The drifters reacted with the alacrity born of long experience with drygulchers and sundry other species of snipers. They went to ground, and fast. Stretch slid from the pinto and threw himself flat on his face, cursing with great enthusiasm. Larry grasped at the unidentified and sodden occupant of the blanket and hauled him from the sorrel.
“Hold your fire!” yelled Larry.
But the man on the farmhouse porch triggered again. The slug slammed into the dirt a few inches in front of Larry’s head, kicking grit into his face.
“Git offa my land!” ordered the sodbuster. “I know what you’re after—all you skirt-chasin’ cowpokes! A man’s got a right to pertect his own daughter, and that’s just what I aim to do! Already warned you, didn’t I …?”
“Just a goldurn minute …” called Stretch.
“Warned every cowpoke in Winfield County, I have!” yelled the sodbuster. “Stay away from my gal!”
“What’s your damn-blasted name?” called Larry.
“You know me,” jeered the sodbuster. “Ain’t a cowpoke in this here territory that ain’t heard the bark of Rudd McTaggart’s gun!”
Abruptly, Larry scrambled to his feet and unstrapped his gunbelt.
“Listen, McTaggart, you trigger-happy fool!” he yelled. “If you cut me down with that cotton-pickin’ rifle, it’ll be murder—because I’ve just now dropped my gun! Now you hear me good, mister! We’re strangers hereabouts! Got a sick man with us, and he needs doctorin’! I don’t know why you’re afeared of cowpokes, and I don’t care a damn.”
Stretch followed his partner’s example, rising up and letting his gunbelt drop.
“We fished this jasper out of the creek,” he loudly informed the farmer, “and that’s the stone-cold truth. We ain’t here to chase your doggone daughter!”
A woman appeared on the porch. At this distance, the Texans couldn’t distinguish her face, but her frame would have been visible for miles. She was massive, as fat a female as they had ever seen. For a few moments, she spoke with the man behind the rifle. They heaved sighs of relief as he set the weapon to one side and descended from the porch. He was now revealed as elderly, sharp-featured, skinny and shabby, standing no more than five feet five inches.
“All right,” he growled. “My Hannah claims it wouldn’t be Christian to turn you galoots away, seein’ as how you got a sick friend with you.”
“He’s no friend of ours,” Larry pointed out. “We never saw him before we hauled him out of the creek, but I’d admire to find out what happened to him.”
“Leave your animiles right where they are,” ordered McTaggart. “Your weapons too.”
“Better do as he says,” Larry muttered to Stretch.
“What I’d truly relish,” breathed Stretch, “is to give that crazy old varmint a mouthful of my doggone knuckles.”
“Put a rein on your temper, amigo,” advised Larry, as he lifted the unconscious man and draped him over his shoulders.
They trudged to the homestead. The big woman had disappeared inside. McTaggart stood in die doorway, crooking a none too clean finger.
“In here,” he growled.
Other members of the McTaggart family materialized, chattering, whooping, yipping. Stretch abandoned any thought of tallying the progeny of the productive Rudd and Hannah. They seemed to erupt out of the woodwork of the old house, like termites. Hannah shepherded them out, while the Texans toted their human burden into a dingy parlor and deposited it on an old leather-covered couch.
The eldest McTaggart child then showed herself, and the Texans decided that, now, they’d seen everything. Ellie Jo was almost as large as her massive momma, a bovine, slack-jawed girl of some nineteen summers whose uncomprehending smile revealed a gap in her front teeth. The straw-colored hair probably hadn’t been brushed since last Thanksgiving. Always chivalrous where the opposite sex was concerned, the Texans nevertheless concluded that to call Ellie Jo ugly would have been an understatement. They gaped. McTaggart gestured melodramatically and gasped a reprimand.
“Don’t keep lookin’ at her! She’s the most gosh-awful beautiful gal inside a hunnerd miles of the county, and every woman-hungry rooster knows it. Always snoopin’ around this basin—all them young bucks that works for them county cattlemen. They can’t stay away from her!”
“Well …” Larry managed to pull himself together, “you don’t need to fret on our account.”
