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

by Marshall Grover

  Endean nodded his satisfaction.

  “It can’t fail,” he chuckled. “With every man in town chasing after the Morey gang, who’ll be left to worry about us? We can stop worrying, Ed. We’re practically on our way.”

  At the home of Dr. Leeds, the home that also served as his clinic, the medico, from his position beside the bed of the injured man, blinked and yawned and addressed a remark to his lifelong friend.

  “Maybe one of us ought to show up at that wedding, Lucius.”

  Judge Walsh forgot his own urge to yawn, and his personal enjoyment of weddings, and shook his head.

  “Don’t try fooling me, you old hypocrite,” he growled. “You have no intention of leaving this man’s side—and neither have I!”

  Walsh had arrived at eight o’clock the previous night, keeping a permanent Friday night appointment with the medico. They were friendly adversaries, at the absorbing game of chess. For more years than either of them could remember, they had hunched across Doc Leeds’ chessboard, every Friday night, pitting their skill against each other, never tiring of this challenge to their respective mentalities.

  But, last night, they had not played. Walsh had found his friend fully occupied in the sorry task of keeping death at bay. Death hovered, ominously, over a slightly-built, pallid-faced stranger, lying on a couch in Leeds’ surgery. Leeds had done every mortal thing possible, calling upon all his skill, to keep the man alive. He would have done that for any patient. But, after Walsh had suggested searching the man’s pockets for identification, after the man’s name, and profession became known to them, the medico had doubled his efforts. Oswald C. Ankers, it now transpired, was a most important man.

  “I keep thinking about that document in his wallet,” frowned the judge, “instructing him to come here and seek out one Howard James Denby.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, too, Lucius,” confessed Leeds.

  “If what it says is true,” mused Walsh, “and if those other papers are in order, it means we have a mystery man in our midst. Somewhere, in our little community, there lives a man, probably one of the older citizens, whom we know by an alias. It’s an intriguing thought, Byron.”

  “Damned intriguing,” frowned the doctor. “I wonder who it could be.”

  “We have no way of knowing,” shrugged the judge. He nodded towards the still figure on the couch, and said, “Maybe he knows. Maybe he doesn’t. It would be interesting to know who struck him down—and why.”

  “Hell, Lucius. There doesn’t seem to be any doubt about that. Buck Trumble arrested those two no-good Texans for the crime. Mr. Endean and Ed Larchmont actually saw them dragging this Ankers ranny into Herb Tarbut’s old storeroom. I’d say it was pretty conclusive.”

  “Conclusive,” growled His Honor, “is a word I’ve never liked, Byron. I’ll agree that those Texans are a couple of hell-raisers. Matter of fact, their introduction to our little community was as enthusiastic a sample of hell-raising as I’ve ever seen.” He smiled, in pleasant reminiscence. “The way the dark-haired one—that Valentine—whipped Cal Morey! Superb, Byron—absolutely superb!”

  “It would be just like them,” insisted Leeds, “to grab a little man like Ankers and gun-whip him.”

  “I don’t agree,” frowned Walsh. “I have my own theory about those two. I don’t believe they’d derive any pleasure, from attacking one small man—a man like Ankers. They’re the type who look for bigger game, roughnecks like Morey, and preferably in groups. In a brawl, they become—er—windmills! I know. I saw them, remember. No, Byron, I’m saying what no judge should ever say. I’m saying I don’t believe Valentine and Emerson are guilty.”

  “Even before they’ve been brought into your court, eh?”

  “Even before they’ve been brought into court,” nodded Walsh. He eyed the wounded man, thoughtfully, and added: “I’m sure he could tell us a lot, Byron. And I’ll bet a box of my favorite cigars that he’s never even seen Valentine and Emerson.”

  Into the quiet of the room, a sound intruded—a cough, and a muttered remark. Leeds frowned at the judge.

  “There’s another thing,” he grunted. “Buck insisting on putting guards in my house. I don’t understand that.”

  “I have an interesting item of news for you,” grinned. the judge. “I happen to know who persuaded Buck to appoint those guards.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “Valentine and Emerson!” smiled Walsh, triumphantly.

  ~*~

  By ten o’clock, the chapel was packed with citizenry. Those who could not gain admittance stood on hastily-procured boxes, outside the windows, and peered inside at the happy scene. Preacher Kiley was in a daze. Never, in all his years of conducting services in this chapel, had he seen a larger congregation.

