Larry and Stretch 17

by Marshall Grover

  “How could you do it?” she panted, as Leemoy pulled out a Chair for her. She sank into it, and Leemoy was grateful it ‘didn’t collapse under her weight. “A sweet old man like that. Harmless—gentle—too sick to be dangerous …”

  “You think it pleasured me—arrestin’ The Professor?” sighed Wedge.

  “You gotta look at both sides of it,” begged Leemoy. “We did what We had to do.”

  “Let me explain it, Rufe,” grunted Wedge. He scratched a match for his cigar, squinted earnestly at the big woman. “Here’s how it stacks up, Dora. Couple of miners—Ben Baldwin and Griff Moore—found Everard in an alley downtown, right after they heard the shots. Everard wasn’t heeled. He was plenty dead. Three slugs in his back.” He gestured to the small pistol on the desktop. “You’ve seen this gun before, Dora—The Professor’s good-luck piece. It was still in his hand, with three chambers empty. He smelled of liquor, and we found a bottle in his pocket.”

  “That’s crazy!” she breathed. “He never touches hard liquor. He’s a sick man, and the hard stuff is bad for him. You know that, Hobie Wedge!”

  “I have to go by the evidence,” said Wedge. “That was a mighty ugly situation, Dora, and you can’t blame folks for feelin’ bad about it. Ever since they pinned this badge on me, I’ve been fightin’ a losin’ battle, tryin’ to win respect for law and order. Can I afford to play favorites? Hell, no. Wasn’t anything I could do except arrest The Professor. If I hadn’t, he could be hangin’ from a porch-rafter by now.”

  “You’re holdin’ him for trial?” she challenged.

  “Got to,” he shrugged. “I’m powerful sorry, but it looks like I got no choice. We can’t call Everard’s death an accident. It sure wasn’t suicide and it sure wasn’t self-defense. Murder is murder, Dora.”

  “Did anybody see him shoot Everard?” she demanded.

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “On the other hand, there’s nobody that can support The Professor’s story.”

  “And just what did he tell you about it?” she prodded.

  “He tells a real wild story,” sighed Leemoy.

  “He’s no liar,” she retorted. “Don’t you be jumpin’ to conclusions, Rufus Leemoy. The gospel truth often sounds wild.”

  “Well,” said Wedge, “The Professor’s story could sound reasonable, when he tells it in court.”

  “But you don’t believe it,” she jibed.

  “I’m the arrestin’ officer,” muttered Wedge, “not his judge and jury. What I believe ain’t important.”

  “He told us,” offered Leemoy, “that it was Everard called him into that alley—and then somebody grabbed him, threw whiskey in his face and knocked him senseless. When he roused, it was all over. Everard was dead, and the old feller don’t know how that gun ever got into his hand.”

  “If that’s what he said,” frowned Dora, “you can bet it’s the truth.”

  A coffee pot chattered on the Justin stove. Leemoy ambled over there, took three tin mugs from a shelf. In response to his polite offer, the big woman nodded moodily. The deputy filled the mugs and distributed them. As she sipped at the steaming brew, Dora thought to ask:

  “How soon before that circuit judge gets here?”

  “Couple weeks,” said Wedge. “Maybe a mite sooner.”

  “By then,” she fretted, “The Professor could be dead. You know how sick he is, Hobie.”

  “We’ll treat him gentle,” promised Wedge. “You can visit him as often as you want. He’ll get special food, and Doc Hibler says he’ll look in on him every day.”

  “There’s only one way I can really help him,” she murmured.

  “You mean—prove he’s innocent?” frowned Wedge. “Well, now, Dora, that’s no chore for a woman. You’d need to hire a detective—and the nearest Pinkerton agency is a long ways from New Strike.”

  She finished her coffee, stared hard at Wedge and asked, “Doesn’t it strike you as mighty strange that Everard was unarmed?”

  “Uh-huh,” he nodded. “I already thought of that. Can’t recall ever seein’ that tinhorn without his fancy hardware.”

  “That was the flashiest sixshooter I ever saw,” mused Leemoy. “It must’ve cost him plenty to have solid gold grips fitted to the butt.”

