Larry and Stretch 14

by Marshall Grover

  “Barkeep,” scowled the taller Texan, “this is an emergency!”

  “Larry and Addy ain’t nowhere on the train!” fretted Tim. He whirled and spotted the emergency cord. “Hey, Stretch! If we pull that ...”

  “Wait ...!” began the steward.

  But Stretch wasn’t listening. In three quick strides, he reached the far wall of the carriage. His brown hand closed over the cord. He tugged hard. With a screeching of brakes, the luxury train abruptly slowed. The carriage seemed to shudder. Glassware toppled from the shelves behind the bar counter. In the rear carriage, several passengers were jolted from their seats.

  For Whitey McKeller, it was an opportunity, but of brief duration. The sudden stop threw Jefford forward. McKeller crowded him, swung his free left arm over and made a futile attempt at reaching the lawman’s holstered Colt. When his clawing fingers reached the holster, it was already empty, The weapon was in Jefford’s fist, its muzzle rammed against McKeller’s belly.

  “I knew it!” scowled the lawman. “I knew you’d try something! All right, McKeller, I warned you!”

  McKeller called him a name, as he resumed his slumped posture. In response to Jefford’s sharp command, a male passenger rose from his seat and approached them. Jefford handed him the Colt.

  “Careful. It’s cocked. Keep it pointed at him.” While the passenger kept McKeller covered, the Federal officer proved himself to be a man of his word. He had vowed that he would secure both of his prisoner’s hands to the arm of his seat, in the event of McKeller’s making a wrong move. Now, he did exactly that, deftly, efficiently. The second steel ring was locked over McKeller’s left wrist, after the chain joining both rings had been wound around the left arm of his seat. There was no way McKeller could free himself. He couldn’t move without taking the seat with him—and the seat was a fixture.

  The conductor came bounding into the club car, his lined face pink with indignation.

  “Who in blue blazes,” he demanded, “pulled that cord?”

  “I did!” Stretch truculently informed him.

  Wilbur recoiled from him, blinked nervously and mumbled,

  “Well—gosh-darn it—you better have a good reason.”

  “A damn good reason,” asserted Stretch. “Larry and Miss Addy ain’t on this train no more, Mr. Conductor-Man.”

  “They must’ve fallen off,” frowned Tim.

  “Larry,” said Stretch, “ain’t a hombre that falls offa trains.” He dropped a hand to the butt of his right-side gun, glowered at Wilbur and the steward. “If anything’s happened to him—somebody’s gonna pay!”

  “Conductor,” prodded Tim, “what d’you do in a case like this?”

  “Only one thing we can do,” sighed Wilbur. “I got to order the engineer to reverse. Well roll back along the tracks and ask every passenger to look out the windows—until we spot Mr. Valentine.” As he turned away from them, he added a warning. “Somebody better watch from the rear platform and be ready to holler. If Mr. Valentine’s on the tracks, we wouldn’t want to roll clear over him.”

  Wilbur hurried forward to give the command to the engine crew. Within the minute, the Special was moving backward, climbing the grade toward the tunnel and the broad river beyond. And, in obedience to Stretch’s bawled orders, the excited passengers crowded to the windows to check the passing terrain. With Tim, Stretch positioned himself on the rear platform.

  They were soon joined by the conductor, who worriedly declared,

  “Nothin’ like this ever happened before. Honest, Mr. Emerson. You’d be surprised how few passengers ever fall off a train. Leastways on the Ohio and Western line.”

  Nichols had discarded his newspaper and was staring out a window. He was neither surprised nor perturbed by the conductor’s decision to back-track and search for the missing passengers. It was no more than he had anticipated. He had worked quickly and with deadly efficiency. Nobody had seen him out there—of that he was certain. Nobody. Not even his victims. Just beyond the tunnel, they would undoubtedly discover the body of his second victim, and assume that he had fallen to his death. The woman? No. It didn’t seem likely she would ever be found. Mighty convenient, the Special crossing the Platte at that time.

  The Special was backed into the tunnel and, again, the carriage was plunged into darkness. On the observation platform, Stretch clutched the rail and squinted toward the oval of light at the far end, drawing closer and closer. Standing to either side of him, Tim and the conductor anxiously studied the gleaming tracks. The end car emerged from the tunnel into the dazzling daylight and, almost immediately, Stretch spotted the smoke, a billowing cloud of it rising away to the left of the railroad tracks, along by the near bank of the Platte.

