“Don’t worry,” frowned Fennister. “We aren’t apt to interfere.”
“Hell, no.” Kerry shook his head emphatically. “Far as we’re concerned, you’re on your own. Handle it any way you want. Only question I’ll ask is how soon can you get started?”
“Tomorrow mornin’, I reckon,” decided Larry.
“Doin’ what?” prodded Stretch.
“We’ll ride north in the mornin’, try to back-track the route Briskin and the Grieves boys rode,” Larry said.
“Looking for what?” demanded Bourne.
“Cached dinero, maybe,” frowned Larry. “We didn’t find more than thirty dollars on those hardcases. Supposin’, now, they were mixed into the robberies, and supposin’ there’d been a divvy-up of the loot. Jim and Burt Grieves might’ve cached their share somewhere along the trail, while they were huntin’ Briskin. It’s a wild hunch, maybe, but it’s all I’ve got for a starter—and I aim to give it a whirl.”
Fennister and Bourne rose to their feet. Kerry, for a few moments, dropped his cold demeanor and became almost friendly.
“If you can’t help us,” he told Larry, “there’ll be no harm done, and no hard feelings. But I feel mighty optimistic, now that you’re buying in.”
“Happy hunting,” grinned Bourne.
The saloonkeepers shook hands with the Texans and went their way.
~*~
When it came to choosing entertainers, Ace Kerry had always been successful. He imported only the best available artists, paid them a generous fee, charged a high admission price and reaped the benefits. Pleasure-hungry cowpokes and free-spending gamblers never complained of Kerry’s prices—especially now, with the dazzling Margo giving two performances nightly.
During her Tyson City season, she was living at the big town’s best hotel, the Tyson Imperial on Main Street. The manager and his staff still hadn’t gotten used to her, and small wonder. She was something special, probably the only female magician working the frontier circuit. She was blonde and shapely, outstandingly beautiful.
When she descended to the lobby of the Tyson Imperial the following morning, she was garbed for riding—in an outfit of her own design. Not for the jaunty Margo the traditional riding habit. She wore a snug-fitting blouse of white silk and even snugger-fitting black pants, tucked into hand-tooled riding boots. Her studded belt accentuated her trim waist and rounded hips. Atop the blonde curls, a black, flat-crowned Stetson perched rakishly.
The manager stood in the doorway of his office, blinking wistfully, wishing his wife were fifteen years younger—and one-third as beautiful as Margo Farnol. The reception-clerk made a choking sound, grasped at the desk for support and stared glassily. Margo chuckled.
“Is something wrong, gentlemen?”
“Miss Margo,” sighed the manager, “you surely are a sight for sore eyes—and that’s putting it mild.”
“I take that as a compliment,” she smiled.
“Take a word of advice,” he begged, “from a man old enough to be your father.”
“Well,” she countered, “I’ll listen, but I’ll not promise anything.”
“If you plan on taking a ride,” said the manager, “take a bodyguard along. Six men—well-armed. Better still, go back to your room and—uh—change out of that outfit. Put on something a little less—uh—a little less ...”
“You mean,” she cheerfully challenged, “wear a little less?”
“Holy smokes—no!” The manager clapped a hand to his brow, then grinned sheepishly. “Now, now, Miss Margo, you’re joshing me.”
She laughed gaily, sidled across to the desk to confront the bug-eyed clerk. Deftly, she reached up to smooth his thinning hair. He trembled, as she triumphantly cried, “Ah hah! What have we here?”
Sleight-of-hand was her stock-in-trade, as her admirers were well aware. The manager grinned and the clerk started convulsively. It was as though she had extracted something from his hair—and the something was a silken garter, which she dangled before his eyes.
“One of mine!” she smiled. “Herman—were you searching my room for a souvenir?”
“No—gosh—no!” gasped the clerk. “Honest, Miss Margo ...!”
“Never mind,” she cooed, “You may keep it.” She sauntered jauntily to the manager, winked at him and patted his chest. “Don’t be worried about me, Mr. Obermeyer. I know how to take care of myself.”
“Well ...” shrugged the manager.
She moved away from him and across to the entrance. Then, pausing beside a potted palm, she lifted her quirt in a farewell gesture.
