“Don’t Count the Odds!” It was the motto of the Lone Star Hellions.
Their motto and their creed. When the odds were greatest, Larry and Stretch, those free-swinging, trouble-shooting Texans, were at their formidable best.
They were ambushed and wounded by a proddy posse of volunteers led by the belligerent Sheriff Salter and, for some time thereafter, were separated. First Larry made his break, then Stretch broke out of the Ketchtown calaboose in his usual devil-may-care style.
But after each of them had played a lone hand, the Texas drifters were reunited in time for the final showdown with the lawless—a company of bank robbers masquerading as clergymen!
LARRY AND STRETCH 18
DON’T COUNT THE ODDS
By Marshall Grover
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
First Edition: November 2018
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Kieran Stotter
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
Chapter One –
The Captives
Around eight o’clock of that never-to-be-forgotten morning Stretch Emerson turned in his saddle and drawled a query to his saddle-pard.
“You got any notion where we are, runt?”
“Somewheres in Ketch County—the last sign-post said,” shrugged Larry Valentine. “I figure, when we find us a regular trail, it’ll take us clear to the county seat.”
They were “on the drift” again, these nomads from Texas.
Thanks to Larry s skill at poker, their combined bankroll amounted to almost $5,000, more than enough to keep them eating and drinking regularly for an indefinite period, or at least until their luck changed. That stake had begun as bounty a year ago, the pay-off collected by the Lone Star Hellions after violent clashes with desperadoes whose names they could no longer remember. In the months that had passed since, the original $2500 had almost doubled. They were solvent, but any rider encountering them at this time would have assumed them to be a couple of out-of-work cowpokes, because they saw no reason to garb their leather-tough frames in expensive clothing.
At ease, they ambled their mounts across a strip of yucca-dotted prairie. Stretch’s long right leg was hooked about his saddle horn, his brown fingers busy with the building of a smoke. Larry was riding slump-shouldered, boredly studying the terrain ahead. Away to their right, they could see naught but thick timber. To their left, a scattering of lava-rock.
There was no shouted challenge—just the sudden clattering of many hooves and the din of snooting, the barking of rifles, the sullen roaring of six-guns. Startled and furious, Larry saw his lean sidekick knocked from his saddle, pitching head-first to the ground. Stretch’s fall was broken the hard way—by a rock. He lay still, his left shoulder bleeding, his Stetson askew, his bloodied head resting on the boulder.
A curse of savage indignation erupted from Larry, as his sorrel was shot from under him. The horse fell mortally wounded and Larry reacted instinctively, easing his boots from the stirrups and emptying his holster, hurling himself sideways to avoid being pinned. He fell and rolled, rose to one knee with his Colt cocked and ready in his right fist.
Hell! They were coming at him from both sides, better than two dozen horsemen and all shooting. His only cover was the carcass of the sorrel. He hunched behind it and, with the angry bullets whining about him like hornets, began trading shots with his attackers. His first bullet struck the gleaming barrel of a rifle, badly scaring its owner, tearing it from his grasp. His second missed the face of another man by less than an inch. Intimidated by the air wind of it, that rider hastily wheeled his mount. Grim faced, Larry drew another bead—and then it happened. Against such overpowering odds, he couldn’t hope to hold out. A bullet lifted his Stetson and creased the top of his head, a shallow crease, but more than enough to plunge him into oblivion. He flopped flat on his face.
“We got both of ‘em!” yelled one of the attackers.
The twenty-four riders warily circled the unconscious Texans, slowly closing in. Wild-eyed with rage, one of them dismounted and advanced on the prone figures. He was thirty, handsome and well-dressed. His right fist was full of cocked .45 and he was aiming it at the taller Texan. In urgent haste, two others dismounted and intercepted him. They wore tin stars.
“Easy now, Neale!” chided the elder lawman.
“Easy be damned” snarled the well-dressed hombre. “I recognize them, Sheriff. The same two thieving killers ...”
“Otis,” frowned the sheriff, “get that gun away from him,”
“They butchered my uncle!” gasped the man called Neale.
