“Well, damn it all …” began Birell.
“You can hardly blame her,” shrugged Osmond. “The case against The Professor depends entirely on whether or not Everard was armed. It’ll be easy enough for me to bribe some deadbeat, but she claims Wedge will smell a rat—unless the witness can produce the gun.” He chuckled softly, on noting Birell’s change of expression. “We’d be in a fine mess if we’d done as you suggested, if we’d gotten rid of the gun—after you took it off Everard’s body.”
“I still say we should’ve buried it,” scowled Osmond. “It’s a dead giveaway. If Wedge ever suspected us—and got a warrant to look in that safe …”
“Do you think I’m a fool?” grinned Osmond. “The safe is too obvious a hiding place.”
“All right—all right …” Birell gestured impatiently. “So you’re nobody’s fool—but tell me this. What happens after you clinch your deal with Big Dora and get The Professor turned loose? The law will still be looking for Everard’s killer.”
“What difference?” challenged Osmond. “You’re the only one who could give me away, Ranee, because you’re the only one who saw me shoot Everard. You’d never spill to the law ...”
“Don’t talk like a damn fool!” chided Birell.
“You’re an accessory, my friend,” Osmond pointed out. “If you talk, we’ll both hang.”
Abruptly, Birell changed the subject.
“If that fancy sixgun isn’t in our safe, where the hell did you stash it?”
“Under the false bottom of my valise,” drawled Osmond. “Here—I’ll show you.”
He strode to the clothes closet, opened the door and, for a pregnant moment, stood gaping into the belligerent face of Larry Valentine. Though no stranger to such invidious situations, Larry was momentarily as shocked as Osmond. He did not make the instinctive movement towards his holstered .45 because, shocked though he was, he realized the need to take this killer alive.
Birell was standing near the office door, turning to move across to the liquor cabinet, When his partner’s startled gasp froze him. He whirled, in time to see Osmond thrusting his arms into the closet. As the strong hands closed about his throat, Larry threw all his Weight forward and jabbed his bunched right to Osmond’s belly. Osmond grunted, but his grip increased.
Larry’s second and third blows drove the wind out of his adversary. He felt Osmond’s grip weakening, but was suddenly reminded of Osmond’s partner. Birell had backed to the door and was emptying his shoulder holster, when Larry swung Osmond around.
“Don’t shoot!” panted Osmond. “I’m—between you!”
“Jump clear of him!” snarled Birell.
Osmond released his grip and tried to move dear, but in vain. Larry had imprisoned his left arm. He struggled to reach his holster and failed again; a gasp of pain escaped him, as Larry grasped his wrist.
“Drop!” urged Birell. “I’ll fire over your head!”
“Like hell you will,” drawled Stretch.
The office door had opened again. The taller Texan, his face bruised and bloodied, his shirt in tatters, was framed in the doorway. His right hand Colt swung down hard, just as Birell began turning. The barrel caught Birell a glancing blow atop the left ear—not a skull-crusher, but more than enough to put him out of action. He thudded to the floor, after which Stretch thought to warn his partner:
“We’ll have company purty soon. Some of the barkeeps and tinhorns must’ve seen me comin’ upstairs.” He tensed, cocked his Colt and leveled it at the wildly-struggling Osmond. “Watch it, runt!”
Osmond had raised a knee to Larry’s belly, momentarily winding him. Now, his left hand was free and filled. From the desk, he had scooped up a knife. He was drawing his arm back for the death-thrust, when Larry rallied, spun him around and swung a powerful blow to his jaw. Backward Osmond hurtled, still grasping the knife. The window shattered into a hundred fragments and he disappeared from sight.
“Runt …” began Stretch.
“Be with you,” grunted Larry, “in just a minute.”
He stepped through the broken window and, for a brief moment, stared over the balcony-rail. In the alley below, Kurt Osmond was sprawled with arms and legs outspread, head twisted grotesquely. Larry grimaced, moved back into the office and emptied his holster. Out in the corridor, Stretch was calling a warning to the men Clambering up the stairs, the employees of the unscrupulous Osmond and Birell.
The Texans stood shoulder to shoulder.
“Hold it right there, boys!” called Stretch.
“And you barkeeps,” drawled Larry, “keep those scatterguns pointed at the ceilin’.”
“Scatterguns,” Stretch gravely announced, “make us nervous.”
There were two shotguns hefted by the irate and aggressive bartenders. The other artillery consisted of a variety of pistols brandished by the faro dealer, the poker dealer, the roulette-man and the scar-faced hombre. who supervised the dice layout. Just atop the stairs, these six hardcases stood bunched, glowering at the Texans.
“What the hell,” scowled the faro dealer. “We got ’em outnumbered. Let’s take ’em!”
“Give it some thought,” Larry advised, coldly. “The range is short. Maybe you can shoot a mite faster than us—but I wouldn’t count on it.”
“I said let’s take ’em …!” yelled the faro dealer, as he triggered at Larry.
