“This is for your sake,” countered Stretch. “If somebody’s gonna pay for what happened to your pa, it better be the right one,” He glowered at the whimpering Wilbur Neale, “You’ll tell us, right here and now, or I’ll keep on punchin’ till every inch of you is bloody.”
“I’ll tell,” said Neale, from behind his trembling hands.
“Make it fast,” ordered Stretch.
Neale drew his hands away. His pain-wracked eyes travelled over the Texans lean frame. His jaw sagged, as he declared, “You were one of them! You—you’re the one that shot him—but you only wounded him. He was still alive—trying to shut the safe—because he saw me coming. I pushed him away, took the gun from the safe and—and killed him.”
“You didn’t see me, you lousy sidewinder,” scowled Stretch. “You saw a couple hombres that looked like me and my partner.”
“I identified you!” panted Neale. “Yes! I remember you now. I’ll have my day in court, but so will you!”
Stretch grimaced impatiently and spent a moment in deep thought. For him, such intense cerebral activity was painful. It was invariably the nimble-witted Larry who did the figuring for this duo. What to do with the murderer of Miss Lucinda’s pappy? Plain enough. This jasper was jail-bait. But could Stretch deliver him to the pokey before that posse returned? If he were spotted on Main Street, he would be shot on sight. Well, he would just have to make the effort, hoping his luck would hold.
“Miss Lucinda,” he said, “bound to be rope downstairs. Be obliged if you’d go fetch some. And I’ll need an empty sack—a big one.”
“How big?” she prodded.
He jerked a thumb to his prisoner.
“Big enough to tote him.”
“I’ll need to dress,” she frowned. “If you wouldn’t mind ...”
“That’s okay,” he grunted.
And he grasped Neale by his coat-collar and frog-marched him out into the corridor. Before closing the door, Lucinda thought to hand him the duster and the stovepipe hat. He pinned Neale to the wall with his strong right arm, scowled ferociously, and said,
“Twitch a muscle and I’ll pound you again—hard and often.”
A few minutes later, Lucinda quit her bedroom, again garbed in her black gown. Stretch noticed that she was tucking the envelope into her bodice, as she hurried to the stairs. When she returned, she was carrying a rolled grain-sack and a coil of rope. He took these from her, emptied his left-side holster and offered her a Colt.
“Cock it,” he bluntly ordered, “and keep it pointed at him. If he tries to bust loose, let him have it. Remember—he’s the skunk that gunned your old man.”
“That,” she sighed, “is something I’ll never forget.”
He went to work with the rope and, by the time he was finished, Neale’s chances of extricating himself were less than one in a thousand. His ankles were secured, his arms pinned to his sides and his hands tied behind him. Stretch then detached his prisoner s showy, flowered cravat and used it for a gag.
“I’ll take back my hogleg now,” he told Lucinda. He retrieved the weapon, hammered down and holstered it, then gestured to the sack. “Let me have that.”
She passed it to him. He pulled it over Neale’s head and down—down—all the way to his feet. He shoved Neale horizontal, jerked on the neck of the sack until it covered his feet, then secured it with the remains of the rope. Grim-faced, he redonned the duster and the stovepipe hat, and conveyed his intentions to Lucinda.
“I’m gonna need your help. Sure hate to trouble you, but ...”
“Mr. Emerson, you saved my life. You need hardly apologize for asking my help.”
“All right then, here’s what I want you to do. From here, were headed for the jailhouse. I’m gonna stash this jasper in a cell, just the way he is, and ...”
“Can you do that?”
“Oh, sure, Miss Lucinda. I didn’t break any locks, when I busted outa that hoosegow, and I know where to find the keys.”
“Very well. I’ll do anything you say.”
“What I want is for you to stay right there in the sheriff’s office. And—uh—you could maybe write some kind of statement about what this jasper told us.”
“Yes, of course. My cousin has confessed to murder—before two witnesses.”
“Only trouble is this witness has to keep outa sight. I can’t just wait there with you and hope to talk turkey with them badge-toters.”
“You’re cleared of the murder charge, Mr. Emerson.”