“She’s got the kinda looks,” breathed the sodbuster, “that drives men crazy! Crazy with the desires of the flesh!” He clasped a hand to his brow. “It ain’t fair. Why’d I have to be cursed with a daughter so beautiful? Scarce a week passes that I don’t have to git out there and faze ’em away—all them Whiskey-swiggin’, skirt-chasin’ cowpokes—hungerin’ after Ellie Jo!” He whirled and pointed at her. “Go hide yourself, child. The longer they look at you, the worse they’ll hunger for you.”
“We ain’t hungry,” mumbled Stretch. “Leastaways not for …”
“Shuddup,” growled Larry.
Ellie Jo McTaggart trudged out of the parlor and, rightaway, the room seemed larger. The sodbuster turned and squinted at the man on the couch.
“What happened to this feller?” demanded McTaggart.
“That,” said Larry, “is what I aim to find out.”
He dropped to one knee beside the couch, checked for pulse and heartbeat. Quite suddenly, the sodden one stirred and opened his eyes. McTaggart grimaced impatiently and made his exit, declaring,
“I gotta git back outside. No tellin’ how many of these local roosters is snoopin’ around—hopin’ for one sneaky peek at Ellie Jo.”
All of Larry’s attention was focused on the man now returning to consciousness; he wasn’t about to mourn McTaggart’s departure. Blinking, the young man drew his elbows back and half-raised himself.
“What …” he began, “how …?”
“That’s what I was about to ask you, boy,” drawled Larry. “What happened to you?”
“You got a name, kid?” demanded Stretch.
“Speakin’ of names,” said Larry, “his is Stretch Emerson, and mine’s Larry Valentine.”
“Mine’s Tatum.” The young man sat bolt upright, suddenly agitated, suddenly aware of his condition. “Suffering San Antone! My clothes!”
“Tatum who?” prodded Larry.
“Burch Tatum.”
“You must be tetched in the head, boy. Every Texan has heard of Burch Tatum, and you couldn’t be him. He must be near sixty years old.”
“I’m his son—Burch Tatum Junior. And—and I’m a Ranger—just like Pa.”
The drifters traded thoughtful glances.
“All right,” shrugged Larry. “Tell us what happened.”
“How do I know what happened?” groaned Junior. “All I can remember …!”
“That’s it,” approved Larry. “Start rememberin’.”
“I recall the creek,” frowned Junior. “Yes. That’s right. I was riding the bank of a creek …” He broke off, gesticulating wildly. ‘‘Hell’s bells! My horse …!”
“We didn’t find no cayuse, kid,” Stretch informed him. “All we found was you—in the crick—rigged in nothin’ but your Long Johns.”
“This is the end!” gasped Junior. “I’m finished! They must’ve stolen everything—my clothes, my weapons, Big Shadow …!”
“Big Shadow,” frowned Larry. “That’s your horse?”
“A black gelding,” sighed Junior. “A thoroughbred. Best horse I ever owned.”
“You said ‘they’,” Larry reminded him. “Does that mean you got a look at the hombres that jumped you?”
“Hell, no,” breathed Junior. “I’m only guessing there was more than one of them. All I remember is the shot. Uh huh. I did hear the shot. Slug must’ve gone clear through me. It drove me off Big Shadow and, when I hit the ground, everything went black.”
“That bullet,” drawled Larry, “didn’t go clear through you. It just nicked you.”
“I can’t face my father,” groaned Junior. “Never again! He’ll disown me.”
Stretch rubbed at his jowls, blinked perplexedly and said,
“Son—are you sure you’re a Ranger?”
“If it comes to that,” growled Larry, “are you sure you’re Texan?”
“Born and bred in Fort Worth,” muttered Junior. He squinted about him. “How did I get here?”
“We spotted you in the crick,” shrugged Stretch, “roped you and hauled you out. You’re in a homestead somewheres in Winfield County.”
“Wait a minute!” Larry snapped his fingers. “The newspaper! Didn’t I read about this hombre? Burch Tatum Junior—the Ranger comin’ up from Texas to extradite that Harnsey owlhoot.”
“That’s me,” sighed Junior. “You’d never believe it— but that’s me.”
“What’s extra—extra …?” began Stretch.