What followed was fast, furious and, for the opposition, somewhat awe-inspiring. Larry sidestepped and returned fire, while Stretch cut loose with his matched Colts, filling the gallery with the roar of gunfire and the acrid smell of cordite. The faro dealer’s belligerence collapsed when Larry’s bullet burned his knuckles. Yelling in agony, he dropped his gun and reeled backwards. Stretch’s first slug struck the barrel of a shotgun; his second creased the shoulder of the other barkeep and both shotguns thudded to the floor. The roulette-man abruptly decided against using his derringer, when Larry sent a slug whining past his face—close enough for him to feel its air-wind. Simultaneously, Stretch discouraged the poker dealer by grazing his forearm.
The staff of the Gold Queen had had enough—more than enough. They abandoned their weapons, turned and made a hasty descent to the barroom, which was now a shambles of smashed furniture and broken glass. Hobie Wedge was trudging through the door, brandishing a shotgun. He scowled ferociously at the Texans’ thoroughly demoralized victims and barked a question.
“Where are they?”
“Upstairs,” growled the barkeep with the creased shoulder. “Hell, Marshal, we’re all shot up.”
“We need a doctor,” groaned the poker dealer.
“I dunno why them two crazy galoots started this hassle,” muttered the other barkeep. “All I know is I’ve had enough. I want no part of their argument with Osmond.”
“Osmond is through arguin’,” declared Wedge. “He’s out in the alley—with his neck broke.”
“Holy Smokes!” breathed the faro dealer.
“Where’s Birell?” demanded Wedge.
“Still upstairs, I guess,” shrugged the undamaged barkeep.
“All right,” nodded Wedge. “You jaspers stay right here. Holler for somebody to fetch the doc, but don’t try to leave the Gold Queen till I give you the word.”
He hurried to the stairs, climbed to the gallery and moved along to the open doorway of the office.
“Howdy, badgetoter,” grunted Stretch. “Late again?”
Wedge whistled softly, as he stepped into the room. The taller Texan was seated on the bed, emptying a bottle of the partners’ private stock in a very old-fashioned way. Birell had crawled to a corner and was huddled there, clutching his head, groaning, cursing. Larry was checking the contents of the clothes closet. Without glancing in Wedge’s direction, he tersely explained:
“‘I’m lookin’ for Everard’s gun.”
“It’s—in there?” blinked Wedge.
“And so was I,” growled Larry, “when Birell and Osmond came in here and started shootin
’ off their mouths. I heard every word.”
“Real interestin’ it was,” grinned Stretch.
“Have him tell it again,” Larry ordered Stretch. “If he don’t feel talkative—you know what to do.”
Stretch shrugged, discarded his bottle, emptied a holster and rose from the bed. To Wedge’s consternation, he ambled to the corner and raised his Colt as though to rap it on Birell’s head. Birell gasped a protest.
“So talk to the marshal,” Stretch sourly invited.
“Why don’t you ask Osmond …?” began Birell.
“Osmond’s dead,” said Wedge.
“Is—that so?” Birell grimaced uneasily, bowed his head and shrugged. “Well, the hell with it. I don’t aim to hang for what he did. It was Osmond gunned Everard—with the Professor’s pistol …”
He went on to describe the killing of Quint Everard more or less accurately, while doing his utmost to minimize his own participation. Larry then hauled a valise from the closet, raised the lid and emptied the contents onto the floor.
“It has a false bottom,” he informed Wedge. “I heard Osmond say so.” He unsheathed his Bowie, used the blade to prize up the silk-covered layer. In the space below, the coiled gunbelt was revealed to Wedge’s intent gaze. “You satisfied?”
Larry lifted the holstered weapon and handed it to the marshal, who nodded grimly and asserted:
“I’d know this hogleg anywhere. It’s Everard’s all right, nothin’ surer.”
“He was armed,” Larry pointed out. “But he never got a chance to draw. Osmond cut him down While his back was turned.”
“I’ll bet you and Osmond were proud of yourselves!” Wedge glowered at Birell. “Settin’ up a harmless old jasper like The Professor ...”
“About The Professor …” prodded Larry.
“Be a pleasure for me to turn him loose,” muttered Wedge. “You come along with me. We’ll take this skunk to jap and tell Big Dora the news.”
Not until some fifteen minutes later, after Osmond’s body had been delivered to the local undertaker, did Wedge think to ask another important question. They were in the law office—Wedge, the Texans and The Professor, the latter gratefully retrieving his few personal possessions.
“Exactly why did Osmond kill Everard—and why get The Professor involved? He could just as easily have gunned Everard and made a run for it. Chances are I’d never have suspected him.”
“I too am curious on that score,” frowned The Professor. “What could Osmond hope to gain by implicating me?”
“Big Dora knows the real reason Osmond hankered to buy her out,” said Larry. “That’s her secret—until she decides to talk about it. Everard was in cahoots with Osmond and Birell. As for why Osmond needed to shut Everard’s mouth—well—I reckon Birell can tell you. And you …” He clapped a hand to the old man’s shoulder, grinned reassuringly. “You just happened to get caught in the middle, Professor. Osmond was usin’ you to put pressure on Big Dora.”
