“Try the Happy Sal Bar,” offered Johnson. “Most of the soldiers are up there.”
“Thank you.”
Captain Kerwin turned to leave, then paused for a keen appraisal of the tall hombres now emerging from the cellblock. The Texans wore many a battle-scar, but looked tough enough for an immediate resumption of hostilities—as formidable a duo as he had ever seen. They loafed across to Johnson’s desk, eyed him enquiringly.
“What’s the beef?” demanded Larry.
“Orders from the army,” frowned Johnson. “I have to turn you loose.”
“You must be drunk or somethin’,” decided Larry. “The army never does us no favors.”
“I assure you, gentlemen,” offered Kerwin, “the army deeply regrets this—uh—misunderstanding.”
Larry gave him a casual once-over, and told him, “We didn’t start that ruckus.”
“We never do,” Stretch virtuously declared. “Never start fights no how. It’s always the other feller.”
“Even so,” Larry told Kerwin, “I never expected Boyle’d admit he jumped us.”
“Sergeant Boyle,” explained Kerwin, “didn’t actually admit to being in the wrong. There was a reliable witness.” He showed them a companionable grin. Being the sociable kind, they returned it. “As a matter of fact, I have a shrewd notion Judge Pyle was the witness.”
“Here’s your hardware,” announced Johnson, as he dumped their coiled gunbelts on the desk.
They helped themselves to their weapons, strapped them on, donned their hats. Stretch nonchalantly remarked, “I guess the old colonel just can’t abide for us Texans to be stuck in jail.”
“The colonel’s orders were very clear,” Kerwin assured them. “I assume he’s already acquainted with you?”
The drifters traded glances. The idea came to Larry then. All of a sudden, it was patently obvious that this handsome captain knew nothing of his commanding officer’s aversion to the Lone Star Hellions. And Kerwin’s ignorance might just come in handy. After all, they had to see the colonel, had to make some attempt at reasoning with him regarding his potential treatment of the Ute problem.
With Kerwin, they moved out onto the porch. Larry dug an elbow into Stretch’s ribs, as a signal that he should remain silent. Then, casually, he declared, “It was right friendly of the colonel—sendin’ you in to get us set free.”
“No more than you’re entitled to, I’m sure,” drawled the captain.
“Least we can do,” opined Larry, “is ride out and tell him thanks. Only—uh—I guess we’d never get past the guards.”
“Well ...” frowned Kerwin.
“Unless we had a pass,” suggested Larry.
“No difficulty there,” smiled Kerwin. “I’d be glad to oblige.”
“We’d sure be obliged,” said Larry. He heaved a sigh, grinned affectionately. “Seems a long time since we last said ‘howdy’ to the colonel.”
Kerwin produced a pad and pencil, scribbled a few lines, added his signature, ripped off the page and handed it to Larry, who warmly thanked him. The captain then hustled away in search of the Happy Sal Bar, while the grinning hell-raisers dawdled downtown to the boardinghouse to fetch their horses.
“Ain’t that somethin’?” guffawed Stretch. “You and me—with a genuine pass to get us into that doggone army camp! When old Stone-Face sees us, he’ll like to die of heart-failure!”
“Good riddance,” Larry retorted. “I got no sympathy for a hombre that hates Texans.”
They had almost reached the boardinghouse when Larry glanced back over his shoulder.
“Whatsamatter?” demanded Stretch.
“There he is again,” observed Larry.
“There’s who again?” prodded Stretch.
“Handsome Milty,” frowned Larry, as they continued walking. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but that scribblin’ fool’s been doggin’ us all over. Every place we go, he ain’t far behind us.”
“What d’you suppose he wants?” wondered Stretch.
“Somethin’ to write about, I reckon,” shrugged Larry. “You know how it’s been, any other time we ran into a newspaperman. They figure, if they keep taggin’ us close, somethin’s bound to happen.”
“How could they get such a notion,” mused Stretch, “’bout a couple harmless hombres like us?”
In the stable behind the boardinghouse, they readied Larry’s sorrel and Stretch’s pinto for the ride to the army camp. A short time later, while they were riding north along Main, Larry threw another glance over his shoulder and spotted the familiar figure of Milty Ricks darting into a livery.