“Sure enough, but Neale still claims it was me and Larry took the money. And they’re after Larry for stealin’ the deputy’s horse and gun. As for me—well—they’ll be after me for jail-breakin’. So, any way you look at it, it’s a mite too early for me to face up to the law. I have to find Larry, don’t you see? He’s huntin’ around, tryin’ to figure out who really did kill your pa. We know who did it—but Larry don’t.”
She was confused. When it came to explaining a situation, Stretch was far from expert. Even so, she was willing to obey his orders.
“You want me to wait until the sheriff returns. Then I’m to tell him everything I’ve heard, and give him the evidence left by my father.”
“That’s it.” He nodded approvingly. “That’s exactly it. And keep your fingers crossed. If that posse comes poundin’ in while I’m totin’ your cousin ’cross Main Street, all hell’s gonna bust loose.”
“In that case,” she suggested, “we’d better leave at once.”
She turned and walked to the stairs. Stretch, ignoring the sudden smarting of his wound, heaved the occupied sack over his right shoulder and trudged after her. He had left the cane behind. Well, never mind. They descended to the store. Lucinda opened the street door and they moved out.
More locals had converged on the Chapel on Wheels, and Deacon Cox was still in good voice. His listeners stood hypnotized, and never a head turned toward the community’s most beautiful woman and the tall man following her, toting the bulging sack. They made it to the opposite boardwalk and hurried along to the law office porch. As they climbed the steps, Stretch darted a furtive glance to north and south. No sign of the posse. His luck was still holding.
Lucinda entered the office, seated herself behind Salters knife-scarred desk, found pen, ink and paper, and began writing, while Stretch toted his load into the ground floor cell-block and lowered it to the stone floor. He returned to the office, retrieved the keys and trudged back into the cell-block. Within a few minutes, he had installed his prisoner in a cell.
Back in the office, he dropped the keyring on the desk-top. Lucinda momentarily abandoned her chore, raised her eyes to his.
“You may be very sure,” she promised, “that I will explain everything to Sheriff Salter.”
“That’ll help,” he acknowledged, “only it won’t be enough. Larry and me, we like to get things tidied up neat. Somebody robbed your pa, and that consarned sheriff thinks it was us. Won’t be no rest for us till we find them thieves and bring ’em in.” He gravely doffed the stovepipe to her, “You should excuse me now, Miss Lucinda. I gotta go steal me a horse.”
Despite her grief and shock, she couldn’t suppress a faint smile.
“Mr. Emerson, you don’t need to steal a horse,” she murmured. “There’s a stable behind the store. You’ll find my horse there, a black filly. And, behind the feed sacks, you’ll find the saddle my father once used. Please help yourself.”
“That’s mighty obligin’ of you,” he grinned.
“The least I can do,” she countered. “I’ll be forever in your debt, Mr. Emerson. My cousin would have killed me. I can still hardly believe it, but facts are facts. If you hadn’t been there ...”
“You oughtn’t be thinkin’ of that,” he chided.
“I am thinking of it,” she warmly assured him, “and committing it to paper.”
“Well,” said Stretch, “I’ll be seein’ you.”
The crowd had grown, over by the wagon of the bogus evangelists.
To reach the alley running beside the emporium, he had to move around the fringe of the over-stimulated, hymn-singing throng.
The harmonium wheezed, the drum boomed and, at the full strength of his lungs, the fat man led the assembly in a raucous rendition of “Come Let Us Gather At The River”, To remain anonymous and to conceal his rising disgust, Stretch kept his head down. And he was thinking, “Is this how religion’s supposed to be? Some fat hombre hollerin’ threats, tellin’ everybody how they’re doomed to perdition? I wouldn’t trust him to save my soul—not if’ he was the last preacher on earth.”
In the stable behind the store, he saddled the sprightly filly and swung astride. Main Street didn’t see him again. He quit Ketchtown unobtrusively, hustling his borrowed mount along the side-streets to reach the south side. Then, at a steady clip, he began putting distance between himself and the big town.
He was in sight of the regular trail, when the Ketchtown-bound traveler hailed him. Warily, he reined up. The man was pudgy and elderly, distinguished looking, well-dressed and sitting the seat of a handsome gig to which were harnessed as fine a pair of chestnuts as he had ever seen.
