Five minutes behind Sammy Foy, the two Texans ambled down Widow’s Peak’s main thoroughfare, in search of the Square Deal Livery. The deputy had assured them that they would locate it without difficulty. It was the town’s only livery stable, and they soon realized why.
Widow’s Peak was, in every way, a small town. Two saloons, two hotels, one block of stores, one bank, one church raising its weatherboard steeple at the far edge of town—no newspaper office, no telegraph. There was, they noted, a printery. But the printer seemed more concerned with the production of posters, than with the printing of a newspaper. All over town they saw the placards, large black type proclaiming the coming of a railroad to this far-flung corner of Arizona.
“Seems like,” opined Larry, glancing idly at the signs, “this railroad company wants the local folks to help finance it.”
“Seems like,” agreed Stretch. “You read what them posters promise?”
“Yeah. Double your—uh—in-vest-ment—within a year. Sounds fine.”
“Real nice of them railroad folks,” commented Stretch. “Lettin’ these here citizens share the profits.”
They forgot about the coming railroad then, and returned to keeping their eyes out for the livery. They found it, halfway down Main Street, an old frame building with a large corral in back of it. Above the wide main entrance, sun-faded lettering read, “SQUARE DEAL LIVERY. TESS HAPGOOD, OWNER AND MANAGER.”
First impressions are often lasting.
This was true of the Texans’ first sight of Tess Hapgood. It was a sight they would never forget. On isolated occasions, both of them had seen women brandishing firearms, usually bejeweled derringers of the type worn in garter-holsters by hard-boiled dancehall women.
Tess Hapgood was no dancehall belle, nor was the gun she held a derringer. It was a double-barreled shotgun, and she was holding the muzzle of it under the nose of a startled man in town clothes.
“Hell, Tess ...!” the man was protesting. “My credit’s good—all over town ...!”
“Too good!” snapped the girl with the shotgun. “You got a bad habit of not payin’ your debts, Jeff Barry! Well, you better pay what you owe me, right here and now, if you know what’s good for you!”
Still menaced by that unswerving gun-barrel, the man dug in his pocket and produced four silver dollars. As he passed the money to her, he muttered, aggrievedly, “This ain’t no way to encourage custom, Tess.”
“It’s the only way I know,” growled Tess Hapgood, pocketing the coins, “of gettin’ payment from welchers like you!”
“Next time,” complained Barry, “I’ll use some other livery!”
“Hah!” jeered the girl. “You’ll be back to the Square Deal. Ours is the only livery in Widow’s Peak!”
The abashed townsman waited for Tess to lower her persuader, then turned on his heel and stamped away. Larry and Stretch exchanged wondering glances. They had never met a woman quite like Tess Hapgood. Woman? She appeared to be little more than a child, but Larry guessed, correctly as it happened, that her age was between nineteen and twenty-one.
She was small; at least two inches shorter than her tubby admirer from the law office. Small-framed and small boned, with challenging blue eyes, corn-colored hair and a mass of freckles. The garb she wore—tight-fitting blue jeans and red-checked shirt—seemed to accentuate her smallness. But Tess gave a lasting impression of strength. Her slim arms did not seem to tire under the weight of the heavy shotgun. Her gaze, as she stared up at the still-mounted Texans, was direct and probing.
Very much aware that the shotgun had not yet been discarded, Larry and Stretch gravely raised their Stetsons. With all females, they made a point of always watching their manners. With Tess Hapgood they would be doubly courteous. Their respect for a double-barreled shotgun was even more profound than their respect for the opposite sex.
“’Mornin’, ma’am,” greeted Larry. “Me and my partner’d be obliged if you’d stable our horses for a spell. They also need feed, water and a rub-down.”
“How many days?” demanded the girl.
“About two-three for a start,” decided Larry.
“Pay me in advance,” frowned Tess, extending her palm, and naming a figure.
Larry, in his capacity of banker, fished out the required sum and passed it down to her. Then both men dismounted.
“We’ll stop by later for our pack rolls,” Larry told her. “We want to look your town over.”
“Travel far?” enquired Tess.
“Quite a stretch,” nodded Larry.
Now that she had received payment, the girl appeared willing to be friendly. An aged man, bald and with an untidy white stubble, hobbled out from the interior of the livery and took hold of the bridles of their mounts. For a brief moment, he ran bloodshot eyes over them.
