Larry and Stretch 5

by Marshall Grover

  “You mind makin’ that plainer?” demanded Larry.

  “Anna had a husband,” explained Smokey. “A no-good tinhorn. He ran out on her, and, later on, she had a baby—only ...” He shrugged sadly, “… the poor little feller was born dead, and I guess she’s never gotten over it.”

  “So that’s why she took on so bad,” mused Stretch.

  “Her husband was killed,” said Esther. “She received word of his death just—just before she was confined.”

  “My gosh,” breathed Stretch. “She sure has her troubles.”

  “That’s how it goes sometimes,” muttered Larry. “Trouble on top of trouble.” He yawned, grinned apologetically at the small woman. “Best we all catch up on our sleep, I reckon.”

  For the second time that night, the Texans settled down to sleep on the parlor floor. Their slumber had been rudely interrupted, but now they would sleep deeply until sunrise—unlike the seven excited men gathered in the room behind the assay office. For the Markhams and their fellow-conspirators, there would be no sleep this night.

  Tyler Halsey sat hunched by the table, bleary-eyed, but mentally alert. The brothers were examining the map, with Stabile hovering close. On the other side of the table, Bowes and his cronies swigged whisky and traded complacent grins.

  “Nothin’ to it,” bragged Dixon. “When she woke up and felt Russ’s knife at her throat, that gal just fell apart.”

  “Women scare easy,” chuckled Bowes. “Well, Markham? How’s it look to you?”

  “A fortune always looks handsome,” smiled Garth, “even on dirty paper.”

  “So the rest should be easy,” muttered Halsey. “We hire pack-horses—or mules ...”

  “A wagon might be better,” suggested Kane.

  “Better not get started too soon,” warned Stabile. “She’s bound to report the robbery to Fames.”

  “Bowes,” said Garth, “I’ll let you know when we’re ready to head for the mountains. Meantime ...”

  He made to refold the map, but Bowes forestalled him. “Not so fast, amigo,” grinned the hardcase. “I’ll keep the map—just in case you forget about cuttin’ us in for our share.”

  “Now, Bowes,” frowned Garth, “that isn’t necessary. We’re all in this together.”

  “And don’t you ever forget it,” growled Bowes.

  “Damnitall,” protested Halsey, “you wouldn’t be this close to a fortune, if Garth hadn’t dealt you in.”

  “And you wouldn’t have the map,” countered Bowes, “if I hadn’t stole it for you.”

  “Let’s have a gentlemen’s agreement on this deal,” Garth smoothly suggested. “Give me a few minutes to make a copy of the map. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t trust me, huh?” challenged Bowes.

  Garth Markham smiled thinly, and assured him, “I trust you, Bowes, just as much as you trust me.” He seated himself, produced a sheet of thick paper of similar size to the map, then reached for a pencil and began copying the vital details. “This won’t take but a few moments.”

  Bowes and his sidekicks waited impatiently. Garth Markham worked on with scrupulous care, making an exact copy of the useless map surrendered by Anna Layton. It was finished at last. He tossed his pencil aside, leaned back in his chair and studied his handiwork with great intensity.

  “Simple,” he mused. “Exactly what I’d expect from an old-timer like Cabot.”

  “But clear enough?” prodded his brother.

  “Mighty clear,” chuckled Garth. He folded the first copy, returned it to Bowes. “So now we’re even.”

  “Bueno,” grinned Bowes. “I ain’t afeared you’d start off without me.”

  “You wouldn’t get halfway to the Calaveras,” muttered Dixon, “before we’d be catchin’ up with you.”

  “Boys,” chided Garth, “there’s plenty for all of us. We can afford to trust each other.”

  “Just how soon ...?” began Flegg.

  “I think Wade has made a point,” drawled Garth. “We’d best wait a few days.”

  “Meanwhile,” warned Stabile, “keep your noses clean.”

  “Don’t you fret about us,” countered Bowes. “We ain’t apt to take no risks.” He shoved his copy of the map into his hip pocket, sketched the Markhams an airy salute.

  “The back way,” grunted Kane.

  “Sure,” grinned Bowes.

  With Dixon and Flegg in tow, he moved through into the kitchen. Kane followed, let them out by the rear entrance, closed and relocked the door. When he rejoined the others, he grimaced, and asserted, “I never feel right about those three. I’ll allow they’ve been useful, but ...”

