“Martha ...” The boy eyed her expectantly, “you gonna shoot him?”
“I’ve a mind to!” she gasped.
"Mind where you point that cannon!” begged the N.C.O.
And his voice was poignantly familiar to the Lone Star Hellions, a voice from the hectic and not so distant past. Not a voice to be relished, of course. Hell, no. As often as they had tangled with the irascible Colonel Stone, they had tangled with his top sergeant, the beefy, florid and formidable Hal Boyle.
“Lady,” Larry called to the girl, “it sounds like the army’s callin’ this play. Maybe you’d best cooperate.”
As the well-remembered Texas drawl smote his ears, Boyle started convulsively and almost fell from his saddle.
He ricked his neck in his haste to twist and stare at the slowly approaching riders. His eyes widened. An oath erupted from him.
“Valentine—Emerson!”
“Howdy, Boyle,” greeted Larry. “You’re lookin’ fatter than ever.”
“And twice as stupid,” grinned Stretch.
“Hey!” breathed the boy. “Did you hear him, Martha? He called ’em ...” He rose on the seat, stared eagerly at the Texans. “Hey, gents! Are you Larry and Stretch?”
“I guess they are at that,” frowned the girl. “They sure fit every description I ever heard.”
Politely, the drifters doffed their Stetsons. She acknowledged that courtesy by lowering, with some reluctance, the shotgun. Boyle simmered for a long moment, then found his voice again.
“Butt out of this!” he panted. “You crazy, interferin’, trouble-huntin’ fools ...!”
The troopers, some of whom had good cause to remember the Texans, nudged their mounts closer to the laden wagon and looked to their weapons. Larry chuckled softly, and advised Boyle,
“Hang onto your temper. There won’t be any hassle—unless you start it.”
“Howdy, Mr. Valentine,” grinned the boy. “Howdy, Mr. Emerson. I’m Joey Taft, and this here’s Martha Lowell.”
“Howdy, Joey,” nodded Larry, “and Miss Martha. You can call me Larry.”
“And call me Stretch,” offered the taller Texan.
“Larry—Stretch ...” The girl gestured briskly. “If you figure to lend us a hand, climb up beside us and put your guns on these proddy soldier-boys.”
“Miss Martha,” drawled Larry, “I guess you know why the army is checkin’ all wagons.”
“I know why,” she nodded. “But this is a Lowell-Taft wagon, one of the rigs that was raided by those hijacking sidewinders. My pa and Joey’s were killed in that raid. Would we be hauling any of those stolen rifles?”
“Ma’am ...” began Boyle,
“Don’t call me ‘ma’am’!” she snapped. “I’m Miss, and I’m apt to stay unwed for the rest of my life—because every man I run into is darn near as ugly—and as dumb—as you!”
“Miss Martha.” said Larry, “not even a hombre as dumb as Boyle would accuse you of haulin’ stolen guns. But these blue britches got their orders. Tell you what. You let ’em check your load, and Stretch and me’ll guarantee they don’t break any merchandise.”
“The army don’t need no help from you consarned Texans!” shouted Boyle.
“What d’you say, Miss Martha?” prodded Larry.
“I guess you’re right,” she sighed, “and maybe I’m too hot-tempered. It’s just I get so all-fired mad—thinking of what happened to Pa and Uncle Mace Taft—and their killers still riding free.” She set her shotgun aside, scowled down at the sergeant. “All right—you with the red face—so you get to check the cargo. But tell your clumsy friends to handle it gentle.”
“Men,” breathed Boyle, “you know what to look for. Don’t damage nothin’—if you can help it.”
He shoved his hat to the back of his balding dome and, during the short time it took his seven colleagues to check the wagon’s load, kept his angry gaze fastened on Larry and Stretch, a couple of free-swinging hellions who, on more than one occasion, had traded punches with him. With him—and with numerous other troopers of the 9th Cavalry. With calculated insolence, the drifters ignored him and concentrated on establishing friendly relations with the children of the murdered freighters. Boyle curtly interrupted this amiable exchange.
“Just what in tarnation,” he demanded to know, “brings you galoots to Bosworth?”
“We’re mindin’ our own business, Sarge,” grinned Stretch, “and it’s too bad you can’t say likewise.”
