“They haven’t stirred out of town?” frowned Larry.
“You got my word for it,” Hutton earnestly assured him. “Me, Rocky and the sheriff.”
Larry grimaced in disgust. The rowdies heaved sighs of relief. Salty retrieved his gunbelt and strapped it about his loins. Larry propped a hip against a hitch-rack, produced his makings and began building a smoke.
“So,” he mused, “I was playin’ a wild hunch.”
“You don’t have to apologize to us, Valentine,” muttered Buffalo.
“I’m apologizin’, anyway,” said Larry.
“We ain’t angels, and that’s a fact,” Salty soberly asserted. “But we ain’t drygulchers.”
“About this ambush, Valentine,” said Hutton. “You’d better tell me the whole story. The sheriff will want to know.”
Larry lit his cigarette and, in a few terse sentences, described the ambush and its aftermath. The cowpokes hovered close, listening intently. Hunk whistled, shook his head and remarked, “You’ve sure made yourself an enemy, Valentine.”
“And that,” opined Buffalo, “is puttin’ it mild.”
After Hutton had hurried away to report to the sheriff, Larry nodded to the cowpokes and told them, “I guess I owe you a drink.”
They retired to the Lucky Lil, where Larry described the morning’s events to a startled Ace Kerry.
“They were too far away,” demanded Kerry, “for you to see their faces? You couldn’t recognize ’em?”
“All I could see,” muttered Larry, “was the tops of their hats.”
“Well …” Kerry slanted a cautious glance to Larry’s companions, “… best we discuss it later, huh?”
“Any time,” shrugged Larry.
He was thirsty, and willing to listen to the friendly overtures of the Hashknife trio for a quarter-hour or so.
Meanwhile, in Doc Horton’s surgery, the patient regained his senses. Margo flashed an eager smile from where she sat, in a chair to the left of the open window. Horton hovered over the cot to which his patient had been transferred after treatment and solicitously enquired, “How are you feeling? Any headache?”
Stretch blinked wearily. His head was encased in bandages. More bandaging had been secured over the dressing at his left shoulder. Margo called to him. He grinned vaguely, then squinted up at Horton.
“You a sawbones?” he demanded.
“Physician, if you please,” frowned Horton.
“How’d I get here?” Stretch wanted to know. “What in blazes happened to me?”
Margo came over to the cot and began an excited and somewhat garbled account of the ambush, which Horton firmly interrupted.
“He’s doing fine,” he assured her, “but let’s not rush him, ma’am.”
“Will he be delirious again?” she asked.
“I doubt it,” said Horton. “But he’s weak. We have to allow for loss of blood.”
“I’d like to stay awhile longer,” she murmured. Stretch had closed his eyes again and was breathing steadily. “If I promise not to disturb him ...”
“Stay as long as you wish,” offered Horton. “I have to call on another patient.” He checked his watch. “Matter of fact, I’m overdue.”
“Don’t let me delay you,” she smiled.
“Quite an ordeal you went through, young lady,” he reflected, as he donned his coat and picked up his bag. “It might be advisable for you to brew yourself some coffee. You can find your way to my kitchen and help yourself.”
“I may do that,” she nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Horton.”
After the medico had left, she resumed her seat beside the open window and wistfully studied the weather-beaten features of the slumbering trouble-shooter. In repose, Stretch Emerson appeared somewhat less than formidable—almost as helpless, as guileless, as a child.
It never occurred to her, during these quiet moments, that danger was again closing in on them. She heard no warning sound from beyond the open window, where a narrow alley ran parallel with Cedar Avenue’s south side. She was relaxed and her eyes were on Stretch. Quite suddenly, he awoke again, and she sensed he wasn’t entering another period of delirium. In a blunt, matter-of-fact way, he muttered, “I ain’t stickin’ in this doggone bed all day.”
And he moved—only a few inches—but enough to save his life. He was leaning leftward, about to throw the sheets back, when the knife embedded itself in the pillow. Had he not moved, the blade would have found his throat. He blinked uncomprehendingly, as Margo’s shrill scream pierced the air. She leapt to her feet and, with no thought for her own safety, leaned out the window to scan the alley.
