Larry and Stretch 10

by Marshall Grover

  “All right—all right,” scowled Vincent. “I just hope you know what you’re doing!”

  Elrigg nudged his mount to movement. The others followed suit.

  ~*~

  The sound was faint at first, but audible and compelling, more than enough to awaken the women. Lavinia sat bolt upright, and that sudden action caused her mattress to sag and groan. Elmira and Harriet, who were sharing the same bed, clung to each other in fear. The doughty Sarah Ann, who had elected to sleep on two chairs, swung her feet to the floor and listened intently.

  “What is it?” hissed Lavinia.

  “I heard—something ...!” breathed Harriet.

  The sound was repeated—louder now—dragging footsteps along the corridor outside. Lavinia made a choking noise, gulped for breath and urgently enquired:

  “Did you—lock our door?”

  “Tried to,” whispered Sarah Ann, “but no use. The lock is broken.”

  And then, high-pitched, strident and blood-chilling, the laughter smote their ears—the same maniacal laughter that had bedeviled them upon their arrival in Fortuna. It rang out loud and clear along the corridor and reduced the elder sisters to hysteria. Lavinia excelled herself, producing a scream that soared up from her diaphragm and tore from her gaping mouth at ear-splitting volume. Sarah Ann grimaced, clapping her hands to her ears and, to her mother’s horror, made straight for the door.

  “No—Sarah Ann ...!” squealed Harriet.

  But the youngest sister’s fury and indignation were stronger than her fear of the unknown. She pulled the door open and, after a moment of hesitation, thrust her head out to scan the gloomy corridor.

  In the lobby, Larry was running to the stairs and snapping orders to his companions, all of whom had been awakened by Lavinia’s scream. Theodore struggled to his feet and took the position vacated by Larry at the front entrance. Bart, hefting his borrowed Colt, followed the Texans to the stairs. For a brief moment, Tom Shackley appeared in the entrance to the rear corridor.

  “Get back out there,” Larry called to him. “Whatever’s fazin’ the women, us three can handle it.”

  They finished their climb and barged into the corridor. From the doorway to their right, Sarah Ann beckoned urgently and gestured to the window at the far end.

  “I saw a figure of some kind,” she gasped. “It went straight for that window—and disappeared.”

  They ran to the window at the far end of the corridor. It was open—indicating that the loud-laughing marauder was too human to penetrate glass. Beyond was a small balcony, with a flight of wooden steps leading down into a side alley. They climbed through fast and descended the stairs, dropped into the alley. On a hunch, Larry led them along to the rear lane and, as he rounded the corner, the rifle barked sharply from somewhere dead ahead. He caught a brief impression of the gun-flash and a small figure as the slug whined past his ear. Cursing, he retaliated with a fast-triggered bullet from his Colt. The figure moved again, this time faster. The ghost of Fortuna was beating a hasty retreat.

  “Let's get after him!” roared Stretch.

  They pounded along that rear alley as fast as their legs could carry them, with their quarry less than sixty yards ahead. There were too many shadows for them to get a clear impression of the running figure. It was small and it was masculine—and undoubtedly human.

  “Look there!” panted Bart. “He’s dodging into a barn!”

  “That’s no barn,” said Larry. “Too small.”

  As they advanced on the clapboard shack, they heard the slamming of the door. Stretch, brandishing his Colt, braced himself for a headlong rush, but Larry checked him.

  “Hold it. Could be we got him cornered. Bart, you hustle around back in case there’s a rear door.”

  Bart hastened to obey, while the Texans moved closer to the door. Gingerly, Stretch turned the knob.

  “Locked,” grunted Stretch.

  “No door back here!” called Part. “And—hey ...!”

  “Hey what?” challenged Larry.

  “No windows!” Bart sounded incredulous. “This damn shack has no windows!”

  “You in there!” yelled Larry. “Drop the rifle! Unlock the door and come out with your paws grabbin’ sky!” No answer. He muttered an oath. “All right! We’re comin’ in! You try to use that rifle—and it’ll be the last thing you ever try!” He nodded to his partner. “Go ahead, big feller.”

