At dawn’s first light, after a substantial breakfast, they prepared to take their leave of the town they would never forget. The pinto and sorrel were saddled and waiting, along with the team-horses. From here to Vine City, they would travel in some degree of comfort, carrying ample water and provisions. But, as Larry put it to their now-genial host:
“We could sure use a guide, old-timer, and you know every inch of the Big Amarillo.”
Spooky scratched his snowy thatch and eyed his guests pensively.
“All right, Texas-man,” he challenged. “Just what’re you askin’ me?”
“I’m sayin’ it’s high time you got some pleasure from all that gold you’ve dug,” Larry told him. “Heck, Spooky,
you ain’t too old to have yourself some fun.”
“You gotta think of your future,” Stretch seriously asserted. “What you oughta do is tag along with us, lead us safe to Vine City . .
“Then trade your nuggets for hard cash,” urged Larry, “and have yourself a big time—start livin’ it up.”
“With all that dinero,” grinned Bart, “you could get
yourself all slickered-up, check into a fancy room in some big hotel ...”
“He’s a hermit,” frowned Theodore. “He just wouldn’t appreciate ...”
“Who’s a hermit?” Spooky eyed him aggrievedly. “Not me, mister. Sure, I been livin’ all by my lonesome this many-a-year, but maybe I’m gettin’ weary of it, maybe I’ll do just like Larry says.”
“So,” prodded Larry, “what’re you waitin’ for?”
“Who’s waitin’?” grinned Spooky. “Just gimme a couple minutes to saddle General Lee.”
Towards noon of that day, after reaching the east edge of the Big Amarillo, they encountered two search-parties. The first had been organized by the marshal of Vine City, none other than Stretch’s kinsman—cousin Sam Emerson. Failure of the eastbound stage to arrive on schedule had moved the Vine City authorities to order an investigation. Cousin Sam shared leadership of this party with the Kin- stead Line’s local manager.
After listening to his kinsman’s description of their run-in with the escapees, and with due regard for the tale of woe unfolded by the ladies, the marshal ordered his volunteers to change mounts with the travelers.
“They’ll ride the team-horses back to the waterhole,” he explained. “I reckon that harness can be rigged to haul the stage to Vine City, which means Miss Elmira’ll have her weddin’ gown in time for the hitchin’.” He nodded affably to the women, as Stretch performed introductions. “Sure, I know Orin. Nice feller, Miss Elmira, and gettin’ mighty anxious about you.”
“How’s his broken leg?” asked Larry.
“He’ll get hitched on crutches,” grinned Cousin Sam, “but I don’t reckon he’ll complain.”
The second search-party was familiar to the Texans. It seemed a long time since their first meeting with Karl Finkler and the sullen Cliff Wendell, but they were immediately recognized. In a few terse sentences, Larry told Finkler all there was to know, and then studied his reaction. Wendell was bitterly disappointed, and said as much, but had the good grace to add:
“I guess Elrigg and his pards bit off more than they could chew, when they tangled with you jaspers.”
“They paid for killin’ your kinsman, Wendell,” Larry assured him, “and for a lot of other things as well.”
By mid-afternoon, the eventful journey was finally at an end. The marshal had checked the drifters into a hotel where, after submitting to an examination by a Vine City physician, they relaxed in tubs of hot water and worked hard at forgetting all that had befallen them in Fortuna. At a more expensive establishment, the Newbolds were settling in and preparing for tomorrow’s ceremony.
Larry and Stretch were still wallowing in their baths, when Bart Darrance invited himself into their suite. Grinning broadly, he thrust a cigar into Larry’s mouth, another into Stretch’s, and scratched a match. The Texans puffed appreciatively, and Larry enquired:
“What’re we celebratin’?”
“Couldn’t you guess?” challenged Bart. “You’re invited to the wedding!”
“We already know,” Stretch assured him. “Old Theodore invited us. We ain’t acquainted with Elmira’s man, but I guess we can claim we’re friends of hers, so ...”
“You think I’m talking about that wedding?” Bart shook his head emphatically. “No siree, amigos. Talking about my wedding. Day after tomorrow.”
You mean,” blinked Stretch, “you—and Sarah Ann?”
“I don’t mean me and Harriet,” chuckled Bart.
“Are you tellin’ us the old lady didn’t object?” challenged Larry. “Hell’s bells—how’d you ever get past her?”
“Didn’t have to tangle with her at all,” shrugged Bart. “Seems like we were wrong about Sarah Ann’s father. Theodore is through taking orders from his wife.” He grinned broadly. “I wish you could’ve seen it—the way he quieted her down and told her he'd decided what’s best for Sarah Ann. I swear she near exploded! But it’s all set. I’m going out and buy the ring right here and now.”
“All right—bridegroom ...” Larry farewelled him with an airy wave and flicked soap into Stretch’s face.
After the jubilant shotgunner had departed, Stretch knuckled soap from his eye and darted his partner a sidelong glance.
“Ever’body ends up happy, huh, runt?”
“Yep. And that’s how it oughta be.”
“Well—how about us?”
Larry rubbed soap over his brawny chest, shrugged unconcernedly and made a prediction.
“We’ll get weary of drinkin’ and gamblin’ with Sam—and bein’ weddin’ guests. Next thing you know, our feet’ll be itchin again. So . . Another shrug, “we’ll just saddle up and ride out—Just like always.”
“And that’ll suit me fine,” declared Stretch..
“You weary of Vine City already?” prodded Larry.
“I damn soon will be,” vowed Stretch. He sank lower in his tub, blew at the soap bubbles and watched one rise to the ceiling. “Cousin Sam claims this is a plumb peaceable town.”
“Peaceable, huh?” mused Larry. “Well, I guess you’re right. We couldn’t linger long in this kind of a town.”
About the Author
Leonard Frank Meares (February 13, 1921 - February 4, 1993)
Sydney born Len Meares aka Marshall Grover, published around 750 novels, mostly westerns. His best-known works feature Texas trouble-shooters Larry and Stretch. Before starting to write, Meares served in the Royal Australian Air Force, worked in the Department of Immigration and sold shoes. In the mid-1950s he bought a typewriter to write radio and film scripts. Inspired by the success of local paperback westerns, he wrote Trouble Town, which was published by the Cleveland Publishing Company in 1955.
His tenth yarn, Drift! (1956), introduced Larry Valentine and Stretch Emerson. In 1960, he created a brief but memorable series of westerns set in and around the town of Bleak Creek. Four years later came The Night McLennan Died, the first of more than 70 westerns (sometimes called oaters) to feature cavalryman-turned-manhunter Big Jim Rand.
More on Marshall Grover
The Larry and Stretch Series by Marshall Grover
Drift!
Arizona Wild-Cat
Ride Wild to Glory
Nomads from Texas
Ride Out Shooting
Texans Walk Proud
Never Prod a Texan
The Fast Right Hand
Close In For Showdown
Texas Gun Ghost
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