Larry and Stretch 7

by Marshall Grover

  “What’s the fanciest ladies’ store in town, Annie?”

  “Well—uh—Cora Cotterell’s Bon Ton. A mighty expensive place she runs, but ...”

  “Fair enough. That’s where we’re gonna buy your new duds. You just leave it to us—savvy?”

  “I dunno, Larry. I just dunno ...”

  “When are they holdin’ this ball, Annie?”

  “Governor arrives day after tomorrow. They’ll be holdin’ the shindig eight o’clock that night.”

  “Bueno. You come to town tomorrow mornin’, meet us outside the Blue Belle Saloon at ten sharp. Then we’ll take you to the Bon Ton and get you fixed up with a fine new gown.”

  “But ...”

  “Eight sharp on the big night, you come in again. We’ll be your escorts, savvy? By then, I’ll have the governor all primed and he’ll be ready to cooperate.”

  “Well, how is he gonna help me?”

  “Easy!” Larry chuckled softly. “Right in front of all those high-minded big shots, he’s gonna greet you like an old friend. He’ll recall your husband, and he’ll claim he was right there at your weddin’.”

  “Holy smokes!” frowned Burl.

  “What’s more,” grinned Larry, “he’ll say as how he was at Burl’s christenin’!”

  “Hey, now ...” breathed Stretch.

  “It’ll be dead easy,” Larry asserted. “Nothin’ to it. A few words from the governor—and you’re a regular, genuine lady. Horton folks’ll be linin’ up to apologize to you— invitin’ you to their homes ...”

  “We could quit livin’ in these lonesome mountains …” Annie had seized upon the seemingly-impossible with both hands, and with her heart. “We could settle right there in town—just as respectable as anybody else!”

  “Can you really do it?” Burl dubiously challenged Larry.

  “You got my word on it,” said Larry.

  “And old Larry,” Stretch interjected, “never yet went back on his word.”

  “Another promise I’ll make you.” Larry reached across the table to pat Annie’s hand. “There’ll be a whole herd of fancy ladies wantin’ to dance with the governor. Well, by golly, he’s gonna dance with you. He’ll ask you polite, and you’ll say ‘Don’t mind if I do’ or some other such fancy palaver, and you and him’ll dance together.”

  “It’s too much!” she gasped. “It’s like a dream!”

  Larry got to his feet. His head swam a mite, but he managed to maintain the perpendicular. Stretch followed his example, burped aggressively, and said:

  “Lead me to that grizzly bear.”

  “Remember now, Annie,” said Larry. “Ten sharp tomorrow mornin’.”

  “Cora Cotterell,” fretted Annie, “won’t let me inside her door.”

  “Money talks,” countered Larry. “When I flash our dinero under her high-falutin’ nose, she’ll damn soon change her mind.”

  The Texans waved airily to Annie and swaggered out into the sunlight. A fresh mountain breeze smote them. Stretch lurched, unleashed an ear-splitting whoop and emptied his holsters.

  “Where’s Cora Cotterell?” he roared. “I’ll shoot her doggone stays offa her!”

  “Put those hoglegs away,” grinned Larry. “We’re supposed to be respectable visitors.”

  When they were mounted, Annie came bustling out to them, toting two bottles of her moonshine. One she stowed in Larry’s saddlebag. The other she handed to Stretch. That second bottle was flat, and slid easily into the taller Texan’s hip pocket. They thanked her cheerfully, reminded her of her promise to meet them on the morrow, and heeled their mounts to a run.

  With the mountain breeze caressing their faces and their heads still a’whirl, the Texans began their return to town. Larry Valentine had made a promise, and would do his utmost to honor it. What could go wrong? Nothing—or so he thought.

  But they were destined for a severe shock. Unhappily, the drifting Texans were unconcerned with politics on the State or national level. They had not yet perused the special edition of the Clarion, Horton’s one and only newspaper. Had they done so, they would never have committed themselves to a certain course of action, nor made such a rash promise to Eagle-Eye Annie.

  For, some three months-ago, Colorado voters had again gone to the polls. By a mere two hundred and thirty votes, Horace D. Brill had been defeated by the man now journeying to Horton County. His name was Bell. Lennox J. Bell.

