“Stay down,” grunted Larry. “He’s mine.”
His Colt held one last live cartridge. He cocked, aimed and fired, and the hefty gunhawk hurtled back over his mount’s rump.
“And now,” Larry grimly announced, “we go down.”
They dropped to the observation platform and descended to the ground. In quick strides, the Texans approached the men struggling in the dust beyond the horses. The alkali, stirred up by their threshing limbs, rose in a choking cloud.
A wild bullet had creased Jefford’s ribs, but it might have been a pin-prick for all it restricted him. He was ignoring the agony of it, while venting his spleen on a man he had grown to hate. As the dust haze cleared, the Texans were able to distinguish them. McKeller’s face was a mask of dirt and blood. Jefford was hauling him to his feet by his bandanna and still swinging punches. His hard right fist pounded McKeller’s belly, his chest, his face. McKeller’s legs were buckling, and still Jefford held him upright—and struck at him.
Stretch grinned mildly and called to the marshal.
“In case you ain’t noticed—it’s all over.”
Chapter Ten: No Poison for Miss Addy
Had there been a qualified physician traveling on the Special that day, the delay at Pagosa Well might not have been as lengthy. In the matter of first aid for the wounded, Larry, Stretch, Tim Blake and a veterinarian named Pincus were obliged to do the honors.
This lonely watering point of the railroad was staffed by two elderly men, both of whom were found inside the shack, bound and gagged and with bumps on their heads.
Gashed heads were bandaged and broken limbs set. With a Bowie knife, Larry performed rough surgery on the few surviving bandits. They, along with their dead cronies, were unceremoniously loaded into the caboose.
During all this, McKeller was as helpless as before, and somewhat sorer. He had taken a tremendous beating from the belligerent Marshal Jefford. And Jefford, after Larry had cleansed and bound his wound, refused to make any concessions to his reduced condition. He supervised the transfer of the dead and wounded outlaws to the caboose, and made a request of the Texans. Would they keep the conductor company, and a sharp eye on the new prisoners?
“Why, sure,” grinned Stretch. “It wouldn’t be the first time we rode a caboose.”
“It’s past time for me to thank you,” Jefford declared. “I knew you two were hidden somewhere close, but I couldn’t guess where. Then, when you started shooting from the roof, I figured I still had a chance.”
“Some hassle it was.” Tim nodded fervently. “Some helluva hassle—and a bad shock for all the women on board. Addy’s still shakin’.”
“You stay close to Addy,” ordered Larry.
“Yeah,” frowned the saloonkeeper. “I’ll sure do that.”
“Larry—Stretch—I’m deeply grateful,” said Jefford.
“Forget it,” shrugged Larry.
“Forget it, he says.” Jefford grinned wryly. “I wonder if you realize the full extent of your achievement? Instead of handing over only one member of the Preston gang to the Laramie authorities, we’ll be delivering the whole damn outfit. And some of those gunhawks are worth hard cash.”
“You talkin’ about bounty?” prodded Stretch. “Well—shucks—we ain’t greedy.”
“What the hell,” grunted Larry. “We might’s well collect on ’em. But, when you parley with the Laramie law, don’t forget part of that bounty goes to the fireman. I saw him stop an owlhoot with his doggone shovel.”
In the day coach, Tim patted Addy’s shoulder comfortingly, and asked,
“You feelin’ any better?”
“I guess I’m just a timid small-towner after all,” she sighed. “All this excitement—it was too much for me.”
“Too much for any female,” asserted Tim. “And I ain’t excludin’ us men. Heck, you think I wasn’t scared?” He called across the aisle to Jefford. “I bet you ache all over, marshal.”
“Sure—I ache.” Jefford nodded and grinned. “And I never felt better in my life.”
It was dark outside, when the conductor entered the day coach to announce,
“Laramie in twenty minutes, folks.” His cap was perched squarely atop his turban of bandaging and, despite a raging headache, he could still summon up a grin.
“What hotel do we stay at this time?” demanded Tim.
“Nothin’ but the best,” Wilbur assured him. “The Fanshaw House, on Gillette Avenue. And there’ll be plenty transportation waitin’ for us at the depot.”
