Larry and Stretch 14

by Marshall Grover

  “Likewise,” grinned Larry.

  Wilbur Aldworth yelled “’Board ...!”, the engineer sounded his whistle, and with a hissing of steam, the Special was on its way again. The Texans relaxed with their long legs crossed and their brown fingers busy with the building of cigarettes. With Addy and Tim, they drifted easily into companionable conversation. Omaha was soon a full mile behind. In his seat at the rear, Monte Nichols sat slumped, his face buried in a newspaper. He had no knowledge of the tall nomads, was unconcerned with the men now trading polite talk with his intended victim. The Federal lawman? Well, he needn’t present any problem. The way it looked, he would have his hands full.

  In Omaha, some two hours after the departure of the west-bound Special, the latest edition of the Gazette hit the streets and began circulating far and wide. Wilma Jefford had no great interest in frontier newspapers, in particular the Gazette, whose editor-owner she regarded as a rabid sensationalist. But, as it happened, a copy of the current edition came under her notice.

  She was missing her husband already, though she well realized there would be many such separations. To boost her spirits, she was purchasing a new bonnet at the Bon Ton. The newspaper lay on the counter, front page uppermost. While waiting for the proprietress to pack her purchase in a box, she glanced at the headline, casually at first, and then with intensity,

  “Is something wrong, Mrs. Jefford?” enquired the Bon Ton owner. “You seem disturbed. It isn’t too late to change your mind. If you’d like to see something better ...”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bogardis,” said the tight-lipped Wilma. “This one will do nicely.” She grasped the hat-box, nodded to the newspaper. “May I have this?”

  “By all means, Mrs. Jefford.”

  Along Main Street she hurried, her face slightly flushed. The hat-box dangled by its string from her left hand. The folded Gazette was under her left arm. In her right hand, she grasped her furled parasol—as though it were a club. Very soon, she was entering the Gazette office. One of Fox’s employees came to the counter to offer his assistance. She brushed past him and marched resolutely to the desk where the Gazette owner sat. Fox looked up.

  “Mrs. Jefford—a pleasure and an honor.”

  “You, Tobias Fox, should be tarred and feathered!” she breathed.

  “Well now—really …” he began.

  She dropped the newspaper onto the desk, indicated the headline with the point of her parasol.

  “Have you no discretion, no vestige of common sense?”

  “A good journalist,” drawled Fox, “becomes accustomed to abuse.”

  “Is that what you call yourself?” she challenged. “A good journalist? Self-praise, Mr. Fox, is poor recommendation. No journalist worthy of the name would commit such an act—an act of blatant, rash stupidity!”

  Pox’s ears turned red. He was suddenly conscious of the intent scrutiny of his staff.

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Jefford, and calm yourself. You have no cause to abuse me for ...”

  “No cause?” she gasped. “I have ample cause, Mr. Fox! Did it occur to you to consult Marshal Gillespie before publishing this story, this ill-timed report?”

  “My paper,” he frowned, “publishes the news as it happens.”

  “You could have waited,” said Wilma, “and you should have waited—until my husband reached his destination. With no regard for the possible consequences, you have advertised to the whole territory that Lane is escorting McKeller to Laramie. You have named the train, the time of its departure from Omaha. You have, in fact, issued an invitation to McKeller’s associates! They’re still at large, Mr. Fox. McKeller is the only member of that band to be captured.”

  “Well …” shrugged Fox.

  “Your newspaper circulates all over Nebraska,” she coldly reminded him, “and as far north as the Dakotas. There’s every possibility that Erie Preston will see this report—and then what? He could stage an ambush, stop the train anywhere between Omaha and the Wyoming border, in an attempt to rescue McKeller. If that happens—and it could happen, Mr. Fox—my husband will fight to hold his prisoner.” Her bottom lip trembled, but she fought back her tears. “He’ll fight—and probably be killed …”

  “You’re overwrought, ma’am,” muttered Fox. “I doubt you have any real cause to concern yourself. It isn’t likely Preston’s gang would make such an attempt. They’ve never raided a train before.”

  “There’s always a first time,” she retorted.

