Larry and Stretch 17

by Marshall Grover

  “Harriet’s used to it,” sighed Jed. “Believe it or not, this is the fourth time she almost got carried off.”

  “So New Strike is a dangerous place for decent women,” reflected Larry, “and the marshal does have a problem.”

  “Worst kind of problem,” asserted Jed. “Nine-tenths of the miners got the woman-hunger. They’ll try to grab anything in skirts.”

  “That’s enough talk,” decided Harriet. “I’ll show these gents to their room.”

  Thus, the veteran trouble-shooters were introduced to yet another hell-town. In New Strike, they were destined to make new friends and, inevitably, new enemies. Well, why should this town be any exception?

  One of those potential enemies was, at this moment, surveying the busy main street from a second-story window of a mid-town saloon, the Gold Queen. His name was Kurt Osmond and, with his partner, Ranee Birdl, he shared ownership of this establishment—New Strike’s second most popular saloon. The most popular joyhouse, enjoying the lion’s share of the local trade, was Big Dora’s which Osmond now viewed.

  His main opposition was located on the opposite side of Main Street. From this window, he could see scores of pleasure-bent miners trudging in and out through its swinging doors.

  He cursed bitterly. In his forty-third year, he was tall, well-groomed and darkly-handsome. The hair was too liberally greased with pomade, the moustache too thin, the complexion sallow, but many a woman considered Kurt Osmond to be a mighty attractive man.

  “That fat old sow,” he muttered. “She wins the bulk of the trade, as usual.”

  His partner was perched on a corner of the mahogany-topped desk, the most expensive piece of furniture in the office. Of similar age to Osmond, Rance Birell was of heavier physique and favored flashier garb. His straight black hair was receding. He had a double chin and was becoming paunchy.

  “While ever she’s doing big business,” he opined, “you’ll never persuade her to sell. She’ll sit pat on her fat profits.”

  “I want the Big Dora,” muttered Osmond, “and not just for the sake of owning two gold-town saloons.”

  “You mean we want it,” corrected Birell. “Never forget, Kurt, we’re in this together.”

  “There has to be a way,” declared Osmond, “of forcing her to sell.”

  And, as though this declaration were some kind of signal, there was a rapping at the door. Birell drawled an invitation and the door was opened. Into the office waddled the short, moon-faced Herb Marriot, mayor of New Strike and a staunch supporter of the owners of the Gold Queen. It was common knowledge that Marriot was obliged to toady to Osmond and Birell. As well as being a pompous politician, he was a sucker gambler, and somewhat inept. He had lost more than a few dollars at the Gold Queen’s gambling tables, and had been fervently grateful when Osmond burned his I.O.U.’s. Osmond was only too happy to do, for the sake of keeping New Strike’s civic leader under his thumb. Nowadays, he treated Marriot as an errand-boy.

  “Got a piece of good news for you, Kurt,” Marriot eagerly announced, as he helped himself to a chair.

  Without turning his head, Osmond retorted, “There’s only one kind of news I’m interested in, Marriot. I’m waiting for somebody to tell me how I can force Big Dora into selling out.”

  “Yeah, sure,” nodded Marriot. “And that’s why I’m here. I reckon I know how you could light a fire under Big Dora.”

  “It’d have to be quite a fire,” growled Birell. “She’s a lot of woman.”

  Marriot waggled a pudgy finger and chuckled softly. “So is Mrs. Vernon Dexter the Third!” He rolled the name on his tongue, savoring it. “A lot of woman, boys. Not big and fat like Dora—but rich—plenty rich. High society, you know? She got wed just recent, and this Vernon Dexter feller is heir to the Dexter Shipping Company.”

  “Is that all you have to do?” jibed Osmond. “Always with your nose stuck in some ’Frisco newspaper, reading about the idle rich? What the hell do I care about any high-toned society woman?”

  “You’d better start caring about Mrs. Dexter,” grinned the mayor. “I got a letter from her a little while ago. It came in on the eastbound stage.”

  “You got a letter?” Birell eyed him incredulously, and so did Osmond. “From the bride of the richest man in ’Frisco?”

