Larry and Stretch 5

by Marshall Grover

  When the youthful deputy entered the Bonanza, he found the blonde woman seated alone at a table by a front window. Toby Jaeger had brought her a tempting breakfast—ham, eggs, hot biscuits with all the trimmings. Brad’s mouth watered, but Anna was making no impression on the food, merely prodding at it with a fork. Mindful of his chief’s warning, Brad chose his words with care.

  She hung on his every word. Then, as he handed her the map, she nervously enquired, “Will this be the end of it then?”

  “Looks thataway to me, Miss Anna,” drawled Brad. “Take a look at the map. That the same map them hombres stole off you?”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “This is it.”

  “So it’s all over,” he shrugged. “It had to be Bowes and his pards that bushwhacked your pappy. Well, if it’s any satisfaction to you, they didn’t get away with it. You got your map back—and they’re gravebait.” He got to his feet, donned his Stetson and bade her farewell. “Be seein’ you, Miss Anna.”

  Deep in thought, she watched him amble to the batwings. As he was about to move out, he stood to one side, making way for the tall man now entering. Pete Davidson, manager of the Mid-Town Hotel, was a passably good-looking man in the late thirties, blond, with sensitive features, clear gray eyes and unassuming demeanor. He wore a town suit of gray broadcloth and leaned heavily on a cane. The limp was a legacy of a near-fatal accident that had occurred some years ago. Before accepting his present position, he had been a prospector.

  And, before the coming of the arrogantly-handsome Chip Layton, Davidson had been Anna’s most faithful admirer.

  “’Morning, Pete,” she greeted. “I haven’t seen you for a few days.”

  “News doesn’t always travel fast in Blanco Roca,” he muttered. “Or maybe I spend too much time indoors. Anyway, I didn’t hear of your father’s death until this morning. I’m sorry, Anna.”

  “You never met him,” she reflected.

  “No,” he frowned.

  “I suppose you’d have liked him,” she shrugged. “You’re the same kind of man. He was always prospecting—always hunting the pot of gold ...”

  “I’m not like that anymore,” he sadly reminded her. “A lame man can’t travel the mountains.” His gaze dropped to her breakfast. “You aren’t eating—and that’s no surprise. I heard about the other business, too. You were attacked and robbed? Damn it all, Anna, it doesn’t seem natural for one woman to have so much trouble, and all at the same time.”

  “Don’t give me too much sympathy, Pete,” she sighed. “I’m apt to break down and weep.” She summoned up a wistful smile, placed a hand on his. “Loyal, faithful Pete—still wanting to pick up the pieces.”

  “I haven’t changed,” he humbly assured her. “This’d be a bad time for me to propose again—so I won’t—but don’t forget my offer still holds good. When you feel like quitting the Bonanza, don’t forget about me. I don’t earn high wages managing the hotel. You could likely do better for yourself, and yet ...”

  “And yet,” said Anna, “many’s the time I’ve regretted what happened, Pete. You’re the man I should’ve married. You’re solid and reliable ...”

  She broke off, hastily averting her eyes. He frowned at the hand resting on his.

  “Anna—your nerves are all shot. Go back to bed. I’ll have Doc Kyle look in on you, and ...”

  “Later, maybe,” she frowned. “Not right now. There’s something I have to do.” Abruptly, she rose from her chair.

  “Anything I can do ...” he began.

  “Your riding days are over,” she mused. “You can’t sit a saddle. Even travelling by wagon would be painful for you. That’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Well—sure,” he nodded. “But why do you ask? Is it important to you?”

  “You’ve had the experience,” she said. “Prospecting, I mean. You’d know how to follow a map.”

  “Map?” He raised his eyebrows. “What map?”

  “It’s my inheritance,” she quietly explained. “Dad came to see me last night, and told me he’d found a way into Moon Mountain.” His expression became dubious, and she hastened to assure him, “I didn’t dare believe him at first. I was as skeptical as you, Pete.”

  “But now?” he challenged.

  “Now,” said Anna, “I have to stake my whole future on it. There’s nothing else for me, Pete. Just—just dad’s map—and an even chance that he really did find the Moon Mountain silver-lode.” She patted his shoulder. “I have to go now, Pete.”

  “Come visit with me at the hotel later,” he begged.