  “As for our reporting McKeller’s capture and—uh—his extradition to Laramie,” said Fox. “Well now, ma’am, that’s standard procedure. The Gazette only prints the facts.”

  “Regardless of the consequences!” she accused.

  “News is news,” he asserted. “And let’s not forget there is such a thing as the freedom of the press.”

  “That freedom,” said Wilma, “is an evil thing—when it jeopardizes the lives of individuals.” And now she grasped her parasol as a cavalryman would grip a saber. Fox flinched, as she leaned over the desk and prodded his chest with its point. “Heaven help you, Mr. Fox! If the Preston gang attacks that train—if my husband’s blood is spilled-—heaven help you!”

  She gathered up the hat box, turned and swept out of the office.

  On Main Street, on her way back to Havelock Avenue, Wilma was offered some relief from her growing fear; she happened to encounter Marshal Gillespie. The lawman greeted her courteously and they paused for a few words. Slightly embarrassed, she confided in him, describing her outburst in the Gazette office. And Gillespie didn’t reproach her.

  “I read that report in the Gazette just a few minutes ago,” he told her, “and I’m as sore as you. Sore enough to go dent Fox’s fool head with a gun barrel. But, of course, I can’t do that. So you cussed him out, huh, ma’am? Well, good for you.”

  “I’m not a hysterical woman, I hope,” she murmured. “I told Mr. Fox exactly what I believe—and I still believe it. Erie Preston could read that report.”

  “I wouldn’t try to fool you,” he humbly assured her. “The whole darn situation is just as serious as you say, but it’s a mite early for us to look on the gloomy side.” He searched his mind for words of comfort, and was suddenly reminded of two case-hardened Texans. “Hey, now. I just thought of something.”

  “Yes?” she prodded.

  “Aren’t we forgetting Valentine and Emerson?” He grinned encouragingly. “While I was down to the depot with your husband, I saw those sassy Texans boarding the same carriage. They got kind of friendly with Lane, didn't they?”

  “That’s right.” She nodded eagerly. “I’d almost forgotten them.”

  “It seems to me,” asserted Gillespie, “they’d be bound to side Lane, if Lane suddenly needed help.”

  “Thank you for reminding me,” she smiled. “I feel a whole lot easier now. Lane told me so much about them and—why—it’s almost as though the government had sent two deputies to assist him, isn’t it?”

  “Well,” mused Gillespie, “they’re a couple real rough hombres but, the way I hear it, they’ll always back a lawman.”

  She thanked him for his words of reassurance. Her heart was lighter and her spirits higher, as she made her way homeward. Her thoughts were with her husband, who, at this very moment, was fixing a steely glare on his prisoner and growling a warning.

  “You can travel comfortable, or you can do it the hard way. It’s up to you, McKeller.”

  “Real hot-shot lawman,” jeered McKeller. “Big hero.”

  “Maybe I’m not as much a hero,” frowned Jefford, “as the back-shooting butchers of the Preston gang. But I know my job—so watch yourself, McKeller. One wrong move from you and I’ll chain you to the arm of your seat—and then you won’t be so almighty comfortable. Is that clear?”

  “I never knew a badge-toter,” scowled McKeller, “that wasn’t a bigmouth.”

  Across the aisle, Tim Blake was snapping his fingers and announcing,

  “I just got me a g
reat idea!”

  Addy eyed him enquiringly. The Texans grinned at him through the haze of their cigarette smoke.

  “You’re gonna spill it anyway, Tim,” drawled Stretch, “so go ahead. Get it offa your chest.”

  “I’ve been tellin’ Addy how I’d admire to hire her,” explained the little man. “You know? A straight week at the Prairie Queen, entertainin’ my customers? Well, I’ve thought of a way we could—uh—kind of try her out.”

  “Try me out?” challenged Addy, somewhat guardedly.

  “You know what I mean.” Tim nudged her with an elbow. “Back East, they’d call it a audition. And I know just the place, Addy. You’d be singin’ in a regular joy-house, a saloon darn near as fancy as the old Prairie Queen. We don’t have to wait till we hit Coyote Gulch. You can strut your stuff this very night!”

  “Tonight?” she frowned.

  “In Cargell City,” nodded Tim. “Why not? I reckon Gus would co-operate.”