  “Don’t worry, Kane,” smiled his brother. “They’ve served their purpose.”

  “Bowes is a loud-mouth,” Kane pointed out. “He drinks hard—talks loud ...”

  “I’m not overlooking that important fact, boy,” grunted Garth. He produced a flat cash-box, placed the map inside, slid the box into a drawer. “Wade, we have no further need of Bowes’ services, and I don’t relish the prospect of taking those three hardcases into the Calaveras.”

  “They’d be trouble,” opined Stabile.

  “Let’s be quite practical about this deal,” frowned Garth. “I know I can rely on your discretion—yours and Ty’s. We aren’t the kind to shoot off our mouths.”

  “Hell, no,” agreed Stabile.

  “But can the same be said for Bowes and his friends?” challenged Garth.

  “I don’t think so. As Kane so bluntly put it, Bowes drinks hard and talks loud. He’s flushed with success right now. He might start bragging ...”

  “And be overheard,” muttered Kane.

  “Then it’s agreed?” Garth eyed them calmly. “We dispose of them—before we begin our little expedition?”

  Halsey licked his lips, averted his eyes, then nodded curtly. Kane grinned and asserted, “The only good blabbermouth is a dead one.”

  “Any ideas, Wade?” Garth asked the deputy.

  “You’re asking me to handle it?” frowned Stabile.

  “I have confidence in you, Wade,” smiled Garth. Stabile gave it some thought.

  “Would it make any difference to us,” he prodded, “if the Layton woman got her map back? We got us a copy. We could make our move, help ourselves to a whole wagonload of the silver, before she could even start organizing an expedition.”

  “True enough,” nodded Garth. “What do you have in mind, Wade?”

  Stabile told him, in a few terse sentences. When he had finished, the younger Markham was grinning broadly, and the lawyer indicated his approval with a moody nod. Garth was more than satisfied.

  “Brilliant, Wade,” he declared. “Quite brilliant.”

  “And neat,” chuckled Kane. “We not only rid ourselves of Bowes and his friends. We close the lid on the Cabot murder. Fames will assume the girl was robbed by her father’s murderers.”

  ~*~

  Marshal Fames learned of the attack on Anna Layton at eight a.m., while taking his breakfast at the McGann Diner. Eddie Bennett visited him there, told him all he knew of the incident, and explained, “It’s better you should hear it from me, Marshal. She’s in no condition to answer questions.”

  “I don’t like to disturb her, Bennett,” said the lawman, “but I got my duty to think of. You go wake her, tell her I’ll be along in a little while.”

  After finishing his morning meal, the lawman visited the Bonanza and interviewed the harassed Anna from the other side of her closed door. She was still abed and in no mood to endure an interrogation.

  “I can’t identify them, Marshal Fames. They wore hoods. Yes, they did take something—the map my father gave me.”

  “Jordy had a map?”

  “Showing a safe route to Moon Mountain.”

  “But—for gosh sakes, Miss Anna ...!”

  “I know it sounds crazy, Marshal, but I believe what Dad told me. He broke the secret of Moon Mountain and mapped his route—and now the map is g
one.”

  “That’s all you can tell me?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Bennett tells me you parlayed quite a spell with Valentine and Emerson.”

  “We talked a while. Is there a law against that?”

  She sounded edgy, close to hysteria. Fames shrugged resignedly, and told her, “You’d better get some more sleep, Miss Anna.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do,” she retorted.

  Within a few minutes of quitting the saloon, the boss-lawman was conferring with his chief deputy on the law office porch. Stabile lent an attentive ear and grinned inwardly. Every facet of his plan was falling neatly into position.

  “Old Jordy,” he suggested, “must’ve shot off his mouth. Well, she wouldn’t be the first prospector to make that mistake.”

  “There’s a tie-up, I reckon,” mused Fames. “Jordy’s killers—and the jaspers that stole the map from Anna. Same bunch.”

  “They won’t be easy to find,” opined Stabile. “Probably putting a lot of miles between themselves and Blanco Roca by now.”

  “Keep your eyes peeled anyway,” ordered Fames.

  “I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” Stabile promised.

  Bowes and his friends, he guessed, would sleep late this morning. They were creatures of habit. Around mid-morning, he would find them at the High Strike, the small bar downtown, their regular haunt. There was ample time for setting up his plan of attack.