“They pay in advance, chile?” he asked the girl.
“Yep, Uncle Dewey,” she nodded. “Feed, water and rubdown. Handle it, will you?”
“Sure, chile,” grunted the old-timer, as he led the horses away.
Larry produced tobacco-sack and papers and rolled himself a smoke, meeting Tess’ appraising stare with a placid grin.
“Me and my partner,” he reported, “worked up quite a thirst on our way here. Maybe you can recommend us a nice cool bar?”
“Stryker’s ‘Salted Mine’ gets a breeze,” frowned Tess, “when he leaves his front windows open.”
“Salted Mine sounds fine,” decided Larry. He touched Stretch on an arm and added, “We’ll see you later, ma’am.”
“Just a minute!” piped a familiar voice.
Larry’s jaw dropped as the fat little deputy materialized behind them and shot a question at his lady-love.
“Are these two ornery-lookin’ hombres makin’ trouble for you, Tess?” he demanded, truculently.
“Sammy Foy!” gasped the girl. “What in tarnation’re you talkin’ about?”
“Just keepin’ an eye on your welfare,” asserted Sammy, inflating his chest. “I don’t like to see hardcase strangers hangin’ around my girl.” He glowered at the Texans and jerked a fat thumb. “Vamoose!” he growled.
“Why you ...!” began Stretch Emerson, red-faced.
“Careful!” warned Larry, catching onto the idea. “He looks like a mighty tough lawman. Let’s get outa here.”
He drew Stretch away from the livery. They marched along, side by side, towards the Salted Mine Saloon, Stretch trembling with impotent rage.
“That sawed-off, blubber-bellied little coyote!” he snarled. “Bracin’ us like that! Who does he think he is—damn him?”
“It’s all part of our—uh—pact,” Larry reminded him. “He wants to look big in front of that little wild-cat with the scattergun. We gotta play it his way, Stretch, on accounta he saved our lives.”
“Better we shoulda got mashed by that there avalanche,” moaned Stretch, “than get spoke at like that by a runt like him!”
Sammy watched them go, his chest swelling with pride. Then he fixed a beaming smile on the girl of his heart.
“I guess that showed ’em who’s boss,” he avowed.
“Hah!” jeered Tess, with such vehemence that Sammy recoiled a pace. “You couldn’t scare a jackrabbit—not if you used a bundle of dynamite, Sammy Foy! Them Texas hombres weren’t scared of you! I’ll bet they’ve never ever been scared of anybody or anything! So there!”
“I—uh—I just wanted to show you I’m always around to protect you,” mumbled Sammy, miserably.
“That’s real funny!” sneered Tess. “If them Texans’d lost their tempers, they’d have likely broken you in two—with one hand tied behind their backs! Hah!”
A couple of cowhands passed within earshot of the livery. One of them, recounting some past incident to his friend, was swearing luridly. Ignoring Sammy, Tess brought her shotgun up and yelled a challenge at them.
“Hey you two!”
The cowhands stopped dead, turned and gaped at her, in sudden fright.
“Quit that cussin’ while you’re walkin’ near a lady!” snapped Tess, “else I’ll fill your no-good, dang-blasted, ornery hides with buckshot! Savvy?”
“Yes, ma’am!” gasped one of the men. “We—uh—We didn’t see you ...!”
“Well you’re seein’ me now! So get the hell-and-gone outa here—pronto—and watch your language!”
“Yes, ma’am!”
The cowhands quickened their pace, putting distance between themselves and the livery as fast as their legs could carry them. Sammy heaved a sigh. It was always like this, he reflected. Any time he tried to display a protective instinct, Tess Hapgood countered his gesture by demonstrating her own ability for self-protection, and he appeared inadequate by comparison. He decided to change the subject.
“I got me a new suit of clothes,” he confided. “Real fine broadcloth—black—just like a gentleman wears. How’s about me takin’ you to that shindig at City Hall, tomorrer night?”
“Me go with you?” sneered Tess. “No, siree. I’d rather go alone. And, when I get there, I won’t be short of dancin’ partners. A very nice, polite gentleman is gonna take me up for most every dance! So how d’you like that?”
“Nice polite gentleman!” mourned Sammy. “Jay Endean, I’ll bet. Him with his purty speeches and his diamond ring ...”
