Drift! (A Larry & Stretch Book 1)

by Marshall Grover

  “Somethin’ else,” remembered Gibbons. “Mayor Peabody’s done ordered that everybody’s gotta be off of the street, after two o’clock.”

  “What’s that?” frowned Wilkes.

  “Yep,” nodded Gibbons. “Seems like they’re expectin’ trouble an’ they don’t want no law-’bidin’ folks to git hurt.”

  “I can guess what that means,” growled Shannon. “And, in a way, I’m glad. It could be that the only men who’ll show their noses will be Sharkey’s crowd.”

  Lucille moved away from the men and sat down, in the shade of a tall cottonwood. The Texans moved over and joined her. They made no attempt to start a conversation, but busied themselves with routine chores, carefully cleaning their firearms and checking their ammunition. Shannon opened the hearse’s rear doors and looked inside, anxious to find out how much room there would be for five cramped bodies. He frowned at Gibbons and asked a worried question.

  “Will we all fit inside this thing?”

  “Just about,” nodded Gibbons, “Be kinda crowded; but you’ll fit. You’ll be lyin’ on top o’ each other ... but it won’t be fer long.”

  Wilkes came to Shannon’s side and peered into the rig’s interior.

  “What’s the sack for?” he wanted to know.

  “Uh ... well now …” Gibbons gave them a sheepish grin. “I had a kinda notion …”

  “About what?”

  “Well ... I figured it might fool them Sharkey skunks, if one o’ you gents piles outa the back o’ the rig totin’ a sack ... with the little lady inside of it.”

  Wilkes swore softly and stared at Gibbons with new interest. Shannon also subjected Gibbons to a closer scrutiny. He didn’t smile; but he gave the undertaker a nod of approval.

  “Not a bad idea at that,” he acknowledged. “In fact, it’s a darn good idea.”

  ~*~

  At two, Main Street was deserted. The courthouse was packed to the doors by five minutes before the hour, and the entrance guarded by two of Sheriff Hubbard’s deputies. Latecomers were turned away and warned to return to their homes immediately.

  The atmosphere within the crowded hall was one of tense expectation. Packed tightly together on the hard seats, the huge assembly discussed, in muttered undertones, the drama that was soon to take place. Six heavily armed men of the Nash City Vigilantes’ Committee stood in position beside the dock. Larry Valentine’s mind had filled with suspicion, on discovery that Hubbard and the outlaws were hand-in-glove ... but he need not have worried about the vigilantes. In all of Nash City, only one lawman had gone over to the enemy ... Sheriff Mel Hubbard.

  Seated at a table below the judge’s bench, Nathan Bayliss folded his arms and frowned at his notes. Bayliss, a skinny individual with a perpetually bad-tempered expression on his thin face, was prosecuting attorney for the county. He had followed his usual practice of arriving early, as though eager to begin the legal battle that lay ahead of him.

  The street was deserted ... except for the bogus detectives. Already, Gil Sharkey had his men staked out. With five men, he loitered by the courthouse steps, his narrowed eyes watching either end of the thoroughfare. Two men stood in the center of the street, the remaining four being in position on the verandah outside Duffy’s Emporium. Sharkey was ready and waiting … and unaware of the presence of the real Pinkerton men.

  At two-twenty, a covered wagon lumbered to a rear door of the courthouse. From it, Curt Sharkey climbed down, awkwardly, one of his hands cuffed to one of Sheriff Hubbard’s. Six more vigilantes also descended to the ground and the whole group moved quickly through the doorway and into the court. Two vigilantes remained at the door to stand guard. Hubbard took his prisoner to the dock, unlocked the handcuffs, and directed him to sit down. The sheriff was sweating profusely and the sharp-eyed prosecuting attorney noted, at once, that the lawman seemed more nervous than usual.

  Two minutes later, Travis Galloway sauntered along the sidewalk, winked at Gil Sharkey, and ascended the steps to the main entrance. At his knock, he was admitted by the deputy. The door was then closed, and the waiting outlaws heard the key turned in the lock.

