Larry and Stretch 6

by Marshall Grover

  “For awhile,” said Larry.

  “That’s what I was afeared of,” sighed Jennings. He leaned back in his chair, eyed them steadily. “Any use me asking you—begging you—to keep your noses clean in my town? I got my hands full, and then some. I need hell-raising Texans the way I need a bullet in my head.”

  “We never look for trouble, nor start any,” asserted Larry.

  “We’re law-abidin’ and peaceable,” declared Stretch.

  “It’s always the other hombres,” said Larry, “that start the trouble.”

  Jennings grinned a rueful grin. “That’s how I hear it,” he muttered, “from every lawman that ever warned me about you. You’re always inside the law—by the skin of your Texas teeth.” He heaved another sigh. “Maybe I should turn in my badge right here and now. Trouble is, I feel kind of obligated to Miley Fennister.”

  “Who,” asked Larry, “is Miley Fennister?”

  “One of the gambling house bosses,” said Jennings. “One of the three that got robbed Sunday morning. As well as grabbing Miley’s Saturday night profits, those killers ran a knife into Sam Fennister—Miley’s brother.”

  “That’s rough,” Larry conceded, “but we ain’t interested. We hanker to take it easy in this burg.” As he turned towards the door, he added, pointedly, “You badge-toters ain’t the only hombres that need to rest up.”

  They checked their horses into the Circle D livery and bought shaves, haircuts and baths at the Welcome Stranger Tonsorial Parlor. They whiled the afternoon away in leisurely fashion, eating a late lunch at a Chinese hash house, a massive supper at the Alhambra Restaurant and gambling and drinking in between. By sundown, they had familiarized themselves with Tyson City’s main houses of entertainment and were ready to consider the problem of accommodation. Then came the coincidence.

  Their taste didn’t run to the fancy and expensive, so Wes Deckart recommended a moderately priced boarding establishment on a quiet side street, the Downey Hotel.

  To the Downey Hotel, they toted their rifles and pack-rolls. In the small lobby, they found the proprietor, his spouse and their daughter, a pretty brunette who, at the time of their arrival, was sobbing in anguish. They were about to make a quiet exit, when the hotelkeeper called to them.

  “Take care of you right away, gents. Sorry about all this caterwaulin’.”

  “Don’t be hard on her, Marv,” admonished his wife. “No matter how you felt about Gil Briskin, you got to admit he never did wrong by poor Fran.”

  “I loved him!” gasped the distraught girl. “We were—going to be married!”

  Larry judged her to be in her early twenties. She was trim-figured and mighty attractive, even under these conditions. He doffed his Stetson. Stretch followed his example. They moved closer to the reception desk and, while the mother attempted to soothe her daughter, Downey performed introductions.

  “I’m Marv Downey. This here’s my wife, Liza, and our little girl, Fran. You got to excuse the way she’s takin’ on. She only heard about it a little while ago.”

  “Gil Briskin, you said?” frowned Larry.

  “You knew him?” challenged Downey.

  “Couldn’t rightly claim we knew him,” said Larry. “But we were there—uh—when it happened.”

  “By golly!” breathed Downey. “You’re Larry and Stretch! You’re the fellers that tangled with the Grieves brothers!”

  “News sure travels fast,” commented Stretch, “in Tyson City.”

  Fran Downey dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief, blinked dolefully at the tall strangers.

  “Did he speak my name,” she asked, “before—before ...?”

  “He didn’t get time to say much,” Larry told Fran. “I’m mighty sorry, but he didn’t mention any names.” He added, uncomfortably, “He didn’t suffer much pain, Miss Fran.”

  “Poor Gil ...” She closed her eyes, bowed her head.

  “For what it’s worth,” offered Larry, “he seemed like a right likeable feller to us.”

  “He was likeable enough,” Downey grudgingly conceded, “but a mite too smart for his own good. Sooner or later, he had to end up thisaway.”

  “If you’re thinking he was mixed up in those robberies,” flared Fran, “you’re making a wicked, cruel mistake!”

  “Well,” shrugged Downey, “with a feller like him, you just never know.”

  “Go up to your room, child,” suggested Liza. “You don’t want to be showin’ your grief to strangers.”

  “I don’t care who knows about it,” retorted Fran. She draped a shawl over her head and shoulders, came out from behind the counter. “None of you understood my Gil.”