“Wherever you fiddle-foots show up,” scowled Boyle, “there has to be trouble.”
“Pay no mind to what he says, Miss Martha,” drawled Stretch. “Ol’ Larry and me are just a couple do-right Texas boys that ain’t never lookin’ for trouble.”
“Hah!” jeered Boyle.
“My pa used to read me about you,” grinned Joey, “out of the newspaper.”
“There ought to be a law,” growled Boyle, “against hairless boys makin’ heroes out of trigger-happy saddletramps.” He rose in his stirrups to roar at his colleagues. “Get a move on!”
“We’re all through, Sarge,” called a trooper, as he began climbing down.
“All right, all right!” Boyle gestured impatiently. “Mount up and let’s get outa here. We still gotta check Area B.” The troopers hustled to obey. Then, as he wheeled his mount, he flashed a last venomous glare at the Texans and imparted a warning. “Keep right on ridin’, saddletramps. Ride clear outa Bosworth County. This territory’s gonna be mighty unhealthy for you, when the Colonel gets my report.”
“Say ‘howdy’ to old Vinegar-Face for us,” grinned Larry.
“Tell him I said ‘Keep your pants on, Morty’,” chuckled Stretch.
Boyle’s complexion changed from red to purple, as he dug in his spurs. That last barb had stung. Trembling with fury, he led his troop away in a northerly direction. Martha shrugged unconcernedly and, after assuring herself that her cargo was intact, called an invitation to the Texans.
“If you’re headed for town, maybe you’d like to travel along with us.”
“Be glad to,” nodded Larry. “I’ll hitch my horse to the tailgate and spell you at drivin’. How about that?”
“This is a hefty team,” warned Martha.
“Miss Martha,” said Stretch, “if you had a whole dozen buffaloes harnessed to that rig, ol’ Larry could drive ’em anyplace you want.”
He took the sorrel’s rein, as Larry eased his boots from the stirrups and swung up beside Martha and the boy. When the big wagon resumed its journey, Larry was driving, with Stretch riding level with the seat and Larry’s mount tethered to the tailgate. The girl was willing to be friendly; the boy even more so. They answered Larry’s questions without hesitation, and he was moved to reflect that the ambush had touched many people.
As well as the six soldiers, two toil-worn civilians had been butchered. And the deaths of Sam Lowell and Mace Taft had left their respective families in dire straits. The freight outfit, it seemed, was struggling to survive the untimely demise of its partners. There were debts unpaid, two widows to be supported, along with several small children. The oldest Lowell and Taft children had bravely joined forces to keep the line in operation, a mammoth task for a girl not yet twenty-one, and a boy as raw, as untried as Joey.
“We’ll make out,” Martha stolidly asserted. “The railroad and the stage line gets all the big business, but some of our old customers are still loyal.”
“There’ll always be freight needs haulin’,” grinned the optimistic Joey. “Like Martha says, we’ll make out.”
“But I’d sure admire to get us a few real fat contracts,” she sighed. “Big loads, you know? That’s the only way we’re gonna pay off Pa’s debts.”
“What you need,” Larry jokingly informed her, “is a rich husband.”
She took that seriously.
“That’s a fact,” she nodded. “But he’d have to be more than rich.”
“Martha,” announced Joey, “is plumb particular.”
“Bosworth men,” she frowned, “are a bunch of no accounts that eat with a knife and chew tobacco. What’s more, they don’t bathe regular.” She shook her head sadly. “There ought to be something better, for a girl like me.”
“There surely oughta,” Stretch solemnly agreed.
He built two cigarettes, lit them and passed one to Larry. The boy was eager to question them on the subject so dear to the hearts of frontier juveniles—the hectic career, the battles fought and won, the hair’s breadth escapes, the whole stormy legend of the Lone Star Hellions. But Larry was in no mood for bragging. Martha and Joey were local residents. From them, he could and did win an accurate picture of the current situation. She talked at some length on the aftermath of the ambush, the prompt but futile investigation ordered by Colonel Stone and the local law.
“Sheriff Upshaw’s a good lawman,” she assured the Texan.
“Deputy Creel, too,” Joey conceded.
“But you’ll likely peg them for a couple of scared jackrabbits, first time you run into them.” And Martha smiled as she said it. “They’ve handled their fair share of rustlers and bandits, but ...”
