Ross unleashed an anguished groan as Larry pushed him clear. Limply, he flopped on his back, his white shirtfront showing a spreading red stain surrounding the hilt of the knife. His eyes were glazing in death, as Larry lurched to his feet. Stretch grimaced, and observed:
“I never knew a hombre toted so much cutlery!”
“With knives,” growled Larry, “Ross was mighty slick.”
“Well,” said Stretch, “he don’t look so slick right now.”
“The law,” guessed Larry, “will be stumblin’ in here any minute now. Let’s get this deal cleaned up fast.”
They hustled across to the groaning Quint Onslow. Larry jerked him to a sitting posture and said, curtly:
“Open your mouth!”
It was wide open anyway, because Onslow was still bemoaning the pain of his bullet-gashed shoulder. There was ample space to accommodate the muzzle of a sixgun. Stretch proved it by ramming that end of his Colt between the gambler’s teeth. Onslow’s eyes bulged.
“I’m gonna ask you somethin’,” Larry explained. “You nod if the answer’s yes. You shake your head if it’s no. You give me some kind of answer—else you’ll be swallowin’ a forty-five slug—which wouldn’t taste good.”
Stretch arranged his face in a suitably menacing scowl, and muttered, “Go ahead, runt.”
“The dinero you jaspers took from the Lucky Lil and the Silver Spade,” growled Larry. “Has it been divvied up?” Onslow shook his head. “All right. Where’d Bourne cache it? In the kitchen somewhere?” Onslow shook his head. “Right here in the bar—behind the counter, maybe?” Onslow shook his head. “In Bourne’s office? He stowed it in his own safe?” Onslow nodded. “All right, big feller. You can take that hog-leg out of his mouth now.”
Stretch withdrew the muzzle of his Colt, and Onslow promptly fainted. Simultaneously, fists pounded at the street door.
“Aw, what the hell,” yawned Stretch, as he trudged towards the bar. “I’m too weary to open up for ’em.”
Larry stood up, called to the men outside, “Come around back! If Stretch could bust in, so can you!”
More urgent sounds. Running footsteps along the side alley, then around back. Stretch hadn’t bothered to close the rear door after forcing the lock. Through the kitchen and into the barroom hustled Jennings, Lodge and Hutton. And, by then, the drifters were behind the bar, setting up double-shots of whisky.
Jennings and his deputies came to a skidding halt amid the scene of carnage. Their incredulous eyes travelled from the unconscious Onslow to the sprawled bodies of Bourne and Ross. Lodge said, shakily:
“Three of ’em!”
“Four,” Larry nonchalantly corrected. “Barkeep’s back here behind the bar. He tried to use a shotgun on us. Stretch kind of discouraged him.”
“Valentine!” breathed Jennings. “I warned you—if you took the law into your own hands ...”
“What would you sooner do?” enquired Larry. “Make trouble for us honest Texans—or close the case against Bourne and his pards?”
“What in tarnation ...” began Hutton.
“Sunday mornin’,” drawled Larry, “there were only two robberies.” He held up two fingers. “Two—not three. Bourne and his pards hit Kerry and the Fennisters, then hustled back here. Six of ’em. The other two were the Grieves boys.”
“Hell’s bells!” gasped Lodge.
“I don’t savvy ...” began Hutton.
“You’d better be sure of what you’re saying, Valentine,” scowled Jennings.
“I got everything you’re apt to need,” Larry calmly assured him, “includin’ a witness.” He jerked a thumb towards the stairs. “Meantime, you might’s well open Bourne’s safe and grab the dinero he took from Kerry and Fennister. That’s where he stashed it.”
“How the hell would you know that?” challenged Lodge.
Stretch nodded to the unconscious Onslow, and explained, “He told us. We—uh—kinda persuaded him.”
“This is loco!” mumbled Hutton. “Craziest thing I ever heard!”
Of the three lawmen, Jennings was the first to regain control of himself. He turned to yell a reprimand to the others. Then:
“Start talking,” ordered Jennings.
“Not here,” countered Larry. He touched his glass to Stretch’s. They saluted each other gravely, downed their drinks and quit the bar. Automatically, Stretch helped himself to several bottles which he tucked under his right arm. “You tag along with us,” Larry told Jennings, “and I’ll explain you the whole deal. Meantime, your deputies can pick up the stolen dinero, deliver these dead hombres to the funeral parlor and take Onslow to jail.”