“There he goes again,” he observed. “Five’ll get you ten he’s gonna tag us clear out to the flats.”
They moved out of town and made the ride to Pike Flats in double-quick time. When a sentry dropped to one knee and aimed his carbine at them, Larry wasn’t really surprised. They could expect no better, he conceded, from the men of the Ninth, men with whom they had traded blows on more than one occasion. The leveled carbine demanded diplomacy. They reined up, and the sentry yelled:
“Turn them hosses and hightail it! I know you jaspers! Valentine and Emerson. You try sneakin’ into this camp and you’ll end up dead!”
“Don’t see as how you can refuse to let us through,” drawled Larry. He produced the slip given him by the captain, flicked it so that it fluttered to the guard’s feet. “Read it and weep, soldier. Signed pass from Captain Kerwin.” Warily, the guard picked up the paper. He was familiar with Kerwin’s handwriting, and had to admit that the pass was genuine.
“Damned if I savvy this,” he growled. “The captain says as how you gotta have safe-conduct to the colonel—and that’s crazy. The colonel’ll spit blood when he sees you.” To this dire prediction, Larry philosophically remarked, “That’s a chance we just have to take.”
As they walked their mounts past the sentry, he retrieved the pass and restored it to his pocket. They jogged between the rows of tents, followed by the resentful eyes of N.C.O.s and troopers with whom they had tangled on other occasions. In the heart of the hastily-established camp, they came to the administration section, where the colonel’s tent had been rigged. They swung down, tethered the horses and invited themselves inside.
Kerwin hadn’t yet returned. A youthful corporal examined the pass, bade them wait a moment, then thrust a flap to one side and moved through to the rear. Instead of waiting, they followed, dawdling unhurriedly into Stone’s private quarters. The colonel stood with legs braced, as though in danger of swooning. He held the pass in trembling fingers, glaring at it, while the startled corporal instinctively recoiled from him.
“A signed pass ...?” He shook his head incredulously. “Safe conduct for—for Valentine and Emerson? Kerwin must be out of his mind!” He balled the paper, flung it from him. His eyes, dilated with rage, focused on his tall visitors. “You!” he breathed.
“Us,” nodded Larry.
“Howdy, Colonel suh,” grinned Stretch.
The corporal hastily retreated. Stone made a gasping sound, flopped into his chair. The Texans loafed across to him, helped themselves to cigars from the box on the table that served as the colonel’s desk. Stretch supplied a match. They lit up. Stone half-closed his eyes, trembled a few more moments, slowly began the mammoth task of regaining his composure. To the now-invisible corporal, he yelled:
“Summon the corporal of the guard! Have him check the flag!”
The corporal reappeared, looking perplexed. “Sir?”
“The flag!” barked Stone. “Make sure Old Glory is still on the pole. Last time these fools invaded my headquarters they stole our flag and ran up the Confederate rag in its place!”
For the second time, the corporal beat a hasty retreat. Larry reproachfully assured Stone, “We ain’t touched your almighty flag.”
“I could have you arrested here and now!” panted Stone. “At Fort Trumble, in Nevada, you committed an act of treason. You removed our flag, replaced it with the
banner of the Confederacy. The battalion flag was eventually located—nailed to the wall of the officers’ latrine! In Arizona Territory, one year ago, you stole our paymaster’s wagon ...!”
“You know the truth about that,” frowned Larry. “It was just a trick to bring you and your whole outfit to Canon Pacifico—so you could wipe out El Lobo and all his throat-cuttin’ bandidos. You got all the credit for that deal, Colonel, so I reckon we’re about even.”
“You—you dare to enter my private quarters ...!” blustered Stone.
“We ain’t trespassin’,” Larry reminded him. “Read that pass again.”
“That fool Kerwin ...!” fumed Stone.
“No use blamin’ him.” Despite the colonel’s far from sociable attitude, Larry was still prepared to be diplomatic. “He likely don’t know you’re a Texas-hater. And we had a damn good reason for comin’ here to see you. Somebody has to put you wise to a thing or two.”
