“Say it out loud!” he snapped. “Tell the lady you’re sorry ...!”
“Pull that man out of there!” barked Creel. “And you ...!” He glared at Stretch, “unstrap your guns and raise your hands!”
“Arrest them!” glared Collier.
“Deputy,” called Martha, “this ruckus was started by Sunday and his no-account pards. You can’t blame Larry and Stretch for finishing it.”
Creel’s gun hand sagged, and so did his jaw.
“Who ...” he breathed.
“The tall one is Stretch Emerson,” she announced. “The one giving Sunday a bath is Larry Valentine.”
To Stretch’s acute astonishment, the deputy holstered his Colt and doffed his Stetson. So swift was the change in his demeanor that Larry’s attention was distracted. He rose up, frowning at the lawman. Sunday withdrew his head from the trough and flopped to a sitting position, spluttering.
“’Scuse me, Mr. Emerson,” panted Creel. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Valentine ...!”
“Holy Hannah,” blinked Stretch. “He must be sick.”
“He sure looks sick,” opined Larry.
“Don’t you gents worry about a thing,” mumbled Creel. “I’ll take care of this here situation. Welcome to Bosworth, gents.”
The senior lawman now arrived. Sheriff Adam Upshaw was fifty, hefty and durable, and looking all the more formidable for the shotgun with which he threatened the strangers.
“What’s goin’ on here?” he loudly demanded. “By Godfrey, I got troubles enough without havin’ to settle a street brawl. He glowered suspiciously at the Texans. “Who are these hellraisin’ sons of guns anyway?”
“Take it easy, Adam,” begged Creel. “For gosh sakes—take it easy!”
“Clarence,” scowled Upshaw, “how come you look so sick?”
Creel gestured urgently.
“They didn’t start it anyway, Adam. Miss Martha claims it was Sunday and his pards.”
“All right, all right.” Upshaw eyed him impatiently. “But who in tarnation are they?”
“Valentine ...” sighed Creel.
“No!” breathed Upshaw.
“And Emerson,” finished Creel.
Again the startling reaction. In one continuous movement, Upshaw uncocked and lowered his shotgun, whisked out two cigars and forced them on the new arrivals.
“Proud to meet you, gents. Have a cigar. Welcome to Bosworth. I’m Sheriff Upshaw—at your service. Anything you need, all you got to do is come ask me.”
Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch looked at Larry, shook his head dazedly and asserted,
“It can’t be true. We must be dreamin’ it.”
“Collier ...” Upshaw turned to frown at the gambler, “I have to say I’m surprised to see you mixed into such a ruckus. You’re a feller that always stays on the outside of trouble.”
“This fight was no concern of mine,” said Collier, quietly, “but I tried to end it. I—huh—I was afraid some harmless passer-by might be hurt. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of drawing my gun.” He nodded to Larry. “Can’t say I blame you for disarming me, but I assure you I had no attention of shooting at you. I only meant to—uh—discourage you.”
“Mister,” grunted Larry, “when you poke a hogleg at me you’re just beggin’ for grief.”
Creel picked up Collier’s gun and returned it to him, then asked his chief,
“What about Sunday and his pards?”
“If we arrest ’em,” said Upshaw, “they get fed at the county’s expense waitin’ trial.” He called a query to Martha. “You want to swear out charges? It’s your privilege.”
“The law couldn’t punish them,” she cheerfully opined, “any worse than they’ve already suffered. I’ll bet this is the last time they’ll lay a paw on me.”
“Sunday,” growled Upshaw, “you be grateful I got my hands full right now—out every day with search-parties. If I wasn’t so almighty busy, I’d be glad to lock you away for a while. And I’ll do it, by Godfrey, next time you step out of line.” He gestured northward. “Now vamoose—and take your no-good pards with you.”
After a last scowl at the Texans, Sunday and his men beat a retreat. The slumbering one revived and stumbled from the wagon-wheel and hauled the befuddled Ellis to his feet. Larry was still pensively eyeing the lawman and, for that reason, failed to note the significant glance that passed between Collier and Sunday and Collier’s sly wink.