  “Just this once,” stressed Dora, “he wasn’t wearin’ his iron. Just this once—and somebody pumps three slugs into him—with The Professor’s gun.”

  “Dora,” said Wedge, “if Everard had been heeled, I might have thought twice about arrestin’ The Professor. We could claim self-defense, even if he did shoot Everard in the back. Everard was plenty sneaky. He could’ve been makin’ a draw—and the old man had a right to protect himself.”

  “Why wasn’t Everard packin’ his hardware,” fretted Dora, “this time—of all times?”

  “We feel powerful sorry about this, Dora,” muttered the deputy. “You and The Professor—everybody knows how you feel about him.”

  “You kin to him, by any chance?” Wedge asked. ‘It’s none of my business, Dora, but I’ve always been curious.”

  “No,” she sighed. “We ain’t related, but I’ve known him many a year. He’s a genuine gentleman that had a lot of sadness in his life. Well, I’ve had my hard times, so I understand him. We kind of depend on one another, and I’ll tell you this. There never was a Whiter man. I’d trust him anytime, anywhere, under any conditions. His word is his bond.”

  “You look plumb weary, Dora,” said Wedge. “If I was you, I’d close down for the night and go to bed. You’ll feel a sight better after a good night’s sleep.”

  “As if I could sleep!” she bitterly retorted, as she walked out into the gloom.

  At 2.15 of that fateful morning, the big woman was tossing and turning on her bed, bedeviled by the heat, her fears for the welfare of her old and trusted friend and her growing conviction that this tragedy had been no coincidence. Quint Everard without his gun—The Professor in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Desperately wooing sleep, she forced herself to think of other things. The possibility of Mrs. Vernon Dexter III visiting New Strike had become a sore point, so she thrust it from her mind. What was the other enigma that had arisen last night? Oh, sure. Two names. The names mentioned by her boss-barkeep. Why had those names seemed so familiar? Valentine. Emerson. Where? When?

  The merciful oblivion claimed her at last, though the unanswered questions still plagued her. She woke, physically refreshed but mentally weary, at 9.45 a.m. As was her regular habit, she began the day with a cup of coffee and a hot bath. Very soon thereafter, she had donned a floral gown and was impatiently summoning Curly Beck.

  Her instructions to the bald man were terse and to the point.

  “Hustle down to the Blue Star Diner. You know the kind of breakfast The Professor always has. Have ’em fix him a tray and deliver it to the jailhouse. Then go find one of those lawyer-fellers—Crossley or McCade—I don’t care which. We got to start arrangin’ some kind of defense for The Professor.” As Curly made to quit the office, she added, “One thing more.”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Them two Texans …”

  “You mean Valentine and Emerson?”

  “That’s who. How about ’em, Curly? You ever meet ’em before?”

  “Nope. Never laid eyes on ’em before yesterday.”

  “You ever hear of ’em before?”

  “Can’t say as I have. Why?”

  “Damned if I know, Curly.” She shook her head perplexedly. “I can’t get their names out of my mind.”

  “With everything else you got to fret about,” he frowned, “The Professor in jail—and folks claimin’ he gunned Quint Everard—I don’t know how you can find time to think about a couple Texas drifters.”

  “All right, Curly,” she shrugged. “That’s all.”

  The barkeep hurried away. Then minutes later, when one of Dora’s female employees toted a laden tray into the office, she found the big woman seated at her desk, working her way th
rough a stack of out-dated newspapers. The percenter, a blowsy redhead, sniffed mournfully and knuckled a tear from her eye.

  “He couldn’t of done it!’” she mumbled.

  “Blubberin’ ain’t gonna help him any,” frowned Dora.

  “I tried to eat,” offered the percenter, “but it wasn’t no use. It makes me feel sick inside—knowin’ The Professor is cooped up in jail.”

  Incredulously, she watched the big woman whisk the cover from the tray. “How can you eat—at a time like this?”

  “I can eat,” growled Dora, “because I got troubles.” She took up a fork. “The Professor always said it was trouble and grief makes me eat so much. Some folks get drunk when their problems are too big for them to handle. Me—I just have to eat. The Professor calls it a defense—or a compulsion. Whatever that means.”

