“That’s no lynch party,” Larry Valentine observed.
“Nope,” grunted Stretch Emerson. “Worse’n a lynch party, if you ask me.”
“It looks like,” frowned Larry, “they’re about to take a whip to him.”
“That’s what it looks like,” agreed Stretch. He grimaced in disgust. “Runt—you aim to sit by and watch a whippin’?”
“Not so you’d notice,” growled Larry.
Moments before, the nomadic Texans had ambled their mounts out of a cedar copse in a lonely sector of Horton County. They had passed a signpost at dusk of the previous day and, before making their night camp, had decided to visit the county seat. Horton, a passing rider had informed them, was one of the most heavily populated towns of south-west Colorado: a veritable frontier metropolis. They had visited many a small town in the past few months. Now, they hankered for something bigger.
The cedar copse was located a short distance from the foothills of a mountain range. From here, they could study every detail of the grim scene now being enacted. There were eight men. Seven were garbed as cowpokes. The eighth was afoot, a flabby, vacant-eyed jasper, nondescript, uncommonly shabby. His shirt had been torn from his back. He wasn’t struggling, nor voicing a protest, despite the fact that two of the cowpokes were tying him to a tree-trunk. Another man, thickset and belligerent, was slowly dismounting—and uncoiling a whip. A few yards from where the horses stood, a longhorn placidly chewed grass.
Larry’s shouted challenge caused eight pairs of eyes to focus on him. He came on at a brisk canter, with Stretch tagging him close. In a flurry of dust, they reined up, and the half-naked hombre tied to the cottonwood trunk showed them a mild grin.
“Howdy,” he offered.
His placidity contrasted sharply with his predicament. Larry threw him a puzzled glance, then eyed the thickset waddy.
“Whatever he’s done,” he prodded, “is it bad enough to rate a whippin’?”
As well as being thickset, the whip-toter was mean-eyed and red-haired.
“Is this,” he sourly enquired, “any of your consarned business?”
“Butt out, saddlebums,” one of the other men curtly advised. “That’s a Box V steer over there—and this lousy buzzard was about to steal it.”
The Texans subjected the prisoner to a thoughtful scrutiny, which he returned with interest. They judged him to be in his early twenties, now that they could observe him closely. He was sandy-haired and unshaven. His large brown eyes showed no guile, no bitterness, no resentment. He seemed resigned to his fate.
“Howdy, gents,” he greeted them again. “My name’s Burl Stogie. Reckon you must be strangers hereabouts. Don’t recollect I ever seen you before.”
Without pausing to consider the possible consequences, Stretch flashed him an encouraging grin, and told him: “Emerson’s my handle—and this here’s my sidekick, Larry Valentine.”
“I’m Red Kellin,” the redhead arrogantly announced, “Box V foreman. This fat skunk tried to rustle this here beef, and now he’s gonna pay for it.” He added, truculently, “And nobody better get in my way.”
“Kellin,” said Larry, “I don’t admire rustlers any more than you do. Even so, it ain’t right to take a whip to a man.” He looked at the hapless Burl Stogie again. “He don’t look much—but he is a man.”
“He’s trash,” scowled Kellin. “Him and his loco mother. Trash!” He jerked a thumb. “Now vamoose, Valentine, and take your skinny sidekick with you!”
“Put the whip away,” advised Larry. “Rope this jasper to his horse and take him to Horton. Deliver him to the law. That’s better, Kellin. That’s a sight cleaner than whippin’ him.”
“I said vamoose!” breathed the redhead.
Abandoning all thought of keeping his temper, Larry coldly told him, “Drop the whip—or I’ll make you eat it!”
He was aware that the odds were heavy. Seven against two. But there had been other occasions—many other occasions—upon which the Lone Star Hellions had challenged more than double their number, with drastic consequences for the opposition. This, he sensed, would be another such occasion. And he was right.
Kellin indicated his resentment quickly and violently. The lash of his whip snaked out to coil about Larry’s neck. He jerked backward, and Larry had no option but to draw his boots from his stirrups. Simultaneously, a Box V puncher threw the loop of his lariat over Stretch from behind and wheeled his mount. Both Texans were hauled from their saddles and unceremoniously dumped.
They sat up, traded glances, and retaliation began immediately. Larry got both hands to the whiplash, jerked on it and tore the hilt from Kellin’s grasp, the while Stretch freed himself of the imprisoning noose. His strength was greater than his attacker’s. He rose up, still clinging to the rope, heaving backward with all his might, so that the horse reared and threw its rider.
