Drift! (A Larry & Stretch Book 1)

by Marshall Grover

  A trickle of perspiration ran down Shannon’s cheek. He removed his hat and wiped his brow. Beside him, Wilkes put his fears into words.

  “We have no guarantee that we weren’t seen. This Dinsmore man probably sleeps at the hotel. What if he saw us, when we pulled out of there?”

  “Yeah,” grunted Shannon. “That’s what I’m thinking, too.”

  “We don’t have to set around here wonderin’,” Valentine pointed out.

  “You got any ideas?” queried Shannon.

  Valentine threw another look toward the dust cloud that showed the direction taken by the distant rider.

  “He’s headed for the pass,” he mused. “With this horse o’ mine, I reckon I could git there, close behind him ... an’ ask him a few questions.”

  “All right,” muttered Shannon. “Do that ... but watch yourself!”

  “Sure,” nodded Valentine. “Tell you what, Shannon. There’s a cottonwood clump, ’bout a mile further ahead. When you git there, wait a piece an’ spell the team. I’ll meet up with you there, after I’ve found out what that little critter’s up to.”

  He turned his mount’s head and rode away. They sat watching as he sped across the flats towards his quarry.

  Then Stretch nodded at Shannon and called, “Let’s do like he says, huh?”

  Shannon flicked the team with the reins. The horses strained forward and the wagon moved on.

  ~*~

  Shannon was right. Robey Pass was an ideal spot for an ambush. The trail from Millsburg to Nash City ran, winding, through the narrow aperture which had always been a landmark on the regular stage route through Powder Mountain. From either side of the trail, any number of men could lie concealed, ready to spring into action at the vehicle’s arrival.

  For a stagecoach, there were no alternatives. The only other means of crossing the mountain lay in climbing the woody slope, west of the pass. To by-pass the mountain, meant keeping to the east and in that direction lay twenty long miles of parched desert, an unsuitable terrain for a passenger-carrying stage.

  Gil Sharkey, younger brother of the notorious Curt, was convinced that the escort would make a try at getting through the pass. With ten of the gang, he had made camp in a small clearing, within the pass itself and out of sight of the trail. There they waited, with lookouts posted, coldly resolved to waylay the woman who was marked for death and her bodyguard.

  The outlaw-boss’s brother was a slim, slack-featured killer who, like Curt, lived by animal cunning and a callous disregard for human life. As he hunched down in the clearing, surrounded by his men, he puffed at a cigarette and yearned for the swift arrival of the doomed quintet. Since Curt’s capture, the gang had been inactive, and the inactivity was playing tricks with Gil Sharkey’s nerves. He longed for action, quick, violent action that would result in the death of the too-observant woman who was willing to testify against his brother.

  Through the brush, to their right, they heard the footsteps. Gil looked up. The other men got to their feet, their hands on their gun-butts. One of the lookouts came into view then, dragging with him an ashen-faced, frightened little man in town clothes. The guard gave him a push and sent him reeling into the circle of men.

  “What’s the idea, Red?” growled Gil Sharkey.

  “He rode right up to me,” grinned the guard. “Claims he’s got important information for you, Gil.”

  “Yeah?” Sharkey’s cold gaze swept over Dinsmore. The little man flinched. “You came lookin’ fer me?”

  Dinsmore nodded nervously.

  “I’m Dinsmore,” he breathed. “Work at the Grand Hotel, in Millsburg ... got ... got some news for you, Mr. Sharkey.”

  “About what?”

  “Uh ... about the woman … that witness …”

  The men became very still, their eyes on their leader. Gil Sharkey hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt, glared at Dinsmore, and said, “What’s your stake in this?”

  “Well …” blinked the lackey, “I figured … it’d be worth somethin’ to you, if you knew how they’re plannin on ... foolin’ you fellers.”

  “I knew they d try some kind of trick,” leered Sharkey.

  He stood and waited. Dinsmore blinked about him, at the hard-faced killers, and decided to say his piece quickly. The silence was unnerving. After he’d told them what he alone knew, they’d see that he was a valuable man, and would reward him. It would be a big reward, enough to give him a new start. He would no longer be dependent on his miserable wages, or the occasional dollar he managed to steal from the rooms of drunken guests. No, sir! From now on, he would travel in style.