The drifters retrieved and donned their Stetsons, explored their pockets in search of matches with which to light their cigars. Creel quickly produced a match, scratched it to life and held it to their stogies. They puffed appreciatively at the Long 9s and, for the second time, traded wondering glances. Generally speaking, they couldn’t claim to be popular with the duly-appointed wearers of law badges; it was a natural consequence of their long-standing antipathy for all legal authority. They expected lawmen to distrust them on sight. But, here and now, the peace officers of Bosworth County seemed doggedly determined to treat them with respect. To Larry’s way of thinking, it was downright unusual—and a mite weird.
“You got a place to stay?” asked Creel. “Maybe you’d like us to recommend you a good hotel?”
“We already decided on the Lincoln House,” frowned Larry.
“As good a place as any,” the sheriff assured them.
“Well—huh—pleasure to meet you, Mr. Valentine—Mr. Emerson.” He nudged his deputy. “Come on, Clarence.”
They hustled away toward the county law office. The Texans stared after them.
“What d’you make of that?” demanded Stretch.
“You can search me,” said Larry.
After waving aside Martha’s fervent thanks, they bade her a temporary farewell and returned to the L.P. Corral to collect their rifles and saddle-packs. Their next stop would be the Lincoln House, where they would check in and remove a two-day coating of trail-dust.
Reaching the law office, Upshaw and his deputy closed and locked the door. Upshaw strode purposefully to his desk, opened a drawer and produced a quart of whisky. Creel found two glasses. They filled the glasses to the brims, traded furtive frowns, then gulped greedily.
“A close call,” breathed Upshaw.
“Too close,” sighed Creel. “Hell—if they’d turned mean ...!”
“If they’d insisted on gettin’ arrested ...!” Upshaw shuddered, took another pull at his drink.
“Think of it,” grunted Creel. “Valentine and Emerson—in our jail!”
“Think of all those other lawmen that made the same terrible mistake,” mused Upshaw. “They arrested those hell-raisers, thinkin’ they were just a couple driftin’ cowpokes. And then it was too late. They were stuck with ’em—stuck with two crazy Texans that near drove ’em out of their minds.” Despite a restricted education, Upshaw was an inveterate letter-writer, and his favorite correspondents were fellow-lawmen. Thus, over a period of some years, he had read many a harrowing story, penned by colleagues who had rashly tangled with the Texas trouble-shooters. “I keep rememberin’ Eli Richwater. He was sheriff of Randolph County in Colorado, you know. Hell is what they gave him—and then some. They even stole his star and hung it on a goat. I could quote you a dozen badge-toters, Clarence. By the time those Texans got through with ’em, they were nervous wrecks.”
“Well, you vowed it’d never happen to us,” Creel reminded him. “We made us a pact, and we’re stickin’ to it.”
“By Godfrey, yes,” nodded Upshaw. “Couple years back, I made myself a promise, said I’d tread real wary, if those hellions ever came to Bosworth.”
“And now they’re here,” fretted Creel.
“Now they’re here,” said Upshaw, “so we got to stick to our plan. We keep ’em happy. We treat ’em friendly—and we keep ’em out of this jail.” He sank into his chair and poured himself a refill. With great fervor, he declared, “For Gayatero’s Apaches to raid Bosworth would be a helluva situation. For us to have Valentine and Emerson i
n our jail—hell! That’d be worse!”
On their way out of town, Sunday and his cronies had halted their mounts in a cedar grove beyond the county school-house. Here, on more than one occasion, they had held council of war with their venal leader, and Sunday was sure he would join them presently.
Collier came striding into the grove some twelve minutes later, grim of visage and short on temper. Bitterly, he rebuked them.
“At a time like this, did you have to get mixed into a damn-blasted brawl? I can’t afford for any of you to be out of action—or wasting time in a jail cell. You might all have been arrested. Do you think I could handle the transfer of all that merchandise, with only Bates and the half-breed to help me?”
“Quit beefin,’ Webb,” grunted Sunday. “You know I never make the same mistake twice.”
“Don’t make that mistake again!” snapped Collier. “Stay away from those proddy strangers. In fact, you’d better ride clear of town until our business with the chief is completed. Stay at the mine—understand? Don’t come to Bosworth without my permission.”