“He’s purty-lookin’, too,” Tess pointed out. “He’s a real man.”
“Tess—uh—he’s a whole lot older’n you. You oughta be steppin’ out with a feller around your own age, like me.”
“No thanks! I like a man who’s mature. That’s what Jay Endean is—mature—not half-grown like you.”
And that was, undoubtedly, that. Tess would not accompany Sammy to the big dance at City Hall, specially organized by the man from San Francisco.
Jay Endean had been in Widow’s Peak for no more than three months; but in that short time, he had endeared himself to the simple-minded townsfolk of this remote frontier community. Yes—Widow’s Peak was remote—mighty remote—just perfect for Mr. Endean’s purpose. He came, saw and conquered, in no uncertain terms. His wily cousin, Ed Larchmont of the Larchmont Hotel, had given him ample publicity, so that his arrival on the twice-weekly stage had drawn an excited crowd to the stage-depot, eager to accord him a hero’s welcome.
To Widow’s Peak, Endean was an advance agent of the Taylor-Ames Railroad Corporation, a powerful organization bent on extending the steel trail farther and farther west. He was also, in their eyes, a benefactor. This famous railroad had sent him here to accept investments. When the lines were laid and the railroad began operating, every Widow’s Peak citizen would be rich, beyond his wildest dreams. It was simple, the way Mr. Endean explained it. Every dollar invested would return a dividend many times greater to the investor, within a period of twelve months from the line’s beginning. Day after day the townsfolk formed a line in the Larchmont lobby, eagerly handing over their life’s savings to the tall blond man in the well-tailored black suit. Endean would shake each investor’s hand, issue a receipt, then, with a flourish, hand to the happy townsman a gold-embossed share certificate.
Already some jubilant Widow’s Peak men had framed their certificates and hung them in their parlors. The possession of such a formidable piece of paper was, to them, a sign of affluence. And housewives agreed that the framed certificates sure prettied up their parlors. Everybody was happy and Mr. Jay Endean was the happiest of all.
Three tough-looking hombres in dust-marked range clothes were tethering their mounts to the Salted Mine hitch rail as Larry and Stretch stepped up onto the saloon verandah. Neither Texan paid the new arrivals much attention, until they were about to enter the bar. Then, mildly surprised, they found themselves shouldered aside by the three newcomers. The hardcases barged past them roughly, without apology, and disappeared inside. Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch looked at Larry.
“We are duty bound,” Larry recalled, “to get into a ruckus, so’s Sad Sammy can arrest us.”
“Uh-huh,” scowled Stretch. “And it seems to me we ain’t gonna run short of hombres to get into a ruckus with!”
“But there’s only three of ’em,” Larry pointed out. “And that’s kinda unfair odds for them.”
Stretch studied the swing-doors thoughtfully, then said, “Maybe they got friends inside.”
“That’s what I hope,” grinned Larry, pushing at the batwings. “Meantime, let’s irrigate.”
They moved inside and sauntered across to the bar. The three hardcases had purchased a bottle and were crossing to a corner table. The Texans ordered two double shots of rye and took their time about downing them. For a start, they were unable to eavesdrop on the conversation of the men in the corner—and, perhaps, this was just as well.
The strangers had their heads close together. They had downed their first shots and were now in muttered conference.
“Like shootin’ fish in a barrel,” leered their leader, a broad-shouldered ruffian with a fierce-looking black beard. “A town that’s so blamed tired, you could loot every store in the place ’fore any of ’em woke up!”
“Ain’t we stretchin’ our luck though, Cal?” growled one of his companions. “We oughta be content to git the hell outa this county. We already got what we took off that stage. Why stick around?”
“Because,” chuckled the man called Cal, “we’re safer in their town, than any place else, right now. That fool sheriff and his posse’re lookin’ for us all over the county while we’re settin’ here drinkin’. We gave ’em the slip!”
“Sure, but ...”
“But nothin’!” growled the bearded man. “Why settle for chicken-feed? Sure we looted the stage; but this town’s got a bank! Syd’s up there, right now, lookin’ it over. We could take it with no trouble at all, I’ll bet.”
The swing-doors were pushed open. The Texans watched a fourth hardcase barge in and saunter over to the group in the corner.
