to guide us.”

  “You ever notice how the desert plays tricks on you?” asked Stretch.

  “All the time,” shrugged Larry.

  “Like now, for instance,” said Stretch. “Lookin’ ahead, I could swear I see a stagecoach. No hosses. Just a coach. Ain’t that the craziest thing ...?”

  “If you’re crazy,” frowned Larry, “we’re both crazy. Look again. There’s more than a rig. There’s people!”

  “Well, what the hell ...?” began Stretch.

  “You’re askin’ me?” challenged Larry. “How the hell would I know? Maybe the stage broke down, or ...”

  “I don’t see no hosses,” said Stretch. “Nary a sign of a hoss. So what d’you make of that?”

  His questions continued, but when they reined up beside the stranded seven, Larry cut him short. The women were staring at their canteens.

  “Time enough later,” Larry decided, “for questions and answers.” He unhitched the half-full canteen and tossed it to Tom. “Pass that around—and take it easy.”

  “Don’t nobody hog it,” Tom warned, as he handed it to Lavinia. “Just a couple swallows is enough. You drink too much—you’re apt to get a bellyache.”

  The canteen was passed from hand to hand while, seemingly immune to the heat, the Texans hooked legs over their saddlehorns and began building cigarettes.

  “Thank heaven somebody came,” murmured Sarah Ann. “We’d—just about given up hope.”

  “All right,” said Larry. “Everybody move back into the shade. You might’s well be comfortable while you tell' us the score.”

  The drifters dismounted, led their horses into the shadow of the outcropping. Larry poured the residue from that first canteen into his hat, and there were just a few mouthfuls for each animal. Tom Shackley, having appointed himself spokesman, performed introductions.

  “This here’s the Newbold family—our passengers. Shackley’s my handle—Tom Shackley—and the hombre with the busted wing is my partner, Bart Darrance.”

  “The arm isn’t broken,” Bart told Larry. “I got creased.” He scowled towards the northeast and added, “But I’ll heal, and settle with the skunk that gunned me—if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Hold-up?” challenged Larry.

  “And then some,” growled Tom.

  “It was terrible!” gasped Harriet.

  “You better start from the beginnin’,” Larry suggested to Tom.

  “When I’m beholden to a man,” drawled Bart, “I like to know his name.”

  “Valentine,” said Larry.

  “Emerson,” said Stretch.

  There was no violent reaction and, for this, they were grateful. In many sections of the great frontier, their names were a byword, but this notoriety was not of their own choosing. They were too realistic for conceit, and were mutually agreed that notoriety could become a damn nuisance—and usually did. If these stranded travelers had never heard of the Lone Star Hellions, so much the better.

  “Our friends,” offered Larry, “call us Larry and Stretch.” Still no unusual reaction. He nodded affably to Tom, and said, “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”

  Tom began it, but, as his tale unfolded, Lavinia contributed many a heated interjection, and the story became confused. Right from the start, Larry had something in common with Bart Darrance, an instinctive dislike for the big woman, her belligerence, her air of regal disdain. He kept a rein on his temper, however, and offered no comment until Tom had talked himself breathless.

  “Six of ’em, you said,” he mused: “They had no horses, and only two guns—carbines. Well, I reckon I can tell you who they were.”

  “We heard about ’em,” explained Stretch, “just before we headed into the desert.”

  “We ran into a search-party from the Pima Valley prison camp,” said Larry. “Seems there was a break-out. A half-dozen real mean hombres, led by a killer name of Elrigg.”

  “Same bunch.” Tom nodded emphatically. “I heard one of ’em call him Elrigg.”

  “And we were wide open,” scowled Bart. “Drove clear into a trap—and lost everything.”

  “Things could be a heap worse for us,” grinned Tom, “now that we got company.”

  “And,” countered Larry, “things could be a heap better.”

  “Meanin’ what?” demanded Tom.

  “My pardner and me,” Larry pointed out, “we ain’t totin’ enough chow to feed nine
people, nor enough water. Just those three canteens is all we have, till we reach the next waterhole.”

  “He wouldn’t dare!” blustered Lavinia. “He wouldn’t dare abandon us—leave us to die ...!”

  “Easy, ma’am,” frowned Tom. “Easy.”

  “They aren’t going to leave us,” Sarah Ann opined. “You should be ashamed for suggesting it, Mama.” She smiled shyly at Larry. “I just know they’ll help us—any way they can.”

  “Of what use is all this talk?” demanded Lavinia. “Instead of talking, one of them could be riding to Vine City to raise the alarm, to arrange for transportation to take us out of this desolate death-trap.”

