Stretch was first to realize the danger. He had been propped on his elbows. Now, he felt himself sinking, with all his weight shifting forward.
“Move back …!” he gasped.
But too late. A twelve-inch wide crack suddenly opened and the edge fell away beneath them. Stretch tried in vain to twist and grab for a handhold. Larry reached for Ruthy’s legs, as she began plunging down the cliff face. He missed and, off-balance, toppled after her. In a welter of dust and rock and rubble they hurtled downward.
Ten – Back to Amarillo
Their hectic descent seemed to end abruptly. They lay at the base of the cliff amid a scattering of boulders and a shower of grit, in plain sight of the grim-faced riders emerging from behind the rock mound opposite. Harnsey was barking orders. Newcombe and Haines were hustling their stolen mounts, advancing on the unexpected intruders with guns drawn.
Dazed, bruised, with multiple abrasions but with no bones broken, the Texans lurched to their feet. Ruthy, they observed, was already standing. Her shirt had almost been torn from her back. One bloodied knee showed through her torn jeans and the fire red hair hung in disarray. There was fire, too, in her eyes, as she glared at the hooded outlaw sitting the pinto colt.
Larry and Stretch knuckled grit from their eyes and sought solace in a stream of imaginative profanity. Quite a few guns were pointed their way, and the range was short. It was no time for heroics.
“Unbuckle the hardware!” ordered Newcombe.
They had no option but to obey. From where he sat his mount beside the mound, Harnsey called to his minions.
“Who the hell are they?”
“How about that?” Newcombe demanded of the disgruntled drifters. “You got names?”
“Washington,” scowled Larry. “George Washington.”
“Lincoln,” grunted Stretch. “Abe Lincoln—Junior.”
“Couple of real humorous jaspers we got here,” jeered Haines.
“Throw the hardware clear,” fretted Newcombe.
Again, the Texans obeyed. Their holstered hardware was tossed six feet to their left.
“Sneakin’, dirty horse thief!” flared Ruthy.
“What the …?” began Newcombe.
“Hush up, kid,” muttered Larry
“That’s my colt,” she raged, pointing to the pinto. “You stole it—after you shot my father!”
“Well, well, well!” grinned Newcombe.
“Harp!” called Harnsey. “I asked you a question!”
“The gal’s been trailin’ us, I reckon,” Newcombe replied. “Claims the pinto is hers. I’m guessin’ these saddlebums were sidin’ her.”
Harnsey cocked an ear, swore violently and began yelling orders.
“Harp and Mitch—keep them three covered! Rest of you get ready to hit that train! She’s comin’ out the timber now …!”
At first, Bart Clifford could see naught but the obstruction on the lines, and he jumped to the obvious conclusion.
“Landslide!” he gasped to Malloy.
With a screeching of brakes and a hissing of steam, the locomotive shuddered to a halt some fourteen feet from the boulders—and only then did the engine crew see their danger, danger of the worst kind. Six hard-looking hombres were closing in on the stalled engine. Two were dismounting and showing the startled engineer and fireman the business end of their .45s.
“Just freeze there, Mr. Engineer! One wrong move and you’re buzzard bait!”
Larry, Stretch and the girl stood tense, their arms raised, their eyes on the fast-moving desperadoes. Harnsey, backed by Spring and two others, had shoved back a side door of the caboose and was clambering in. Larry slanted his gaze to the men sitting Junior’s charcoal and Ruthy’s pinto. The cocked .45s were still pointed their way.
In the stock-truck, Junior hunched his shoulders and turned his head slightly—just enough to note the reason for the southbound’s sudden halt. It had happened, he realized. The Harnsey gang was very much in control of the situation and he, the son of Burch Tatum, had failed again.
In the caboose, Homer Peck was roused from his drunken stupor by a rough hand. That rough hand was gripping his coat collar and heaving upward. He gave a half-choked gasp, as his assailant hauled him to his feet and slammed him against the rear wall. Harnsey’s ferocious face was pressed close to his. The muzzle of Harnsey’s Colt was pressed into his belly.
“You do like I’m tellin’ you,” breathed Harnsey, “or you stop livin’—real sudden! That clear enough for you, Conductor Man?”
“Uh—sure …!” gulped Homer.
“The key to that safe,” growled Harnsey. “Hand it over!”
“You’re—uh—entirely welcome,” mumbled Homer.
