Larry and Stretch 6

by Marshall Grover

  Larry raised his eyebrows.

  “How,” he demanded, “would you know about my deal with the saloonkeepers?”

  “Miley Fennister told me,” said Jennings. “I guess he figured he owed me that much. Why?” He grinned mirthlessly. “Is it supposed to be a secret?”

  “I didn’t think they’d talk it around.”

  “They aren’t advertising,” Jennings assured him. “I’m probably the only party Miley has told. As for Kerry and Bourne, I guess they’ll keep their mouths shut.”

  “And maybe they haven’t,” mused Larry. “Maybe that bunch of thievin’ killers are layin’ low hereabouts. Maybe Kerry or Bourne talked too loud—and were heard.” He nodded pensively. “It’s happened to us before. We’ve been drygulched by hombres we never heard of, because they were afeared we’d buy in and smoke ’em out.”

  “My warning still goes,” muttered the sheriff. “I can’t stop Kerry and his friends from hiring outside help. Even so, the law gets first shot at the lawless. That’s the way it has to be, Valentine. I go by the book.”

  “So do I,” Larry calmly retorted. “Stretch and me don’t go shootin’ till we know we’re onto the guilty parties. What’s more, we’ll try to take ’em alive. If we trigger ’em, it’ll be self-defense, which means you can’t lay a hand on us.”

  “Well, Valentine,” shrugged Jennings, “I guess we’ve both said what we have to say.”

  “Don’t make any wrong moves, Valentine,” muttered Lodge. “We’ll be keepin’ our eyes on you.”

  “Save your breath, Rocky,” frowned Jennings. “He’s too ornery to heed a warning.”

  Larry turned on his heel, strode out without closing the door behind him. It was three-thirty p.m. now, and a great deal had happened since early morning. His brain was busy, but not confused. The initial white-hot rage had eased to cold anger.

  Back at the Downey Hotel, he curtly dismissed Deputy Hutton, who was only too happy to take his leave. To Stretch, he recounted his conversation with the sheriff, which, in Stretch’s opinion, added up to nothing. It had all been said before by other lawmen—hundreds of them.

  “Maybe so,” Larry agreed. “But Jennings said one thing that makes sense.”

  “You mean,” prodded Stretch, “them killers are still in town? Same bunch that raided Kerry and Fennister and Bourne?”

  “He could be right about that,” opined Larry.

  “Naw!” Stretch shook his head emphatically. “Why would they hang around? They cleaned up big. They’re likely up to the Wyoming border by now.”

  “They might stay in Tyson City,” argued Larry, “if they were sure they’d never get caught. Trouble is, they ain’t so sure any more. They’re afeared we’ll catch onto ’em.”

  “Well ...” shrugged Stretch.

  “I’d admire to check the whole set-up,” said Larry, “startin’ at the Lucky Lil, then workin’ my way to the Silver Spade and across town to Bourne’s Palace. They’ve had time to think it over—Kerry, Fennister and Bourne. Maybe they’ll recall somethin’ they forgot to tell Jennings, somethin’ that didn’t seem important at the time.”

  “So mosey along,” urged Stretch. “You don’t have to bodyguard me, runt.” He lifted the sheet that covered him, exhibited a cocked .45. “I ain’t sleepy any more, but you can lock the door anyway. Any fool tries to bust in here—he’s grave-bait.”

  “I’ll be back,” said Larry, “come suppertime.”

  “Watch yourself,” advised Stretch.

  At the Lucky Lil, after accepting a double-shot from Kerry’s private stock, Larry fired a question or two. Kerry gave him his undivided attention, and prompt answers.

  “No, Valentine. I’ve racked my brain, but I can’t think of anything beyond what I already told you.”

  “Show me where it happened,” ordered Larry.

  “Be glad to,” shrugged Kerry.

  He ushered Larry up the stairs to the gallery and into his office. There, he went over it again, stressing the speed with which his four attackers had laid him low and escaped with his profits. Larry ambled to the window, studied the balcony and the stairs leading down into the alley.

  “Four of ’em, you said,” he mused.

  “A half-dozen,” Kerry reminded him, “when they hit Miley and Karl. I guess a couple kept watch down there in the alley.”

