Larry and Stretch 8

by Marshall Grover

  Boldly, he strode between the would-be combatants. Wyatt muttered an oath and threw up an arm to protect himself, but too late. Stark’s punishing blow caught him flush in the face and sent him reeling. Then, lithely, Stark whirled and struck at Lembeck. His bunched fist slammed into Lembeck’s belly, doubling him. Lembeck turned gray and flopped on his backside, gasping for breath. Grimfaced, Stark eyed the other men.

  “Anybody else,” he challenged, “got any such fool notions?”

  A youthful, brazenly handsome gunhawk spoke up. His name was Holroyd, and he was one of the three who had accompanied Stark’s brother on the Three Springs venture.

  “You can’t hardly blame ’em for gettin’ steamed up, Brett,” he drawled. “It’s the monotony. We’ve been stuck on this damn mesa too long.”

  “I know it,” nodded Stark. “But, with Arizona law-posses combin’ the low country for us, we just had to stay on the mesa.”

  “I reckon I’m speakin’ for all of us,” frowned Holroyd, “when I ask how much longer, Brett? How much longer—before we quit the mesa and head for Nevada Territory, and that Three Springs burg?”

  Stark clamped a cigar between his teeth, bent to lift a faggot from the fire. As he puffed the stogie to life, he assured his minions, “That’s somethin’ I’ve been thinkin’ about. I don’t relish the waitin’ any more than the rest of you.” He snapped his fingers. “Lembeck—Wyatt—on your feet.” The chastened rowdies shakily resumed the perpendicular and stood eyeing him expectantly. “Come sunup, take the ’breed and go down to the low ground. I want every mile between here and the river scouted careful. If those law posses have quit this area, we’ll be movin’ out before noon.”

  “Headed for Three Springs?” grinned Holroyd.

  “Where the hell else?” challenged Stark. He jerked a thumb. “Come on back to my tent, Jimmy. I got questions to ask you.”

  He returned to his tent, tagged by the youthful desperado. About to reach for the bottle again, he changed his mind. Holroyd squatted on an upturned box while his leader sprawled on his blanket, his cigar glowing bright.

  “I said it before, and I’ll say it again,” muttered Stark. “I ought to have let daylight through you—and Wyatt—and Lembeck—for what you did.”

  “Sneakin’ away was Clay’s idea,” frowned Holroyd “He hankered to get his hands on some real dinero, so he talked us into ridin’ with him.”

  “Against my orders,” sighed Stark. “If that fool brother of mine had stayed where I could see him, he’d still be alive.” Covertly, he studied his informant. “You couldn’t be wrong, Jimmy. He really was dead?”

  “Nary a doubt of it,” said Holroyd. “I wasn’t gonna quit till I was certain-sure. Quite a risk I took, sneakin’ back on foot to spy on ’em. Clay was dead all right—gunned down by the marshal, a hombre name of Craydon.”

  “Craydon,” breathed Stark, “will get his.”

  “I saw ’em tote Clay’s body off the store porch and along to a funeral parlor,” Holroyd told him. “That was enough. I couldn’t wait to see any more.” He leaned closer to his chief. “Brett, there’s somethin’ else I’m sure of.”

  “About the loot from that bank?” prodded Stark. “Yeah. You told me before.”

  “When Clay sent us out the back way,” said Holroyd, “he said as how he’d cache that gunnysack somewheres in the store in case he got captured, you know?”

  “And you still think he did that—before the badge-toter shot him?” mused Stark.

  “I figure he had time,” declared Holroyd. “And that’s another damn good reason we should hit Three Springs. We all want to even the score for Clay, but ...”

  “And we will,” said Stark, his voice husky with emotion. “I’ll see Craydon’s blood leakin’ into that street, or I’ll know the reason why not.”

  “But,” persisted Holroyd, “Clay calculated we got better than ten thousand out of that bank-safe. We ain’t about to forget that, are we? I claim it’s cached in that emporium, and maybe those towners haven’t found it yet—don’t even know it’s there. They likely figure Clay’s sidekicks got away with it. How about that, Brett? It’s waitin’ for us. Are we gonna pass it up?”

  “We’re passin’ up nothin’,” growled Stark. “Everything we need—provisions, liquor, horses and ammunition—we’ll help ourselves in Three Springs.” He grinned mirthlessly. “You can search the emporium for the loot Clay cached—while I’m blowin’ holes through that yeller-bellied lawman.”