He fished the key from his pocket. Harnsey snatched it from him and hurried to the safe.
“Quint,” he grunted. “Keep him covered. He looks too stupid to be dangerous, but keep him covered anyway. Rocco and Corey—you two search this caboose for a hideout gun, while I get the cashbox.”
It took the outlaws only a few moments to locate the weapon issued to Homer by the railroad authorities—a short-barreled Smith & Wesson which he hadn’t cleaned since Thanksgiving, the Thanksgiving before last. It took Harnsey even less time to unlock the safe and seize the strongbox.
“Let’s go,” he grinned. And, as he started for the side doorway, he drawled a warning to the bug-eyed Homer. “If you hanker to go on livin’, stay right where you are. You show your nose outside of this caboose and one of us is just bound to shoot it clear off your face.”
“D-D-Don’t worry …!” faltered Homer. “I’m t-t-too scared to b-budge!”
Chuckling, the four desperadoes quit the caboose. Harnsey moved a few paces, set the strongbox down and held the muzzle of his six-shooter to the lock. He squeezed the trigger. The weapon roared and jumped in his fist; the strongbox leapt from the impact.
“Ain’t that a purty sight?” grinned Spring.
“Wait till you see it,” laughed Harnsey, as he raised the lid and examined the contents. Abruptly, his mirth died. His jaw sagged.
“What is it?” demanded Spring.
“Look …!” snarled Harnsey. “Useless paper!” He leapt to his feet, glared toward the caboose. “I know they were shippin’ it on this train! It’s likely hid in the caboose!”
And now at last, at this moment of moments, Burch Tatum Junior took his courage in both hands and made his move. He jerked at the metal rod with all his strength so that it came free of its slots. Almost immediately, the side of the truck slanted outward and his beefy captors flicked their ears. The horn was no longer pressed to his chest but, as the ramp fell with a clatter, both bulls instinctively moved forward. Any other man in the whole wide world would have thrown himself backward, but not Junior. He sprang upward, just as the bull in front of him dropped its head. Forward he flopped, straddling the beast back to front. It emitted a roar, as it toted him down the ramp with the other beast following.
Harnsey had almost reached the caboose, when the ominous roaring froze him in his tracks. Spring, the other two and the couple covering the engine crew saw the danger and reacted instinctively, scattering. Newcombe and Haines twisted in their saddles, and that was all the opportunity Larry and Stretch needed. They dived toward their gunbelts.
"Hit the dirt!” Larry yelled to Ruthy.
But that warning was unnecessary, because the redhead was already scampering to a boulder and dropping behind it. Newcombe loosed a gasp of dismay, as a charging bull caught one of his colleagues in mid-flight and tossed him. The hapless desperado was hurled into the air with his chest bloody.
Haines, suddenly remembering the Texans, turned and fired. His bullet missed Larry’s head by less than an inch, just as Larry reached his fallen gunbelt and emptied his holster. Simultaneously, Stretch got his hands to his matched .45s and jerked them from leather, and the air suddenly filled with the din of gunfire.
Dodging, ducking, sidestepping, the Lone Star Hellions began wr
eaking havoc with their booming guns. Something ugly happened to the handsome face of Harp Newcombe. He somersaulted over the charcoal’s rump and was dead before he hit before a well-aimed slug from Larry’s Colt creased his skull and knocked him senseless.
As for the bulls, they were still in business—and then some—charging at anything that moved. A second hardcase was tossed. He was drawing a bead on one of the enraged beasts when, with surprising speed, it whirled and lashed out with its hind-hooves. His gun discharged skyward as both hooves scored. With his ribs dented and his jaw fractured, he pitched to the ground and sprawled flat on his back.
The irate Harnsey found himself a target—a grim-faced Texan who was advancing on him and demanding his surrender. His gun roared and the bullet tore Larry’s left shirt-sleeve, searing his flesh. Larry gritted his teeth and returned fire. Harnsey cursed in anguish as his gun was torn from his grasp. He sagged at the knees, blinking incredulously at his mangled gunhand.
“Quint!” His voice rose to a strident yell. “Get this b.…..!”
Spring, dashing after his frightened horse, turned with his Colt belching fire. His first shot missed. As he hammered back, Larry triggered—and heard his own hammer snap on a spent shell. For what seemed an eternity, he was facing a leveled and cocked six-gun. Then, from somewhere behind him, he heard the booming of Stretch’s Colts. Spring fired, but too late. He was reeling, mortally wounded, when his weapon discharged.
