Larry and Stretch 17

by Marshall Grover

  “No,” she frowned. “First I got to find a couple of Texas boys that drifted in yesterday. Their names are Valentine and Emerson.”

  “Don’t know the names,” shrugged Leemoy, “but I sure do recall them Texans. They’d be the same hombres whupped the tar out of Burgoyne and McPhee.”

  “Them crazy miners in trouble again?” she prodded. Leemoy grinned mirthlessly.

  “Same old thing, Dora. They were trying to steal a woman.”

  “It’s a mortal shame,” she asserted, “that these fools can’t keep their minds on their work.” But she thought to add, “And their drinkin’ and gamblin’.”

  “Well,” said Leemoy, “I’d make a guess them Texans are stayin’ at the Frazer place. You see—uh—it was Harriet Frazer they were tryin’ to carry off.”

  “Who?” she blinked. “Valentine and Emerson?”

  “No,” he grinned. “Burgoyne and McPhee. Your Texas friends happened along in time to stop ’em, and you can bet Harriet and Jed were mighty grateful. That’s why you’ll likely find ’em bunkin’ at the Frazer boardin’ house.”

  “Thanks, Deputy,” Dora acknowledged.

  A few moments later she sailed grandly into the small lobby of the Frazer Boarding House. The toil worn Harriet was plying a broom. At Dora’s entrance, she nodded wearily.

  “ ‘Morin’, Harriet,” said Dora.

  “ ‘Mornin’, Dora,” nodded Harriet. “You couldn’t be lookin’ for a room. I hear tell you got all the comforts of home, downtown at the saloon.”

  “No.” The big woman stood framed in the doorway, fanning herself with an outsized kerchief. “Lookin’ for a couple gents that are likely bunkin’ here. Name of Valentine and Emerson.”

  “That’s right,” smiled Harriet. She leaned on her broom, heaved a sigh. “Thank heavens for the likes of them. Jed and me gave ’em a nice front double, and that was the least we could do.”

  “Yeah,” frowned Dora, “I can understand why you and Jed feel beholden—what with them Texans rescuin’ you and all. Leemoy tells me you near got carried off, by Burgoyne and McPhee.”

  “Why do they pick on me?” Harriet wondered. “I ain’t young, Dora, and I sure ain’t purty. Four times I’ve almost got taken.”

  “Your trouble,” shrugged Dora, “is you’re a lightweight. Be dead easy for a man to tote you twenty yards, throw you across a horse and hustle you out of town. It could never happen to me, Harriet.” She chuckled good-humoredly. “Where’s the man could lift me onto a horse?”

  “What New Strike needs,” countered Dora, “is more women. Meantime, where do I find those Texas gents?”

  “They aren’t here right now,” said Harriet. “A little while ago, I heard ’em askin’ Jed. about a barber shop. Jed sent ’em to Demarest’s place.”

  “Thanks,” said Dora. “I don’t like to bust in on a man when he’s gettin’ his hair cut, but this is important. So long, Harriet.”

  The Demarest Tonsorial Parlor & Gents’ Bath-House was located in the next block uptown. When Dora marched in, the portly Lucius Demarest was shaving a local wiseacre named Jelkie and trading small talk with three waiting customers. The two men sought by Dora were nowhere to be seen.

  All present accorded Dora cheerful greetings, which she acknowledged with a wave of her furled parasol.

  “What brings you here, Dora?” sniggered Jelkie. He was scrawny and watery-eyed and his appearance wasn’t enhanced by the lather covering three-quarters of his face. He leered, showing yellowed teeth. “You lookin’ for a man? Well, you sure come to the right place.”

  The other customers chuckled knowingly. Dora ignored them and addressed herself to Demarest.

  “Where do I find those two Texans—Valentine and Emerson?”

  “I couldn’t invite you to visit with ’em now, Dora,” grinned Demarest, “on account of they’re out back.”

  “You mean in the bath-house?” she demanded.

  “Uh-huh,” nodded the barber. “Takin’ a bath.”

  “Anybody else out there?” she asked.

  “Nope,” said Demarest. “Just Valentine and Emerson. Couple of real sociable gents they are—only I don’t reckon they’d want to entertain a lady. Not right now, anyway.”

  “I want to parley with those two,” announced Dora, “and your bath-house is as good a place as any.” She started for the rear door.

