Drift! (A Larry & Stretch Book 1)

by Marshall Grover

  Emerson’s tall form loomed up from the darkness on the clearing’s far side. He hunched down beside them.

  “Larry,” he grunted.

  “Uh?

  “What d’you suppose they’re up to, right now?”

  “Hard to say,” frowned Valentine.

  “I’d sure like to know.”

  “Yeah,” nodded Valentine. “I’ve been thinkin about it too—”

  “Thinking about what?” queried Shannon, moving closer.

  “Well,” mused Valentine. “We know they’re in there. If we could git a line on what theyre cookin’ up, it’d be a big help. Don’t forgit, Shannon, we have to take the little lady in, tomorrow ... an’ we don’t know what’s waitin’ for us.”

  “You think one of us ought to go into town?” breathed Wilkes.

  “I sure do,” Valentine told him. “For one thing, we ought a be thinkin’ about gittin’ hold o’ some kinda rig, somethin’ we can hide Miss Lucille inside of.”

  “Yeah,” grunted Shannon. “You got a point there.”

  “I’ll go,” offered Stretch. “No sense in you Pinkerton fellers showin’ yourselves. That no-good lawyer has likely told Sharkey’s owlhoots all ’bout you.”

  “No,” growled Valentine. “I’ll go.”

  “Are you loco or somethin’?” protested Stretch. “You already had a run-in with them skunks. They’ve seen you!”

  “They didn’t git that good a look at me. There was plenty trail-dust ’tween me an’ Sharkey’s riders ... an’ them two at the bridge, they were kept busy, gittin’ outa range o’ the blast. They didn’t catch more’n a quick look at me.”

  “It could be dangerous for you,” muttered Shannon.

  “I aim to be mighty careful,’ Valentine assured him. “I’ve seen them, remember. You fellers haven’t. That’s another reason why it’s gotta be me that goes.”

  “Mr. Valentine,” murmured Lucille.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “When will you be back?”

  Valentine rubbed his jaw and said, “Durned if I know, Miss Lucille. Tell you what, folks. Stay on here ’til around two o’clock tomorrow. If I’m not back by then, you’ll know somethin’ stopped me.”

  “Fair enough,” nodded Shannon.

  “Loan me your hat, Stretch,” ordered the Texan. “I lost mine in the blast.”

  “You better take my horse too. They’d be apt to spot that other one ... bein’ as how you stole it from them.”

  Donning his partner’s hat, Valentine got to his feet and moved across to the horses. He had no fixed plan in mind, just a deep-seated conviction that the enemy was still active. Things were happening in Nash City, he knew. The whole Sharkey gang was in town, in disguise. Shannon’s colleagues ought to be warned about that. If he could reach the man in charge of the Pinkerton detail ...

  Leading Stretch’s mount by the bridle, he returned to the huddled group.

  “Shannon,” he called.

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe I oughta look up your outfit ... them other detectives.”

  “Try it, by all means,” nodded Shannon. “Their boss is a fat little guy named O’Hare. If you can get to him, and tell him about us ...”

  “That’s what I was thinking” agreed Valentine. “So-long.”

  “Be seein’ you,” grunted Stretch.

  Valentine swung into the saddle and rode out of the trees, ambling his mount toward the trail that led into Nash City. When the outskirts drew near, he rode easy, taking on the appearance of a nonchalant cowhand dawdling into town for a late drink. He hooked a long leg over the pommel and rolled a thin cigarette, his eyes flickering back and forth across the entrance to the main thoroughfare. He rode on, slowly, for a moment, then saw something that sent a warning tingle up his spine.

  To his right, three men were leaving a house ... by the rear door. At first glance, this seemed a normal action, three men quitting a house. It was the manner of their going, however, that caused Valentine to take a second look. They were leaving separately.

  He drew rein beneath the shelter of a cedar, outside the residence of the town’s doctor. The match he had been about to scratch against his thumbnail was hastily tossed aside. He sat quiet and waited.

  The first man to leave the house opposite came around from the rear, stepped up onto the board sidewalk, and strolled off uptown. Had Valentine not previously seen Gil Sharkey in town clothes, he would not have recognized him now. He muttered an oath and his eves examined the house with even greater interest than before.