  “It’s what you might call a circular type letter,” Marriot explained. “Mrs. Dexter’s been writing to the mayors of every town inside a hundred miles of the California border—and wait till I tell you why!”

  Chapter Two

  The Unforgotten Past

  Even in his good-tempered moments, Kurt Osmond was inclined to be short on patience. He didn’t appreciate Marriot’s lengthy preamble, the knowing grin on Marriot’s moon face, as he waddled across to the liquor cabinet and helped himself to a shot of bourbon. Birell said, derisively:

  “Let him tell it in his own way, Kurt. Let him have his fun.”

  “He’d better get to the point,” muttered Osmond. “If he’s wasting my time, he’ll quit this office on the end of my boot.”

  “Well—hell, Kurt!” protested Marriot. “I’m only trying to help. Everybody knows how you hanker to expand, how you got your heart set on owning Big Dora’s. And maybe I know how you can do it.” He swigged his drink, returned to his chair. “You ready to listen?”

  “I’ve been ready,” Osmond caustically assured him, “from the minute you invited yourself in here.”

  “All right now,” frowned Marriot. “Here’s why Mrs. Dexter is writing all us civic leaders. Her pappy cashed in a little while back. That was right after she married Dexter. She used to be Leona Storley ...”

  “Daughter of W. M. Storley?” prodded Osmond.

  “I figured you’d recall the name,” nodded Marriot. “The same Storley that owned a whole string of banks.” He whistled softly. “Man, oh, man! There’s big money tied up in those two families.”

  “Quit rambling,” growled Birell.

  “Well,” Marriot continued, “it seems little Leona had been told that her mother was dead—died when Leona was born. On his deathbed, old Storley made some kind of confession. He told her his wife was still alive and living in some mining town in Nevada, not far from the California border. He didn’t know which town, and that’s why she started writing all these letters.”

  “Hell’s bells.” Birell grimaced in disgust. “Kurt, can you guess what this fool is trying to sell us? He’s gonna claim Big Dora is the rich lady’s momma!. I never heard anything so crazy in my whole life!”

  “Before you start cussing me,” said Marriot, “you’d better hear the rest of it.”

  “And it had better be good,” scowled Osmond.

  Marriot spoke slowly, deliberately.

  “Storley told his daughter the name—told her how she could identify her. The name is Dora Nadine Green.”

  “Big Dora’s second name is Keen,” frowned Osmond.

  “That’s what she says,” countered Marriot. “But it’s my hunch she’s really Dora Nadine Green.”

  “A similarity of names …” Birell began a scathing rebuke.

  “There’s more than the name,” said Marriot. “The age is right. Storley told Leona that her mother would be around fifty years old now. And the most important detail of all. The woman Storley married was—”

  “The woman Storley married,” jeered Osmond. “You must be out of your mind. Big Dora is lowdown, and always has been. Storley was quality—well-educated—the heir to a fortune. Why would he marry a no-account saloon-woman?”

  “All right,” shrugged Marriot. “Maybe he didn’t make an honest woman of her—but she sure is Leona Dexter’s natural mother. If Leona was born illegitimate, that’s her problem. I still say Big Dora is the woman she’s looking for.”

  “Because of a similarity of names,” Challenged Birell, “and the fact that she’s around fifty years old?”

  “I said there’s something more,” grinned Marriot. “One more little detail Storley told Leona. H
er mother was missing a finger.”

  “A finger?” blinked Birell.

  “Little finger,” said Marriot. “Left hand.” He chuckled complacently. “Have either of you fellers ever noticed Big Dora’s left hand?”

  “I’ve noticed,” frowned Osmond. “Of course I wouldn’t regard this as positive proof that Big Dora is the Dexter woman’s mother. It could all be coincidence.”

  “Maybe it’s a coincidence,” drawled Marriot, “and maybe not. It’s still worth a try.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Figure it this way, Kurt. Why has Big Dora kept her mouth shut all these years, never claiming the girl as her own, never claiming to be Storley’s woman?”

  “What’s your guess?” demanded Osmond.