  “Signal the crew to stop,” ordered Stretch. “I ain’t sure—but I think I just heard somethin’.”

  The other carriages, the tender and then the locomotive emerged from the tunnel. Wilbur leaned out sideways, yelling, waving his flag.

  Addy had risen to her feet and was staring expectantly at her rescuer.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “My ears are keener than yours, I reckon,” he muttered. “Yeah, I’m sure. Heard it clear.”

  “They’ll see our smoke,” she guessed.

  “And Stretch,” he assured her, “is bound to hear me.” She smiled ruefully and clapped her hand to her ears, as he unleashed another strident Rebel Yell, the war-cry so familiar to all Texans. Then,

  “Is that an echo?” she demanded. “I heard it—even with my ears covered.”

  “You bet it’s an echo,” he chuckled. “And that echo has a name. Emerson.” He jerked a thumb. “Your clothes will be dry by now. You can go get dressed.”

  Stretch gave vent to another Rebel Yell, as he descended from the platform.

  “That’s Larry for sure,” he declared.

  Before following Stretch and Tim along the river bank, the conductor turned to call an assurance to the passengers.

  “It sounds like we’ve found ’em. You folks keep your seats. Won’t be long before we’re on our way.”

  He hustled after Tim and the Texan, through a straggle of mesquite and a stand of aspen, on to the river’s grassy bank. Stretch set a stiff pace, moving briskly downstream with long strides. By the time they came in sight of the fire, Wilbur and Tim were bathed in perspiration.

  Larry was shrugging into his coat, kicking dirt onto the fire and nodding a greeting. Disheveled and self-conscious, Addy emerged from behind the bushes. The cherry-red gown looked much the worse for wear, and so did its occupant. Wilbur eyed her in astonishment and began a stream of questions, which Larry cut short.

  “I’ll give it to you plain and simple,” he growled. “Somebody knocked Addy on the head and threw her offa the rear platform, while we were crossin’ the bridge. She’d have drowned, if she hadn’t got thrown against a rock.”

  “I’d still have drowned,” she murmured, “if you hadn’t swum out to fetch me.”

  “Ain’t that just like Larry?” Stretch grinned smugly at Tim and the conductor. “He’s the only jasper I ever knew' that could leap off a train thataway—and not break his doggone neck.”

  “Holy smokes!” breathed Wilbur.

  “That,” scowled Larry, “ain’t exactly how it happened.” He exhibited the bump atop his head and curtly informed them, “The same damn sonofagun clobbered me. I was out on the rear platform lookin’ for Addy, and ...”

  “You get a look at him?” demanded Stretch.

  “Nary a glimpse.” Larry grimaced and rubbed at his

  head.

  “The Special goes powerful fast,” muttered Wilbur. “By glory, Mr. Valentine, you ought to be dead.”

  “There’s many an owlhoot,” quipped Stretch, “would agree with you.”

  “So that’s all there is to tell,” finished Larry. “When I woke up, Addy was still in the river.”

  “If you hadn’t sighted my red gown from the carriage window ...” she began.

>   “Never mind about that,” said Larry. “We both came out of it alive—but no thanks to that lousy killer.”

  “It had to be somebody on the train,” mused Stretch. “Well—this is a gosh-awful situation,” fretted Wilbur. “Nothin’ like it ever …”

  “Yeah, I know,” grunted Stretch. “Nothin’ like it ever happened on the Special before. But it has happened.” He eyed his partner shrewdly. “And now ol’ Larry is plumb curious, which means he won’t rest easy till he finds that certain party.”

  Larry took Addy’s arm.

  “Addy—you feel strong enough to walk?”

  “I feel fine,” she assured him.

  “We’ll be a mite behind schedule when we hit Cargell City tonight,” said the conductor, as they began moving along the bank, “but I ain’t complainin’. Sure glad you folks didn’t get hurt bad and—uh—I hope you won’t hold it against the Ohio and Western.”