  At two-thirty precisely, Judge Corrigan’s rotund figure appeared at the rear doorway. He knocked and was admitted by the two guards. Inside the doorway, he removed his hat and handed it to one of the vigilantes. Then he climbed the steps to the bench. A confused rumble of noise sounded throughout the court, as the assembly rose. The bearded little judge peered at the crowd over the top of his steel-rimmed spectacles, seemingly surprised to see such a formidable gathering. He gave a preoccupied nod, indicating that the crowd should be seated. Another confusion of shuffling and muttering as the people resumed their seats, then Corrigan tapped with his gavel, cleared his throat, and said:

  “Prosecution and defense, come on up here and we’ll get a few things settled.”

  Galloway and Bayliss got to their feet and came over to the bench, the latter moving past the crooked attorney and addressing the judge.

  “We could make a start by picking the jury, Judge?” he suggested.

  “Good idea,” agreed Corrigan. “And how about the witnesses?”

  “Witnesses for the defense are present,” smiled Galloway.

  “Figured they would be,” frowned the judge. “Nathan.”

  “Yes, Judge?

  “That schoolteacher here yet?”

  “Not yet ... but she will be.”

  “Uh huh,” nodded the judge. “All right, then, let’s get this jury picked.”

  Thus the trial began, with Travis Galloway indignantly aware that the judge and prosecuting attorney had every intention of dawdling through the procedure of selecting jurors. He should have expected this, he realized. Lucille Furness was Bayliss’s ace-in-the-hole. The prosecution would stretch things as far as possible, to give her time to reach the court.

  Outside the courthouse, a rumble of wheels caused every Sharkey gunman to turn and stare toward the south end of Main Street. For a tense moment, they watched the hearse rolling past the outskirts, drawing even closer to the corner. Then Gil Sharkey shrugged his shoulders and muttered to the man nearest him.

  “Nothin’ to worry about. Just a hearse. The galoots we gotta watch out for are still alive.”

  Jethrow Gibbons sat hunched on his seat, his eyes half-closed, as though he were dozing. Through narrowed lids he was taking in every detail of the scattered Sharkey group, sizing up the whole situation. “Six right there on the courthouse steps, two standin’ plumb in the middle o’ the street, four more over on Duffy’s verandah ...”

  Inside the hearse, Wilkes huddled by the doors, a boot-toe wedged there, to enable him to open them quickly from within. He held one arm around a bulging sack, the neck of which was secured by a length of rawhide. Crouched beside him was Larry Valentine, his big Colt ready in his right hand. The remaining space was filled by Shannon and Stretch. They lay side by side, heads toward the rear, waiting for the moment when they would be plummeting through the rear of the vehicle and into the street ... perhaps to certain death.

  On the roof of the store, O’Hare cocked his revolver and muttered an order.

  “It’s them. Careful, now. If their bluff works, they may get the girl inside, without bloodshed. Otherwise, at the first sign of trouble, start shooting!”

  “Hell,” complained one of his companions. “If that hearse stops right by the steps, they’ll be in our line of fire!”

  O’Hare stifled an oath. At this moment his one desire was that the transfer of Lucille Furness to the courtroom would be accomplished without violence. If shooting broke out, he and his men would be forced to aim with care. With every passing second, the situation was becoming more tense.

  The rig rolled right up to the courthouse steps and came to a halt. Gibbons gave the watching killers a doleful nod and said, “Howdy.”

  Gil Sharkey moved away, distaste on his sullen features. He had no fondness for undertakers and hearses. One of the watching men leered up at Gibb
ons and asked how business was. The other men laughed.

  “Kinda slow, right now,” Gibbons complained. “They got me carryin’ law books ... stuff that’s needed inside there, fer that there trial they’re havin’. Pretty soon, I’ll have to start deliverin’ groceries with this rig ... ’less a lotta folks gits killed an’ business improves.”

  The outlaws chuckled at this droll observation. Gibbons rapped on the roof behind him and called:

  “All right, Charlie. We’re here. You can tote that sack out now.”

  The rear door was kicked open from within and the sack tumbled, unceremoniously, to the ground. Wilkes climbed down after it, seized it around the middle and hefted it onto his shoulder. As he lumbered toward the steps he grinned cheerfully at the sad-faced undertaker.

  “Thanks for the ride, Jethrow,” he acknowledged.

  “Any time,” nodded Gibbons.

