Arizona Wild-Cat (Larry & Stretch Western. Book 2)

by Marshall Grover

  “It ain’t askin’ much of us,” he pointed out. “We always git into a fight, any town we’re in. Sad Sammy might as well get some profit from this one.”

  The pact was made, and Sammy rode on ahead, so that no Widow’s Peak residents would suspect that hero and villains were already acquainted. At the old adobe law office, on Main Street, the tubby little deputy was, within a few minutes, being bawled out by old Sheriff Trumble. The veteran lawman looked older than his fifty years, because of his mane of snow-white hair. He was a popular sheriff, and an honest one. Throughout his entire career, his one underhand act had been his influencing the council into appointing Sammy as his deputy.

  “I’m tired—bone tired,” he told Sammy now, slapping alkali from his clothes and filling the tiny office with a white cloud of the dust. “I been out with a posse, tryin’ to cut sign of them four varmints that robbed the stage. We had to come back to eat, ’cos nobody took any rations. And now I gotta lead ’em out again.”

  “You sure work hard,” blinked Sammy.

  “That’s what us lawmen’re paid for,” sighed Trumble, reaching for his hat. “I just wish you’d realize that, boy. I been told, by three different folks, how they saw you swingin’ in the breeze, from that consarned cottonwood ...”

  “Them three folks was mighty unkind,” wailed Sammy. “They coulda cut me down!”

  “They were too disgusted to cut you down,” explained the sheriff patiently. “They’re old-fashioned, Sammy. They figure a real lawman would’ve tried gunnin’ them owlhoots down ’stead of lettin’ ’em hog-tie him and hang him from a tree, like he was a Thanksgivin’ ham or somethin’.”

  He heaved a sigh and trod across to the door, pausing there for a parting remark. “I dunno, boy. I’m doin’ my best with you—tryin’ to teach you the profession—on account of I figured it’d make your sweet ma happy. Uh—how is your sweet ma, son?”

  “She’s fine,” muttered Sammy.

  “A wonderful woman!” Trumble shook his head, sentimentally, then tugged his broad-brimmed Stetson over his white thatch. “I gotta take that posse out,” he sighed. “I’m leavin’ you in charge, boy. Don’t fail me again—not twice in the one day. I don’t reckon I could bear that.”

  “I’ll do my best,” promised Sammy.

  “The stage-line people are mad at you,” frowned Trumble. “And so are some of the citizens. If anybody heads your way with a bag of feathers—or if you suddenly smell tar boilin’—lock yourself in a cell. Think you can remember that?’

  “I’ll do my best,” repeated Sammy, nodding.

  Trumble nodded back, then marched out into the morning sun to re-assemble his posse. He was an unhappy man. Widow’s Peak, his beloved hometown, isolated and steadfastly defying the onslaught of progress, had been a nice quiet town, for a long time. Now—tarnation—there’d been a stage-robbery. First time in years. He was getting old for long hard rides. He doubted if he and the men of the posse would manage to overtake the bandits. They were probably high in the mountain country by now, well on their way to the New Mexico border, with the loot they’d taken from the Widow’s Peak-Burrowsville stage. He would, he guessed, have a long ride for nothing. Probably, he’d get saddle sores.

  Life was tough.

  Two – Meet a Wild-Cat

  Five minutes behind Sammy Foy, the two Texans ambled down Widow’s Peak’s main thoroughfare, in search of the Square Deal Livery. The deputy had assured them that they would locate it without difficulty. It was the town’s only livery stable, and they soon realized why.

  Widow’s Peak was, in every way, a small town. Two saloons, two hotels, one block of stores, one bank, one church raising its weatherboard steeple at the far edge of town—no newspaper office, no telegraph. There was, they noted, a printery. But the printer seemed more concerned with the production of posters, than with the printing of a newspaper. All over town they saw the placards, large black type proclaiming the coming of a railroad to this far-flung corner of Arizona.

  “Seems like,” opined Larry, glancing idly at the signs, “this railroad company wants the local folks to help finance it.”

  “Seems like,” agreed Stretch. “You read what them posters promise?”

  “Yeah. Double your—uh—in-vest-ment—within a year. Sounds fine.”

  “Real nice of them railroad folks,” commented Stretch. “Lettin’ these here citizens share the profits.”