“Gunned him down in cold blood—never gave him a chance...!”
“I know how you feel, Mr. Neale,” muttered Deputy Otis Gannon, as he relieved Neale of his pistol. “And I’ll allow hangin’ is too good for these skunks—but you got to abide by the law.”
“We’re lucky you could identify ’em,” opined Bob Salter, the county sheriff, “lucky you got a clear look at ’em, when they were runnin’ out of the store.”
“I’d know them anywhere,” breathed Neale.
“Description sure tallies,” declared the deputy. He unstrapped the gun belts of the unconscious strangers, while his chief took possession of the long guns, the Winchesters housed in the Texans’ saddle-scabbards. “One of ’em tall and husky and dark-haired, straddlin’ a sorrel. The other, taller still, and forkin’ a pinto.”
“I couldn’t be mistaken.” Neale seemed to be making the effort to regain control of himself. “These are the same two hard cases that robbed and murdered my uncle.”
“How much dinero did Eli keep in his safe?” demanded Salter.
“Close to six thousand,” muttered Neale.
The pudgy, florid-complexioned sheriff went through Stretch’s pockets and saddlebags. The possemen hovered close, watching. Salter’s search revealed that the Texans were toting the regular supplies—changes of clothing, provisions, two quarts of whiskey, spare ammunition, tobacco, etc. In Stretch’s pockets, he found only small change. But, from Larry’s hip pocket, he extracted a wad of bills.
“Close to five thousand,” he announced, after counting the money.
“My uncle,” frowned Neale, “is the only man who’d know the exact amount.”
“Can’t be no mistake about it, Bob,” asserted Gannon. “They didn’t run fast enough nor far enough. We’ve got the coyotes that killed old Eli.”
A member of the posse sourly opined.
“We oughta string ’em up here and now.”
“Button your lip, Rube,” scowled Salter. “Ketch County ain’t lynch-country. These jaspers’ll get tried and hung legal.” He stowed the Texans’ bankroll in his coat pocket and began growling orders. “Rope ’em to the pinto. We’re takin’ ’em back to town right away. Somebody off saddle that dead sorrel.”
During that hour-long, uncomfortable journey to the seat of Ketch County, Larry Valentine regained consciousness. His head ached and his brain was in turmoil, but only at the start. Somehow, he forced himself to think, to remember, to plan. His head was bowed. He
opened his eyes and then, on a sudden impulse, closed them again. He had seen enough. From here on, he would play it cautious and await his chance to strike back. Let these jaspers assume him to be still unconscious.
He was aware that he was straddling Stretch’s pinto, his manacled hands secured to the saddlehorn, his ankles trussed to a line slung under the horse’s belly. Long, familiar arms were mapped about his torso. They had, he realized, placed Stretch behind him. He could feel his partner’s steady breath against his back. How badly was Stretch hurt? About that, he could only guess.
He cocked his ears to the conversation of the riders nearest the plodding pinto. The words “sheriff” and “deputy” were repeated several times. So this was a law posse? Hell! Some posse. Shoot first. No challenge. On principle, he disliked and distrusted the wearers of law badges. This Salter hombre and the deputy, he decided, were none too bright. One way or another, he would make them pay dearly for this unprovoked attack.
Unprovoked? After another quarter-mile, he was inclined to admit there was some justification for the posse’s impulsive action. The talk was disjointed but, gradually, he was reaching a full understanding of his predicament. A murder had been committed—murder and robbery. The victim was one Elias Ventaine, a wealthy merchant of the county seat. His nephew, Wilbur Neale, was riding with the posse. Neale had descended from the living quarters above the store, alerted by the sound of shooting, and had seen the two killers making a run for it. Was it an honest mistake, his identifying Larry and Stretch?
