The dark-haired beauty closed the street door behind her and stood eyeing them pleadingly. Larry jerked a thumb to the cane-back under the awning. While she seated herself, he perched on the porch-rail beside Stretch. They fished out their makings and began building cigarettes.
“All right, Anita.” Larry showed her an encouraging grin. “Just what did you want to tell us?”
“I am sad for my madre,” she murmured, “because she worries for my father. But I am not sad for him. I am angry. I do not believe what this Señor Bean has said. Papa is not sick—not dying.”
“Well,” frowned Stretch, “you won’t get no arguments from us, on accounta that’s how we feel about it.”
“He could be convinced,” Anita asserted. “He would believe a medico—a real medico. Always, he has admired the medicos.”
“The fakers,” guessed Larry, “as well as the genuine kind.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “But only a real medico could make him believe—no?”
“That figures,” grunted Larry.
“If we could bring such a medico to Tres Agua,” she frowned. “If he examines my father and finds there is no malestar—no sickness ...”
“The marshal,” opined Larry, “would be off that couch and ready for action quicker than you could wink—itchin’ to tangle with the whole Stark outfit. Yeah. All it takes is a genuine doctor, and that’s what I told the mayor.”
“You would do this?” she asked. Her expressive eyes beseeched him. “You would travel to the place where there are many medicos—and bring one back to Tres Agua?”
Larry lifted his broad shoulders in a nonchalant shrug, and assured her, “I was already thinkin’ about it. Now that I’ve met your old man, my mind’s set on it.”
She rose from her chair and flashed him a grateful smile. “Vaya con Dios, Señor Larry.”
“Gracias,” he acknowledged.
“You should talk with Señor Margolies before you go,” she advised. “He has many maps. Maybe he can show you how to reach the ciudad muy pronto.”
“Uh-huh.” Larry nodded in agreement. “The sooner I can make Pelham City, the sooner I’ll be back—with a genuine, honest sawbones.” He slid from the rail, went to the door and opened it for her. “Hasta la vista, Anita. I’ll be seein’ you.”
As they retraced their footsteps to the Rialto, Stretch asserted, “You ain’t ridin’ out on your lonesome—without me along.”
“Guess again,” countered Larry.
“Well, damn it all,” protested Stretch, “I don’t admire for you and me to split up.”
“It won’t be for long,” Larry pointed out. “Look at it this way. Maybe Stark’s gunhands are scoutin’ this territory. If that’s a fact, a lone rider stands a better chance of gettin’ through. And another thing—one of us ought to stay in Three Springs and help these towners plan their defense.” He nudged Stretch with a hard elbow. “They could sure use a gun-wise hombre like you—if it comes to a showdown.”
“That’s what you want I should do?” frowned Stretch. “Stay here and lend a hand with the fightin’?”
“That’s how it ought to be,” declared Larry. “And keep your fingers crossed. I’m hopin’ to bring back a doctor who’ll check Buck over and tell him the real score—maybe in time for Buck to handle his share of the fightin’.”
“I guess there will be fightin’,” mused Stretch. “Mayor Gilhauser seems powerful sure them bandidos’ll come a’raidin’.”
“It’ll happen,” nodded Larry. “Bet your Texas boots on it. I feel it in my bones.”
Some of the leading citizens—Gilhauser, Margolies and Yuill—were still swigging whisky at the Rialto, making a vain attempt to quell their rising fears. The Texans hustled in, and Larry’s blunt announcement won their immediate interest. The mayor was dubious at first.
“I swore no man would be allowed to ride out of this town,” he muttered. “We made it a rule, for the protection of every citizen.”
“On the other hand,” frowned Russ Perrier, “we’d have quite an edge on the Stark gang, if Valentine fetched a doctor to Three Springs. I mean, if him and the doctor arrived ahead of Stark.”
“Quite an edge,” agreed Margolies. “Buck is the only fool in town that trusted that pill-peddler. I guess we all know Buck is healthy enough, but he can’t help us ’less he knows it.”
“A genuine doctor could damn soon convince him,” opined Perrier.
“I’ll be leavin’ rightaway,” said Larry. “My partner’ll stay on here.”
“And he’ll be mighty welcome,” asserted Perrier. “I don’t forget what I read in the papers, and I’ve heard it said Stretch Emerson can lick double his weight in outlaws.”
Linus Margolies squinted towards the clock on the far wall. “Gettin’ near high noon,” he observed, “and today’s Monday. I’ve just thought of a way Larry could reach Pelham City in a hurry—maybe by tonight.”
“It’s a two-day ride,” protested Gilhauser.