  “What time d’you have?” demanded Larry.

  Kerry checked his watch.

  “I make it three-fifty, exactly.” He grinned knowingly, jerked a thumb. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, Miley’s place is uptown—thataway.”

  “That time of a Sunday morning,” opined Larry, “there’d still be plenty citizens on Main Street. Six hombres in hoods and dusters wouldn’t take a chance on gettin’ spotted. They must’ve followed the back alley to the Silver Spade.”

  “Well,” said Kerry, “we know they went in through Miley’s back door.”

  Larry nodded a curt farewell, climbed onto the balcony and descended the fire-stairs. Moving briskly, he cut through to the rear alley and followed it to the Silver Spade. Its rear door was locked, and nobody answered his knock, so he went around front and used the main entrance. As he strode into Fennister’s barroom, a clock above the laden shelves showed four p.m. Ten minutes—roughly—had taken the busy marauders from Kerry’s private office to the rear door of this establishment.

  Fennister spotted him and came across for a few words. In answer to Larry’s query, he sadly shook his head, and confessed, “I find it hard to remember anything except the harsh fact of Sam’s death. I was in a state of shock when it happened—unable to think clearly.”

  Larry nodded sympathetically, flicked another glance to the clock. Three minutes after four.

  “Point me towards Bourne’s Palace, Mr. Fennister. I haven’t been there yet, and I hanker to look it over.”

  “You’re following the route worked by the killers,” guessed Fennister.

  “It mightn’t help any,” shrugged Larry, “but you never can tell.”

  Fennister pointed to the northeast.

  “To reach the Palace,” he frowned, “they had to cross Main Street. You go two blocks uptown, Mr. Valentine. The Palace is directly opposite the Land Office.”

  “They likely played it safe,” suggested Larry, “and followed the back alley clear to the north end of town, before crossin’ to the east side.”

  “I suppose so,” nodded Fennister.

  Larry thanked him, darted another glance at the clock and hustled out into Main Street. How much time had elapsed between the second and third raids? Very little, according to Karl Bourne. Less than ten minutes, in fact. When he came to the Land Office and stared across to Tyson City’s third-largest gambling house, he realized at once that the raiders must have crossed Main Street somewhere in this vicinity. There could be no other explanation for their entering Bourne’s establishment so soon after the robbery and murder at the Silver Spade. The hoods and dusters, he decided, must have been tucked out of sight beneath their jackets, and re-donned in the alley behind the Palace.

  He crossed the street, cut along a narrow laneway to the alley behind the saloon. Just as Bourne had described it, the rear room of the building was a kitchen. The window was locked, but the back door opened at his touch.

  He ambled through the empty kitchen to a connecting doorway and found himself looking into the barroom.

  There were a half-dozen customers. He ignored them and concentrated his attention on the staff. Bourne hailed him cordially and sauntered towards him from the corner where the faro layout was located. Two black-clad men rose from their chairs and followed Bourne. They wore the look of the professional gambler. They were well-groomed and genial, but their eyes were the eyes of veteran poker-players, alert, inscrutable.

  Larry met them at the bar, nodded to the barkeep and said, “Beer.”

  “On the house, Jud,” Bourne cheerfully informed the barkeep. “Larry Valentine’s drinks are free, an
y time his thirst brings him to the Palace.” He shook Larry’s hand.

  “Say ‘howdy’ to Jud Curwood,” offered Bourne. “Best barkeep I ever hired.”

  “I’m Quint Onslow,” drawled the taller of the table-hands. “If poker’s your meat, Valentine, I’ll be glad to accommodate you—any time.”

  “We’ll likely get together,” nodded Larry.

  The other gambler smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. “Ross,” he offered. “Eddie Ross. Glad to see you, Valentine.”

  “The way I hear it,” frowned Bourne, “it’s a wonder we’re seeing you at all. Rough day, huh, Valentine?”

  “You heard about it?” prodded Larry.

  “Couple dozen citizens,” shrugged Bourne, “heard you telling Deputy Hutton about it. Word travels fast in Tyson City. I heard about the knife-business at Doc Horton’s place, too. Helluva thing.”

  “We’re still alive,” shrugged Larry, “so it could’ve been worse.”