“That makes four of ’em,” mused Larry Valentine, happily. “I got me a hunch, Stretch. I reckon these impolite critters might be just the fellers we need.”
“Could be,” agreed Stretch, contentedly.
“A tin can,” the newcomer was muttering to his cohorts. “We could bust it easy. What d’you say, Cal?”
“We’ll take it,” leered the bearded man. “Soon as we finish this here bottle we’re on our way.”
“Oughta be a mighty purty haul,” chuckled Syd. “I always say, if you’re gonna bust into a place, a bank’s a right handy place to bust into.”
“Where do we head for next?” queried another man. “That’s what I wanta know.”
“How’s about Texas,” suggested Syd.
“Texas?” The bearded man raised his voice and spat in disgust, almost up-ending a nearby spittoon; he was a very strong man. “Who in hell wants to go to Texas?” he snarled.
He had no way of knowing that the two tall men at the bar were watching him with increased interest.
“Not me!” growled another stage-robber. “Texas is the most dried-up, no-account State I ever saw. All it’s fit for is Texans!”
“You can count me out,” nodded another. “Texas gives me a bellyache—and so do all Texans. I reckon we should head west.”
Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch looked at Larry. Then, they finished their drinks, paid for them, flexed their muscles and sauntered across to the corner. The big man with the beard saw them coming, and greeted them with a scowl.
“You want somethin’?” he challenged.
“Yeah—Whiskers,” grinned Larry Valentine. “Your mangy hide.”
The boss-outlaw gaped incredulously, then, with a savage oath, kicked back his chair and rose to his full height. His companions followed his example, ranging themselves on either side of him. Larry and Stretch watched this maneuver with smiling approval. Neither of them enjoyed waging war on seated adversaries.
“Whiskers,” Larry admonished the big man. “It grieves us to our bones, hearin’ critters like you makin’ disrespectful remarks about our home State.”
“On account of,” added Stretch, “none of you coyotes is fit to even tread on Texas grass.”
“Mister!” gasped the bearded man. “I’m gonna fill your fool head with ...!”
His hand was streaking to his right hip, as he spoke. The other outlaws were following his example; but none of them cleared leather. In a flash of movement, three Colts were trained on them, drawn and cocked at a speed that defied their eyes. Larry’s .45, and both of Stretch’s, were covering them. The Texans had the drop, and four owlhoots were trying to work out how it had happened.
“When you’re gonna throw down on a man,” Larry advised the boss-outlaw, “don’t waste time sendin’ him a message.” He nudged Stretch with his left elbow. “Pardner,” he requested, “would you mind moseyin’ around in back of these hombres and grabbin’ their hardware?”
“Pleasure,” grinned Stretch. “Grab air, boys!”
Four pairs of hands shot towards the ceiling. The outlaws became statues, while Stretch moved around behind them and slipped guns from holsters. The few other drinkers in the saloon were as immobile as the owlhoots, gaping in stunned surprise at the tense little drama being enacted in the corner. Solly Stryker, owner of the place, stood behind his bar, casting a wistful eye about him at his furniture and stock, wondering what would happen next. Other saloon-owners had experienced this feeling during visitations from these nomadic Texans. He jerked out of his reverie, at a casual question from Larry.
“You got a box, mister?”
“Yes.” Mr. Stryker had a box. He bent, then straightened up again, exhibiting an empty cardboard container. From his position behind the outlaws, Stretch threw the four six-guns, one at a time. All four weapons landed neatly in the box. Then the taller Texan moved out to join his partner.
“Now?” he asked Larry.
“Now,” nodded Valentine.
To the amazement of the watchers, each of them threw his hardware into the box held by Stryker. The outlaws were quick to grasp the significance of that act. They came away from the corner in a concerted rush, bearing down on the men who had out-drawn and disarmed them.
The gaping saloon-owner had witnessed many a barroom brawl. On certain occasions, he had been known to lay odds on the possible outcome of fights on his premises. He was, usually, adept at nominating the victors in advance. On this occasion, however, he was taking no bets. Four against two seemed, on the face of it, heavy odds, but something about the demeanor of the Texans warned Stryker that the group of four would get the worst of it.