  ~*~

  The short cuts marked on Larry’s map were of invaluable assistance; even so he galloped the sorrel across the arid vastness of Vermo Flats with only a few minutes to spare. The smoke-puffs from the approaching locomotive were already visible to the south. Larry kept the sorrel to a hard run for a few more minutes. Then, sighting the gleaming rails, he slowed to a walk and proceeded in more leisurely fashion.

  When the engine crew spotted him, soon afterwards, they immediately feared the worst. Larry had positioned his mount on the tracks, side-on to the oncoming train. The engineer applied his brake and, from then on, things happened fast.

  Emitting steam, the engine squealed to a halt some twenty-five yards from the human obstruction. Larry lifted a hand in casual salute and showed no dismay when the deputation descended on him. Well to the fore were three hard-faced individuals in sober town suits, with black derbies planted squarely on their heads and short-barreled Smith & Wesson .38s in their right fists, the muzzles pointed unerringly at Larry. Then came the conductor, a thin, elderly hombre who cast anxious glances to the brush far to the west and the rock-mounds even farther to the east, as though expecting that the lone horseman had accomplices—scores of them—who would materialize at any moment.

  After the conductor came the engineer and fireman, the former florid with indignation.

  “Just exactly what in blue blazes,” yelled the engineer, “do you blame well think you’re doin’?”

  Larry flicked his cigarette away, eyed the florid one reproachfully and replied, “I always answer an honest question—even when it comes impolite.”

  “You’d better answer fast, bucko,” growled one of the derby-wearers, “and keep your paws where we can see ’em.”

  Larry ignored the derby-wearers and the engine-crew. To the conductor, he mildly explained, “I need to get to Pelham City the fastest way. It’s an emergency.” He followed that with a question. “You got room in your caboose for my horse?”

  “Why, sure,” frowned the conductor. “Three empty stalls in the caboose, but I don’t know about …”

  “I said it’s an emergency,” drawled Larry, “and I really mean it.” He produced his bankroll. “Don’t worry about my fare. I can pay.”

  “Pat,” said one of the derby-wearers, “we better search him for identification. From where I’m standing, he looks like bad medicine.”

  “Mister,” grunted Larry, “you lay a hand on me and, so help me, I’ll ram that sawed-off gun down your throat and kick your spine up through your hat.”

  The man called Pat grinned good-naturedly and muttered a reassurance to his colleagues.

  “Take it easy, Tim. You, too, Steve. I recognize this feller.”

  “He’s on file at headquarters?” asked the belligerent Tim.

  “That he is, Tim, that he is.” The leader of the trio was tall and handsome, with a long upper lip, a twinkle in his eye and the map of Old Erin etched from his broad brow to his firm chin. “Valentine, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the name,” nodded Larry.

  “I’m Pat Noonan,” said the tall one. “These are my associates—Tim Sheehan and Steve Fitzgibbon.”

  “Pinkertons,” guessed Larry.

  “Valentine who?” demanded the still-suspicious Sheehan.

  “Larry Valentine,” explained Noonan. “Kind of an independent operator, you might call him—him and his friend, Stretch Emerson.”

  “Well,” shrugged Sheehan, “if you’re vouching for him ...”
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  “Mr. Valentine,” said the conductor, “we’re a mite behind schedule. If these detective-fellers say you’re okay, I got no objection to you gettin’ aboard. Be obliged if you’d cool your saddle, so I can take your horse to the caboose. Then, if you gents’ll kindly get aboard ...”

  “All right, Conductor,” smiled Noonan. “We’re as anxious as you to get to Pelham City in a hurry. Valentine, may I invite you to join us? We have a private compartment.”

  “Thanks,” nodded Larry.

  He swung down, handed his rein to the conductor. A few moments later he was seated in the four-seat compartment shared by the detectives, and the journey to Pelham County was resumed.

  Larry shoved his hat back off his brow, accepted a cigar from Noonan and grunted his thanks. Somehow, he wasn’t taking kindly to these professionals. Their attitude wasn’t all that friendly. Noonan sounded slightly patronizing, and Larry was a man who couldn’t bear to be patronized.

  “In a hurry, Valentine?” prodded Noonan. “What’s the emergency?”