  ~*~

  At a quarter of two that sunny afternoon, Philo Brayner sauntered into the Bon Ton and caused Cora Cotterell no small elation by inviting her to accompany him to the grand ball. It was an astute move on Brayner’s part. A stickler for detail, he was determined to live his role of distinguished visitor to the hilt. To escort one of Horton’s most respected spinsters to the ball, he reasoned, would consolidate his position. It was, after all, pretty much what the civic leaders would expect of him.

  She was prim, stout and fortyish and, under these conditions, a gusher. Would she grant Mr. Brayner the honor? Most certainly she would.

  “How generous of you to ask me,” she cooed.

  “On the contrary, dear lady,” he smiled. “You do me honor by accepting my invitation.”

  “Such a grand function,” she enthused. “We’re all looking forward to meeting the governor in person. They say he’s so distinguished—and terribly handsome.”

  “Well,” he shrugged, “my old friend Lennox Bell isn’t as young as he used to be. Handsome? I wouldn’t call him handsome. But distinguished, yes. A fine gentleman, Miss Cora.”

  Her eyes dilated. She clasped a hand to her ample bosom. “You’re actually acquainted with the governor?”

  “We’ve been friends a long time,” he calmly assured her. “Perhaps, during the ball, you’d like to meet him personally? I’d be delighted to arrange it.”

  “But this is too much ...!” The rotund Miss Cotterell was beside herself with joy. “Such an honor ...!”

  Abruptly, she stopped beaming. Her brow darkened in a frown of annoyance. She would have preferred that this tete-a-tete continued uninterrupted, but now two rough-looking hombres were trudging in and demanding her attention. They advanced to the short counter, spurs jingling, sweat-stained Stetsons worn at a rakish angle. They eyed her expectantly. In a husky undertone, she assured Brayner, “This will only take a moment. If you don’t mind waiting ...”

  “My pleasure,” he drawled.

  She advanced on the Texans, brisk, efficient and somewhat impatient. They doffed their hats, as she announced, “This is a ladies’ emporium. We don’t deal in gentlemen’s apparel.”

  “Well ...” began Larry.

  “Mr. Ringberg at the general store,” she suggested, “would be glad to accommodate you.”

  “You got us wrong, ma’am,” frowned Larry.

  “We ain’t buyin’ for us,” explained Stretch. “We wanta fix up for you to rig a gown for a friend of ours.”

  “A lady,” said Larry. “She’ll be comin’ in tomorrow mornin’ and—uh—she’s a mite nervous. I told her we’d brace you first and—kind of set up the deal—you know?”

  “Nervous?” challenged Cora. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

  “We’re speakin’ of Mrs. Annie Stogie,” Larry told her.

  “That evil old woman?” Cora swelled with indignation. “You’d bring her to this establishment?” She quivered in righteous wrath. “I forbid it! If you dare to bring her across that threshold ...” In case they were unsure of its location, she pointed sternly to the doorway, “ … I shall summon the sheriff and have you forcibly removed! I shall have you arrested!”

  “Now look, lady,” frowned Larry. “You got the wrong idea about Annie. She won’t give you no trouble.”

  “Never!” gasped Cora. “I forbid it!”

  Larry stuck to his guns.

  “We’re fixin’ to take her to the big shindig at City Hall, and she’ll need a ball-gown.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” snorted Cora.r />
  “Would it make you feel any easier,” prodded Larry, “if I tell you this governor-hombre is an old pard of ours?”

  “Ridiculous!” She glowered at him. “Aren’t you ashamed—claiming friendship with such a fine gentleman?”

  “But it’s a fact!” growled Larry.

  “Him and us is good friends,” declared Stretch. “Stone-cold truth, ma’am.”

  “Permit me, Miss Cora.” Brayner smoothly invited himself to the party, placing himself firmly between the stout woman and the Texans. With the ivory knot of his cane, he tapped at Larry’s broad chest. “Come now, sir,” he chided. “You should know better than to attempt such a laughable subterfuge.”

  “Than to—do what?” challenged Larry.

  “It just happens,” smiled Brayner, “that I am an old and trusted friend of the governor. And he has his standards—very high standards. It’s hardly likely he’d be personally acquainted with a couple of—let’s be frank, gentlemen —a couple of shabby drifters.”

  “Are you sayin’,” prodded Stretch, “we ain’t friends of the governor?”