“You’re forgettin’ about the railroad north of here,” said the livery proprietor. “Train bound northwest for Pelham crosses Vermo Flats about mid-afternoon. I could give Larry a map and mark a few short cuts. Ridin’ steady, I calculate he could hit the Flats in time to stop that train. That’d be the fast way.” He eyed Larry enquiringly. “You interested?”
“And then some,” nodded Larry.
“No whistle-stop at Vermo Flats,” warned Frayne. “You’d just have to stop that train the hard way.”
“Easiest way I know,” shrugged Larry, “would be to squat on my horse—plumb smack on those rails. Then they have to stop.” He nodded to Margolies. “Fetch the map.”
When Linus Margolies returned to the Rialto, Larry, Stretch and Gilhauser were waiting on the front porch. The livery proprietor was leading Larry’s sorrel, saddled and ready for the trail. Into the sorrel’s saddlebags had been packed an ample supply of provisions, including a quart of rye whisky. Larry descended from the porch and swung astride, then bent to accept the chart offered him by Margolies. A cursory perusal revealed that Margolies had marked the all-important short cuts.
“That’s as fast a route to the Flats as you could hope to find,” Margolies assured him, “and plenty cover—so maybe no Stark scout’ll spot you.”
“I’m much obliged,” said Larry, as he folded the map and stuffed it into a pocket. Then, thoughtfully, he gazed along the sunlit street. “Mr. Mayor, just what kind of defense have you planned?”
“Three Springs men aren’t fighters,” shrugged Gilhauser, “but we’ll do our best. You already guessed I’d posted lookouts all around town. That’s how we knew you were coming. I’m counting on those lookouts to give us the warning-—just as soon as they spot a large body of horsemen. We’ll have time to barricade every door and window, block every alley and post riflemen on the rooftops. That’s it, Valentine. The best we can manage.”
“And maybe good enough,” mused Larry, “to give Stark a bad time.”
“In Pelham City,” said Gilhauser, “don’t look for any cooperation from Barney Dreyfus—or any sympathy.”
“Who,” asked Stretch, “is Barney Dreyfus?”
“Sheriff of Pelham County,” said Gilhauser. “A fancy-Dan with big ideas. We hear tell he’s got his heart set on running for governor some day. Meantime, he doesn’t much care what happens to Three Springs. We’re out of his jurisdiction and, anyway, he never did admire our marshal.”
“What’s he got against Buck?” demanded Larry.
“Buck’s Texan,” Gilhauser reminded him. “Dreyfus thinks all Texans are shiftless no-accounts, good for nothing except pushing cattle.”
Larry looked at Stretch. Stretch looked at Larry, then at the mayor, and asserted, “This Dreyfus better hope Larry don’t run into him.”
~*~
At about the same time that Larry Valentine began his fast ride to Vermo Flats, the notorious Brett Stark was obliged to settle a dispute. Slim Goddard, Stark’s lean and taciturn henchman, came trudging into his chief’s tent to announce, “Couple of the boys are about to fight, and one of ’em could get hisself killed.”
“Fists or knives?” challenged Stark.
“Guns,” growled Goddard. “They’re cussin’ each other into a shootout.”
The boss-outlaw rose to his full height. He was a hefty six-footer, lethal, cunning, gun-wise, a veteran of the owlhoot trail and as anti-social as all his minions, if not more so. His hawk-like visage was clean-shaven, except for the thin moustache, jet-black like his lank hair. His chin was pointed and protuberant, his thin-lipped mouth uncommonly small. The pale blue eyes were, at this moment, slightly bloodshot. Still mourning the death of his kinsman, he had been swigging from the bottle beside his pack roll.
“With Clay gone,” he sourly reflected, “I can’t afford to lose any of my men—specially fightin’ among themselves.”
He strode from his tent out into the bright sunlight and the always-chilling wind of the high country. This was Flagg Mesa, the arid plateau atop Padilla Mountain, a familiar landmark to any who travelled this northwest corner of the Arizona Territory. The Rio Colorado was less than a day’s ride to the west. Beyond that great river, another day’s ride westward, lay Three Springs, a town Stark was eager to visit, and violently.
As a hideout, temporary or otherwise, the mesa had much to recommend it. Exit or entry was afforded only by a winding track barely wide enough for two to ride abreast, which led down to the flat prairie far below. Stark had only to assign guards to the topmost sections of that track to ensure his continued safety. From the mesa, his twenty-four guns could hold back an entire army.
This portion of the mesa was occupied by the tents, lean-tos and pole-corrals that comprised Stark’s stronghold. There were several campfires. Close by one of them, two hot-headed malcontents were about to settle their differences with blood. They were watched from both sides by the other twenty-one, as they faced each other with hands hovering over their gun butts.
