Drift! (A Larry & Stretch Book 1)

by Marshall Grover

  “Whereabout,” asked Stretch, calmly, “d’you figure on meetin’ up with us again, Larry?”

  Shannon threw Wilkes an astonished frown. The laconic Texans, with their blunt, realistic approach to danger, were of a breed he had never before encountered. They had everything figured out. Stretch would take the girl and the detectives over the mountain ... while his friend would run the gauntlet of the waiting killers. Emerson, the lean one, had no doubts about the outcome. Somehow, Valentine would lead the killers a chase, then elude them completely and return to his friends ... and all Emerson wanted to know was: where should they wait for him.

  Just like that!

  Valentine thought for a while, then said, “After you git over the mountain, you’ll come to that little canyon, on the way to the river. You better wait there, I reckon.”

  “Sure,” nodded Stretch.

  “But how,” queried Lucille, “are we going to rig up these ... these dummies?”

  “With wood,” Valentine replied, “and rocks. Let’s look around, Stretch.”

  “Comin’,” nodded his partner, flicking away his cigarette.

  Five – One Wet Texan

  At high noon, the four riders reached the top of the rise and drew rein. Stretch turned in his saddle and muttered a quiet warning to the detectives and the girl.

  “We’ll spell here for a few minutes. Give these horses a chance to git their wind back. Head fer them rocks. We gotta stay outa sight o’ them killers on the other side o’ the pass.”

  They followed him to the rocks and dismounted. Wilkes sank to the ground and gave a soft groan.

  “Man alive,” he complained. “That climb was really something!”

  Stretch threw him a cheerful grin, nodded, and said, “Gonna be tougher still goin down, friend.”

  “Ugh!” winced the detective, rubbing his aching limbs.

  “How do you feel, Miss Furness?” queried Shannon.

  Lucille seated herself on the ground beside Stretch.

  “Don’t worry about me, Mr. Shannon,” she smiled. “A ride like that doesn’t hurt me. I was born and raised in Colorado. This isn’t my first mountain ride.”

  “Colorado, huh?” grinned Stretch. “Well, what d’you know ’bout that? I figured you fer one o’ them there edicated Eastern gals.”

  Away to their right, they heard the unmistakable sounds of rifle-fire. Lucille bit her lip and looked at Stretch. He grinned, shrugged, and said, “That’ll be Sharkey’s owlhoots, throwin’ lead at Larry.”

  The detectives exchanged bleak looks. Shannon rubbed at his jaw, his long face gloomy and forbidding,

  “I wonder how he’s making out,” breathed Wilkes.

  The shooting continued relentlessly. Lucille shuddered and buried her face in her hands. Stretch reached out a long arm and patted her shoulder.

  “Hey now, ma’am,” he grunted. “Don’t you fret none That Larry, he can take care o’ himself.”

  Lucille turned her head away and muttered, angrily, “I didn’t ... I wasn’t ... I’m just a little tired, that’s all …”

  “Sure,” nodded Stretch, getting to his feet. “Better be movin’ on,” he told them. “Got a slow ride down, from here on.”

  Silently, they remounted and followed him over the rise to the beginning of the long descent. The lean man kept the lead, his bony knees expertly guiding his mount clear of rock fissures and rubble. Nobody made conversation. Their minds were on the drama that was even now being enacted on the open stretch of sand beyond the mountain s far side. They could still hear the shooting.

  Lucille slumped in her saddle, her eyes downcast, one thought in her troubled mind ...”Let him be spared! Don’t let him be shot down ... like the others ... he’s rough and uncouth ... but he must be a good man. He’s risking his life to give me a chance of arriving safely in Nash …”

  At that moment, a rifle slug whined perilously close to the head of the man in the schoolteacher’s thoughts. He crouched lower in his saddle, yelled at his mount, then at the straining, wild-eyed team. The wagon was rumbling over the sand at terrific speed now. As yet, the horses were unscathed; but Valentine knew that, before long, the killers on the distant peaks would lower their sights and aim at the team.

