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

by Marshall Grover

  Sammy stood and stared at him, fretful indecision written on his round moon face. Larry crooked a finger for him to draw closer and said, carefully, “Stretch and me know a lotta things that you and Trumble don’t know. We can’t tell you about it, on account of we got a gentlemen’s agreement with a feller. But I’m gonna tell you this much.”

  “How much?” blinked Sammy.

  “Hush up and listen, damn it!”

  “Okay. I’m listenin’.”

  “How would you like it if, just when him and Tess were frontin’ the preacher, Endean got proved to be a crook?”

  “Endean—a crook?” Sammy rolled his eyes in rapture. “That’d be real purty!”

  “And how would you like it,” Larry went on, relentlessly, “if me and Stretch fixed it so’s you could make the arrest?”

  “That,” said Sammy, fervently, “would be purtier still!”

  “Okay,” nodded Larry. “Now tell me this. After we get outa here, where’s a good place to hide?”

  Sammy screwed up his chubby face in deep thought, for a moment, then gave a vehement nod.

  “Right here,” he decided. “On the jailhouse roof.” There followed a dull thud and a loud oath, from Stretch Emerson. He had been lying on his side, propped up precariously by a bony elbow, on the edge of his bunk. At hearing Sammy’s novel suggestion, regarding a suitable hiding-place, he had lost his balance, and was now spread-eagled on the cell floor, resembling an outsized spider.

  “Holy Hannah!” he moaned, struggling to his feet. “Hidin’ out on a jailhouse roof! What kinda hidin’ place d’you call that?”

  “Quit hollering!” hissed Larry. “Do you want that Morey outfit to know what we’re doin’?”

  “It ain’t such a loco idea,” muttered Sammy. “Look at it thisaway—who’s gonna think of lookin’ for a coupla escaped prisoners right on top of the jailhouse?”

  “Sammy,” breathed Larry, his eyes gleaming. “I think you got a point there!”

  “There’s a parapet, ’bout a foot and a half high,” Sammy went on, “goes all around the roof. Lyin’ flat, nobody’d ever spot you.”

  “He ain’t so loco,” Larry told Stretch. “It could work.”

  “Suits me,” shrugged Stretch. “I got to where I don’t care what we do.”

  “Now,” frowned Larry. “One thing more, Sammy.”

  “Yeah—what?”

  “I been tryin’ to figure out why Endean is in such a gosh-awful hurry to get married. Saturday’s only day after tomorrer ...”

  “How would I know?” lamented the deputy. “He’s marryin’ up with my gal—that’s enough for me to worry ’bout.” He heaved a sigh, scratched his backside, and added: “And just when it looked like he was gettin’ downright unpopular.”

  “Come again?”

  “Folks were beginnin’ to distrust him, after the way you and your partner bawled him down, at the shindig.”

  Larry stifled an oath and reached through the bars to grab a plump arm. So fierce was his grip that Sammy uttered a startled yelp.

  “Leggo!”

  “Gimme that again! You mean to tell me that folks were startin’ to get leery—about Endean?”

  “Looked thataway. I heard tell that Hap Priddy went to Endean and took back his investment money.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure! It was gettin’ so that townsfolk feared Endean mightn’t be on the level. They was afraid he’d try runnin’ out—with all that dinero he’s been collectin’.”

  “Ah hah!” whooped Larry.

  He may have been a drifting saddlebum. May have been? He was a saddlebum—a shiftless hell-raiser, wandering the far-flung frontiers, in an endless quest for a fight worth the fighting. But he was no fool. When the occasion demanded it, Larry Valentine was ever-ready to utilize his brains, as well as his six-gun, in the righting of a wrong. He was using his brains now, and to good effect. He was working on a premonition, another of his hunches, and he had never been closer to the truth.

  “Only it’s different now,” Sammy went on, sadly. “Folks all trust him again. They figure, if a man’s gonna marry a Widow’s Peak girl, and settle here—why—there ain’t much danger that he’ll try a fast run-out.”

  “It’s all gettin’ clear,” breathed Larry. “Mighty clear!”

  “What is?” wondered Sammy.

  “Never mind,” growled Larry. “I’ll let you in on it, when the right time comes. Meantime, don’t forget to leave us a key.”

  Sammy, his expression sadder than ever, wandered away to the office, then wandered back again and stood, with his back turned to Larry, a heavy canvas package under one arm.

