Drift! (A Larry & Stretch Book 1)

by Marshall Grover

  Gibbons’ jaw dropped. Valentine nodded grimly and said, “They’re smart ... like a rattlesnake. So we have to be a mite smarter.”

  “I’m with you,” growled the undertaker. “I got a shotgun that can do a heap o’ protectin’ ... an’ it’s gonna be right under my feet when I drive you in. Where’re you folks hidin’?”

  “In the woods, just by the south trail. The detectives are with her, an’ my pardner.”

  “Only three men guardin’ her?”

  “My pardner s from Texas, too.”

  “That kinda makes things dangerous fer the Sharkey gang. They’ll have two city lawmen an’ three Texans agin ’em! They ain’t got a chance!”

  Gibbons stood up and poured two more drinks. He threw his guest a thoughtful look and said, “We could try bringin’ her in tonight.”

  A bleak expression spread over Valentine’s weatherbeaten features. Gibbons felt an inner glow. He had seen such a look on the face of many a fighting Texan.

  “We thought about that, at first,” growled Valentine. “We thought about nothin’ but gittin’ the girl here, safe an’ sound. But now …”

  “Now?” prodded Gibbons.

  “Now, I got a better idea. I figure we could do two jobs together, Jethrow. We could bring the witness to court ... an’ we could wipe out the whole Sharkey gang for good an’ all.”

  “Yeah!” breathed Gibbons, elatedly. “This is gonna bring ’em out in the open. Say! You want me to go tell Sheriff Hubbard? He could have his men all staked out waitin’ for ’em!”

  Valentine downed his second drink, scowled at his host, and said, “Don’t let Hubbard know a damn thing, Jethrow. He’s in with ’em!”

  The undertaker flopped into his chair, his eyes widening.

  “Hubbard?” he gasped. “Hell, Larry, he wouldn’t have the guts!”

  “You know any better reason why Gil Sharkey would be comin’ outa the sheriff’s house? It ain’t hard to figure. Money. You can bet the Sharkeys are makin’ it worth Hubbard’s time ... just in case they need his help.”

  Gibbons took a long time to digest that. Valentine remained silent. He had time, plenty of time … until two-thirty tomorrow!

  “All right,” grunted Gibbons, after a while. “So I stay clear o’ Hubbard. What’s your plan then?”

  “I’ll go back to my friends,” Valentine decided. “You git your rig fixed up, like you’re gonna pay a business call. Around high noon, come out an’ collect us. When it’s near two-thirty, we’ll roll into town an’ head straight for the courthouse. From then on, we have to take our chances.”

  “Sure,” agreed Gibbons. “But ain’t there anybody in town we can trust? The real Pinkerton crowd got a right to be told about it.”

  “That’s what I had in mind, when I said we got a chance to wipe out the whole gang. You seen a feller called O’Hare?”

  “Uh huh. Fat little runt. I think he’s the boss-detective.”

  “That’s just what he is, Jethrow. Go find him, after I leave. Tell him everything I’ve told you. He’ll know what to do about tomorrow. An’ listen, when you find him, make durn sure you talk to him alone. Got that?”

  “Damn right I have. I won’t take no chances ... not ’til we hit that courthouse tomorrow!”

  They shook hands on it. The pact was made. From now on, the fate of Lucille Furness depended on three oddly assorted Texans, two lynx-eyed detectives and a daring camouflage ... a camouflage painted black and usually reserved for the last ride!

  Valentine waited in the alley until Gibbons started out on his search for the head Pinkerton man. Reaching the end of the alley, Gibbons turned and waved. The Texan waved back, then swung into the saddle and turned his mount’s head to the left. He rode out of town that way, circling it and taking his time about getting back to the cottonwoods.

  ~*~

  In the sheriff’s office, Lawyer Galloway smiled blandly at the four card-playing Pinkerton men and said, “Evening, friends. How’s my client?”

  The detectives eyed him with a distinct lack of warmth. One of them, a short, fat man, removed a cigar-butt from his mouth and spat into a cuspidor.

  “I guess you want to talk to him,” he opined. “That right, Galloway?”

  “With your permission, Mr. O’Hare,” bowed the lawyer. “And, much as I appreciate your precautions, I’d be obliged if I could have a word with him ... in private.”

  The fat detective stood up.

