Larry and Stretch 4

by Marshall Grover

The towners reached the summit of the rise and turned their mounts. Grim-faced, they watched the start of that awe-inspiring spectacle. High and strident came the bugle-call. Out of the canyon moved the Ninth, gathering speed every twenty yards, line after line of them, with naked sabers pointed towards the green belt to the west. In the lead, the colonel was an impressive figure, urging his mount to break-neck speed. The plain echoed to the thunder of hooves, the war-whoops of the battle-seasoned veterans.

  McAdams swallowed a lump in his throat, and muttered, “I don’t hear shooting yet.”

  “Bet your boots the Utes are staked out in the brush,” growled McGreeley. “They’re waitin’ for the cavalry to come into range of their rifles. ’Bout halfway across should do it. Yep. That’s when you’ll hear Ute guns.”

  “I just hope the colonel knows what he’s doing,” fretted Johnson. “I ain’t saying the Utes deserve any quarter—but is this the way to handle it? Couple more minutes, and we’ll see a lot of empty saddles.”

  Coming up from the south, with the plain now in sight, Larry Valentine mouthed a savage Texas oath and urged the wagon-team to a final burst of speed. Minutes later, he brought the horses to a stumbling, panting halt. They had reached the end of the trail, where it cut onto the plain at the halfway mark. Stretch brought his pinto up level with the wagon seat.

  Milty’s eyes bulged. For the first time, he was viewing a headlong cavalry charge, a sight never to be forgotten. Wave after wave of blue-uniformed riders swept past the stalled wagon and on towards the west. The dust rose in thick, choking clouds.

  “It’s started!” he panted. “They’re attacking the reservation!”

  “It’s started,” nodded Larry. “But maybe it ain’t too late to stop ’em—before they get close enough for the Utes to open fire.”

  “You better be thinkin’ fast, runt,” growled Stretch. “Already got it figured,” Larry assured him. “I aim to move in between the cavalry and the reservation.”

  “Can’t be done,” frowned Stretch. “Too late for you to head ’em off.”

  “Can be done,” countered Larry. “I can get ahead of Stone, if you can stop their rush.”

  “I don’t think as fast as you, runt,” drawled Stretch. “You’ll have to explain me how.”

  “Find the bugler,” said Larry. “That’s how!”

  “Hey now!” grinned Stretch. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Get goin’,” ordered Larry.

  “Be seein’ ya,” chuckled Stretch, as he urged his mount to movement.

  Before Milty’s unbelieving eyes, the taller Texan took off across the plain at a wild gallop, moving towards the charging cavalry at a right angle. Larry gathered his reins, waited patiently. On an afterthought, he fished a harmonica from his vest pocket and sounded a chord.

  “Music?” gasped Milty. “At a time like this?”

  “Climb down,” Larry calmly commanded him. “There’s a tie-rope joined to the horses totin’ Grady and his pards. Lash it to the tailgate. Go on, Milty. Do it fast.”

  Milty jumped to obey. In double-quick time, he secured the tie line to the tailgate and hustled back to rejoin Larry. Squinting against the rising dust, they followed the progress of the hard-riding Stretch. He was level with the last line of troopers now, and he had unhitched his lariat. Clearly, Larry saw it twirling.

  “I don’t understand ...” began Milty.

  “Just keep lookin’,” drawled Larry. “Any time now, that bugle is gonna quit tootin’—kind of sudden-like.”

  Stretch had located his man and was pounding along close behind him, swinging his rope with all the easy skill of the veteran cattleman. The noose snaked out fast and true, dropped over the shoulders of the bugler. The pinto was jerked to a skidding halt and the line came taut. Abruptly, the bugler parted company with his saddle, plummeting over his horse’s rump and striking the ground backside-first.

  Stretch slid to the ground, hustled across to the confused bugler and helped himself to the fallen bugle.

  “Hey!” gasped the bugler. “What the hell ...?”

  “Don’t worry,” grinned Stretch, as he held the bugle to his mouth. “I’ve been takin’ lessons.”

  The Ninth’s bugler was a veteran of his trade, but, when it came to lung-power, Stretch Emerson had the edge. He blew with gusto, and the galloping troopers had never heard a bugle-call as loud. The blast echoed across the plain and the confusion was immediately apparent to the watching posse men. Sheriff Johnson rose in his stirrups, cocked an ear and announced:

  “They’re sounding the retreat!”