She had moved quickly, but not quickly enough. All she saw of the knife-thrower was one leg disappearing into a doorway. She unleashed another scream, whirled and dashed to the cot, to anxiously enquire, “Are you all right, Stretch? Speak to me! The knife ...”
He was still leaning over, fumbling with the bedclothes. The hilt of the knife protruded from the pillow—and he was none the wiser!
“Where in heck,” he demanded, “are my doggone pants? I gotta get outa here and find Larry. I’m thirsty.”
“Don’t you understand?” she gasped. “You were almost killed!”
“You already told me,” he mumbled. “They drygulched us—up in the high country ...”
“I mean now!” she cried. “Look, Stretch! The knife!”
He hauled himself to a sitting posture, twisted, squinted at the knife.
“How,” he mildly enquired, “did that get there?”
“It was thrown through the window!” she panted. From the alley, she heard running footsteps. A head and shoulders appeared at the window. Law and order had arrived promptly, in the person of Deputy Rocky Lodge.
“What’s all the hollerin’ about?” he demanded.
“Somebody tried to kill Stretch just now,” she announced. “He threw a knife!”
“Who?” frowned Lodge.
“I didn’t see him clearly,” she fretted. “By the time I reached the window, he was disappearing into a doorway!”
“All right, all right ...” Lodge beckoned impatiently. “Hustle over here and show me which doorway!”
She ran to the window, pointed. Lodge scampered briskly along the alley, unsheathed his six-gun, aimed a hard kick at the closed door. It refused to budge, and he leapt back cursing, hopping on one leg. His second try was successful, and less painful to his toes. The door opened when he turned the knob.
Stretch was out of bed and moving about the surgery, a mite uncertain on his feet.
“Gotta find my pants,” he mumbled. “This ain’t no place for a peace-lovin’ hombre like me.”
“Please, Stretch!” begged Margo. “Get back into bed!”
“No, siree.” He shook his bandaged head. “I’d be a sight safer at the hotel.”
He opened a closet door, gave a grunt of satisfaction. As he helped himself to his clothing and hardware, Lodge reappeared at the window, to announce, “He got away. That was the old Halliday place he went into. Been empty a long time.” He climbed in, crossed to the cot. “I’d better have the knife. It’s evidence.”
“Help me!” panted Margo. “The doctor said Stretch must stay in bed!”
“Emerson,” frowned Lodge, “get back into that bed.”
“Go fry your head,” grunted Stretch, as he donned his pants.
“I’ll try to find the doctor!” called Margo, as she hurried from the surgery. Then, dashing along the passage, “Better still—I’ll try to find Larry!”
In vain, the lawman pleaded, threatened and cajoled. Stretch wanted out, and nothing could stop him.
“Well, damn it all …” complained Lodge, when Stretch was buckling his gunbelt, “I can’t stick around here arguin’ with you. I got to report to the sheriff.”
“You do that, boy,” Stretch suggested.
Within ten minutes, Margo had run Larry to ground. It was only by chance that she thought to check the barroom of the Lucky Lil. Whe
n she hurried in, Larry was about to take his leave of the Hashknife trio.
“Larry—come quickly!” she cried.
“What the hell …” he began.
“It’s Stretch!” she gasped, “Somebody tried to kill him, and now he swears he’ll leave the Horton house and go back to the hotel!”
Approaching the intersection of Main and Cedar on his way home, Doc Horton absently acknowledged the greeting of the tall man coming towards him.
“Howdy, Doc,” drawled Stretch.
“Howdy,” grunted Horton.
The medico walked another fifteen yards and was almost turning the corner, when the shock of recognition smote him like a physical blow. He started convulsively, whirled and gaped. The battered Stetson of Stretch Emerson was perched precariously atop the turban of bandaging. The tail of the shirt hung out, flapping against the butts of the twin Colts. Stretch was making the distance, but taking his time about it, out of deference to his reduced condition.
“It’s impossible!” Horton shook his head dazedly. “It couldn’t be him! He’s too weak to walk. But it is him—and he is walking!” He broke into a loping run, yelling a warning. “Emerson—come back—I mean stand still! Wait for me!”