  Another figure emerged from the house, a distinguished-looking man with graying hair under a beaver hat. Valentine had never seen him before, but was willing to make a guess as to his identity. It was the third man, whose appearance really started the danger alarm clamoring in the Texan’s brain. A harassed, nervous type of man, wearing a sheriff’s star!

  The sheriff of Nash City ... and Gil Sharkey! In the same house! “Heck!” thought Valentine. “On top o’ everythin’ else, we got a crooked sheriff to worry about.”

  What to do now? Ride uptown and attempt to find the chief Pinkerton man! Maybe. But the thing he had just seen meant that the enemy were even more organized than he had suspected.

  A stern female voice sounded a challenge just behind him. He started, convulsively, and threw a glance over his shoulder.

  “Are you another of ’em?” demanded the woman. Valentine blinked. A stout little woman stood on the sidewalk, a shawl about her shoulders and an expression of grim disapproval on her round face. The Texan doffed his partner’s Stetson and said, “Pardon, ma’am?”

  “I said, are you another one of ’em?”

  “Another of what, ma’am?”

  “Another of those sharp-nosed Pinkerton lawmen, pokin’ through the homes of honest citizens, makin’ an all-fired nuisance of themselves!”

  “No, ma’am,” Valentine assured her. “I’m just a cowhand from over Green Valley way ... just ridin’ in. I don’t aim to poke into folks’ homes ...”

  Mrs. Anastasia Trumble didn’t really care about Valentine’s intentions. She was indignant, irate and eager to assail the ears of the nearest listener ... Valentine. For five bitter minutes, she told the Texan exactly how she felt about ill-mannered city detectives who barged into honest folks’ homes and searched them from front gate to privy. At the start of her tirade, the Texan was inclined to cut her short, excuse himself and ride on. But, as her angry account stretched on, he pricked up his ears and listened closely.

  “Ruffians!” complained Mrs. Trumble. “Clatterin’ through a body’s homes in their dusty boots … them in their city clothes. One of ’em tore my best rug with his spur ... I told my husband we ought to …”

  “’Scuse me, ma’am,” interrupted Valentine. “You say they was wearin’ city clothes. How come the spurs? I don’t figure that.”

  The woman paused, raised her eyebrows, thought for a moment, then shrugged.

  “I knew there was somethin’ strange about ’em,” she averred. “They sure were wearin’ city clothes ... but their boots were cowmen’s boots, tooled leather an’ spurs an’ all ... an’ most of ’em needed a shave! They searched everything ... even went down into my cellar. I told my husband ...”

  “You sure got a right to be mad, ma’am,” Valentine interjected. “I guess I’ll just keep right away from them no-good Pinkerton fellers an’ I’m mighty obliged to you for warnin’ me about ’em.”

  “We ought to see Judge Stovey about it.” Mrs. Trumble had never stopped talking at Valentine’s interruption. “A body’s entitled to privacy, is what I say. Those hulkin’ lawmen broke in on Hannah Burnham while her cousin Sarah was fittin’ her for her gown that she’s wearin’ to the Pure Prairie League Social, standin’ there in her shift with her cousin screamin’ an’ takin’ on, while these men went through her house openin’ closets, an’ even lookin’ in her bathroom ...!”

  At another time, Valentine would have been interested to hear m
ore about Hannah Burnham’s distressing experience with the bogus Pinkerton men. He was, at this moment, thanking the kindly providence that had brought verbose Mrs. Trumble to his side. Without realizing what she had accomplished, the indignant little matron had put him on guard, supplying him with valuable information.

  He raised his hat and rode on, his mind groping with this new turn of events. Sharkey’s men, searching every building in town. Why? They believed Lucille Furness to be dead. Had another witness arrived on the scene? He drew rein outside a small saloon, Harlan’s Bar, dismounted and took a careful look above the swing doors at the interior. He was looking for town suits, ill-fitting town suits on frames obviously accustomed to range clothes. He saw none. He glanced uptown. Many local people were abroad this night; but most of them appeared to be concentrated in the vicinity of the larger saloons and gambling houses. He decided to pay a quick visit to this smaller establishment. He had a two-fold excuse for doing so ... his need for more information and his thirst.