  “Okay by me,” he grunted. “But you won’t get any concessions. You can talk to him in his cell. We’ll lock you in ...”

  “Naturally,” agreed Galloway.

  “ … and well frisk you, before you go in,” O’Hare went on.

  Galloway frowned, then quickly checked his temper. The stakes were too high, he thought, too high to risk alarming these oafish city lawmen.

  “By all means, Mr. O’Hare,” he smiled.

  O’Hare nodded to one of his companions. The man got to his feet, came over to the lawyer, and subjected him to a brief but thorough search.

  “He’s clean,” grunted the searcher.

  “Okay,” nodded O’Hare. “Take him inside. Lock him in the cell with the prisoner, then come back here. Galloway.”

  “Yes, Mr. O’Hare?”

  “Ten minutes is all you get. That clear?”

  “Quite clear. Thank you.”

  A few moments later, Galloway was closeted with his client, his mouth close to Curt Sharkey’s ear as he jubilantly imparted his plans for the morrow. The hulking, unshaven outlaw-boss listened intently. He was a larger version of his murderous younger brother, a cold-eyed killer with the cunning of a cornered animal and utterly bereft of conscience. His incarceration had done nothing to quell his lawless instincts. Curt Sharkey had one thought only in his evil mind. Freedom. Freedom from the confines of the cell, so that he might again ride at the head of his band of cutthroats. The law had no way of reforming a man of his caliber. The only means of ending his reign of terror was the hangman’s rope. It did not occur to the boss-outlaw that his execution was now very close. He had full confidence in the ability of his brother and the rest of the gang ... and in the wily attorney who now assured him that his release was a certainty.

  “Everything’s arranged,” whispered Galloway. “That schoolteacher will never get into court alive. Your boys will be all around the entrance.”

  “Yeah,” nodded Sharkey. “But that hatchet-faced old judge is apt to figure that I had her killed.”

  “That won’t make any difference,” grinned the lawyer. “Gil will be standing by. You’ll get out of that court either of two ways ... through being acquitted for want of reasonable identification, or because of the fracas that will follow, if they don’t discharge you. Your boys will be right with you, Curt. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “You been sayin’ that right along,” grunted Sharkey. “You better be right, Galloway.”

  “I’m right,” nodded Galloway. “You may rely on that.”

  He stood up and moved to the cell-door. Sharkey frowned across at him and said, softly, “One thing more.”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell Gil, when he cuts loose at that babblin’ she-cat ... he’s to make damn sure of her. None o’ that one-shot idea o’ his. Tell him to hit her with every slug in his shootin’ iron!”

  “Sssh!” warned Galloway, looking over his shoulder. “The guard’s coming. I’ll see you later, Curt.”

  “Just remember what I said,” scowled the outlaw-leader.

  “Sure, sure,” nodded the lawyer.

  A Pinkerton man came down the corridor and unlocked the cell-door. As he stood aside to allow Galloway to come out, he held a large revolver at the ready.

  “Just sit quiet on that cot, Sharkey,” he warned. “If you get any notion of leaving with your lawyer, it’ll be the last notion you’ll ever get.”

  Galloway passed into the corridor. The detective slammed the door and turned the key in the lock. He pocketed the
key and the pistol and turned to follow Galloway, just as Sharkey rolled off his cot.

  “Why d you always call me ‘Sharkey’?” whined the outlaw. “I ain’t Sharkey at all. You heard what Galloway said …”

  “Save that kind of talk for the trial,” grinned the detective, walking off along the corridor.

  Sharkey slumped back on his cot and lit another cigarette. A crooked grin played around his cruel mouth. He was quite pleased about the strategy his lawyer had devised, the plea of lack of identification. It amused him to think about changing his name, in the manner suggested by Galloway. That was Galloway’s plan to fool the prosecution, and Galloway was one smart hombre.

  The lawyer passed through the office from the cellblock, nodded cordially to O’Hare, and went on out into the street. The fat little detective watched him go, clamping his teeth tighter on the butt of his cigar.

  “Regan,” he grunted.

  “Yeah?” frowned one of the card-players.

  “You ever had a feeling something was wrong?”

  “You mean, like second sight?”

  “Yeah”

  “No,” grinned Regan. “I don’t have the gift, Mr. O’Hare ... but you have.”