  He sped forward to draw level with the leaders, leaned to his left and grasped at the harness. A further volley rang out from the peaks and another hail of lead smacked into the side of the rig. Valentine tugged slightly on the leader’s harness and veered toward the right, guiding the rig in that direction to get it further out of range. He threw a hasty glance over his shoulder and grinned. The dummies were still in position. He mentally congratulated himself for having ensured that they were securely lashed down.

  The Texan had found a rotting tree trunk and had broken it in half. Both halves were now tied to the driver’s seat, covered with their spare shirts, and with the Stetsons of Shannon and Wilkes rammed above each log. A gnarled branch still adhered to one of the trunk-halves. Stretch had thoughtfully fitted it through a shirtsleeve and loosely tied the reins to it. An oblong rock was wedged behind the driver’s seat, wrapped in a blanket. Valentine’s own hat was fixed atop it. The blanket, and the shirts that covered the dummies, would never again be usable. The shooting of Sharkey and his men had been deadly accurate.

  The gunfire was diminishing in intensity now. Valentine had expected that. He was drawing further and further out of their range. Their lead was falling short. He narrowed his eyes against the sun-glare and peered ahead. Then he darted a glance toward the distant bulk of Powder Mountain. It was falling away to his left, telling him that he was now past the halfway mark. He had no false notions about the outlaws’ next move. They would leave their stakeout, atop the peaks, climb down to their horses and take off after him across the desert.

  For ten more minutes he kept up the breakneck pace, continually glancing over his shoulder. He would be out of the desert soon, he knew. If he swung sharply to the west, he would soon roll onto the trail to Nash City. If he reached it ahead of the killers, he could at least make the river, before the strength finally failed the sweating team.

  When the edge of the desert came into view, he started his turn. The team veered with him, swinging the heavy wagon around, sand spraying skyward from the skidding wheels. From behind, a renewed burst of gunfire rang out. Bullets whined over his head, a warning that he was, once again, within range of his pursuers. Recklessly, he guided the team over a slight rise and down a rocky incline. The heavy vehicle bumped and pitched as the wheels struck the rubble. Below him, Valentine could see the winding trail leading to Pike’s Bridge.

  The hectic descent ended at last and the wagon rolled out onto even ground. Valentine whooped and fired a shot into the air. With nostrils dilated the leaders strained forward again. Valentine crouched low in his saddle and sent his mount pounding along the trail in a fresh burst of speed. The wagon was rocking from side to side and the air was thick with dust. He was grimly aware that the cumbersome rig had taken some rough treatment in its headlong tumble down the shale-strewn grade. As he urged the leaders to greater effort, he found himself wondering how long the axles would hold out.

  From atop the rise, guns roared. Sharkey and his men were getting closer. Valentine stared ahead, watching for the rise that would herald the short approach to the bridge above the gorge. He saw it then. The trail dipped slightly, then began to climb. His mount took the short rise, without slackening pace. The team struggled forward, straining to meet the challenge of this extra demand on their stamina.

  Pike’s Bridge was a rough wooden structure that spanned Yellow River at its greatest depth. At this section of the long waterway, the banks towered eighty feet upward to be joined by the bridge.

  The men waiting there had heard the wagon when it was still a distance away. One of them had hurried to the top of the rise and had witnessed the last stage of the violent pursuit. One glance was sufficient to show that the pursuers were Gil Sharkey and his men. That was all
this lookout needed to know. He retraced his footsteps to the bridge and yelled to his companion:

  “Its Gil an’ the gang. They’re after a wagon-load o’ men!”

  “How many?” frowned the other man.

  “Three in the wagon an’ one ridin’! We better do like Gil said. You got that charge ready?”

  “Yeah. Git over to the other side, amigo an’ stay low!”

  As the lookout raced across the bridge, the second man lay flat and reached downward. From a strut nearest the center of the structure, a length of fuse coiled upward. He struck a match, applied it to the end, watched it spark, then got to his feet and hurried after his companion. They reached the far side and dived out of sight behind a boulder. As they lay in wait, they heard the pounding hooves of the six-horse team. With the Texan still clinging to the leader’s bridle, the wagon rolled over the hump and thundered down the short stretch to the bridge.