“Don’t mean to delay you, friend,” the man called. “Won’t keep you but a moment.”
Stretch wheeled the filly and dawdled it to the stalled rig.
The traveler half-rose on his seat, offered a well-manicured hand.
“Croft is my name. Griffin Croft.”
“Mine’s Emerson.” Having feigned amnesia in Ketchtown, Stretch saw no reason for concealing his identity from Croft. However, realizing that his nickname was more familiar than his surname, he refrained from mentioning it. “Emerson—Woodville Emerson.”
“My pleasure,” smiled Croft.
“Likewise,” said Stretch.
They shook.
“I believe I’m on my way to the county seat—Ketchtown?” said Croft. “But I’d like to be sure. Never visited Ketchtown before. The last circuit judge died a few months back, and I’m to work this area from now on. Are you a local resident? If so, I’d be obliged if you’d direct me.”
“Well, no,” said Stretch. “I’m a stranger here myself, mister—I mean Judge.”
“Just passing through?” the judge politely enquired.
“Kind of,” said Stretch. He jerked a thumb. “Ketchtown’s thataway. Looks like you’re on the regular trail so, if you just keep rollin’, you oughta make it easy.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” declared Croft. “How far would you say?”
“You’ll make it,” Stretch guessed, “inside an hour.”
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Emerson,” Croft acknowledged.
“You’re entirely welcome,” drawled Stretch.
He was about to nudge the black to movement again, when Croft fired another question.
“Haven’t we met somewhere before?”
“I don’t recollect,” frowned Stretch.
“Your face is familiar to me,” Croft asserted. “Your name too. Emerson. Emerson. Now—where have I heard that name before?”
“Judge,” grunted Stretch, “I just can’t imagine.”
“You’re a Texan,” frowned Croft. “And I’ve never been in Texas.”
“That,” declared Stretch, “is your misfortune.”
The judge chuckled heartily.
“No doubt, Mr. Emerson, no doubt. Well, thanks again.”
The surrey rolled on toward Ketchtown, while the tall Texan hustled the black in the opposite direction. A judge. How about that? Well, it could have been worse. His Honor had been friendly enough. Even so, it just went to prove that the unexpected could always happen.
Some fifty minutes later, the unexpected almost happened again. He jerked the black to a sudden halt a few feet from the outer edge of a cedar copse, alerted by the clatter of hooves and the voices of many men raised in anger.
Fortunately, Sheriff Salter’s volunteers were a loud-mouthed bunch—all eighteen of them. They were saddle-sore. They’d had their fill of searching for the elusive fugitive, and were saying as much—at length.
With Salter and his deputy leading, the body of horsemen topped an arid rise a short distance from Stretch’s hiding place, then put their mounts to the downgrade. They were, Stretch perceived, on the regular trail, headed for home. The trail did not cut into the timber, but turned slightly. For that, he was deeply grateful.
As they drew closer, he caught snatches of conversation.
“Told you, didn’t we, Sheriff? Never was no use huntin’ that killer.”
“As sheriff of this here county, it’s my duty to make the doggone effort.”
‘Well, goldurn you, Bob, he had too good of a start on us.”
“Damn right. Betcha he rid clear of the county line hours ago.”
“You’ll never see that jasper again, Bob. Only thing you can do is telegraph Adamsville and Platte City, soon as we get back to town.”
“All right, McBain, all right! I don’t need no damn-blasted advice from you. Shuddup and keep ridin’.’
The posse passed the copse and moved on southward. Stretch’s mood relaxed somewhat, as he dug out his makings and rolled and lit a cigarette. He hadn’t imagined Salter and his searchers could ever locate his sidekick, but it was nice to be sure, good to know Larry was still very much on the loose.
And then that other thought returned to him. If they couldn’t run Larry down, how could he? At tracking, he was damn near as clever as his partner, sure, but how was Larry to know that his own best friend was looking for him?