  From his position near the altar, an immaculately-groomed Jay Endean cast a covert glance at the crowd and smiled to himself. Everything was going off as planned. From the size of the crowd, he estimated that there were few, if any, of Widow’s Peak’s males left in the town. Morey would, no doubt, make his break at the time suggested, ten-fifteen. That would be fine. The ceremony would be beginning then, unless the bride was late. Yes. That was a bride’s prerogative. But Endean relaxed in the conviction that he had chosen his mark well. Tess Hapgood would not be late. So eager was she, to enter double harness, that she would probably arrive ten minutes early!

  At the chapel entrance, Ed Larchmont kept watch, now and then exchanging polite smiles with acquaintances in the packed throng about the steps, but never ceasing to watch the full length of Main Street. The chapel was a long way from the jailhouse. He would need to keep his eyes open. Well, maybe Morey would fire a shot. It seemed likely that he would vent his spleen on the law by putting a bullet in the fat carcass of Deputy Foy, and that would be fine. A single gunshot would be enough. Enough excuse for him to sound the alarm and throw the entire proceedings into confusion. Under cover of the general bedlam, the wild chase in pursuit of the fleeing owlhoots, he and Jay would have no difficulty in slipping away.

  At exactly ten-thirteen, a buckboard rolled down Main Street towards the chapel. It was drawn by the two best-looking horses in the Square Deal Livery, a clean-limbed black and a sprightly pinto. The buckboard was bedecked with colored ribbons. Wildflowers were affixed to the harness of the team. Even the wheels had been freshly painted. The Arizona Wild-Cat meant to go off in style!

  Proudly, she sat beside her aged uncle while he guided the rig towards the church. Old Uncle Dewey had angrily protested against the garb he was now wearing. Most folks knew that his niece had recruited big Harry Brannigan, the blacksmith, to perform the important task of forcibly dressing the old man. And now Uncle Dewey was ready, willing or not, to give his niece away, tightly buttoned into a black suit, borrowed at the eleventh hour from Chet Summerton, the local undertaker, who happened to be near enough to Uncle Dewey’s size. That was okay, because it was Saturday and, on Saturdays, Chet Summerton always got drunk and remained in bed. Uncle Dewey also wore a snow-white shirt with a fancy front, a black string tie, knotted about his scrawny neck, button-up boots and a stovepipe hat, rammed squarely on his small dome. He was freshly shaven, and it seemed very likely that many Widow’s Peak citizens would fail to recognize him.

  Tess was a vision. From her twelfth year, she had vowed to wed as quickly as possible, having no desire to enter matrimony at the advanced age of twenty-three, or thereabouts. Local bloods had courted her, from the time she turned sixteen, but had, however, despaired of ever winning her heart. Sad Sammy Foy had tried and had failed. His was, of course, the most ludicrous suit of all. What would a lusty young hell-cat like Tess Hapgood want with a pudgy weakling like Sammy Foy?

  The bridal gown was a masterpiece of Mrs. Cotter’s art. The bouquet was a riot of color, if perhaps a trifle large. There was a veil, but Tess had not lowered it yet. Shucks! she’d never looked prettier. Why not let the folks get an eye-full! Prim and proper, a model of decorum, she sat, straight-b
acked, beside Uncle Dewey, beaming a smile at the admiring throng on the church steps. Uncle Dewey grumpily acknowledged amused “hellos” from the few men who recognized him, then dropped his whip and clambered down. He was about to turn in the direction of the Salted Mine, when Tess’ sharp voice halted him in his tracks.

  “Come back, Uncle Dewey—and help me down outa this rig! That’s your duty, on account of you’re givin’ me away!”

  “Be a pleasure!” scowled the old man. “But I still reckon you’re makin’ a big mistake!”

  Grudgingly, he assisted her to alight.

  “That all?” he growled. Tess angrily informed him that it was not all. He had a further chore. He must escort her to the altar.

  It was many years since Uncle Dewey had attended a wedding. Weddings frightened him. He had once experienced a hair’s breadth escape from matrimony, with a heavy-framed spinster named Emelina Guff. The incident had shaken him to the marrow and he had lived the remainder of his life in fear of a repetition. He was safe now, of course. Everybody knew that. But, unfortunately, Uncle Dewey didn’t know it, and weddings still frightened him.

