He had no way of knowing that the two tall men at the bar were watching him with increased interest.
“Not me!” growled another stage-robber. “Texas is the most dried-up, no-account State I ever saw. All it’s fit for is Texans!”
“You can count me out,” nodded another. “Texas gives me a bellyache—and so do all Texans. I reckon we should head west.”
Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch looked at Larry. Then, they finished their drinks, paid for them, flexed their muscles and sauntered across to the corner. The big man with the beard saw them coming, and greeted them with a scowl.
“You want somethin’?” he challenged.
“Yeah—Whiskers,” grinned Larry Valentine. “Your mangy hide.”
The boss-outlaw gaped incredulously, then, with a savage oath, kicked back his chair and rose to his full height. His companions followed his example, ranging themselves on either side of him. Larry and Stretch watched this maneuver with smiling approval. Neither of them enjoyed waging war on seated adversaries.
“Whiskers,” Larry admonished the big man. “It grieves us to our bones, hearin’ critters like you makin’ disrespectful remarks about our home State.”
“On account of,” added Stretch, “none of you coyotes is fit to even tread on Texas grass.”
“Mister!” gasped the bearded man. “I’m gonna fill your fool head with ...!”
His hand was streaking to his right hip, as he spoke. The other outlaws were following his example; but none of them cleared leather. In a flash of movement, three Colts were trained on them, drawn and cocked at a speed that defied their eyes. Larry’s .45, and both of Stretch’s, were covering them. The Texans had the drop, and four owlhoots were trying to work out how it had happened.
“When you’re gonna throw down on a man,” Larry advised the boss-outlaw, “don’t waste time sendin’ him a message.” He nudged Stretch with his left elbow. “Pardner,” he requested, “would you mind moseyin’ around in back of these hombres and grabbin’ their hardware?”
“Pleasure,” grinned Stretch. “Grab air, boys!”
Four pairs of hands shot towards the ceiling. The outlaws became statues, while Stretch moved around behind them and slipped guns from holsters. The few other drinkers in the saloon were as immobile as the owlhoots, gaping in stunned surprise at the tense little drama being enacted in the corner. Solly Stryker, owner of the place, stood behind his bar, casting a wistful eye about him at his furniture and stock, wondering what would happen next. Other saloon-owners had experienced this feeling during visitations from these nomadic Texans. He jerked out of his reverie, at a casual question from Larry.
“You got a box, mister?”
“Yes.” Mr. Stryker had a box. He bent, then straightened up again, exhibiting an empty cardboard container. From his position behind the outlaws, Stretch threw the four six-guns, one at a time. All four weapons landed neatly in the box. Then the taller Texan moved out to join his partner.
“Now?” he asked Larry.
“Now,” nodded Valentine.
To the amazement of the watchers, each of them threw his hardware into the box held by Stryker. The outlaws were quick to grasp the significance of that act. They came away from the corner in a concerted rush, bearing down on the men who had out-drawn and disarmed them.
The gaping saloon-owner had witnessed many a barroom brawl. On certain occasions, he had been known to lay odds on the possible outcome of fights on his premises. He was, usually, adept at nominating the victors in advance. On this occasion, however, he was taking no bets. Four against two seemed, on the face of it, heavy odds, but something about the demeanor of the Texans warned Stryker that the group of four would get the worst of it.
The bearded man opened hostilities by barging in and aiming a wild kick at Larry Valentine’s groin. Larry countered by nimbly sidestepping, then lashing out with a foot at his adversary’s still-upraised boot. The kick on the heel had power behind it, so much so that the bearded man’s other foot left the floor. For a tense moment, he remained suspended in mid-air, horizontal. Then, still horizontal, he descended to the floor with an impact that rattled the glassware on Stryker’s shelves.
Larry ignored the big man for the time being, and transferred his attention to an outlaw aiming a bottle at him. Ducking the flying missile, he charged in close and slammed a right and a left into the man’s belly, doubling him. He threw a quick glance at Stretch then. Stretch had been forced back against the bar by a man who had wrapped his arms around him in a bear-hug. The Texan broke the man’s hold by administering a rabbit-killer. The edge of his palm slugged the bear-hugger neatly across the nape of the neck. The man released his grip and collapsed, to be replaced by the man called Syd, who was armed with a chair. The chair did not help him. He was almost within swinging distance of Stretch when another chair slid along the floor by a watchful Larry Valentine tangled with his legs and brought him down. The outlaw and two chairs slammed hard against the brass rail below the bar counter.
