“Tonight,” Haworth told him, “I’m goin’ up on the roof of this dump, see? I’ll just lie there an’ wait my chance. Sooner or later, that redhead from Coyote Creek’s gonna come a mite too close to that window. When she does ... the county prosecutor’s gonna lose a witness.”
Grills nodded, calmly.
“I’ll be waitin’ in the alley with our horses,” he muttered.
It promised to be a memorable night ... in more ways than one. When Larry and Stretch entered Sorrowful Roscoe’s they found the place thronged with drinkers. The bartenders moved back and forth, perspiring in the thick, humid atmosphere, whilst hurrying to meet the demands of their thirsty clients. The gambling layouts were doing big business and the dance floor was packed with townsmen and ranch-hands, making merry with the garishly garbed females provided by the proprietor. Larry and Stretch moved toward the bar, exchanging grins and nods with drinking acquaintances. Despite the nerve-racking ordeal that lay ahead of them, it did not occur to either of them to seek a quieter spot for their farewell celebration. In the din of the shouting customers, the giggling women and the discordant pounding of “Fingers” Weavers piano, these two hell-raisers were deeply content.
The proprietor sat alone, in his customary corner, eyeing his roistering patrons with the long-suffering expression that had earned him his nickname. Sorrowful Roscoe was a fortyish wisp of a man with a head that seemed too large for his body. His face, with its sagging jowls and drooping mouth, bore an astonishing resemblance to a that of a bloodhound. Mr. Roscoe was a born worrier. When business was slack, he worried about his falling profits. When business boomed, he worried about whether or not the Millsburg Bank might be robbed.
Most of all, he worried about his pride and joy ... the saloon. He cared for every square inch of the premises and stock, as a fond mother cares for a growing babe. A cracked whisky glass could bring tears to his eyes. A broken stick of furniture would send him into mourning.
Therefore, the doleful look he fixed upon the two newcomers was understandable. Had they not, ten nights before, instigated a brawl during which his beloved establishment had been reduced to a shambles? He blinked at them, then at the new mirror above the long bar. He was not a religious man; but at this moment, he instinctively muttered a prayer that the Texans would remain quiet this night. He gazed fondly at the gaudy masterpiece that hung above the faro layout. An itinerant artist had painted it, at Sorrowful’s own request. It was a reproduction of the famous Venus de Milo ... with the arms complete. Mr. Roscoe had found no pleasure in pictures of the armless original. His few personal friends were wont to predict that the proprietor would, sooner or later, re-name his establishment, calling it the “De Milo Saloon and Gambling House”.
The long-faced proprietor need not have worried about Larry and Stretch starting a fight. Although irresponsible by nature, both men were grimly aware of the need for vigilance. Shannon’s warning had not fallen on deaf ears. They ordered their drinks, silently toasted each other and drank. Then they leaned their elbows on the bar and casually studied the milling throng of drinkers and dancers. They studied them for quite a while; but saw no strange faces.
“If them sidewinders are still in town,” muttered Stretch, “they’re keepin’ outa sight.”
“Seems like,” agreed Valentine. He reached behind him, and patted the neck of the whisky bottle. Stretch looked at him and nodded in silent understanding. “We make this one last,” grunted Valentine. “Okay by you?”
“Uh huh,” nodded Stretch. “You figure we could strike trouble tonight, huh?”
“Could be,” frowned Valentine. “And, if we do, we’ll need clear heads, pardner.”
And so their pact was made. They would dawdle through their bottle, they would go quietly this night ... above all, they would stay sober.
Suddenly they became aware of a stillness. The tinkling piano had ceased to tinkle. The dancers were standing quiet. The drinkers were suddenly silent. All eyes were on the two Texans. Larry and Stretch exchanged puzzled glances. One of the painted dance-hall women made a choking sound and began to cry. Valentine blinked at the staring throng, set down his glass, and said, “What’s ailin’ you folks? How come you’re all starin’ at Stretch an’ me, like we’re a couple o’ ghosts or somethin’?”
A fat little man waddled toward them, a tear trickling from one bloodshot eye. Millsburg knew him as “Rye-nose”. Nobody knew his real name and nobody had ever seen him sober. He lurched up to them, waggled a trembling forefinger, and said, “Everybody knows, boys. We can’t keep a secret of a thing like that! We know you’re gonna try takin’ that purty li’l witness to the county seat ...!”