  “Don’t fret yourself,” muttered Larry. “The only hombre I’m gunnin’ for is the polecat that tried to kill Addy. One way or another, I’ll find him.”

  “When you talk thataway,” said Tim, “my belly freezes. I sure wouldn’t want to be the feller you’re after.”

  “We got law and order on the Special this trip,” Wilbur reminded them. “Meanin’ Marshal Jefford. I guess the only thing we can do is tell him the whole story and have him investigate.”

  “The heck with that,” growled Stretch. “Jefford’s got his hands full—ridin’ herd on that McKeller jasper.”

  “I guess we’ll have to tell Jefford the score,” said Larry. “But that doesn’t mean he has to buy into it.”

  “Well—him bein’ a regular Federal lawman ...” began Wilbur.

  “No lawman,” countered Larry, “can handle two chores at the one time.”

  A few more minutes and they were within sight of the passengers peering from the carriage windows. There were shouted queries from the engine crew. Wilbur pantomimed for them to return to the locomotive’s cabin, as he led his companions toward the rear car. From the third carriage, a woman called to Addy, making an offer which Addy was only too grateful to accept.

  “If you wish to change your clothes, bring your bag to my compartment. You’ll be most welcome.”

  Tim bustled into the' day-coach, took Addy’s bag down from the rack and passed it through a window. Then Addy moved along to the third carriage and the Texans climbed to the rear platform. Larry and Stretch came trudging along the aisle, just as the train began moving again. All eyes were on Larry, and Larry was searching every face, but without finding what he sought—a hint of shock, of resentment, of frustration. Every expression was the same. Curiosity. Nobody wore a guilty look. Well, that would have been too much to hope for.

  Stretch resumed his seat, but Larry remained standing. As the train gathered speed, he addressed the passengers.

  “Three of us moved out onto that rear platform a while back. The lady was first. Then one of you. Then me. Did any of you see?”

  He won a confusion of answers, none of which helped him. Two men recalled seeing Addy, but weren’t sure as to where she’d been going. Another remembered that Larry had gone to the rear of the car. None had noticed a third party. Larry eyed the man in the rear seat.

  “How about you?”

  Nichols was poker-faced.

  “Sorry, friend,” he drawled. “I just wouldn’t know. Had my eyes down all the time—reading this newspaper. But I recall it got dark when we passed through the tunnel. Could’ve been a dozen people go through this rear door in the dark, and I wouldn’t see them.”

  Abruptly, Larry abandoned all thought of extending this interrogation. Shaking his head to the eager queries of the other passengers, he sank down beside Stretch.

  Jefford threw his prisoner a sidelong glance, then caught Stretch’s eye and crooked a finger.

  “Spell me a few minutes, Emerson?”

  “Be glad to,” grunted Stretch.

  He jack-knifed out of his seat and stepped across the aisle, while Jefford rose up and muttered a warning.

  “Don’t take your eyes off him.”

  Addy reappeared at that moment, coming along the aisle from the direction of the third car. She had lost her pallor and, to Nichols’ secret wonderment, appeared none the worse for her grueling experience. The lustrous dark hair was coiled atop her shapely head. She wore a gleaming gown of deep green satin, snug-fitting, emphasizing her fine figure.

  Flashing a warm smile at Larry, she surrendered her bag to Tim and resumed her seat. Tim stowed the bag on the rack. Jefford, after greeting her courteously and lighting a cigar, quietly voiced his query.

  “All right, Valentine, what’s it all about?”

  “Murder,” Larry bluntly informed him.

  Somewhat unnecessarily, Jefford reminded him,

  “You’re still alive.”

  “Attempted murder,” Larry amended. “And that’s near as bad.” He had grown weary of recounting his experiences of the past hour but, out of deference to Jefford’s authority, he told it all again.

  Chapter Seven: Welcome to Cargell City

  The situation was discussed for only ten minutes. At the end of that time, Jefford moodily asserted,

  “I’d give my eye-teeth to be traveling as a regular passenger, instead of as McKeller’s official escort.”

  “The way it stacks up,” suggested Larry, “you couldn’t do any more than I’ve already done. You’d ask questions—and get the same answers I got.”

  “Probably,” frowned Jefford.

  “I still can’t believe …” began Addy.