  “I saw ’em,” he told Gil now. “I saw the whole thing. They ain’t comin’ by the stage, Mr. Sharkey …”

  “No?” Sharkey raised his eyebrows.

  “No. They got an ore wagon. There’s two fellers on the wagon an’ two more ridin’ horses. An’ the girl ... they got her stashed inside the wagon. They got her covered with boards ... an’ on top of the boards they got rocks, to make it look like they’re carryin’ a load of ore!”

  Sharkey studied the informant in silence for a while.

  “Only four men, huh?” he mused. He grinned at his men and said, “They oughtn’t be too much fer us to handle, huh, fellers?”

  “I ... I figured you’d want to gimme somethin’ for tellin , you all about it,” prodded Dinsmore.

  “Why, sure,” nodded Sharkey. “You sure you don’t know nothin’ else. You sure there ain’t a posse tailin’ that ore-wagon?”

  “No, siree,” grinned the little man. ‘“That’s somethin’ I know for sure. Dean Borden an’ Quigley an’ the detectives, they tried awful hard to get a posse together, but everybody in town is scared of you fellers. Borden couldn’t get anybody!”

  Sharkey threw back his head and roared with laughter. His men joined in. Dinsmore hesitated at first, then added his high-pitched cackle to the harsh laughter of the killers.

  Still laughing, Gil Sharkey drew and fired. The slug hit Dinsmore squarely in the chest and knocked him over like a nine-pin ... and the outlaws laughed louder still. To them, the hapless Dinsmore was a fool, a fool who had done them a service, a fool who could not be permitted to remain at large. Dinsmore had been repaid for the greed that had prompted his one attempt at large-scale treachery.

  Sharkey holstered his Colt and raised his hand for silence. The outlaws quietened down.

  “I’m gonna change our plan,” Gil announced. “If they’re smart enough to figure out a thing like that, they’re smart enough not to try ridin through the pass.”

  “They couldn’t ride over the east side,” growled a man. “Not with a blamed ore-wagon. There’s no trail that way.”

  “No,” leered Sharkey. “What they’ll do is try the desert. With a fast team, they could ride that sand in a few hours ... except for one thing. We’re gonna stop ’em!” He turned and pointed away to his left where, beyond the far side of the trail, a rocky slope led upward to the peaks. “Up there’s where we’re goin’,” he told them. “From the peaks, we got a clear sight of ’em, when they roll across the desert. We’ll open up on ’em with rifles.”

  “Yeah!” leered one of his listeners. “With that wagon, they got no other way.”

  “It’s gonna be easy shootin’!” grinned another man.

  “Bring your horses over there,” ordered Sharkey. “We’ll leave ’em in the brush, under the slope, an’ go up by foot.”

  For the next five minutes, the clearing was alive with activity. The outlaws moved back and forth, collecting their guns and horses and moving them across the trail. Soon, they had the horses out of sight, and were clambering up the steep grade towards the peaks. The clearing was deserted now, except for the still form that lay where it had fallen. For once in his murderous career, Gil Sharkey had made a mistake. He was a professional killer, skilled in his terrible craft. He had cold confidence in his deadly aim and it never occurred to him that Dinsmore might survive his terrible chest wound. Dinsmore was
a dying man, but the few moments of life left in him were destined to turn the tide in the battle that lay ahead.

  At the foot of Powder Mountain, Valentine found the informer’s tethered mount. He got down from his horse and scouted the ground for Dinsmore’s sign. The tracks were there ... fresh tracks. He drew his Colt and started up the grassy incline, his ears alert for danger signals. Before long, he came to the position recently occupied by Sharkey’s lookout. There, he found the second set of footprints, the point where Dinsmore had encountered the guard and been taken to the clearing.

  The cowhand followed the double set of prints right to the clearing, then dropped flat and lay quiet, listening. The silence was suddenly broken by a feeble groan. A frown creased Valentine’s forehead. He peered to right and left; but heard no other sound. The dying man was lying on his back in the center of the clearing. Was he one of the gang? Valentine doubted it. The Sharkey outfit, at this time, was welded together by a common bond ... the fierce determination to free their captured leader.