  At a quarter to ten, when he spotted the three hardcases entering the High Strike, he quit that area fast and began a brief search for his colleagues. Deputies Paulson and Meyers, the inseparables, were lounging in the shade outside a feed and grain store. He squatted beside them, lit a cigar.

  “You heard about what happened at the Bonanza last night?” he asked.

  “Why, sure,” grinned Robbie. “And I wish to heck I’d been there to see it!”

  “Me too,” chuckled Brad. “I hear tell Larry and Stretch lit into Big Red and his pards—and beat the innards out of ’em.”

  “I’m talking about something a sight more important,” drawled Stabile. “Didn’t Corey tell you? Anna Layton was robbed.”

  “Yeah.” Robbie nodded and frowned. “The marshal told us.”

  “Couple jaspers in hoods.” Brad grimaced in disgust. “Threatened her with a knife, they did, and stole some kind of map off her. Real brave hombres.” He dug out his makings, began building a smoke. “I’d sure admire to get my hands on any hombre that’d treat a woman that way.”

  “Itching to spread your wings, huh, Brad?” prodded Stabile.

  “Seven months I’ve been a deputy—in a mighty rough town,” complained Brad, “and never yet arrested nothin’ but cardsharps and drunks. Just once, I’d admire to nail me a killer.”

  “Well …” Stabile dribbled smoke through his nostrils, frowned towards the downtown area, “that’s why I came looking for you boys. I’ve been watching you, and you handle yourselves good. Far as I’m concerned, you’re ready to tangle with the worst of the bad ones.”

  “Wade,” prodded Robbie, “what’s on your mind?”

  “I’m thinking about Russ Bowes and his sidekicks,” said Stabile.

  “Bad medicine,” opined Robbie. “I wouldn’t trust ’em any further than I could throw Jake Grant’s anvil.”

  “It’s likely,” confided Stabile, “that Bowes and his pards are the hombres that robbed Anna Layton—and that means they likely knifed old Jordy as well.”

  “Hell!” frowned Brad.

  “I’m playing a hunch,” explained Stabile. “A few minutes back, I saw Bowes in the High Strike. He was showing something to Dixon and Flegg. Now I could be wrong—but it looked like a map. Some coincidence, huh? Not enough to arrest ’em on, but ...”

  “But,” growled Brad, “we could force ’em to answer a few straight questions.”

  “I was gonna handle it by myself,” muttered Stabile. “Then I remembered how you boys have been itching for a chance to prove your mettle. Well—here it is. I’m gonna let you side me on this deal.”

  “Now you’re talkin’!” breathed Brad.

  “Easy, boy,” cautioned Robbie. “Let’s not go off half-cocked.”

  “Easy be damned!” retorted Brad. “If that Bowes hombre as much as throws me a mean look, I’ll blow his head off—so help me!” He got to his feet, eyed Stabile impatiently. “Well? What’re we waitin’ for?”

  “If Bowes has a map,” warned Robbie, “it don’t have to be old Jordy’s.”

  “We can still force him to show it,” Stabile pointed out. “When you’re investigating a murder, you don’t have to beg pardon of the likes of Russ Bowes. All right ...” He rose up, gave his gunbelt a hitch, “… let’s go.”

  Stabile halted the eager youngsters some twenty yards from the small saloon.

  “Better play it smart from here on,” he advised. “Robbie—you stay by the entrance. They’ll be eating breakfast at the table just beyond the batwings. Brad ...”

  “Let me brace ’em!” begged Brad. “No sense to pussyfootin’ around. I’ll go right in there and challenge Bowes to show his map, and ...”

  “All right, all right,” nodded Stabile. “And I’ll be covering you. There’s a side window. I can get a bead on them from there.”

  “You think they’ll throw down on us?” blinked Robbie.

  “With that kind of scum,” shrugged Stabile, “you never can tell. Better to be sure than sorry. If one of ’em makes a wrong move, you’ll just have to move a mite faster. Protect yourselves—savvy?”

  “You betcha,” grinned Brad. “I ain’t about to be cut off in my prime.”

  “Well …” Robbie frowned towards the saloon and dropped a hand on his holster, “… let’s get on with it.”

