Larry and Stretch 14

by Marshall Grover

  Only one of those vehicles was strictly utilitarian. A buckboard with a four-horse team. The driver squatted with a sawn-off shotgun resting on his knees. This, Larry decided, was the rig in which Jefford’s prisoner would ride to the local calaboose.

  Wilbur came hustling back into the carriage to mutter a few words to Jefford, who promptly unlocked McKeller’s manacles and hauled him to his feet.

  “Everybody stay put,” Wilbur ordered the passengers, “till the marshal and his prisoner are out of the carriage. It won’t take but a minute.”

  As Wilbur had promised, it didn’t take but a minute to transfer McKeller from the day-coach to the depot platform. There, with scant ceremony, his hands were manacled behind his back and, after Jefford and the local law had exchanged greetings, they hustled him across to the waiting wagon. Stretch, too, was following McKeller’s progress.

  “They don’t,” he remarked to Larry, “take no chances with that jasper.”

  “If I was a U.S. marshal,” drawled Larry, “with a wife as purty as Jefford’s, I’d sure take no chances.”

  The jail-wagon was pulling out, and the conductor was calling to the passengers.

  “Don’t worry about your baggage, folks. It’ll be delivered to the Occidental Hotel—Cargell City’s finest.”

  “So that’s where we’ll be bunkin’ tonight?” mused Tim. “Well, you couldn’t ask for better. I’ve stayed at the Occidental before. Right fancy hotel, the Occidental.”

  The passengers were filing out. Larry and Stretch fell in on either side of Addy, with Tim bringing up the rear. When they boarded one of the waiting rigs, they were joined by several others from the day-coach, including Nichols. Along Cargell City’s main stem locals paused on the boardwalks to wave greetings to the newcomers, as the filled wagons rolled by.

  “Like I was tellin’ you,” said Tim, “it’s a mighty friendly town. Gets a little lively at nights, but friendly.” He pointed excitedly. “There’s Cooney’s place—you see? Only a half-block from the hotel.”

  As the wagons moved past the Palace, the noises assailed Addy’s ears, noises familiar and pleasant to Tim Blake and the Texans, but alien to her. Tinny, discordant music, loud, strident whoops that indicated the bulk of Cooney’s patrons were cowhands, the shrill laughter of percentage women, the clinking of bottles on glasses and, over all, the hum and rumble of noisy conversation.

  The column of wagons stalled outside the imposing facade of the big three-storey hotel, whose management and staff now began the formidable chore of assigning their overnight guests to the available accommodation.

  The lobby became crowded and, for a while, there was some confusion, but nobody complained. On a first-come-first-served basis, the reception clerk registered guests and quoted room numbers, distributed keys and muttered his polite speech of welcome. Nichols had thrust himself to the fore and was among the first to be accommodated. He signed his name in the register and was given a key.

  “Room Ten, top floor, a nice single, sir. Welcome to Cargell City. Next, please ...?”

  The routine continued. Not until he had ascertained the number of the room assigned to Addy, did Nichols quit the lobby and climb the stairs. It never occurred to him that his intended victim might have to share a room. As it happened, she too was assigned a single. He located it on the top floor, memorized its number before going off in search of his own.

  There were only four passengers left in the lobby when Marshal Jefford entered. Larry, Stretch and Tim were in conversation with the clerk, who was becoming flustered and somewhat apologetic. Addy was standing by, waiting patiently.

  “Extremely sorry about this, gentlemen,” Jefford heard the clerk saying, as he approached the desk. “The management wasn’t expecting quite so many people from the train this trip.”

  “So?” prodded Tim. “You got room for us, or haven’t you?”

  “Well,” said the clerk, “our last vacancy is a double bedroom on the top floor—the room next to Miss Chapman’s. There’s space for one extra bed in there. I could have one installed right away, if you three gentlemen don’t mind sharing.”

  “It sounds like,” interjected Jefford, “I’ll have to find myself another hotel.”

  “Are you off the Special?” blinked the clerk.

  “Howdy, marshal,” greeted Larry. “How come you ain’t bunkin’ at the jailhouse?”

  “No need,” Jefford cheerfully informed him. “These local officers seem more than capable of guarding my boy.”

  “That double bedroom ...” The clerk shook his head dubiously. “I doubt if there’d be space for a fourth bed.”

  “Is there a couch?” asked Larry.