  The percenter retreated. Big Dora disposed of every ounce of food, plus the contents of the coffee pot. Then, doggedly, she returned to her checking of the newspapers. It had occurred to her that she must have seen those names in print, and fairly recently.

  Fifteen minutes later, her patience was rewarded. The second-last paper in the pile reported an incident in which two drifting Texans had played a prominent part. A shipment of new model repeating rifles had been hijacked, and it was feared that these deadly-efficient weapons might be used by the rebellious Apaches led by the white-hating Gayatero. The anticipated uprising had been quelled, thanks to the intervention of Messrs. Larry Valentine and Stretch Emerson, better known as the Lone Star Hellions. The shipment had been retrieved and returned to the U.S. Army, and the Texans had emerged as the heroes of the day.

  “So now I know,” the big woman reflected, “where I heard those names before. I knew there was something special about those two!”

  She gathered up the newspapers and toted them back into her bedroom. Her sleeping quarters adjoined her office; there was a connecting door. As she moved back into the office, she heard a gentle rapping at the outer door. She pulled the bedroom door shut.

  “That you, Curly?”

  “It’s Kurt Osmond, Dora. May I have a few words with you?”

  Frowning, she returned to her desk and seated herself. “All right, Osmond, come on in.”

  This morning, her chief competitor appeared urbane and solicitous.

  “Dora—this is a great tragedy,” he declared, as he advanced to the desk. “The news is all over town. I’m deeply shocked. I speak for my partner, Ranee Birell, and I assure you that, if there’s anything we can do to help, you have only to ask.” He seated himself, shook his head sadly. “Such a fine old man, The Professor. For him to be accused of murder—well—it seems incredible.”

  “He couldn’t have shot Everard,” growled Dora. “You don’t believe he’s guilty—any more than I do.”

  “The weight of evidence …” he shrugged.

  “Yeah.” She sighed heavily. “That’s the big problem, Osmond. All the cards stacked against him.”

  “Have you thought of his defense?” asked Osmond. “He’ll need a lawyer. I have connections in Judd City, Dora. If you wish, I’ll telegraph certain friends, and …”

  “It’d take a long time for a Judd City lawyer to travel all the way to New Strike,” she countered. “Too much time, Osmond.”

  “A good lawyer,” he suggested, “would be worth waiting for.”

  “The Professor can’t wait!” she fretted. “He’s a sick man.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” nodded Osmond. “His lung condition.”

  “I have to get him out of that lousy jail,” she declared. “Out where he can breathe easy. He needs fresh air—the way you and I need food. As for a lawyer, I’ve already sent Curly to hire Crossley. If Crossley ain’t available, I’ll have to settle for McCade.”

  “Crossley? McCade?” He eyed her dubiously. “I’m sorry, Dora, but I doubt if they’d be interested.”

  “What in tarnation are you talkin’ about?” she challenged. “Why wouldn’t they be interested? My money’s good. I can afford to pay their price.”

  “That’s hardly the point,” said Osmond. “They have their reputations to consider. From a lawyer’s point of view, The Professor is a lost cause. Everard wasn’t popular, but neither is cold-blooded murder—even in a town as wild as New Strike. The jury will remember that Everard was unarmed, that he died with three bullets in his back, that The Professor was apprehended on the spot—drunk—and holding a gun …”

  “Crossley would jump at the chance to earn a fat fee,” she insisted, “even if he can’t help The Professor.”

  “Exactly,” said Osmond. As her face clouded over, he pressed his point home. “You’d lose—either way.”

  “Well—maybe it’d be just as useless,” she faltered, “importin’ some bigshot lawyer from Judd City.”

  “There’s another way The Professor could be helped,” drawled Osmond.

  “I thought of payin’ a passel of hardcases to bust him out of jail,” she muttered, “but that wouldn’t help any. I don’t want for him to be on the run—hunted …”

  “Of course not,” agreed Osmond. “Come now, Dora, let’s look at this predicament objectively. What is the most damning feature of the case? The fact that your old friend had fired three shots from his pistol? No. The fact that he was drunk, and probably not responsible for his actions? No. The most important fact is that Everard was supposed to be unarmed.”

  “ Supposed to be unarmed?” she frowned. “He was unarmed. No sign of his fancy sixgun.”