  At the bar, a bald-headed barman poured him a shot of rye and launched into a bitter condemnation of all “city lawmen”. Valentine had struck the jackpot... a loquacious barman. This hairless little man was a worthy male counterpart of Mrs. Trumble ... and every bit as indignant. Valentine sipped at his drink and let the man drone on, about the brusque manner in which the detectives searched Harlan’s Bar. There could be no doubt about it, thought the Texan. The Sharkey outfit was leaving no stone unturned.

  “You got any notion what they was lookin’ for?” he asked his angry informant.

  “That’s the crazy part,” complained the barkeep. “You know what they said? They said some o’ Curt Sharkey’s owlhoots are suspected o’ bein’ right here in Nash, waitin’ for a chance to break him outa jail! Now I ask you, friend ... ain’t that the craziest thing you ever heard?”

  Poker-faced, Valentine downed his drink and said, “Damn right it is. Plumb crazy.”

  The barman looked over Valentine’s shoulder then, and frowned.

  “Blast his ornery old hide,” he muttered. “He’s back again.”

  “Who?” growled Valentine, his eyes on the mirror above the bar, his right hand dropping to his gun-butt.

  “Blamed old desert rat,” fretted the barkeep. “Them city lawmen up at the Chrystal Palace filled him with rye ... just on account o’ that damn-fool story o’ his, about that ore-wagon he found.”

  Valentine clenched his teeth to stifle the oath that sprang to his lips. He threw a sidelong glance at the object of the barman s disapproval, a bearded, drunken oldster in dusty jeans and shirt. He looked at the barman then, and said, casually, “What’s so all-fired important about an old feller findin’ a wagon?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” shrugged the barman. “Old Lafe claims there was hunks o’ wood lashed to the seat ... with shirts on! You hear that, stranger? Shirts! You want to know what I think?”

  “You’re gonna tell me anyway, Baldy,” thought Valentine. “Go right ahead an’ git it outa your system.”

  Aloud, he said, “Why sure, friend. I’d be real interested to know what you think.”

  “I think,” declared the barkeep, “Lafe was drunk … just like he always is! Whoever heard of a hunk o’ wood on a wagon, wearin’ a shirt?”

  “Stretch Emerson,” thought Valentine, grinning inwardly. “It was his shirt.”

  He paid the barman, nodded good night, and walked out. It was over, he mused. The pretence, the careful planning, their painstaking efforts to get Lucille into town unseen. Their whole strategy had blown up in their faces. Freak luck! A fossicking old desert rat had found the wagon and told about it... to everyone within earshot. The Sharkeys knew now. They knew the girl was alive and, after having searched every inch of Nash City, they knew she had not yet arrived. Who to turn to for help ... who to notify? The Pinkerton men? Not a chance. First he would have to find them and, in the process, he could easily be discovered by Sharkey’s men. On the face of it, they knew every move of the witness and her bodyguard. With the sheriff in their pay, how could he be sure that the vigilantes were all honest men? Money talks ... and the Sharkeys had plenty of it!

  He took the bridle of Stretch’s horse and led the animal to the rear of the small saloon, intending to leave town as quietly as possible. His thoughts were grim, as he walked the horse down a back alley toward the residential sector. To have come this far and failed ...

  He stopped dead, his eyes widening at what he saw. Then he chuckled softly and moved on. He knew now just how they would bring the vital witness to court. The pretty schoolteacher was going to travel in style!

  Eight – Passengers For a Hearse

  Jethrow Gibbons looked about his disheveled storeroom and pronounced a fervent curse on all heavy-footed city lawmen. His precious stock had been shoved from the trestle supports. It would take him quite a while to restore order to his place of business. He was harassed, bewildered and in low spirits, and now, to add to his gloom, another intruder stood at his rear doorway, alertly scanning the wrecked storeroom. Gibbons sighed weakly, put his hands on his bony hips, and repeated the challenge of Mrs. Anastasia Trumble.

  “Are you another of ’em?” he moaned.

  “No, friend,” grinned Larry Valentine. “You got nothin’ to fear from me.”

  “Why do they have to do such a thing?” wailed Gibbons, gesturing at his scattered stock. “I ain’t no skunk that hides killers. I’m a honest businessman. I’m an undertaker.”

  Valentine looked around the storeroom and said, “With all them coffins lyin’ around, you ain’t got no right bein’ anythin’ else!”