  “Dressin’ me up so’s I look handsome,” he grumbled, as he helped Tess up the steps. “It’s like flingin’ me to the wolves. Some detached female’s bound to set her sights on me, and it’ll be all your fault!”

  “Hush your mouth!” hissed Tess. “We’re almost in church!”

  Smiling onlookers at the entrance pressed aside, to allow them passage. Ed Larchmont leered at her, causing her some misgivings, and muttered, “It’ll be nice having you in the family.”

  Preacher Kiley craned his long neck, glimpsed the arrival of the bride, and surreptitiously clicked his fingers to his spouse. Lena Kiley fixed a smile on her heavy features, her store-teeth gleaming so that they took on the appearance of freshly-painted tombstones, and she bent over the keyboard of the ancient harmonium. It emitted an anguished groan, then a sound distinctly reminiscent of a belch, then gave out the first sonorous notes of “Here Comes The Bride”.

  Jay Endean half-turned, in the required manner, and, with his handsome head held high, watched the triumphal progress of Tess Hapgood and her ancient kinsman. Citizens beamed at the immaculate bride, then at the waiting groom, then back at the bride. Endean steadfastly concealed his faint distaste, and thought, “Great Scot! The things I do to make a fast getaway!”

  Nine – The Wild-Cat Cuts Loose

  “Just set quiet,” growled Cal Morey.

  “You gonna call him now?” whispered the man called Syd.

  “Uh-huh,” leered the boss outlaw. “I reckon it’s about time. I don’t hear no sounds from out in the street, so I guess everybody’s outa town. Anyways, that fat deputy’s likely got a watch.”

  His men chuckled softly. He cautioned them to silence, then raised his voice.

  “Hey you in there! Deputy! Come on in here!”

  Down the corridor, Larry Valentine and Stretch Emerson swapped smiles of happy anticipation.

  “Pretty soon now,” promised Larry, quietly.

  They heard the clang of the cell-block door. Sammy Foy waddled over to the door of Morey’s cell and blinked at him. “Wassamatter?” he demanded.

  “I wanta know what time it is!” glowered Morey.

  “Is that all you hollered for?”

  “Why not?” leered the bearded man. “A prisoner’s got a right to know what time it is, hasn’t he?”

  “I guess so,” shrugged Sammy.

  He fished a battered-looking timepiece from his vest pocket, glanced at it, and said, “I make it—uh—exactly ten-fifteen.”

  “That’s just dandy,” chuckled Morey. “And now there’s just one more little thing I’d like you to do for us.”

  “And what’s that?” enquired Sammy.

  For answer, Morey produced his newly-acquired six-gun, pointed the muzzle at Sammy’s quaking belly, and said, “Open up—quick! Or I’ll blow a hole in that blubber belly of yours!”

  “H-h-how did you git a g-gun?” wondered the trembling deputy.

  “Never mind,” scowled Morey. “Open up, damn you! And do it quick!”

  With the fear curdling his blood, Sammy obeyed him, unlocking both cell doors with shaking hands. The outlaws poured out into the corridor, disarmed him with the greatest of ease and kicked him into one of the cells. An outlaw dashed into the office and found some rope. Then Sammy was securely bound and gagged. They slammed the cell door shut, ransacked the office for weapons and gathered about their leader to hear his instructions.

  “So far so good,” chuckled Morey. “But don’t let’s push our luck. No reason why we have to show ourselves on Main Street. The livery’s on this same side and so’s the bank—and we got keys now. We can get outa here, the back way. Syd, you grab four fast horses at that livery and bring ’em along to the back of the bank. Then we’ll bust in, clean it out, and ride! And, don’t forget, no shootin’. We got a chance of gettin’ clear away from Widow’s Peak, with a good lead, if we do things quiet.”

  Larry heard their heavy footsteps and muttered a warning to Stretch.

  “Lay low! They’re comin’ this way!”

  They were half-covered by their blankets, and again loudly snoring, when the outlaws passed their cell.

  “Sure wish I had time to attend to them two,” they heard the bearded man growl. “They’re the coyotes that got us into this blamed jail ...”