  “I certainly have,” nodded O’Hare. “And the feeling was never as strong as it is at this moment.”

  A mournful-looking citizen in somber black poked his head in to the office doorway.

  “You wanted something?” frowned O’Hare.

  “I’d like,” said the mournful one, “a few words with Mr. O’Hare ... in private.”

  “I’m O’Hare.” The detective rose to his feet.

  “Could we take a short walk?” requested the undertaker. “I won’t keep you more’n a minute.”

  The stout detective eyed Gibbons for a moment, then nodded and moved toward him. He was a firm believer in his own premonitions.

  ~*~

  Valentine rode into the clearing an hour later. He dismounted and left Stretch’s horse with the other animals, then joined the four people. His partner’s voice wafted toward him, in the pitch darkness.

  “Howdy,” greeted Stretch.

  “Howdy,” grunted Valentine.

  “How’d you make out?” came Shannon’s urgent query.

  “Just fine,” grinned Valentine. “We got an even chance now. We might do more’n git Miss Lucille safe into court ... we might finish the whole Sharkey mob, for good an’ all.”

  He hunched down beside his four eager listeners and told them the full story of his visit to the county seat. When he had finished, Wilkes gave a low whistle and said, “By all that’s holy ... it could work!”

  “It has to work!” growled Shannon. “This is our last try, Wilkes.” He reached toward Lucille and covered her small hand with his big one. “Miss Furness,” he muttered. “We’re getting close to the showdown. You’re going to be in a lot of danger, when we go in there, tomorrow ...”

  “I realize that, Mr. Shannon,” murmured the woman. “But I’ve come this far, and I have no intention of turning back now.”

  “I had a hunch you’d say something like that,” grunted the Pinkerton man, “and I want you to know this: we’re going to do everything we can to protect you, Mr. Wilkes and I ... even if it means stopping a bullet that’s meant for you.”

  “I … I hope that won’t be necessary,” breathed Lucille.

  “Let’s not kid ourselves, ma’am,” growled Valentine. “The whole thing’s liable to be one big shootin’ match. Right now, I only got one wish. I wish you’d never been in that bank when the Sharkeys raided it.”

  “I know what you mean, Valentine,” sighed Wilkes. “And you can bet Shannon and I agree with you. If she’d never been there ... she’d never have been here.”

  The four men and the girl fell silent, pondering the significance of Wilkes’ sober observation. The silence continued, to be broken by Stretch Emerson’s laconic reflection.

  “We oughta git some shut-eye. Ain’t no sense in stayin’ awake ... not when we’re gonna need to be real lively tomorrow!”

  “Yeah,” agreed Shannon. “Okay, then. Well take turns to stand watch ... just in case any of those hard cases come looking for us. I’ll be the first guard, then Wilkes, then Emerson, then you, Valentine. That all right by you fellers?”

  They grunted assent. Shannon drew his pistol and crawled over the edge of the wood, there to lie in the darkness and watch the trail that led to Nash City. The others lay down to catch what sleep they could.

  Nine – Trail’s End Showdown

  At fifteen minutes to noon, the hearse, drawn by four black stallions, rumbled slowly down Main Street. Jethrow Gibbons sat stoop-shouldered on the driving seat, wearing his rusty black suit and his characteristic expression of professional gloom ... and secretly enjoying the slight clatter made by the heavy shotgun beneath his feet.

  The hearse rolled past the courthouse and the main market block, past the sheriff’s office and jail, past the residential sector and on toward the south. When the turn of the trail hid the vehicle from view of the town, Gibbons called to his team, flicked them with the reins, and increased speed, his eager gaze on the cottonwoods to the right.

  The five people waiting in the wood watched the rig approach with mixed feelings. Shannon and Wilkes were very grim this morning. Lucille Furness was standing still, her slim body seemingly helpless and undefended, accentuated as it was in the close-fitting jeans and shirt. To Valentine, her appearance was frail, boyish, and immature. It seemed bitterly unjust that such a fragile specimen of womanhood was to be exposed to such imminent danger.

  Stretch Emerson took a last pull at his cigarette, then dropped the butt and trampled it into the dust. He grinned at Lucille, and at his hard-faced partner, and said, “Here comes our transportation ... purty, huh?”

  “Very,” breathed Lucille, summoning up a smile, “but a trifle premature.”