“You got your nerve!” raged Lodge. “Tellin’ us how to handle our chores!”
Resignedly, Jennings repeated Larry’s suggestion, making it an order.
“Take the dead to the undertaker. Get Bourne’s key from his pocket, open the safe and count out the amount stolen from Kerry and Miley. Lock Onslow in a cell and send for Doc Horton. If you want me, I’ll be with these sassy trouble-shooters ...”
“At the Downey Hotel,” Larry coolly informed the deputies. “Second floor. Miss Fran’s room. Let’s go, Jennings.”
A few minutes later, the sheriff followed Larry and Stretch into Fran’s room, nodded politely to Fran and her parents, looked at Gil Briskin, recoiled in shock and gasped: “You’re dead!”
Stretch guffawed, perched himself on the bed. Larry made himself comfortable on the window-ledge and, while the lawman continued to stare incredulously at Briskin, showed the Downeys a warning frown. They took their cue and remained silent. Briskin stood by Fran’s chair, one hand resting protectively on her shoulder. Dazedly, leanings turned and shoved the door shut. Then, eyeing Larry expectantly, he declared:
“Somebody better explain this—and fast!”
“Give the sheriff a shot,” Larry ordered Stretch.
“I’m on duty,” scowled Jennings, “but give me that bottle for Pete’s sake!” He accepted the bottle, uncorked it and, after mumbling an apology to Liza, fed himself a stiff shot. He gasped, wiped his mouth. Then, “All right, Valentine,” he panted. “I can see Briskin’s alive.”
“I’m alive, all right,” sighed Briskin.
“And that’s all you can Jennings,” growled Larry, “for the present.”
“Well …” shrugged Briskin.
“Let Briskin say his piece,” insisted Jennings
“Nope,” grunted Larry. “He has to take it easy. Look at his head.” Jennings squinted at the legacy of Briskin’s run-in with the Grieves brothers, the scar on his brow. “He was gun-whipped. Been delirious—off and on—for quite a time. He’s fine now, but he has to take it easy. He’ll give you a statement, Jennings, all in good time. Meanwhile, I can tell you the whole score.”
“Tell it, then!” begged Jennings.
“It all happened just the way we told you,” drawled Larry, “when we first came to town. The Grieves boys near killed Gil, and we took Gil to Childress.”
“But you said he was dead!” accused Jennings.
“Childress sawbones made a bad mistake,” shrugged Larry.
“After Stretch and me quit Childress, Gil woke up and scared the innards out of Doc Woodrow.”
“I know Woodrow,” muttered Jennings. “He’s not even a good horse-doctor.”
“Well,” Larry continued, “Gil was well and truly alive, and he remembered everything that had happened to him includin’ everything he saw that Sunday mornin’, before he lit out of town with the Grieves brothers chasin’ him.”
“And just what did he see that Sunday morning?” challenged Jennings.
“Bourne and his sidekicks,” frowned Larry, “with the Grieves boys—in the Palace kitchen. They were countin’ the loot, and talkin’.”
“Talking about how easily they’d robbed Kerry and Fennister,” muttered Briskin. “And Ross was bragging about stabbing Sam Fennister.”
“Hereafter,” scowled Larry, “I’ll tell yo
u when to talk.”
“All right,” sighed Briskin. “All right.”
“They spotted Briskin,” said Larry. “Bourne sent the Grieves boys after him, and I reckon you can guess why.”
“Why didn’t Briskin bring the information to me at once?” demanded Jennings.
“He couldn’t reach your office,” said Larry. “They cut him off. He got scared, grabbed a horse from the Circle D livery and high-tailed it out of town.”
“When,” frowned Jennings, “did he come back?”
“He hit town just a couple hours ago,” lied Larry. “Like I said before, he was delirious for quite a spell, laid up at Woodrow’s place in Childress. But, just as soon as he felt strong enough to travel, why, he headed back to Tyson City muy pronto. Figured to do his duty as a law-abidin’ citizen and ...”
“As a what?” grated Jennings.
