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

by Marshall Grover

  “I doubt it,” frowned Endean. “I was watching him all the time those drifters were stealing my thunder. He was as surprised as any man in the hall. I’m positive he had nothing to do with it. He wouldn’t have the nerve, Ed. He’d know we’d find out, and he doesn’t dare cross us. No. It’s not Burden. The Texans cooked up that deal between them. They must be smarter than they look.”

  “Do you suppose,” muttered Larchmont worriedly, “they could be range detectives, or maybe special marshals or something?”

  “It isn’t likely.” Endean shook his head. “They’re probably just a couple of trouble-makers. If we hear any more from them I’ll find some way of quietening them, never fear. In the meantime …”

  He lapsed into a long silence, probing his sharp intellect for a solution to their problem. When it finally occurred to him, he was delighted with its simplicity.

  “Wonderful!” he complimented himself. “A perfect way out for us!”

  “It better be good,” worried his cousin.

  “Poor old doubting Ed!” chuckled Endean. “A born worrier.”

  “Let’s hear it,” challenged Larchmont. “Then, maybe, I’ll quit worryin’.”

  Endean told it in short, terse sentences. It was quite a plan, and well in keeping with his moral character. It involved, in the first instance, Tess Hapgood, the snub-nosed little town wild-cat, who had worshipped him from the moment of his arrival. Some of the townsmen feared he might try to run out on them. All right. What better way to allay their fears than to announce his forthcoming marriage to the most popular orphan in Widow’s Peak County. He would propose to Tess. Her acceptance of his proposal was, of course, a foregone conclusion. When their betrothal was announced, he would announce, also, his intention of remaining in Widow’s Peak, as a permanent resident! An ideal maneuver!

  “Yeah!” enthused Larchmont. “They’ll start trusting you again: the feller who’s going to marry poor little Tess.”

  “Saturday will be the wedding date,” decided Endean. “A fine wedding, with all the trimmings, to which everybody will be invited. You realize what that means? The whole town will be congregated at Parson Kiley’s church—on the far edge of town.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then—we come to the finer stage of my strategy.” Endean smiled, immensely pleased with himself, and said, “The Morey gang—those four owlhoots up in Trumble’s jail—they’re going to break jail, Ed. They’ll cut loose just as the ceremony is about to begin.”

  “You mean—we’re going to arrange it?”

  “Certainly. Maybe they’ll oblige us by killing Trumble or that fool deputy of his. That should stir those rubes to quick action. Every man-jack of them will run for his horse. The biggest posse this town’s ever seen will be racing out of town after Morey and his boys ...”

  “Now I got it!” leered Larchmont. “If all the men are out chasing the Morey outfit ...”

  “We’ll have a clear run,” grinned Endean. “You’ll arrange to have a buckboard waiting somewhere near the church. The—er—investment money will be in a carpetbag, hidden beneath the seat. The moment the posse rides out I shall announce a postponement of the ceremony, claiming that you and I wish to do what every red-blooded Widow’s Peak man should do—join in the chase, help to hunt the Morey gang down. Get it?”

  “Sure!” breathed Larchmont. “We light out after the posse, only we turn around and head in the opposite direction—clear out of the county! It’s good, Jay. It’s damn good. But—say!—how’re we going to help Morey escape?”

  Endean told him how. Like the rest of his scheme, it seemed absurdly simple to Larchmont. They would need a diversion, something to take the minds of the townsmen off the wedding. A jail-break would provide that diversion. With every man in town spoiling to get in on the chase, attention would be drawn from the railroad agent to the outlaws. During the resultant fracas, Endean and his cousin would make their own escape, quietly, without occasioning comment. They would be well across the nearest border before Trumble and his men realized what had happened.

  “But it all depends on the little Arizona Wild-Cat,” grinned Endean, slipping out of his robe. “So, for a start, I’d better get down to the Square Deal Livery and win her over.”

  The winning of Tess was every bit as easy as he had expected. In a daze, the freckled, hot-tempered little orphan straddled a corral-rail and listened to the ’Frisco man’s fervent protestations of love. To her, it all seemed like a dream—a fairly accurate assessment, considering how far removed from reality were Mr. Endean’s intentions.