“It means,” explained Larry, “Junior was totin’ papers—special papers that gave him authority to take this bandido off the Winfield law and herd him to Texas.”
“That,” Junior dolefully assured him, “was my assignment.”
“You got that look in your beady ol’ Texas eye again,” Stretch chided Larry. “You’re thinkin’ again.”
“You bet your ever-lovin’ life I’m thinkin’!” breathed Larry.
“This is why him and me are always in trouble,” said Stretch, to Junior. “Other folks’ troubles. Mighty active ’tween the ears is ol’ Larry. Can’t keep his nose outa …”
“We have to get this boy patched up fast,” Larry briskly announced. “And then, by golly, we got to hightail it to Winfield and check on this Harnsey hombre. All of a sudden, I’m guessin’ why Junior got drygulched, and I’m guessin’ who drygulched him!”
“Who?” prodded Stretch.
“The newspaper says Harnsey is no loner,” frowned Larry.
“Harnsey has seven sidekicks,” said Junior. “As far as I know, they’re still on the loose.”
“You bet they’re on the loose,” scowled Larry. “And, by now, maybe Harnsey is on the loose! Why d’you suppose they jumped you and stole all your gear?”
“Yeah.” Junior hung his head in shame. “It’s clear enough. With my identification papers and those warrants to show, any of Harnsey’s men could trick the Winfield sheriff into setting him free—transferring him into their custody.”
“Like Larry says,” frowned Stretch, “we better head for Winfield.”
Larry went to the parlor window and called to McTaggart. The sodbuster listened to his request and, in a few moments, big Hannah was lumbering into the parlor, toting balm and bandages. While she bound the Ranger’s shallow wound, her husband dickered with the Texans.
“A horse? Not a chance! I got no horse to loan you, no saddle neither. What d’you think I’m runnin’ here? A livery stable?”
“All right, all right!” Larry gestured impatiently. “The Ranger can ride double with me—but what about clothes?”
“Duds cost money,” growled McTaggart.
“We ain’t beggin’ damn it all.” Larry produced the bankroll, peeled off a bill. “Here’s ten dollars. The Ranger needs to get covered decent. Now how about it?”
The best McTaggart could offer was a pair of patched and tattered overalls, no spare shirt. No boots. Just the overalls, three sizes too small for the acutely embarrassed Burch Tatum Junior.
“I feel snagged all over,” he complained, as he followed the drifters out into the sunlight.
“We’ll get you an outfit in Winfield,” Larry assured him.
He swung astride the sorrel, gestured for Junior to clamber up behind him. Stretch straddled the pinto. As they wheeled the horses, they called a final query to the sodbuster.
“Whichaway to Winfield?”
McTaggart pointed. They dug in their heels and took off across the basin floor at a loping run. Within a few minutes, they had skirted the ploughed fields and reached the rim of the hollow.
“C’mon now,” frowned Larry. “Let’s get these horses to movin’.”
At speed, they crossed open country, clattered through a strip of timber and on to where the Winfield trail snaked across a yucca-dotted plain. Junior clung to Larry’s pants belt and, raising his voice above the thudding of hooves, enlarged on his tale of woe, after which his benefactors formed their own conclusions.
Larry was thinking.
“He sure don’t favor his pappy. He fancies himself for a hot-shot Ranger, but he’s too damn loco to get in out of the rain. Colonel Tatum must’ve been out of his natural mind—sending his no-account son to take charge of a professional like Harnsey.”
And Stretch was thinking,
“If this blabber-mouthed young ’un had a extra brain, he’d be a half-wit. But he’s Texan sure enough, so we got to help him out of this fix.”
It was late afternoon when they hustled their panting and winded mounts into Winfield’s main street. At first, it seemed most Winfield folk were indoors, a fact for which Larry was grateful; Burch Tatum Junior wasn’t an impressive sight at this time, hardly a worthy representative of the great Lone Star State. However, by the time they sighted the county law office, the street was filling. Curious locals were emerging onto the sidewalks to stare at the strangers, and particularly at the hapless Junior, a sorry sight in his Long Johns and too-tight overalls.