  In his terse, laconic way, Larry delivered a short explanation of the situation existing in apprehensive Three Springs. Three pairs of Irish eyebrows were promptly elevated.

  “The Stark gang, you say?” challenged Sheehan.

  “Some coincidence,” grunted Fitzgibbon.

  “You gents interested in the same outfit?” frowned Larry.

  “That we are, Valentine, that we are,” nodded Noonan. “Special assignment. Council of war, you know? We’ve been ordered to cooperate with the law authority of Pelham County. A combined effort. Sheriff Dreyfus has twenty volunteers in readiness, waiting to make a sweep of the county and all the territory north.”

  “Maybe you don’t hear so good,” suggested Larry. “You Pinkertons and that search-party will be headed in the wrong direction. Stark is somewhere south of here—getting ready to raid the town I just told you about—Three Springs.”

  “Wrong, Valentine, wrong.” Noonan gestured nonchalantly. “The last thing Stark is apt to do is advance on Three Springs.” He batted an eye in a sly wink. “Modus operandi, my friend.”

  “Come again?” prodded Larry.

  “Stark’s methods,” said Noonan, “his system of operation, the way he executes his raids, have been studied scientifically by the most highly-trained criminologists in the Pinkerton organization.”

  “Maybe this ain’t my day for catchin’ on fast,” growled Larry, “but I just don’t savvy what you’re gettin’ at.”

  “Put it in simple language, Pat,” grinned Fitzgibbon. “You have to keep it simple, when you’re dealing with these cow-pushers.”

  There were times when Larry Valentine chose to exercise monumental patience and tight control of his Texas temper. Fortunately for the Pinkertons, this was one of those times.

  “All right,” shrugged Noonan, “let me explain it this way. Criminology is fast becoming an accepted and, I might add, a specialized science. And Pinkerton can afford to hire only the best.”

  “Good for Pinkerton,” shrugged Larry.

  “Every available report has been checked and rechecked,” said Noonan. “We know exactly how Stark operates, exactly what to expect of him. We don’t have to rely on hunches, Valentine. We’re working on proven facts.”

  “And these smart-brained jaspers,” prodded Larry, “these—uh—experts ...”

  “Have decided,” finished Noonan, “that Stark will strike somewhere to the north, in the very near future.”

  “You’re that sure,” challenged Larry, “that he’ll stay away from Three Springs?”

  “When you’re following the findings of a scientific analysis,” said Noonan, “there’s no room for doubt. Stark will stay well and truly clear of Three Springs, because he works to a set pattern. No Stark gunman ever strikes twice in the same area. A known fact, Valentine. A proven fact. You say four of his men robbed a Three Springs bank? All right. That’s your guarantee that Three Springs will never again see a Stark gun. They’ve been there already. Now, they’ll strike farther afield.’’

  Larry made one last attempt at getting his point across to the Pinkertons.

  “Stark’s kid brother,” he quietly reminded them, “died in Three Springs. He was triggered by the Three Springs marshal and, before he cashed in, he swore big brother would settle up for him. He bragged about how the whole outfit would hit Three Springs and burn it to the ground.”

  “The ravings of a dying thief.” Noonan blew a smoke-ring, grinned at it with admiration. “We Pinkertons are familiar with the breed. At the end, they either beg for mercy or make wild threats. You think Brett Stark would be fool enough to attack Three Springs—where the locals are expecting him? Not a chance, Valentine. Take my advice. Never try to predict the workings of the criminal mind. Leave that to the experts.”

  “And another word of advice, Valentine,” offered Sheehan. “I’d stay away from Sheriff Dreyfus, if I were you. He’s a mighty important officer. You try talking him into sending a posse to Three Springs, and he’s apt to throw you into a cell for making a damn nuisance of yourself.”

  And still, by a superhuman effort, Larry kept his temper under control. Very quietly, he assured Sheehan, “I wasn’t figuring to beg help from Dreyfus.”

  “You’d be wise not to,” drawled Noonan.

  “Thanks for the cigar,” said Larry, as he got to his feet.

  “No need for you to leave, Valentine,” smiled Noonan. “You’re welcome to stay with us—travelling in comfort—all the way to Pelham.”

  In the narrow doorway of the compartment, Larry paused to frown back at the boss-Pinkerton.