  “Where in tarnation d’you think you’re goin’?” demanded Downey.

  “Out for some fresh air,” she murmured. “I just—feel like walking.”

  “It’s dark already,” frowned Liza.

  “Tyson City,” growled Downey, “ain’t what it used to be. No daughter of mine is gonna be traipsin’ about this town after dark. It ain’t decent!”

  “I’ll only go as far as the Corrigan house,” said Fran, “and visit with Emily awhile.”

  Abruptly, she turned and hurried out into the street. The Downeys traded worried frowns. Larry reached for the register, inked the pen and inscribed his signature. Stretch followed his example.

  “It looks like,” suggested Larry, “we came bustin’ in on you at a bad time.”

  “Maybe,” offered Stretch, “you’d feel better about Miss Fran if me and Larry tagged after her.”

  “I guess it’s better she fights her grief all by herself,” sighed Liza. She shook her head sadly. “It sure broke her up, hearin’ about that Briskin boy.”

  “He was no boy,” muttered her husband. “He was a growed man with a honey-tongue and itchy fingers. Fran could’ve done a sight better for herself.” He took a key from the rack, nodded to the Texans. “We oughtn’t be plaguin’ you with our troubles. If you’re ready, I’ll take you to your room.”

  ~*~

  Preoccupied with her sorrow, Fran Downey walked slowly along the side street and turned into Main. At the corner, the soft sound of singing momentarily halted her. A beggar was squatting in a doorway, picking at a guitar and crooning a plaintive Mexican ballad. He wore, as well as the shabby straw sombrero, camisa, pantalones and sandalias, a patched poncho and smoked glasses. By his right foot, he had placed a tin cup onto which was painted the one word “CIEGO”.

  Despite her personal grief, she reacted instinctively. To see a blind man was to be reminded that there are always others less fortunate. She took a coin from a pocket of her skirt, dropped it into the cup. The beggar ceased singing, lifted his face and mumbled, “Gracias, señorita.”

  She nodded moodily and made to move on, but paused again. The beggar was still talking, quietly, compellingly.

  ~*~

  Some twenty minutes later, the Lone Star Hellions received visitors—three of them. They had unpacked their few personal effects and were sprawled on their beds, smoking, conversing in undertones, when Marv Downey rapped at the door and called to them.

  “Larry—Stretch—you got company.”

  Larry frowned at the closed door, called a query to the hotelkeeper. “Who are they—and what do they want?”

  “I’m Ace Kerry.” A strange voice answered him. “I own the Lucky Lil Saloon. Got a proposition for you—if you’re interested.”

  “Won’t know if I’m interested,” drawled Larry, “till I hear what it’s all about. Bring ’em in, Marv.”

  Downey opened the door, ushered Kerry, Fennister and Bourne into the room.

  Chapter Three

  Three-Way Parlay

  The hotelkeeper lingered only long enough to perform introductions. After he had gone, Kerry closed the door and stood with his back to it, his hands thrust in his pants pockets, a thin cigar canting from the side of his mouth, his keen eyes appraising the trouble-shooters. Miley Fennister and Karl Bourne took chairs. Bourne grinned genially,
and told the Texans, “Ace claims you boys have quite a reputation, but I have to admit I never heard of you before. Still, I’ll go along with Ace’s notion.”

  “Speaking for myself,” frowned Fennister, “I’ve already agreed to Ace’s suggestion. And, when I make a deal, I stick to it.”

  “That’s fine,” Larry dryly remarked. “I’m glad you hombres see eye to eye. And now—suppose you tell me what in tarnation you’re talkin’ about?”

  “You’re looking at three losers,” said Kerry. “Sore losers.”

  “Sunday morning,” drawled Bourne, “we were robbed. All three of us.”

  “They hit my place first,” Kerry told the Texans, “so it’s better if I start the story.”

  “Runt,” grunted Stretch, “we can’t get into trouble just listenin’ to ’em.”

  “I guess not,” agreed Larry. “All right, Kerry, say your piece.”

  “We got a curfew in this burg,” explained Kerry, “thanks to Boyd Jennings and those psalm-singing do-gooders on the town council. All houses of entertainment, the saloons, casinos, dance halls and the like, have to close up at one-thirty a.m. When we close up after the Saturday night trade, we’re all holding a lot of cash ...”