“I’ll be back at eleven-thirty precisely,” she assured him. “Time me.”
“Why, sure,” he nodded. “I’ll do that.”
He made to produce his silver timepiece. What silver timepiece? In sudden dismay, he investigated his vest pockets.
“My watch—where’s my watch ...?”
She chuckled, nodded to the potted palm and disappeared through the entrance. Grinning ruefully, he came to the potted palm and retrieved his watch, the chain of which was looped neatly over a palm-frond. The clerk shook his head incredulously, and opined, “It just isn’t natural, Mr. Obermeyer!”
“Tricks of her trade,” shrugged Obermeyer. “Can’t blame her for showing off. She’s a magician after all.”
The blonde girl was more than satisfied with the effect she created, during her jaunty promenade to the Circle D livery stable. Tyson City housewives turned and stared. Males of all ages became glassy-eyed statues, transfixed by her beauty, and especially by her snug-fitting riding attire. She hustled into the Circle D barn, greeted the proprietor with a cheery nod and made her request. Deckart, after giving his eyes a treat, suggested, “The old mare, huh, Miss Margo? She’s real gentle, and ...”
“Nonsense,” said Margo. “I’m an expert rider. Saddle me a frisky colt, if you have one.”
“I got a pinto colt that’s plenty frisky,” declared Deckart, “and fast, too.”
“He’ll do nicely,” she decided.
Deckart set about readying the pinto. Simultaneously, three rough-looking hombres began descending from the hayloft. They had spent half the night up there, sleeping off a long drinking jag, and they were still far from sober, but their bleary eyes were wide with interest.
Chapter Four
Ambush!
They were youngish, but formidable. Three hardcase cowhands in town for a spree. They were big and they were bumptious, and in no mood to be gentlemanly. One was brawny and dark-haired, the second brawny and red-haired, the third brawny and blond.
“Did you ever,” breathed the dark-haired one, “in all your born days see anythin’ so all-fired purty?”
“Blow us a toon on your harmonicky, Hunk,” chuckled the redhead, as he slid an arm about Margo’s waist. “I crave to dance with her!”
“Let go of me!” she gasped.
“Hunk—Buffalo—Salty ...!” protested Deckart. “You quit pawin’ the lady—hear?”
“It’s the tricky filly from Kerry’s place!” sniggered the blond one. “Hey, lady! Do somethin’! Pull a rabbit outa Salty’s hat!”
“Play music, Hunk,” ordered Salty. “Me and the lady is dancin’!”
Margo struggled in his arms, but in vain. It was an awkward moment for her. She wasn’t all that frightened, but she was indignant. Being manhandled by roughneck cowpokes wasn’t her idea of a good time. Salty hugged her tight, and she feared her ribs would crack.
Larry and Stretch had chosen this strategic moment to call at the livery to collect their horses. They stood in the barn entrance, studying the tableau with some interest. Stretch’s mild blue eyes wandered appreciatively over Margo’s well-knit frame. Larry, the realist, sized up the three roughnecks. Without looking at the struggling girl, he politely enquired, “You need help, ma’am?”
“Of all the unnecessary questions ...!” she gasped.
“Seems like,” suggested Stretch, “the lady ain’t partial to these jaspers.
”
The fire-haired Salty released his grip, shoved Margo away from him and glowered at Larry.
“Who,” he sourly challenged, “asked you to butt in?”
“Coupla true-blue heroes!” snorted the blond and belligerent Buffalo. He spat in disgust, and added, “Ain’t nothin’ I hate worse’n a hero!”
The dark-haired Hunk rolled up his sleeves, shaped up to Larry and opined, “What these saddlebums need is a lesson—the kinda lesson they’ll never forget!”
“Hold on there!” warned Deckart. “Don’t fight with them two! You’ll be bitin’ off more than you can chaw—take my word for it!”
“That’ll be the day!” snarled Hunk, as he unwound a haymaker to Larry’s jaw.
Margo leapt nimbly into a corner, hastily placed a sack of feed between herself and the brawlers. She was startled, but fascinated, too. The speed of the conflict, the efficient, lusty vigor with which the tall strangers resisted their attackers, was something to inspire awe.