  They forgot about the coming railroad then, and returned to keeping their eyes out for the livery. They found it, halfway down Main Street, an old frame building with a large corral in back of it. Above the wide main entrance, sun-faded lettering read, “SQUARE DEAL LIVERY. TESS HAPGOOD, OWNER AND MANAGER.”

  First impressions are often lasting.

  This was true of the Texans’ first sight of Tess Hapgood. It was a sight they would never forget. On isolated occasions, both of them had seen women brandishing firearms, usually bejeweled derringers of the type worn in garter-holsters by hard-boiled dancehall women.

  Tess Hapgood was no dancehall belle, nor was the gun she held a derringer. It was a double-barreled shotgun, and she was holding the muzzle of it under the nose of a startled man in town clothes.

  “Hell, Tess ...!” the man was protesting. “My credit’s good—all over town ...!”

  “Too good!” snapped the girl with the shotgun. “You got a bad habit of not payin’ your debts, Jeff Barry! Well, you better pay what you owe me, right here and now, if you know what’s good for you!”

  Still menaced by that unswerving gun-barrel, the man dug in his pocket and produced four silver dollars. As he passed the money to her, he muttered, aggrievedly, “This ain’t no way to encourage custom, Tess.”

  “It’s the only way I know,” growled Tess Hapgood, pocketing the coins, “of gettin’ payment from welchers like you!”

  “Next time,” complained Barry, “I’ll use some other livery!”

  “Hah!” jeered the girl. “You’ll be back to the Square Deal. Ours is the only livery in Widow’s Peak!”

  The abashed townsman waited for Tess to lower her persuader, then turned on his heel and stamped away. Larry and Stretch exchanged wondering glances. They had never met a woman quite like Tess Hapgood. Woman? She appeared to be little more than a child, but Larry guessed, correctly as it happened, that her age was between nineteen and twenty-one.

  She was small; at least two inches shorter than her tubby admirer from the law office. Small-framed and small boned, with challenging blue eyes, corn-colored hair and a mass of freckles. The garb she wore—tight-fitting blue jeans and red-checked shirt—seemed to accentuate her smallness. But Tess gave a lasting impression of strength. Her slim arms did not seem to tire under the weight of the heavy shotgun. Her gaze, as she stared up at the still-mounted Texans, was direct and probing.

  Very much aware that the shotgun had not yet been discarded, Larry and Stretch gravely raised their Stetsons. With all females, they made a point of always watching their manners. With Tess Hapgood they would be doubly courteous. Their respect for a double-barreled shotgun was even more profound than their respect for the opposite sex.

  “’Mornin’, ma’am,” greeted Larry. “Me and my partner’d be obliged if you’d stable our horses for a spell. They also need feed, water and a rub-down.”

  “How many days?” demanded the girl.

  “About two-three for a start,” decided Larry.

  “Pay me in advance,” frowned Tess, extending her palm, and naming a figure.

  Larry, in his capacity of banker, fished out the required sum and passed it down to her. Then both men dismounted.

  “We’ll stop by later for our pack rolls,” Larry told her. “We want to look your town over.”

  “Travel far?” enquired Tess.

  “Quite a stretch,” nodded Larry.

  Now that she had received payment, the girl appeared willing to be friendly. An aged man, bald and with an untidy white stubble, hobbled out from the interior o
f the livery and took hold of the bridles of their mounts. For a brief moment, he ran bloodshot eyes over them.

  “They pay in advance, chile?” he asked the girl.

  “Yep, Uncle Dewey,” she nodded. “Feed, water and rubdown. Handle it, will you?”

  “Sure, chile,” grunted the old-timer, as he led the horses away.

  Larry produced tobacco-sack and papers and rolled himself a smoke, meeting Tess’ appraising stare with a placid grin.

  “Me and my partner,” he reported, “worked up quite a thirst on our way here. Maybe you can recommend us a nice cool bar?”

  “Stryker’s ‘Salted Mine’ gets a breeze,” frowned Tess, “when he leaves his front windows open.”

  “Salted Mine sounds fine,” decided Larry. He touched Stretch on an arm and added, “We’ll see you later, ma’am.”

  “Just a minute!” piped a familiar voice.

  Larry’s jaw dropped as the fat little deputy materialized behind them and shot a question at his lady-love.