“Yeah, sure,” shrugged Sunday.
“Their names,” mused Ellis, “are Valentine and Emerson—and I keep wonderin’ where I heard them names before.”
“I’ve never heard of them.” Collier grimaced impatiently. “For my money, they’re just a couple of no-account drifters. Forget about them. We. have something of greater importance to consider.”
“You had your parley with the chief?” demanded Sunday.
“And never a patrol spotted me,” said Collier. “It’s all set up. He’ll pay for the rifles as soon as we deliver.”
“But,” frowned Sunday, “with them blue-britches snoopin’ all over the flat country, how are we gonna deliver?”
“I’ll think of something,” Collier assured him. “Meantime, you take your men back to the Lucky Dutchman—and stay there. I’ve agreed to meet the chief’s son day after tomorrow to make the final arrangements for the switch. As soon as I’ve made some kind of plan, I’ll ride up to the mine and explain it to you.” He turned and walked to the outer fringe of the grove to stare back toward Main Street. “All clear. You can ride on now.”
Sunday and his cohorts continued their journey north, their destination the Lucky Dutchman Mine, high in the Santa Rosa Mountains. To hijack a shipment of new model rifles was quite an achievement, but that enterprise would have been doomed to failure had Collier not devised an ideal hiding place for the stolen weapons. That hiding place, the Lucky Dutchman Mine, had already been checked by army search parties, but in vain. The all-important repeaters were still well and truly hidden.
Five
The Busy Brain of Valentine
By lunchtime, Webb Collier had resumed his duties at the Gold Buckle, one of Bosworth’s largest gaming houses. As well as being a venal opportunist, a thief and a coldblooded murderer, he was an expert faro dealer, at which trade he worked for a percentage for the Gold Buckle’s owner. It was a useful front and had served him well.
During this time, Larry and Stretch were consuming a massive lunch in the dining room of the Lincoln House, after which meal they would retire to their bedroom to discuss the task wished onto them by Colonel Jethro, and to plot their next move.
Simultaneously, in his personal quarters at the garrison camp, Colonel Mortimer Stone, commanding officer of the 9th Cavalry, was conversing with one of his aides, the urbane and handsome Captain Ralph Kerwin. The colonel, a sworn enemy of the Lone Star Hellions—and of every other Texan—was a lean, wiry veteran in the advanced fifties. His brows were bushy, matching his military-style moustache; his nose was prominent, his eyes cold blue. At the moment, he was in good humor—a rare condition. And the subject under discussion seemed mundane, compared with the overall situation existing in Bosworth County, the danger of warlike action from the local Apaches.
“I believe I can safely state,” he loftily informed the captain, “that the condition has improved. Yes, indeed, Captain Kerwin.”
“Congratulations, sir,” smiled Kerwin.
“Captain,” frowned Stone, “are you being flippant?”
“Perish the thought, sir,” said Kerwin.
“Dyspepsia,” Stone sternly asserted, “is no laughing matter. Considering the events of the past two weeks the theft of those rifles, the butchering of an officer and five enlisted men, the threat of violent action from old Gayatero, I marvel that my condition could improve—but it has. Thanks to Major Vaughan’s medication …”
“The major, if I may say so,” offered Kerwin, “is a physician of exceptional talent.”
“Well,” said Stone, with a thin smile, “he certainly defeated my dyspepsia. I can’t remember when I last suffered a twinge.” He cocked an ear to the sound of heavy steps outside, nodded to the captain. “See who that is.”
Kerwin quit the tent, but returned almost immediately. With him came Sergeant Boyle, who, after according his C O. a smart salute, announced,
“Somethin’ to report, Colonel, sir!”
“News of the missing shipment, I hope?” prodded Kerwin.
“No, sir,” said Boyle.
“What then?” Stone impatiently demanded.
“I have to report, sir,” said Boyle, “that Valentine and Emerson are here. Yes sir, Colonel. Right here in Bosworth County.”
Kerwin was deeply shocked, because the sound that erupted from his commanding officer was like the roar of a rampaging cougar. The colonel turned pasty white, beetroot-red and deep purple, in that order. Then, groaning curses and clasping at his belly, he ordered Kerwin to,
“Send for the medical officer—at once!”