And now the bearded man was on his feet, jabbing fierce punches at Larry, forcing him across the barroom, backing him into a corner. The recipient of Larry’s belly-blows joined his chief, unaware that Stretch was fast approaching. He was about to lend weight to the bearded man’s attack, when a long, lean hand grasped his shoulder and swung him around. Desperately, he swept his right up in an uppercut. The blow connected with Stretch’s lantern jaw, rocking the Texan back on his heels. He shook himself to clear his head, then swerved to avoid a blow to the belly. The man lurched against him, off-balance from the impetus of his swing. Stretch seized him by his shirt-collar, spun him around with his back to the swing-doors, then smashed two fast blows, one to the stomach, the other to the chin. The outlaw stumbled backwards, clear through the main entrance and collided with a stout figure just barging up onto the verandah. With a startled yelp, Sammy Foy tumbled off the boardwalk and sprawled in the street, while the senseless outlaw finished his backward rush at the hitch rail, drooping over it, no longer interested in the proceedings.
Sammy, tremulously aware that townsfolk were advancing on the saloon from all sides, struggled to his feet, dragged the unconscious man off the rail and began pulling him back into the saloon by a boot. Over his shoulder, he yelped a stern order to the gathering throng.
“You folks stay outa this. It’s law business. I’ll handle it!”
Gasping from his exertion, he deposited the outlaw just inside the doorway, then stared around. Three men were sprawled about the bar in untidy postures. One still had his head pressed against the brass rail, below the bar. The rail showed a dent where the man’s skull had slammed against it. Stretch Emerson was in the act of picking up another man and raising him above his head. A third contestant lay atop a table, out cold. The fourth, the big man with the beard, had just swung a wild blow at Larry, in the corner. Sammy saw Larry move his head to one side. The bearded man’s fist smashed against the wall. His roar of pain almost drowned Sammy’s piping command.
“Everybody surrender! I got you covered!”
“Hold on a minute,” complained Stretch. “We ain’t finished yet.”
But the man he held above his head was finished. Stretch hurled him bodily at the nearest wall, and the bearded man was being disposed of, in no uncertain terms. Sammy winced as Larry jabbed blow after blow at the big man’s middle, then closed his eye with a last savage right. The man called Cal emitted a grunt and fell down on his large backside. He remained in that seated posture, until Larry rendered him horizontal, by smashing a chair over his head and shoulders.
A tall, elderly man in a black suit ambled through the doorway in time to witness the close of proceedings. He was the town’s well-loved and highly-respected Judge Lucius Walsh, and, like his fellow-citizens, he appreciated the irony of what next took place. Sammy sternly waggling his six-gun, issued a sharp reprimand to the two Texans.
“You two hell-raisers’re under arrest!” he piped. “And I’m warnin’ yo
u not to try any tricks with me. ’Cos I’m—”
He broke off, his voice dying out in a choking gasp. He had just noticed the face of the unconscious man on the floor, the one with the beard. Whatever his shortcomings, Sammy Foy had a good memory for faces, and he had seen this face before on reward notices.
“H-h-holy smokes!” he stammered. “Cal Morey!”
He trembled in abject fear, and his six-gun dropped from his nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor. Judge Walsh frowned, momentarily at a loss. Then Stretch, in his helpful way, saved the situation, and thereby increased its piquancy. Lowering his arms, he strolled across to Sammy, bent, picked up the fallen gun, replaced it in Sammy’s shaking hand, then returned to his position by the bar and raised his arms again.
Judge Walsh quickly concealed a grin, and said, “Sammy boy, if you’re sure that’s Cal Morey ...”
“It’s C-C-Cal Morey all right!” babbled Sammy.
“Then go ahead,” shrugged His Honor.
“Go ahead?” blinked the deputy.
“Sure,” nodded Walsh. “Go ahead and make your arrest.”
“M-m-me ...?”
“Why sure,” grinned Larry, picking up his hat. “You’re a deputy, ain’t you?”
