On Friday night, Widow’s Peak contracted wedding fever. Almost every citizen of the town wore the marks of it. At the Salted Mine, a never-ending line of topers drank to the health and future happiness of the Arizona Wild-Cat. A sweating Solly Stryker reflected that he had never known such big business—not even on a Friday night. With his barmen, he was kept moving at a hectic pace, to keep up with the demands of his growing crowd of customers. It promised to be a most convivial wedding.
Uncle Dewey, very early in the evening, retired from the celebrations with a thick head and a sick heart, complaining that the union did not have his blessing. Old as he was, and undoubtedly slowing up, mentally, Uncle Dewey’s attitude towards the man from San Francisco was, and always had been, one of marked suspicion. But Endean was a hero now, a very popular hero. His wooing of Tess Hapgood had been superbly timed. He was, now, more than Widow’s Peak’s trusted benefactor. He was the knight in shining armor who had wooed and won that poor parent-less little female at the Square Deal.
Tess Hapgood, the vixen in pants and shirt, lowliest of Widow’s Peak’s eligible spinsters, was now emerging as a veritable heroine. It is said that all the world loves a lover, and it was certainly a fact that all of Widow’s Peak now loved Jay Endean and Tess Hapgood.
Sammy Foy’s woebegone countenance became a familiar sight at the saloons. Sammy was taking it bad, and didn’t care who knew it. Many a townsman bought whisky for Sammy, out of good-humored sympathy. At midnight, Sheriff Trumble sought out his deputy, found him under a table at the Salted Mine, carried him downtown to Hildy Foy’s house, and insisted that she pour vast quantities of hot, black coffee into her weeping offspring.
“He’s got to take over the night watch at the jail,” Trumble told Mrs. Foy, “on account of I have to get some sleep. The town expects me to show up for that there weddin’, tomorrow mornin’, and I know Sammy won’t want to be there, so it’s only fair he does the night watch.”
A fretting Hildy Foy acceded to the lawman’s request. Sammy, fortified by more black coffee than any Widow’s Peak man had ever consumed at one sitting, was then marched up to the law office and pushed into Sheriff Trumble’s chair.
“If you strike any kind of trouble,” Trumble reminded him, “don’t try handlin’ it yourself. Holler for help. I’ll look in on you in the mornin’, just before the weddin’. It’ll be all over by ten-thirty. Then you can go home and sleep all you want.”
“Sure, sure,” groaned Sammy. “I know how it is. I’m better off here, all alone with them owlhoots in the cells, than showin’ my grief to the whole town. Nobody loves me! Folks’re all laughin’ at me! It’s terrible ...!”
At Mrs. Amy Cotter’s home, the finishing touches were being put to the bridal gown. Mrs. Cotter was Widow’s Peak’s leading dressmaker. Like all the other elderly townswomen, she maintained an earnest devotion to the slip of a girl with the snub nose and freckles. And so she sewed and tucked, nimbly plying thread, while Tess stood like a small statue, on a parlor chair, enveloped in the shimmering folds of white silk. This was a big night for Tess—and tomorrow would be the most important day in her life. If she felt any misgivings, over the fact that she scarcely knew her intended husband, she steadfastly concealed them.
It was well after midnight before the triumphant bridegroom was able to have a few words in private with his co-conspirator. Finally, however, Endean and Larchmont got their heads together in the hotel’s storeroom, having retreated there from the host of well-wishers in the bar.
“You have the note all prepared?” demanded Endean, urgently.
“I got it,” nodded Larchmont. “I put in it everything you told me to say. I got me a long pole with a hook on the end. That’s how I’ll get the note—and the gun—in through the cell window.”
“Fine,” chuckled Endean. “Just make damn sure you aren’t seen.”
“Don’t worry,” growled Larchmont. “Nobody’s going to see me. The whole town’s celebrating—in advance. Those that are through celebrating are back home—sleeping it off. That back alley will be quiet as a grave.”