Some twenty minutes later, and a safe fifty yards from the colonel’s tent, Kerwin accosted Major Spencer Vaughan, who had just finished treating Stone for a sudden return of his stomach condition. Vaughan, a ruddy-complexioned healer of friendly demeanor, listened patiently to the captain’s query.
“I don’t understand it, Major!”
“Call me ‘Spence’. We don’t have to stand on military ceremony, provided the old man can’t hear us.”
“Spence—his stomach nerves haven’t troubled him one little bit during this infernal crisis with the Apaches. Yet, at the mention of those names ...!”
“Sure, Ralph, sure. Mention those names, and he goes berserk.”
“I’ve already met Valentine and Emerson,” said Kerwin, “under amicable circumstances, I’m glad to say. I know the, colonel despises them ...”
“All Texans, Ralph.” The M.O. grinned reminiscently. “Anything in pants or skirts, if it comes out of the Lone Star State.”
“But I don’t know why he feels that way,” frowned Kerwin.
“Quite a few of us know the answer,” Vaughan confided, “But you’ll never hear us discussing it. The old man would break us to buck privates, if he ever heard us. Texans, my young friend, are a sore point with the colonel, and with our bumptious Sergeant Boyle. It’s an old story, beginning with an incident they’d dearly love to forget.” He darted a cautious glance towards the C.O.’s tent and dropped his voice, despite the considerable distance. “A great humiliation for our illustrious commanding officer, Ralph. He was a captain at that time. Boyle was his corporal. It happened during the war. Stone was leading a sizeable patrol. They were cut off by a handful of shabby, poorly-armed Rebs ...”
“Texans?” prodded Kerwin.
“Texans,” nodded Vaughan. “Stone’s patrol outnumbered those Rebs two to one, yet the Rebs got the better of them.”
“Oh!” Kerwin nodded understandingly. “So the colonel and his men ended up in a Confederate prison camp.”
“Worse than that—far worse,” chuckled Vaughan. “Those sassy Texans sent Stone and his men back to the Union lines—minus their horses, their weapons and ...” His mirth increased, so that his next words were almost unintelligible, “and their britches ...!”
“Thunderation!” breathed Kerwin.
Vaughan sighed heavily and rega
ined control of himself. “Do yourself a favor, my friend,” he advised. “Never mention those names in his presence.”
“Thanks for the warning,” grinned Kerwin. “You may be sure I won’t.”
At two p.m., sprawled side by side on their beds at the Lincoln House, the Texans were still reviewing the current situation.
“The way I see it,” mused Larry, “this boss-Apache hasn’t yet got his paws on any of those hijacked repeaters—but it could happen.”
“What makes you think he ain’t got ’em already?” demanded Stretch.
“The shipment was grabbed better than a week ago,” Larry reminded him.
“Uh huh,” grunted Stretch.
“Somehow,” frowned Larry, “I can’t imagine the chief’d wait all this time before sendin’ his braves a’raidin’. It’s my hunch he’d have acted fast—say inside forty-eight hours of the ambush. No. He ain’t got ’em—but he might.”
“I don’t much admire the skunks that drygulched them freighters,” muttered Stretch, “along with six soldier-boys. It looks like they only had one reason, huh, runt? I mean, right from the start, they figured to give them repeaters to the Injuns.” He shook his head sadly. “And that’s dirty. Yup. That smells awful bad.”
“I’d like to believe,” said Larry, “that you and me could run into those hijackers, sooner or later.”
Stretch brightened considerably.
“We likely will,” he suggested.
“We likely will,” Larry grimly agreed.
“So what do we do for a starter?” asked Stretch. “The law and the army already tried to cut sign of them drygulchers, and couldn’t find nary a horse track. Wouldn’t be any use us moseyin’ out to where it happened.”
“We’ll mosey out there anyway,” said Larry, “but there’s somethin’ else I’d like to take a whirl at, somethin’ that might win us some time.”
“Like what, for instance?” prodded Stretch.
“Like,” said Larry, “payin’ a little social call on Gayatero.”
Larry and Stretch 13 Page 5