He kept his head down and his eyes closed, and brooded on the irony of fate. Not for the first time in their hectic career, the Texas Hell-Raisers were enmeshed in a ticklish situation, another tight fix. History was repeating itself—as it usually did. For better than twelve years, Larry and Stretch had drifted the untamed frontiers west of the great river, always footloose and fancy free, indolent, disrespectful of all lawful authority. Time and time again, they had locked horns with the lawless. Every thief and killer, every rustler, bandit and cardsharp was their natural enemy. They had accounted for many an evil-doer. On their own rough standards, they might be described as knights’ errant, and they had certainly earned the undying gratitude of many an honest citizen. The righting of wrongs was their specialty. They were, however, heartily disliked by nine out of ten lawmen, because they adhered to their own rough code, fighting hard, fast and spectacularly. Invariably, the representatives of law and order were made to appear as bungling incompetents. Not surprisingly, lawmen resented them.
As for Ketchtown, the county seat, Larry guessed it to be a sizable settlement, probably one of the largest of this corner of Wyoming Territory. He could only guess, because he was still keeping his eyes closed. His ears told all. He heard the excited queries of the locals, the impatient commands barked by the sheriff. He was untied—and lifted from the pinto. They were carrying him now—four of them. Up a flight of steps, then through a doorway.
He was dumped on a hard, stone floor. He lay face down and cautiously half-opened an eye, just long enough to observe that his partner lay beside him. Stretch’s left shoulder showed red. As for the tanned, lantern-jawed face, it was almost completely obscured by congealed blood.
When Dr. Bartley Everingham arrived at the jailhouse, he found cause for dismay and deep resentment. No rough-hewn, cigar-chewing frontier medico was Doc Everingham, and devil take the citizen who dared call him “hoss-doctor’ or “sawbones”. He was forty-two, slight of build, but distinguished-looking, and as highly qualified a physician as Wyoming would ever know. He was an Easterner as yet unused to the ways of frontier folk. With his own money, he had established a fully-equipped clinic at his Ketchtown home, and he preferred to work there. Emergency surgery under emergency conditions he could cope with—but only in cases of genuine emergency.
“Get these gaping loafers out of here!” he sternly ordered the sheriff, as he toted his bag into the crowded office.
“Folks got a right to see what’s happenin’, Doc,” shrugged Salter. “This here’s a big day for Ketchtown. We caught us a couple killers. You got to remember Eli Ventaine was a mighty popular citizen.”
“I hope I’m properly sympathetic to the grieving relatives of Elias Ventaine,” retorted the medico, “but a patient is a patient, whether he be an honest citizen or a murder suspect—and medical attention must be given under the best possible conditions.” He gestured angrily to the bug-eyed locals crammed into the office and filling the jailhouse corridor. “How in blazes can you expect me to work this way—with all these inquisitive fools breathing down my neck?”
“Doc,” grunted Deputy Gannon, “them two hombres ain’t just suspects. They’re the real genuine killers of old Eli. Wilbur Neale identified ’em for sure.”
“Stand aside,” scowled Everingham.
He ordered Stretch lifted onto the bunk, then set about examining him.
“How about it, Doc?” prodded Gannon. “The big feller gonna cash in?”
“A mere flesh wound,” said Everingham. He cleansed and bound Stretch’s gashed shoulder, then made a more detailed examination of the head-wound. “Quite a bump. Concussion, I’d say. Have to keep him under observation.”
His temper frayed at the edges and his blood boiled, as his audience moved closer, crowding him. He managed to apply a dressing and bandage to Stretch’s head and, by then, his patience was at an end Red-faced, he returned his instruments to his bag, dosed it and rose to his feet.
“Hold on now,” protested Salter. “You ain’t patched the other hombre yet.”
“Listen to me, Sheriff Salter!” snapped Everingham. “And try to understand! I am not a butcher dismembering a beef carcass for the entertainment of runny-nosed children. I am not a drum-beating speaker luring drunks into a saloon. I am not a damn-blasted performer. I’m a physician, damnitall!”
“Well, sure,” said Salter, “but ...”
“If you think I’m going to practice medicine in front of a witless, bug-eyed audience,” fumed Everingham, “you’re greatly mistaken. I have gone to considerable expense to give Ketchtown the benefit of a fully-equipped clinic—clean and hygienic. My surgery is the place for the treatment of injuries, Sheriff Salter. My surgery.” He gestured contemptuously. “Not here—in this filthy cell.”