  “Two keys,” he whispered, over his shoulder. “One’ll git you outa your cell. The other gits you out the rear door. From there, you got no trouble gittin’ up to the roof.”

  “Bueno,” grinned Larry, reaching into Sammy’s hip-pocket.

  The deputy turned to survey them both for a moment.

  “I just know this’ll all lead to big troubles for me,” he wailed.

  “Quit frettin’,” leered Stretch. “Everythin’s gonna turn out just fine. And, anyways, us Texans’ve gotta stick together.”

  “Yeah,” groaned Sammy. “All together in one cell. That’s how we’ll stick together!” He passed the canvas-wrapped parcel through the bars. “You’ll likely need these,” he muttered.

  “It’s possible,” chuckled Larry, accepting the parcel. “Run along now, Sammy. Me and Stretch have got some more plannin’ to do.”

  The deputy uttered another groan and returned to the front office. Larry unwrapped the parcel, tossed the twin holstered Colts to their lean owner and slid his own gunbelt beneath his straw mattress.

  “What now?” demanded Stretch, imitating his partner’s act of concealing his hardware.

  “We got a lotta waitin’ to do,” Larry confided, relaxing on his bunk. “I think I know what Endean plans to do; only I don’t know how he figures to do it. Main thing is: when he makes his move, we make ours!”

  Eight – Man At Large

  On Friday night, Widow’s Peak contracted wedding fever. Almost every citizen of the town wore the marks of it. At the Salted Mine, a never-ending line of topers drank to the health and future happiness of the Arizona Wild-Cat. A sweating Solly Stryker reflected that he had never known such big business—not even on a Friday night. With his barmen, he was kept moving at a hectic pace, to keep up with the demands of his growing crowd of customers. It promised to be a most convivial wedding.

  Uncle Dewey, very early in the evening, retired from the celebrations with a thick head and a sick heart, complaining that the union did not have his blessing. Old as he was, and undoubtedly slowing up, mentally, Uncle Dewey’s attitude towards the man from San Francisco was, and always had been, one of marked suspicion. But Endean was a hero now, a very popular hero. His wooing of Tess Hapgood had been superbly timed. He was, now, more than Widow’s Peak’s trusted benefactor. He was the knight in shining armor who had wooed and won that poor parent-less little female at the Square Deal.

  Tess Hapgood, the vixen in pants and shirt, lowliest of Widow’s Peak’s eligible spinsters, was now emerging as a veritable heroine. It is said that all the world loves a lover, and it was certainly a fact that all of Widow’s Peak now loved Jay Endean and Tess Hapgood.

  Sammy Foy’s woebegone countenance became a familiar sight at the saloons. Sammy was taking it bad, and didn’t care who knew it. Many a townsman bought whisky for Sammy, out of good-humored sympathy. At midnight, Sheriff Trumble sought out his deputy, found him under a table at the Salted Mine, carried him downtown to Hildy Foy’s house, and insisted that she pour vast quantities of hot, black coffee into her weeping offspring.

  “He’s got to take over the night watch at the jail,” Trumble told Mrs. Foy, “on account of I have to get some sleep. The town expects me to show up for that there weddin’, tomorrow mornin’, and I know Sammy won’t want to be there, so it’
s only fair he does the night watch.”

  A fretting Hildy Foy acceded to the lawman’s request. Sammy, fortified by more black coffee than any Widow’s Peak man had ever consumed at one sitting, was then marched up to the law office and pushed into Sheriff Trumble’s chair.

  “If you strike any kind of trouble,” Trumble reminded him, “don’t try handlin’ it yourself. Holler for help. I’ll look in on you in the mornin’, just before the weddin’. It’ll be all over by ten-thirty. Then you can go home and sleep all you want.”

  “Sure, sure,” groaned Sammy. “I know how it is. I’m better off here, all alone with them owlhoots in the cells, than showin’ my grief to the whole town. Nobody loves me! Folks’re all laughin’ at me! It’s terrible ...!”

  At Mrs. Amy Cotter’s home, the finishing touches were being put to the bridal gown. Mrs. Cotter was Widow’s Peak’s leading dressmaker. Like all the other elderly townswomen, she maintained an earnest devotion to the slip of a girl with the snub nose and freckles. And so she sewed and tucked, nimbly plying thread, while Tess stood like a small statue, on a parlor chair, enveloped in the shimmering folds of white silk. This was a big night for Tess—and tomorrow would be the most important day in her life. If she felt any misgivings, over the fact that she scarcely knew her intended husband, she steadfastly concealed them.