  Gil Sharkey turned and saw the sack, saw Wilkes carrying it up the steps. A sudden disquiet stirred within him. He began moving back toward the rig. Wilkes grinned good-naturedly at the outlaws, lurched to the main doors, and kicked at them. They were opened, a bare six inches, by a stern-faced deputy.

  “Material for the prosecution,” announced Wilkes.

  The deputy stared closely at Wilkes, then at the sack.

  It happened then … the unexpected, At this moment of moments, freak luck took a hand in the proceedings. A sudden noise caused all eyes to fix upon the sack. The noise was the unmistakable sound of tearing fabric. Rotted fibers of the sack had given away and something was protruding from the bottom of it ... and the something was a pretty female head, topped with close-cut auburn curls.

  Wilkes tightened his grip on his burden and threw himself against the startled deputy, yelling a warning. One of the outlaws mouthed an oath and bounded up the steps, drawing a six-gun ... but Wilkes, despite his encumbrance, had already drawn his weapon. He fired one shot. One was enough. The outlaw swayed back and tumbled down the steps, a bullet in his heart.

  “Stop ’em!” shrieked Gil Sharkey.

  As the killers surged towards the steps, a shot rang out from the roof opposite and Gil Sharkey’s hat spun from his head.

  “Scatter!” he yelled.

  At the main entrance the deputy hastily stepped back and Wilkes charged inside. The door slammed behind him and the deputy quickly locked it.

  Gibbons heard the scuffle of movement inside the rig and knew his time had come. He dropped his reins, grabbed for his shotgun, then turned it on the men in the center of the street and fired. In the pandemonium that followed, one of the killers lurched over backward and dropped dead, his body riddled with buckshot. Valentine, Stretch and Shannon tumbled out of the rear of the hearse and threw themselves flat, just as another outbreak of shooting began from the store roof. Sharkey and his men were diving for cover. The survivor in the street had rushed to the store verandah and was now in a position with the four outlaws lurking there, taking what cover they could find among crates and barrels.

  Yelling defiant curses, Sharkey joined the four men on his side of the street, as they crouched behind the corner of the courthouse, ten yards from the steps and out of sight of the roof opposite. He drew a bead on the undertaker and fired; but Gibbons was on the move. Hefting his shotgun, he dived between the rumps of the second pair of blacks, hit the ground, and began worming his way back toward the rear to join his three allies.

  The street echoed to the roar of gunfire, as the killers on the verandah opened up on the men behind the hearse. At the corner of the courthouse, Sharkey recklessly edged an eye around the wall and emptied his gun toward the rig.

  Inside the court, Wilkes staggered down the aisle to the bench, lowered his bundle to the floor, and gasped:

  “Witness for the prosecution.”

  He bent down, ripped at the sack, and helped the white-faced girl to her feet The court was in uproar now. People were standing up, exchanging wide-eyed glances, startled by the grim racket of gunfire from without. Judge Corrigan pounded with his gavel and ordered them to resume their seats. A significant look passed between Galloway and Hubbard. Then the defense attorney was on his feet, his voice rising above the uproar.

  “Your Honor, I move an adjournment until we can ascertain the cause of …”

  “Sit down, Mr. Galloway,” growled Corrigan. “There’ll be no adjournment. This trial will proceed!” He pounded again and yelled, “Quiet, everybody!”

  The muttering died down. From outside the ominous racket of six-gun and rifle fire continued, Hubbard licked his lips and was careful not to look at the prisoner. Curt Sharkey stood tense, his hands gripping the rail in front of him, his blazing eyes on the slim woman whose testimony would mean his end. Lucille, still trembling, was being led to a chair at the lawyers’ table by Wilkes and Bayliss. Corrigan leaned forward and eyed her shrewdly.

  “You’re Miss Furness, I take it?” he frowned.

  Lucille nodded. At the moment she was incapable of speech and was controlling herself with difficulty. She slumped into the chair held for her by Nathan Bayliss, acutely aware that, in her unconventional garb, she was the focus of all eyes.

  “You all right?” muttered the prosecuting attorney.

  “Yes …” she panted, “but the others …”

  “Don’t worry about them,” soothed Wilkes. “They’ll hold out.”

  The detective turned toward the bench and addressed Judge Corrigan.