  He followed Brad Paulson onto the saloon porch. Stabile walked softly into the alley, crept to the side window and unholstered his Colt. Edging an eye above the window-ledge, he spotted the three seated hardcases. They still occupied the table near the door, and were making their way through platters of ham and eggs. The only other occupant was a bald-headed barkeep, swamping the floor behind his counter.

  Gun in hand, Brad shouldered the batwings open and strutted to the seated men, all of whom eyed him blankly. Robbie hovered by the batwings, watching anxiously. Bowes’ jaw sagged, as the bumptious Brad drawled his challenge. “You’re totin’ a map, Bowes. Dig it out—muy pronto.”

  Dixon and Flegg traded quick glances. Flegg twisted in his chair, dropped his fork. Bowes swallowed, glowered at his challenger, and asked, “What the hell d’you think you’re talkin’ about?”

  “No back-talk, Bowes,” growled Brad. “I happen to know you’re totin’ a map.”

  “And—if I am?” countered Bowes. “What’s it to you?”

  “You want me to spell it out for you?” grinned Brad. “Somebody knifed old Jordy Cabot. Later on, they stole a map from Anna Layton at the Bonanza. If that’s the map you’re totin’, Bowes, you’re in bad trouble. If it ain’t the same map, you got nothin’ to lose by lettin’ me see it.”

  Bowes blinked wildly at his sidekicks.

  “Proddy little sonofagun,” fumed Dixon.

  “The map, Bowes,” snapped Brad.

  “Take him!” gasped Bowes.

  He emptied his holster fast, but no faster than Deputy Paulson’s finger could squeeze trigger. The Colt roared and Bowes pitched to the floor. Flegg leapt to his feet with his naked .45 pointed at Brad. From behind the batwings, Robbie cut loose. Simultaneously, Stabile opened fire, and what followed was chaos. As Flegg went down, mortally wounded, his gun belched flame and Robbie reeled from the porch with his left arm bloody. The agile Brad had thrown himself to the floor and was emptying his Colt at Bowes and Dixon, shooting wildly. From the window, Stabile was triggering with deadly precision and accuracy, ensuring that the hardcases would never linger to offer dying statements.

  Huddled below the steps, cursing the agony of his wound, Deputy Meyers was su
ddenly aware that the shooting had ceased. He holstered his six-shooter, lurched to his feet with his right hand clamped to his arm-wound, and climbed the steps. As he stumbled through the batwings, Brad resumed the perpendicular and cheerfully remarked, “You look gosh-awful, Robbie.”

  “How in tarnation would I look?” raged Robbie. “I got a forty-five slug in my damn-blasted wing!”

  Stabile climbed through the window, went to the sprawled bodies. The bullet triggered by Robbie had been more than enough to silence Flegg, but Stabile had made doubly sure—and had repeated the process with Bowes and Dixon.

  “All dead?” demanded Brad.

  “Dead as they’ll ever be,” Stabile assured him.

  The rogue lawman dropped to one knee beside the body of Russ Bowes and began checking pockets. Quickly, he located the map. As he exhibited it to the other deputies, he nodded solemnly and asserted, “That clinches it.”

  “Same map stolen from Miss Anna?” demanded Brad.

  “It’s got Jordy’s name on it,” muttered Stabile. “I reckon she’ll identify it—so now we know who knifed old Jordy.”

  Seven – Too Many Shocks

  Within the quarter-hour, Deputy Meyers was resting easy on the law office couch, his left arm encased in the bandages applied by Dr. Nathan Kyle. Marshal Fames had listened eagerly to Stabile’s report of the gunfight, a report substantiated by the younger deputies, and had pronounced himself satisfied.

  “I should have thought of Bowes and his pards,” he reflected. “Renegades, no-accounts—all three of ’em. Easy to guess what happened. Old Jordy got to bragging, and they were listening. Trust Bowes not to miss such a chance.”

  “I reckon Anna Layton can identify this map,” offered Stabile.

  “Reckon she will,” agreed Fames. He passed the map to Deputy Paulson. “Brad, you take this over to Anna Layton at the Bonanza, and tell her what happened.”

  “Let her keep it?” asked Brad, as he thrust the map into a vest pocket.

  “Sure,” nodded Fames. “It’s rightly her property. And Brad—talk gentle. She’s in mighty bad shape.”