Later, when Larry shoved the caboose’s side door open, he studied the crowd on the station platform and remarked to his partner,
“It looks like all Laramie turned out to meet the Special.”
“Folks get curious, I guess,” shrugged Stretch, “when a train is way behind schedule. Say—just how late are we?”
“What do we care?” drawled Larry.
One of the wounded outlaws mumbled an oath. Larry ignored him, and devoted all his attention to the people on the platform outside. The Special had halted. Staring back toward the end car, he saw Jefford shoving his prisoner out to the platform and following him, to be greeted by three hefty hombres with tin stars on their chests. There was a muttered exchange, after which two of the local lawmen came hustling along to the caboose. As they arrived, they emptied their holsters. Larry and Stretch unhurriedly descended.
Larry jerked a thumb.
“You’ll find the Preston gang in the caboose. Don’t bother to unhitch your manacles. You won’t need ’em.”
“Them that ain’t grave bait,” said Stretch, “are hurt too bad to give you an argument.”
“Would you hombres be Valentine and Emerson,” asked a deputy, as he gestured for his colleague to put his gun away.
“We sure as hell would,” nodded Larry.
“Funny,” frowned the deputy. “After all I’ve heard, I figured you’d be ten feet tall.”
Moving nonchalantly and rolling cigarettes one-handed, the Texans advanced along the platform to where Addy and Tim awaited them. Just as they rejoined their friends, a black-clad, elderly man materialized from out of the crowd and walked toward Addy, smiling affably, extending his hand. A glad cry escaped her.
“Mr. Milliken! I’m so glad to see you!”
While she introduced the lawyer, Larry gave him a thoughtful once-over and tried to remember where he’d heard the name before.
“I knew you’d be surprised to see me, my dear,” said the lawyer. “Urgent business brought me to Laramie and, only a few moments ago, I read of your terrible experience in Cargell City.”
“I guess the Cargell City Bugle travels mighty fast,” commented Tim.
“The latest edition was delivered to my hotel,” Milliken explained, “after the arrival of the afternoon stage.” He addressed himself to Addy again. “You’ll be my guest for supper, of course. We have much to discuss. I took the liberty of booking accommodation for you.”
“I understand we’ll all be staying at the Fanshaw House,” said Addy.
“The Reswick Hotel,” countered Milliken, “is very comfortable. I’m sure you’ll approve.”
“Well ...” Addy sighed heavily, “it isn’t really important, because I’ll be staying only the one night. Tomorrow, I’ll be on my way home again.”
After a few polite words with Tim and the Texans, the lawyer picked up Addy’s carpetbag and ushered her away. Following them with his eyes, Larry saw the distinguished gentleman pause by the caboose to converse with the conductor. He was, obviously, arranging for Addy’s baggage to be delivered to the other hotel.
Why this growing disquiet, this chill in the pit of his stomach? A short time before, his mind had been at ease. Stretch threw him a sidelong glance, and asked,
“What’s gripin’ you?”
“Damned if I know,” frowned Larry.
“Well,” grinned Tim, “if you fellows are ready, we’ll stash our grips in one of those wagons and head for the hotel.”
>
“Do us a favor, amigo,” grunted Larry. “Take care of our bags for us. We’ll catch up with you later.”
For fifteen minutes, the nomads sauntered the boardwalk of Laramie’s main stem. In the process, they ascertained the location of the Reswick Hotel, a handsome, double-storied establishment somewhat removed from the busier sector of town. On the opposite boardwalk they paused, and Stretch asked again,
“What’s gripin’ you?”
“Two things,” Larry moodily replied. “One—I still haven’t figured why Nichols hankered to put Addy away.”
“And the other thing?” prodded Stretch.
“I can’t recall,” said Larry, “where I heard that name before.”
“What name?” frowned Stretch.
“Addy’s friend from Elmford,” said Larry. “This Milliken jasper.”
“Milliken,” mused Stretch. “Wasn’t it that newspaper feller in Cargell City?”
“That’s it!” Larry snapped his fingers. “Milliken—the attorney that defended Nichols!”