  “The retreat!” blinked McAdams.

  “Sheriff ain’t foolin’, Mr. Mayor,” drawled McGreeley. “I served a hitch with the army, and I sure know the retreat call when I hear it. Look ...” he pointed, “they’re turnin’.”

  Maybe ‘turning’ wasn’t the right word. The charge of the Ninth Cavalry had been rudely checked. Fifty or so troopers had slowed their mounts to a walk and were frowning over their shoulders, yelling queries. About a hundred riders were milling in confusion. Up ahead—now well within range of the staked-out defenders of Artega Springs—the colonel twisted in his saddle and stared back aghast, doubting the evidence of his eyes. His command—in disorder? They were no longer following him. Many had turned back.

  “Thunderation!” he roared. “Major Blair ...?”

  “Don’t ask me, sir,” called the major. “All I know is the bugler sounded the retreat.”

  “Impossible!” barked Stone. “The Ninth never retreats!” Again, the blast assaulted his ears. He rose in his stirrups, his face beetroot-red. “Damn that bugler. I’ll have him snot!”

  “Colonel!” called Kerwin, pointing. “Over there ...!” Stone stared in the direction indicated and gasped a curse. A weary-looking team was plodding towards him, hauling a chuck wagon. Four saddlers were strung out behind, toting what appeared to be a quartet of Ute braves. And the driver was a man he knew only too well, an unruffled Texan who held the reins one-handed, the while he puffed music from a harmonica. With a thought to the importance of the occasion, Larry was playing “Dixie.”

  On the rise, Sheriff Johnson gave a loud voice to his wonderment. “What’s happening down there?”

  “Speakin’ for myself,” drawled McGreeley, “I ain’t gonna set here and wonder. I’m goin’ down and find out.”

  “Here comes a rider ...” McAdams pointed eastward. “Could that be ...?”

  “Marty Lunt,” asserted Johnson. “I’d know that charcoal of his any place.” He eyed his companions impatiently. “Well? What’re we waitin’ for?”

  They descended the rise hard behind the inquisitive Deputy McGreeley. Quickly, they began skirting the disordered Ninth, moving westward to join Stone and his officers some minutes before the arrival of the wagon. Only then, when the four mounted prisoners became recognizable, did Chad Werris realize the worst. He hadn’t recognized the JT chuck wagon, but Grady and his bedaubed sidekicks were all too familiar.

  “Mr. Werris,” frowned the mayor, “where are you going?”

  Werris didn’t answer. He had wheeled his mount and was beginning a frantic retreat. Maybe his captured henchmen had not betrayed him, but he wasn’t about to take a chance on it. He rode like a man possessed, racing his horse back towards the rise. Stone opened his mouth to yell a challenge at Larry. Larry ignored him, rose to his feet and roared a query at the towners.

  “That’s Werris?”

  “Yeah—that’s Werris!” boomed Johnson. “But what …?”

  Larry cupped his hands about his mouth and unleashed a Rebel yell that reached clear to his sidekick. Stretch raised an answering yell and heeled his mount to speed. While Stone and his men watched perplexedly, Werris fled across the plain at an acute angle, with Stretch in hot pursuit, slowly but surely closing the distance that separated them. Again, the taller Texan twirled his lariat. Again, the noose snaked out and found its mark. Jerked from his speeding mount, Werris sprawled flat
on his back—then began moving again. Stretch wheeled the pinto and approached the wagon at a jog-trot. His captive had no option but to struggle to his feet and stumble along behind. Had he fallen again, Stretch would gladly have dragged him.

  Larry resumed his perch on the wagon seat, dug out his makings and let his derisive grin travel from face to face.

  “Couple of you can climb in back and take a look,” he drawled. “You want the sidewinders that wrecked the northbound and stole the gold shipment? Well—here they are. And the shipment.”

  “Valentine ...!” began the colonel.

  “If you’ll hush your doggone mouth for just once in your life,” offered Larry, “I’ll be glad to tell you the whole score.”

  Johnson, who had urged his mount to the tailgate, excitedly announced, “These are white men—war painted—rigged up as Utes!”

  “That make it any clearer for you, Colonel?” challenged Larry.

  “I recognize ’em now!” boomed Johnson. “The JT and Box B outfits!”

