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

by Marshall Grover

  “Of course!” Ankers beamed happily. “But your friend—er—I presume Mr. Denby is a friend of yours?”

  “A very good friend, Mr. Ankers.”

  “Your friend need have no further fears. I am the bearer of glad tidings.”

  “I feel sure,” smiled the blond man, getting to his feet, “that Mr. Denby will be only too pleased to hear what you have to say. Shall we go?”

  They left by a rear exit, quietly, the self-important little government man complimenting himself on the swift accomplishment of his mission, the San Francisco man complimenting himself on his unfailing memory for faces and names. He had recognized Ankers immediately.

  Seven – Welcome Home

  The deserted storeroom was quiet. There were no sounds from the alley outside the creaking door with its broken lock. This dust-laden room was situated at the rear of a disused ironmongery, long abandoned by its owner. It was located only a few yards down the alley from the Larchmont Hotel’s back entrance, and was ideally suited for Endean’s purpose. So far, his luck was holding. With his scowling cousin, he had lured Ankers into this trap unobserved. Nobody had seen him enter this place, and there was an equally good chance that they would remain unobserved when quitting it.

  Endean, in his courteous, disarming way, offered Ankers a cigar and lit it for him. Then, perched on upturned boxes, they held their brief conference. Ankers began it by casting a sly glance at the frowning Larchmont, and saying, “I can well understand your desire for secrecy, Mr. Denby.”

  “Denby?” The hotel-owner raised his eyebrows in puzzlement, “I’m Larchmont. Ed Larchmont.”

  “The age is about right,” mused Ankers, running his eyes over Larchmont’s bulky frame. “And I’ll wager you still have that—ah—distinguishing birthmark.”

  Before Larchmont could frame a retort, Endean smiled at the government man, nodded calmly, and said, “Yes. My friend still bears the birthmark. Now, Mr. Ankers, if you’d be so kind as to explain ...”

  “With pleasure!” beamed Ankers, with another knowing look at the dumbfounded Larchmont. “Mr. Denby, sir—your worries are over. You’re a free man—officially.”

  Endean’s eyes narrowed.

  “How did this come about, Mr. Ankers?” he asked politely.

  “Well, now,” Ankers puffed at his cigar, still smiling at Larchmont. “About a year ago, a prisoner died in the Mason Territorial Prison which, as you know, is a long way from the Hilton jail. This prisoner made a confession which entirely exonerates Howard James Denby from any complicity in the crime for which he was convicted and imprisoned ...”

  He went on, chattering away, lost in his own importance, an obscure little government clerk who had been given a routine chore to perform. The spade-work, the months of exhaustive back-tracking, the painstaking investigations by special U.S. marshals and Pinkerton men, was over. It was over when, many months ago, a government investigator, disguised as a whisky-drummer, had visited Widow’s Peak and shown Dr. Leeds a rough sketch of a distinctive birthmark. Leeds had recognized it, but had refused, to name the bearer of the mark, claiming the right to withhold such intimate information. The investigator had respected the physician’s professional ethics and had departed, satisfied. The important work was done, anyway. The Department of Justice knew the man was here, knew he was a local resident. Any under-clerk could handle the rest of the chore.

  Endean and Larchmont heard Ankers out, Larchmont still frowning perplexedly, Endean’s sharp intellect assessing and sifting the facts from the pompous jargon of Ankers’ story.

  “As I see it,” he mused, when Ankers had finished, “my friend is now completely absolved from all blame. He’s in the clear.”

  “Absolutely,” nodded Ankers. “It is, of course, a great pity that he lived all these years in constant fear of apprehension by the law. But now he will have the satisfaction of knowing that he is cleared. And—ah—I feel sure the State authorities will arrange some form of recompense, some compensation for his—ah—wrongful imprisonment.”

  “You can see what we’re up against, Ed,” said Endean, calmly ignoring Ankers. “Denby is Burden—or vice versa. When he gets this news there’ll be nothing to stop him exposing us. He won’t care about his family and neighbors learning of his past, not when it has been established that he was innocent all the time.”

  “Now I got it!” growled Larchmont. “There’ll be nothing to hold him back!”

  “Fortunately,” smiled Endean, “he’s never going to get that news.”