That first blow never connected. Larry blocked it, and punished Hunk with a swinging uppercut that sent him reeling the full distance of the passage between the stalls. Reaching the rear entrance, Hunk went right on reeling. He didn’t collapse until he reached the back alley. Stretch, meanwhile, was dealing with the pitched charge of Salty and Buffalo. Salty’s rush was checked by a jarring jab to the head. Buffalo, the heavier of the two, seized Stretch in a bear hug and bore him to the straw-littered floor.
Her eager blue eyes switched to Larry, who was busy again. Salty had struggled to his feet and was transferring his attentions to Larry, throwing a vicious left and missing, swinging a hard right—and missing again. He seemed to miss all the time, but the same couldn’t be said for Larry. His bunched left sank into Salty’s midriff, doubling him. His powerful right jerked Salty to the perpendicular. Another right caused Salty to hurtle for Margo’s corner. She screamed, figuring it was high time she reacted in typical feminine fashion. She darted away from the feed-sack, just in time to avoid being crushed by Salty, who somersaulted over it and flopped into the corner, sleeping.
Stretch lurched to his feet with Buffalo still clinging to him. He broke free of Buffalo’s hug by driving a series of short, hard jabs to the center section. Sorely discouraged, Buffalo back-stepped. He called Stretch an uncomplimentary name and drew back his bunched right, bracing himself to throw a punch that might have driven Stretch clear into Main Street. But he was telegraphing the punch. Stretch had ample time for dodging it, and he did. The bunched fist shot over his left shoulder, as he ducked and threw himself forward. His right came up with shattering force, catching Buffalo full in the face. Buffalo’s feet left the floor. He remained aloft a moment before his heavy body surrendered to the law of gravity. When he crashed, the barn vibrated.
Stretch blew on his skinned knuckles, nodded cheerfully to Larry and remarked, “Didn’t put up much of a hassle, did they?”
“Maybe they were tired already,” Larry charitably suggested.
“When it comes to rescuing a lady in distress, you boys play rough,” Margo said.
“Shucks, no,” countered Stretch. “There was only three of ’em. We handled ’em real gentle. You oughta see us when we tangle with six or seven. That’s when ol’ Larry really hits hard.”
“I’ll—uh—saddle up for you now, Miss Margo,” offered Deckart.
“Margo Farnol.” She gave her name, offered the Texans a slim hand. “You can find me at the Lucky Lil any night of the week. I’m doing a show there.” They shook with her. She eyed them with undisguised interest, and opined, “You couldn’t be ordinary ranch hands. You must be something special.”
“You ain’t foolin’, Miss Margo,” called Deckart. “Them two hombres is the one and only Larry and Stretch.”
“Larry and Stretch?” Her eyes gleamed in sudden excitement. “From Texas?”
“Lady,” said Stretch, “we sure ain’t from Connecticut.”
“I should’ve guessed!” she breathed. “Who else but the Lone Star Hellions would make such an entrance?”
“The pinto’s ready, Miss Margo,” announced Deckart.
“I’m in no hurry,” said Margo. “Not any more. I’d rather wait for Larry and Stretch—and ride with them.”
“It wouldn’t be much fun for you,” declared Larry, “just ridin’ along with us.”
“Wherever you’re going,” she murmured, “and for whatever reason, I’d like to come along. You don’t know what this means to me, Larry. I’ll bet you think I’m pursued by fine gentlemen—wealthy cattlemen—everywhere I go. It isn’t like that at all. I crave to meet exciting men, the kind of adventuring Westerners I’ve heard so much about, but the only men who pursue me are roughneck cowboys and muscle-bound miners, drunks, deadbeats, tinhorns and the like. Meeting you is a—a kind of bonus.”
“Shucks,” grinned Stretch. “We ain’t nothin’ special. We’re just folks.”
“Please ...?” she begged.
The day hadn’t dawned when Larry Valentine could resist the plea of a girl as comely as Margo Farnol. He flashed her a friendly grin, nodded assent. Stretch hustled to ready their horses.
“Would you like a pretty scarf,” Margo asked Larry, “to replace that polka-dot bandanna you’re wearing?”
“Now look ...” began Larry.
