“Him,” grunted Larry. “He was inside the shack. I was in the doorway—and that’s all I recall.”
“Damn and blast,” scowled Jennings. “Nothing makes sense.”
“What about the Mex?” frowned Larry. “I got a few questions for him.”
“You and me both,” retorted Jennings. “I’m curious about why he took off.”
“Why he what?” blinked Larry.
“The Mex skedaddled,” Buffalo informed him, “right after we busted him outa the shack.”
“I should’ve been keeping an eye on him,” muttered Jennings. “I swear I don’t understand why he ran away. Rocky and Stew are trying to track him down.”
“Like you say, Jennings,” growled Larry, “nothin’ makes sense.” He struggled to a sitting posture, stared across at the blazing ruins and lifted a hand to his head.
“By golly, Valentine,” frowned Hunk, “somebody sure as hell wants you dead. Maybe he thought his slug had finished you but, even then, he wasn’t takin’ no chances. He figured to burn your carcass to ash.”
“How,” wondered Larry, “did I get out of there? The Mex looked too old to tote me.”
“You owe your life to Buffalo Jackson,” Jennings told him.
“Any time you get stuck in a fire,” Buffalo loftily assured Larry, “all you gotta do is holler for ol’ Buffalo.”
“You’re joshin’,” frowned Larry, “but I ain’t laughin’.” He added, fervently, “Thanks for savin’ my hide, Buffalo.”
“Pleasure,” grinned Buffalo.
Horton got to his feet, patted Larry’s shoulder and said, “Try standing up.”
Larry obeyed. He felt no giddiness. He stood firm—and Horton seemed downright disappointed. Shaking his head dolefully, the medico asserted, “It just isn’t natural—the way these Texans rally. The tall one got up and walked, after losing more blood than he could spare. This one is on his feet, after a bullet bounced off his head.”
“Tough,” Larry dryly sympathized.
“I’ll send you a bill,” Horton decided.
“Do that,” nodded Larry.
He thanked Buffalo again. The crowd was dispersing, and he was eager to return to the hotel and check on Stretch's welfare. Jennings tried to detain him.
“You owe me an explanation, Valentine. Why were you tagging the Mex?”
“I hankered to make a deal with him,” shrugged Larry.
“For what?” demanded Jennings.
“Music lessons,” quipped Larry. “I’d sure admire to play guitar as purty as him.”
The Hashknife trio guffawed heartily, waved so long and ambled away. Horton soberly warned Jennings, “You can’t expect these Texans to behave reasonably. They just aren’t natural.”
“Damn it all, Valentine ...” began Jennings.
“Forget it,” growled Larry. “I’ll see you around.”
A short time later, when he trudged into the lobby of the Downey Hotel, he was greeted by a smiling Fran Downey. He looked disheveled and battered, and she was moved to remark, “You look terrible, Mr. Valentine.”
“I don’t feel as bad as I look,” muttered Larry, as he headed for the stairs.
“Supper in twenty minutes,” she called. “If you wish, my mother will bring it up to your room.”
“All right,” he grunted. “We’d be obliged.” On the bottom stair, he paused, studied her over his shoulder. “You should pardon me remarkin’,” he frowned, “but you’re lookin’ mighty happy, Miss Fran.”
“Oh ...” Her smile was quickly erased. “Well …”
“When we checked in yesterday,” he recalled, “you were all wrought up—near sick with grief.”
“You’re being cruel, Mr. Valentine,” she murmured.
“Don’t mean to be,” he assured her. “Just remarkin’.”
“You shouldn’t,” she chided. “I—I’m trying so hard—to overcome my grief.”
“Well,” said Larry, “keep right on tryin’. No future in mournin’ a dead man. Not for a gal as purty as you.”
He climbed to the floor above, moved along the corridor and rapped for admission. Stretch called to him. He identified himself, after which the key rattled in the lock. Stretch admitted him, grinning cheerfully, garbed in naught but his long Johns. In response to Larry’s command, he returned to his bed.
“Bein’ an invalid,” he opined, “ain’t so bad. You get to sleep as long as you want—and nobody calls you lazy.”
