It was quite a sight to see—the advances of the land-hungry optimists whose horses and vehicles had been sabotaged by Neech’s men. One farmer arrived on a plodding sway-back that was close to collapse. Another entered the canyon straddling a broken wagon-tongue which was still secured to a four-horse team. Another team, panting and hefty and six-strong, dragged in a wagon of which only the front wheels remained, with the driver clinging to his seat. And so it went. In they came—the poor and needy of Beck County, desperate for just a small sector of the promised land.
At eleven a.m., the tenth section had been claimed and the hapless stragglers were retreating. It was then that the officials arrived to distribute deeds of ownership to the lucky candidates. They had traveled in the mayor’s surrey. Sheriff Loomis was driving, with the mayor seated beside him and the rear seat occupied by the land agent and the “Herald” editor.
Like a homing pigeon, Lucius Gifford descended upon the Texans and the deputy. His eyes gleamed with professional interest, as they focused on the scene of carnage.
Loomis came after him, his eyes wide with shock, his mouth open and forming queries. Kellogg forestalled the inevitable interrogation with a terse description of the ruckus, after which Larry calmly announced:
“You’re welcome to take charge of the prisoners, Sheriff, now that all the fightin’s over.”
“If I’d had any notion my deputy’d run into a shootin’ fight,” frowned Loomis. “I’d never have sent him out here all by himself.”
“Well,” grinned Kellogg, “I managed—all by myself. Only my hide wouldn’t have been worth the price of a casket if these here Texans hadn’t settled Neech’s hash.”
“Wrecked wagons all along the route,” reported Gifford. “You never saw such a mess.”
“Those wagons never had a chance—right from the start,” opined Larry. “When Bale and Murch have been sweatin’ a while, they’ll likely tell you plenty. It’s my hunch Neech was payin’ his sidekicks to fix every rig. Neech was a hombre that wasn’t partial to competition.”
The Sorley family arrived in force, some fifteen minutes later, and their gratitude was deep and fervent.
“I never seen land so lush,” Luke humbly asserted. “Look at it! Rich and green and plenty water—everything we ever wanted, by golly!” He, wrung Larry’s hand. “How am I ever gonna thank you?”
“Forget it, Luke,” grinned Larry. “You had it comin’.”
“On accounta,” Stretch reminded him, “you risked your hide to save our lives.”
“But that was nothin’,” frowned Luke. “I did what I did because I’m plain unselfish—never thinkin’ of myself …”
The Texans cut short his thanks—and his speech. Before quitting the canyon, there was one last chore Larry had to handle. To Loomis and the land agent, he relayed a vital detail of Bale’s confession, the fact that a great railroad combine was interested in ownership of the canyon. He told it simply, with the Sorleys hanging on his every word.
“Here’s how it adds up,” he explained, in conclusion. “The ten owners of Carew Canyon will need to meet and parlay and decide how they’ll act if St. Louis and Western representatives make ’em an offer. The big question is what would they rather do—keep this land and make it their home—or sell it for a fast dollar.”
“Speakin’ for myself …” began Luke.
“The trouble is,” frowned the land agent, “you can only speak for yourself. No telling how the other sodbusters will react.”
“I’ll call a meetin’ and tell ’em the score,” offered Luke, “and I betcha they’ll vote to stay. The heck with the railroad. Let ’em lay track somewheres else.”
He was as good as his word. The meeting was already convening, when Larry and Stretch retrieved their own horses and began their return journey to town. Now that the fighting was over, now that they had won an answer to all the questions that had bedeviled Larry, they were eager to be on their way. It was their intention to retrieve their rifles and pack-rolls from the Lone Star barn, have a farewell drink with Brazos and then ride to Bar A for a reckoning with Clem Alden, before quitting the county.
But, as it happened, they were spared the necessity of visiting Bar A. Alden was in town, along with his womenfolk. The Texans reined up beside the Bar A surrey after concluding their goodbyes with Brazos. Hattie greeted them warmly. Her father’s attitude was as cold as ever, until Larry began telling him the score.
“They’ll be bringin’ one of Weaver’s killers to the calaboose in a little while. We were ridin’ out to tell you.”
“One of Del’s killers?” challenged Alden.
“I guess you could say there were four in all,” Larry explained. “Three were paid for the job by Lew Neech. Maybe you knew him?”
“Neech is scum!” breathed the rancher.
“Well,” shrugged Larry, “he’s dead scum now. The only man to stand trial is a jasper name of Murch.” He went on to repeat Bale’s statement in its entirety, and Alden never once interrupted, but sat quiet with his eyes glued to Larry’s face and his hands loosely holding his reins. Hattie and her mother were silent, still nursing their shock. At the end of it, Larry thoughtfully remarked, “Your nephew was a marked man—from the minute he paid his ten dollars and registered for the race.”
“And we’ll go on mourning him,” muttered Alden. “But at least I’ll know his murderers have paid for what they did.”
“Vengeance is an empty thing, Clem,” sighed Myra.