Sad Sammy was very close to swooning, but the Texans had no intention of letting that happen. Politely, Stretch Emerson requested the loan of a rope from the proprietor. Solly Stryker was willing to oblige; in fact, he had two ropes. Stretch muttered a suitable speech of thanks, then, with his partner’s help, dragged the four owlhoots into one heap and made a loop to hold them together, with their arms imprisoned by their sides. Walsh and Stryker exchanged amazed glances. Larry frowned across at the old judge and made a suggestion.
“Might be a smart notion if you kept them folks outa here.”
Walsh saw the point. Placing himself in the doorway, he called to the still-growing crowd of rubbernecks to stand back. Then he returned to watching the exhaustive preparations for the arrest. Larry had now obtained a large pitcher of water and was emptying it over the heads of the four owlhoots. The men spluttered and began to revive. Stretch, with the second rope, fashioned a loop. He held it out to Larry. Larry stepped into it. Stretch joined him, drew the loop up, tightened it about their chests and politely offered the end of the rope to Sammy. Sammy accepted it in a daze.
“Now pick up the other rope,” directed Larry, patiently, “and take us to jail.”
Sammy gaped at the four cursing hardcases, a shudder wracking his pudgy frame. He hadn’t bargained for this. Arresting the two Texans by pre-arrangement had seemed one hell of a fine idea—a spectacular arrest, with no danger of retaliation. But this! Cal Morey himself! The murderous, highly-dangerous bank-bandit and stage-robber Morey had been wanted for more years than Sammy could remember. This was too much. Him? Arresting Cal Morey?
“Sammy, boy,” said Judge Walsh, gently, “make your arrest.”
Sammy blinked at the Texans. They stared back at him, poker-faced—but he knew what they were thinking—“This is what you wanted, Sammy. You’ll never get a chance like this again, so grab it while you can!”
Sammy grabbed his chance, and both rope-ends. Inflating his chest, he gestured towards the door, with his gun, and said, “March—uptown—to the jail!”
On this never-to-be-forgotten day, the whole town turned out to pay homage to the tubby deputy. Widow’s Peak folks lined the sidewalks and cheered as the strange procession moved up Main Street to the jailhouse. In the forefront came the two groups, held in position by their ropes—Morey and his men and the two Texans. Behind them came Deputy Foy, his left fist clutching both rope-ends, his right grasping the butt of his naked Colt. Nobody appeared to notice that he hadn’t remembered to crook his forefinger around the trigger. Nor did anybody notice the supreme unconcern of Larry and Stretch. The Texans sauntered along, smiling, nodding politely to the cheering people on the boardwalks, each of them with a thinly-rolled cigarette canting from his mouth.
Behind Sammy, unobtrusively, Judge Walsh, Solly Stryker and one of Stryker’s barmen kept pace. His Honor’s old long-barreled Colt was concealed beneath his frock coat, but ready for use should the need arise. And Stryker and his man both held loaded shotguns in the crooks of their arms. Sammy wasn’t going it alone as far as they were concerned.
But the crowd was unaware of these things. All they saw was Sammy, their comical deputy, now a hero—a most spectacular hero. Uncle Dewey, from the livery, spent two minutes trying to believe what he was seeing, then retired to the nearest bar for a reviver. Tess Hapgood joined the crowd outside the Larchmont, clambering up to the porch-rail to get a better view. The urbane and handsome Jay Endean was on hand to catch her when she fell. Yes—Tess fell. The sight of timid, ineffectual Sammy Foy taking six men to jail was too much for the Arizona Wild-Cat.
Three – No Way Out
Solly Stryker and the judge stood by while the deputy performed the chore of locking his prisoners in cells. It was a complicated business. For one thing, Sammy had no idea where to find the cell-block keys. Larry Valentine solved that predicament by unknotting the loop that bound him to his partner, stepping out of it and conducting a search of Sheriff Trumble’s desk. Stretch was equally obliging. Before the wondering gaze of Judge Walsh, he too stepped out of the rope-loop and joined in the search, devoting his attention to the safe in the corner.
Larry, at last, found the key-ring and tossed it to the deputy.
“You oughta keep it in a handier place,” he admonished. He pointed to a nail beside the cell-block door and added: “I think you’ll find it should hang there.”
“We know about these things,” Stretch assured the judge.