“You fellers are the bravest men in Millsburg!” roared Ed Weeks, the liveryman.
“Damn right!” agreed another man. “The rest of us oughta be ashamed to drink in the same bar as you!”
The wailing of the harpy increased in volume. Two of her painted colleagues chose that moment to join in. Several topers, overcome by Roscoe’s liquor, and their own feeling of guilt, turned aside and furtively wiped their eyes. In the whole crowd, only one man maintained an impassive countenance ... Phil Shipley, the mortician.
Stretch turned to his friend, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“Hell, Larry,” he mumbled. “Ain’t that sad? They’re sorry fer us!”
“For the love of Mike!” growled Valentine. “Don’t start enjoyin’ it!” He took a pace forward and raised his hands. The crowd became quiet, watching him with respectful expectation. “Listen, friends!” he called. “Stretch an’ me don’t like to spoil your fun. We’d appreciate it if you pay us no heed. Just forget we’re here. Have fun.”
“A beautiful man ... a wonderful boy!” roared a voice from behind the Texans.
Rory Finnigan, Roscoe’s brawny head barman, clambered atop the bar counter and waved his hairy arms at the drinkers. The massive Irishman had a gleam in his eye and emotion shone from his florid features, like a beacon on a dark night.
“Did ye hear what he said?” yelled Finnigan, quivering with excitement. “He says we’re to have fun ... an’ that within the shadow of Kingdom Come! That’s courage!”
A thunderous roar of agreement rose up from the crowd and shook the chandeliers. Sorrowful Roscoe’s doleful face took on an expression of panic. He blinked at the long mirror, and the painting of Venus, and crossed his fingers. Another, and louder, roar erupted from the customers. Finnigan threw up his hands and yelled, “Quiet! Nobody hollers ’til Finnigan’s finished his speech! Listen now. We all know what’s ahead o’ these brave boys. There’s divil a chance we’ll ever see ’em agin! ’Tis likely their bodies will niver be found! What are we goin’ to do about that?”
“Let’s pass a hat!” gulped a swaying toper.
“Shut y’ face, Hogan!” admonished Finnigan. “Money can’t help ’em now! But there’s one thing we can do for ’em. We’ll do the decent Christian thing. We’ll give ’em a wake ... in advance!”
For a breathless moment, they gaped at him. Then the full significance of his unconventional reasoning became clear to them. A wake. In advance. Why sure! What could be more fitting?
“This is their night!” roared Finnigan. “Tonight, the place belongs to them! Everybody forward an’ pay homage to the bravest boys in Nash County!” He waved to the tremulous saloonkeeper and added, “Ye invitin’ the Texans to be your guests? Is that not right, Mr. Roscoe?” Sorrowful opened his mouth to voice a protest. Finnigan cut him short, beamed at the mob, and yelled, “Drinks’re on the house!”
What followed was bedlam ... on a joyous scale. The crowd surged over to the bar. Finnigan leapt down to join his aides and the barmen began dispensing firewater. Men leaned against Larry and Stretch, pummeling them on their backs, shaking their hands. The blubbering women clung to them, bawling into their chests ... and, above the raucous noise, Rory Finnigan’s triumphant yell sounded again.
“The house belongs to the Texans! Anythin’
they want, they kin have!”
Larry grinned at Stretch and said, “Don’t lose your head.”
“Pardner,” gasped Stretch, unlocking himself from the embrace of a sobbing woman, “we’ll never git a chance like this agin!”
He climbed atop the bar and raised his hands. Finnigan glared at the drinkers and yelled, “Be quiet now or I’ll break your heads! One o’ the heroes has somethin’ to say.”
“Folks,” called Stretch, “you’ll likely be doggawned surprised to hear this, but I’m an artistical sort of a feller.” He pointed to the painting above the faro tables. Sorrowful Roscoe’s heart began to beat faster. “That durn pitcher ain’t decent,” averred Stretch. “I always had me a hankerin’ to fix it up good, so, if some kind gent’ll git me some paint an’ a brush, I’ll here an’ now make that bare-limbed li’l gal plumb respectable!”