  Ankers blinked from one to the other, at a loss to understand them. Endean smiled his disarming smile, patted him comfortingly on the shoulder and said, “Did you speak to anybody else about this, Mr. Ankers?”

  “No.” Ankers shook his head. “Only you. Why?”

  “You see?” Endean grinned at his cousin. “That’s just another advantage of having a good memory for faces and names. I recognized our friend Mr. Ankers, the moment I saw him. Caught sight of him once, when I was passing through Garth City. And, when he mentioned Denby’s name ...”

  “Yeah,” nodded Larchmont. “I remember the first time I heard that name. It was when you first braced Burden and made him back us.”

  “If you will kindly explain ...!” began Ankers.

  “Shut up!” snapped Larchmont.

  The little man’s jaw dropped. As if by magic, a Colt .45 had appeared in Larchmont’s hand. The hotel-owner frowned enquiringly at his cousin. Endean nodded, and said, “No shooting. It has to be done quietly. This is as good a place as any. We’re not likely to be disturbed, are we?”

  “No,” Larchmont assured him. “Nobody ever comes in here.”

  “Do you have a knife?” asked Endean, calmly.

  “Not with me.”

  “Use the pistol-butt then, and make damned sure of him. Burden must never know what we three know.”

  The hapless little government man was never very sure of what happened next. Larchmont wasted no time. The heavy pistol rose and fell twice and Ankers slumped off the box to the floor, blood welling from the ugly head-wound.

  “Check his pulse,” directed Endean. “We have to be sure.”

  Larchmont, who had never checked a pulse before, but who did not want to admit the fact, felt at the little man’s wrist for a moment, then nodded.

  “Dead as he’ll ever be,” he reported, grimly.

  “Listen!” hissed Endean, drawing his own gun. “Footsteps!”

  Larchmont rose from the floor and crept over to the door. For a brief moment, he peered up the alley. Then he returned to Endean’s side and whispered, “Those two blamed Texans headed this way!”

  “In a hurry?”

  “No. Taking their time. My guess is they’re headed for the Square Deal Livery.”

  “Excellent!” breathed Endean. “Is there another way out of here?”

  “Yeah. A side window. It’ll let us out into a laneway. It’s narrow, but we can get through to Main Street. What’s the plan?”

  “Simple, cousin. Two birds killed by the one stone. We are about to visit Sheriff Trumble.”

  “What?” gasped Larchmont.

  “Let’s move,” grinned Endean. “I’ll explain the rest of it, when we get out of here.”

  Larchmont was right in one important respect. The Texans were not hurrying. They rarely did, except when the occasion warranted it. And, right now, their only concern was in ambling along to the Square Deal to pay Tess Hapgood for additional provision for their horses. They would have strolled right past the disused storeroom, had not Stretch happened to glance into the place. The creaking door had been carefully left half-open by the far-sighted Jay Endean, as part of his plan to kill two birds with one stone.

  “What the hell!” growled Stretch, seizing Larry’s arm and pointing. “Look there!”

  They tramped into the storeroom and bent over the prone figure on the floor. Stretch hefted one of his Colts and made a swift search, whilst Larry dropped to his knees beside Ankers
.

  “Been beat up bad,” reported the shorter Texan. “Skull’s busted.”

  “Done for?” queried Stretch.

  “Well now—” Larry removed his Stetson and scratched his head. “I’m no sawbones. I wouldn’t like to make a guess about this poor critter. If he ain’t dead, he’s damn close to it.”

  “Listen at his chest,” suggested Stretch. “I once seen a sawbones do that.”

  Larry crouched down and listened for a heartbeat. “Somethin’s beatin’ real steady,” he grunted. “Uh—hold on.” He reached into Ankers’ top vest pocket and produced a watch. “This is what was beatin’ so good,” he apologized. “I’ll try again.”

  They were still trying to determine the government man’s condition when Buck Trumble challenged them from the doorway. The old lawman’s face was clouded in gloom, but the Colt in his right hand was unwavering, as it covered the men from Texas.

  “You could likely down me,” he told Stretch, “on account of you’re younger, and likely faster, than me. But I’m the law here ...”