  Valentine’s mount clattered onto the wooden causeway and galloped toward the opposite side of the gorge, with the wagon close behind. The Texan was a bare two yards away from the end of the boardwalk, his pursuers just topping the rise, when the dynamite exploded. The center section of the bridge was blown apart, the roar of the detonation echoing like thunder down the gorge. The wagon rocked over to one side, the six-horse team screaming with fright. Valentine felt his mount’s withers drop suddenly, felt himself rolling off the animal’s back, pitching from the saddle.

  Like a huge stone, the heavy vehicle dropped through the shattered woodwork, dragging its scrabbling team with it, and plunged the eighty feet into the surging stream. With arms and legs threshing wildly, Valentine followed it, his senses reeling from the impact of the blast. The cowpony groped desperately with its fore-hooves at the splintering boards that still adhered to the far bank, then tumbled backward and somersaulted after its rider.

  In that horrifying instant of falling, the Texan’s mind knew one fleeting thought ...”If I hit the ground, I’m a dead man ... if I hit the water …”

  Wagon and team struck the river with a resounding splash. Valentine’s tensed body hit the water, head first, six yards from the rig. His pony crashed against an outcropping of rock, thirty feet down, then plummeted outward and fell among the struggling melee of the drowning team.

  Having struck the river at its greatest depth, the leaden weight of the wagon swiftly disappeared beneath the surface, pulling the team down with it. Valentine’s own horse was dead, its neck broken as it cannoned off the rock above. Its body went down with the other animals.

  The Texan’s body whirled and rolled in a nightmare of ice-cold death. He felt a chill of despair, with his lungs close to bursting and the frightening taste of the river water in his mouth and throat. With all his remaining strength, he kicked out desperately, struggling to get his head to the surface. Then his arms were flailing in air, his face raised out of the water, his distorted mouth drinking in great gulps of air.

  Something splashed into the water, bare inches from his head. A splintered beam from the wrecked structure above. He looked up. The bridge was falling apart. Broken rails and timbers were hurtling downward. He seized hold of the beam and clung to it, with only his nose and eyes above the surface. The wreckage hit the water, all around him. One piece struck the end of the beam he was holding, almost breaking his grip, and jarring his aching arms. He hung on.

  Pike’s Bridge was gone. The nightmare was over for Valentine. He was alive ... for how long, he had no way of telling. The beam was moving downstream now, carrying him along with the current. He raised his head a little further and, as his ears cleared water, he became conscious of harsh voices above him. From either side of the gorge, the outlaws were carrying on a shouted conversation. He looked up again and saw that, from the top of the gorge, he was temporarily invisible. He looked about him and noted, with a grin of triumph, that he was not far from the Nash City side of the river. The bank was now about twelve yards to his right. He released his hold on the beam and struck out.

  Gil Sharkey strode to the very edge of the yawning chasm, cupped his hands about his mouth and called to the two men on the opposite side.

  “Any of ’em git away?”

  “Nary a one!’ shouted the owlhoot who had ignited the fuse. “We timed it just fine, Gil. The whole damn caboose went inta the river!”

  Sharkey dropped to his knees and stared down at the swirling wreckage. His men followed his example, lying flat beside him.

  “Man!” breathed one of them. “We sure fixed them fer good!”

  “Gotta hand it to ’em,” grinned Sharkey. “They led us a chase an’ they put up a fight ... but you can’t buck dynamite.”

  “Wagon, hosses an’ people!” yelled the man on the far side. “They all sank fast! Ain’t gonna be no witness now, Gil!”

  Sharkey chuckled, got to his feet and waved to him.

  “Head downriver!” he yelled. “We’ll meet up with you at the shallows!”

  The dynamiter and his sidekick waved in answer, then moved out of sight to get their horses. Sharkey and his men mounted and left the gorge, riding parallel with the other two, following the river toward the place where it widened and became shallow.

  “When we git across,” Sharkey told his henchmen, “well meet up with the boys an’ head fer the old cabin.”

  “You still fixin’ to be in Nash fer the trial?” queried one of his companions.

  “Damn right I’ll be there,” growled Sharkey. “We’ll all be there.”

  “Them vigilantes’ll have the courthouse covered. You can count on that, Gil.”