  “She didn’t want the kid to be ashamed of her,” opined Marriot, “so she let Storley take her away. Now—if she was all that noble about it twenty-two years ago, maybe she still feels the same way. She wants the girl to go on believing she’s dead.” Again, the crafty grin. “I’d say it’s my duty to answer Mrs. Dexter’s letter, and tell her there’s a woman right here in New Strike that fits the description. You go see Big Dora, Kurt. Tell her about Mrs. Dexter’s enquiry. Tell her you could persuade me not to write to her daughter. Unless I miss my guess, you’ll have her right where you want her, and she’d do anything you ask. Such as selling out to you—at your own price.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” decided Osmond, “but not right away. I want to think it over first. Meantime, you keep this to yourself, understand?”

  “It’ll be our secret,” Marriot promised, as he got to his feet. “I won’t make a move till I hear from you.” On his way to the door, he paused to ask, “How about I try my luck at your dice layout?”

  “You keep away from our dice layout,” growled Birell. “We don’t pay a cent for this information till we’re sure it’s worth something.”

  An hour passed before Kurt Osmond sauntered across Main Street to pay a call on his competitor. By then, Larry and Stretch had disposed of an early supper and were sitting in on a poker game at Big Dora’s.

  Big Dora’s was a noisy establishment. There was a canopy of tobacco-smoke hanging lower than the glittering chandeliers and the atmosphere was heavy with the odors of liquor-fumes, cheap perfume and sweating humanity. Three bartenders were being kept busy and every game of chance was well patronized. In such surroundings, the case-hardened Texans felt completely at ease. As Stretch so wistfully put it:

  “It’s kinda like comin’ home.”

  Osmond strolled past the poker table presided over by the saturnine, lynx-eyed Quint Everard and on towards the dais that accommodated the piano—and Big Dora. The owner of this garish establishment was entertaining her many admirers, warbling a well-known frontier ditty in a voice that could almost be described as baritone. It was a big voice, loud and booming. Coming from Dora Keen, what else could one expect?

  As Ranee Birell had so aptly declared, she was a lot of woman, tall, incredibly fat, with massive arms and shoulders and a bosom that heaved as she bawled the lyrics of her song. She had long ago abandoned all efforts to disguise the color of her curly hair. It was grey, and that was that. Her satin gown only served to accentuate her too-generous proportions. She was fat, and that was that. Vanity wasn’t one of Big Dora’s failings.

  Her accompanist, the thin, venerable old man seated at the piano, was known to all New Strike folk as ‘The Professor’. Maybe Big Dora knew his real name. If she did, she never used it. She always addressed him as ‘Professor’, and the community followed suit. He was frail, white-maned and pale-complexioned. In his own quiet way, he was devoted to the big woman.

  Osmond waited patiently until the song had ended. Then, during the uproar of applause, he moved closer to the dais, caught her eye and beckoned. She waved to her cheering admirers, murmured something to the Professor and descended from the dais to confront Osmond. Arms akimbo and eyes flashing, she declared.

  “You’re wastin’ your time, Osmond. My answer is still the same.”

  “Dora,” said Osmond, “I have something else on my mind. How about we go up to your office and talk?”

  “I can only spare you a few minutes,” she warned, as she turned and started for the stairs. “Got a full house tonight, and them miners sure crave my singin’.”

  “Music lovers,” grunted Osmond.

  “Don’t get lippy,” she growled.

  “No offence intended,” he shrugged.

  Less than a minute after Big Dora and her visitor had climbed the stairs to her office, Larry Valentine decided that the dealer’s manipulations and the condition of the deck left much to be desired. Stretch was seated beside him, his hand momentarily visible. Of his partner’s five cards, two were deuces. He wouldn’t have minded that Stretch was holding two deuces, but for the fact that he himself was holding deuces—three of them. For a few moments thereafter, he kept a wary eye on the dealer’s agile hands. Quint Everard was dealing again, deftly, slickly. When he placed the deck on the table top, Larry reached for it, much to the surprise of the other players.

  “Hey …!” began the man behind the bent-stemmed briar.

  “Just what the hell,” scowled Everard, “do you think you’re doing?”