“He came back to tell you what he’d seen and heard,” Larry smoothly explained, “but he never did make it to your office. Fran found him in an alley off Main Street. That wound of his was plaguin’ him again—you savvy? He couldn’t think clear.”
“And so?” prodded Jennings.
“Well, now,” frowned Larry, “Miss Fran’s folks didn’t approve of Gil ...”
“Does anybody?” scowled Jennings.
“She wanted to help him,” Larry continued, “so she brought him here to the hotel. Did it quiet. Brought him up the fire-stairs.” He dug out his makings, began building a smoke. “Of course she didn’t know Gil was tryin’ to reach you—until he woke up and told her. And, by then, she’d asked us Texans to help. We were right there, when Gil woke up and told us the score.”
Briskin, Fran and her parents stared incredulously at him. Only Stretch remained unruffled. It wasn’t the first time his wily sidekick had lied a friend out of a predicament. Jennings fed himself another shot, rubbed at his jowls and frowned suspiciously.
“It was Bourne’s men who drygulched you?” he challenged.
“Who else?” shrugged Larry.
“They had no reason to fear you’d caught onto ’em,” frowned Jennings. “They tried to kill you just because they knew your reputation—because they figured you’d get wise to ’em sooner or later?”
“That’s about the size of it,” nodded Larry, poker-faced.
Jennings’ mouth twisted in derision.
“Valentine,” he breathed, “that’s a mite too raw for me to swallow.”
“Well,” said Larry, “I gave it a lot of thought—and I can’t think of any other reason why they wanted us dead.”
“When Briskin told you his story,” challenged Jennings, “why didn’t you report it to me?”
“Aimed to do that,” Larry assured him. He looked at Stretch. “Ain’t that so?”
Stretch grinned blandly. “Stone-cold truth.”
“Well?” fumed Jennings. “Why didn't you report it?”
“I had to do some fast thinkin’,” muttered Larry. “Maybe some of Bourne’s friends spotted Gil, when he flopped in that side alley. Well, if Bourne knew Gil was here, he’d pack up and head for the yonder, wouldn’t he? I couldn’t be sure we had enough time to pass you the word. So ...” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Only one thing we could do. Go to the Palace. Brace Bourne. Try and bring him in alive.”
“It was Bourne and his pards,” drawled Stretch, “that made the first wrong move. Us Texas boys just had to start shootin’. Had to defend ourselves, didn’t we?”
Jennings closed his eyes, sighed heavily. There was a pounding at the door. Liza opened it, to admit a flushed and excited Ace Kerry and a grim-faced Miley Fennister. They eyed Briskin uneasily, as though doubting the evidence of their eyes. Then:
“Lodge brought us the word!” announced Kerry. “Good grief! It really was Karl Bourne?”
“You’ll get your money back, Kerry,” said Larry. He looked at Fennister and added, “And Ross paid for what he did to your brother.”
“Eddie Ross?” frowned Fennister.
“I heard him bragging about it, Miley,” muttered Briskin.
Larry quit the window, ambled across to dig an elbow into Briskin’s ribs.
“Go ahead,” he grinned. “You can tell these gents exactly what you saw and heard, when you were peekin’ through Bourne’s rear window. But that’s all—savvy? Don’t try to talk about—uh—the rest of it. I don’t reckon you’re strong enough for that.”
Humbly, Briskin said, “Thanks, Larry.”
“From the bottom of our hearts,” murmured Fran, with fervor.
“Yeah,” sighed Downey. “Thanks a lot, Larry.”
“We’re mighty obliged to you, Valentine,” declared Kerry.
“And you can count on us,” Fennister assured the Texans, “to stick to our side of the bargain.”
“If all you folks,” seethed Jennings, “are through offering thanks to these trigger-happy drifters—I got one more question!”
“Ask it,” Larry cheerfully offered.
“What about that blind Mex?” demanded Jennings.
Larry eyed him blankly.
“Haven’t your deputies found him yet?” he asked.
“No!” bellowed Jennings. “They haven't found him!”
“Well, shucks,” frowned Stretch. “If they ain’t found him, how could we? We ain’t detectives. We’re just a couple do-right Texas hombres—tryin’ to stay outa trouble—abidin’ by the law—never startin’ no fights ...”
“Shuddup!” roared Jennings.