To the accompaniment of whoops and cheers, the deed was done. A willing storekeeper rushed from the saloon. When he returned, he brought with him a can of red paint and a brush. Urged on by his audience, Stretch clambered on to a table, his spurs ripping the green felt and scattering chips to right and left. When Sorrowful Roscoe saw what the Texan was about to do, he buried his face in his hands and wept. When he raised his eyes, for one last look at his favorite painting, a choking gasp escaped him and he reached for a bottle ... a momentous gesture, for Sorrowful was not a drinking man.
By the time Stretch reached the final stages of his artistic endeavor, Sorrowful had consumed half of the bottle’s contents and was experiencing the unique sensation of seeing two Stretch Emersons working on two paintings.
With a final flourish, Stretch added a final touch of red and tossed the brush aside. A burst of loud laughter greeted the finished product. Valentine leaned against the bar and grinned. Sorrowful’s Venus still maintained her classic pose; but her pink epidermis was no longer bare. From neck to ankles, Stretch had painted a reasonable likeness of a suit of red underwear on to the glowing flesh. He had kept his word and made her “plumb respectable”.
Sorrowful Roscoe gave a strangled yelp and staggered to his feet. Lurching through the grinning throng, he confronted the stringy Texan and, with tears of frustration running down his face, yelled, “All right, all right! Are y’ satisfied now? This is your wake! Y’ heard what Finnigan said! Y’ can have anythin’ y’ want ...!”
“That’s what I said!” roared Finnigan. “An’ it still goes!”
Stretch scratched his head and blinked across at his sidekick.
“Well now,” he mused. “I already had my wish. How ’bout you, Larry?”
The crowd gathered about Valentine, noisily urging him to claim the night’s take, a case of rye, the chandeliers, etc. Solemnly, Valentine shook his head.
“No, folks,” he pronounced. “I’m a simple feller an’ it don’t take much to make me happy …”
“All ye gotta do is name it!” boomed Finnigan.
“Well ... uh ... that there mirror,” pondered Valentine. “It always makes me kinda nervous. When I look in the durn thing I see all kinds of fellers ... like saloon-owners an’ such ...”
“Y’ don’t have to tell me the rest!” wailed the drunken Sorrowful Roscoe. “I know when I’m ... hic! ... licked ...!”
With which the demented Roscoe seized a bottle and hurled it at the long mirror. From habit, the bartenders ducked. The bottle hit the mirror dead center and exploded. An ugly star-shaped crack spread across the shining face of the proprietors pride and joy. Then the glass showered down on to the shelves beneath. For the second time in a fortnight, the saloon was in need of a new mirror. Sorrowful reeled to a table, fell across it, and passed out cold. The crowd surged to the bar, clamoring for more whisky ... but the Texans were not there. Larry and Stretch had retired to a remote corner of the house, intent on slaking their thirsts away from the maddening throng.
Three – The Lady Is A Target
In high spirits, the Texans quit the din of the saloon and stepped out into the cool night air. In a few minutes, it would be eleven o’clock, and both men had an urge to sprawl on a soft mattress and sleep until the dawn. At peace with the world, they turned left and sauntered toward the Grand Hotel.
At that same moment, Lucille Furness was busily working in her suite at the hotel. An embarrassed Shannon had been forced to borrow a dressmakers dummy from the wife of the proprietor and carry it into the suite. The prim young schoolteacher, despite her tortuous position, was resolved to look her best for tomorrow’s journey. Shannon and his colleague exchanged wondering glances as she knelt by the dummy, her mouth set in a determined line, her nimble fingers applying pins to the gown she was making.
Shannon slumped into a chair, folded his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes. It had been a worrying day. There seemed little prospect of his getting any sleep. In his chair, by the window, Wilkes watched her, an indulgent grin playing about his mouth. Wilkes was a married man. He recognized, and admired, the impulse that moved Lucille to worry about her appearance at such a time. With the dire possibility of a murderous attack before them, this fragile little woman’s personality had shown no change. Wilkes yawned behind his hand, and fell to thinking about his wife and child, at home in San Francisco.
“I shall need more light,” frowned Lucille. “Mr. Wilkes ...”
“Hmmm?”
“Kindly move that lamp to the right ... if you’d place it on that table ...”