Kellin roared an oath and charged at Larry, who was deftly disposing of the whip, hurling it high into the branches of the cottonwood. The other Box V men emptied their saddles, and the hassle got under way with a vengeance. Back to back, the Texans defended themselves with their customary vigor.
Kellin was the first casualty. Larry’s blow, a wild, swinging uppercut, sent the ramrod reeling seven yards, to collide with a horse. Stretch, after taking a left to the jaw and a right to the side of his head, grasped two neckerchiefs and rammed two heads together with jarring force. His victims sagged. Stepping over their prone bodies, he rammed his bunched right into an unprotected belly.
Larry, meanwhile, was under heavy attack, being borne down by two burly punchers. On the ground they rolled , and heaved, raising dust in a wild melee of flailing arms and threshing legs. When Larry struggled to his feet, one of his assailants was clinging to his back, but his arms were free. He threw a hard jab at his other attacker and laid him low.
But Kellin had revived, and the odds were still heavy. Once again, the Texans stood back to back, slugging it out, taking punishment and always retaliating. And then, abruptly, the ruckus was checked. Somewhere up in the hills, a rifle was crackling.
Larry heard six reports in rapid succession and, despite the turmoil of the situation, found time to reflect that the unseen marksman was no mean shot. Immediately in front of him, bullets were chewing up the dust. “Move back!” Kellin gasped. “It’s her—that crazy old witch ...!” He yelped, spun and began dashing towards the horses. A slug had dug a shallow crease atop his left shoulder, and he wasn’t waiting for any more. Another Box V man unleashed a startled yell and clutched at his right arm. Blood trickled through his fingers, as he took off in hot pursuit of the ramrod.
There were no wild blows to be parried now, no lashing boots to be dodged. Still back to back, the Texans dazedly viewed the retreat.
“They’re gone,” blinked Stretch. “They ain’t just goin’, runt. They’re gone!”
“All I can see,” frowned Larry, “is their dust.”
The shooting had ceased. For that, they were fervently grateful. Panting from their exertions, they retrieved and donned their Stetsons, trudged across to the cottonwood to unrope the chuckling Burl.
“What’s so funny?” Larry sourly challenged him. “We near took a beatin’ on your account.”
“And we could of got our heads blowed off,” complained Stretch.
“Shucks, no.” Burl shook his head vehemently. “Ma’s got keen eyes. Even way up there, she could tell which was Box V and which was strangers. Not that she don’t shoot at strangers, mind.”
“That comforts me—I don’t think,” muttered Stretch. “Ma shoots at strangers all the time,” Burl cheerfully informed them. “I guess she just ain’t partial to strangers— nor even folks she’s acquainted with. But she could see you gents were tryin’ to help me, I reckon.”
“Tryin’ to help you?” scowled Larry. “Doggone you, boy. If we hadn’t happened along, those jaspers would’ve flayed the hide offa your fat carcass!”
“Yep.” Burl nodded placidly. “Reckon they would of.”
Freed of the ropes, he bent to retrieve his tattered shirt. They traded wry grins. Much as they detested rustlers, they found it hard to maintain any feeling of animosity for this shambling, inept no-account.
A steady plodding of hoofs heralded the approach of the sharpshooter. Their eyes widened and their jaws sagged. Larry had forgotten Kellin’s shocked reference to a ‘crazy old witch’. Had she been straddling a broomstick instead of a mule, this aged woman would have fitted that uncharitable description.
She looked to be all of sixty years old. Her gray hair hung straggly about her thin shoulders. Her sharp-featured face was deeply lined, and her ugliest characteristic was the expression in her bright blue eyes—truculent, cold, forbidding. She hefted a Henry repeater. Her garb was as shabby as her son’s. Patched jeans tucked into scuffed boots. A checked cotton shift. A man’s jacket, torn in several places. A battered Stetson, flat-crowned, with a floppy brim.
Some short distance from the tree, she reined up. Only then did the Texans remember to doff their hats. She eyed them intently, committing them to memory. Larry, she observed, was a husky, dark-haired hombre, ruggedly handsome, square-jawed, aggressive-looking, his quizzical eyes reflecting a keen intellect. He stood close to six foot three. His garb was the garb of the cattleman, complete to the batwing chaps and sweat-stained bandanna. The butt of a Colt .45 jutted from the holster slung to his right hip.