  Stretch arrived. Ashen-faced, his arms pinned by the tight noose, Werris blinked wildly at Grady and company. Larry scowled at him.

  “So you’re Werris?” he challenged. “You’re the smart hombre that planned this whole deal?”

  “Wh-what is the meaning of this outrage?” blustered Werris. “Sheriff—I demand your protection, these ridiculous accusations ...!”

  “Save it, Werris,” sighed Grady. “Valentine knows the score. He tricked me into talkin’.”

  “You fool ...!” gasped Werris.

  “Nate,” frowned Johnson, “put your irons on him.” McGreeley dismounted, unhitched his manacles and advanced on the master-thief, while Larry unhurriedly continued his explanation.

  “This is just about what Werris figured you’d do,” he told Stone, “and he didn’t care a damn. Right from the start, he was countin’ on the Utes gettin’ blamed for the wreck, the robbery, all the killin’. It didn’t matter to Werris and his pards, just so long as they lived to spend their loot.” He matched Stone’s stare unwaveringly, relentlessly. “You were all set to attack Little Cloud. There’d be many a dead trooper spread out on that plain right now, and many a dead Ute, if we hadn’t stopped you.”

  Lunt nudged his mount closer to the colonel’s, nodded gratefully to Larry, then put a hand on Stone’s arm and asked, “Now do you understand? Little Cloud never looked for this—another shooting war with the whites.” He made a sweeping gesture to indicate the green country to the west. “But you can bet your saber he’d have defended himself. You’d have had quite a fight on your hands, Colonel, and for what? Because a bunch of lousy renegades rigged themselves as Utes.”

  “Remember,” Larry warned them, “the chief didn’t go off half-cocked, when these sidewinders started fazin’ his people. He didn’t hit back. He looked for you to find these skunks and settle their hash.”

  Stone gritted his teeth and began the hefty chore of retrieving his composure. It had to be a slow process. Bitterly, he declared, “I’ve been used—maneuvered and manipulated by a damn-blasted civilian.”

  “Too bad Werris ain’t an army-man,” chuckled Larry. “That way, you’d get to court-martial him.”

  “He’ll stand trial in Doone City,” declared Johnson.

  “Colonel ...!” Captain Kerwin rose in his stirrups and pointed to the west, and all eyes turned in that direction.

  The Utes were showing themselves now. All along the line of brush they appeared, hefting their rifles, moving out into the harsh sunlight, their impassive gaze fixed on the assembly of army and civilians. Little Cloud stepped forward, folded his arms and squinted towards the mounted prisoners.

  “Even that far away,” reflected Larry, “you can bet he pegs ’em for whites.”

  Major Blair began a mental head-count of the visible braves, but abandoned the effort and soberly remarked to Kerwin, “Hundreds upon hundreds of them. We might have won—but, by Godfrey, the Ninth could have been cut in half.”

  “The colonel,” frowned Kerwin, “is a mighty impulsive man.”

  “I suggest you keep such dangerous opinions to yourself,” muttered the major. He added, softly, “Though I heartily agree with you.”

  “This would be a good time,” Lunt suggested to Stone, “for you and Little Cloud to meet. I’ll go along with you. Don’t refuse me, Colonel. I’d say he’s entitled to an explanation, wouldn’t you?”

  “Damn it all ...!” began Stone.

  “Whatsamatter, Colonel suh?” jibed Stretch. “You skeered of old Little Cloud? He won’t bite you.”

  Stone colored, barked a command.

  “Majors Blair and Fitzgibbon and Captains Kerwin and Leach will accompany me.” He nodded to Lunt. “Lead on, please.”

  As the agent led the officers across to where the old chief stood waiting, he threw a grateful glance towards the tall Texans, and a few words of thanks.

  “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, boys.”

  “Why, shucks,” shrugged, Stretch. “Nothin’ to it.”

  “Forget it, Marty,” drawled Larry. He descended from the wagon seat, moved back to his waiting sorrel. To the towners, he suggested, “You could escort the gold and the prisoners to town, I reckon. Not much else for us Texans to do here.”

  “Hell, no,” Stretch placidly agreed. “I reckon we’ve done enough.”

  “That’s puttin’ it mild,” chuckled McGreeley.

  “Larry—wait for me!” called Milty. He dropped to the ground, hurried after the Texans. “I’m coming back with you. The story—I have to write the story!”