  “Well—yes,” nodded the clerk.

  “Bueno,” said Larry. “I’ll settle for the couch. You have an extra bed sent up for the marshal, and we’ll all be satisfied. Okay by you, Tim?”

  “If I’m not intruding ...” began Jefford.

  “Heck, no, marshal,” grinned Tim. “Be glad to have you.”

  As they picked up their bags and moved toward the stairs, Addy put a hand on Larry’s arm, and murmured, “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “Well,” he drawled, “I figured you’d sleep a sight easier, knowin’ there’d be four of us right next door.”

  “You surely don’t believe I’ll be attacked again?” she frowned.

  “There’s times,” Larry retorted, “when lightning does strike twice—and at the same party.”

  In the top floor corridor, two porters arrived, toting the extra bed. From the open doorway, she watched Jefford flopping wearily onto the spare bed, and Stretch and Tim testing the mattresses of the others. Larry dropped his bag, threw a cursory glance at the lounge, then rejoined her and ushered her along to the next door.

  She was impressed—overawed, in fact—by his precautions. After unlocked her door, he carried her bag in, set it down and marched to the window. There was a balcony beyond, which didn’t seem to please him. Also, the window-lock was of the kind that could easily be forced. He stepped out on to the balcony and stared downward.

  “No fire-stairs,” he called to her. “Well, that’s better.” He glanced to fight and left, then came back into the room. “Other balconies are too far away for him to leap onto yours. Okay, Addy, it looks like you’ll be safe enough here.”

  “Larry, I seem to be causing you so much trouble,” she frowned.

  “This kind of trouble,” he countered, “Stretch and me don’t complain of—not one little bit.”

  “You’re really enjoying it,” she accused.

  “Not enjoyin’ it,” he corrected. “Hell, Addy, a woman in danger is nothin’ to laugh about. But ...” His face hardened somewhat, “Catchin’ the sidewinder that’s tryin’ to kill you—that I would enjoy.”

  “I’m terribly grateful,” she fervently asserted.

  “Our pleasure,” he shrugged, as he sauntered to the door. “How about chow? It’s long past suppertime. Tell you what, Addy. You get yourself a bath and change your duds, then rap on the wall. Tim says this hotel serves the most elegant food in town. You got an appetite?”

  “I’m starved,” she confessed.

  “Fine,” he grinned.

  Lane Jefford didn’t join that supper party, though his fellow travelers cordially invited him to do so. When Tim Blake and the Texans escorted Addy downstairs to the dining room, the marshal stayed behind. He had arranged to have his supper sent up. It was his intention to write a letter to Wilma and to retire early.

  The face of Monte Nichols was as impassive as ever, as he sat alone at a corner table. He seemed to be devoting all his attention to supper. In actual fact, he was using his ears to good advantage, eavesdropping on the conversation of Addy Chapman and her three escorts. So they intended visiting a saloon? The Cooney Palace? Well, maybe he would tag along. Another opportunity might present itself.

  He followed at a discreet distance, when the quartet quit the dining room, sauntered through the lob
by and out into Cargell City’s brightly-lit main street.

  “Wait till you see the Palace,” grinned Tim. “Of course, it ain’t as high-toned as the old Prairie Queen, but ...”

  “You said that before,” Stretch reminded him, winking at Addy.

  “Gus’s place’ll do,” shrugged Tim, “for givin’ Addy’s act a trial. Say, Addy, d’you dance as well?”

  “Mostly,” said Addy, “I just sing.”

  And she was thinking.

  Closer and closer. Too late to turn back. Brazen it out, Addy. Fool them all—or admit you’re a mouse.

  The interior of Gus Cooney’s establishment was a revelation to her, a welter of unfamiliar sights and sounds—and smells—the mingling odors of liquor, tobacco-smoke, cheap perfume and sweating humanity. The place seemed jam packed with cowpokes, easily identified by their broad-brimmed Stetsons, Levis and high-heeled boots. Some hadn’t thought to remove their chaps or spurs. On the dance floor they cavorted with Cooney’s war-painted percenters. At the bar, they jostled each other, keeping Cooney’s beer-pullers overworked. At the gambling tables, they wagered their hard-earned coin on the many games of chance.

  “Gus is doin’ big business,” Tim cheerfully observed. “Of course, this ain’t half as big a crowd as you’d find ...”