  “I know this must seem precipitate of me,” smiled the blond man, while the girl’s aged uncle stood close by and listened, incredulously. “Terribly precipitate,” he went on.

  He was on safe ground. Tess had not the faintest notion of the meaning of the word “precipitate”.

  “I have worshipped you, my dear,” he assured her, “from the first moment I saw you. I know I’m—unfortunately—much older than you ...”

  “Damn sight older!” chipped in Uncle Dewey.

  “Uncle Dewey!” yelled Tess, almost falling off the rail. “You get yourself to hell-and-gone out of here while I’m being proposed at!”

  Uncle Dewey, as always, did as he was told. The girl gave Endean a bright smile of encouragement, and said, “Keep talkin’. I’m listenin’.”

  “Well …” Endean reached up to take her hand in his.

  “I don’t know that there’s much more to say, Tess, my dearest. You know how I feel about you. If you feel the same way about me, why don’t we get married, and as soon as possible? How about Saturday?”

  “Saturday?” This time Tess did fall off the rail. The blond man caught her, neatly, and held her close.

  “So deep is my feeling for you,” he breathed, “that I just couldn’t wait any longer than Saturday. Please say yes, Tess.”

  “Okay!” grinned Tess. “Yes.”

  “Wonderful!” smiled Endean. “You’ve just made me the happiest man in the world.”

  “Only one thing though,” frowned Tess. “I don’t reckon as how I’d fit into that place you live in, that ’Frisco.”

  “Have no fears on that point, my dear. I intend to stay right here in Widow’s Peak. I wouldn’t dream of taking you out of your—ah—natural habitat.”

  “Out of my what?”

  “Never mind, darling. The important thing is, I’m staying here. I’ll buy a nice little house for us and settle down to being a local.”

  “That’d be just fine!” enthused Tess. “And I know just the house for us. Si Gullet, over on Maple Street, wants to sell his place ...”

  “Anything your little heart desires, my dear. Widow’s Peak has become my favorite town. I’ll conduct my operations for the company from an office right here in town. I shall never leave this happy city.”

  It went over smoothly, the way most of Jay Endean’s nefarious projects went over. By noon, all Widow’s Peak knew of it. Tess Hapgood had won herself a man! And who do you suppose it is? None other than that railroad agent—Mr. Jay Endean! Yep. Endean himself. They’re going to hitch up at Preacher Kiley’s chapel on Saturday, at ten-fifteen in the morning—and the whole town’s invited!

  Sensation. The town had rarely known such excitement. Tess Hapgood had always been a well-loved figure, despite her regrettable habit of ensuring payment of bills by threatening recalcitrants with a shotgun. She was known to be hot-tempered, willful, unpredictable.

  “I mind the time, when she was only six,” recalled Solly Stryker, during reminiscences with some of his customers. “She got mad at three of her school friends because they were callin’ her names. Pulled the blackboard clear off the schoolhouse wall and busted it over their heads. Those kids were five weeks in Doc Leeds’ clinic. Young Dinny Waterhouse still totes a scar on his forehead …”

  Yes. Tess was unpredictable and a spitfire, but the town loved her. And now she was going to be married, and to that fine-looking man f
rom San Francisco. Well, that just went to show you that this Jay Endean must be a right guy. If he was good enough for their Tess ...

  Endean’s crowning achievement came just before one o’clock, when a shame-faced Harp Priddy presented himself at the hotel and insisted on handing back his humble twenty-five dollars. Endean clapped him on the back, exchanged a wink with Ed Larchmont, gave Priddy his share certificate and bought him a drink.

  “Now there’s a real victory for you, Ed,” he confided later. “A clear indication of the changing mood.”

  “The mood hasn’t changed so much,” warned Larchmont, “that we can afford to be careless. Everybody likes you again, but if we tried to leave town ...!”

  “I know what you mean,” nodded Endean. “But don’t fret, Ed. We’ll stick to our original plan, all the way. We’ll make our run for it on Saturday, when the ruckus starts.”