“Doc Horton claims you lost a heap of blood,” Larry pointed out. “I reckon it’s best you take it easy awhile longer.” He flopped into a chair, produced his makings and built a cigarette. Stretch tossed him a match. He lit up, brooded a few moments, then sought solace in blistering Texas profanity. “Nothin’ makes sense, Jennings said. And, by Judas, he’s right!”
“What happened to your head?” queried Stretch.
Larry told him at some length. Squinting perplexedly, Stretch pondered the enigma of the disappearing balladeer.
“If he is blind,” warned Stretch, “you’re makin’ a powerful bad mistake.”
“I could be wrong,” said Larry, “but I don’t think so.”
“Still,” argued Stretch, “you ain’t dead sure.”
“I ain’t dead sure of anything!” Larry grimaced in disgust. “That’s the hell of it! I hanker for a showdown with the skunks that keep tryin’ to kill us—but how do you fight shadows?”
“No use to goin’ off half-cocked, runt,” soothed Stretch. “We’ve run into many a deal you couldn’t figure. Sooner or later, you always dig up the answers.”
“This time,” retorted Larry, “the sooner the better.”
“Keep thinkin’ on it,” grinned Stretch. “I got confidence in you, amigo.”
“They saw me taggin’ the Mex,” frowned Larry. “They followed me to the shack, took a shot at me and figured I was dead—or near dead. But what about the Mex? They couldn’t have gunned him. He was with me when the shack burned. Buffalo and his pards busted him out and he high-tailed it before Jennings could question him. Could he get lost so fast—if he was totin’ a bullet?”
“Plumb mysterious,” grunted Stretch.
Wisely, he refrained from flippant comment. Larry’s rising anger discouraged levity.
He bathed and shaved, donned clean clothes, but, until Liza Downey came bustling in with a laden tray, he was unable to summon up a smile. For her, he produced a companionable grin.
“My land!” she sighed, as she deposited the food on the table. “There must be a heap of truth to all the stories I’ve heard. Wherever you boys travel, trouble and strife come close behind.” She eyed Larry severely. “You got yourself in a peck o’ trouble. Near burned alive, the way I hear it. And shot in the head ...”
“Not in the head, ma’am,” Larry gently corrected. “Slug only nicked me.”
“It’s a wonder you can find your appetite,” she sighed.
“Ma’am,” said Stretch, “our appetite is somethin’ we ain’t never lost.” He sniffed appreciatively. “Grub sure smells good.”
“In all of Tyson County,” Liza proudly asserted, “you won’t find beef stew better than mine.” She whisked the cover away to reveal two laden platters and a stack of bread. Then, noting the look that passed between them, she asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothin’, ma’am,” frowned Larry. “It’s just—uh—we eat hefty. Takes a heap of chow to settle our hunger.”
“I’ve brought you double-portions of my beef stew,” she blinked, “and with mash and greens on the side. Isn’t that enough?”
“It’ll do fine,” Stretch hastened to assure her. But he added, with a sheepish grin, “For a starter.”
“For a starter?” Liza’s ample bosom seemed to swell. She squared her shoulders, turned, moved back to the door. “As sure as my name’s Liza Jane Downey, no guest’ll ever go hungry in this house. If more food is what you want …”
“Just keep bringin’ it till we tell you to
quit,” suggested Larry.
“Land sakes!” she breathed.
“And add the extra to our bill,” said Larry. “Don’t worry. We’re good for it.”
Liza Downey quit the room with her eyes gleaming. She had been challenged, and she wasn’t the kind to resist such a challenge. Larry halved the bread, placed one pile on a platter of stew, added a fork and toted it over to the bed. Stretch began eating immediately. Larry settled himself at the table and followed suit. They ate in silence a few moments. Then came a rapping at the door, and Larry traded his fork for a cocked .45, and called:
“Who?”
“Boyd Jennings,” came the reply.
“It’s unlocked,” drawled Larry. He hammered down, sheathed his Colt and resumed eating as the sheriff trudged in and helped himself to a chair. “And now what? You find the Mex?”
“The Mex,” frowned Jennings, “is why I’m here. Let’s talk, Valentine. Man to man—without losing our tempers?”
“Okay by me,” grunted Larry.
Jennings eyed the beef stew, grinned faintly and remarked, “I guess you’re healing fast, Emerson.”