“You have the audacity ...” blinked Stone, “the infernal nerve to appoint yourself my adviser?”
“You’re in new territory, and only just arrived,” Larry pointed out. “I don’t know how much Marty Lunt told you, but ...”
“Who in blue blazes,” challenged Stone, “is Marty Lunt?”
“The Indian Agent hereabouts,” said Larry.
Stone got a grip on himself. His hand didn’t tremble, as it moved to the cigar box. The obliging Stretch stepped forward, igniting a match on his thumbnail, holding the flame to the colonel’s Long 9. Stone puffed a blue cloud, eyed Larry sternly and opened his mouth to voice another challenge. Larry beat him to it.
“The Utes haven’t yet started a ruckus,” he told Stone, “but the citizens figure it’s only a matter of time, and maybe they’re right. Maybe Little Cloud will come a’raidin’. Well, if he does, it won’t be because he don’t honor the treaty. It’ll be because a bunch of white renegades have prodded him into fightin’.”
“What—how ...?” Stone gestured impatiently.
“Marty Lunt told us the whole score,” said Larry. “I’m only passin’ it on to you so you’ll know whichaway the wind blows in Doone County. Whites have been fazin’ the Utes, Colonel. Ute women have been molested and huntin’ parties sniped at. Little while back, these renegades jumped a young buck and lynched him. Now I’m askin’ you, man to man, d’you expect the old chief to hold still for that?”
Stone leaned back in his chair, smiled coldly. “You expect me to believe,” he drawled, “that whites have been committing atrocities against the Utes?”
Larry’s jaw jutted aggressively, as he declared, “You don’t have to take our words for it. Rig yourself a peace-flag and go parlay with Little Cloud.”
“I certainly have no intention,” retorted Stone, “of bandying words with an ignorant savage. As for the agent, I understand his wife is a Ute. Obviously, he’s prejudiced.”
“Now, look ...!” began Larry.
“I’m not interested in anything else you have to say, Valentine,” growled Stone. He pointed with his cigar. “It’s common knowledge that the Ute chief made threats against the people of Doone County, and that is why I’m here—to protect the local citizenry by every means in my power.”
“You’ll clean up this lousy mess a sight faster,” scowled Larry, “if you run down those renegades.”
“I’m satisfied that the local law authority would have apprehended and punished the men you speak of,” frowned Stone, “if the position were as critical as you claim.”
“What does it take to make you see daylight?” wondered Larry. Diplomacy? He didn’t know the meaning of the word, now that he was up against Stone’s stubborn streak. “What you call the local law authority is a sheriff and a deputy—just two men! How in hell can two men patrol this whole blame county, and Doone City as well? Get wise, Colonel. Stay away from Artega Springs. The Utes are hoppin’ mad and can’t take any more. If they spot just one trooper ...!”
“The Artega Springs reservation,” snapped Stone, “is within the jurisdiction of Doone County—and therefore part of my area of operations. Any Indians found straying, from the reservation will be taken into custody.”
“You arrest just one Ute,” warned Larry, “and you’ll be up to your Yankee ears in a shootin’ war!”
“Runt ...” grunted Stretch.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Larry sighed heavily. “He’s just as mule-headed as ever. Never gonna listen to hoss-sense.”
“This is a new venture for the famous Texas Hell-Raisers,” sneered the colonel. “Valentine and Emerson—friends of the red man.”
“How long would we have to stay in jail,” Stretch asked Larry, “for bustin’ the jaw of a colonel?”
“Years, I reckon,” muttered Larry. “They likely figure this colonel is a mighty important hombre.” He added, sourly, “But I’ll be damned if I savvy why.”
A nerve twitched at Stone’s temple. His chair almost overturned as he sprang to his feet.
“I’ve heard enough!” he gasped.
“That goes double for us,” growled Larry.
On that belligerent note, the hellions turned and trudged from the tent. And, within minutes of their leaving, Colonel Stone was feverishly issuing orders. Should the Texans ever again invade this camp—with or without a signed pass—they would be arrested on sight.
As they rode towards the sentry, they saw Milty again. The self-styled literary genius was sitting a hired bay and arguing bitterly with the guard.