  “What’re you gonna do, Dora?” jibed Jelkie. “Scrub their backs?”

  This jest won hearty guffaws from Jelkie’s small audience, but only an impatient scowl from Dora. She paused beside the chair, stared disapprovingly at the still-sniggering Jelkie, and recalled:

  “My momma used to wash out my mouth with soap, if I ever said anything I oughtn’t have.”

  So deftly that he was taken by surprise, she whisked the soap-laden shaving brush from Demarest’s hand. Jelkie’s mouth was wide open for another jeering comment, and he didn’t close it fast enough. Dora shoved the brush between his teeth. Lather splattered into his eyes and, for an uncomfortable moment, clogged his throat. He gagged, gasped and cursed, as Dora returned Demarest’s equipment and continued her majestic progress to the rear door.

  A narrow passage separated the barber shop from the small structure at its rear, wherein New Strike’s male citizenry were wont to relax in large wooden tubs, after drawing their own bath water. She rapped at the door and called to the men inside.

  “This is Dora Keen—and I’m comin’ in.”

  She opened the door, stepped into the room and pulled the door shut behind her. There were a half-dozen tubs, two filled to the brim with water, and only one of these latter appeared to be occupied. Larry Valentine had slumped down so that only his head and his brawny, naked shoulders were visible. Reproachfully he followed her movements, as she planted a stool by the door and seated herself.

  “Dora,” he grunted, “we sure appreciate visitors—specially ladies—but not when we’re takin’ a bath.”

  “You say ‘we’,” she frowned. “Where’s your friend?”

  “He’s busy,” said Larry, “drownin’. I think he’d rather stay underwater and die that way—than from embarrassment.” He extended a muscular, soap-laden arm, rapped against the side of the adjoining tub. “Hey, big feller, rise up.”

  To the accompaniment of much spluttering and cussing, Stretch Emerson raised his streaming head above water. In horror, he gaped at their visitor.

  “Holy Hannah!” he panted.

  “No,” grinned Larry. “That’s Big Dora—from the saloon—remember?”

  “I need help,” declared Dora. “For a start, I need a little private parley with you boys. Got to explain a few things to you.” She gestured about her. “This is good enough. If I ain’t shocked, why should you be? Besides, all I can see is your heads.”

  “Wait outside for us,” begged Larry.

  “It has to be here and now,” she insisted. “Now look, fellers …”

  “All right—all right,” mumbled Stretch. “But don’t you look!”

  “Texans stick together, ain’t that so?” she challenged.

  “Well, sure,” agreed Larry, “but …”

  “But nothin’,” she growled. “I know who I’m talkin’ to, know all about the way you fellers have lived, these past fifteen years. Trouble-shooters is what you are. You’ve butted into one bad mess after another, and you always win out. That’s what appeals to me.” She eyed Larry intently. “Somehow, you always get to the truth.”

  “It’s just we’ve been lucky,” he shrugged.

  “Lucky my eye,” she retorted. “You’re quite a detective Larry. Pinkerton himself tried to hire you. Anyway, that’s what it says in the newspaper.”

  “I’m no detective,” frowned Larry.

  “Don’t you believe him, Dora,” said ‘ Stretch. “Real smart ’tween the ears, he is. Got brains he ain’t even used yet.”

  “How much have you heard?” she asked. “I mean, about the shootin’ of Quint Everard?”
>
  “Uh,” grunted Stretch. “She’s talkin’ about the tinhorn, runt. Feller you tangled with last night—him with the gold-butted sixgun!”

  “Yeah,” nodded Larry. “We heard all about it. The barber told us. Seems they arrested your friend—old jasper that plays piano.”

  “The Professor’s no killer,” Dora warmly assured them. “I don’t care two cents if they found him with a gun in his hand, or …”

  “His own gun,” said Larry, “with three slugs missin’—and three holes in Everard’s back.”

  “Are you gonna be like everybody else?” she chided. “Are you gonna jump to conclusions?”

  “We’re new in town,” Larry reminded her. “All we know is what we’ve heard.”