The bearded man opened hostilities by barging in and aiming a wild kick at Larry Valentine’s groin. Larry countered by nimbly sidestepping, then lashing out with a foot at his adversary’s still-upraised boot. The kick on the heel had power behind it, so much so that the bearded man’s other foot left the floor. For a tense moment, he remained suspended in mid-air, horizontal. Then, still horizontal, he descended to the floor with an impact that rattled the glassware on Stryker’s shelves.
Larry ignored the big man for the time being, and transferred his attention to an outlaw aiming a bottle at him. Ducking the flying missile, he charged in close and slammed a right and a left into the man’s belly, doubling him. He threw a quick glance at Stretch then. Stretch had been forced back against the bar by a man who had wrapped his arms around him in a bear-hug. The Texan broke the man’s hold by administering a rabbit-killer. The edge of his palm slugged the bear-hugger neatly across the nape of the neck. The man released his grip and collapsed, to be replaced by the man called Syd, who was armed with a chair. The chair did not help him. He was almost within swinging distance of Stretch when another chair slid along the floor by a watchful Larry Valentine tangled with his legs and brought him down. The outlaw and two chairs slammed hard against the brass rail below the bar counter.
And now the bearded man was on his feet, jabbing fierce punches at Larry, forcing him across the barroom, backing him into a corner. The recipient of Larry’s belly-blows joined his chief, unaware that Stretch was fast approaching. He was about to lend weight to the bearded man’s attack, when a long, lean hand grasped his shoulder and swung him around. Desperately, he swept his right up in an uppercut. The blow connected with Stretch’s lantern jaw, rocking the Texan back on his heels. He shook himself to clear his head, then swerved to avoid a blow to the belly. The man lurched against him, off-balance from the impetus of his swing. Stretch seized him by his shirt-collar, spun him around with his back to the swing-doors, then smashed two fast blows, one to the stomach, the other to the chin. The outlaw stumbled backwards, clear through the main entrance and collided with a stout figure just barging up onto the verandah. With a startled yelp, Sammy Foy tumbled off the boardwalk and sprawled in the street, while the senseless outlaw finished his backward rush at the hitch rail, drooping over it, no longer interested in the proceedings.
Sammy, tremulously aware that townsfolk were advancing on the saloon from all sides, struggled to his feet, dragged the unconscious man off the rail and began pulling him back into the saloon by a boot. Over his shoulder, he yelped a stern order to the gathering throng.
“You folks stay outa this. It’s law business. I’ll handle it!”
Gasping from his exertion, he deposited the outlaw just inside the doorway, then stared around. Three men were sprawled about the bar in untidy postures. One still had his head pressed against the brass rail, below the bar. The rail showed a dent where the man’s skull had slammed against it. Stretch Emerson was in the act of picking up another man and raising him above his head. A third contestant lay atop a table, out cold. The fourth, the big man with the beard, had just swung a wild blow at Larry, in the corner. Sammy saw Larry move his head to one side. The bearded man’s fist smashed against the wall. His roar of pain almost drowned Sammy’s piping command.
“Everybody surrender! I got you covered!”
“Hold on a minute,” complained Stretch. “We ain’t finished yet.”
But the man he held above his head was finished. Stretch hurled him bodily at the nearest wall, and the bearded man was being disposed of, in no uncertain terms. Sammy winced as Larry jabbed blow after blow at the big man’s middle, then closed his eye with a last savage right. The man called Cal emitted a grunt and fell down on his large backside. He remained in that seated posture, until Larry rendered him horizontal, by smashing a chair over his head and shoulders.
A tall, elderly man in a black suit ambled through the doorway in time to witness the close of proceedings. He was the town’s well-loved and highly-respected Judge Lucius Walsh, and, like his fellow-citizens, he appreciated the irony of what next took place. Sammy sternly waggling his six-gun, issued a sharp reprimand to the two Texans.
“You two hell-raisers’re under arrest!” he piped. “And I’m warnin’ you not to try any tricks with me. ’Cos I’m—”
He broke off, his voice dying out in a choking gasp. He had just noticed the face of the unconscious man on the floor, the one with the beard. Whatever his shortcomings, Sammy Foy had a good memory for faces, and he had seen this face before on reward notices.
“H-h-holy smokes!” he stammered. “Cal Morey!”