“Press, man, Press! Doesn’t the word mean anything to you? I demand to see your commanding officer!”
“Colonel’s in no mood for tradin’ gab with civilians,” announced the sentry. “Anyways, you don’t get by without a pass.”
“But I’m Milton Ricks!” protested Milty. He resorted to cajolery. “You know? The writer-fellow.”
“Turn that hoss and skedaddle,” ordered the guard.
“Listen to me, you Philistine!” raged Milty. “Valentine and Emerson are in conference with the colonel. I have to attend that conference on behalf of my paper, the Doone City Sentinel ...!”
His voice trailed off. Only now did he notice that the men he was speaking of were idling their mounts towards him.
“Mr. Valentine—Mr. Emerson ...!” began Milty.
“If you want to gab with us,” said Larry, “you better get that horse movin’.”
The Texans rode on. Milty hastily wheeled the bay, nudged it to a trot and caught up with them. His questions were blurted out thick and fast. What had been the purpose of their interview with the colonel? Was the colonel planning a full-scale patrol of the Artega Springs area? Did they intend offering their services as scouts for the army? Was the colonel an old friend of theirs, a cohort of their violent past?
The Texans traded mirthless grins. Larry shrugged nonchalantly, and said, “He’s no friend of ours and we don’t know what he’s apt to do—and you can’t make a story out of that.”
“I wrote a truly brilliant account of your fight with those soldiers this afternoon,” frowned Milty.
“That’s purty,” approved Stretch,
“But my editor consigned it to his waste-basket,” sighed Milty. “Confound the old fool. He accuses me of exaggerating the facts. Me! The most talented journalist in the entire country!”
“He ain’t exactly modest, is he now?” mused Stretch.
“Not so you’d notice,” said Larry.
It was getting close to suppertime when they returned to the boardinghouse. Milty was still with them, and Sadie was on the front porch, waving a glad greeting.
Six – The Wooing of Milty
The Texans doffed their Stetsons to their beautiful landlady, dismounted and prepared to lead their horses around back. Milty acknowledged Sadie’s warm welcome with a detached nod and made to move on.
“Please stay, Milty!” she called, as she hastily descended from the porch. Then, gathering her skirts, she hustled down to the front gate. The drifters paused to watch and l
isten. Milty was being invited to stay for supper. Well, maybe invitation wasn’t the right word for it. Sadie actually pleaded and, for a disquieting moment, Larry wondered if she would go down on her knees. “It’s beef-stew night at the Clifford boardinghouse. Do you realize how long it’s been since I first invited you to supper? And you promised to come, but never did. Please, Milty. You look so hungry—and my stew smells so good ...”
“When the creative urge is upon me,” Milty patiently countered, “food becomes unimportant.”
“Well—gosh ...!” She eyed him desperately. “You do have to eat—and why not here? You can hurry back to the office right after supper if you want.”
“She’s pushin’ too hard,” Larry quietly remarked.
“Ain’t it the truth?” agreed Stretch.
They went around back to the stable, off saddled their horses, watered and fed them, then bedded them for the night. When they went to the pump to wash up for supper, they found Milty there, drying his face and hands, running a comb through his hair.
“I seem to have been—uh—temporarily kidnapped,” he complained. “Miss Clifford insists I stay for supper. Confound the girl—she’s so infernally tenacious ...”
“Count yourself lucky,” growled Larry. He sniffed appreciatively at the appetizing aromas wafting from the kitchen. “She’s doin’ you a big favor.”
“And then some,” grunted Stretch. “Beef stew smells plumb elegant.”
“I suppose one must be gracious,” shrugged Milty. Somehow, both Texans resisted the impulse to administer a hard kick to the seat of Milty’s pants. He went into the house and, after completing their ablutions, they followed.
Throughout the meal, Sadie seemed incapable of holding her tongue. She had positioned Milty on her right side and was doing her utmost to draw him into conversation, but without success. And she tried everything. The current tension caused by the Indians’ threats of reprisal, the arrival of the Ninth Cavalry, the possibility of more cattle spreads being established in the county—and a great many other subjects, all of interest to the local citizenry, but of no concern to the aloof, self-opinionated newspaperman.
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