  “You look like an intelligent woman,” said Jefford. “Isn’t it time you faced up to the hard facts? Valentine is right. There’s no dodging it. This was attempted murder, and no mistake. The killer is still with us, so you’ll need to be mighty cautious from here on. How do you know he won’t try again? You don’t. It could happen—any time.”

  “Hate to agree with you, marshal,” muttered Tim, “but you sure make sense.”

  “Valentine,” prodded Jefford, “you’ll keep a wary eye on Miss Addy?”

  “That,” said Larry, “is kind of a foolish question.” Jefford grinned wryly.

  “Sure. I didn’t need to ask.” He touched the brim of his Stetson, nodded reassuringly to Addy. “You’ve won yourself a couple of bodyguards and, believe me, they aren’t amateurs.”

  At his signal, Stretch vacated the seat beside McKeller. Jefford grunted his thanks and resumed his former position. Without looking at him, McKeller drawled,

  “Gettin’ to be an interestin’ trip, huh, lawman?”

  “Interesting enough,” shrugged Jefford.

  “I bet you can’t make up your mind,” leered McKeller. “How about it, lawman?”

  “How about what?” frowned Jefford.

  “Which chore is more important,” challenged McKeller. “Settin’ guard on me—or catchin’ the hombre that tried to kill that female.”

  “You have keen ears, McKeller,” growled Jefford. “I’ll remember that.”

  “Remember somethin’ else,” McKeller coldly invited. “Remember you ain’t handin’ me over to no Laramie badges.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Jefford.

  “Yeah.” McKeller chuckled softly. “We’ll see.”

  Across the aisle, Tim Blake was assuring Addy,

  “I wouldn’t hold you to that promise—not with you feelin’ so wrought up—near gettin’ yourself killed and all.”

  “Did I say I was wrought up?” Addy lifted her shapely shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “Not me, Tim. It takes more than a knock on the head and a dip in the river to slow me down. You’ll hear me sing in Cargell City, and that’s for sure.”

  “What a woman!” enthused Tim.

  Tonight, Addy was thinking, it will be do or die. Can I go on deceiving them? Can I stand up before a crowd of hard-drinking men in a cow-town saloon—and sing to them? Little Addy Chapman, second soprano of th
e Elmford Baptist Choir—singing in a saloon!

  In the late afternoon, the Texans wearied of talking, slumped lower in their seats and let their Stetsons slant over their eyes. Seated as she was, she couldn’t move out into the aisle without their noticing. She felt safe, traveling in rough but reliable company. Then, succumbing to an onslaught of weariness, she bowed her head and closed her eyes.

  At first, she was unable to sleep. There were too many questions plaguing her mind. Somewhere on this train—in this very carriage—sat a man who had made an attempt on her life. Which man?

  A harrowing situation for a woman of gentle background. Somebody wanted her dead. Who? Why? It was unthinkable. In all of Elmford, no citizen had ever expressed dislike of her, let alone hatred—hatred so strong as to inspire murder. She found herself yearning for Noah. At a time like this, his loyalty, his stolid adherence to all the rules of logic, would have been very welcome. Noah—or dear, dependable Mr. Milliken, the most trusted friend of her late father.

  On that thought, she lapsed into slumber, not to be awakened until after sunset. It was dark outside, with the darkness relieved at intervals by flashes of light, when she opened her eyes. Tim Blake, grinning his genial grin, was patting her shoulder.

  “Cargell City, Addy. Take a look out there. Right sizeable town, huh?”

  In its approach to the Cargell City depot, the train passed the south end of the broad main street—hence the flashing of lights. All along the big town’s center section, the street lamps glowed.

  Everybody rose when the Special rolled to a halt. From the rear platform, the conductor called to them.

  “Stay put a minute, folks. Local sheriff is makin’ signs at me. I better find out what he wants.”

  “Conductor,” said Jefford, “he’ll ask for me.”

  Larry edged closer to the window to scan the depot platform. Two youngish, husky-looking men were trading questions and answers with the conductor. They wore town clothes, with the all-too-familiar metal stars affixed to their vests. Just beyond the platform, Larry noted the line of wagons, handsome rigs with upholstered seats, obviously the special vehicles used to transport the passengers to the hotel.