But Stretch trudged on and turned into another side street, the one in which the Downey Hotel was located. Despite concussion, loss of blood and an unhealed gunshot wound, he made it to the hotel entrance one jump ahead of Larry, Margo and the doctor. In the lobby, Larry hastily procured his key from Downey and took Stretch’s arm. They climbed the stairs, with Horton still mouthing protests.
In their room, Horton pointed sternly to one of the beds and said, “Strip and lie down! I’ll have to check your wounds immediately. And I won’t be responsible for what you’ve done to yourself—leaving my surgery without my permission!”
“Quit bellyachin’, Doc,” scowled Larry. “He had a damn good reason. Margo—turn your back.”
Margo moved across to the window, seated herself and devoted her attention to an extremely uninteresting backyard, while Larry and the medico put the taller Texan to bed. For quite some time, Horton inspected Stretch’s wounds. Then, somewhat incredulously, he informed Larry: “Your friend has no right to be in such excellent physical condition. It’s downright unnatural.”
“What’re you lookin’ for, Doc?” grinned Stretch. “An apology?”
“Why—in the name of commonsense,” demanded Horton, “did you do it?”
“You can turn around now, Margo,” muttered Larry, “and you can tell the sawbones why Stretch flew the coop.” Her nerves had settled. She could, and did, describe it coherently now. Horton listened perplexedly, while Larry paced back and forth, balling his right hand into a fist, slamming it into his left palm, cursing inwardly.
“But—why …” began Horton.
“Why?” Larry glowered at him. “I’d say the reason is plain enough. Somebody wants us dead.” He gestured impatiently. “If you say Stretch has to rest up, that’s okay by me. But he’ll rest here—where I can keep an eye on him.”
“No balcony,” observed Margo. “No fire-stairs. I don’t see how they could climb to this window without your hearing them.”
“Well,” frowned Horton, “I have other patients.”
“Sure, Doc,” nodded Larry. “We’ll be seein’ you.” He let the medico out, then closed and relocked the door. To Margo, he said, firmly, “This better be a lesson to you. It don’t pay to tag along with the likes of us. You near got yourself killed today—as if you need remindin’.”
“I just don’t understand,” she murmured. “It was all so unexpected—and mysterious.”
“That’s why Larry’s hoppin’ mad,” drawled Stretch. “He don’t mind if somebody’s tryin’ to kill us. What gripes him is he dunno why. Ain’t nothin’ Larry hates worse’n a mystery. He’s the kinda hombre has to savvy everything”
“Those cowboys?” asked Margo.
“Nope,” grunted Larry. “They’re in the clear. I found out they never left town. Matter of fact, they’re still here. Hunk says they’re stayin’ three days.”
“You took their word for that?” challenged Stretch.
“Had to,” frowned Larry. “It’s the truth. One of Jennings’ deputies vouched for ’em.” He straddled a chair, glared at his clenched fists. “Whoever drygulched us—and threw that knife at Stretch—I’ll find ’em! If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll find ’em!”
Chapter Six
One Angry Texan
Stretch squinted at his partner, and asked, “Where d’you start, runt?”
“Damned if I know,” muttered Larry. “And that’s the hell of it. I’m in a dark corner. Can’t see where I have to go.”
“In a situation of this kind,” sighed Margo, “a woman is no use at all.”
“Do yourself a favor,” advised Larry. “Stay away from us. When I tangle with those sidewinders ...”
“I know what you mean.” Ruefully, she mimicked his Texas drawl. “I wouldn’t be nothin’ but a doggone nuisance—huh, pardner?”
“No offence,” said Larry, “but that’s how it is.”
“Well ...” she rose from her chair, flashed them a smile, “this will be the first time I’ve ever avoided a man I admire. But you’re right, of course. I’d only slow you down—get in your way.”
Larry unlocked the door, opened it for her.
“Do what you have to do,” she murmured, “but be careful. When it’s all over, I’d like you to be my guests. We could have a wonderful supper-party at my hotel to celebrate your victory.”
“Best offer we’ve had this year,” grinned Stretch.