  “At the old Prairie Queen,” chorused the Texans, “in Coyote Gulch.”

  “How’d you know I was gonna say that?” wondered Tim.

  “Come on,” chuckled Larry, taking Addy’s arm. “Let’s go find the boss-man.”

  Was it only his imagination, or was she trembling? He wondered about that, as they followed. Stretch and Tim to the stairs. The proprietor was descending, yelling a greeting to Tim and grinning broadly—a pudgy, totally-bald hombre of florid complexion and genial demeanor.

  “Tim Blake—you dice-loadin’, wheel-fixin’ old sonofagun! Why haven’t they hung you yet?”

  “Howdy, Gus, you good-for-nothin’ horse-thief,” greeted Tim. They shook hands warmly. “Good to see you—even if you’re twice as ugly as ever. Like to have you meet my friends. This here is Addy Chapman, the purtiest singin’ woman this side of the Mississippi ...”

  “Addy ...” Cooney finished his descent of the stairs and, to Addy’s secret horror, patted her back. “Any friend of Tim Blake’s is a friend of mine.”

  “And these gents,” grinned Tim, “just happen to be the one and only Larry and Stretch.”

  “You mean the two and only,” Cooney corrected. He winked at Larry. “Tim never did learn to count. Or maybe he’s drunk already.”

  “Howdy, Gus,” nodded the Texans.

  “Well—the place is all yours, and your drinks are on the house.” Cooney gestured expansively. “Nothin’ but the best for any friends of Tim’s.”

  “Got a favor to ask you, Gus,” said Tim.

  And he proceeded to put his proposition to his colleague, a proposition Cooney could hardly object to, since it involved no expense to himself.

  “Sure,” he nodded, when Tim had finished. “What’ve I got to lose? And my customers get a little free entertainment.”

  “She’ll need a costume,” asserted Tim. “Some kind of fancy outfit.”

  “Oh—I thought this dress would do,” said Addy, hastily.

  “Be better if you’re rigged in somethin’ special,” decided Cooney. “You know how it is, Addy. The boys like to look, as well as listen.” He winked and grinned at her. “And most of ’em would rather look anyway.”

  “Can’t say as I blame ’em,” drawled Stretch.

  “Well,” said Cooney, “I reckon Kate could damn soon find an outfit for you.” He raised his voice above the clamor of the drinkers, the gamblers and the orchestra. “Hey, Kate ...!”

  A stout, middle-aged woman materialized from behind the stairs and, for an anguished moment, Addy wondered if her eyes were playing tricks.

  “You holler for me, Gus?” challenged Kate Arnold.

  Her hair was fire-red. As to her real complexion, Addy couldn’t begin to guess, because it was masked by a layer of rice powder, plus generous applications of rouge. The plump shoulders and arms were bare. The pudgy body seemed to be bursting out of its snug-fitting silken gown. But the item that really startled Addy—if not the Texans—was the cigar that jutted from the carmined mouth of Kate Arnold.

  Cooney performed introductions and offered an explanation. The big woman nodded, put a hand on Addy’s arm and said,

  “All right, dearie, you just tag along with me. We’ll find somethin’ for you to wear.”

  “On your way,” suggested Cooney, “you better check with the Professor.”

  “About her song,” nodded Kate. “Yeah. We’ll do that.” The Professor proved to be the piano player, also the leader of Cooney’s “high-class orchestra.” Again, Addy was fascinated. The Professor was uncommonly thin and had the eyes of a snake. When he talked, his thin cigarette seemed glued to his moist, sagging underlip. Addy took her courage in both hands, and asked,

  “Do you know ‘Come Court Me In The Morning’?”

  “ ‘Come Court Me In The Morning’?” The Professor lifted one eyebrow. “You joshin’ me? That’s a parlor ballad. Kind of a family-type song. You might just as well sing ’em a hymn.”

  “ ‘Come Court Me’ ...” Kate heaved a sentimental sigh. “Yeah, I remember that one. And the Professor’s right, dearie. It ain’t the kind of song you’d want to sing in a saloon. Too slow. Too sweet and dreamy.”

  “Not if the Professor plays it faster,” Addy desperately suggested.

  “You mean jig-time—like this?” The Professor vamped a few bars in quick time.

  Kate nodded approvingly, and remarked,

  “Sounds a heap better that way. Okay by you, dearie?”