Stark settled that ruckus in short order.
“Lembeck—and you, Wyatt!” he snarled. “Keep your irons in leather!”
“He claimed I was sharpin’ him,” scowled the slovenly, scar-faced Lembeck. “I deal square, and no man can call me a sharper.”
“Shuddup and draw, damn you!” gasped the barrel-chested Wyatt.
“Both of you shuddup!” scowled Stark. “Don’t you know any better than to tangle over a no-account game of draw poker—when you ain’t even playin’ for cash?”
Boldly, he strode between the would-be combatants. Wyatt muttered an oath and threw up an arm to protect himself, but too late. Stark’s punishing blow caught him flush in the face and sent him reeling. Then, lithely, Stark whirled and struck at Lembeck. His bunched fist slammed into Lembeck’s belly, doubling him. Lembeck turned gray and flopped on his backside, gasping for breath. Grimfaced, Stark eyed the other men.
“Anybody else,” he challenged, “got any such fool notions?”
A youthful, brazenly handsome gunhawk spoke up. His name was Holroyd, and he was one of the three who had accompanied Stark’s brother on the Three Springs venture.
“You can’t hardly blame ’em for gettin’ steamed up, Brett,” he drawled. “It’s the monotony. We’ve been stuck on this damn mesa too long.”
“I know it,” nodded Stark. “But, with Arizona law-posses combin’ the low country for us, we just had to stay on the mesa.”
“I reckon I’m speakin’ for all of us,” frowned Holroyd, “when I ask how much longer, Brett? How much longer—before we quit the mesa and head for Nevada Territory, and that Three Springs burg?”
Stark clamped a cigar between his teeth, bent to lift a faggot from the fire. As he puffed the stogie to life, he assured his minions, “That’s somethin’ I’ve been thinkin’ about. I don’t relish the waitin’ any more than the rest of you.” He snapped his fingers. “Lembeck—Wyatt—on your feet.” The chastened rowdies shakily resumed the perpendicular and stood eyeing him expectantly. “Come sunup, take the ’breed and go down to the low ground. I want every mile between here and the river scouted careful. If those law posses have quit this area, we’ll be movin’ out before noon.”
“Headed for Three Springs?” grinned Holroyd.
“Where the hell else?” challenged Stark. He jerked a thumb. “Come on back to my tent, Jimmy. I got questions to ask you.”
He returned to his tent, tagged by the youthful desperado. About to reach for the bottle again, he changed his mind. Holroyd squatted on an upturned box while his leader sprawled on his blanket, his cigar glowing bright.
“I said it before, and I’ll say it again,” muttered Stark. “I ought to have let daylight through you—and Wyatt—and Lembeck—for what you did.”
“Sneakin’ away was Clay’s idea,” frowned Holroyd “He hankered to get his hands on some real dinero, so he talked us into ridin’ with him.”
“Against my orders,” sighed Stark. “If that fool brother of mine had stayed where I could see him, he’d still be alive.” Covertly, he studied his informant. “You couldn’t be wrong, Jimmy. He really was dead?”
“Nary a doubt of it,” said Holroyd. “I wasn’t gonna quit till I was certain-sure. Quite a risk I took, sneakin’ back on foot to spy on ’em. Clay was dead all right—gunned down by the marshal, a hombre name of Craydon.”
“Craydon,” breathed Stark, “will get his.”
“I saw ’em tote Clay’s body off the store porch and along to a funeral parlor,” Holroyd told him. “That was enough. I couldn’t wait to see any more.” He leaned closer to his chief. “Brett, there’s somethin’ else I’m sure of.”
“About the loot from that bank?” prodded Stark. “Yeah. You told me before.”
“When Clay sent us out the back way,” said Holroyd, “he said as how he’d cache that gunnysack somewheres in the store in case he got captured, you know?”
“And you still think he did that—before the badge-toter shot him?” mused Stark.
“I figure he had time,” declared Holroyd. “And that’s another damn good reason we should hit Three Springs. We all want to even the score for Clay, but ...”
“And we will,” said Stark, his voice husky with emotion. “I’ll see Craydon’s blood leakin’ into that street, or I’ll know the reason why not.”
“But,” persisted Holroyd, “Clay calculated we got better than ten thousand out of that bank-safe. We ain’t about to forget that, are we? I claim it’s cached in that emporium, and maybe those towners haven’t found it yet—don’t even know it’s there. They likely figure Clay’s sidekicks got away with it. How about that, Brett? It’s waitin’ for us. Are we gonna pass it up?”