The lady magician departed, and the room seemed to lack something now. Quite a personality was the jaunty Margo. Not just another pretty woman, but a trusty ally in time of emergency.
In the act of reclosing the door, Larry frowned at the scrawny man advancing along the corridor. Deputy Hutton’s jaw was jutting aggressively. He looked resolute, determined and formidable, but Larry wasn’t impressed. “Lookin’ for you, Valentine,” called the lawman.
“So you’ve found me,” growled Larry, “and now what?”
He grasped Hutton’s arm, hauled him into the room and shoved the door shut. Hutton regained his balance, blinked resentfully, and announced, “Sheriff wants to see you—right away.”
“Just like that?” Larry challenged.
“Right away,” frowned Hutton. “So—uh—you better not keep him waitin’. He’s good and sore.”
“He’s sore?” gasped Larry.
“Ain’t that a shame?” leered Stretch.
“Well, doggone it,” mumbled Hutton, “we’re tryin’ to keep Tyson City peaceable and—uh—we got troubles enough already, without strangers comin’ in and ...”
“The sheriff,” Stretch dryly informed Larry, “wants to keep this town peaceable. Real fine job they’re doin’, huh, runt? Knife-throwers runnin’ around loose. It’s gettin’ to where a body ain’t safe in bed. But they’re runnin’ a real peaceable town.”
Larry donned his Stetson and crowded the deputy, prodding his chest with a hard forefinger. Hutton had no option but to retreat all the way to a chair. He flopped into it, while Larry told him, “You bet your life I’ll go to see your boss—but not because he sent one of his messenger boys to fetch me!”
“All right—all right,” began Hutton.
“As for you,” scowled Larry, “you say right here—savvy? You likely wouldn’t be much protection for my partner, but you’ll do your damnedest. You’ll watch him close, and you’ll keep the door locked. You won’t open up for anybody but me—that clear enough for you?”
“Hell, Valentine,” frowned Hutton, “I don’t take no orders from you!”
“Don’t take your eyes off Stretch for one second,” growled Larry. He bent, deftly whisked Hutton’s six-gun from its holster, reversed it and shoved it into Hutton’s hand. “Keep this in your paw, and be ready to use it!” He went to the door, opened
it and fired a last order: “Lock this behind me.”
The door slammed behind Larry and he descended to the lobby, hustled out into the main street and, with long strides, made his way to Main. His face was hard, his mood bitter, when he reached the law office. He kicked the street-door open, strode in and confronted them. Jennings was seated at his desk. Lodge lounged in the cellblock entrance, gnawing on an unlit cigar, eyeing Larry alertly. With heavy sarcasm, Jennings said, “Don’t bother to knock.”
“You should be thankful I didn’t tear the door from its hinges,” Larry retorted, “and bust it over your head.”
“For once in your life, Valentine,” frowned Jennings, “will you simmer down and listen?”
“You listen,” countered Larry. “I’m here to put you wise to somethin’, Jennings. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll heed what I’m tellin’ you. Us Texans got drygulched today—in the worst way. It wasn’t enough we got shot at by a passel of sneakin’ sidewinders—they tried to bury us under an avalanche!”
“I wanted to ask you a few questions,” frowned Jennings. “The little I’ve heard of that ambush—and what happened at Doc Horton’s house—it smells like a grudge-fight to me. I had the notion some owlhoot bunch trailed you and Emerson to my territory, and now they’re doing their damnedest to kill you. You know about that hassle Sunday morning, Valentine. Three gambling houses robbed—and me without a single lousy clue. I told you before, I got my hands full, without you Texans bringing your private fights to Tyson County. Now, is that reasonable, or isn’t it?”
“You’re guessin’ wild,” said Larry, “The last time we ran into trouble was a couple months back, in Nevada Territory, and that trouble was settled—the hard way.”
“No survivors, huh?” prodded Jennings. “Nobody followed you to my territory?”
“Not a chance,” growled Larry.
“Well, here’s something you likely haven’t thought of, Valentine. How about your deal with those saloonkeepers? Maybe there’s a tie-up. Maybe our Sunday morning raiders haven’t quit the county—and they’re afraid you’ll get too close for comfort.”
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