  “I’m Wilkes, your Honor,” he explained. “Pinkerton Agency.”

  “I think we’re entitled to …” began Galloway.

  “Mr. Galloway!” barked Corrigan. “I believe I can handle this!” As the lawyer angrily resumed his seat, the judge folded his arms and sternly surveyed the entire gathering. “Now listen to me,” he announced. “I think we all realize what’s going on outside. This young lady was brought here, at grave risk of her life. She’s an important witness for the prosecution ...”

  “Prosecution of who?” Galloway was on his feet again. “My client is the victim of an unfortunate misunderstanding. He is an innocent bystander in this terrible affair. His name is James Ford ... not Curt Sharkey. I can produce witnesses to prove that he was twenty miles away from Coyote Creek when that bank-teller was murdered!”

  “If that’s true,” stormed Bayliss, leaping out of his chair, “who’s doing all the shooting outside? Sitting Bull and his men? You’re overplaying your hand, Galloway. This man is Curt Sharkey, and you know it. At this very moment, his gang of killers are trying to fight their way into this courtroom!”

  “Order!” roared Corrigan.

  One of the vigilantes stepped toward the bench.

  “Listen, Judge,” he pleaded. “If the whole Sharkey mob is out there, the vigilante committee ought to get out of here fast. This could be our chance to nail ’em all!”

  More uproar. Women were on their feet now ... wives and daughters of the vigilantes, shrilly attempting to restrain their menfolk from a concerted rush to the doors. It took almost a minute for Corrigan to restore order. Then, in short, forceful sentences, he gave his ruling.

  “Nobody leaves this court!” he pronounced. “I have reason to believe that the situation out there will soon be under control. At this moment, Nash City lawmen are not the only law officers present. Meanwhile, all vigilantes and local deputies will remain here. You’ll get your chance for action it those gunmen manage to get inside this court...” Another frightening interruption followed. The prisoner, stark hatred flashing from his red-rimmed eyes, began yelling a stream of profanity at the trembling Lucille Furness.

  “You never saw me in your life! I ain’t Sharkey! I’m Ford! You try tellin’ ’em you saw me before an’ I’ll—”

  “Sheriff!” snapped Corrigan. “Handcuff the prisoner!”

  Hubbard blinked pleadingly at Galloway. The rascally attorney averted his eyes.

  “Sheriff Hubbard!” growled the judge. “Are you deaf?”

  Hubbard hastily produc
ed his handcuffs.

  “Behind his back!” snapped Corrigan.

  “Yessir!” mumbled Hubbard.

  With a muttered word to the girl, Wilkes turned and hurried back up the aisle. At the door, the deputy placed a firm hand against his chest and said;

  “That’s far enough, friend. You heard what the judge said.”

  “But I have to get out there!” pleaded Wilkes. “You hear that shooting? There are three men pinned down behind that rig, with the whole Sharkey outfit throwing lead at ’em!”

  “Take it easy,” advised the other man. “Look at it Corrigan’s way. If only one bullet came through this doorway, while I was letting you out, it’d have plenty targets. This place is full of innocent citizens, friend.”

  Bitterly, Wilkes was forced to agree. Should the doors be opened, Sharkey men might well rush into the courtroom ... shooting. Meanwhile, what of Shannon ... and Valentine, Emerson, Gibbons? The racket of shooting was increasing in volume.

  Ten – Bullets for the Lawless

  The Texans were pinned down. They lay on their bellies, on the hard ground behind the hearse, returning the fire of the men on the verandah. Beside them, Shannon was firing, between the spokes of a rear wheel, at the killers lurking behind the corner of the court building.

  “Where the hell’s Jethrow?” Stretch wanted to know.

  “He’s around,” grunted Valentine, tugging fresh shells from his gunbelt.

  A bullet smacked into the ground, bare inches from his face, spattering him with grit. He spat and cursed. Stretch squinted toward the verandah and muttered:

  “Behind that there rain-barrel.”

  “Fifty cents says you miss him,” growled Valentine.

  The killer behind the rain-barrel raised himself for another shot. Stretch’s right-hand gun boomed. His victim gave a shriek of anguish and flopped over on his side.

  “Pay you later,” acknowledged Valentine.

  “Sure,” nodded Stretch. “Your credit’s okay.”