  “Who’s Gus?” asked Larry.

  “Gus Cooney,” said Tim. “Old friend of mine. He runs the Cooney Palace in Cargell City. Mind, now, I ain’t sayin’ it’s as high-class as my place, but Gus’s customers are pretty much like mine. Last I heard, Gus was expandin’. Got himself a whole orchestra, instead of just a pianner. Four pieces, no less!”

  Tim grinned at the disquieted Addy and patted her arm.

  “Just you leave everything to me, Addy. I’ll set it up with Gus, and ...”

  “But—just a minute,” she protested. “I haven’t said I’d ...”

  “You ain’t objectin’, are you?” challenged Tim.

  And, again, she had to keep her feelings in check, had to remind herself that these men had a false impression of her. She, Adelaide Chapman, had deliberately created this false impression. What was she to do now? Confess her deception? No. At least not yet. She would brazen it out for as long as she could.

  Chapter Five: First Attempt

  The Special was the longest train on the Ohio & Western service at this time. Four carriages. Conductor Aldworth’s caboose was coupled to the fuel-tender. Next was the club car, then the carriage equipped with private compartments and, at the rear, the day-car accommodating Larry and Stretch, Jefford and his prisoner, Addy and Tim, Monte Nichols and various other passengers.

  As well as its well-patronized bar, the club car contained sufficient tables and seating to accommodate the passengers at lunch. Rostered by the conductor, they filed through the third car and into the second carriage, eating hearty, coming and going in orderly fashion. Jefford and McKeller were the exception, of course. The marshal insisted that their food be brought to them and, in this regard, the conductor was only too willing to co-operate.

  By early afternoon, every passenger had been fed, but there were several who, now that their appetites were satisfied, were beginning to consider their thirsts.

  “I reckon it’s high time I bought us a drink,” Tim Blake cheerfully declared. “Hear tell they serve only the best bourbon in that fancy club car. What d’you say, friends?”

  “Tim,” said Larry, “you got yourself a deal.”

  The Texans rose and stepped out into the aisle, with Tim following. Addy remained seated until Tim anxiously asked,

  “What’re you waitin’ for, Addy? Heck! You ain’t temperance, are you?”

  “Her? Temperance?” grinned Stretch. “Don’t talk foolish, Tim. I never knew a singin’ woman that couldn’t hold her liquor.”

  “Trouble with you hombres,” chuckled Larry, “you don’t savvy how to treat a lady right. Addy’s waitin’ for one of us to help her up.” He bent to take her arm. “Allow me, Addy.”

  Somehow, Addy summoned up an eager smile, as she rose and walked the aisle, her arm linked through Larry’s. It was too late to turn back. Bourbon? What on earth was bourbon? Some kind of whiskey. Ye gods! And nothing stronger than elderberry wine had ever passed her pretty lips.

  The white-jacketed steward presiding behind the bar was suave and sociable. In response to his welcoming gesture they seated themselves at a table.

  “Bourbon all round,” called Tim. “Doubles.”

  “Make mine a single—and add water,” begged Addy. And she had the presence of mind to smile blandly and add, “It’s a little early in the day for me, boys.”

  Where on earth had she heard that expression—and how could she have memorized it? There were few regular topers in Elmford; it was almost a temperance town. And, certainly, she wasn’t personally acquainted with them. Who had said it? Yes, of course. That gentle, venerable Mr. Milliken, on an almost-forgotten occasion. They had met on Elmford’s main street and a passer-by had paused to mutter an invitation to the lawyer. Mr. Milliken had gently declined in those very same words.

  She pretended to listen and to appreciate the good-humored repartee of her escorts, the while she strove to quell the turmoil in her brain. Hadn’t she yearned for new experience, new excitement? Hadn’t she hungered to assume a new identity during this pleasure trip? Her wish had been granted, in no uncertain terms.

  “I won’t deprive myself of this opportunity,” she mentally vowed. “I just won’t.”

  She roused from this reverie as, with a flourish, the steward deposited their drinks before them. Tim paid, and added a tip. The steward withdrew, his genial grin a fixture. The men raised their glasses so, undaunted, she did likewise. “Happy days,” grinned Tim.