  But greed was overriding Morey’s desire for vengeance. Even greater than his urge to make a getaway was his fierce resolve to depart with funds—funds obtained from the Widow’s Peak bank.

  The Texans waited until they heard the rear door slam, then tumbled out of their bunks and grabbed their hats.

  “What’s the next move?” Stretch demanded as Larry unlocked the cell door.

  “Didn’t you hear that little speech Morey made?” grinned Larry. “They’re gonna hit the bank. Maybe that ties in with Endean’s plans. Maybe not. But this is one helluva fine chance to make a real hero outa Sammy.”

  Sammy’s eyes blinked at them aggrievedly as they halted at the end cell door and tried their borrowed key in the lock. It fitted. They hurried in, removed the gag from his mouth and began untying him, paying scant attention to his plaintive queries.

  “What’s goin’ on around here? How’d them owlhoots git a gun? Why didn’t you two stop ’em ...?”

  “Quit yappin’,” growled Larry, tugging free the last of Sammy’s bonds. “This is the best thing that could’ve happened for you.”

  “For me? How come?”

  “Because Morey’s gonna try robbin’ the bank before he hightails it outa Widow’s Peak.”

  “Let him!” wailed Sammy. “What do I care? My gal’s gittin’ hitched to Jay Endean. My heart’s broke.”

  “We got a hunch,” confided Larry, setting him upon his feet, “that Endean and Larchmont’ll try makin’ a run for it, under cover of this jail-break. If that happens you’ll get your big chance!”

  “At what?”

  “At bein’ a hero!”

  Sammy swallowed a lump in his throat and asked tremulously, “W-will it be d-dangerous?”

  “You’ll likely git your fool head blowed off,” leered Stretch. “But what do you care? Everybody’ll know you died a hero’s death.”

  “I don’t wanta die no kinda death!” protested Sammy, as they dragged him from the cell.

  “Quit that coward’s talk!” snapped Larry. “You was born in Texas, whether we like it or not. So we’re gonna make a hero outa you, whether you like it or not!”

  At the rear door, Stretch clamped a hand over the deputy’s mouth whilst Larry opened the door a few inches and peered out into the alley. Instantly, he shut it again, turned to his partner and held a finger to his lips.

  “They sure work fast!” he hissed. “It didn’t take that Syd ranny long to steal and saddle horses for ’em. He’s bringin’ ’em this way. Listen!”

  They listened. The hooves of walkin
g horses clattered past the door and onward to their left, towards the rear of the bank, in the next block down. Larry waited a moment longer, then opened the door and chanced another look.

  “All clear,” he grunted to Stretch. “They’re inside by now. Sammy?”

  Stretch removed his hand from Sammy’s mouth. The deputy gaped at Larry and said, “What?”

  “How many work in that bank?”

  “Well—uh—today there’s likely only Mr. Peters. He’s the banker. I think he let his two clerks go to the weddin’.”

  “All right!” Larry stepped out into the alley, motioning them to follow him. “Let’s get down there.”

  They crept along the alley, Larry and Stretch with their guns drawn and ready. Sammy brought up the rear, perspiring in his abject terror, but afraid to leave them. They were his protection—the only protection he had. They had warned him that he would probably die; but he held to a hope that they would prevent his demise, if that was at all possible.

  The bank’s rear door, sagging on its broken hinges, told of the outlaws’ ease of entry. Larry carefully nudged it open and moved inside. Stretch followed, pushing Sammy ahead of him.

  They were in the narrow corridor that led to the front of the premises and, from up ahead, they could hear the slight noises made by men moving furtively about.

  “Likely stowing the loot in their saddlebags,” Larry whispered to Stretch. “Let’s you and me delay ’em some.”

  “Yeah!” leered Stretch. “Let’s.”

  Quietly they made their way to the end of the corridor. On reaching it, Larry dropped into a crouch and made a hasty survey of the situation. The bank manager lay in a corner, out cold, a livid bruise on his forehead testifying to the speed with which he had been disposed of. In another corner, two of the owlhoots were busily engaged in rifling the safe. Larry guessed, correctly as it happened, that Peters had been in the act of transferring money to the safe at the moment of the outlaws’ entry. Over to the front Morey and another man stood staring through the windows, watching the street, their gaze directed to the far-off chapel, from whence the first trouble would emanate if anything went wrong with their plans.