His voice choked off, because he wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Margo had slid a hand into his vest-pocket. Now, so quickly that it perplexed him, she gave another display of sleight-of-hand, tugging at the pocket and pretending to produce a long string of gaily-patterned scarves, knotted together. Stretch’s saddle dropped with a thud. He blinked in disbelief.
“Take your pick of the scarves,” she gaily offered Larry, after which she hustled across to Stretch and whisked off his Stetson. Then, while Stretch’s eyes bulged, she delved into the crown of his hat and produced a folded sheet of paper. “And what have we here?” She unfolded the sheet, revealing it to be a brightly-colored poster proclaiming her act. Above a likeness of herself—garbed in tights and spangled bodice—was printed: “MARGO THE AMAZING—DIRECT FROM ’FRISCO!” Stretch recoiled in confusion, as she jokingly enquired, “How many more of these posters have you collected? If you’d asked nicely, I’d have given you a signed photograph.”
“Holy sufferin’ Hannah!” protested Stretch. “I swear I never ...!”
“She does that all the time,” grinned Deckart.
A short time later, the lady magician rode away from the barn, escorted by her new admirers. Larry, though amused by her tricks, was devoting all his thoughts to the chore ahead, the scouting of the terrain covered by Gil Briskin and his pursuers that eventful Sunday morning. Stretch, however, was concentrating on their fair companion. In the years of their wandering, the drifters had encountered all manner of women, but never a female magician. Stretch was impressed, and then some.
Near Main Street’s north end, they passed the soft-singing beggar. The Mex squatted on the edge of the sidewalk, idly strumming his guitar, the sunlight flashing off his dark glasses. With unerring accuracy, the Texans flicked coins into the tin cup. Not to be outdone, Margo imitated them, and the coin she flicked fell as true as had theirs. The ballad-singing beggar touched a hand to his sombrero and acknowledged the donation.
“Muchas gracias, amigos.”
They rode on and, during the first two miles, Larry had little to say. Stretch queried the girl about her travels. She entertained him awhile, recounting the more humorous side of her unusual career. And then, womanlike, she began questioning them regarding their current activities.
She listened to Stretch’s account of their brief meeting with the hapless tinhorn and their subsequent interviews with Tyson City’s lawmen and saloon owners, and her comment was somewhat wistful.
“It’s a sad story, really. I feel sorry for Mr. Fennister, but sorrier for this gambler, this Gil Briskin.”
“Why?” challenged Larry. “You didn’t know him at all.”
“Ain’t that just like a female?” grinned Stretch.
“Briskin sure was a good-lookin’ hombre,” drawled Larry, “and a real lady’s man. But, the way we hear it, his brain was like a corkscrew. Crooked. He was a two-bit cardsharp.”
At intervals, Larry dismounted for a closer examination of the terrain to right and left of the trail. If the Grieves brothers had cached anything hereabouts, they had certainly hidden it with care. He could find no evidence of recent digging.
They were in high country some fifteen miles from the scene of their brief battle with the drygulchers, when the rifles barked, filling the mid-morning air with violent sound. The scene was a bend of the mountain trail. To their right yawned a chasm a hundred feet deep. To their left, a cliff reared its ugly, rock-dotted bulk. And the rifles were barking from atop that cliff.
The attack was unexpected and devastating. Margo’s hired horse collapsed beneath her, mortally wounded. She barely had time to draw her boots from the stirrups and leap clear. Stretch was knocked from his saddle by a bullet that creased his left shoulder. He struck the ground hard. His head made harsh contact with a boulder, and he was plunged into oblivion, with more bullets kicking up the dirt all around him. Larry, as yet unscathed, quickly dismounted and tugged his Winchester from its scabbard.
A slug missed his head by mere inches, as he hustled towards the prone girl and the unconscious Stretch. At his yelled command, his sorrel and Stretch’s pinto galloped onwards, moving around the bend. Margo was rising to her knees.
“Dive behind your horse!” he ordered her. “And hug ground!”
She scrambled behind the meager cover offered by the dead animal, while Larry hustled to where Stretch lay. A bullet ricocheted off the rock that had started Stretch’s head bleeding. Larry cursed, planted himself in front of his sidekick and stared upwards. The sidewinders were only dimly visible atop the cliff. He could see naught but their headgear, but he cut loose anyway, raising his Winchester and triggering a burst in hot defiance.
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