“Now see here, Doc …” began the sheriff.
“I’ll treat this man in my own surgery …” Everingham pointed to the second Texan, “or not at all.”
“Well,” shrugged Salter, “I guess that ain’t askin’ too much.”
“My surrey is outside,” said Everingham. “Have him carried out and placed behind the seat. Your deputy can come along to keep guard on him.”
“All right,” nodded Salter. “You do that, Otis. Have the boys tote this hombre out. Then you ride along with Doc to the clinic. Soon as he’s through doctorin’ him, put your irons on him and bring him back here.”
In obedience to Gannon’s command, two hefty locals lifted Larry from the floor. As they toted him out, the doctor followed.
“One thing more,” he warned Salter, jerking a thumb to the Texan on the bunk. “If you want this unfortunate to survive long enough to stand trial, move him to a cleaner cell. Get him out of this stinking pig-pen!”
“How about one of them upstairs cells, Bob?”
This suggestion was drawled by a lean, stoop-shouldered old timer in patched overalls and tattered shirt. He hefted a sawn-off shotgun and, from his sagging back pocket, there dangled a keyring. Chris Randall was his name. He was sixty-five and something of a philosopher, always eager for conversation and rarely short of victims. As turnkey of the county jail, he did more than check the locks of cell-doors and bring meals to the prisoners. He talked and, being unable to get away from him, the prisoners had no option but to listen.
“Upstairs cell might be best,” Salter agreed. “Couple of you jaspers tote him upstairs. Chris’ll show you the way.”
And so, while Larry Valentine was carried out and de
posited behind the seat of Doc Everingham’s surrey, his unconscious partner was toted up the iron-railed, spiral staircase to the second floor of the jailhouse, to be installed in a cell overlooking Ketchtown’s busy main street,
At about the same time that the hapless Larry and Stretch were being surrounded by Sheriff Salter’s posse, two tough-looking riders were ambling their mounts into a secluded arroyo many miles to the north of Ketchtown. Their names were Trask and Porter—Comanche Trask and Russ Porter, And, had Larry Valentine encountered them at this moment, Messrs. Trask and Porter might have found themselves up to their unwashed ears in a shooting showdown.
It happened that Trask was dark-haired and muscular, of similar appearance to Larry Valentine. His range clothes were the same. He wore one Colt and he rode a sorrel horse. As for Russ Porter, he was tall, as tall as Stretch Emerson, and blond, and lantern-jawed. Moreover, he rode a pinto and wore two Colts, exactly the quantity of hardware toted by the taller of the Lone Star Hellions.
Wearing complacent grins, these two saluted the three men squatting by a stalled wagon.
“Howdy, Deacon,” called Porter.
“It took you long enough,” growled the man called Deacon, as he rose to his feet. “Hell, Porter, how long does it take you to scout just one bank in one town? You and Comanche been gone since yesterday noon.”
He was six feet four and uncommonly fat, a flabby, triple-chinned giant of a man clad in a sagging suit of black broadcloth. A stovepipe hat rested squarely on his balding dome. Dan Cox was his name. The nickname “Deacon” was a vicious irony, for he was no duly ordained minister of the gospel. On the contrary, his specialty was larceny, furtive, efficiently-planned larceny.
The wagon had been specially constructed and was drawn by a four-horse team, hefty animals of considerable strength and, should the need arise, capable of a useful turn of speed. On the canvas canopy, on both sides, was painted the bold inscription: “DEACON COX’S CHAPEL ON WHEELS”. The tailgate could be lowered and propped to form a dais. From there, Cox had harangued many a gathering of townsfolk, preaching his fire-and-brimstone sermons as a cover to the nefarious activities of his cronies. Any time Deacon Cox preached to frontier folk, sinners were warned of the fate in store for them, the God-fearing were praised—and a local bank invariably looted.
Larry and Stretch 18 Page 1