  “Sure they will, but when we change into them store suits well look like a bunch o’ drummers. Don’t worry. They won’t spot us.”

  “Even so, with the gal dead, that Galloway’ll git Curt acquitted. How come we gotta be there?”

  “Insurance! I don’t aim to leave it all to Galloway. Were gonna be close by, in case somethin’ goes wrong.”

  They rode on, keeping to the bank, until the ground dipped toward the bend of the river. Here, the depth was low enough to permit a crossing on horseback. The gang waded their mounts across in single file, left the water and headed south. From the direction of the gorge, the two who had guarded the bridge rode out of a chaparral clump and joined the main group. Twelve strong, the killer band rode off toward the hidden canyon that was their secret headquarters.

  ~*~

  For a long time, the sopping, gasping man lay on the mossy bank, waiting for his strength to return. The Texan had lived through many dangers during his reckless adult years ... but death had never been as close as this. Had he been behind the wagon, instead of ahead of it, the force of the blast would have killed him. He was coldly aware of that. Surviving the long fall into the water was freak luck. He had no right to be alive, but alive he was.

  Alive ... but on foot. “Okay,” he thought. “You can’t have everything.” He stood up, leaned against a tree trunk and looked at the shattered timbers, drifting downstream, mute evidence of the terrible destruction that had taken place a few minutes before. The outlaws were gone, he knew. He had heard their shouted exchange and knew they were on their way to some unknown destination.

  He patted his pockets, instinctively, then muttered a disgruntled oath. His tobacco was useless, he realized. That thought thrust aside his relief at being alive and his mood became sullen. On the point of starting the long tramp to his rendezvous with Stretch and the others, he paused, turned, and gazed downriver. The killers were headed in that direction, he remembered. Where? And for what reason? As far as Sharkey and his men were aware, the vital witness had drowned. Did they intend to leave it at that ... or would they ride on to Nash City, determined to effect Curt’s escape from the law?

  Valentine thought about that for a while, then changed his mind about the rendezvous. On foot, it would take considerable time to track down the Sharkey riders ... but he meant to make the attempt, anyway. He looked up at the sun and estimated that, by now, Stret
ch and his charges would have arrived at the small canyon. He had no doubts about his partner’s next move. Stretch would wait for a while, then come downriver, looking for some sign of him. He left the sign on a tree trunk by the bank, hacking it into the bark with his sheath knife. Minutes later, he was tramping through the brush toward the spot where the bridge-wreckers had lain in wait, He would find their tracks, then follow them to where they joined up with the other killers. He would stay on their trail, and do everything in his power to ascertain their next move. Delivering the schoolteacher to the court was one thing. Ensuring her safety once she arrived there was another.

  ~*~

  In the shallow canyon, the detectives gratefully climbed down from their saddles and flopped beneath the shade of an overhanging rock. The lean Texan grinned indulgently, then expressed his intention of walking the forty yards to the river and getting water for the horses. Lucille dismounted and elected to accompany him. Shannon and Wilkes exchanged frowns.

  “Don’t you fellers worry none,” Stretch told them. “I’ll look out fer her, like she was my own li’l sister.”

  “It’s okay, Emerson,” sighed the sweating Shannon. “Wilkes and I are a little jumpy, that’s all. After what you two have done, so far, were ready to trust you ... all the way.”

  “Well, now,” acknowledged Stretch gravely. “That’s right friendly of you, Mr. Shannon.”

  With Lucille following, he pushed his way through the brush. They were almost to the bank, when they heard the distant rumble. Stretch stopped dead, frowning in puzzlement. The girl looked away to the right and murmured, “Thunder?”

  “I don’t reckon so,” Stretch looked up at the sky and shook his head. “Let’s git that water. Then I’m goin’ downstream a piece an’ have a look-see.”

  They knelt by the bank and slaked their thirsts. The Texan nodded his approval, when Lucille removed her hat and filled the crown of it with water. She was no city-bred woman, he mentally acknowledged. He collected water inside his own hat and they returned to the Pinkerton men. While Stretch held his hat to the muzzle of his mount, he told Shannon of his intention to investigate the cause of the noise they had heard. Shannon studied him, thoughtfully, and asked how long he expected to be gone.