“We’re passin’ up nothin’,” growled Stark. “Everything we need—provisions, liquor, horses and ammunition—we’ll help ourselves in Three Springs.” He grinned mirthlessly. “You can search the emporium for the loot Clay cached—while I’m blowin’ holes through that yeller-bellied lawman.”
~*~
The short cuts marked on Larry’s map were of invaluable assistance; even so he galloped the sorrel across the arid vastness of Vermo Flats with only a few minutes to spare. The smoke-puffs from the approaching locomotive were already visible to the south. Larry kept the sorrel to a hard run for a few more minutes. Then, sighting the gleaming rails, he slowed to a walk and proceeded in more leisurely fashion.
When the engine crew spotted him, soon afterwards, they immediately feared the worst. Larry had positioned his mount on the tracks, side-on to the oncoming train. The engineer applied his brake and, from then on, things happened fast.
Emitting steam, the engine squealed to a halt some twenty-five yards from the human obstruction. Larry lifted a hand in casual salute and showed no dismay when the deputation descended on him. Well to the fore were three hard-faced individuals in sober town suits, with black derbies planted squarely on their heads and short-barreled Smith & Wesson .38s in their right fists, the muzzles pointed unerringly at Larry. Then came the conductor, a thin, elderly hombre who cast anxious glances to the brush far to the west and the rock-mounds even farther to the east, as though expecting that the lone horseman had accomplices—scores of them—who would materialize at any moment.
After the conductor came the engineer and fireman, the former florid with indignation.
“Just exactly what in blue blazes,” yelled the engineer, “do you blame well think you’re doin’?”
Larry flicked his cigarette away, eyed the florid one reproachfully and replied, “I always answer an honest question—even when it comes impolite.”
“You’d better answer fast, bucko,” growled one of the derby-wearers, “and keep your paws where we can see ’em.”
Larry ignored the derby-wearers and the engine-crew. To the conductor, he mildly explained, “I need to get to Pelham City the fastest way. It’s an emergency.” He followed that with a question. “You got room in your caboose for my horse?”
“Why, sure,” frowned the conductor. “Three empty stalls in the caboose, but I don’t know about …”
“I said it’s an emergency,” drawled Larry, “and I really mean it.” He produced his bankroll. “Don’t worry about my fare. I can pay.”
“Pat,” said one of the derby-wearers, “we better search him for identification. From where I’m standing, he looks like bad medicine.”
“Mister,” grunted Larry, “you lay a hand on me and, so help me, I’ll ram that sawed-off gun down your throat and kick your spine up through your hat.”
The man called Pat grinned good-naturedly and muttered a reassurance to his colleagues.
“Take it easy, Tim. You, too, Steve. I recognize this feller.”
“He’s on file at headquarters?” asked the belligerent Tim.
“That he is, Tim, that he is.” The leader of the trio was tall and handsome, with a long upper lip, a twinkle in his eye and the map of Old Erin etched from his broad brow to his firm chin. “Valentine, isn’t it?”
“That’s the name,” nodded Larry.
“I’m Pat Noonan,” said the tall one. “These are my associates—Tim Sheehan and Steve Fitzgibbon.”
“Pinkertons,” guessed Larry.
“Valentine who?” demanded the still-suspicious Sheehan.
“Larry Valentine,” explained Noonan. “Kind of an independent operator, you might call him—him and his friend, Stretch Emerson.”
“Well,” shrugged Sheehan, “if you’re vouching for him ...”
“Mr. Valentine,” said the conductor, “we’re a mite behind schedule. If these detective-fellers say you’re okay, I got no objection to you gettin’ aboard. Be obliged if you’d cool your saddle, so I can take your horse to the caboose. Then, if you gents’ll kindly get aboard ...”
“All right, Conductor,” smiled Noonan. “We’re as anxious as you to get to Pelham City in a hurry. Valentine, may I invite you to join us? We have a private compartment.”
“Thanks,” nodded Larry.
He swung down, handed his rein to the conductor. A few moments later he was seated in the four-seat compartment shared by the detectives, and the journey to Pelham County was resumed.
Larry shoved his hat back off his brow, accepted a cigar from Noonan and grunted his thanks. Somehow, he wasn’t taking kindly to these professionals. Their attitude wasn’t all that friendly. Noonan sounded slightly patronizing, and Larry was a man who couldn’t bear to be patronized.
“In a hurry, Valentine?” prodded Noonan. “What’s the emergency?”
In his terse, laconic way, Larry delivered a short explanation of the situation existing in apprehensive Three Springs. Three pairs of Irish eyebrows were promptly elevated.