  “Quit frettin’,” frowned Stretch, carefully holstering his right-hand gun. “Larry and me ain’t done nothin’. We got nothin’ to hide.”

  “We were headed for the Square Deal,” frowned Larry, getting to his feet. “We just happened to look in here and see this poor galoot on the floor—and that’s all we know.”

  “Sorry,” shrugged Trumble. “But I got my duty to do. You’ll get a chance to tell your side of it—in my office. Let’s go, boys.”

  He held out his free hand. Larry and Stretch, as in all such tense moments, exchanged quick glances. Then Larry began unbuckling his gunbelt. Stretch shrugged and followed his example, content to let Larry call the plays. They passed over their gunbelts. Larry fixed a thoughtful frown on the old lawman and asked a blunt question.

  “How come you got here so fast? I got me a hunch this poor critter only got beat up a few minutes ago.”

  “A tip-off,” growled Trumble.

  “Yeah?”

  “From Ed Larchmont and Mr. Endean. They just stopped by my office and said as how they saw you two draggin’ this gent in here.”

  Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch looked at Larry. Larry, with his face turned away from Trumble, gave a significant wink. Then he turned back to the sheriff and said, calmly, “We got nothin’ to say, Sheriff—not right now, anyway.”

  “That can wait,” frowned Trumble, “First, I got to get you up there.” He stared at the man on the floor, momentarily at a loss. “About him ...” he began.

  “I reckon there’s a chance he’s still with us,” muttered Larry.

  “Then I have to keep my eye open for Doc Leeds,” nodded Trumble. “Come on, boys. Let’s move.”

  Without a word of protest, Larry and Stretch allowed themselves to be marched out into Main Street and up to the law office, before the curious gaze of people on the sidewalks. En route, Trumble caught sight of the medico, beckoned him and sent him around to examine the injured stranger. In Trumble’s office, after they had handed over their personal effects, Larry waved aside the lawman’s request for an explanation, and doggedly played the hunch that had been stirring in his mind, from the moment of their arrest.

  “Stretch and me didn’t do it, but we can worry about that later,” he told Trumble. “Meantime, there’s somethin’ mighty important you oughta do, Sheriff.”

  “I been a lawman for a long time,” retorted Trumble. “And, believe it or not, I don’t often take advice from rannies I’ve just arrested. I like you boys, but you’re my prisoners, and you got no right to tell me how to do my job.”

  “Sheriff,” breathed Larry earnestly, “haven’t you ever played a hunch?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Play mine now—and maybe you’ll be thankin’ me for askin’ you to do it!”

  “I’ll listen,” shrugged Trumble. “I’ll do that much.”

  “Okay,” nodded Larry. “Here it is. Get your doctor friend to have the little guy with the busted head taken to his house.”

  “Hell!” Trumble raised his white eyebrows. “Doc Leeds’d do that anyway!”

  “Sure—but there’s more. I’m tellin’ you it’d be a real smart notion to post a coupla guards over that ranny! Swear ’em in special, if you have to, but get ’em! And don’t let ’em move from him.”

  Trumble considered that for a while, then nodded.

  “I got no way of knowin’ what’s cookin’ in that brain of yours, Valentine,” he growled. “But I’ll play your hunch. It can’t do any harm.”

  He took his key-ring down from its nail, unlocked the cell-block and motioned them inside. At their request, he ushered them to the same cell they had occupied during their last stay. Whilst they made themselves comfortable, he moved down to the end cells to check on the Morey outfit. Morey and his men were quiet. Trumble had no false notions about them. He sensed that they had already checked every inch of their cells, in a feverish search for some means of escape—without success. Trumble knew his jail well. He listened to their profane comments about the quality of the food brought to them, the lack of blankets during the nights, the heat during the days and the fate that would assuredly befall him, should any of them ever get him in the sights of a gun. Unperturbed, the old lawman left them to contemplate their futures, and went off to swear in a couple of special guards to watch over Ankers.

  “All right,” growled Stretch, removing his boots and sprawling on his bunk. “I caught your high-sign, back there in that blamed storeroom. I coulda shot Trumble’s hardware outa his hand easy, without drawin’ blood; only I knew you didn’t want me to do that. Now I wanta know why! Hell, runt! We coulda got clear away!”