  ~*~

  It was natural that Sad Sammy would be inconsolable, but there was nothing natural about the quantity of rye whisky he consumed, in the Salted Mine, in a vain effort to drown his sorrows. Larry and Stretch found him there when they stopped by to hold a post-mortem on the previous night’s festivities, with Solly Stryker. Stryker poured a double-shot for them, jerked a thumb towards the huddled figure in the far corner, and said succinctly, “Disappointed in love! That’s what it does to fellers. Now you know why I stay single.”

  “Sure is a sad sight,” opined Larry mournfully.

  “He looks like he’s at the end of his tether,” frowned Stretch. “Maybe you and me oughta tote him back to the law office, runt.”

  “Maybe we oughta,” agreed Larry.

  “You two should start up in business,” grinned Stryker. “Drunks delivered safely to their homes and offices. You could maybe charge ’em a fee.”

  “No fee,” grinned Larry. “This one’s on the house. We got a special interest in Sad Sammy.”

  They ambled over to the corner and tapped the deputy’s plump shoulder. He raised his head, blinked at them dolefully, and said, “Fine pards you two turned out to be. Hic! You was gonna repay me for savin’ your lives. Hic! You was gonna make things right—hic!—’tween me and Tess. Now look what’s happened! She’s gonna marry that Endean jasper!”

  The Texans eyed each other uneasily. A growing concern, a gnawing worry was beginning to cloud their horizon. They were thinking not only of Sad Sammy’s disappointment. In their own simple way, they respected the freckled little spitfire in the pants and shirt. The thought of her becoming emotionally involved with a man they knew to be a shrewd thief, gave them no pleasure. On the one hand, they would gladly have placed the full facts before Sheriff Trumble. On the other hand, Al Burden had to be considered. They would have to tread carefully. Whatever grief they cooked up for Endean would have to be their own affair.

  “Come on, Sammy,” frowned Larry, taking a firm grip of the deputy’s shoulders and lifting him. “We’ll take you back to the office.”

  “Don’t wanna go back to the—hic!—office!” grumbled Foy. “Let Buck Trumble stand guard on the Morey mob. To—hill—hell with ’em all ...!”

  Larry lifted him bodily, draping him across his shoulders, then headed for the door, with Stretch bringing up the rear. They strode up Main Street, mounted the law office verandah and marched inside. From his desk, Trumble looked up at them, nodded expressionlessly and waved Larry and his burden towards an aged leather sofa. Larry deposited Sammy there. Sammy seemed about to issue a blistering rebuke but, instead, closed his mouth and eyes and descended into deep, alcoholic oblivion.

  “Tough,” commented Trumble. “I always did reckon it was a cryin’ shame—the way young Tess Hapgood wouldn’t give poor Sammy a chance.”

  “Real bad,” agreed Larry. He nodded towards the cell-block and asked, “How’re they? Quiet?”

  “Quiet enough,” shrugged the lawman. “I’ll be a damn sight happier when they’re out of the place though. State authorities are comin’ for ’em Monday—so Judge Walsh tells me.”

  They heard a quick gasp from the doorway and turned to see Mrs. Hildy Foy hurry in. She was staring at the fat deputy on the sofa, and shaking her head in great concern.

  “The poor boy!” she breathed. “My poor Sammy! What in the world happened to him, Buckley?”

  “I won’t lie to you, Hildy,” frowned Trumble, fixing a stern gaze on her plump face. “Your boy is so all-fired put out at losin’ his lady-love that he went and got drunk!” He pointed an accusing forefinger at her and added, “That’s what happens to a lot of good, honest men when the women they love turn ’em down!”

  Hildy was equal to that barb.

  “I think it’s very unkind of you, Buckley,” she reprimanded, “to take advantage of a situation like this, just to make me feel guilty.”

  “Do you want to see me finish up like poor Sammy?” growled the sheriff. “It could happen, Hildy. I’m gettin’ near the end of my patience with you.”

  “Would it be all right,” enquired Mrs. Foy stiffly, “if I took Sammy home?”

  “I don’t reckon he could walk, ma’am,” interrupted Larry. “But if it’s okay by the sheriff, me and my pard would be glad to tote him home for you.”

  “Nobody needs to tote me!” mumbled a voice from the direction of the sofa.

  Larry and Stretch looked on in wonderment as the roly-poly deputy eased his short frame off the sofa, regained his feet and waddled over to the doorway to take his mother’s arm.