“The Stark gang, you say?” challenged Sheehan.
“Some coincidence,” grunted Fitzgibbon.
“You gents interested in the same outfit?” frowned Larry.
“That we are, Valentine, that we are,” nodded Noonan. “Special assignment. Council of war, you know? We’ve been ordered to cooperate with the law authority of Pelham County. A combined effort. Sheriff Dreyfus has twenty volunteers in readiness, waiting to make a sweep of the county and all the territory north.”
“Maybe you don’t hear so good,” suggested Larry. “You Pinkertons and that search-party will be headed in the wrong direction. Stark is somewhere south of here—getting ready to raid the town I just told you about—Three Springs.”
“Wrong, Valentine, wrong.” Noonan gestured nonchalantly. “The last thing Stark is apt to do is advance on Three Springs.” He batted an eye in a sly wink. “Modus operandi, my friend.”
“Come again?” prodded Larry.
“Stark’s methods,” said Noonan, “his system of operation, the way he executes his raids, have been studied scientifically by the most highly-trained criminologists in the Pinkerton organization.”
“Maybe this ain’t my day for catchin’ on fast,” growled Larry, “but I just don’t savvy what you’re gettin’ at.”
“Put it in simple language, Pat,” grinned Fitzgibbon. “You have to keep it simple, when you’re dealing with these cow-pushers.”
There were times when Larry Valentine chose to exercise monumental patience and tight control of his Texas temper. Fortunately for the Pinkertons, this was one of those times.
“All right,” shrugged Noonan, “let me explain it this way. Criminology is fast becoming an accepted and, I might add, a specialized science. And Pinkerton can afford to hire only the best.”
“Good for Pinkerton,” shrugged Larry.
“Every available report has been checked and rechecked,” said Noonan. “We know exactly how Stark operates, exactly what to expect of him. We don’t have to rely on hunches, Valentine. We’re working on proven facts.”
“And these smart-brained jaspers,” prodded Larry, “these—uh—experts ...”
“Have decided,” finished Noonan, “that Stark will strike somewhere to the north, in the very near future.”
“You’re that sure,” challenged Larry, “that he’ll stay away from Three Springs?”
“When you’re following the findings of a scientific analysis,” said Noonan, “there’s no room for doubt. Stark will stay well and truly clear of Three Springs, because he works to a set pattern. No Stark gunman ever strikes twice in the same area. A known fact, Valentine. A proven fact. You say four of his men robbed a Three Springs bank? All right. That’s your guarantee that Three Springs will never again see a Stark gun. They’ve been there already. Now, they’ll strike farther afield.’’
Larry made one last attempt at getting his point across to the Pinkertons.
“Stark’s kid brother,” he quietly reminded them, “died in Three Springs. He was triggered by the Three Springs marshal and, before he cashed in, he swore big brother would settle up for him. He bragged about how the whole outfit would hit Three Springs and burn it to the ground.”
“The ravings of a dying thief.” Noonan blew a smoke-ring, grinned at it with admiration. “We Pinkertons are familiar with the breed. At the end, they either beg for mercy or make wild threats. You think Brett Stark would be fool enough to attack Three Springs—where the locals are expecting him? Not a chance, Valentine. Take my advice. Never try to predict the workings of the criminal mind. Leave that to the experts.”
“And another word of advice, Valentine,” offered Sheehan. “I’d stay away from Sheriff Dreyfus, if I were you. He’s a mighty important officer. You try talking him into sending a posse to Three Springs, and he’s apt to throw you into a cell for making a damn nuisance of yourself.”
And still, by a superhuman effort, Larry kept his temper under control. Very quietly, he assured Sheehan, “I wasn’t figuring to beg help from Dreyfus.”
“You’d be wise not to,” drawled Noonan.
“Thanks for the cigar,” said Larry, as he got to his feet.
“No need for you to leave, Valentine,” smiled Noonan. “You’re welcome to stay with us—travelling in comfort—all the way to Pelham.”
In the narrow doorway of the compartment, Larry paused to frown back at the boss-Pinkerton.
“No, thanks,” he grunted. “I’d as lief travel in the caboose with the conductor and my horse. Maybe the conductor ain’t as scientific as you jaspers, but he’s likely a whole lot smarter.” And he couldn’t resist adding, “Come to think of it, so is my horse.”
Shortly thereafter, he was squatting on his saddle, his back resting against the stall occupied by the sorrel in the caboose. The conductor’s name was Herb Gittridge, and he was willing to be sociable. Larry dug the quart of rye from his saddlebag, and told him:
“There’s questions I need to ask you about Pelham City and doctors.”