  As jauntily as she knew how, she responded,

  “Your very good health, boys.”

  “Don’t that sound purty?” admired Stretch. “I tell you she’s a real lady, this Addy.”

  They drank deeply. Addy began slowly, then with increasing courage. The fiery liquor coursed through her and she felt a flush stealing over her face.

  “Good Bourbon,” decided Tim. “Well, like I was sayin’, we’ll go see Gus Cooney tonight and have him set it up for Addy to sing a couple of songs. Larry and Stretch, you got to come along. Be glad to have you.”

  “Count us in,” grinned Stretch.

  “Addy?” frowned Larry. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” She was flushed. There was a twinkle in her eye and, when she spoke, it was as though somebody else were speaking; an unusual sensation, but quite appealing. “Real fine, Larry. I never felt better.”

  “You want a refill, Addy?” offered Tim.

  “Got plenty here,” she airily assured him. In three measured gulps, she emptied her glass. Then, setting it down, she clapped a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Timmy. You’re gonna hear sink—uh—sing—uh—singing that you never heard before.” Her head swam, yet she felt no nausea. Her smile broadened, became radiant. “Little Addy’ll give quite a performance—just you wait and see.”

  “We can hardly wait,” chuckled Stretch.

  “My turn to order a round,” announced Larry.

  And then the desperation smote her, as violently as a physical blow. She had managed to hold down one glassful of this firewater. Could she manage another? Hardly. Not without disgracing herself.

  “Not me, Larry,” she murmured, as Larry turned to beckon the steward. “Just remembered I—left something back in the day-car.” She rose hurriedly, contriving to resume the perpendicular without swaying. Her head was reeling now. “Didn’t—get much sleep last night. If I don’t come back, you boys just—carry on. I’ll be taking a little nap.”

  “Suit yourself, Addy,” shrugged Tim. “’Tween here and Coyote Gulch, we got plenty time to catch up on our drinkin’.”

  At the club car entrance, she thought to turn and sketch them an airy wave.

  “Be seeing you, boys.”

  The passageway between the private compartments of the third carriage was narrow. For this, she was grateful, because she was in fear of losing her balance and measuring her length. With her hands braced against the closed doors, she worked her way along to the end door and passed into the rear car. Were her fellow travelers staring at her? She imagined, in her confused state
, that she had become the focus of all eyes.

  As it happened, the only passenger watching her was Nichols. Slowly, she moved toward her seat. When she reached it, a wave of nausea assailed her. Air. Fresh air. To open a window would not be enough. The observation platform? Yes. That would be better. She turned and approached the rear of the carriage, while Nichols congratulated himself on this stroke of luck. A solid partition rendered the rear platform invisible to people within the carriage. If she was going out there ...

  She passed his seat, opened the rear door and moved out. He threw a wary glance at the rows of heads, and none turned his way. Now, he decided, would be as good a time as any. Quietly, he rose and stepped out onto the platform, closing the door behind him.

  The Special was rolling along at speed, crossing a bridge spanning the River Platte. She was over by the side rail, clutching it. The wind had torn her bonnet away. He bunched his right fist, moved closer to her and threw a short blow to the back of her head. As she sagged, he seized her waist, lifted her bodily and shoved her over the rail.

  Larry, meanwhile, had parted company with Stretch and Tim. It wasn’t suspicion that moved him to seek the jaunty woman in the red-cherry gown. He was genuinely concerned for her welfare. Somehow, she hadn’t seemed herself, after downing that bourbon and water.

  Reaching the end car and failing to sight her, he chanced to glance out the window to his left. The Special had finished its crossing of the bridge, but a section of the river was still visible. In the surging waters, something caught his eye, a flash of bright color that sharply contrasted with the greeny-blue of the Platte. Something bright red!

  He did the instinctive thing. Hoping to get a clearer view from the rear observation platform, he headed in that direction. Nichols, about to open the door and re-enter the car, felt the knob turn in his hand and released it, as though it had suddenly become red-hot. He was crouched to the right of the doorway, raising his Colt, when the Texan stepped out onto the platform. All of Larry’s attention was fixed on the river.