“Takes more’n bullets,” mumbled Stretch, “to stop a Texan.”
“About the Mex?” prodded Larry.
“I’d stake a half-year’s pay,” declared Jennings, “that he hasn’t left town. Stew and Rocky searched all over, and nary a sign of him. But he’s still here—somewhere—I’m sure of that.”
“Why?” challenged Larry.
“There’s a swayback mare in Chet Dalby’s livery stable,” Jennings told him, “and it happens to be the same mare that Mex was riding when he first came to town and nobody has had a horse stolen. He’s still here, Valentine, but he’s hiding—and I’m wondering why.”
“Well,” frowned Larry, “that makes two of us.”
Jennings blinked uncertainly at the empty plates. On his standards, these laconic trouble-shooters had disposed of their food uncommonly fast, Jennings shrugged and continued. “I’ve been checking, asking a lot of questions around town. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but nobody can recall ever seeing that old jasper before noon Monday.”
He stared hard at Larry. “You savvy what that means? He came to Tyson City maybe just a couple hours behind you.”
“You sure of that?” grunted Larry.
“Folks pay no mind to a blind beggar,” said Jennings, “till you start hitting them with straight questions. Even I didn’t notice. I was thinking he’d been here a long time but, the way it turns out, he’s new. Came in Monday for sure.” He added, significantly, “About thirty-four hours after the robberies.”
“I don’t see how a blind Mex could be mixed into those robberies,” muttered Larry.
“Neither can I,” countered Jennings. “But maybe you know more than you’re telling. For instance, did you parlay with him after you tagged him to that shack?”
“There wasn’t time for talk,” scowled Larry. “I recall he was scoopin’ out a hole in the floor. He claimed he was gonna sleep there. And that’s all I remember. I didn’t even hear the gun that put me down.”
“Digging in the floor, huh?” mused Jennings. “Well, that could mean something. When that wreck cools down a mite, I’ll go take a look. Anything else, Valentine? Give it to me straight. Why did you follow him?”
The door opened. Liza Downey hustled in, nodded to the lawman, placed another laden tray on the table and removed the empty one. As she made her exit, she snorted a challenge.
“Do your worst!”
Jennings’ eyebrows shot up, as Larry lifted the cover and picked up an outsized platter. It contained two T-bone steaks, four eggs, a mound of mash potato and a hill of beans. He placed bread and cutlery atop the steaks, toted the platter across to Stretch, who promptly resumed eating. Incredulously, the sheriff watched Larry attacking a duplicate of that same formidable meal.
“Hungry?” Jennings gingerly enquired.
“A mite,” grunted Larry. “You were askin’?”
“Why,” demanded Jennings, “were you tagging the Mex?”
“He acted kind of sneaky,” said Larry. “Leastways, I thought so.”
“You were only playing a hunch?” prodded Jennings.
“That’s all,” nodded Larry. And now it was his turn to fire a question. “About the Grieves boys. You said they weren’t popular hereabouts. That mean they had no friends at all?”
“None that I know of,” said Jennings. “Why?”
“I’m still tryin’ to guess why we’re gettin’ ambushed all the time,” growled Larry. “I thought maybe some friends of the Grieves boys didn’t take kindly to me smokin’ ’em down—so they’re tryin’ to even the score.”
“I don’t reckon so,” frowned Jennings.
Larry chewed on a mouthful, swallowed, and asked, “You had any word from out-of-town lawmen?”
“Nothing,” sighed Jennings. “Not as much as one lousy telegram. Those hooded sidewinders have disappeared into thin air, it seems like.”
“You’ll never find the hoods, I’ll tell you that,” muttered Larry.
“No,” agreed Jennings. “They’d be burned or buried. The dusters, too.” He rubbed at his jowls, yawned wearily. “Too bad none of Bourne’s sidekicks spotted the horses—a brand, maybe—anything at all to give me a lead. At Sam Fennister’s funeral, I couldn’t look Miley in the eye. He mourns Sam—and I can’t find the skunk that butchered him.”
“Tough,” shrugged Larry.
Still doubting the evidence of his eyes, the lawmen watched the platters emptying. Within a few minutes, all that remained were four clean-picked T-bones. Stretch burped contentedly, surrendered his platter to Larry. Then, for once in his life, he came up with a pertinent comment.