  “If I’d known you were involved in some other trouble at this time,” said Bourne, “I’d never have agreed to Ace Kerry’s suggestion. About hiring you, I mean. It’s too much for you, Valentine. How can we expect you to help us, when you have problems of your own?”

  “Well, now,” frowned Larry, “if I can help you—maybe I’ll be helpin’ myself.”

  “I don’t follow you,” said Bourne.

  “Same bunch,” explained Larry, “might be behind it. That’s how Jennings sees it. He thinks your Sunday mornin’ visitors are still in town—and gettin’ nervous.”

  “Jennings never had one smart notion in his whole blame life,” growled the barkeep. “He’s shootin’ wild.”

  “Got to agree with you, Jud,” sighed Bourne. “The more I think about it, the surer I am. We’ll never get our money back.”

  “That bunch of owlhoots,” opined Onslow, “are long gone and far away.”

  “Always a chance they’ll be picked up,” suggested Ross. “Jennings telegraphed all over. Gill County law might head ’em off—or the U.S. marshals down San Pedro way.”

  “It’s a big country, Eddie,” muttered Bourne. “I don’t hold out much hope.” He eyed Larry thoughtfully. “You don’t really believe they’d stay in town, do you?”

  “You never can tell what a thief’ll do,” drawled Larry, “if he thinks he’s covered his tracks.” He finished his beer, shook his head to Curwood’s offer of a refill. “What time do you have?”

  Bourne produced a gold watch.

  “Four-seventeen exactly. Why?”

  “I’m checkin’ the time angle,” Larry told him. “The way it looks to me, they had to work fast. They made it from the Silver Spade to here in one helluva hurry.”

  “And worked fast when they got here,” Bourne sourly assured him.

  Larry accepted a cigar from Bourne and a light from Ross. Then, nodding casually, he announced, “I’ll go out the way I came in. Through your back door. Aim to check the alley again.”

  “Luck to you, Valentine,” grunted Onslow.

  “Gracias,” Larry acknowledged. “Be seein’ you.”

  He retreated to the kitchen, let himself out into the alley. During the next forty-five minutes, he walked its full length several times, checking its outlet at the north end of town, and the buildings fronting its east side. There were empty buildings, an old barn with its roof caving in, a disused warehouse. If, under cover of the storm, the raiders had decided to hide, they could have managed it easily. They might never have ventured as far as the outskirts of Tyson City. Well, it was a possibility, and the hard-working Jennings posse would have been none the wiser.

  Dusk was gathering, when he heard the sound that had become so familiar—the plaintive strains of guitar-music, the gentle voice of the Mexican beggar. He paused beside the slumped figure in the dingy doorway of an uptown building, fished out a coin and dropped it into the tin cup. “Muchas gracias,” mumbled the beggar.

  He continued his mournful song. Absently, Larry wondered why he had chosen such an unlikely pitch, this quiet section of town where there were few passers-by. Well, maybe the old Mex just didn’t hanker to get rich. He strolled on, turned a corner. And then, obeying his sixth sense, he back-stepped and stared along the alley. The song had ended abruptly. The beggar was trudging southward and, while Larry watched, he moved to one side to avoid stumbling over a discarded box.

  Larry’s pulse quickened. Had the beggar’s action been merely instinctive? He had heard it said that many a blind man could sense—if not see—an obstacle in his path. The beggar came trudging past, still moving southward. On an impulse, Larry began tagging him. His suspicions had been aroused.

  All the way to the southern outskirts, Larry followed him. There was a shack set apart from the other buildings nudging the edge of town. The beggar headed towards it unerringly, opened the door and disappeared inside. Larry made a cautious approach, unaware that his own movements were being followed with intense interest.

  The door was partially open. He stood in the doorway, studying the kneeling figure. There was no furniture. Just the four walls, a window with a cracked pane, the dirt floor. The beggar was burrowing in the center of the floor, head bowed, face obscured by the floppy brim of his sombrero. Larry challenged him quietly, in fluent Spanish.

  “You dig for gold?”

  The beggar tensed, but did not look around.

  “Buenas noches, señor,” he mumbled.