  “Yes,” said Addy. “In that key, and at that tempo. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re entirely welcome,” shrugged the Professor. “We’ll be ready for you when you come out on stage.” Kate wrapped a chubby arm about Addy’s shoulders and led her away to a ground floor dressing room.

  “So you got a song to sing and a band to sing with—and now all you need is an outfit.”

  That dressing room was another revelation—a poky cubicle littered with discarded clothing and smelling of cologne, lavender and gin. There was a tattered screen. Kate gestured for her to move around behind it, saying, “Peel off everything.”

  Apprehensive, but still determined, Addy obeyed. Kate rummaged in a trunk and unearthed the necessary—a pair of silk tights, a lace-trimmed bodice, high-heeled slippers with buckles and bows. And last, but by no means least, a festooned hat with a large, floppy brim. One by one, she tossed these items to Addy. One by one, Addy donned them. The tights emphasized her shapely thighs and calves, while the bodice accentuated her rounded hips, trim waist and full bosom. She slid her feet into the slippers. They fitted. Carrying the hat and trying not to appear self-conscious, she emerged from behind the screen to ask, “A gown? What type of gown shall I wear?”

  “Gown?” frowned Kate. “You wouldn’t try to fool an old hand like me, would you?” She gestured briskly. “That’s it, dearie. That’s the whole outfit.”

  Chapter Eight: Debut of the Illinois Belle

  That tiny dressing room did boast a full-length mirror. Addy threw it a sidelong glance and, this time, her blush ran from forehead to toes. Kate stood behind her, fitting the flowered chapeau to her head. It gave her a top-heavy look. Just the massive hat, then the flowing dark hair hanging about the oval-shaped face, then the finely molded bare arms and shoulders, the bodice with its low neckline, the slender legs and neat feet. Quite a fetching picture. Great day in the morning! If her fellow citizens of humdrum Elmford could see her now ...”

  “All set, dearie?” prodded Kate.

  Addy took a deep breath, squared her shoulders.

  “All set, Kate. What are we waiting for?”

  The fat woman ushered her out of the dressing room and along a passageway so narrow
that they had to move in single file. At the end of it, Kate nudged a strip of tattered curtain aside to give Addy a view of the small stage.

  “That’s it,” she grunted. “I’ll go pass the word to Gus. After he announces you, all you got to do is bounce out there and strut your stuff.”

  She disappeared. Addy took another deep breath and wondered if her all-over blush would be visible to Tim Blake and the Texans. After a few moments, she heard Cooney’s voice. He was announcing her, not from the stage, but from over by the bar. And, judging from his spiel, Tim had mentioned her home territory.

  “Got a special treat for you gents tonight. Just one performance from Addy Chapman. They call her the Illinois Belle. Okay, boys, give the little lady a real Cargell City welcome.”

  Relaxing at the bar, sipping whiskey and smoking cigars, Larry and Stretch traded grins of anticipation with the elated Tim.

  “Here she comes,” drawled Stretch.

  The musicians were playing Addy’s introduction. There was a brief moment of silence during which every face turned toward the stage. Then, demurely—yet with assurance—Addy stepped out and began singing, and the silence was shattered. It wasn’t her clear, tuneful soprano, or her graceful gestures, or the catchy song she sang. It was Addy herself. More specifically, it was Addy’s fine frame.

  The effect on the roistering cowpokes was chaotic. They weren’t content to stare wide-eyed, to fill the air with ear-splitting whoops. They emptied their holsters and, in unrestrained elation, began discharging them to the ceiling. Gus Cooney began bawling protests to which nobody listened. In a jubilant wave, the yelling cowhands advanced toward the stage.

  “Here we go,” sighed Stretch, as he set his glass down.

  “Yeah,” grunted Larry. “She’s drivin’ ’em loco. If we don’t get her out of here, there’s no tellin’ what’ll happen!”

  To reach the dais ahead of the charging cowpokes, they had to kick chairs from their path and leap a table or two, and most of the chairs were occupied. The guns were still roaring and, from where he crouched, it seemed to Monte Nichols that his victim had played right into his hands. Who would hear an extra gunshot in all this din? He was in the alley beside the saloon, peering in through an open window, his short-barreled Colt resting on the sill. He bent lower, squinted along the barrel. Another cowpoke triggered upward and a chandelier was damaged, to the accompaniment of much cussing from the proprietor. Simultaneously, Nichols squeezed the trigger.