The back alley was quiet as a grave, but Cal Morey and his three henchmen were not asleep—and neither were the Texans. Larry, on the alert for Endean’s next move, heard the furtive footsteps outside, and rolled off his bunk.
“This could be it!” he whispered, to Stretch. “I’m goin’ outside and take a look around.”
“Watch yourself, runt.”
“Sure. Be seein’ you.”
Larry pulled on his boots and buckled on his gunbelt, but left his spurs under his bunk. Then, producing the keys supplied by Sammy, from his shirt-pocket, he quietly unlocked the cell door and slipped out into the corridor. The rear door yielded to the second key. He closed it behind him, but stayed there, flattened against it, concealed by the shadows, staring down the alley towards the dark figure approaching the jail. A few moments passed, then the intruder came to a halt, immediately below the window of the cell occupied by the boss outlaw.
“Larchmont!” thought Larry. “Just like I guessed!”
It was Larchmont, armed with a long pole. Larry watched him raise the rod and tap the end of it against the iron bars. In the gloom, he was unable to see what Larchmont had attached to the hook at the pole’s end, but he heard the clink of steel against iron bars, and made an accurate guess about it. There followed a slight pause. Then a pair of hands appeared at the cell window and detached the wrapped six-gun. Larchmont pulled his pole down then, cast a quick glance to right and left and crept away down the alley.
“Well, well, well!” mused Larry. “You owlhoots sure stick together. Endean’s got his heart set on causin’ a ruckus—and he sure picked a fine way of doin’ it!”
He let himself back into the jailhouse, locked the door behind him and returned to the cell, flattening himself against the corridor wall, to escape detection by the men in the end cells. Back on his bunk, he beckoned for Stretch to join him, then, in a hoarse whisper, told what he had seen.
“Hell!” breathed Stretch. “Why’d they wanta do a thing like that? What’s in it for them, if Morey and his boys bust out?”
“A ruckus,” explained Larry. “Lots of excitement. Every man in town joinin’ up with a posse to go after ’em. That’s what Endean wants. Maybe he’s even plannin’ to join the posse himself—him and Larchmont. Then, somewhere out of town, they’d drop out and head for the nearest border. They’d be well on their way, before anybody knew they were gone—with all that dinero they collected.”
“Yeah,” nodded Stretch. He scowled over his shoulder, and added, “I’d sure like to know just when Morey’s gonna make his break for it.”
“Pardner,” sighed Larry, fervently, “so would I!”
In the end cell, the bearded outlaw growled to one of his men to light a match. Then, by the light of that, and other matches, he read the note Larchmont had wrapped around the loaded six-shooter. From Cal Morey’s point of view, it was an extremely friendly epistle.
“MOREY,” it read, “USE THIS TO BREAK JAIL, BUT WAIT ’TIL TOMORROW MORNING AT TEN-FIFTEEN. AT THAT TIME THERE’LL BE A WEDDING, AT THE FAR END OF TOWN. EVERYBODY, INCLUDING SHERIFF TRUMBLE, WILL BE THERE. YOU’LL HAVE A CLEAR RUN. GOOD LUCK.”
The note, hand-printed, was unsigned. Morey read it a second time, then burnt it. His men leaned closer; two of them pressing their faces against the bars of the adjoining cell.
“What’s it all about, Cal?” whispered one of them. Morey leered and held up the six-gun.
“Seems we got friends in this burg,” he muttered. “Some jasper who aims to help us bust this jail. We could do it, too. He says as how the whole blame shebang will be over on the far edge of town, tomorrer mornin’ at a weddin’.”
“I seen that chapel!” breathed another owlhoot. “It’s a helluva long way from here!”
“Yeah,” nodded Morey. “We oughta be able to do it easy—now that I got me a shootin’ iron.”
He checked the Colt’s loading and gave a leer of savage satisfaction. His cell-mate muttered a curse and made a wry observation.