  Larry repeated his challenge. The beggar shrugged, and mumbled, “I will sleep here. I dig a hole for the hip-bone. Is this unusual?”

  It happened then, too fast, too unexpectedly for Larry to counteract. The gun roared from the window, twice. The first bullet plunged Larry into oblivion. He collapsed in the doorway, the beggar struggled to his feet and frantically retreated to the far corner. The second report drew a yell of anguish from the beggar, and the assassin was sure he had scored twice.

  From where he lay, feigning death, the beggar saw Larry dragged into the shack and dumped on the dirt floor. The marauders didn’t glance his way. In haste, they quit the shack. The door was closed, but there were no retreating footsteps. At least, not for quite some time. And then—another sound, sharp, ominous. A crackling noise. Smoke was filtering through the cracks in the walls.

  The beggar lurched to his feet, rushed to the door and turned the knob. It was hot to his touch. He yelped, began opening the door, then hastily slammed it again. The killers had piled brush from the threshold to the roof, brush that was blazing fiercely. He dashed to the window. The roof was afire now and the atmosphere stifling. He used the guitar to smash the glass from the window. The opening was small—too small for him to climb through!

  Chapter Seven

  The Vanishing Minstrel

  He huddled beside Larry’s sprawled body, cursing bitterly, cursing the assassins—and himself as well.

  “Fool! Stupid, shortsighted fool! You should have known! It was too big for you. You couldn’t get away with it!”

  The heat was intense, the smoke stifling. All four walls were afire, except for a small section to the left of the window.

  The excited shouts reached him with infinite clarity, rising above the roar of the flames. He rose up, staggered to the undamaged strip of wall and pounded on it, yelling at the top of his voice.

  “Hola—hola!”

  There were answering cries, a lusty oath, followed by the startled assertion, “Somebody inside!”

  He retreated to the center of the shack, raised his head for a worried appraisal of the roof. A flaming timber fell, crashing within a few feet of the still-unconscious Larry.

  He threw a glance to the wall. It was trembling under the onslaught of some heavy implement. A splintering sound heralded his brief glimpse of an axe-head. Could they do it?

  They could—and did. An aperture large enough for him to climb through was cut by the slashing axe wielded by Buffalo. With Hunk and Salty, the burly Hashknife puncher had arrived on the scene close behind
Sheriff Jennings and an excited double-dozen citizens. An obliging blacksmith had fetched an axe.

  The beggar gathered up his guitar, bowed his head and hustled to the opening. As he clambered through, he mumbled in Spanish.

  “One other man inside. You must take him quickly.”

  “Stay out of there!” he heard Jennings warn Buffalo. “You’d never reach him in time!”

  But, despite his shiftless ways and his penchant for rowdyism, Buffalo wasn’t lacking in courage. He insisted on struggling through the opening. The smoke assailed him, but the prone man was visible—and recognizable.

  “Damned if it ain’t Valentine!” he roared.

  Buffalo seized Larry by his shoulders and dragged him to the opening. As he shoved him through, into the waiting arms of his sidekicks, more blazing timbers crashed to the floor. He swore luridly.

  “Tote him away fast! I want out!”

  Head-first, he dived through the aperture. Jennings was yelling warnings to the gathering crowd. They retreated from the inferno and, within seconds of Buffalo’s squatting beside Jennings and his saddlepards, the remainder of the roof collapsed. Sparks flew skyward. The front wall crashed outward, a side wall inward. The shack had become a mound of crackling timber.

  “Valentine,” countered Jennings, “must’ve been born lucky.”

  Larry opened his eyes a few minutes later. Cold water was being splashed onto his face. Fingers were probing his aching head. He winced, blinked up into the stern countenance of Boyd Jennings, who fired a query, but not at Larry.

  “How about it, Doc? Can he talk?”

  “I don’t see why not.” It was Horton’s voice, as monotonous, as mournful as ever. “The head-wound isn’t much worse than a scratch.”

  “But he was knocked senseless,” Jennings pointed out.

  “Naturally,” shrugged Horton. “The scratch was inflicted by a bullet, I’d say. The impact must have been tremendous.”

  “I was taggin’ the old Mex,” muttered Larry.

  “Which old Mex?” demanded Jennings. “The blind beggar?”