“But?” prodded Larry.
“But,” said Martha, “I once heard the sheriff say he’d as lief tangle barehanded with a mountain lion—than lock horns with you or Stretch.”
“It sounds like,” opined Stretch, with a smug grin, “the local law has heard of us.”
“It’s your reputation he’s afeared of, I reckon,” grinned Joey.
“Pay no mind to our reputation,” Larry advised. “You can’t always believe what you read in the papers.”
In sight of the big town’s eastern outskirts, he queried his young admirers on the subject of accommodation. Martha recommended the L. P. Corral and the Lincoln House.
“Little Lew Piggot,” she assured them, “runs the best livery stable in town, and the Lincoln House ought to be just right for you. Good chow, and not too expensive.”
Four
The Law and the Lawless
Little Lew Piggott had earned his nickname the easy way. He was a shriveled wisp of masculinity nudging seventy, standing exactly five feet two inches in his scuffed boots, with mild brown eyes blinking out of a face as withered and browned as an old apple. He was amiable, observant and shrewd, and delighted to meet the Texas Nomads.
“But I gotta say this, boys,” he remarked. “I gotta say I’m surprised.”
“About what, Lew?” prodded Larry.
“Well,” grinned the old-timer, “accordin’ to ever’thing I’ve heard, you shoulda rid inta Bosworth like a coupla tornadoes—with mebbe a half-dozen dead owlhoots hogtied to their hosses—and your six-shooters still smokin’. I declare I never ’spected you’d be so all-fired peaceable. You look like a coupla driftin’ cowpokes that wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“That’s us, Little Lew,” grinned Stretch. “I always did say us Texans is plumb harmless—only nobody’ll ever believe me.”
While Stretch off-saddled the horses and led them into vacant stalls, Larry lounged in the barn entrance, studied Bosworth’s broad main street and swapped small talk with the aged proprietor. From here, it looked to be a sizeable township and thickly populated. Plenty of blue uniforms in evidence. Well, that was only to be expected. Bosworth was more or less under martial law. In other respects, it was just another Arizona settlement. The same proportion of saloons, stores, business offices and hotels, with the homes of the towners lining streets angling off the main stem. Camp Stone, as Little Lew had explained, was located less than a mile to the north of town.
“A good enough town,” the old man confided, “’cept for the fear that’s eatin’ at it. You’ll see signs of it ever’ place you go. Folks is gettin’ plumb edgy.”
“There’s a reason,” shrugged Larry, “and the reason has a name. Gayatero.”
“Damn right,” nodded Little Lew. “Even with them blue-britches camped right close to town, we don’t relish to tangle with the Apaches. It could happen any time, folks say. Mebbe Gayatero ain’t boss any more. Mebbe the young bucks’ll paint their hides and beat the drums and come a’raidin’, treaty or no treaty. The cavalry’d likely whup ’em in an open fight, but you can bet there’s many a Bosworth citizen’d end up with an Apache arrow in his belly.”
“Nobody,” opined Larry, “enjoys an Injun war.”
“I keep hearin’ rumors,” muttered Little Lew. “Like f’r instance, what happened to Sam Lowell and Mace Taft, and all them new repeaters gettin’ hijacked. Helluva thing. Whatever become of them rifles anyway? Was it Gayatero’s bucks hijacked ’em? By thunder, if them red skinned varmints gets a hold of that kinda gun ...!”
“Yeah,” grunted Larry. “The cavalry could still whip ’em—but it’d take longer, and it’d be one helluva hassle.”
Then, just as Stretch came, sauntering to the entrance to join them, the old man squinted uptown and mumbled a curse.
“There’s a sight that hurts these old eyes,” he growled. “If I was just ten years younger, I wouldn’t stand by and see an honest woman treated thataway.”
The Texans followed his pointing finger. Uptown, the big freight-wagon was still stalled outside the general store. The routine of unloading merchandise consigned to the storekeeper had been rudely interrupted. Four brawny men were bedeviling a loudly-protesting Martha. They must have accosted her suddenly, because she wasn’t gripping her shotgun. The storekeeper had stood to one side. He was elderly and thoroughly intimidated. Young Joey was attempting to grapple with Martha’s assailants, but was no match for them. The heaviest of the roughnecks had gotten a grasp on the girl’s arm and was now trying to lift her from the wagon-seat. His three sidekicks were laughing harshly and yelling encouragement.