  The expression was lost on the Texans. They exchanged puzzled glances and shrugged.

  “You sure talk eddicated,” sighed Stretch, admiringly. “Wish I knew what them words means.”

  Wilkes turned and grinned toward the Texans.

  “Miss Furness is making a joke,” he explained, not unkindly. “She’s saying that, bad as things are, it’s a little early for us to be riding in a hearse.”

  “Well now,” mused Stretch, philosophically. “If there’s any chance we’re gonna cash in our chips, it’ll be right handy to git the feel o’ that rig, in advance!”

  The hearse kept coming, until it drew level with the woods. Then Gibbons turned right and drove it off the trail and into the clearing, coming to a halt beside the waiting group. As he climbed down from his perch, he smiled at the woman and removed his hat.

  “Folks,” said Valentine, quietly, “this here is our new sidekick, Jethrow Gibbons. We’re gonna have plenty to thank him for. Jethrow, this is Miss Lucille Furness ...”

  “Proud to meet up with you, ma’am,” grinned Gibbons, shyly offering a hairy paw.

  The girl gave him a soft smile, shook hands and said, “We all appreciate what you’ve offered to do for us, Mr. Gibbons.”

  “Shucks,” Gibbons said, “I’m only doin’ what’s right. When there’s a chance o’ beatin’ them ornery Sharkey skunks ... why ... everybody oughta do what he can.”

  “Glad you feel that way, friend,” approved Shannon, his long face stern and forbidding.

  Gibbons blinked at him.

  “Mr. Shannon and Mr. Wilkes,” explained Valentine. “Pinkerton men ... real ones.”

  “Howdy,” nodded Gibbons, shaking them by the hand. He looted across at Stretch, took a step toward the lean Texan and said, “You’ll be Larry’s pard.” He stared up at the towering cowhand and added, fervently: “Man! You gotta be from Texas. They don’t grow ’em as tall, any place else!”

  “Friend,” said Stretch, gravely shaking hands. “You ain’t no foreigner either ... I can tell from the way you talk.”

  Shannon took out his
watch and looked at it.

  “We have plenty of time,” he muttered. He threw a keen glance at the undertaker and asked, “How’re things in town?”

  “Same as before,” Gibbons told him, digging a black cigar from his coat pocket. “Whole town’s gittin’ ready fer the trial. Folks are all het up an excited, kinda like you’d expect.”

  “Did you pass on the word to O’Hare?” queried Valentine.

  “I sure did. Man, he’s a cool cuss. Didn’t bat an eye, when I told him ’bout the sheriff bein’ on Sharkey’s side. Just said fer me to go ahead with my play ... an’t’ tell Mr. Shannon that he’d fix things so’s the owlhoots won’t have the edge on you.”

  “That’ll be a big help,” grinned Wilkes. “With O’Hare and his boys on the alert, things won’t be so bad, Shannon.”

  “Things’ll be bad enough,” Shannon assured him.

  “Where do you suppose O’Hare’s gonna stake his men out?” asked Valentine.

  “I wouldn’t even guess at it,” grunted Shannon. “But, whatever he does, he’ll play it smart.”

  Gibbons rubbed his hands together, chuckled softly, and said, “Ain’t had so much fun in years. This looks like bein’ one helluva scrap!” He saw the expression on Lucille’s face and mumbled an anguished apology. “Sorry, ma’am. Kinda forgot you was here.”

  Shannon produced a sheet of paper and a pencil. Leaning against the side of the vehicle, he made a mark on the paper, to indicate their present position. Then he beckoned the undertaker and handed him the pencil.

  “Fill in the rest for us,” he invited. “It’ll help if we have some idea of where the courthouse is situated.”

  “Why sure,” agreed Gibbons. He took the pencil and began drawing lines to illustrate their route. “Here’s where we reach Main Street,” he explained. “We pass this block here, then another. Now here’s the courthouse, right smack on the corner.”

  “Street’s wide there, huh?” queried Shannon.

  “Yep. Real wide.”

  “What’s on the opposite side of the street?”

  “Duffy’s Emporium an’ the Golden Calf Saloon.”

  For several minutes, Shannon continued his questions, then he exchanged a knowing glance with Wilkes, and said, “Well ... we have some idea of how things look.”