  “C’mon, Ma,” he grunted. “I’m so blamed sad that even the whisky didn’t help it. Let’s go home.”

  Hildy threw a triumphant glance at Trumble, then allowed her tubby son to escort her out. Trumble looked at the Texans and shrugged. They gave him an answering shrug and wandered outside.

  “Bad, huh?” growled Stretch, frowning at the plump little widow and her plump little son as they slowly made their way homeward. “Even foolin’ everybody that Sad Sammy’s a hero—it didn’t help him any. His gal’s gonna hitch up with that Endean coyote. Imagine that!”

  “Tough,” agreed Larry morosely. He leaned against a verandah post and began rolling a cigarette. “We could fix Endean for keeps,” he mused, “if only there was some way we could do it without hurtin’ the mayor.”

  “That’s the trouble,” sighed Stretch. “I can just see how that skunk would handle things. Minute the law grabbed him, he’d start spillin’ all he knows ’bout Burden.”

  It was a ticklish problem. They were still turning it over in their minds when the stage rolled into Widow’s Peak from Garth City. The run in from Garth was made only once in every two weeks. Very few Garth City people ever came this far west. On this particular trip, the Garth stage carried merchandise for some of the Widow’s Peak stores—merchandise and one passenger. He was a nondescript, timid-looking little man in the mid-forties, attired in a sober gray town suit.

  He was a man of temperate habits, but the trip from Garth City had been a hot and dusty one, so hot and dusty that, temperate habits notwithstanding, Mr. Oswald C. Ankers headed straight for the nearest bar after alighting from the stage. It was, for him, an unfortunate coincidence that the nearest bar to the stage-depot was the Larchmont Hotel. Ankers wandered in, set down his carpetbag, breasted the bar and rested his foot on the brass rail, aping the habits of many hundreds of frontier topers. He was away from Garth City, and from his domineering spouse. In this remote settlement, he would, by glory, live it up. His mission, he felt sure, would be accomplished very quickly, and he would be left with a great deal of spare time before the departure of the next Garth-bound stage.

  “Bourbon and water,” he told the solitary barkeep, squaring his narrow shoulders.

  The barkeep obliged. Ankers paid him, then downed his shot in short, evenly-spaced gulps. A pleasant glow stole over him. Then he remembered his mission, but, not being a regular drinking man, did not think to approach the barman for the information he sought. Barmen, like barbers, were the most reliable source of informatio
n in every frontier town, but Ankers did not realize that. Instead, he glanced about the barroom, with the intention of directing his questions at the nearest drinkers. His life was in danger, but he was happily unaware of the fact. The nearest drinkers were the only other men in the bar at the time. They sat alone in a corner, catching a whiff of cool air from a nearby window, conversing in undertones. When he left the bar and ambled across to them, they looked up, eyeing him with some surprise.

  “Pardon the intrusion, gentlemen,” smiled Ankers. “My name is Oswald C. Ankers. Just arrived on the Garth stage and I need a little information. Maybe you’d oblige?”

  The hotel-owner and his unscrupulous cousin were in no mood for interruptions, but Ankers’ next words erased the impatient frowns from their faces like magic.

  “I am,” announced Ankers, “trying to locate a gentleman named Denby—Howard Denby.”

  Howard Denby! Jay Endean had good reason to know that name. It was Mayor Burden’s real name, the name he had been born with, the name by which he was known during his sojourn in Hilton Penitentiary.

  “It is possible,” Ankers went on, “that Mr. Denby now—er—uses another name ...”

  “You’re right,” smiled Endean, nudging Larchmont with his knee. “And it’s most fortunate that you should come straight to us.”

  “Ah!” The little man’s eyes lit up. “You know the gentleman?”

  Endean nodded.

  “If you have time to accompany my friend and me to a—ah—more secluded spot,” he offered, “I can promise to produce Mr. Denby for you with the greatest of ease.”

  The Garth City man nodded understandingly, as though he shared with Endean some pleasant secret. For a moment, his bright gaze rested upon the heavy features of Ed Larchmont. Larchmont frowned perplexedly, but another knee-nudge from Endean kept him silent.

  “We’ll use a back way out of here,” Endean told Ankers. “I’m sure you realize why ...”