  “Admit it,” urged Brayner. Again, he tapped Larry’s chest. “You’re anxious to impress a certain lady, and your enthusiasm got the better of you. How could you become friends of such an illustrious statesman? It’s preposterous. And now ...” He nodded to the entrance, “please don’t distress Miss Cora any further. Leave quietly, and there’ll be no trouble.”

  “You made Annie a promise, runt,” Stretch grimly reminded his partner. “This here’s the fanciest store in town—and this here is where Annie gets her new duds.”

  “You don’t have to remind me,” scowled Larry.

  “The Cotterell Bon Ton,” asserted Cora, “never deals with riffraff!”

  “I must insist that you leave,” frowned Brayner, “immediately.”

  For the third and last time, he tapped at Larry’s chest with the knob of his cane. Larry’s temper was frayed at the edges, but, somehow, he restrained himself from outright violence against this well-groomed dude. Deftly, he removed the cane from Brayner’s grasp and handed it to Stretch. Stretch held it at either end and, with no visible effort, bent it till it snapped in two.

  “Oops,” he politely remarked, as he returned the pieces to Larry.

  “Think nothin’ of it,” grunted Larry, as he returned the pieces to Brayner.

  They turned and slouched out into the street. Brayner turned beetroot-red and stifled an oath. In great agitation, Cora murmured, “Your cane—your beautiful cane ...!”

  “Please don’t concern yourself.” He regained his composure quickly. “I must say I did value it—since it was a gift from my dear friend—Governor Bell.”

  “Those roughnecks!” she fumed.

  “A matter of small consequence,” he assured her, as he doffed his hat and bowed over her hand. “Thank you again for accepting my invitation. Until tomorrow then, Miss Cora?”

  “Shall we say seven forty-five?” she beamed. “The stone house at the north end of Horton Avenue.”

  “My honor, Miss Cora,” he smiled.

  As he retraced his steps to the Republican Hotel, he mentally bemoaned the wanton destruction of his favorite cane, but thrust all thought of the ruffianly Texans from his mind. In that brief encounter, he had judged them to be naught but shiftless saddlebums, and probably of low intelligence. He was, therefore, following the inaccurate reasoning of others of his breed, other boss-thieves who had made the fatal mistake of underestimating the Lone Star Hellions.

  A few yards from the porch of the county law office, the Texans paused to roll cigarettes and to compare notes. Simultaneously, the Box V boss came riding in for a parlay with the three men seated on the porch—Sheriff Lovett and Deputies Hamilton and Jarvis.

  Chapter Five

  Rear Attack

  The drifters were conversing in undertones, arguing ways and means of winning the support of the Bon Ton proprietress—a seemingly impossible chore. Stretch gallantly offered to make a sacrifice of himself, by proposing to Miss Cora.

  “That oughta do it,” he suggested. “She’ll be near outa her mind with joy—and she’ll do anything for us.”

  “That’ll really do it,” Larry sourly countered. “She’ll likely faint dead away—or scream for the sheriff.”

  “Trouble with you,” jeered Stretch, “is you’re jealous —on accounta I’m handsomer than you.”

  “Only time you’re handsome,” retorted Larry, “is when you’re wrapped in a blanket and covered from head to toe.”

  They ceased arguing and cocked their ears. Brett Vickery had reined up by the law office porch and was ruefully reporting the sudden departure of three employees.

  “They’re likely across the county line by now, Sheriff. I told ’em they should stay and face the music, but they were stiff-scared, claimed they’d hang for sure. Wasn’t anything I could do to stop ’em.”

  As lazily as ever, the sheriff enquired, “Are you sayin’ three of your boys murdered some jasper?”

  “By golly ...!” began the bumptious Purdy Jarvis.

  “Hush up, boy,” chided Lovett. “Let’s hear the facts —’fore you turn yourself into a one-man posse. Go on, Brett. Just what did they do?”

  “It happened out by the creek,” shrugged Vickery. “They found a Mex girl out there and—well—I guess they were feelin’ salty ...”

  “Reno Frisby, by any chance?” prodded Hamilton.

  “Uh-huh,” nodded Vickery. “Frisby, Donahue and Blackburn.”

  “Frisby,” Hamilton mused, “always did figure himself for a ladies’ man.”

  “Well,” said Vickery, “they must’ve scared her bad. Anyway .” He grimaced uncomfortably, “she threw herself in the creek.”