  “That’s bad?” interjected Stretch.

  Kerry grimaced impatiently.

  “I’m not here to argue about the curfew. I just want to give you a clear picture of the set-up around that time—any Sunday morning. We’re checking the cash from our gambling layouts, counting it, stowing it in our safes until we can deposit it in the bank Monday morning. You follow me?”

  “Stay with it,” offered Larry.

  “By one-forty-five,” Kerry continued, “I was all set to lock up my cash—and a fat bundle it was. Better than six thousand dollars.”

  “All that?” challenged Larry. “From your Saturday night trade?”

  “I run an honest house,” said Kerry. “My dealers are professionals—as smart as they come. But no cardsharps. I don’t hire thieves.”

  “Six thousand is still a fat payoff,” suggested Larry, “for one night’s trade. Even a Saturday night.”

  “When you’ve been in Tyson City awhile longer,” shrugged Kerry, “you’ll realize gambling is the business that keeps this territory alive. Gambling comes first. Cattle second. Besides, I’ve been importing entertainers from east. I can pack maybe two hundred and fifty into the hall that opens off the Lucky Lil barroom and charge two dollars a head—five dollars, sometimes. You think I’m greedy? Well, nobody complains. Right now, they’re crowding in to pay three dollars fifty to see Margo Farnol. And they’re getting their money’s worth.”

  “Ace always was a sharp operator,” Bourne cheerfully informed the Texans. “Wait till you see this Farnol girl. She’s something special.”

  “What does she do?” yawned Stretch. “Rassle a buffalo?”

  “She’s a magician,” said Kerry.

  “Mighty good-looking girl,” mused Fennister.

  “We’re getting off the point,” complained Kerry.

  “All right,” shrugged Larry. “Every Tyson City saloon cleans up big Saturday nights. Go on, Kerry.”

  “Not much more to tell,” scowled Kerry. “I toted my cashbox up to my office—and they were waiting for me there. They must have come up the fire-stairs from the side alley and forced the lock on the window. When I unlocked my safe, they came hustling out from behind the drapes—took me by surprise.”

  “How many?” prodded Larry.

  “Four,” growled Kerry. “And don’t ask me what they looked like. They wore hoods and dusters—and it all happened damn fast. One of ’em clobbered me. On my way to the floor, I hit my head on a corner of my desk. I was out for damn near a quarter-hour.” He nodded to Fennister. “They hit Miley’s place next. Go on, Miley. Tell ’em.”

  “It was around five minutes to two,” muttered Fennister. “Sam—my brother—and I were in the office, counting the take. We had three big losers playing the roulette-wheel that night. I’d just finished the tally—about fifty-two hundred dollars—when we heard somebody rapping at our rear door, downstairs. Sam went down, heard a voice calling to him an—and—and made a bad mistake. He thought it was Doc Horton, a good friend of ours. Well—Sam opened up—and they jumped him ...”

  He bowed his head. Kerry came to his chair, dropped a hand to his shoulder, then quietly told Larry, “Six of ’em that time—all rigged the same way. One of ’em shut Sam’s mouth the hard way. With a knife. The others hustled upstairs and jumped Miley.”

  Fennister raised his head again. His face was ashen—as much from rage as from grief.

  “It isn’t the money,” he breathed. “It’s what they did to Sam.”

  “We’re sure sorry for you,” Larry soberly assured him.

  “They hog-tied me,” finished Fennister, “and gagged me so tight it took me a long time to work myself free. They took everything—and made a clean getaway.”

  “Busiest bunch of thieves I ever heard of,” muttered Kerry. “I’ll say that for them.” He gestured to Bourne. “Go on, Karl. Your turn now.”

  “My place,” Bourne told Larry, “is across town from the Lucky Lil and the Silver Spade. They must’ve made it fast, because it was only about five after two when we heard a noise in the kitchen. We have a kitchen in back of our barroom. There’s a rear door and window. The door was barred but, unfortunately, the window was unlocked. That’s how they got in. One of us got careless, I guess.”

  “Who’s ‘us’?” demanded Larry.