Little Lew spat in disgust.
“Rube Sunday,” he sneered, “and three of his hell-raisin’ pards. Prospectors, they call ’emselves. Trash!”
“It’s time,” Larry quietly informed Stretch, “you and me had some exercise.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” grinned Stretch. “Well—what’re we waitin’ for?”
“There’s four of ’em,” warned Little Lew.
“Sure,” nodded Larry. “Only four of ’em—against the two of us.”
“Which means,” said Stretch, “we got ’em outnumbered. Hey, runt, maybe I better take ’em all by myself; just to keep it even.”
But that quip was lost on Larry, who had already quit the barn entrance and was advancing toward the general store. With a what-the-hell grin, Stretch tagged after him. Little Lew, sensing that coming events would be worth viewing, hobbled from the barn entrance and mounted an empty packing crate on the porch of a hardware store.
Martha broke free of Sunday by planting a boot in his face and lunging. He lurched back, clutching, while she scrambled higher on the wagon seat and reached for her shotgun.
“Leave the cannon where it is, Martha,” called Larry. “You ain’t gonna need it.”
“Here comes Larry!” whooped Joey Taft. “He’ll show ’em!”
Sunday and his sidekicks turned to face the oncoming Texans.
“Larry who?” demanded Sunday. “What’s so special about him?”
“He don’t look so salty,” opined the slovenly Arnie Ellis. “Not him—nor his skinny sidekick.”
“Coupla saddlebums,” decided Sunday.
The Texans kept coming, not pausing until they were within leaping distance of the hardcases. Larry jerked a thumb and said, curtly,
“Skeedaddle.”
“It ain’t polite,” Stretch chided, “to faze a lady.”
Sunday’s eyes gleamed.
“And it ain’t smart,” he countered, “to brace me and my friends. We could mash you two heroes to pulp—without workin’ up a sweat!”
“Let’s do it anyway,” suggested Ellis, as he hurled himself at Larry.
The storekeeper started convulsively and cringed into his doorway. Young Joey swung up beside Martha, the bett
er to view the proceedings. Martha had retrieved her shotgun, but it was all too obvious that she wouldn’t be needing it. In a ruckus of this kind, nobody needed to cover for the Lone Star Hellions.
Being the first to make a hostile move, Ellis was also the first casualty—a matter of simple logic. His wild blow never landed. Larry’s did. Ellis plunged to the hitch rail, backward and over in a neat somersault. The other three rowdies charged to the attack and events followed their natural course.
Seconds later, when Webb Collier came riding along Main Street, the battle was in full swing. Sunday’s face was bloody, but still recognizable. Collier recognized him and cursed luridly. In haste, he dismounted and ran to the brawling men.
“Break it up!” he protested.
And, to add weight to his protest, he emptied his shoulder holster. Simultaneously, Larry whirled, noted the cut-down Colt in Collier’s fist and reacted instinctively. The edge of his hand struck Collier’s right wrist and the Colt clattered to the boardwalk. Collier yelled in pain, and was wide open for Larry’s jabbing right. The punch exploded in his face with the force of a mule’s kick and sent him reeling into the street.
Stretch, meanwhile, was gainfully employed. To the delight of the onlookers, he was ramming the head of one of his attackers between the spokes of a wagon wheel. Another of Sunday’s cronies was sprawled unconscious in the store entrance. Ellis had regained his feet, but only temporarily. A hard uppercut from Larry threw him off the boardwalk to collide heavily with Collier, who was about to struggle upright. Sunday bounded at Larry and tried to bring him down with a kick to the groin. Larry dodged it nimbly, threw two jabbing lefts and a roundhouse right. As Sunday sagged he seized him by his shirt-collar and hauled him to a trough.
It was past time for the intervention of the law, represented at this moment by the lean, shaggy-haired Deputy Clarence Creel. Brandishing a six-shooter, the scrawny lawman arrived to witness the aftermath of the conflict—one miner slumbering in the store entrance, another struggling to extricate his head from the wagon-wheel, another prone in the street beside the cursing, disheveled Collier, and Larry Valentine extracting an apology from Sunday, by forcing his bleeding head into the trough.
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