He trembled in abject fear, and his six-gun dropped from his nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor. Judge Walsh frowned, momentarily at a loss. Then Stretch, in his helpful way, saved the situation, and thereby increased its piquancy. Lowering his arms, he strolled across to Sammy, bent, picked up the fallen gun, replaced it in Sammy’s shaking hand, then returned to his position by the bar and raised his arms again.
Judge Walsh quickly concealed a grin, and said, “Sammy boy, if you’re sure that’s Cal Morey ...”
“It’s C-C-Cal Morey all right!” babbled Sammy.
“Then go ahead,” shrugged His Honor.
“Go ahead?” blinked the deputy.
“Sure,” nodded Walsh. “Go ahead and make your arrest.”
“M-m-me ...?”
“Why sure,” grinned Larry, picking up his hat. “You’re a deputy, ain’t you?”
Sad Sammy was very close to swooning, but the Texans had no intention of letting that happen. Politely, Stretch Emerson requested the loan of a rope from the proprietor. Solly Stryker was willing to oblige; in fact, he had two ropes. Stretch muttered a suitable speech of thanks, then, with his partner’s help, dragged the four owlhoots into one heap and made a loop to hold them together, with their arms imprisoned by their sides. Walsh and Stryker exchanged amazed glances. Larry frowned across at the old judge and made a suggestion.
“Might be a smart notion if you kept them folks outa here.”
Walsh saw the point. Placing himself in the doorway, he called to the still-growing crowd of rubbernecks to stand back. Then he returned to watching the exhaustive preparations for the arrest. Larry had now obtained a large pitcher of water and was emptying it over the heads of the four owlhoots. The men spluttered and began to revive. Stretch, with the second rope, fashioned a loop. He held it out to Larry. Larry stepped into it. Stretch joined him, drew the loop up, tightened it about their chests and politely offered the end of the rope to Sammy. Sammy accepted it in a daze.
“Now pick up the other rope,” directed Larry, patiently, “and take us to jail.”
Sammy gaped at the four cursing hardcases, a shudder wracking his pudgy frame. He hadn’t bargained for this. Arresting the two Texans by pre-arrangement had seemed one hell of a fine idea—a spectacular arrest, with no danger of retaliation. But this! Cal Morey himself! The murderous, highly-dangerous bank-bandit and stage-robber Morey had been wanted for more years than Sammy could remember. This was too much. Him? Arresting Cal Morey?
“Sammy, boy,” said Judge Walsh, gently, “make your arrest.”
Sammy blinked at the Texans. They stared back at him, poker-faced—but he knew what they were thinking—“This is what you wanted, Sammy. You’ll never get a chance like this again, so grab it while you can!”
Sammy grabbed his chance, and both rope-ends. Inflating his chest, he gestured towards the door, with his gun, and said, “March—uptown—to the jail!”
On this never-to-be-forgotten day, the whole town turned out to pay homage to the tubby deputy. Widow’s Peak folks lined the sidewalks and cheered as the strange procession moved up Main Street to the jailhouse. In the forefront came the two groups, held in position by their ropes—Morey and his men and the two Texans. Behind them came Deputy Foy, his left fist clutching both rope-ends, his right grasping the butt of his naked Colt. Nobody appeared to notice that he hadn’t remembered to crook his forefinger around the trigger. Nor did anybody notice the supreme unconcern of Larry and Stretch. The Texans sauntered along, smiling, nodding politely to the cheering people on the boardwalks, each of them with a thinly-rolled cigarette canting from his mouth.
Behind Sammy, unobtrusively, Judge Walsh, Solly Stryker and one of Stryker’s barmen kept pace. His Honor’s old long-barreled Colt was concealed beneath his frock coat, but ready for use should the need arise. And Stryker and his man both held loaded shotguns in the crooks of their arms. Sammy wasn’t going it alone as far as they were concerned.
But the crowd was unaware of these things. All they saw was Sammy, their comical deputy, now a hero—a most spectacular hero. Uncle Dewey, from the livery, spent two minutes trying to believe what he was seeing, then retired to the nearest bar for a reviver. Tess Hapgood joined the crowd outside the Larchmont, clambering up to the porch-rail to get a better view. The urbane and handsome Jay Endean was on hand to catch her when she fell. Yes—Tess fell. The sight of timid, ineffectual Sammy Foy taking six men to jail was too much for the Arizona Wild-Cat.