“Six down!” whooped Stretch. “Two to go!”
Larry heaved a sigh, ejected his spent shells and began reloading.
“Two to go?” he challenged. “Hell, no, big feller. Take a look at ’em. They ain’t goin’ anyplace.”
The two surviving outlaws were grasping empty Colts, and were getting no chance to reload. Their dash for cover had taken them to the near side of the locomotive’s cabin, from whence Messrs. Clifford and Malloy now descended, to land astride them and force them to the ground. Stretch, indignant at being excluded from this tangle of heaving bodies and threshing limbs, unleashed a Rebel Yell, holstered his Colts and hurled himself into the fray.
The fireman and engineer accounted for the seventh desperado. Malloy pounded his belly. Clifford pounded his face. They repeated that punishment until their victim was feeling no pain. The eighth man was claimed by Stretch. His lashing kick missed. Stretch’s uppercut didn’t. The bandit hurtled to the side of the fuel tender, slamming hard against it. Then, with his eyes glazing, he collapsed.
From the open doorway of the caboose, Homer Peck voiced a plea.
“Somebody better quieten them bulls. They’re worth a heap of hard cash to a certain ranchin’ man.”
The Texans eyed the still-enraged beasts with some interest—one more than the other, since Junior still clung to its back.
“That’s him all right.” Stretch nodded sadly. “Who else could it be?”
“Yeah,” grunted Larry. “Who else but Junior?”
The outlaws’ horses were giving the snorting bulls a wide berth. They were still full of fight, those massive beasts, but they weren’t charging now. Instead, they plodded among the sprawled and helpless bandits, grunting and sniffing, seeking new victims. Ruthy emerged from cover but, in obedience to Larry’s sharp command, sidled to another boulder and kept it between herself and the bulls. Clifford and Malloy discreetly retreated to the locomotive’s cabin.
“Seems like,” suggested Stretch, “it’s up to us.”
“You can handle ’em,” yawned Larry. “I’m feelin’ weary and, besides, you always could cuss fancier than me.”
“I don’t mean to brag, runt,” drawled the taller Texan, “but I’ve knowed mule-skinners that claimed I was the all-time champeen.”
“That’s what I mean,” nodded Larry. “But don’t start till I give you the word.” He turned and crooked a finger. “Hey, Red. C’mere.”
Ruthy broke cover again and scuttled across to him. He stood behind her and, as he raised his hands, good-humoredly explained,
“This is for your own good. You’re sassy, but you’re a lady all the same, and Stretch’d get plumb ashamed if he thought you could hear.” She leaned her back against his broad chest, as he planted the palms of his hands hard against her ears. He then nodded to his partner. “All right big feller. Faze 'em.”
The bulls had come to a halt some twenty-five yards from the ramp of the stock-truck. Unhurriedly, Stretch ambled toward them.
“Wait!” called Junior. “Give me a chance to get off this crittur—for gosh sakes …!”
“Nobody's stoppin' you,” grinned Stretch.
Junior slid to the ground and promptly ran toward the engine. The bulls made growling sounds and fixed their red-rimmed eyes on the approaching Texan. Stretch stopped grinning, arranged his features in a ferocious scowl and sidled around to the right. It began then, as impressive a recital of blistering profanity as had ever assailed the ears of the listening men.
“Git back thar …!” snarled Stretch. “You mangy, lop-eared, wall-eyed …!”
Both animals began retreating. Stretch moved toward them, baring his teeth and cussing right along. They halted, but he didn’t. He kept coming until he was almost close enough to be gored by those sharp horns, and again they retreated. They retreated all the way to the ramp, then turned and climbed it. Stretch sprang to the ramp, lifted it and secured it with the rod.
“By jumpin’ Julius!” breathed Homer. “I never seen nothin’ like that before.”
He was relieved, but only temporarily. There were now many witnesses to the fact that the strongbox had contained naught but torn newspaper. These strangers had noticed. So had Bart Clifford and Malloy. While the Texans set about rendering rough first aid to the wounded outlaws, Homer mentally composed an answer to the inevitable queries.