  Stretch took three paces backwards, turned side-on to the door and charged. His left shoulder smote it with shattering force, causing him no pain, but wreaking havoc on the lock and hinges. The door came free and pitched inward, with Stretch sprawling atop it and Larry leaping over him. Bart rounded the comer and stepped in after them.

  Silence, broken only by Stretch’s heavy breathing. In the gloom, Larry walked every square foot of the interior, swinging his six-gun and feeling for furniture, but there was nothing. As near as he could judge, the shack was empty. He said as much and Bart protested:

  “That’s crazy! We saw him dodge in here!”

  “I know what we saw,” growled Larry. “But I’m tellin’ you he ain’t here.”

  He scratched a match. In the weak light of it, they observed that the shack certainly was empty. No furniture. No sign of life. An oil-lamp on a shelf. Nothing else. Larry raised the funnel and touched his match to the wick. It flared. He lowered the glass and the room filled with yellow light.

  “You notice something?” Bart quietly challenged. “You notice how every lamp we find in this burg is primed? Fortuna is home—to somebody.”

  “I never doubted it,” frowned Larry.

  He stood in the center of the room and scanned the board walls, raised his eyes to study the roof. There was no ladder, no ceiling, no opening in the roof, no way their quarry could have climbed up there. No openings in the walls. Stretch blinked nervously, as he edged back to the doorway.

  “Runt,” he grunted, “I ain’t yeller—you know that. I’ll fight double my weight in humans or critters, but ...”

  “But what?” prodded Larry.

  “This is different,” fretted Stretch. “This is—uh—kinda crazy ...”

  “And weird,” opined Bart. “We saw him come in here—and yet ...”

  “Maybe he is a spook,” Stretch suggested. Larry glowered at him. He shrugged apologetically. “Well, maybe he’s human after all—but he sure don’t act human.”

  “How many times have I got to tell you?” chided Larry. “Everything has a reason—an explanation.”

  Larry dropped his gaze to the floor. A wry grin creased his suntanned countenance. Here was the explanation, and so simple, so ridiculously simple. The outline of the trapdoor was clear enough, despite the dusty condition of the floorboards. He crooked a finger and nodded, pantomiming for his companions to follow his glance, but to remain silent. Stretch heaved a sigh of relief. Bart matched Larry’s grin, and asked:

  “Now what?”

  Deliberately, Larry squatted cross-legged atop the trapdoor and began building a smoke. His sly wink warned Stretch and Bart to go along with his ruse.

  “This spook-feller,” he opined, loud enough for his voice to reach an eavesdropper, “is too smart for us. Almost too smart, anyway. He scares the innards out of the women and gets away clean, movin’ too fast for us to catch him. Well, I guess he’s just plain leery of strangers, and we can’t hardly blame him for that, can we?”

  “Make your point, Larry,” offered Bart.

  “I’d make him a proposition, that’s what,” drawled Larry. “Yeah. If I could get close enough to parlay with him, I’d offer him a fair-square bargain,”

  “You think he’d listen to you?” prodded Stretch.

  “Why not?” shrugged Larry. “I reckon he’s as reasonable as anybody else. He proved he was reasonable, when he planted all that grub in the lobby for us. That was right friendly of him. Of course ...” He winked again, “we know why he did that, don’t we? He didn’t want for us to go snoopin’ around, searc
hin’ for food and maybe stumblin’ onto his—uh—secret hideout.”

  “Why, sure,” grinned Stretch.

  “Well,” frowned Bart, “I bear him no malice—but he’d better quit scaring the women. You couldn’t call that friendly.”

  “I think I know why he does it,” said Larry. Again, he stared down at the trapdoor, in no doubt that the “ghost” lingered down there, hanging on his every word. “He’s a-feared we’ll stick in Fortuna a long time. He doesn’t know we plan on movin’ out again come sunup. If he could be sure of that, I reckon he’d leave us alone—and stop plaguin’ the ladies with all that caterwaulin’ and crazy laughin’.”

  “Well, by golly,” growled Stretch, “he better quit spookin’ ’em.”

  “Damn right,” nodded Larry. He raised his voice slightly. “He’d better quit. Because, if he spooks those women just one more time, I’ll start huntin’ him again—and I won’t let up till I find him!”

  “Fair enough,” approved Bart. “And now we’d better get back to the hotel.”