  “He’ll bend our ears,” Stretch sadly predicted, “all the way to Doone City.”

  Again, Milty rode double with Larry. Moving off the plain and on towards the regular trail, it didn’t occur to them to glance backwards. They had lost interest already. The fighting was over. The Ninth Cavalry had good cause to be grateful to them, but probably felt more resentment than gratitude—and this worried them not at all. To men of their caliber, the aftermath of violence was never as appealing as the actual conflict.

  The plain was a full three miles to their rear, when Milty finally remembered to ask, “How did you happen to be there—at the creek, I mean—when Sadie and I were watching the train robbery? The whole thing began as a quiet diversion. We were to have a picnic. All seemed peaceful, until Sadie fell into the creek. And she pretended to be drowning ...” He shook his head in puzzlement. “I just don’t understand.”

  “Coincidence,” grinned Stretch; he mispronounced the word, but Milty caught its meaning.

  “Quite a coincidence,” he countered. “Could it be that you were following us?”

  “No,” lied Larry. “It was what you’d call fate, I reckon. It always works that way. Us Texans drift to the smell of trouble like flies to a honey-pot.”

  “I don’t understand you,” sighed Milty, “and I certainly don’t understand Sadie. Why should she deceive me? Damn it all, she tricked me into rescuing her when—when she didn’t actually need to be rescued.”

  “How did it feel?” challenged Larry.

  “How did it feel?” blinked Milty.

  “Pullin’ her out of the water,” prodded Larry. “Playin’ hero. Havin’ her fuss over you.”

  “Well ...” Milty grinned sheepishly, “it felt fine.”

  “I’ll let you in on a secret, Milty,” offered Larry. “Sadie hankers for you. There must be three-four dozen bachelor-men in Doone County would give their eyeteeth to hitch up with her, but she hankers for you. You’re the one for her—only you’re too blame loco to see it.”

  “Are you saying,” gasped Milty, “the girl’s—in love with me?”

  “That’s what I’m tellin’ you,” nodded Larry. “And I’ll tell you somethin’ else. You could do a sight worse for yourself.”

  “She is certainly a very beautiful woman,” reflected Milty.

  Stretch grinned blandly, and assured Larry, “We can quit frettin’ about ’em, runt. Mil
ty’s finally usin’ his head.”

  ~*~

  In the late afternoon, after re-telling the story for Sadie’s benefit, the Texans escorted her to the Sentinel, which for once was a hive of activity. Tub Larner was working quickly, preparing to set type. Asa Baintry, puffing a blue cloud from his briar, was pacing up and down beside Milty’s desk. Milty sat hunched, perspiration beading on his forehead and trickling down his face, scribbling furiously.

  The visitors entered quietly. Sadie crept across to the desk, timidly kissed the top of Milty’s head. He looked up, seized her hand a moment, and said, “My dearest!”

  “Aw—hell!” groaned Tub.

  “Stay with it, boy!” urged Asa. “Stay with it!”

  “I was never so inspired,” Milty assured him. “But, as I write, I’m bedeviled by frustration. I know you’ll do as you’ve done before. You’ll tear this creation to shreds.”

  “Not if you write it as it ought to be written,” growled Asa. “Just this once, son, try to compose a report. Just a straightforward report—understand? Forget the embroidery. Stick to the plain facts.”

  “I’m trying,” Milty fervently assured him. “I really am trying.”

  The Texans found chairs, rolled and lit cigarettes traded wry grins. Already, they were tiring of Doone City. Their feet itched, and they were eager to be gone.

  They were willing to linger here a while, but only long enough to assure themselves that Sadie’s future was secure. Sadie was, after all, a daughter of the Lone Star State. And, as her future seemed welded to Milty’s, they must also keep Milty under observation.

  At long last, Milty finished his report. Asa snatched the four closely-written sheets from him, retired to his own desk to read. Milty watched him anxiously, and groaned aloud when he picked up a pencil and began deleting certain passages. Resignedly, he waited for Asa to begin tearing.

  But not this time. Asa made only a few alterations to the text, before declaring, “You’re finally learning, my boy.”

  “Praise?” blinked Milty. “A word of praise from you—my most relentless critic?”

  “Maybe you’re feelin’ poorly, Asa,” called Tub.