It was finally accomplished. The jailhouse boasted four cells. Morey and his men were split up, two of them filling each of the end cells. Larry and Stretch were deposited in the cell nearest the rear door. With practiced care they tested their bunks, flicked dust from the adobe window ledge, removed and neatly folded their jackets, then called for lunch.
“Beef stew,” Larry called, to the men in the office, “with plenty potatoes, and a lot of coffee.”
“Ham and eggs for me,” called Stretch. “The ham’s gotta be sliced thick, and the eggs I want sunny-side-up. And we’d both like a double portion of apple-pie.”
“Holy smoke!” gasped Foy.
“They’re within their rights, you know,” grinned Judge Walsh. “Prisoners are entitled to be fed out of county funds. But—er—before you arrange lunch for them, you have a more important chore, Sammy boy.”
“Yeah, Judge?” Sammy blinked, uncomprehendingly. “The horses belonging to Morey and his men,” frowned His Honor. “Check their saddlebags, boy. That’s your duty as a deputy.”
“I guess so,” nodded Sammy.
“And besides,” Walsh went on, “I have a hunch about those galoots.”
“A hunch? What kinda hunch, Judge?”
“Well …” Walsh frowned pensively towards the cell-block. “There’re four of ’em, Sammy boy, and I understand the stage was held up by four masked men. That right?”
“Uh huh. That’s right. I saw ’em myself.”
“Then hasn’t it occurred to you that these may be the same men?”
“What? Hell, no. Couldn’t be. Sheriff Trumble’s out chasin’ ’em!”
“Buck’s out trying to cut their sign,” Walsh corrected, gently. “How do we know the bandits didn’t double back to town? From what I’ve heard tell of the Morey outfit, that’d be just the kind of trick they’d try.” He moved to the door, beckoning the deputy. “Come on,” he urged. “Let’s go take a look.”
Stryker and his man had returned to the Salted Mine for the outlaws’ horses. They were leading them back up the street now. Walsh waited for them to tether the mounts to the law office hitch rail, then dipped into one of the saddlebags. Sammy, not to be outdone, began searching the others. A startled yelp escaped him, as he pulled his hands out of a bag and exhibited a go
ld watch and a wallet. Walsh, too, was finding things—sheafs of banknotes, a bag of gold-dust.
“Solly,” he breathed, his eyes gleaming. “Go get Mitch Dugan down at the depot. Maybe he can identify this stuff.” As Stryker hurried away, the old juror grinned at the wide-eyed deputy. “Congratulations, Sammy boy,” he grunted. “You’ve made a mighty important arrest.”
“Yeah ...?” Sammy’s jaw hung slackly.
“Uh-huh. Looks like you’ve nailed the fellers who robbed that stage and—er—let you hang.”
In a town like Widow’s Peak, news travels fast. Within twenty minutes, everybody knew. Sammy Foy had really done it this time. Single-handed, he had arrested the most feared quartet of outlaws in the whole southwest!
The deputy’s doting mother, matronly Hildy Foy, was picking flowers in her front garden. Her house was on the far edge of town, close by Parson Kiley’s chapel, so she had a clear view of the returning posse. Led by the weary sheriff, the riders ambled their horses past the Foy house. Men nodded tiredly to Mrs. Foy and touched their hat-brims to her. Buck Trumble edged his mount into the fence and got down, calling to his men to go on. Then he removed his Stetson and exchanged a few polite remarks with the smiling widow.
“Your garden’s lookin’ mighty purty, Hildy,” he complimented.
“Thank you for that kindly remark, Buckley,” beamed Mrs. Foy. “You’re looking wearied. Has it been a hard day for you?”
“Hard enough,” sighed the lawman. “We followed sign ’most all over the county, but we couldn’t find hide nor hair of the fellers that robbed the stage.”
“Tch, tch, tch,” clucked Hildy. “Maybe you’d like to come in and rest yourself a while. I’ll make us some tea ... .”
“Thanks all the same, Hildy.” Trumble winced, and tried not to show his distaste. If ever he managed to change this little woman’s mind on the matter of marrying him, he would have to do something about this tea-drinking routine. Trumble was a confirmed coffee man. “Can’t stay,” he told her. “Got to get back to the office to see how that boy of yours is makin’ out.”
Arizona Wild-Cat (Larry & Stretch Western. Book 2) Page 3