“Sure,” grunted Wilkes, getting to his feet.
He picked up the lamp, crossed to the table she had indicated, and set the lamp down.
“Better?” he queried.
“Thank you,” she nodded.
He stepped back, covertly eyeing her handiwork. The movement took him out of direct line with the window ... and saved his life.
From somewhere close by, a six-gun roared twice. The two slugs shattered the window and smashed into the dummy, knocking it backward. Wilkes muttered an oath, yelled to the girl to lie flat, and dropping to his hands and knees moved toward the window. Behind him, he heard Shannon’s angry voice saying, “Stay with her Wilkes! I’m going down!”
The door opened and shut. Shannon locked it from outside, then raced down the corridor.
The Texans had almost reached the hotel, when the shots blasted the night air. Valentine drew his Colt.
“In back of the hotel,” he grunted.
“Them sidewinders!” hissed Stretch.
Bent double, they skirted the building and crept toward the rear alley. At the far end, they removed their Stetsons, dropped flat, and edged their faces around the corner. The assassins were on the point of departing. The cheap rooming house was still clothed in darkness, its inhabitants being among the crowd at Sorrowful Roscoe’s. Near the entrance, Rube Grills held the bridles of two mounts, and looked upward. Chet Haworth was clambering down from the roof, his six-gun still in his hand. The Texans waited until he reached the ground. They waited until both killers were about to mount ... then they got to their feet and sauntered into the alley.
“Keep your feet outa the stirrups, boys,” called Valentine. “You ain’t travelin’ any place.”
In a flash, Haworth and Grills whirled, their guns blazing. The Texans sidestepped, firing from the hip. For twenty seconds, the alley vibrated with the roar of gunfire. Then it ceased, as suddenly as it had begun. The din of violent conflict gave way to the cold quiet of death.
Shannon broke the silence, hurtling around the corner, his square jaw set grimly, a revolver in his bony fist. He skidded to a halt, took one close look, then put his gun away.
From where fee was standing, Valentine turned his head and glanced toward Stretch.
“They wing you?” he queried.
His lean colleague holstered his Colts and shook his head. “They came close,” he acknowledged, calmly, “but close ain’t nothin to worry ’bout. How about you, Larry?”
Valentine eyed the wall behind him, with a cryptic grin. Three bullets had embedded
themselves into the boards, bare inches from where his head and shoulders had been. He holstered his gun and looked at Shannon. The detective was on his knees beside the still forms of the two assassins.
“Ain’t nothin’ you can do for ’em,” growled Valentine, his face stern. “Stretch an’ me didn’t shoot to just wing ’em.”
Shannon straightened up and gave them a malignant glare.
“You and your itchy trigger-fingers!” he snarled. “I might have been able to get valuable information out of these two, if they weren’t so damn dead!”
“Well now,” drawled Stretch. ‘We didn’t figure they was in a mood fer conversation, friend. They up an’ cut loose at us ... so we let ’em have it.”
“What happened to the girl?” demanded Valentine, secretly alarmed at the beating of his heart.
“She’s safe,” growled Shannon. “They missed … ”
He broke off and stared toward the end of the alley. From the saloons, and out of nearby buildings, people wore hurrying on to the scene, yelling eager queries about the cause of the shooting. The detective threw the Texans a warning look and said, “Leave all the talking to me.”
“You’re welcome,” grinned Stretch. “We’ll just set quiet like ... ’til there’s more fightin to be done.”
Ahead of the approaching crowd, a rotund figure stumbled toward them, swearing and sweating.
“Its old Moon-belly,” grinned Valentine.
“I knew fer sure he’d git here,” opined Stretch, “sooner or later.”
Dean Borden, with both his deputies at his heels, pounded up to the Pinkerton man, his round face wet with perspiration.
“What the hell’s been goin’ on here?” he wailed.
“Another attempt at killing the witness,” snapped Shannon.
“Holy cow!” gasped the lawman. He turned to his deputies, pointed at the crowd, and said, “Keep those pop-eyed citizens out of here!”
The deputies moved back to block the alley. Borden turned to Shannon, a hundred questions seething in his brain; but the detective cut him short.
Drift! (A Larry & Stretch Book 1) Page 3