  “And does that seem reasonable?” he challenged. “I knew Everard by reputation, Dora. It’s been said that he never appeared in public without that gold-butted Colt on his hip.”

  “That’s true enough,” she assured him.

  “So—on this one and only occasion—he didn’t happen to be wearing it?” Osmond grinned wryly. “I doubt that, Dora. I think he was armed.”

  “Well,” she sighed, “I know something that you don’t. A couple of miners were hustlin’ into that alley right after the shootin’. I said right after the shootin’, Osmond. And Everard was dead—and gunless. It’s somethin’ we can’t buck.”

  “All right.” Osmond shrugged indifferently, and he was still grinning. “So he was unarmed—but maybe I can arrange something.”

  “Such as what?” she demanded.

  “Such as hiring a special witness—a man who’ll confess to having sneaked into that alley just before those miners arrived. He saw Everard’s body—and Everard’s fancy hardware. He unstrapped that gold-butted Colt and scuttled away ...”

  “Why would anybody want to do that?” asked Dora.

  “A Colt with a gold butt,” he pointed out, “would be worth plenty—to a man down on his luck.”

  “Let me get this straight.” She eyed him fixedly. “You’d bribe some deadbeat to lie to the marshal, to claim Everard was heeled?”

  “I’d do that,” Osmond assured her, “and take full responsibility. Wedge would have no option but to release The Professor.”

  “But it’d cost me plenty,” she guessed. “You’re offerin’ me a deal, huh, Osmond? You’ll bribe a fake witness—if I agree to sell to you—for a measly five thousand.”

  “Think it over,” he smiled, as he got to his feet and reached for his hat, “and I’m sure you’ll decide there’s no other way.”

  Chapter Five

  No Place For A Lady

  Just before taking his leave of the big woman, Kurt Osmond assured her that Mrs. Vernon Dexter III had not yet been contacted by the mayor.

  “It seems mighty unfair,” he opined, with feigned solicitude, “that you should have two big problems to contend with at this time. I’ve persuaded the mayor to wait awhile.”

  “I told you before,” frowned Dora, “I don’t care a hoot in hell if Marriot makes a fool of himself—and of this Dexter gal. She ain’t my daughter, because I never had a daughter.”

  “Well, stick to your story,” he Shrugged, “if it makes you
feel any easier. But remember my other proposition. I’m sure I can make good on my offer, Dora. The Professor could be cleared of this charge. All it takes is a little—uh—juggling.”

  “At that kind of jugglin’,” she scowled, “you’re an expert.”

  He was chuckling, when he closed the office door and sauntered away along the gallery. As he descended the stairs, he encountered a grim-faced Curly Beck. The barkeep moved past him in haste, climbed to the gallery and hurried to the office. On this occasion, as on many others, he neglected to knock, but Dora didn’t reproach him. All she said was:

  “Curly—you look sore enough to spit sparks.”

  “It sticks in my craw,” he scowled, “the way them two lawyer fellers backed down.”

  “Backed down—Crossley and McCade?” she challenged. “You mean …?”

  “I mean,” said Curly, “they won’t touch The Professor with a ten-foot pole. That’s what they said, both of ’em. They claim it’s an open and shut case, and they ain’t about to get involved.”

  “Well, well, well,” she breathed. “So he was right.”

  “So who was right?” he demanded.

  “Never mind,” she frowned. “Did you fix up about The Professor’s breakfast?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “I met Doc Hibler at the diner. He said he’d take The Professor’s breakfast over there, on account of he’d be lookin’ in on him anyway.”

  “All right,” said Dora. “I’ll go visit The Professor in a little while. But, first, there’s a couple other gents I have to see. Curly, you got any idea where they’re stayin’—those Texans?”

  “Valentine and Emerson? Nope.” He shook his head.

  “Well,” she shrugged, “I’ll dam soon find ’em.”

  A few minutes later, garbed in all her finery, Big Dora emerged from her place of business and marched along Main, heading uptown towards the law office.

  She unfurled a parasol, as she reached the law office steps. Deputy Leemoy was on the porch, nodding a greeting.

  “’Mornin’, Dora. He ain’t finished breakfast yet. Doc’s with him. But, if you want to come in and wait.”