Larry had decided against shipping the defeated Harnsey gang to Winfield by railroad. The alternative would take longer, but was infinitely more appealing inasmuch as Junior would be making a triumphal entry, confounding the Texas-hating editor of the Clarion, confusing the local law. According to the engine crew, they could reach Winfield about mid-morning of the morrow, if they cut away from the railroad route and proceeded in a southwesterly direction.
A jubilant Ranger Tatum retrieved his prized hardware, Stetson and badge from the dead Harp Newcombe. In the black’s saddlebags, he found something else—his identification papers and the extradition warrants.
Ruthy Shumack was no less elated at being reunited with her beloved pinto colt. She stood by that clean-limbed animal, caressing its neck, while the Texans helped the engine crew to roll the boulders free of the tracks. The wounded and unscathed bandits were roped to their horses—and so were the two who had paid the supreme penalty. Clifford and Malloy made their speech of gratitude to the drifters and climbed back into the locomotive’s cabin. Malloy was plying his shovel and Homer was about to slide the caboose door shut, when Larry thought to enquire,
“How come that strongbox was full of newspaper? Seems to me Harnsey must’ve been countin’ on a rich haul.”
“Yeah—I guess he was.” Homer took a deep breath, summoned the last shreds of his courage and offered his desperate lie. “Well, it’s thisaway, friend. The Harnsey gang robbed the Winfield branch of the Settlers’ National …”
“I know about that,” Larry interjected.
“Uh—sure,” frowned Homer. “Well, the Denver headquarters had to ship cash to the Winfield branch to cover the loss—you know what I mean? And I got nervous, got me a notion some other owlhoot bunch might jump us.”
“So …?” prodded Larry.
“So,” shrugged Homer, “I took all the dinero out of that cashbox and stashed it in my own pockets—packed newspaper into the cashbox and—well …” He shrugged again, “that’s it.”
On tenterhooks, he waited for a derisive retort, some hint of doubt on Larry’s part. And then the tension eased out of him, because Larry was flashing him a companionable grin, and remarking,
> “That sure was a smart move, mister.”
“Real smart,” approved Stretch, who was checking Harnsey’s saddlebags. “So now it looks like the bank gets back all its dinero. Get an eyeful of this, runt. Mucho greenbacks. Harnsey got greedy, huh?”
“Damn right,” nodded Larry. “He was tryin’ for a two-way parlay.”
“I’ll remember you!” panted the pain-wracked Harnsey. “You smart-aleck saddlebums…!”
“You’ll have plenty of time to cuss us,” Larry consoled him.
“’Tween here and Amarillo,” added Stretch.
Clifford sounded his whistle and, sluggishly, the southbound continued its journey. It took Larry and Stretch some twenty minutes to complete preparations for their return journey to Winfield; Junior had to ride north to retrieve the hired bay, and the Texans’ own horses had to be fetched from the brush beyond the butte. But, finally, they were ready to move.
Toward midnight, the slow procession was crossing Circle T range. Larry and Ruthy were riding stirrup to stirrup. She was straddling the pinto colt, leading the strawberry roan by a tie-rope and feeling forlorn, but lending an attentive ear to Larry’s big-brotherly advice.
“I sure appreciate the offer Ruthy,” he solemnly told her, “but it’d never work out. I’m a sight older than you. What’s more, my feet started itchin’, when I was knee-high. Stretch and me, we never linger more than a couple weeks in any one place—so what kind of a husband would I be?” They reined up.
“I guess,” she sighed, “I’ll have to try and forget you— but it ain’t gonna be easy.”
Before nudging the pinto to movement, she leaned sideways, locked her arms about his neck and kissed him. Stretch heaved a sentimental sigh. Some of the prisoners offered jeering comments. But Larry wasn’t listening. He was heeling his sorrel again and staring away toward the Circle T headquarters, watching Ruthy Shumack riding home.
Ten a.m. of the following day, when they entered Winfield’s dusty main stem, the reaction was electric. The scoffers—those who had derided Junior such a short time before—turned out to gape. Larry had insisted that Junior lead them in. With the sun flashing off his badge and his handsome face wearing a triumphant grin, Junior led the column along the center of Main Street to the county law office. Otto Klemper materialized right on schedule, bounding out of his office and hustling across to stand beside the bug-eyed Sheriff Mole and Deputy Clough. The Clarion editor’s face was red. Incredulously, he began challenging the Ranger.
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