“You thinkin’ this is the same Milliken?” challenged Stretch.
“I’m thinkin’,” growled Larry, “that it’s too much of a coincidence.” He flicked his cigarette away, frowned across to the hotel. “And I’m wonderin’ if Milliken knew Nichols was gonna be on that doggone train—along with Addy.”
“Trouble with you,” chided Stretch, “you was born suspicious. All right—so now what?”
“So now,” said Larry, “we go snoopin’.”
The Reswick Hotel boasted a second-storey gallery which overlooked the main street. Larry decided against checking with the desk clerk to establish the location of Milliken’s room. It might be necessary for him to do so but, first, they could try the easy way. The gallery could be reached by means of a flight of steps leading up from a side alley.
South Wyoming’s summer heat was being relieved by a cooling breeze. Most of the windows opening onto the gallery were open. Checking the first one, they saw naught but a fat man in his Long Johns, sprawled on his bed and perusing a newspaper. The next one offered him a familiar tableau, a man and woman engaged in heated argument. Obviously a married couple. Through the third window, they spotted Addy. She was dressing for her supper engagement with Fergus Milliken. Lone Star gallantry demanded that they move on.
The scene visible through the next window interested Larry most of all. It was a handsomely furnished parlor, A steward had just finished delivering supper for two. Milliken stood by the sideboard, pouring wine into two long-stemmed glasses. He conversed easily with the steward until the food had been distributed on the table. Then,
“That will do nicely,” he smiled.
Pocketing a generous tip, the steward departed. Milliken turned toward the window. Quickly, and as silently as shadows, the Texans dodged to either side of it and stood with their backs to the wall. The lawyer thrust his head out and, thanks to the out jutting shutters, failed to see them. The gallery appeared deserted. He withdrew his head and retreated into the room. Larry edged an eye around the shutter—in time to witness something that made his scalp crawl. Into one of the wine glasses, Milliken was emptying the contents of a small bottle. This glass he then placed at the right side of the laden table; the other he placed on the left side.
He adjusted his cravat, smoothed his hair and went to the side wall, to rap on the panels.
“Ready, my dear?”
They heard Addy’s reply.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Could I have just ten more minutes?”
“Why, certainly,” smiled Milliken.
Larry promptly dropped to his knees and crawled under the window ledge to reach his partner. When he rose up, he put his mouth to Stretch’s ear and whispered urgent instructions.
“Faze him out into the corridor. Keep him talkin'. I’ll need at least eight minutes, or maybe not that long.”
“How am I gonna ...?”
“You’ll think of somethin’. Remember he’s a lawyer. You could make believe you need a lawyer.”
A few moments later, in response to a knock, Milliken opened his door, his features composed in a welcoming smile.
“Come in, my dear—oh! I beg your pardon ...!”
“’Scuse me, Mr. Milliken, sir,” frowned Stretch. And, firmly, he gripped the lawyer’s arm and drew him out into the corridor. “You remember me?”
“Well, of course,” frowned Milliken. “But …”
“It was down to the railroad depot,” Stretch reminded him. “Me and my pard—we’re friends of Miss Addy.”
“Yes, indeed.” Milliken warmly shook his hand. “I believe your friend actually saved her life.”
“That wasn’t nothin’,” shrugged Stretch. “I got somethin’ a heap more important to talk about. Plain truth is I need your help, Mr. Milliken. Need a lawyer bad.”
“Some other time,” begged Milliken.
“This won’t take but a minute,” said Stretch. “What I need to know is can a hombre get sued for—uh—breach of promise—is that what they call it?”
“Breach of promise,” nodded Milliken, “is the correct term—if you refer to a promise to marry.”
“That’s what I mean.” Stretch nodded vehemently. “Now, what I wanta know is can a hombre get sued by seven females, all at the same time?”
“You said—seven?” Milliken eyed him incredulously. “Trouble is,” Stretch carefully explained, “I do a heap of travelin’,”
Meanwhile, Larry was busy. Stretch had hustled the lawyer well clear of the open doorway. Even if he had glanced over his shoulder, Milliken couldn’t have seen into the room, couldn’t have seen the other Texan clambering through the window.