“It seems to me,” offered Stretch, “we oughta take The Professor back to Big Dora’s rightaway. She’s gonna be powerful grateful, runt, and you and me are gonna get powerful drunk.”
“Not too drunk,” sighed Larry. “We have to rise up early tomorrow.”
Until long after midnight, Big Dora’s saloon was the scene of a jubilant and noisy celebration. Overjoyed at being reunited with her old friend, the big woman swore eternal gratitude to the Lone Star Hellions They accepted her hospitality and an unaccountable number of free drinks but, when she offered to pay for their services in hard cash, they refused, politely but firmly. Larry solemnly reminded her:
“Texans stick together.”
In the hour after dawn, having farewelled the Frazers, Larry and Stretch ambled their horses along Main to where Curly Beck awaited them, perched on the driver’s seat of a buckboard, outside the saloon. Big Dora was on the porch.
“You know what to do,” she reminded the drifters, “and I’m thankin’ you in advance. Take good care of her. Make sure she’s on that ’Frisco train.”
“I guess you really convinced her, huh, Dora?” frowned Larry.
“Damn right,” she nodded. “It’s better she believes I’m dead and a lady—than alive and what I am.”
“Far as us Texans is concerned,” Stretch warmly assured her, “you’ll always be a lady.”
They doffed their Stetsons to the big woman and nudged their mounts to movement. Curly whipped up his team and drove uptown to the Eureka Hotel, in the lobby of which Leona and her maid were waiting patiently beside their piled baggage. The porter and the barkeep, with the assistance of the Texans, made short work of loading the baggage into the bed of the rig. The ladies then took their places beside the driver and the journey to Hatton City began, with Larry and Stretch riding abreast of the seat for every mile of the way.
It was 7.30 p.m. of that day when Curly halted the rig beside the ticket office of the Hatton City railroad depot, Leona Dexter, Larry observed, was somewhat preoccupied. She had very little to say, until the train had steamed to a halt. The baggage was loaded into the caboose. Marie entered the passenger car, opened a window and urgently beckoned her mistress. Only then did Leona give voice to her thoughts, and for Larry’s ears alone. As he took her arm and made to assist her up the steps, she softly declared:
“My search has ended, Mr. Valentine. I did find my mother.”
Larry eyed her blankly.
“Ma’am—I don’t savvy what you mean.”
“I think you do,” she smiled. “But we’ll not argue about it. You’ve been very kind—you and your friend—and I’m most grateful.” She climbed the steps and turned to stare down into his suntanned countenance. “I’m not ashamed of her. I could never be ashamed of her.”
“Well,” he shrugged. “You don’t have to be. Like Dora told you, your mother was a real lady.”
“Not was, Mr. Valentine,” Leona corrected.
“She died a long time back,” he frowned.
“No,” said Leona. “She’s still very much alive. I only pretended to believe her story.”
“Well—what …?” he began.
“I’ll return to San Francisco,” said Leona, “and discuss this whole situation with my husband. He’ll devise some solution, I’m sure. As for Dora, I’ll not lose contact with her. I’ll write her regularly.”
“She might appreciate that,” Larry reflected.
“It may take a long time,” she murmured. “But, eventually, I’ll persuade her to acknowledge me as her daughter. Anyway …” She flashed him a last wistful smile, as the train began moving away from the depot, and raised a gloved band in farewell, “I’ll never stop trying ...”
He stood staring after the ’Frisco-bound train until it was out of sight. Stretch came to him then, to report:
“I bought us some liquor and provisions and stuff—figured you’d wanta quit this burg rightaway.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Larry. “Don’t you like the looks of Hatton City?”
“It’s a real quiet town,” Stretch complained.
“That so?” Larry grinned knowingly. “Well then—I guess you’re right. We’d better be movin’ on.”
About the Author
Leonard Frank Meares (February 13, 1921 - February 4, 1993)
Sydney born Len Meares aka Marshall Grover, published around 750 novels, mostly westerns. His best-known works feature Texas trouble-shooters Larry and Stretch. Before starting to write, Meares served in the Royal Australian Air Force, worked in the Department of Immigration and sold shoes. In the mid-1950s he bought a typewriter to write radio and film scripts. Inspired by the success of local paperback westerns, he wrote Trouble Town, which was published by the Cleveland Publishing Company in 1955. His tenth yarn, Drift! (1956), introduced Larry Valentine and Stretch Emerson. In 1960, he created a brief but memorable series of westerns set in and around the town of Bleak Creek. Four years later came The Night McLennan Died, the first of more than 70 westerns
(sometimes called oaters) to feature cavalryman-turned-manhunter Big Jim Rand.
More on Marshall Grover
The Larry and Stretch Series by Marshall Grover
Drift!
Arizona Wild-Cat
Ride Wild to Glory
Nomads from Texas
Ride Out Shooting
Texans Walk Proud
Never Prod a Texan
The Fast Right Hand
Close In For Showdown
Texas Gun Ghost
Lone Star Valiant
Colorado Pursuit
Follow the Texans
Lone Star Fury
Find Kell Wade
Face the Gun
Texan in My Sights
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