  “Creek’s runnin’ deep, this time of year,” reflected the sheriff.

  “She’s dead,” sighed Vickery. “Nary a doubt of it. They told me she just—uh—sank like a rock and never came up again. Yeah. She drowned for sure.”

  “It’s murder!” fumed Jarvis.

  Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch looked at Larry, grinned and winked. They dribbled smoke through their nostrils and kept their eyes averted from the porch, their ears still cocked.

  “Murder ain’t murder,” Lovett stolidly insisted, “unless you hold a regular inquest with a coroner and a dead body and the whole shebang. Now I’ll tell you what we got here, young Purdy. We got three hombres that scared some Mex gal into jumpin’ into the creek ...”

  “We haven’t got those lousy killers!” exploded Jarvis. “They’re escapin’! They’re hightailin’ it outa the county!”

  “You ever hear tell of extradition?” countered Lovett. “They won’t get far. We’ll wire every law office inside a hundred miles of Horton County to be on the lookout for ’em. But, meantime, you can’t prove murder ’less you got a body—and where’s the body?”

  “In the crick,” grunted Hamilton, “somewheres.”

  “We got us a coroner,” Lovett pointed out. Doc Linaker can be a coroner. And we got us a courthouse for holdin’ the inquest. But no body ”

  “So we drag the creek for her,” decided Jarvis. He leapt to his feet. “I’ll saddle up and ride out there right away.”

  “It happened,” offered Vickery, “right by the bridge.”

  “You’ll need rope,” Hamilton told his youthful colleague. “Lotsa rope.”

  “And plenty provisions,” drawled Lovett. “No tellin’ how long you’ll have to search. It ain’t easy—locatin’ a body underwater.”

  “You want me to go it alone?” frowned Jarvis.

  “You’ll have to,” shrugged Lovett. “I never did learn how to swim.”

  “Me neither,” yawned Hamilton.

  “It’ll be a tough chore.” Jarvis jutted his jaw, squared his shoulders. “But I can handle it alone.”

  “Good chance for you, son,” suggested Lovett. “Good chance to prove you got what it takes. By the way, can you swim?”

&n
bsp; “I swim like a fish,” bragged Jarvis.

  “Looks kinda like a fish, too,” Stretch quietly remarked to Larry, “especially with his mouth open.”

  “Lotsa luck, Purdy,” drawled Lovett, as Jarvis hurried away. “You go find that dead female, and I’ll have Mitch send a few telegraph messages.” He nodded wearily to Hamilton. “Hustle down to Western Union, Mitch.”

  Trading grins, the Texans dawdled away along the boardwalk. They heard the urgent clatter of hooves, as Deputy Jarvis rode fast along Main, headed for Luna Creek, and never in a million years would they have restrained him.

  “What the hell?” was Larry’s laconic comment. “He could likely use a bath anyway.”

  But their humor was short-lived. The big problem still pressed heavily on their broad shoulders. How to persuade the aggressive Cora Cotterell to accommodate poor Annie, in the matter of a suitable gown for the governor’s ball?

  “This time,” Stretch accused, “you went too far.”

  “It was Annie’s moonshine,” fretted Larry. “I felt like I could lick the world. I thought sure I could talk Miss Cora into it.”

  They paused on a corner. Directly opposite, Horton’s most beautiful citizen was emerging from a store and winning admiring gazes from every male eye in that vicinity. The Texans, being male and healthy, were no exception. They gaped. Stretch whistled softly, and remarked:

  “That’s the same fancy gal that cheered you on, when we tangled with them hombres yesterday. Man! Ain’t she somethin’ to see?”

  His admiration was more than justified. Beth Baldwin had returned to her home in the late morning. Now, garbed in an eye-catching gown of pale blue, jauntily bonneted and twirling a flimsy parasol, she was strolling gracefully towards the intersection of Main and Horton. The lustrous raven hair was upswept now; she had changed considerably, but Larry wasn’t deceived. His eyes gleamed, not in admiration, but in anger. He muttered an oath. Stretch eyed him curiously, and asked:

  “Whatsamatter?”

  “You don’t recognize her, huh?” prodded Larry.

  “Why, sure,” nodded Stretch. “Same purty filly that showed up outside the saloon, while we was ...”