“It isn’t just vengeance,” said Alden. “No man should be allowed get away with murder. If a man can kill and escape punishment, we can’t claim to be civilized.” He stared hard at the Texans. “Well, I swear I never believed you could do it, but now I’m admitting I was wrong about you.”
“We’re a mite smarter’n we look,” Stretch modestly assured him. “’Specially Larry.”
“Myra,” said the rancher, as he helped his womenfolk to alight from the rig, “while you and Hattie are at the Bon Ton, I’ll take these hombres across to the bank and pay ’em off.”
Hattie confronted Larry for a brief moment, smiling wistfully and extending her hand.
“I guess we’ll never meet again,” she murmured, “so this has to be goodbye. That’s how the legend goes, isn’t it?”
“Legend?” he frowned.
“You have a reputation,” she reminded him, “for never settling. Unless I miss my guess you’ll be riding out as soon as you’ve collected from Dad.”
“Well ...” He shrugged and grinned, “there’ll be nothin’ left for us in Beck County.”
“If you ever return to Beck County ...” smiled Hattie.
“Sure,” nodded Larry. “I’ll remember.”
The nomads paid a last call on the Sorley family before quitting the territory. Larry’s wound was causing him no great discomfort. Like all the other wounds he had suffered, it would heal in time. And the two thousand dollar reward money made a comforting bulk in his hip pocket. For a while at least, the Texas Hell-Raisers were solvent.
It was mid-afternoon when they re-entered the canyon, and already Luke and his brawny offspring were happily cutting timber for foundations.
“We had us a meetin’,” Luke cheerfully announced, “and it turned out just like I hoped. We’re all stayin’, Larry. This is the kinda land every farmer craves, so we’re stickin’ with it, by golly.”
“Glad to hear it,” nodded Larry. “You could do a sight worse for yourself.”
“Sure am beholden to you gents,” grinned Luke. “Ain’t never gonna forget what you did for me and mine.”
“The least we could do,” Larry soberly retorted, “seein’ as how you risked your life for us.” He lifted a hand in farewell. “Hasta la vista.”
“Ride a safe trail,” urged Luke.
With his sons, he stood staring after the tall riders until they were disappearing through Carew Canyon’s southern entrance.
“Couple real salty jaspers, them Texans,” Eli comm
ented.
“There’s times,” frowned Luke, “when I’ll feel kinda guilty—rememberin’.”
“You mean rememberin’ how we tricked ’em?” challenged Oley.
“Grieves me some,” Luke sadly confided. “Plagues my conscience. Well, they’ll never guess, so I reckon there’s no harm done.”
Some miles from Beck County, as they rode slowly into the gathering twilight, Stretch thought to remark:
“I wonder who in tarnation it was.”
“Who in tarnation who was?” countered Larry.
“Them guns that tried to ambush us,” frowned Stretch, “when we first crossed the county line. You remember?”
“I ain’t apt to forget,” drawled Larry. “I’ve thought on it, and I reckon I know the answer.”
“Well, for gosh sakes,” urged Stretch, “tell me who!”
“It’s my hunch,” shrugged Larry, “that old Luke’s boys can hit anything they aim at with a rifle—and miss any mark they want to miss—if you know what I mean.”
“You think ...?” Stretch eyed him aghast. “You think old Luke set his own sons to snipe at us—just so’s he could play hero and—trick us into bein’ beholden to him?”
“Somethin’ like that,” nodded Larry.
“You oughta be ashamed,” chided Stretch. “Hell, runt, you got an awful suspicious mind.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” yawned Larry. “We’re still alive and kickin’ and Luke has his land. So what the heck?”
“Sure,” shrugged Stretch. “What the heck?”
About the Author
Leonard Frank Meares (February 13, 1921 - February 4, 1993)
Sydney born Len Meares aka Marshall Grover, published around 750 novels, mostly westerns. His best-known works feature Texas trouble-shooters Larry and Stretch. Before starting to write, Meares served in the Royal Australian Air Force, worked in the Department of Immigration and sold shoes. In the mid-1950s he bought a typewriter to write radio and film scripts. Inspired by the success of local paperback westerns, he wrote Trouble Town, which was published by the Cleveland Publishing Company in 1955.
His tenth yarn, Drift! (1956), introduced Larry Valentine and Stretch Emerson. In 1960, he created a brief but memorable series of westerns set in and around the town of Bleak Creek. Four years later came The Night McLennan Died, the first of more than 70 westerns (sometimes called oaters) to feature cavalryman-turned-manhunter Big Jim Rand.
More on Marshall Grover
The Larry and Stretch Series by Marshall Grover
Drift!
Arizona Wild-Cat
Ride Wild to Glory
Nomads from Texas
Ride Out Shooting
Texans Walk Proud
Never Prod a Texan
The Fast Right Hand
Close In For Showdown
… And more to come every month!
LARRY AND STRETCH 9
CLOSE IN FOR SHOWDOWN
By Marshall Grover
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
First Smashwords Edition: August 2017
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
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