Larry’s first act was to take another wine glass from the sideboard and fill it from the bottle. This he placed at the right side of the table, simultaneously moving the glass spiked by Milliken. It hadn’t been filled to the brim, so none of its contents spilled, as he climbed back through the window and resumed his position on the gallery. In the act of emptying that glass, he changed his mind and carefully set it aside.
In the corridor, Milliken was sternly informing Stretch, “It’s much too complicated, Mr. Emerson. An absolute shambles. Damnitall, man, you must learn to control this——this urge to propose to almost every woman you meet!”
“Well,” shrugged Stretch, “it’s kind of a hobby of mine.”
“The best advice I can offer,” frowned Milliken, “is that you should ride clear of those towns.”
“Which means,” sighed Stretch, “I gotta stay outa Utah, North Nebraska, Dakota, Colorado ...”
“You must excuse me now,” said Milliken. “There are many demands on my time.”
“Sure am obliged for the free advice, Mr. Milliken,” Stretch humbly declared, as he turned and trudged away along the corridor.
In less than two minutes, he was rejoining Larry outside the open window. When he made to peer into the room, Larry whispered a reprimand.
“Keep your head down. We don’t have to look any more.”
They heard Addy’s gentle knock, and the lawyer’s affectionate greeting.
“Take this chair, my dear.”
“Such an appetizing supper, Mr. Milliken.”
“I’m glad you approve. And now, before we begin, may I propose a toast? To our continuing friendship, Addy my child.”
There was a brief silence. Then, “Why do you hesitate?”
“The wine, Mr. Milliken. I hope it isn’t too strong. I’m not used to ...”
“You’ll find it quite light, my dear. Almost nonalcoholic.”
“Well—if you say so.” Another brief silence. “Yes, you’re right. I’ve never tasted such delicious wine.”
Milliken chuckled softly, lit a cigar and drawled,
“Such a pity to waste a fine dinner.”
“I—don’t understand,” she frowned.
“You’ll not be eating,” he assured her. “As a matter of fact, you’ll be dead wit
hin a few minutes. Five at the most. No, my dear, don’t try to cry out, and don’t try to move.”
She sat rooted to her chair, gaping at him.
“Mr. Milliken—what on earth ...?”
“Haven’t you guessed?” he smiled. “Your glass contained a potent poison.” He gestured airily, blew a smoke ring. “Quite an interesting poison. The patient's symptoms suggest common heart failure. Of course, the Laramie coroner will examine you, but there’s little danger he’ll suspect the truth. Heart failure, I’m sure, will be his verdict.”
“You can’t mean what you say!” she gasped.
“A simple question of financial necessity, Addy,” he informed her. “I lost the greater part of my personal funds. Unwise investments, I’m ashamed to say. And, fortunately, you were unaware of all the terms of your father’s will. Your inheritance is somewhat larger than you imagined.”
“But ...!” she began.
“In the event of your demise,” he patiently explained, “the money goes to your next of kin. That would be our dull young friend, Noah Hopkins. Should you die before the marriage ...” He tapped his chest, smiled complacently, “the money would be collected by my needy self. Yes, Addy. The old man made that provision. I’m to inherit, but only if you—uh—departed this vale of tears as a spinster. Do you understand, now?”
“That man,” she breathed, “the man called Nichols ...!”
“Was following my orders,” he nodded. “Too bad about Nichols. He failed—and badly.”
“Don’t weep for Nichols,” drawled Larry. “He never quit tryin’—till he got his neck broke.”
Addy tensed. Milliken sat bolt upright and stared towards the window. The Texans were climbing in. Stretch had emptied his right-side holster. Larry wasn’t bothering. “You—heard?” gasped Addy.
“Every lousy word,” growled Larry. “And, Addy, you don’t have to look so scared.”
“I feel terrible ...!” She shook her head dazedly. “He—poisoned me!”
“Nope,” grunted Larry. “He poisoned himself. I switched the glasses, while he was outside gabbin’ with Stretch.”
“No ...!” breathed Milliken.
He struggled up from his chair, florid and trembling.
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