  “Talk,” said Bart, “is more important than you know. This thing has to be talked over, and careful.”

  “That’s it,” nodded Larry. “You folks need to know exactly what’s in store for you.”

  “All right, runt,” grunted Stretch. “You call it.”

  “We’re all headed for the same place,” said Larry, “meanin’ Vine City. Now I figure we can make it to the next waterhole, if we stay on this stage-route and follow Henry Sheldon’s map. We can stay alive, so long as you follow my orders. Do I need to convince you we’ll have to go easy on the water? All we have is two horses. The women can take turns at ridin’ but we daren’t let our horses tote a double-load in this heat.”

  “That’s fair enough,” asserted Tom.

  “Stretch is gonna rustle up a fire,” said Larry. “We’ll count out enough rations for the ladies to fix us a fair-sized lunch. We’ll eat light, but there’ll be coffee—and a short shot of whisky for Bart, because he needs strengthenin’.” He got to his feet, pensively studied the women. To Lavinia’s horror, he felt at the material of Sarah Ann’s gown. “One more thing, before we move out. You women better change your duds. You try walkin’ the desert in your Sunday-best and the weight of your rig will wear you down fast. Get changed into somethin’ light. Even a doggone nightgown would be easier to move in.”

  “The very idea ...!” began Lavinia.

  “It’s for your own good,” Larry warned.

  “Well,” grinned Stretch, “I’ll fix us a fire and break out the grub.”

  After that austere but satisfying meal, they were ready to begin their long trek. It was two-forty p.m. by Tom Shackley’s old silver timepiece, when they abandoned the dried-out waterhole and moved off along the stage-trail. Larry took the lead, striding steadily and frequently consulting Sheldon’s map. Close behind him plodded the sorrel, toting Lavinia Newbold, who, in this time of emergency, was still determined to maintain her dignity. Elmira straddled the pinto, which was led by Tom Shackley, ambling shoulder to shoulder with Bart. Sarah Ann and Harriet followed with their father, and Stretch brought up the rear, hefting both Winchesters on his shoulder, his own and Larry’s.

  In this formation, they trudged the first mile and the second—and then ...

  “Trouble,” growled Tom.

  “Where?” frowned Bart.

  “I could be wrong—and I hope to Hannah I am,” muttered Tom, as he wet a finger and raised it.

  Bart stared dead ahead, saw what his friend had seen, and began feeling it. There hadn’t been a breath of breeze until this moment. Now the horizon was clouded. From north to south, a rising wall of white seemed to be moving towards them. He cursed under his breath and called a query to Larry, who nodded soberly, and declared:

  “This’d be a fine time to find shelter—except there ain’t no shelter.”

  “What is it?” called Theodore.

  “Gonna feel it soon enough,” drawled Stretch. “High wind.”

  “A-a s-storm?” blinked Sarah Ann.

  “Oh, no!” wailed Harriet.

  “Worst kinda storm,” scowled the taller Texan. “Sandstorm. Hey, runt ...?”

  “I hear you!” Larry had to raise his voice, because the storm was audible now, roaring and whining at them. “We’re movin’ clear into it, and I don’t see any place we can hole up.”

  “We’ll just have to keep on walking,” suggested Bart, “for as long as we can.”

  “Get close to each other,” ordered Larry, over his shoulder. “You women hang onto the horses’ tails. Stretch—keep an eye on ’em!”

  “Keno,” grunted Stretch.

  Desperately, Larry scanned the terrain to right and left of the trail. There was nothing. No mound of rock to shelter behind. No welcoming hollow. Just the sprawling, sun baked plain, pool-table-flat. He tugged his Stetson lower on his brow and began raising his bandanna.

  “Cover your faces!” he warned.

  And, with harrowing suddenness, the full impact of the storm smote them.

  Chapter Four

  Panic

  Throughout their career of knight errantry, the Texans had braved worse storms. They were willing to take their chances in this howling tornado in the Big Amarillo and the same could be said for the case-hardened Bart and Tom. But, for the Newbolds, this was more than an ordeal. This was a nightmare, a blood-chilling experience calculated to shatter their nerves and rob them of the last vestiges of their courage.

  The sorrel baulked and Lavinia fell. Had she struck ground head-first, she might have suffered serious injury. Fortunately for her welfare, but at the expense of her dignity, she fell on her well-padded rear section. Larry whirled and seized the sorrel’s rein, yelled to her and hauled her to her feet.

  “Keep walkin’, ma’am! Get a hold of my gunbelt and hang on!”