  “Yes,” she promised. “I’ll do that, because I’ll need your advice.”

  She hurried across to the entrance and moved out into the street. As she turned towards the Bugle Call office, a wave of nausea assailed her. Her vision blurred and she was conscious of a ringing sensation in her ears. Her heart seemed to pound at double its normal rate. She struggled to regain control of herself. What had Pete said? Her nerves were all shot—and no mistake.

  But the big danger had passed, of that she was certain. Her father’s murderers could menace her no longer. They had been punished for their wanton slaying of a helpless old man. Now, she could retrieve the all-important shawl. Perspiration beaded on her brow as she crossed the alley and climbed to the porch of the newspaper office. The shawl loomed in her mind, larger than life, exaggerated out of all proportion.

  So far, it had been a busy morning for Smokey Leonard. After breakfast, he had installed his tall guests in chairs beside his desk and had begun extracting details of their most recent adventure, while Little Esther attended her household chores and danced willing attendance on the sociable Sam. While thus engaged, he had been informed of the gunfight at the High Strike. The news was delivered by the High Strike barkeep, on his way to summon Doc Kyle. Smokey had scuttled downtown and, within twenty minutes, had interviewed all the lawmen involved and had written a five hundred-word report.

  “Special edition this week,” he jubilantly announced, as he returned to the office. “Shot by shot account of the High Strike gunfight on Page One, and a personal Larry and Stretch story on Page Two. By golly, this issue will be a sell-out!”

  “Who shot who?” Larry casually enquired.

  “Our deputies,” grinned Smokey, “tangled with the three hardcases who killed Jordy Cabot. Anna Layton can stop worrying now. Her map has been returned, and ...” He broke off, stared towards the street entrance. Anna was moving in quickly. Her face was deathly pale and damp with perspiration. Her eyes gleamed with an unnatural light, as she advanced on Larry. Simultaneously, the newspaperman’s wife was descending the stairs, frowning curiously at the blonde woman.

  “Well, howdy, Miss Anna ...” began Larry.

  “The shawl!” she panted. “I want it back!”

  “Why, sure,” he frowned.

  “The baby’s asleep,” offered Esther. “I wrapped him in the shawl for his morning nap.” She smiled placatingly at the other woman. “He’ll be awake in a little while. Meantime, perhaps you’d like to ...?”

  “I can't wait!” cried Anna. “I must have it—at once!” Esther traded startled frowns with her husband, turned and hurried to the stairs. In vain, Stretch tried to persuade their agitated visitor to accept a chair. She paced, muttering incoherently, gesturing wildly. Smokey shook his head in wonderment. Then, when Esther rejoined them, with the shawl draped over an arm, Anna rushed at her and snatched at it. Esther’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  “Mine!” gasped Anna. “I lost everything—but not this! It’s all I have left ...!”

  Her voice rose hysterically. She was hugging the shawl to her breast, half-laughing, half-crying, and it was left to Larry to subdue her. His hard slap silenced her. She recoiled. As he reached for her, she dropped the shawl and collapsed into his arms. He raised her, began toting her towards the stairs.

  “Take her to the bedroom,” ordered Esther. “I’ll be right behind you.” To the gaping Smokey, she suggested, “You’d bett
er find Doc Kyle.”

  It took the newspaperman less than five minutes to locate the medico. The round-bellied healer waddled into the office with Smokey in tow.

  “Anna again, huh?” he asked Esther. “Well, this is no surprise.”

  “In the bedroom,” offered Esther. “She just—just lies there—staring at the ceiling—weeping. It’s a wonder the baby didn’t awake.”

  “You folks stay down here,” ordered Kyle. As he took to the stairs, he told Esther. “I could use some coffee.”

  “It’ll be ready when you come down,” she promised.

  She hurried into her kitchen. Kyle disappeared up the stairs. Shrugging philosophically, Smokey gestured for the Texans to reseat themselves.

  “We might as well continue with your story of the Happy Rock affair,” he suggested, “while Doc is tending Anna.”

  “Save it awhile, Smokey,” frowned Larry. Without thinking, he picked up the shawl and tossed it onto the desk. “You’ve had us gabbin’ all mornin’.”

  “The day is young,” grinned Smokey.

  Larry chain-smoked and watched the stairs pensively. After awhile, the medico descended to join them. Esther came in from the kitchen to distribute mugs of coffee.