  “Are these two ornery-lookin’ hombres makin’ trouble for you, Tess?” he demanded, truculently.

  “Sammy Foy!” gasped the girl. “What in tarnation’re you talkin’ about?”

  “Just keepin’ an eye on your welfare,” asserted Sammy, inflating his chest. “I don’t like to see hardcase strangers hangin’ around my girl.” He glowered at the Texans and jerked a fat thumb. “Vamoose!” he growled.

  “Why you ...!” began Stretch Emerson, red-faced.

  “Careful!” warned Larry, catching onto the idea. “He looks like a mighty tough lawman. Let’s get outa here.”

  He drew Stretch away from the livery. They marched along, side by side, towards the Salted Mine Saloon, Stretch trembling with impotent rage.

  “That sawed-off, blubber-bellied little coyote!” he snarled. “Bracin’ us like that! Who does he think he is—damn him?”

  “It’s all part of our—uh—pact,” Larry reminded him. “He wants to look big in front of that little wild-cat with the scattergun. We gotta play it his way, Stretch, on accounta he saved our lives.”

  “Better we shoulda got mashed by that there avalanche,” moaned Stretch, “than get spoke at like that by a runt like him!”

  Sammy watched them go, his chest swelling with pride. Then he fixed a beaming smile on the girl of his heart.

  “I guess that showed ’em who’s boss,” he avowed.

  “Hah!” jeered Tess, with such vehemence that Sammy recoiled a pace. “You couldn’t scare a jackrabbit—not if you used a bundle of dynamite, Sammy Foy! Them Texas hombres weren’t scared of you! I’ll bet they’ve never ever been scared of anybody or anything! So there!”

  “I—uh—I just wanted to show you I’m always around to protect you,” mumbled Sammy, miserably.

  “That’s real funny!” sneered Tess. “If them Texans’d lost their tempers, they’d have likely broken you in two—with one hand tied behind their backs! Hah!”

  A couple of cowhands passed within earshot of the livery. One of them, recounting some past incident to his friend, was swearing luridly. Ignoring Sammy, Tess brought her shotgun up and yelled a challenge at them.

  “Hey you two!”

  The cowhands stopped dead, turned and gaped at her, in sudden fright.

  “Quit that cussin’ while you’re walkin’ near a lady!” snapped Tess, “else I’ll fill your no-good, dang-blasted, ornery hides with buckshot! Savvy?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” gasped one of the men. “We—uh—We didn’t see you ...!”

  “Well you’re seein’ me now! So get the hell-and-gone outa here—pronto—and watch your language!”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  The cowhands quickened their pace, putting distance between themselves and the livery as fast as their legs could carry them. Sammy heaved a sigh. It was always like this, he reflected. Any time he tried to display a protective instinct, Tess Hapgood countered his gesture by demonstrating her own ability for self-protection, and he appeared inadequate by comparison. He decided to change the subject.

  “I got me a new suit of clothes,” he confided. “Real fine broadcloth—black—just like a gentleman wears. How’s about me takin’ you to that shindig at City Hall, tomorrer night?”

  “Me go with you?” sneered Tess. “No, siree. I’d rather go alone. And, when I get there, I won’t be short of dancin’ partners. A very nice, polite gentleman is gonna take me up for most every dance! So how d’you like that?”

  “Nice polite gentleman!” mourned Sammy. “Jay Endean, I’ll bet. Him with his purty speeches and his diamond ring ...”

  “He’s purty-lookin’, too,” Tess pointed out. “He’s a real man.”

  “Tess—uh—he’s a whole lot older’n you. You oughta be steppin’ out with a feller around your own age, like me.”

  “No thanks! I like a man who’s mature. That’s what Jay Endean is—mature—not half-grown like you.”

  And that was, undoubtedly, that. Tess would not accompany Sammy to the big dance at City Hall, specially organized by the man from San Francisco.

  Jay Endean had been in Widow’s Peak for no more than three months; but in that short time, he had endeared himself to the simple-minded townsfolk of this remote frontier community. Yes—Widow’s Peak was remote—mighty remote—just perfect for Mr. Endean’s purpose. He came, saw and conquered, in no uncertain terms. His wily cousin, Ed Larchmont of the Larchmont Hotel, had given him ample publicity, so that his arrival on the twice-weekly stage had drawn an excited crowd to the stage-depot, eager to accord him a hero’s welcome.