“Somebody’s hidin’ that ol’ blind Mex—nothin’ surer.”
Larry darted him a quick sidelong glance. Jennings sat bolt upright.
“How’s that again?”
“Well—hell,” frowned Stretch. “Somebody’s gotta be hidin’ him.”
To Jennings, Larry asserted, “When he gets a bright idea—once in a blue moon—it’s always right. Why didn’t I think of it?”
“Because,” Stretch insolently suggested, “you ain’t as smart as me.”
“What’re you getting at?” demanded Jennings.
“Plain enough, ain’t it?” challenged Larry. “How can a blind man disappear so fast and so slick—all by himself? It don’t make sense. He had to have help”
“My deputies were combing town for him,” reflected Jennings, “while that wreck was still burning—and still they couldn’t find hide nor hair of him. For a blind man, that’s quite a trick.” He fished out a cigar, scratched a match for it and puffed it to life. “Even with somebody waiting to hide him, he had to be moving mighty fast. I don’t see how he could do that—if he was blind.”
“I guess that clinches it,” frowned Larry. “He can’t be blind.”
Liza came in again, a few moments later. After a frowning scrutiny of the empty platters, she enquired, somewhat aggressively, “You want apple pie?”
“If they say ‘yes’,” breathed Jennings, “I just won’t believe it.”
“Why?” grinned Stretch. “Somethin’ wrong with Miz Downey’s apple pie?” He nodded affably to Liza. “Make mine a double-portion.”
“And mine,” grunted Larry.
Liza recoiled from them, her eyes widening. “You don’t mean it!” she gasped.
“Like Doc Horton says,” sighed Jennings, “they just aren’t natural.”
“How ...” Liza swallowed a lump in her throat, “… how much coffee d’you want?”
“Couple mugs,” suggested Larry. “And you might as well bring the pot. We’ll want refills, I reckon.”
Liza gathered up the tray and departed in shock. When she returned, she was toting two more laden platters. Jennings hadn’t seen as much apple pie in one room since the last church social, but the Texans never hesitated. While Liza watched
incredulously, they calmly disposed of their dessert. It took them less than five minutes. Jennings was sure about that, because he produced his watch and timed them. Liza dazedly retired, returning a few moments later with two steaming coffee pots and three china mugs. Of that formidable quantity, Jennings accounted for only one full mug. Larry and Stretch disposed of the lion’s share, after which they contentedly rolled and lit their after-supper cigarettes.
“Anything else you wanted to tell us?” Larry asked.
“No—no ...” The lawman got to his feet, shook his head. “I can’t hang around here—watching you eat. It makes my head ache.”
He went his way, deeply impressed by what he had witnessed. Stretch finished his cigarette, pulled the covers up to his neck and catnapped awhile. Larry built and lit a second smoke and prowled the room, thinking back over all that had happened since their coming to Tyson City, searching his mind for one small detail overlooked until now, any seemingly unimportant event that might provide a clue to the mystery.
After an hour of cogitation, he was no closer to a solution. A knock at the door aroused Stretch. He sat up with his right fist gun-filled. Larry called a challenge and was answered by Liza Downey. He unlocked the door.
“Lady from the Lucky Lil waitin’ downstairs,” said Liza. “Her in all her finery—and with three bodyguards if you please. Those Hashknife roughnecks.”
“That’ll be Buffalo, Hunk and Salty,” Larry supposed. “I guess they’ve changed their ways—else Margo wouldn’t let ’em escort her.”
“Don’t hold with saloon girls,” frowned Liza, “but I’ll allow this Farnol woman acts respectful. If you want to see her, I’ll send her up. But those cowpokes stay right where they are.”
“I warned Margo to stay away from us,” mused Larry. “Well, maybe she’s frettin’ about my pardner.”
“She wouldn’t be frettin’ about your pardner,” opined Liza, “if she’d seen him eat his supper. Land sakes!” She turned away. “I’ll send the lady up.”
Margo made her entrance a few moments later, radiant and smiling. After securing the door, Larry gave his eyes their fill. Stretch, logically enough, emitted a low whistle.
Chapter Eight
Larry and Stretch 6 Page 8