“All right ...” she rasped, and her voice was as unfriendly as her expression. “I saw it all. You were helpin’ my boy, and I’m beholden, but I fazed them bully-boys offa your backs and I reckon that makes us even.” She scowled at her grinning offspring. “Got yourself in another fix, huh?”
“Wasn’t doin’ no harm, Ma,” Burl assured her. “There was just this one little maverick, you know? And—uh— you and me ain’t had no fresh beef in quite a spell. I didn’t figure Mr. Vickery would miss just one little old maverick, so I ...”
“So you tried to hustle a Box V critter into the hills,” she accused. “And, next thing you knew, there was Kellin and his hardcase pards jumpin’ outa the timber.” She grimaced in exasperation. “I try to raise you right, but it just ain’t no use. How many times have I gotta tell you? Never steal nothin’—less you’re dead sure you’ll get away with it.”
Stretch couldn’t suppress a chuckle. The old woman froze him with a steely glare.
“I said somethin’ funny?”
“No, ma’am,” frowned Stretch.
“He’s Mr. Emerson, Ma,” offered Burl. “Other gent is Mr. Valentine.”
His mother nodded curtly and gave her name.
“I’m Annie Stogie.”
“Our pleasure, ma’am,” said Larry.
“Don’t give me no sweet talk,” she sniffed. “Only reason you talk polite is you’re afeared of this.” She patted the stock of her rifle. “Well, don’t you never forget it. They call me Eagle-Eye Annie, and I reckon you know why.”
“That was real fancy shootin’, ma’am,” declared Stretch.
“I can burn a squirrel’s whisker at fifty paces,” she grimly assured them. “I ain’t got much, but what’s mine I hold—savvy? You aim to stay healthy, you better stay clear of these here mountains. Here’s where us Stogies ’bide— and we ain’t partial to company. I’m thankin’ you for helpin’ this fool boy of mine, but I’m warnin’ you to ride clear of us.”
“Ma’am,” grunted Larry, “we ain’t about to make war on a lady.”
“There’s plenty that would, in Horton County,” she shrugged, “so I don’t trust nothin’ in pants.” She added, as an afterthought: “Nor in skirts.”
She crooked a finger at Burl. Obediently, he hustled across to his swaybacked mare and swung astride. The Texans stood watching, as mother and son retreated into the foothills. In a matter of minutes, they were out of sight, and Lafry was soberly remarking:
“Somethin’ sad about her. I don’t savvy what, but it’s there. I had a notion she wanted to be friendly, but didn’t know how.”
“Do me a favor,” begged Stretch. “Don’t get no notions about nothin’.” He enlarged on that plea, as they nudged their mounts away from the foothills and back towards the regular trail. “Made ourselves a promise, didn’t we? Said as how we’d take it easy in this Horton burg—a big town where a couple drifters like you and me can lose ourselves, and stay outa trouble. All right, runt, let’s keep it that way.”
“That’s how I want it,” Larry assured him. “I never yet hunted trouble. You know that.”
“You and me both,” growled Stretch. “But it makes no never mind. Trouble is what we get, every place we go, and I’m plumb weary of it.”
To many an irate lawman, these drifters had virtuously asserted that they never looked for trouble. Nevertheless, trouble was their destiny, violence their constant shadow. They had never ridden the owlhoot trail, had, in fact, been responsible for the apprehension—and sometimes the bloody end—of many a wanted outlaw. In Arizona, Nevada, Wyoming and New Mexico, there were badge-toters who remembered them as a blessing, but a very mixed blessing. For, next to eating and drinking, fighting was the thing they did best.
“It’ll be different this time,” Larry Valentine assured his lean sidekick. “I’m curious about old Annie—but I ain’t about to buy into a fight on her account. In Horton, we’re gonna rest up and live quiet for maybe two-three weeks. Soft beds. Prime chow. Good liquor.”
“That’s what I crave,” said Stretch.
“That’s what I crave,” declared Larry, “and that’s the way it’s gonna be.”
~*~
At this same time, ten o’clock of a fine morning in early summer, the manager of the First National Bank of Horton was conducting a distinguished visitor on a tour of the premises. From the street entrance, through the front office, in and out of his own office and out to the rear door opening into the back alley, Felix Baldwin courteously conducted the urbane, expensively-garbed Philo Brayner. To wait on such a-highly-respected guest was, he declared, a pleasure and a privilege.