  “Maybe,” frowned Larry Valentine. He was slowly rolling a cigarette, staring pensively into space. “But I figured we oughta hang around for a while, Stretch. That whole thing was a set-up. Somethin’s cookin’ in this man’s town—somethin’ that smells awful bad—and I aim to be in on the showdown!”

  “I never was as smart as you,” Stretch conceded. “Only don’t keep it to yourself. Let me in on it.”

  “Here’s how I figure it,” explained Larry. “That ranny had only been beat up a coupla minutes before we got there. I’m dead sure about that. Okay. So who tips Trumble off? Endean and that big ranny that runs the hotel. What do we know about them? We know they’re a coupla owl-hoots, in nice clean clothes, actin’ like gentlemen and takin’ money off these local rubes, so damn fast that their local bank is goin’ bust. And we know Al Burden had to front for ’em, else they’d have told how he broke jail, twenty years ago.”

  “That’s what we oughta do,” reflected Stretch. “Break jail.”

  “We will,” Larry promised. “But not yet. We’re gonna let them two play out their hand, before we brace ’em.”

  “You figure they beat that little jasper—then switched the blame onto us?”

  “That’s the way I see it. And I’m mighty sure they didn’t mean to leave him half-dead. I’m bettin’ that was a mistake!”

  “But why’d they want us blamed for it?”

  “To get us outa their way for a while! Don’t forget, we’re the only galoots that’ve made trouble for ’em, so far. We made a fine mess of Endean’s speech-makin’, at the shindig. He likely figures we’re dangerous. He’s heard how we helped Sammy take the Morey mob ...”

  “Helped Sammy? Holy Hannah! We did it alone!”

  “Sssh!” grinned Larry, placing a finger to his lips. “Don’t forget our promise to Sammy. We have to make a hero outa him—on accounta he saved our lives.”

  “Well,” shrugged Stretch. “We ain’t gonna help him much—locked up in here. He’s already lost that little wildcat. She’s marryin’ up with Endean, on Saturday.”

  “That’s it!” breathed Larry, snapping his fingers.

  “That’s which?”

  “That’s it! The whole thing’s gonna blow up, while that blamed weddin’s goin’ on! Why would a smart ci
ty hombre like Endean get hitched to a poor little tyke like Tess Hapgood? I tell you, feller, it must be some kinda trick!”

  “Okay—but what kinda trick?”

  “I don’t know yet,” frowned Larry Valentine. “It’s somethin’ I have to think about.”

  “Bueno,” grunted Stretch, tipping his hat over his eyes. “And, while you’re thinkin’ ’bout it, I’ll catch up on my shuteye.”

  Valentine meditated, while Emerson snored.

  Later, a bloodshot-eyed Sammy Foy showed up, hastily summoned by Sheriff Trumble to take charge at the jail, whilst the old lawman conferred with Doc Leeds at the medico’s little clinic. Sammy fetched lunch for the Morey bunch, then brought two more trays along to the Texans. As he passed them through the horizontal aperture in the door, he mumbled a self-pitying lament.

  “You two promised you’d make things right, ’tween me and my gal! Huh! Some hopes! How in hell’re you gonna help me, if you go beatin’ up innocent strangers and gettin’ arrested?”

  It was a fair question. Larry answered it, with the greatest of care.

  “In the first place,” he explained, putting his face close to the bars and dropping his voice, “we didn’t beat up nobody. And, in the second place, we ain’t stayin’ in jail.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if you got any notions of bustin’ out, you can forget it. This here jail’s unbustable. Sheriff Trumble done told me so.”

  “Any jail,” explained Larry, patiently, “can get busted out of, if the fellers doin’ the bustin’ have got ’emselves a key.”

  “A k-k-key?” panted Sammy.

  “Key,” growled Stretch, from his bunk. “Spelled K-E-E. Little hunk of steel that you poke in a lock, when you wanta open a door.”

  “I know what a key is!” breathed Sammy, sweat breaking out on his brow. “But I wouldn’t dare give you galoots a key!”

  “We ain’t askin’ you to give us a key,” sighed Larry, bored stiff by the deputy’s sluggish sagacity. “We aim to steal one from you. All you have to do is stick one in your back pants-pocket and turn your back.”