  “Let’s just say I’m buyin’ insurance,” drawled Larry. “Insurance against gettin’ skinned by the dealer.” He held the deck in his left hand and, before Everard could recover from his shock, reached out with his right and snatched the dealer’s cards. “Now—what do we have here?” He displayed Everard’s hand. “Four kings. Mighty handy.”

  “Lucky him,” grunted Stretch. “And me with only a pair of deuces.”

  He displayed his hand to the other players.

  “And me,” said Larry, as he offered his own cards for their inspection, “with only three deuces.”

  “Damn and blast!” breathed the pipe-smoker. “That makes five deuces!”

  Larry laid Everard’s hand down and riffled through the deck. It contained two more kings. He flicked them face-up onto the table, grinned coldly at the red-faced Everard and said:

  “You ought to learn to count—before you start saltin’ your hand. I won’t ask how those extra picture cards got into your hand. You’d only lie about it anyway.”

  “I’ve played Big Dora’s tables a long time,” frowned the pipe-smoker, “and never got cheated before.”

  “There’s always a first time,” said Larry.

  “You’ve called me a liar!” gasped Everard. “And you’ve called me a cardsharp!”

  He rose up so hastily that his chair overturned. Florid with rage, he swept his coat-tails back to reveal his low-slung holster. One of the barkeeps promptly quit his post and hurried to the stairs.

  In the office that opened off the gallery, Big Dora stood with her back to her visitor. She was by the open window, staring down into Main Street. Osmond had seated himself on the sofa and was lighting a cigar.

  “There’s nothin’ you could say,” she bluntly declared, “that could make me change my mind.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that,” he smiled. “You haven’t heard my proposition yet.”

  “I ain’t interested …” she began.

  Barkeep Curly Beck opened the door and hustled in. He was hefty and muscular, and his nickname was a cruel jest, because he was almost completely bald. Osmond frowned at him and drawled a rebuke.

  “Nobody barges into my office without knocking.”

  “This is my office,” the big woman sternly reminded him. “My hired help can bust in on me any time, if there’s an emergency.” She eyed Curly expectantly. “What’s the emergency?”

  “Everard,” said the barkeep, “and some stranger. The stranger accused him of cheatin’—and they’re about ready to shoot it out.”

  “Not in my saloon they don’t!” she boomed, as she started for the door.

  Osmond followed Big Dora and the barkeep from the office, but only to the top of the stairs. With Curly in close attend
ance and her loud voice raised in a storm of protest, she descended the stairs and advanced on the poker table. The other players were giving Larry and his challenger a wide berth. Larry stood relaxed, still wearing his derisive grin. Everard was hunched, his right hand hovering over the butt of his holstered Colt. Only now did Larry perceive that the dealer’s weapon was something special. The butt appeared to be gold-plated. He was intrigued, but not overly impressed.

  “I’m giving you one last chance to eat your words!” panted Everard.

  “Talkative kinda hombre, ain’t he?” remarked Stretch. “Tell you somethin’, runt. I don’t believe he’s gonna throw down on you at all. He’s gonna try and talk you to death.”

  Ignoring Big Dora’s booming reprimand, Everard made his move. So did Larry, but faster, much faster. His Colt cleared leather at eye-defying speed. It was cocked, and the muzzle lined on Everard’s white shirtfront, while Everard’s weapon was still only half-drawn. The color drained from Everard’s face. He stood frozen with shock.

  “Leave it alone—sharper,” Larry curtly advised.

  As though his gun butt had suddenly become white-hot, Everard released his grip on it. His hands shot up. Big Dora, who had momentarily halted, continued her advance to the poker table. In response to her harsh challenge, the other players quietly explained:

  “The dealer was sharpin’ us. The stranger caught him clean. Ain’t no doubt about it, Dora.”

  It took the big woman only a few seconds to check all the cards on the table. She glowered at the ashen-faced Everard, then addressed her patrons, raising her voice loud enough for all to hear.

  “Now you listen to me—everybody! From the first night this place opened for business, I’ve been braggin’ that my customers always get a fair shake, always a square deal …” She gestured contemptuously at Everard. “If I’d known this polecat was sharpin’ you, I’d have kicked him out long ago. How about that, boys? Will you take my word for it?”