  Gibbons shook his head, sadly, and sat down on an overturned casket.

  “You got a cigar?” he pleaded.

  Valentine shook his head.

  “Okay,” shrugged the undertaker. “So I gotta smoke my own.”

  He produced a limp black cheroot and stuck it in his mouth. Valentine gave him a light. Gibbons puffed smoke into the air for a moment, then made an observation that Valentine had heard before. It was a familiar observation, one that he had heard, many times, from the lips of his lean partner.

  “I wish,” observed the undertaker, “I was back in Texas.”

  “Pay-dirt!” thought Valentine.

  Aloud, he said, “You from Texas, friend?”

  “Damn right I am,” nodded Gibbons. “I must’ve been plumb loco ever to leave it. Say. You’re from Texas! I should’ve knowed it right off ... on ’count o’ the civilized way you talk.”

  The expatriates gravely shook hands. Gibbons forgot his intention of cleaning up the storeroom, and invited Valentine into his parlor. Valentine tagged along and helped himself to a comfortable chair. He had a premonition that the tide was about to turn in his favor. High time! he thought. Right now, he needed an ally, a heaven-sent ally in the shape of a lean, lugubrious mortician from the Lone Star State.

  Gibbons seated himself opposite his visitor and produced a bottle and glasses.

  “I don’t aim to insult you,” he pointed out, “by askin’ if you’re a drinkin’ man. You re from Texas … so it’d be a damn fool question anyway.”

  He poured. They clinked their glasses together, toasted each other, and drank. Gibbons stretched his long legs along the floor, settled more comfortably in his chair, and began a lengthy lament about the advent of the Pinkerton men, the coming trial and the whole Sharkey list of depredations. He had been in Nash City many years and there was little he didn’t know about local history.

  Valentine heard him out, without interrupting. He was content to listen and assess, for, if his first opinion of this long-faced man was correct, he would be obliged to take him into his confidence ... and he had to be sure. After twenty long minutes of listening to Jethrow Gibbons, he was sure. Leaning closer to his host, he tapped one of the bony knees and said, “I got a hunch you’re a do-right man, Jethrow, so I’m gonna put my cards on the table an’ ask for your help.”

  “Speak o
n, friend,” invited Gibbons. “You got somebody you want planted? For a Texan, I’ll do it fer free.”

  “Nope,” Valentine shook his head. “This is more like a job of transportation.” He jerked a thumb toward the rear of the establishment. “When I was comin’ down that back alley, I saw your rig.”

  “That hearse o’ mine? What about it?”

  “Jethrow ... d’you figure you could fit five people inside of it?”

  “Five? Hell ... that’s a heap o’ business, Larry. Don’t know if the ol’ contraption’ll hold that many. Last time I had a double load was three years back, when Buzz Dixon an Cholly Whitfield shot it out in Casey’s Bar … but that was only two ...”

  “Listen,” breathed Valentine. “This load’ll be alive ... and kickin’!”

  “Live folks?” blinked Gibbons. “Well now ... I dunno ’bout that. Us undertakers got rules, yuh know, an’ ...”

  “This is important, Jethrow,” Valentine insisted. “You got a chance to do somethin’ big. It’s gonna be dangerous, but I don’t mind havin’ to ask you to risk your neck ... you bein’ from Texas an’ all.”

  “Pardner,” breathed Gibbons. “All you gotta do is name it!”

  “Okay then,” nodded Valentine. “You heard tell o’ that witness that’s gonna identify Curt Sharkey?”

  “Sure I heard. They’re sayin’ she’s dead. There’s all kinds of rumors around town.”

  “She ain’t dead, Jethrow ... not yet.”

  “Huh? How come you know?”

  “I’m one of her bodyguards ... that’s how come.”

  “What?”

  “Keep your voice down. Like I told you, this thing is big. We need your help. I reckon you can guess what I mean by that.”

  “Yeah!” the undertaker nodded knowingly. “You figure we could git her into town inside the hearse, huh?”

  “That’s it, Jethrow. We drive it plumb up to the courthouse steps.”

  “Five folks you say?”

  “Uh huh. Two Pinkerton men ...”

  “Pinkerton men?”

  “These two are genuine. The men that searched your place are Sharkey riders.”