  To Widow’s Peak, Endean was an advance agent of the Taylor-Ames Railroad Corporation, a powerful organization bent on extending the steel trail farther and farther west. He was also, in their eyes, a benefactor. This famous railroad had sent him here to accept investments. When the lines were laid and the railroad began operating, every Widow’s Peak citizen would be rich, beyond his wildest dreams. It was simple, the way Mr. Endean explained it. Every dollar invested would return a dividend many times greater to the investor, within a period of twelve months from the line’s beginning. Day after day the townsfolk formed a line in the Larchmont lobby, eagerly handing over their life’s savings to the tall blond man in the well-tailored black suit. Endean would shake each investor’s hand, issue a receipt, then, with a flourish, hand to the happy townsman a gold-embossed share certificate.

  Already some jubilant Widow’s Peak men had framed their certificates and hung them in their parlors. The possession of such a formidable piece of paper was, to them, a sign of affluence. And housewives agreed that the framed certificates sure prettied up their parlors. Everybody was happy and Mr. Jay Endean was the happiest of all.

  Three tough-looking hombres in dust-marked range clothes were tethering their mounts to the Salted Mine hitch rail as Larry and Stretch stepped up onto the saloon verandah. Neither Texan paid the new arrivals much attention, until they were about to enter the bar. Then, mildly surprised, they found themselves shouldered aside by the three newcomers. The hardcases barged past them roughly, without apology, and disappeared inside. Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch looked at Larry.

  “We are duty bound,” Larry recalled, “to get into a ruckus, so’s Sad Sammy can arrest us.”

  “Uh-huh,” scowled Stretch. “And it seems to me we ain’t gonna run short of hombres to get into a ruckus with!”

  “But there’s only three of ’em,” Larry pointed out. “And that’s kinda unfair odds for them.”

  Stretch studied the swing-doors thoughtfully, then said, “Maybe they got friends inside.”

  “That’s what I hope,” grinned Larry, pushing at the batwings. “Meantime, let’s irrigate.”

  They moved inside and sauntered across to the bar. The three hardcases had purchased a bottle and were crossing to a corner table. The Texans ordered two double shots of rye and took their time about downing them. For a start, they were unable to eavesdrop on the conversation of the men in the corner�
��and, perhaps, this was just as well.

  The strangers had their heads close together. They had downed their first shots and were now in muttered conference.

  “Like shootin’ fish in a barrel,” leered their leader, a broad-shouldered ruffian with a fierce-looking black beard. “A town that’s so blamed tired, you could loot every store in the place ’fore any of ’em woke up!”

  “Ain’t we stretchin’ our luck though, Cal?” growled one of his companions. “We oughta be content to git the hell outa this county. We already got what we took off that stage. Why stick around?”

  “Because,” chuckled the man called Cal, “we’re safer in their town, than any place else, right now. That fool sheriff and his posse’re lookin’ for us all over the county while we’re settin’ here drinkin’. We gave ’em the slip!”

  “Sure, but ...”

  “But nothin’!” growled the bearded man. “Why settle for chicken-feed? Sure we looted the stage; but this town’s got a bank! Syd’s up there, right now, lookin’ it over. We could take it with no trouble at all, I’ll bet.”

  The swing-doors were pushed open. The Texans watched a fourth hardcase barge in and saunter over to the group in the corner.

  “That makes four of ’em,” mused Larry Valentine, happily. “I got me a hunch, Stretch. I reckon these impolite critters might be just the fellers we need.”

  “Could be,” agreed Stretch, contentedly.

  “A tin can,” the newcomer was muttering to his cohorts. “We could bust it easy. What d’you say, Cal?”

  “We’ll take it,” leered the bearded man. “Soon as we finish this here bottle we’re on our way.”

  “Oughta be a mighty purty haul,” chuckled Syd. “I always say, if you’re gonna bust into a place, a bank’s a right handy place to bust into.”

  “Where do we head for next?” queried another man. “That’s what I wanta know.”

  “How’s about Texas,” suggested Syd.

  “Texas?” The bearded man raised his voice and spat in disgust, almost up-ending a nearby spittoon; he was a very strong man. “Who in hell wants to go to Texas?” he snarled.