  It was well after midnight before the triumphant bridegroom was able to have a few words in private with his co-conspirator. Finally, however, Endean and Larchmont got their heads together in the hotel’s storeroom, having retreated there from the host of well-wishers in the bar.

  “You have the note all prepared?” demanded Endean, urgently.

  “I got it,” nodded Larchmont. “I put in it everything you told me to say. I got me a long pole with a hook on the end. That’s how I’ll get the note—and the gun—in through the cell window.”

  “Fine,” chuckled Endean. “Just make damn sure you aren’t seen.”

  “Don’t worry,” growled Larchmont. “Nobody’s going to see me. The whole town’s celebrating—in advance. Those that are through celebrating are back home—sleeping it off. That back alley will be quiet as a grave.”

  The back alley was quiet as a grave, but Cal Morey and his three henchmen were not asleep—and neither were the Texans. Larry, on the alert for Endean’s next move, heard the furtive footsteps outside, and rolled off his bunk.

  “This could be it!” he whispered, to Stretch. “I’m goin’ outside and take a look around.”

  “Watch yourself, runt.”

  “Sure. Be seein’ you.”

  Larry pulled on his boots and buckled on his gunbelt, but left his spurs under his bunk. Then, producing the keys supplied by Sammy, from his shirt-pocket, he quietly unlocked the cell door and slipped out into the corridor. The rear door yielded to the second key. He closed it behind him, but stayed there, flattened against it, concealed by the shadows, staring down the alley towards the dark figure approaching the jail. A few moments passed, then the intruder came to a halt, immediately below the window of the cell occupied by the boss outlaw.

  “Larchmont!” thought Larry. “Just like I guessed!”

  It was Larchmont, armed with a long pole. Larry watched him raise the rod and tap the end of it against the iron bars. In the gloom, he was unable to see what Larchmont had attached to the hook at the pole’s end, but he heard the clink of steel against iron bars, and made an accurate guess about it. There followed a slight pause. Then a pair of hands appeared at the cell window and detached the wrapped six-gun. Larchmont pulled his pole down then, cast a quick glance to right and left and crept away down the alley.

  “Well, well, well!” mused Larry. “You owlhoots sure stick together. Endean’s got his heart set on causin’ a ruckus—and he sure picked a fine way of doin’ it!”

  He let himself back into the jailhouse, locked the door behind him and returned to the cell, flattening himself against the corridor wall, to escape detection by the men in the end cells. Back on his bunk, he beckoned for Stretch to join him, then, in a hoarse whisper, told what he had seen.

  “Hell!” breathed Stretch. “Why’d they wanta do a thing like that? What’s in it for them, if Morey and his boys bust out?”

  “A ruckus,” explained Larry. “Lots of excitement. Every man in town joinin’ up with a posse to go after ’em. That’s what Endean wants. Maybe he’s even plannin’ to join the posse himself—him and Larchmont. Then, somewhere out of town, they’d drop out and head for the nearest border. They’d be well on their way, before anybody knew they were gone—with all that dinero they collected.”

  “Yeah,” nodded Stretch. He scowled over his shoulder, and added, “I’d sure like to know just when Morey’s gonna make his break for it.”

  “Pardner,” sighed Larry, fervently, “so would I!”

  In the end cell, the bearded outlaw growled to one of his men to light a match. Then, by the light of that, and other matches, he read the note Larchmont had wrapped around the loaded six-shooter. From Cal Morey’s point of view, it was an extremely friendly epistle.

  “MOREY,” it read, “USE THIS TO BREAK JAIL, BUT WAIT ’TIL TOMORROW MORNING AT TEN-FIFTEEN. AT THAT TIME THERE’LL BE A WEDDING, AT THE FAR END OF TOWN. EVERYBODY, INCLUDING SHERIFF TRUMBLE, WILL BE THERE. YOU’LL HAVE A CLEAR RUN. GOOD LUCK.”

  The note, hand-printed, was unsigned. Morey read it a second time, then burnt it. His men leaned closer; two of them pressing their faces against the bars of the adjoining cell.

  “What’s it all about, Cal?” whispered one of them. Morey leered and held up the six-gun.