  “Well?” she eyed Kyle enquiringly.

  “That unhappy female,” sighed Kyle, “is balanced on the very edge of a complete nervous collapse. It’ll be touch and go.”

  “She likely didn’t sleep at all last night,” mused Larry.

  “Woman in her condition,” said Kyle, “needs all the sleep she can get. Well, I’ve administered a strong sedative. That’s the best I can do for her right now.”

  “How long ...?” began Esther.

  “She won’t wake till mid-afternoon,” predicted Kyle. “When she does, call me. I’ll take her back to the Bonanza, make her eat something and then give her more sedation.” He finished his coffee, got to his feet. “Peeked at the little feller while I was upstairs. One baby looks the same as any other to a doctor, but that one sure is a looker. Probably grow up to be a mighty handsome boy.” Only then did it occur to him to ask, “Whose kid is he?”

  “He belongs to Stretch and me—kind of,” frowned Larry.

  “What Larry means,” offered Stretch, “is he ain’t really ours at all.”

  “He’s ours,” said Larry, “until we find out who really owns him.”

  Kyle blinked perplexedly. “Where’d you find him?”

  “We didn’t find him,” said Larry. “He was given to us.”

  “By a bunch of Injuns,” added Stretch.

  The doctor flinched, shook his head, then shrugged and mumbled, “Well—ask a silly question …”

  He nodded farewell to the Leonards and waddled away. Larry reached for his Stetson.

  “Where we headed?” demanded Stretch.

  “After the sawbones,” drawled Larry. “I just had me a thought.”

  “Is it a secret?” asked Smokey.

  “Time’ll tell,” grunted Larry. “Tell me somethin’, Smokey. Is Kyle the only doctor hereabouts?”

  “I’m afraid so,” frowned Smokey. “And he’s overworked. We could use a whole team of physicians in Blanco Roca. But why do you ask?”

  “It’s somethin’ I should’ve thought of before,” said Larry. “A doctor keeps records, like just now when he had to write death certificates. Wouldn’t he have a record of births as well? Sure—and maybe he can give us a lead as to who bore Sam. Anyway, it’s worth tryin’.”

  They moved out into the street. Not surprisingly, Doc Kyle was steering a course for the Bonanza. They glimpsed him disappearing through the batwings. By the time they were moving into the barroom, the medico was toting a short shot of whisky to a corner table. He nodded to them, and reminded them, “It’s been quite a morning. I need something stronger than Little Esther’s coffee.”

  “Fetch a couple beers,” Larry told Stretch.

  He joined Kyle at the corner table and put his question. Stretch arrived with a couple of large flagons in time to hear the medico’s reply.

  “We don’t have a Public Records office here in Blanco Roca. Of course, I have to issue certificates of birth and death, and file them with the marshal.”

  The drifters raised their flagons, half-emptied them, set them down again and began rolling cigarettes.

  “You asked us how we came by Sam,” said Larry. “What we told you is the gospel truth. We really did get him from the Injuns.” He went on to describe that nocturnal meeting with the Piutes and to repeat Gatamano’s explanation of the situation. “That was around ten months back,” he told Kyle. “And it’s a safe bet Sam was born right here in Blanco Roca—which means you’d have some kind of record. Right, Doc?”

  “I’d have a record,” countered Kyle, “if I delivered the baby.”

  “Well,” challenged Larry, “don’t you deliver all the young ’uns in this territory?”

  “As a rule, sure,” nodded Kyle. “But I can’t help you in this case. The boy looks to be ten months old—twelve at most. Not many women hereabouts, Valentine, so it’s easy enough for me to remember all the childbirths.”

  “And,” prodded Larry.

  “And,” shrugged Kyle, “I can account for every baby born in Blanco Roca over the past two-three years.”

  “No gaps in your memory?” frowned Larry.

  “Nary a gap.” Kyle grinned wryly. “I delivered all those brats—so why wouldn't I remember them? As for Sam, there’s nothing I can tell you. You claim he must’ve been born hereabouts. I say no.” His face clouded over. He took a stiff pull at his whisky, grimaced. “I’ve attended every mother—except one. Great tragedy, that. Can’t get it out of my mind. A good midwife is reliable enough—but a woman like Amelia Torrance ...” He shook his head ruefully. “Sometimes I wonder if Anna’s child might have survived, if I’d been on hand.”