  In response to Larry’s nod, Stretch killed the lamp. They trudged out of the shack and sauntered back along the alley towards the hotel.

  “It was a safe guess, huh, Larry?” prodded Bart. “You figure our ghost was under the floor, in some kind of shaft?”

  “He was there all right,” Larry asserted. “How else could he get lost so fast? And I had a strong hunch he was listenin’ to us. He’s leery of strangers, but he’s plumb inquisitive, too.”

  “Well,” frowned Bart, “maybe your warning reached him, and maybe he’ll take it easy from here on.”

  A few moments later, when they reached the rear door of the hotel, they heard Tom Shackley hailing them, his voice as edgy as ever.

  “What was it?”

  “It ain’t a ‘it’,” grinned Stretch. “It’s a him. Human—and fulla tricks.”

  They told the stage-driver of the “ghost’s” disappearing trick, and enquired as to the welfare of the women.

  “I hear ’em gabbin’,” shrugged Tom. “The old lady vows she won’t stay another hour in Fortuna, and you can’t hardly blame her.” He shuddered, Shook his head. “I swear I’ve never been so scared in my whole blame life.”

  “You sleepy?” asked Larry.

  “Too jumpy to sleep,” muttered Tom.

  “Well,” shrugged Larry, “you don’t have to squat here till midnight. One of us’ll relieve you in a little while.” They moved into the kitchen and crossed it to the passage entrance, walked along the passage and into the lobby. Lavinia and her brood were on the stairs. Theodore, from his position by the front door, was trying to persuade them to return to bed.

  “I’m sure Mr. Valentine has the situation in hand,” he was saying, as Larry and his companions returned.

  “Mr. Valentine!” boomed Lavinia. “I demand that we leave this terrible place immediately!”

  “I’ll die of fright,” wailed Elmira, “and I’ll never see Orin again!”

  “You’ll see your man again, Miss Elmira,” Larry calmly promised. “We never got our hands on the hombre that’s been spookin’ you, but I think we threw a scare into him. There’s a chance he’ll stay clear of us from now on.”

  “While ever you force us to remain,” Lavinia sternly rebuked Larry, “you expose us To danger. Surely we’d be safer away from this place.”

  “We wouldn’t,” said Larry, bluntly. “Maybe I didn’t make it clear before, ma’am. A desert at night is no place for a bunch of women. It’s better we wait till daylight—and that’s just what we’re gonna do.”

  “Larry’s right,” opined Sarah Ann, before her mother could get another word in. “The wisest thing we can do is try to get some sleep before morning. Come along now.”

  She hustled Elmira and Harriet up the stairs. Lavinia lingered long enough to aim a scowl of disapproval at Larry. It didn’t appear to have any effect on him, so, in queenly hauteur, she turned and followed her daughters back to the bedroom. Trading grins, Stretch and Bart settled down to resume their interrupted sleep. Theodore had lit a lamp during his conversation with his womenfolk. Larry extinguished it, scratched a match for his cigarette and ambled to the entrance to squat beside the old man.

  “I’ll stay with it till midnight,” he muttered. “You might’s well hit the hay again, Mr. Newbold.”

  “I don’t need much sleep,” shrugged Theodore. “I don’t mind staying awake, Mr. Valentine. Although I’m timid in many ways, there is one failing I have escaped.”

  “How’s that?” frowned Larry.

  “Superstition,” explained Theodore. “The fears that beset poor Mr. Shackley.” He shook his head sadly. “I feel very sorry for him. To be superstitious is to be constantly apprehensive.”

  “Funny,” mused Larry. “A little man like you—feelin’ sorry for a husky old-timer like Tom Shackley.”

  “You probably think me a weakling,” sighed Theodore, “because I never argue with my wife.”

  “Mister,” grunted Larry, “that’s your grief—and no business of mine.”

  “Agreed,” said Theodore. “But may I make a point?”

  “Help yourself,” shrugged Larry.

  “It would be futile—worse than useless,” Theodore declared, “to argue with a woman of Lavinia’s caliber. I learned that to my sorrow, a long time ago.” He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. “Why engage in argument when you know you can never convince the other party? That’s why I submit, Mr. Valentine. To submit is easier in the end.”