  Gingerly, Valentine began crawling toward the dying man. Reaching the silent figure, he stared at the face, and instantly recognized the lackey from the Grand Hotel. Rick Dinsmore was a well-known Millsburg identity. As he raised the man’s head in the crook of his arm, the eyelids flickered. Dinsmore blinked up at him and shuddered.

  “Take it easy,” grunted Valentine.

  “He ... shot me!” whispered the dying man. “I ... I thought he’d pay me ... for tellin’ him ... about the girl ...”

  Valentine leaned closer, his eyes narrowing.

  “What girl?” he hissed.

  “The Furness girl ... the witness. I told Sharkey about the ore-wagon ...”

  The Texan muttered an oath and threw a quick glance around.

  “Where’d they go?” he demanded.

  “I dunno ... across the trail some place ...”

  Dinsmore coughed. A trickle of blood ran down his chin. He shuddered again, then closed his eyes. Gently, Valentine lowered his head to the ground. Dinsmore, the nondescript, had gambled his life in a fruitless attempt to rise above his lowly station. In death, as in life, he was a pitiful failure.

  Treading warily, Valentine crept toward the trail, his gun cocked and ready. Reaching the stage route, he crouched behind a clump of mesquite and examined the scene before him. Beneath an overhanging rock, on the opposite side of the trail, the outlaws’ horses were tethered. Valentine heard a clattering sound then, a sound that revealed the location of Sharkey and his men.

  The clattering was caused by a small boulder, dislodged by a boot on the outlaws’ climb to the summit of the pass. Valentine looked up, then gave a grunt of satisfaction. Following Dinsmore had been an impulse that had paid off. He knew what to expect now. The killers would wait, up there among the peaks, ready to open fire on the wagon the moment it appeared. For several minutes, he toyed with the idea of crossing the trail and stampeding their horses. He ruled against the notion, realizing that, for the time being, it would be wiser to keep his presence a secret.

  He returned to the clearing, then retraced his steps to the look-out post. There, he mounted his own horse and untethered the animal left by Dinsmore. Leading the spare mount by its bridle, he descended the woody slope and headed towards the copse where the wagon and its occupants were waiting.

  ~*~

  From his sprawled position by a wheel of the ore-wagon, Stretch Emerson stared off toward the horizon and muttered, “Larry’s comin’ back now.”

  “Cowboy,” grinned Wilkes, “you’ve sure got good eyes.”

  Shannon got to his feet, picked up the telescope and trained it on the distant dust cloud. Lucille Furness sat, cross-legged, in the shadow of the wagon, fanning herself with her wide-brimmed hat. It was mid-morning now and the heat of the sun was increasing. Both detectives were sweating profusely. Stretch was completely at ease, his long legs extended along the hard ground, a thinly-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “May I?” asked Lucille, nodding at the telescope and getting to her feet.

  “Why certainly,” said Shannon, passing the instrument to her.

  Stretch watched her raise the glass to her eye. He grinned covertly, removed the cigarette from his mouth, and made a wry observation.

  “Can’t figure why you’d be bothered lookin’ through that contraption, ma’am. Ain’t nothin’ to see ... just a no-good cowpoke, ridin’ a cayuse …”

  “He has an extra horse,” announced Lucille.

  “Is that a fact?” drawled Stretch.

  She returned the glass to Shannon, then went back to her position in the shade. Stretch studied her thoughtfully, wondering if she was as interested in Larry Valentines welfare as Valentine was in hers.

  When Valentine reined in and dismounted, the three men came to his side, their faces alive with curiosity. The Texan took off his hat and began slapping the trail dust from his clothes.

  “I found him,” he grunted. “It was Dinsmore all right.”

  “What happened?” frowned Shannon.

  “They killed him. I’m guessin’ Sharkey’s kid brother did the shootin’. He’s as mean an hombre as Curt. I got to him, before he cashed in. Seems he told ’em about us.”

  “You mean the ore wagon an’ all?” blinked Stretch.

  Valentine nodded.

  “Pretty obvious what happened,” reflected Wilkes. “This Dinsmore saw us leave, and decided to try selling what he knew to the Sharkey mob. They let him talk ...”

  “Then put a bullet in him,” finished Shannon. “A typical Sharkey move.”