  Another hundred yards they struggled against the onslaught of the wind. There was little visibility in that time, and, a few hectic minutes later, there was none at all. They were moving blindly, and Larry was grimly aware of a change in the feel of the ground beneath his feet. His boots no longer sank into wheel-ruts, or the indentations made by the pounding hooves of stage-teams.

  How much farther had they advanced? He yelled a query over his shoulder, demanding that each of his followers name himself.

  “Here!” roared Tom.

  “Here!” echoed Bart. “And two of the girls right in back of us!”

  “Here!” called Stretch.

  “We’re all here!” cried Sarah Ann.

  “Stay that way,” yelled Larry. “Don’t get separated!”

  He felt the big woman clinging grimly to his gunbelt, as he struggled onward, doing his utmost to re-locate the marked trail, but failing. No use fooling himself. This storm was more than strong enough to force nine humans and two horses off their course.

  He lost all idea of time, as he led his wind-battered companions through the nightmare of choking, stinging grit. And then, after what seemed an eternity, the ground was' sloping. He descended a few more feet with Lavinia still clinging to him, before calling a reassurance to the others.

  “We’re in a hollow! Any shelter is better than none—so keep comin’!”

  Soon, they were below ground-level and gasping in relief, spitting to rid themselves of the grit. On the floor of this basin, the wind still bedeviled them, but with less ferocity than on the surface of the plain. They mustered in an area some thirty feet square and, one by one, flopped to the ground. They were footsore and exhausted, in no condition to cope with a fresh emergency, but it happened anyway.

  At Elmira’s strident scream, Larry whirled with his right hand darting to his holster, and what followed was a confused blur of action, to all save himself. Lavinia lurched to her feet, her eyes bulging, as Larry drew and fired. From where she stood, it seemed he was shooting directly at her eldest daughter, and at almost point-blank range. She screamed a protest and so did Elmira. Hysteria robbed the bride-to-be of all reason. She turned and began running up the slope towards the level ground, with Larry in hot pursuit.

  “What in tarnation ...?” began Tom.

  “If Larry loses her up there,” warned Stretch, “we might never find her! C’mon!”

  “Elmira ...!” shrieked Lavinia. “My poor child ...!”

  The next ten minutes were fraught with
confusion, but destined to end without tragedy. Stumbling through the clouds of rising sand, yelling to the fleeing woman, Larry suddenly became aware of a lessening of the wind’s impact. The wind was dropping, and quickly. A few minutes later, the dust-clouds were settling and the sun was burning through the yellow mist, again bathing the desert in its harsh light. Elmira was huddled on the ground, clearly visible some ninety yards away.

  He ran to her, gathered her into his arms. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily, and a thought struck him then.

  “Too bad you didn’t faint rightaway. It would’ve been a sight easier on all of us.”

  Larry toted his burden back to the basin with the others converging on him. Old Theodore appeared pallid and spent. Harriet was wide-eyed with shock, and Lavinia, not surprisingly, was still in good voice.

  “My child—my poor Elmira!” she cried. “I saw you—you murderer—shooting at her ...!”

  Larry kept coming, doing his best to ignore the booming accusations of the enraged Lavinia. When he descended to the base of the hollow, they were all close behind him. Gently, he lowered his burden to the ground.

  “All right, ma’am.” He nodded to the big woman. “Rouse her. I guess you know how. She’s likely fainted before—plenty times.”

  “I’m not such a damn fool,” frowned Bart, “as to think you were shooting at Miss Elmira. What was it?”

  “Rattler, maybe?” challenged Tom.

  “Damn near as bad,” growled Larry. “Take a look in back of that rock. Doggone critter rose up just as the girl flopped down. She’d have been bitten for sure.”

  He squatted cross-legged and dug out his makings, waiting patiently for Tom Shackley to locate and exhibit the dead creature. As Shackley gingerly lifted it and placed it atop the rock, Harriet shuddered and clasped her hands to her breasts. Sarah Ann asked, uneasily:

  “What is it?”

  “Gila monster,” Larry told her. He scratched a match for his cigarette, scowled at the scaly, ugly carcass. “Mean-lookin’ critter, huh? Your sister near sat on it.”

  “I’d as lief take my chances with a whole pack of wolves,” muttered Bart, “than get bitten by a gila monster.” He frowned at Lavinia, who was cradling Elmira in her arms. “Just so you’ll understand, ma’am, I’ve heard it said the bite of a gila monster never heals. Maybe that’s true, and maybe not. Personally, I wouldn’t want to take the chance.”