“I guess that old Mex had a good reason for runnin’ away,” mused Larry, “and I reckon he’ll explain it to you—just as soon as you find him.”
“Damn it all,” raged Jennings. “A blind man can’t just disappear! He’s got to be some place!"
“Why, sure,” agreed Larry. “You keep right on lookin’ for him, and you’re just bound to find him.”
Reluctantly and resentfully, Jennings had to leave it at that. Briskin was seated at a table, writing slowly, carefully recording all he had seen and heard while crouched by a certain window, that fateful Sunday morning—recording just that much, and nothing more. Like the Downeys, he had taken his cue from Larry. As long as he supported Larry’s story, he would be safe, beyond reach of the sheriff’s eager hand. He hadn’t dared hope that Larry could extricate him from this dire predicament, but it had happened. He was in the clear, thanks to the cool cunning of an astute Texan.
Later, after Jennings and the saloonkeepers had departed, Downey fired a pertinent query at Larry.
“You said one of Bourne’s men was taken alive. Onslow? All right. What happens if he tells Jennings about Briskin tryin’ to blackmail ’em? How about that, Larry?”
“Briskin,” said Larry, “calls Onslow a liar. It’s as simple as that, Marv. We’re the only folks that know what Briskin really did. If we all keep our mouths shut, I reckon he’ll be safe. And, Fran ...” He grinned at the girl. “Don’t just bury those Mex duds. Burn ’em.”
“I don’t deserve such a break,” sighed Briskin. “You sure don’t owe me any favors.”
“Don’t you see, Dad?” pleaded Fran. “Gil is a changed man. He’ll never go back to his old ways.”
“If Fran loves him ...” began Liza.
“Tell you what I’ll do, young feller,” Downey stared hard at Briskin. “You quit gamblin’ forever. You get yourself an honest job and start livin’ decent. Do that and, if you and Fran still want to get married, you’ll have my blessing.”
“That’s a right square offer,” Larry told Briskin.
“Better than I deserve,” Briskin humbly acknowledged. “Far better than I deserve.”
By noon of that day, having enjoyed nine hours of uninterrupted sleep, the Texans felt inclined to move on again. A mystery had demanded their temporary residence in Tyson City. That mystery had been solved, all wrongs righted and the guilty punished. And, now that they could consider themselves to be out of danger, Tyson City had become a mighty uninteresting town. Let Waldo Horto
n protest. Let him gnash his teeth and wail against the rashness of Stretch Emerson’s beginning a long journey on horseback in his present condition. Stretch was eager to be gone, and that went double for Larry.
They were however, resolved to accept Margo’s invitation, before departing for fresh fields. That night, they went to the hall adjacent to the Lucky Lil to join the audience assembled to cheer the lady magician. They did not, of course, pay the admission price. A smiling Ace Kerry insisted that they be his guests, and personally ushered them to front-row seats.
There was to be a slight delay. Margo was reluctant to perform without an accompanist. Some of her feats of magic were performed while singing and, until this evening, Kerry’s regular “professor” had provided the necessary background.
“Have to ask you gents to be patient awhile,” Kerry announced from the stage. “My regular piano-player has let me down bad. We had kind of an argument this afternoon and he quit on me—went to work at the Bascombe Casino: I’m still trying to persuade Miss Margo to work without an accompanist, so if you’ll just stay seated awhile longer ...”
There were mumbles of protest from the body of the hall, until a man at the rear got to his feet and made Kerry an offer. Kerry frowned incredulously. Larry and Stretch turned in their seats to stare at the speaker—none other than Gil Briskin.
“You threw me out of your saloon so many times,” Briskin good-humoredly informed Kerry, “that you never gave yourself a chance to appreciate all my talents.”
“What talents, Briskin?” demanded Kerry. “What’re you getting at?”
“I can play piano,” announced Briskin. “Matter of fact, I can make your last professor sound like an amateur.”
“Well, for Pete’s sake!” Kerry gestured urgently. “If you’re all that good, come on up and play for Miss Margo!”
“Get up there, tinhorn!” yelled the locals.
“Get on with the show!” they urged.
Briskin raised his hands for silence, as he sauntered down the center aisle. Then, before climbing to the stage, he grinned up at Kerry, and told him:
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