  “Seems we got friends in this burg,” he muttered. “Some jasper who aims to help us bust this jail. We could do it, too. He says as how the whole blame shebang will be over on the far edge of town, tomorrer mornin’ at a weddin’.”

  “I seen that chapel!” breathed another owlhoot. “It’s a helluva long way from here!”

  “Yeah,” nodded Morey. “We oughta be able to do it easy—now that I got me a shootin’ iron.”

  He checked the Colt’s loading and gave a leer of savage satisfaction. His cell-mate muttered a curse and made a wry observation.

  “Wish our new friend had smuggled in guns for all of us.”

  “There’ll be guns for all of us,” Morey promised, grimly. “We’ll find plenty in that office, when we make ’em let us out.”

  “How’re you gonna bust us out, Cal?”

  “Simple! I call whoever’s standin’ guard out there, shove this gun under his fool nose and make him open up. Then we quiet him down, so’s he can’t holler, help ourselves to some more hardware and ... ! Wait a minute!”

  Morey broke off, his eyes gleaming. A new, and pleasant, thought had struck him.

  “We came here to empty their blamed bank,” he breathed.

  “That’s right. That’s what we came here for. What about it?”

  “Okay!” leered Morey. “Any reason why we still can’t do that? We’ll have guns. Syd can go steal us some horses at that livery. There won’t be a single hombre around to stop us. They’ll all be at that blamed weddin’!” He chuckled, nodded, and added, “Yeah; We came here to take their bank—and that’s just what we’re gonna do—only it’s gonna be a damn sight easier now!”

  Down the corridor, the Texans looked to their weapons, exchanged anticipatory grins, and settled down to keep their vigil.

  “It could be any minute now,” reflected Larry Valentine. “On the other hand, they might wait till mornin’, till all of them guests are uptown, at that weddin’. Meantime, all we do is wait.”

  “And when they move,” grinned Stretch, “we move.”

  ~*~

  Sheriff Trumble stopped by, early, to check the situation at his jail. He brought breakfast for a disgruntled Deputy Foy, a deputy so disgruntled that he refused to be drawn into conversation. Trumble shrugged, set the tray down before Sammy, then went into the cell-block to look at his prisoners.

  He found the M
orey outfit in the positions in which he had become accustomed to viewing them, sprawled about in their two cells, smoking, playing stud poker, scowling up at him and muttering obscenities. Down the corridor, the Texans seemed more concerned with catching up on their sleep, than with anything else. They were both in their bunks, completely obscured by their blankets, with only their faces visible. Each of them was snoring lustily. Satisfied that all was in order, Trumble returned to the front office.

  “Everything nice and quiet,” he acknowledged. “You’re doin’ a fine job, son.”

  “Don’t call me ‘son’,” growled Sammy. “You ain’t my new pa yet.”

  “Just give me time,” grinned the sheriff.

  He was feeling chipper this morning, freshly shaven and attired in a new black suit. Hildy, he felt sure, would also be decked out in her best finery. Maybe, after the ceremony, he would have a few words with her, repeat his proposal. Maybe, on such a happy occasion, his plea would be successful. He waved an airy goodbye to the stolidly-eating Sammy and wandered out.

  In his suite at the hotel, knotting his cravat with great care, Jay Endean held a last conference with his cousin.

  “Once more,” he muttered. “Just to be sure you understand every detail.”

  “Right,” grunted Larchmont. “Soon as you’re dressed, we clean out the safe and pack the dinero in two carpetbags.”

  “You have them ready?”

  “Yeah. I got ’em. I load the bags, and our other gear, in the rig. It’ll be right here, in the alley behind the hotel.”

  “How about the team?”

  “Two of the fastest bays you ever saw. They’ll outrun any horse in Widow’s Peak County.”

  “Excellent! Proceed, cousin.”

  “When the ceremony starts, I post myself at the chapel doorway. Soon as I hear Morey’s mob ridin’ out, I holler there’s been a jailbreak and let’s get a posse and go after ’em and stuff like that.”

  “Make it good, Ed. Stir them up. I want to avoid being married to that brat with the freckles, if that’s at all possible.”

  “Uh-huh. Then you insist on leading the posse. That’ll cause some back-chat between you and Trumble. Then, when we get out of the chapel, you and me grab the nearest horses and make like we’re joining in with the others. But, when we get level with the hotel, we turn into the alley, jump into the rig, and take off in the opposite direction.”