  “Too bad she never listens to you,” Larry opined. And he didn’t hesitate to add, “You’re a sight smarter than your wife.”

  “Well,” smiled Theodore. “Thank you for that.” He got to his feet. “Should I relieve Mr. Shackley?”

  “It mightn’t be a bad idea,” nodded Larry.

  Two minutes later, Tom Shackley came trudging in and made to light a lamp.

  “I got nervous in the dark,” he mumbled.

  “Don’t light it,” called Larry. “If you’re nervous, come over here and bed down where I can watch you. From now until sunup, I don’t want for us to show any lights.”

  “Still thinkin’ of them jailbirds?” prodded Tom.

  “Still thinkin’ of ’em,” nodded Larry.

  He resumed his scan of the silent street and cocked an ear to the night-sounds, again wondering about the six escapees, and unaware that Elrigg, and his followers were now scouting the ghost town. They had paused atop a rise on Fortuna’s south side. From his vantage point, all that remained of a once-bustling gold-town was clustered in the moonlight for their thoughtful inspection.

  “Ghost town,” opined Trenton. “Nothing surer.”

  “A ghost town it is,” agreed Elrigg, “and maybe the answer to all our problems.”

  “Will there be water?” wondered Fields.

  “Miners would never have founded a town here,” asserted Elrigg, “unless there was water.”

  “I wish I could be sure,” muttered Fields. “I can’t remember when we last found a full waterhole.”

  “We won’t be dependent on waterholes,” said Elrigg. “An old well would do. We’ll find one of the old wells, dig at its bottom. That way, we’re bound to strike water.”

  “How about chow?” challenged Morrow.

  “This won’t be the first ghost town I ever sheltered in,” drawled Elrigg. “You’d be surprised how much junk miners leave behind after a boom-town dies. Canned food, for instance. We might find a whole pile of canned food.”

  They descended from the rise and began walking their mounts through a scattering of mesquite some two hundred yards from the first buildings. Morrow, who was bringing up the rear, deviated slightly from the line. He was preoccupied with his thirst and hunger, moodily scanning the brush, when suddenly, his horse stepped into a hole and flopped on its bent forelegs. With a startled gasp, Morrow pitched to the ground.

  The others stared backwards, as Morrow’s gasp increased to a shocke
d cry. He had rolled into a patch of brush, and the ground seemed to give way beneath him. Feet-first, he plunged into inky darkness.

  Chapter Eight

  Noises in the Night

  “What the hell ...?” began Vincent. “Hey—Wes ...!”

  “Keep your voices down!” snapped Elrigg.

  Slowly and cautiously, he led his men back to the spot at which Morrow had fallen. They dismounted to begin a search of the area, and Vincent would have barged directly into the mesquite, but for Elrigg’s curt warning.

  “Stand right where you are.”

  “Well, damn it all,” blustered Vincent, “we gotta find him!”

  “Do you want to find him the hard way?” Elrigg coldly challenged. “By falling into the same damn hole?”

  “That’s what happened to him,” muttered Bush. “Old mineshaft, huh, Cleave?”

  “More than likely,” frowned Elrigg. He calmed Morrow’s trembling horse, edged a few steps closer to the mesquite clump and saw it—the aperture barely thirty-six inches square. “Here it is. Here’s where he fell.” As the others gathered around, he dropped to his knees at the edge of the hole and stared down into the gloom. “Wes? You hear me?”

  His answer was a muffled grunt and a lurid oath, and the oath was familiar to Vincent.

  “You hurt?” demanded Vincent.

  “No,” grunted Morrow. “Just shook up. Fell on my feet. Got a hunch there’s a ladder down here. Somebody throw me a match.”

  Trenton dropped a box of vestas into the shaft. By feel, Morrow located it and scratched a match.

  “Look for a lamp,” ordered Elrigg.

  “Yeah—yeah—I see a lamp ...” Morrow investigated, found the tank to be full and the wick primed. He raised the funnel and used another match to get the lamp working. Now, Elrigg could see the rough ladder leading downward, and portion of the area below, including Morrow’s head and shoulders. “Holy jumpin’ Julius!” Morrow’s voice was shaking now.

  “What is it?”

  “Come see for yourself,” Morrow invited, “and maybe I’ll know I ain’t dreamin’.”