  “You weren’t there,” asked Larry, “to help Anna?” He scratched a match, lit his own cigarette and Stretch’s. Through the smoke-haze, he eyed Kyle enquiringly.

  Kyle explained, “I was out of town. Of all times, I had to be tending a fractured leg at the Calaveras diggings, right when Anna needed me most. An efficient midwife might’ve made all the difference. Of course, Anna was in a bad way. Only a short time before, she’d gotten word of her husband’s death.”

  “How long ago did it happen?” demanded Larry.

  “Ten months approximately.” Kyle shook a warning finger at him. “But don’t jump to conclusions, Valentine. Anna’s child was stillborn.”

  “And you’re frettin’ about the midwife,” accused Larry. “Why?”

  “Because,” sighed Kyle, “Amelia Torrance is a well-meaning bungler from way back. A good woman, with good intentions. Sure, you wouldn’t find as kindly a female in all of Blanco Roca.”

  “But?” prodded Larry.

  “She’s a bungler,” Kyle sourly repeated. “It’s a wonder Deacon Torrance still has his sanity. I guess, being a dedicated preacher of the gospel, he has more than his share of patience. Well—he sure needs it.”

  “She the preacher’s wife, huh?” grunted Stretch.

  “A do-gooder,” muttered Kyle. “A ministering angel in black bombazine and whalebone corsets.” He shuddered. “What a woman! Two years back, she volunteered to lend me a hand, after a bunch of miners damn near wrecked this very saloon. Quite a ruckus that was. Two fractured jaws, three cases of concussion and three broken arms. Well, damned if Amelia didn’t take it on herself to tie splints on one of those broken arms—and what do you suppose happened?”

  “She set the wrong arm?” grinned Stretch.

  “The woman’s a fool,” nodded Kyle, “but don’t tell anybody I said so. She means well, and maybe Anna wasn’t her first childbirth case. I only wish I could be sure.”

  “But you can’t be sure, huh?” mused Larry.

  “To the best of my knowledge,” Kyle sadly confided, “Amelia knows absolutely nothing about the process of childbirth. She has
no kids of her own. No experience ...” He shook his head. “It’s a worrying thought, Valentine.”

  Larry finished his beer, propped his elbows on the tabletop and his chin in his hands. Pensively, he asked, “What kind of a woman would give a white baby to an Injun?”

  “If you’re thinking of Amelia—forget it,” advised Kyle.

  “She sounds plumb loco, the way you talk of her,” said Stretch.”

  “All of a sudden,” drawled Larry, “I’m interested in Anna’s baby. Who else was with her when it happened?”

  “Only Amelia,” frowned Kyle. “I asked Eddie Bennett. It happened right here at the Bonanza. Anna was confined to her room, of course. The barkeep heard her crying out, so he came to my place to fetch me. I was gone.”

  “And then?”

  “The barkeep ran into Amelia. Amelia insisted on helping. She came back here, locked herself in Anna’s room—and that was that.”

  “How about the kid’s grave?”

  “Grave?”

  “Sure. The grave. There’d have to be a grave.”

  The medico finished his drink, blinked uncertainly at the Texans, explored his pockets and found a cigar. Larry gave him a light. He grunted his thanks, and reflected, “As you say, there’d have to be a grave. It’s something I hadn’t thought about.”

  “Who took the dead baby away?” Larry demanded.

  “Amelia—I think.” Kyle glanced towards the bar, raised his voice. “Toby. Two more beers for our friends from Texas—and another short shot for me.”

  Jaeger brought the drinks across to them, nodded affably to the drifters and bent an ear to Kyle’s query.

  “Sure, Doc, I remember that night. How could I forget it?”

  “You recall what happened afterwards?” prodded Kyle. “I mean—after it was all over?”

  “Yeah.” The barkeep sighed heavily. “Remember it real clear. The parson’s woman came downstairs with Anna’s baby wrapped in a blanket—told me and Eddie as how the kid was born dead. She said Anna was sleepin’ and we shouldn’t try to talk to her now.”

  “And the kid?” frowned Larry.

  “Well,” shrugged Jaeger, “Amelia said as how she’d arrange the funeral.”