  “No, thanks,” he grunted. “I’d as lief travel in the caboose with the conductor and my horse. Maybe the conductor ain’t as scientific as you jaspers, but he’s likely a whole lot smarter.” And he couldn’t resist adding, “Come to think of it, so is my horse.”

  Shortly thereafter, he was squatting on his saddle, his back resting against the stall occupied by the sorrel in the caboose. The conductor’s name was Herb Gittridge, and he was willing to be sociable. Larry dug the quart of rye from his saddlebag, and told him:

  “There’s questions I need to ask you about Pelham City and doctors.”

  Chapter Four

  Doctor in Demand

  Herb Gittridge looked to be in his mid-fifties. Slight of build and amiable of disposition, he studied his formidable guest through steel-rimmed spectacles. Somewhat wistfully, he gazed at the quart of rye, and declared:

  “I can’t touch a drop while I’m on duty.”

  “How about in case of sickness?” asked Larry.

  “That’d be different,” Gittridge conceded.

  “Cough,” said Larry.

  The conductor coughed. Larry shook his head in mock alarm.

  “That sounds plumb awful. I reckon you need a slug.”

  “Guess you’re right at that, Mr. Valentine,” Gittridge cheerfully agreed.

  Larry uncorked and passed the bottle. For a few convivial minutes, they took care of their thirst. The side door was partially open and, through it, Larry idly studied the passing terrain.

  “What was that you asked me,” prodded Gittridge, “about doctors in Pelham City?”

  “I’ll be needin’ a doctor, and fast,” Larry told him.

  “A husky-lookin’ gent like you?” frowned Gittridge.

  “Don’t need him for me,” said Larry. “Need him for a friend of mine back in Three Springs. Herb—you happen to know any Pelham City doctors?”

  “Know ’em all. Pelham City is where I live. Got me a quiet room at Hannah Halliday’s boardin’ house, over on Baynard Road.”

  “About the doctors?”

  “There’s three. Pelham’s a big county, you know. Used to be only two. Then this young sawbones arrived from back east somewheres. Indiana, I think. Anyway, that makes three.”

  “Of the three of ’em, who’d be the best?”

  “Well, now,” mused Gittridge, “Doc S
helley’s been healin’ the sick of Pelham County for many a long year. A nice feller is Doc Shelley, but there’s some that say he’s no better than a vet. Seems he’s smarter at healin’ sick animals than with humans. Then there’s Doc Crowe. Funny thing about him. He’s a good doctor, but mean. Yeah. Got the quickest temper of any jasper in the county, and cusses like a mule-skinner.” He stuffed tobacco into the bowl of a blackened, bent-stemmed briar. Larry gave him a match. As he lit up and got the pipe working, he squinted at Larry through the smoke-haze, and opined, “I’d reckon the young one—Doc Bryson—is the one for you.”

  “I guess he’d be best,” Larry pensively agreed. “We’d have to ride to Three Springs, usin’ many a short-cut. That kind of travel would be hard on old-timers like Shelley and Crowe.”

  “Besides,” said Gittridge, “this Bryson boy is uncommon smart. I read about him in an Indiana paper, after they turned him loose from medical school. Seems he was way ahead of every other feller in his class. Uh-huh. When it comes to doctorin’, he’s somethin’ special. There were five or six Pelham folks that Shelley and Crowe couldn’t help, and it looked like all they could do was stay in bed and die. Then young Bryson got to work on ’em and, I swear to Betsy, they were strong and healthy and back to their chores inside three-four weeks.”

  “That settles it,” said Larry. “If he’s all that smart a doctor, he’s the one for me.”

  “Floyd’s his first name,” drawled Gittridge. “Friendly kind of feller. Do anything for anybody, you know? Say, about this friend of yours in Three Springs—how bad is he?”

  “There’s better than an even chance that he ain’t sick at all,” muttered Larry, “but it’ll take a genuine doctor—a doctor as smart as this Bryson—to convince him otherwise.”

  “That’s a sad situation,” reflected Gittridge. “I mean, a healthy man believin’ he’s sick when he ain’t.”

  “It’s worse than that,” sighed Larry. “He thinks he’s a dyin’ man.”

  “Thinkin’ it,” opined Gittridge, “could be just as bad as if it was true.”

  “You were never so right,” scowled Larry.