From a doorway above which was painted the inscription: “THE CLARION—O. A. KLEMPER, PROP.” a cold-eyed, heavy-jowled man emerged. Larry disliked him on sight. In Klemper’s intent stare, there was a suggestion of cold challenge, of arrogance. They rode past the newspaper office and on to the hitchrack outside the jailhouse. Klemper made it to the porch just as they were dismounting. The sheriff rose from a caneback, spat out a half-smoked cigar and called to Clough, who promptly emerged from the office.
Without preamble, Larry hurled his query.
“You still holdin’ Harnsey?”
“Not since this mornin’,” frowned Clough.
“Shuddup, Stew,” chided Mole. “We dunno who these jaspers are.” He came to the top of the steps, traded nods with Klemper, then thoughtfully studied the newcomers. “Who are you? What’s your interest in Harnsey?”
“The names are Valentine and Emerson,” said Larry, “and Tatum.”
“Tatum?” challenged Klemper.
“Burch Tatum Junior,” growled Larry, jerking a thumb. “He’s a Texas Ranger.”
“He couldn’t be Ranger Tatum,” protested Mole. “I surrendered Harnsey to Tatum this mornin’, and I mean the real Tatum. He had identification papers, a warrant for Harnsey, and …”
“And,” scowled Larry, “he was likely one of Harnsey’s own men.”
“They drygulched me!” Junior bitterly complained. “Stole my weapons, my horse, my papers—everything. They stripped me and—and threw me in a creek.”
“How’re you gonna prove …?” began Mole.
“Sheriff,” frowned Larry, “you’ll just have to take his word for it.”
“Damn and blast!” gasped Mole. “We’ve been tricked!” “So it would seem, Sheriff,” drawled Klemper. “It’s a wild story, but with a ring of truth to it. If I were you, I’d organize a search party and get out after Harnsey and that impostor.”
“Stew…!” began Mole.
“Yeah—I hear you,” grunted Clough. “We better get a hustle on.”
As the lawmen descended from the porch, Mole glowered resentfully at Junior and snarled a reproach.
“You’re a poor excuse for a doggone Texas Ranger, and no mistake! I thought you Lone Star lawboys was supposed to be a right smart outfit! This is all your fault, consarn you! I had Harnsey right here in my jail, and …!”
“Take it easy,” muttered Larry. “It was a sneak ambush. He never knew what hit him.”
“Some Ranger,” jeered Clough.
“Yeah!” jibed Mole. “Some Ranger!”
The lawmen hustled away. Grim-faced, the Texans traded glances. Junior fidgeted uncomfortably under the amused scrutiny of the locals. Stretch spat in disgust, and said,
“Well—we were too damn late.”
“We were too late,” mused Larry, “back when we fished Junior out of the creek. The damage was done already.”
“I don’t doubt the sheriff and his posse will do their utmost to locate Harnsey,” smiled Klemper. “Harnsey—and the fake Ranger. Of course they’ll fail. Harnsey will make a clean getaway.”
He lit a cigar, thrust his hands in his pants pockets and went right on smiling at the Texans. Somehow, Larry didn’t much appreciate that smile.
“You sound happy,” he accused.
“Happy?” The newspaperman’s smile became downright ugly. “I’m delighted!”
“Just who the hell are you anyway?” demanded Larry.
“Otto Klemper, editor and owner of the Winfield Clarion.” Klemper was flushed now. A nerve twitched at his temple. His hands shook, as he gesticulated wildly. “So much for the invincibility of the almighty Texas Rangers! Braggarts! Swaggering showoffs! Craig Harnsey is free to plunder and murder again, and a Texas Ranger has lost his pants. How do you suppose that will look in print? Well, you’ll find out. This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for, and it rates a special edition. Read the Clarion tomorrow morning. Read it—and hang your heads in shame!”
“You can’t print that!” gasped Junior.
“Don’t beg from this hombre,” muttered Larry. He was eyeing Klemper shrewdly, sizing him up, sensing the blind, unreasoning hate of the man. “Unless I miss my guess, this scribbler is a Texas-hater from way back.”
“You’ll be interested to hear,” Klemper smugly informed them, “that the Clarion enjoys a wide circulation. In fact, this next issue may travel as far as Texas!”
On that triumphant note, he turned and retraced his steps to the Clarion office.