He would, he decided, have to wander aimlessly, relying on luck or the slim chance of spotting sign of a lone rider. Carefully, he scanned the territory to the south, making sure the posse was out of sight. Then, trying to summon his optimism, he broke from the timber and began riding north-east. One fact might have cheered him, had he suspected it. He was headed in the general direction of the arroyo nominated by Deacon Cox as his rendezvous with Porter and Trask.
Into that arroyo, Larry’s quarry now idled their mounts. Porter was all for lighting a fire, but Trask vehemently protested this.
“Hell, no, Russ. Deacon wouldn’t want us to show any sign. We gotta stay quiet till he joins up with us.”
“It’s a helluva place to be waitin’,” Porter complained, as he swung down and looped his reign over the limb of a stunted tree. “Why couldn’t we wait in the timber somewhere, where it’d be cooler?”
“A fire won’t make it any cooler,” growled Trask.
“I crave coffee,” said Porter,
“We still got plenty red-eye,” said Trask. “You better settle for that.”
He dismounted, tethered the sorrel beside Porter’s pinto. Porter slid the bottle from his saddlebag. They hunkered down facing each other. The sandy-haired desperado tugged the cork free with his teeth, spat the cork out and fed himself a generous swig.
“Don’t drink it all,” begged Trask. “I need a shot.”
“You don’t need as much as me,” retorted Porter, “on accounta you’re part Injun. Hard liquor ain’t good for you, Comanche boy.”
“I can handle my share of it,” scowled Trask.
“All right,” shrugged Porter, as he passed the bottle. “But go easy,”
As far as was practicable, the disguised Larry Valentine advanced on the mule. When the rim of the arroyo was in clear view, when he calculated that he could get no closer without the plodding of the animal’s hooves becoming audible to his quarry, he dismounted and made a brief search for cover. The mule was led around behind a mound of rock and hobbled there.
Larry now continued his advance to the arroyo, his sandaled feet making no sound on the soft earth and the rocks. From the holster slung under his borrowed shirt, he tugged Deputy Gannon’s Colt.
Thirty yards from the rim of the arroyo, he bellied down and began crawling. The voices reached him, familiar now, because he had listened to them once before. Sandy-haired Russ and half-breed Comanche had gone to ground, to await a r
eunion with their three cohorts. So be it. When the other three showed up, an unpleasant surprise would greet them.
Chapter Seven –
The Ambition of Sheriff Salter
Main Street was very much alive when the sheriff and his posse returned to Ketchtown. The saloons were doing plenty of business. A great many citizens were congregated about the alley mouth where the Chapel on Wheels was stalled. All the stores were open, except for the Ventaine Emporium.
And the banks were still open for business.
Half-way along the first block, Salter called a halt to dismiss his volunteers. They dispersed in bad temper, many of them vowing—to the accompaniment of much profanity—that they would never again volunteer to ride with a posse. Indignantly, and somewhat pompously, the sheriff called after them:
“You should be proud to ride as a posse. When a lawman swears in ordinary citizens as special deputies, he pays ‘em a high compliment. It’s your bounden duty, as law-abidin’ citizens, to ...”
But they weren’t listening, and Deputy Gannon said as much.
“Save your breath, Bob. They’re gone.”
“Ungrateful bunch,” scowled Salter.
“You got to look at it from their point of view,” suggested Gannon, as they resumed their journey to the county law office. “They’ve been out ridin’ with us many a long hour—and many a mile.”
“And nary a sight,” complained Salter, “of that smart-aleck killer. Hells bells, Otis, lie’s like a ghost.”
“Not a ghost,” countered Gannon. “Just a sassy bandido with plenty savvy. It’s my guess he hasn’t quit the county. He’s hid out someplace, maybe waitin’ for a chance to bust his sidekick out of jail.”
“When I get my hands on him...!” breathed Salter.
“Me first, Bob,” growled Gannon, rubbing his jaw. “I want first crack at that coyote.”
“Your pride is hurt,” Salter observed.
“So’s my doggone jaw,” said Gannon, sourly, “How’d you feel, if you lost a prisoner that way—him ridin’ out on your horse, totin’ your gun?”
“No offence, Otis,” shrugged Salter, “but it could never happen to me. I’ve been a lawman better than twenty years, and there ain’t a trick no owl hoot can try that I dunno about.”
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