  “My hired help were still with me,” said Bourne. “We’d finished checking the take. Jud Curwood, my boss-barkeep, was pouring a goodnight drink for us. My table-hands, Eddie Ross, Quint Onslow, and myself. Well, you can guess the rest of it. All six of ’em came barging in, and we didn’t dare make a wrong move. Two of ’em had shotguns on us. Cocked. I don’t know about you Texans, but I’m a man that never argues with a cocked shotgun.”

  “They took Karl for five thousand,” said Kerry.

  “Roped and gagged us,” sighed Karl. “That’s why it took so long for us to raise the alarm. Of course, we didn’t know they’d already hit Ace and Miley.” He drew his brows together in a frown. “I recall it was blowing up a storm outside. No rain. No thunder. But a lot of wind. And, over the noise of the wind, we heard their horses in the back alley. They were headed out of town, moving northward.”

  “You couldn’t be mistaken about that?” asked Larry.

  “Heard the horses clear enough,” asserted Bourne. “Moving north. Jud Curwood’s plenty strong. He was first to struggle out of his ropes. He untied the rest of us and I sent Quint to fetch the law. It wasn’t till then that we learned about the other raids.’’

  “Wind blew out all horse-tracks, huh?” mused Larry.

  “That’s Jennings’ excuse,” shrugged Kerry, “for not cutting their sign.”

  “Ace,” sighed Fennister, “no lawman can follow tracks that’ve been blow out. I reckon Boyd did his best.” He frowned at Larry. “It’s just that we feel this whole thing is too big for Boyd. Too complicated.”

  “We don’t doubt the killers quit town,” said Kerry, “but how do we know they didn’t come back? They could’ve circled around, sneaked back into town from the south.”

  “That’s Ace’s theory,” Bourne told the Texans. “Me—I don’t agree with it. I put myself in their shoes and I ask myself where I’d want to be, if I’d just committed robbery and murder in Tyson City—and the answer I get is a thousand miles from Tyson City. I’ll bet they’re still running.”

  “Even so,” frowned Kerry, “you’ve agreed we should proposition Valentine and Emerson.”

  “I won’t go back on that,” said Bourne. “Go ahead. Proposition ’em.”

  Kerry seemed incapable of delicacy. He framed the offer in blunt terms.

  “You start nosing into this mess, Valentine. Maybe you won’t do any better than Jennings—and maybe you’ll get lucky. I’ve heard stories abou
t you. They say you have the luck of the devil at times. Anyway, I know your reputation, and that’s good enough for me. Deal yourself in. Try finding the skunks that robbed us—and killed Sam Fennister. If you do run ’em to ground—and get our money back—we’ll pool the whole bundle and pay you a fat percentage. In fact, you can write your own ticket.” But he added, cautiously, “Within reason.”

  “We’re looking ahead, Mr. Valentine,” said Fennister. “There’s more at stake than Saturday’s profits—or even the possibility of my brother’s murderer escaping punishment. It goes further. We have to think of Tyson’s City’s reputation. This town is making a name for itself. Every week, our trade increases. High-stake gamblers come all the way from Denver, Salt Lake, Phoenix—even Kansas City—to try their luck at our tables.”

  “But bad news travels fast and far,” Kerry pointed out. “The smart money looks for protection, Valentine. When they learn that three Tyson City houses were raided one night, they’ll wonder why the thieves haven’t been arrested.”

  “And they’ll think twice ...” Larry nodded knowingly, “… about bringin’ their bankrolls to Tyson City. They’ll be a-feared some hardcase will steal their coin the minute they get off the train.”

  “That,” said Fennister, “is what we’re afraid of. A successful robbery is bad for our kind of business.”

  “Well?” challenged Kerry. “What’s your answer?”

  “Runt,” grunted Stretch, “what d’you think?”

  “Well,” said Larry, “I never was partial to thieves. Specially the kind who’d gang up on a man and knife him.”

  “That’s what they did to Sam,” muttered Fennister, “and it would stick in my craw if—if they got away with it.”

  “Yes or no, Valentine?” demanded Kerry.

  “Yes,” said Larry. “But there’s one thing you better get clear in your minds. Whatever we do—Stretch and me—we do it our way.” He looked at Fennister. “If we find the coyote that knifed your brother, we might bring him in alive, but I make no promises. When we tangle with killers, we look out for ourselves. It’s us or them. So maybe you’ll never see Sam’s killer stand trial.”