  “Well,” said Dora, “there’s more to this mess than meets the eye. Listen close, and I’ll tell you the score.” To the attentive and temporarily immobilized drifters, she confided facts, hunches and vague suspicions which, at this stage of the game, she would never have imparted to the local law.. She emphasized The Professor’s kindly nature, his habit of toting that small-caliber Colt merely as a keepsake, a good-luck piece. She stressed that it was mighty unusual—unheard of—for Quint Everard to venture abroad minus his flashy hardware. She also thought it pertinent to mention Kurt Osmond’s most recent visit to her establishment, and his two attempts at forcing her into selling the saloon. “Until he made me an offer,” she told them in conclusion, “I had nothin’ personal against Osmond and his partner. They were just competitors of mine, and every saloonkeeper has competitors. I get along fine with all the others but, all of a sudden, I’m leery of Osmond and Birell.”

  “Why?” challenged Larry. “Any special reason?”

  “It’s hard for me to explain,” she frowned. “I’ve scarce ever talked to Birell. As for Osmond—well—he’s gettin’ mighty persistent.”

  “You wouldn’t know,” Larry asked, “just how much time passed between somebody hearin’ the shootin’ and then runnin’ to the alley, findin’ Everard dead?”

  “The first jaspers to reach that alley,” said Dora, “were a couple miners name of Baldwin and Moore, and they claim they started runnin’ just as soon as they heard the shots.”

  “Even so,” reflected Larry, “Osmond might have a point. Some sneak-thief could’ve stolen Everard’s gun, and that’d explain why the marshal thinks your friend shot an unarmed man.”

  “I keep tellin’ you,” she sighed, “my friend coudln’t shoot Everard—or anybody else.”

  Larry nodded pensively, thumbed soap-suds off his jaw and began probing another aspect of the case.

  “About Everard, Dora. What kind of a hombre was he?”

  “Why?” she challenged.

  “The Professor didn’t shoot him,” shrugged Larry, “but he’s dead anyway. So somebody else triggered those three slugs into him, and that somebody would have to have a damn good reason.”

  “Until last night,” said the big woman, “I swear I never figured him for a cardsharp. He was close-mouthed—kind of a sneaky jasper—but he seemed like a fair-square dealer.” She grimaced in exasperation. “The trouble with me is I trust men too easily. I should’ve got wise to Everard three months ago.”

  “Any special reason?” prodded Larry,

  “Maybe I Shouldn’t have cussed him out,” she shrugged. “At the time, I got good and sore. Well, dam it all, Larry, a woman has to make a few rules, when she’s runnin’ a saloon. And, if she’s payin’ her hired help regular, it’s up to them to follow her rules, ain’t it?”

  “Which rule did Everard bust?” asked Larry.

  “He was in the liquor cellar,” said Dora. “Only my bartenders are allowed down there. Or me. And I couldn’t squeeze down those steps to save my life. Everard had no business down there. Curly found him and said what the hell was the big idea, and Everard turned real mean. When Curly told me about it, I threatened to fire that sneaky tinhorn. He claimed he only went down there because he was thirsty, and promised it wouldn’t happen again, so I didn’t fire him. And that was a bad mistake.”

  “But he didn’t steal anything out of your cellar?” frowned Larry. “A few bottles, maybe?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “He didn’t steal anything, and I had no more trouble from him—till you caught him sharpin’ last night.” She eyed him appealingly. “The heck with Everard. What about The Professor? As one Texan to another, will you do me a big favor—poke your nose into this thing and maybe roust out the truth?”

  “What d’you say, runt?” challenged Stretch.

  “You need to ask?” grunted Larry.

  “Dora,” grinned the taller Texan, “you just got yourself a coupla sidekicks.”

  “I’ll be powerful grateful,” she fervently assured them.

  “Don’t start bein’ grateful,” countered Larry. “Not just yet awhile. I can’t make you any promises, Dora.”

  “I don’t ask for miracles,” said Dora, as she rose from the stool. “I’ll settle for a friendly helpin’ hand.” She opened the door, smiled and winked at them. “And now I’ll be on my way—unless one of you wants his back scrubbed?”

  “No, thanks!” they hastily chorused, and Stretch again submerged.

  “So long, Larry,” she chuckled. “Don’t forget to wash behind your ears.”

  She quit the bath-house. When the door dosed on her, Stretch rose up spluttering.

  “Get your skinny carcass out of that tub,” ordered Larry, “and put your doggone pants on. We got places to go.”