“Wish our new friend had smuggled in guns for all of us.”
“There’ll be guns for all of us,” Morey promised, grimly. “We’ll find plenty in that office, when we make ’em let us out.”
“How’re you gonna bust us out, Cal?”
“Simple! I call whoever’s standin’ guard out there, shove this gun under his fool nose and make him open up. Then we quiet him down, so’s he can’t holler, help ourselves to some more hardware and ... ! Wait a minute!”
Morey broke off, his eyes gleaming. A new, and pleasant, thought had struck him.
“We came here to empty their blamed bank,” he breathed.
“That’s right. That’s what we came here for. What about it?”
“Okay!” leered Morey. “Any reason why we still can’t do that? We’ll have guns. Syd can go steal us some horses at that livery. There won’t be a single hombre around to stop us. They’ll all be at that blamed weddin’!” He chuckled, nodded, and added, “Yeah; We came here to take their bank—and that’s just what we’re gonna do—only it’s gonna be a damn sight easier now!”
Down the corridor, the Texans looked to their weapons, exchanged anticipatory grins, and settled down to keep their vigil.
“It could be any minute now,” reflected Larry Valentine. “On the other hand, they might wait till mornin’, till all of them guests are uptown, at that weddin’. Meantime, all we do is wait.”
“And when they move,” grinned Stretch, “we move.”
~*~
Sheriff Trumble stopped by, early, to check the situation at his jail. He brought breakfast for a disgruntled Deputy Foy, a deputy so disgruntled that he refused to be drawn into conversation. Trumble shrugged, set the tray down before Sammy, then went into the cell-block to look at his prisoners.
He found the Morey outfit in the positions in which he had become accustomed to viewing them, sprawled about in their two cells, smoking, playing stud poker, scowling up at him and muttering obscenities. Down the corridor, the Texans seemed more concerned with catching up on their sleep, than with anything else. They were both in their bunks, completely obscured by their blankets, with only their faces visible. Each of them was snoring lustily. Satisfied that all was in order, Trumble returned to the front office.
“Everything nice and quiet,” he acknowledged. “You’re doin’ a fine job, son.”
“Don’t call me ‘son’,” growled Sammy. “You ain’t my new pa yet.”
“Just give me time,” grinned the sheriff.
He was feeling chipper this morning, freshly shaven and attired in a new black suit. Hildy, he felt sure, would also be decked out in her best finery. Maybe, after the ceremony, he would have a few words with her, repeat his proposal. Maybe, on such a happy occasion, his plea would be successful. He waved an airy goodbye to the stolidly-eating Sammy and wandered out.
In his suite at the hotel, knotting his cravat with great care, Jay Endean held a last conference with his cousin.
“Once more,” he muttered. “Just to be sure you understand every detail.”
“Right,” grunted Larchmont. “Soon as you’re dressed, we clean out the safe and pack the dinero in two carpetbags.”
“You have them ready?”
“Yeah. I got ’em. I load the bags, and our other gear, in the rig. It’ll be right here, in the alley behind the hotel.”
“How about the team?”
“Two of the fastest bays you ever saw. They’ll outrun any horse in Widow’s Peak County.”
“Excellent! Proceed, cousin.”
“When the ceremony starts, I post myself at the chapel doorway. Soon as I hear Morey’s mob ridin’ out, I holler there’s been a jailbreak and let’s get a posse and go after ’em and stuff like that.”
“Make it good, Ed. Stir them up. I want to avoid being married to that brat with the freckles, if that’s at all possible.”
“Uh-huh. Then you insist on leading the posse. That’ll cause some back-chat between you and Trumble. Then, when we get out of the chapel, you and me grab the nearest horses and make like we’re joining in with the others. But, when we get level with the hotel, we turn into the alley, jump into the rig, and take off in the opposite direction.”
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-backed, 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!”