“Horton is honored, Mr. Brayner. We’re a progressive-minded community, as you’re well aware. Naturally, we’re delighted that the Hartigan Combine has chosen our town as the site for a new Hartigan hotel.”
“Well,” smiled Brayner, “our organization has established a better class of hotel in every important city west of the Mississippi—and Horton will be no exception, provided I can acquire a suitable property.”
“Surely,” suggested Baldwin, “our building would be too small for your purpose?”
“It would be, I’m afraid,” agreed Brayner. “But it’s difficult to tell from the outside. That’s why I had to check the interior.”
“In any case,” said Baldwin, “I doubt if my headquarters would consider selling.”
Brayner caressed the ivory knob of his handsome cane, cast a critical eye over the bank’s rear wall. He was a tall man, and impressive. The dark, well-barbered hair was slightly gray at the temples. The features were regular, the eyes probing and genial, matching his ready smile. His linen was immaculate, his cravat colorful, but in perfect taste. Perfection, in fact, was the keynote of Mr. Philo Brayner’s imposing exterior.
Small wonder that Brayner and his associates had made such an impact on the local scene. They were staying at the Republican Hotel and, as Horton folk well knew, only the wealthiest transients could afford accommodation at that exclusive establishment. Their manners were faultless. They exhibited fat bankrolls, as befitted members of the board of the largest hotel chain in the country. Moreover, they had made no secret of their purpose in visiting the big town. Within the year, and provided Brayner could acquire a suitable site, Horton would be boasting of a new Hartigan Hotel, further evidence of the new prosperity, a proud indication of Horton’s transition from humble cattle town to bustling frontier metropolis.
Horton was according these visitors all due courtesy, plus a mite extra. A few hours after their arrival, some five days ago, Mayor Willoughby Flake had organized an official welcome to them. They were feted, wined and dined; the town council promised full cooperation. A new hotel, built to the standards of luxury typical of the Hartigan chain, would attract thousands of tourists. Thousands of tourists, to the merchants and businessmen of Horton, meant thousands of dollars in revenue. Profits for the storekeepers. Profits for the owners of the saloons, honky tonks and other houses of entertainment lining the main street. New money—with every man hustling for his share. Horton was a profit-minded community. Hence the popularity of Philo Brayner and his well-groomed colleagues.
“A fine piece of architecture, Mr. Baldwin,” he drawled.
“Well ...” The bank manager shrugged self-consciously. “Just another Colorado bank—stoutly constructed, but badly designed.”
“My compliments, Mr. Baldwin,” said Brayner, “and my thanks for your courtesy. You’ve been most patient.”
They strolled through to the street doorway. There, the visitor politely stood aside and doffed his beaver hat. A strikingly attractive young woman was making her entrance and winning admiring glances from Baldwin’s staff of cashiers and clerks. Brayner couldn’t remember when he had last seen a woman so beautiful. She was raven-haired and dark-eyed, fashionably attired in a gown that enhanced her fine figure. A furled parasol and a flimsy chapeau completed the ensemble. She addressed the bank manager, and her voice was a warm, husky contralto.
“Good morning, Dad. Am I intruding?”
“Usually,” sighed Baldwin. “Usually, my dear, but not at this moment. Mr. Brayner was just leaving.”
“Ah—Mr. Brayner?” She flashed Brayner a radiant smile. “Our illustrious visitor from the big city.”
“My daughter ...” offered Baldwin, somewhat hesitantly.
“You are fortunate, Mr. Baldwin,” declared Brayner, “to be blessed with such a beautiful daughter. Your servant, Miss Baldwin.”
She extended her hand. He bowed over it, while her father fidgeted uneasily. Then, redonning his hat, he bade them a courteous farewell and strode away towards the Republican.
“Beth,” sighed Baldwin. “For pity’s sake, Beth, don’t ogle him!”
“Horton,” said Beth Baldwin, “is lamentably short of handsome and presentable men.” She winked roguishly. “And I’m an eligible spinster, Dad. A gal has to keep her wits about her, doesn’t she—and her eyes peeled?”
“I wish you wouldn’t use that kind of language,” frowned Baldwin. He shook his head worriedly. “Sometimes, Beth, I wonder what is to become of you. You’re so infernally determined to be unconventional.”