  Stretch hustled to obey and, in a matter of minutes, they were fully dressed, booted and spurred and with their loins girded for action. Demarest and his clients eyed them curiously as they trudged through the barber-shop and out into the sunlight.

  “Where to first?” demanded Stretch.

  “The jailhouse,” growled Larry. “I want to talk to the old man. He was right there when it happened—close enough to get blamed for it—so he must know somethin’.”

  Chapter Six

  The Price Is $2000

  When the Texans entered his office, Marshal Wedge greeted them with an earnest plea.

  “You’ve changed your minds? You want to be deputies?”

  Leemoy rose from his perch on the couch, heaving a sigh of relief.

  “Break out them extra badges, Hobie,” he urged. “Soon as you’ve sworn ’em in, I’m claimin’ three days off duty—to catch up on my sleep.”

  Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch looked at Larry, grinned wryly and hooked his thumbs into his gunbelt. Leemoy’s jaw fell. His disappointment was almost comical, and Larry might have laughed, had he been in the mood. “Forget it,” he told Wedge. “We’d have to be dead or drunk, before you could pin a badge on us.”

  “Well,” frowned Wedge, “if you ain’t here to get sworn in, what da you want?”

  “We want to see The Professor,” said Larry..

  “Is that so?” Challenged Wedge. “I didn’t know you and him was acquainted.”

  “We like his music,” grinned Stretch.

  “Professor just got through eatin’,” muttered Leemoy. “Big Dora’s with him now.”

  “Take ’em in, Rufe,” shrugged Wedge. He nodded wearily. “All right, gents, let’s have the hardware.”

  After unstrapping their sidearms and piling them onto the desk, Larry and Stretch followed the deputy into the cell-block. In the cell assigned to the aged musician there was only one stool. The old man was perched on it, a laden tray resting on his bony knees. Slowly, doggedly, he plied knife and fork, obviously forcing himself to eat. The cell-bunk was sagging almost to the floor, because Dora was seated on it.

  Leemoy unlocked the door, waited for the Texans to move in, then closed and relocked it. As he ambled away along the corridor, he drawled:

  “Holler, when you want out.”

  The big woman waited until the cell-block door was clanging shut, before reminding her friend:

  “These are the Texas boys I was tel
lin’ you about. You recall I sang for ’em last night?”

  “Ah, yes.” The Professor nodded to the drifters, smiled wistfully. “ ‘Lone Star Lulu’. It seems a long time ago.” And then his smile faded. “Before the nightmare began …”

  “Take it easy, Professor,” she frowned. “Don’t try to talk till you’ve eaten all that good chow.”

  “Dora, my dear friend,” he mumbled, “I couldn’t eat another crumb. I’m sorry, but …”

  “Have some more coffee then,” she urged.

  He swallowed a few mouthfuls of coffee. The Texans hunkered on their heels, rolled and lit cigarettes.

  “I fear there’s little I can tell you,” said The Professor. “After my arrest, I gave Marshal Wedge a statement.”

  “You get any sleep last night?” demanded Larry.

  “Some,” he shrugged.

  “Head feel clearer?” prodded Larry.

  “Mr. Valentine …” he sighed.

  “Call me Larry,” said Larry.

  “Call me Stretch,” grunted Stretch.

  “Larry—Stretch,” frowned The Professor, “my head is quite clear. I wasn’t drinking last night. I was dazed—confused—when they arrested me. But that wasn’t the result of drinking. Somebody struck me …” He winced, raised a hand to his head. “A cruel, painful blow. I wasn’t completely unconscious—or maybe I was—because I’m somewhat uncertain as to exactly what happened.”

  “Take your time,” said Larry.

  “I was walking,” the old man recalled. “I can remember Everard quite clearly. He called to me from an alley. When I moved across to him ...”

  “Professor …” Larry interrupted at this point, “did you happen to notice if he was wearin’ his six-shooter?”

  “I’m sorry, Larry. I—just didn’t notice.”

  “All right. Stay with it.”

  “When I reached the alley, I was seized, I think—there must have been at least two other men. One was behind me, holding my arms. I was helpless. Another threw whiskey into my face and—from then on—I wasn’t sure about—about anything. I did hear the shots. Yes, I remember that. And I was struck from behind.”