  “Were gonna have to change our plans a little,” Valentine pointed out.

  “What a pity,” breathed the girl. The men turned and looked at her. “It was my idea, and I thought it was a good one ...”

  “Sure it was,” growled Valentine. “It was a durn smart notion. No fault o’ yours that we can’t go through with it.”

  “They know how we’re travelling now,” mused Shannon. “They’ll be watching for this wagon.”

  “From the rocks ’top o’ Robey Pass,” supplied Valentine.

  “How do you know that?”

  “It figures, Shannon. Their horses are stashed at the bottom o’ the trail.”

  Valentine dropped to one knee, picked up a twig and signed for the others to gather around him. On a patch of dust, he made lines with the twig, drawing a rough map to illustrate his findings.

  “Here’s Robey Pass,” he explained. “A sure bet for an ambush, so they’ll figure we’ll ride clear of it. But we still have to git past Powder Mountain.”

  “Can we go over it?” demanded Shannon.

  “Not with that wagon,” growled Valentine.

  “No trail,” grunted Stretch.

  “Any other route?” asked Wilkes.

  “Only one,” Valentine told him. “The desert. Twenty miles of it. It’d be a smooth run for the wagon, and fast too.”

  “Trouble is,” explained Stretch, “from up top o’ the pass, them sidewinders’ll be in range. With rifles, they could give us a heap o’ trouble.”

  “Even so,” frowned Valentine. “That’s the route they think we’ll take ... an’ I don’t aim to disappoint ’em.”

  “I don’t get you, Valentine,” frowned Shannon. “We know they’ll be watching for us. Why should we ride straight into a shooting match?”

  Valentine got to his feet. The others followed his example. The detectives waited impatiently, while he carefully rolled a cigarette and lit it. He puffed smoke, eyed Shannon thoughtfully, and said, “Just how fast d’you want to git Miss Lucille to Nash City?”

  Shannon took out a handkerchief and mopped perspiration from his brow.

  “Sharkey’s trial begins at two-thirty tomorrow,” he grunted.

  “Uh huh,” nodded Valentine. “That bein’ so, you better do like I say.”

  “All right,” muttered the detective. “We’re listening.”

  “We got an extra horse now,” said t
he Texan. “Dinsmore’s. The lady can ride it. You can take two of the horses from the team and use them saddles in the wagon.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You heard me. All four o’ you are ridin’ horseback, from here on, Stretch.”

  “Uh?” queried Stretch.

  “Circle around an’ take ’em over the mountain, left o’ the pass. Got that?”

  “Yeah. What about you, pardner?”

  “I’m headin’ across the desert ... with the wagon.”

  Lucille gave a little gasp and moved to his side, staring up into his face.

  “But ...” she protested. “They’ll shoot at you ...!”

  “That’s the whole idea,” grinned Valentine. “They’ll be so durn busy throwin’ lead at me, you four’ll be able to git over Powder Mountain, without them knowin’ ’bout it.”

  Shannon looked at Wilkes.

  “Don’t look at me,” shrugged Wilkes. “I can’t think of any other way out of it. We have to get her there, Shannon.” He looked at Valentine and added, “Too bad this feller has to take such a chance.”

  Valentine eyed their grim faces. He smiled crookedly. “Don’t look so all-fired sad,” he advised them. “I aim to protect myself. I’ll ride the far side o’ the rig.”

  “But will it fool them?” growled Shannon. “All they’ll see will be one mounted man leading a six-horse team and a wagon.”

  “They’re gonna see more’n that,” grinned Valentine. “They’re gonna see what looks like three other fellers, settin’ up on the rig.”

  “How’s that?” queried Wilkes.

  “Were gonna fix up some dummies,” explained Valentine. “Stretch an’ me’ve got spare shirts in our saddle-rolls. You fellers got your other clothes in the wagon?”

  The detectives nodded.

  “Okay then. Leave your Stetsons here. We’ll put ’em on the dummies.”

  “Just how far,” frowned Shannon, “do you think you can fool them? What if they come down out of the pass and chase you?”

  “If they do that,” said the Texan, “I’ll lead ’em away east o’ the mountain. That way, the rest o’ you git a clear run to Yellow River.”