“To be normal ” she warmly contradicted. “To be normal, dear father, rather than to conform to the standards of middle-class frontier morality—the rules laid down by stuffy, psalm-singing hypocrites ...”
“Not so loud, child!” he begged, with an apprehensive glance at his grinning staff. “Confound it, must you repeat this same speech every time ...?”
“Every time you call me unconventional,” she chuckled, as she kissed his cheek. “Resign yourself, Dad. You sired a rebel.”
“I try to understand,” he muttered, “but I’m at a loss. You certainly don’t inherit these instincts from my side of the family. As for your mother—rest her soul—she was the gentlest woman I ever knew.”
“Stop fretting,” she soothed. “I’m not here for a loan. At least, not this time.”
“I should hope not,” he chided, “considering the size of your allowance.”
“Only stopped by to say ‘howdy’.” She smoothed his gray hair, patted his cheek. “On my way downtown to Brennan’s.”
“Brennan’s,” he blinked, “is a hardware store.”
“Of course,” she nodded. “Kit Brennan had to repair my Winchester. I damaged the mechanism last week, while I was hunting that cougar in the mountains.”
“Good grief!” He grimaced in anguish. “You aren’t going hunting again—all by yourself ...?”
“Would you prefer that I hire a guide?” she challenged. “A handsome six-footer, maybe? With muscles ...?”
“Have you no shame?” he gasped.
“Go count your profits,” she chuckled, as she unfurled her parasol and went her jaunty way.
What, her father wondered, is to become of her? She ignores my advice. She’s affectionate, but defiant. Other Horton men have daughters who do them proud—sedate young ladies who sing in the chapel choir, attend respectable functions and look to their embroidery. But I had to sire a rebel—who’d rather go fishing than attend a social. A rebel who can ride and shoot and—heaven help her—swear like a cowhand!
Upon his return to the hotel, Philo Brayner climbed the stairs to his handsomely-furnished suite on the second floor. There, seated about a mahogany-topped table, his four associates impatiently awaited him. He came in smiling, secured the door and took his place at the head of the table. Then, coolly, he announced, “I’m satisfied, boys. We can go ahead with our plans.”
“You checked the whole layout?” one of his cronies demanded.
“At the invitation,” drawled Brayner, “of the manager. Yes—old Felix Baldwin was a most attentive and obliging guide.”
“How about that?” Reed Harmon, a saturnine, sleekly-groomed man in somber black, traded grins with his companions. “He walks in bold as brass—and the manager gives him the guided tour over the whole shebang.”
“I always did say,” chuckled the blond, florid-complexioned Vinny Russell, “Philo is the sassiest thief this side of St. Louis.”
The other “associates”, Luke Innes and Nat Underwood, eyed Brayner expectantly. Innes was a quiet mail with shrewd, hazy gray eyes. In a crowd and garbed in less expensive clothing, he might have passed as a ribbon clerk. Underwood was as tall as Brayner and of similar age, balding and suave, with a thickening girth. He wore the look of a successful financier, and that was an irony, since, along with his fellow-conspirators, he was planning an unofficial withdrawal of all funds from the First National Bank.
Brayner grinned complacently, and told Underwood:
“Nat, the safe is a big one. The brand is Koenig.”
“Painted dark green?” prodded Underwood. “No legs? About seven feet high—kind of a standing oblong?” At Brayner’s nod, he shrugged and assured him, “I know the Koenig job. Solid—but not impregnable.”
“Koenig safes,” frowned Harmon, “have a combination lock.”
“For a professional of Nat’s experience,” drawled Brayner, “that’s an advantage. Combination locks are his specialty.”
“Believe me, Reed,” said Underwood, “I’ll have that door open inside three minutes—four at most.” He exhibited his smooth fingers, nodded significantly. “Nothing to it, Reed.”
“How about the rear door?” asked Innes.
“It will be locked and barred, of course,” said Brayner. “Forcing the lock would be easy. That steel bar is the problem.”
“It fits into brackets either side of the door—and lifts out?” prodded Underwood.
“And the door isn’t unusual,” nodded Brayner. “The panels would be a half-inch thick.”
“I have a special saw, ideal for that purpose,” grinned Underwood. “Designed and built it myself. So much for the rear door. All I have to do is cut an opening. We reach through, lift the bar, then force the lock—and the rest is easy.”
“Which brings us to the next question, Philo,” frowned Innes. “Just when do we take that bank?”