Larry Valentine unsheathed his six-gun, placed it on the tabletop and scowled at the two men seated opposite him.
“Somethin’ tells me,” he drawled, “that you jaspers are cleaned out. You owe me two hundred dollars. You’re wantin’ to see my cards, but you don’t show any money.”
The hour was late—or early—depending on the point of view. In Baysley’s Rialto Saloon, in Egansville, South Wyoming Territory, the Texas drifters had bought into a poker session that had developed into an all-night affair. It was now ten minutes before three. The saloon was deserted, except for the six poker players and a half-asleep bartender.
The saloonkeeper, Nick Baysley, offered no reproach to Larry’s challenge. He was small, saturnine and quietly spoken, a villainous-looking man, but an honest gambler even so. To the two nervous strangers, he suggested:
“Mr. Valentine’s got a point.”
The strangers traded frowns. Their names were Bellew and Greb, and they had joined the game at one o’clock, three hours after it had begun. At that time, the drifters had been playing with Baysley and the genial Clem Jeffries, a local doctor. Baysley and Jeffries were still with it. So were Messrs. Valentine and Emerson. As for Bellew and Greb ...
“I’ll be honest with you gents ...” began Bellew.
“Do that,” nodded Larry.
“You’re right,” Bellew admitted. “Thad and me are cleaned out. You’ve won all our coin.”
“And you got the stone-cold nerve,” frowned Stretch Emerson, “to call Larry?”
“We don’t mean to cheat,” mumbled Greb.
“I’ll bet,” jeered Larry.
Already, he had pegged the latecomers for a couple of no-accounts. They were shabbily garbed in checked town suits, faded floral vests, grubby linen and dusty brown derbies. Bellew was chubby, florid and blond. Greb was lean, sallow and dark-haired.
Bellew made an offer.
“I’m willing to offer collateral,” he told Larry, “for the privilege of looking at your hand.”
“You’re down two hundred already,” Larry reminded him.
“Well now,” said Bellew, “you’re a sporting man, Mr. Valentine, so I reckon you’ll listen to a sporting proposition. Thad and me own a couple good wagons—full of mighty important merchandise. I’ll give you my I.O.U. for the two hundred and put up those wagons just to stay in the game.”
“You must be holdin’ a pat hand,” opined Larry.
“Or,” grunted Stretch, “he could be bluffin’.”
“Only one way to find out,” grinned Bellew.
“Runt,” said Stretch, “I don’t like their looks—wouldn’t trust ’em any further’n I could spit. How do we know they own a couple wagons?”
“Maybe I can settle that point,” muttered Doc Jeffries. He eyed Bellew keenly. “Just where are those wagons?”
“Outside town,” said Bellew, “south of the rise and by the creek.”
“Stalled by a clump of cottonwood?” prodded the medico.
“That’s right,” nodded Bellew. “And eight good team-horses.”
“Larry,” said Jeffries, “the wagons are there all right. I saw them on my way into town. Mr. Bellew isn’t, lying.”
“What’s inside the wagons?” Larry asked Bellew.
“Merchandise,” said Bellew, “for the prospectors at Happy Rock. You’ve heard of Happy Rock, haven’t you? They had a big gold strike up there, about a year back.”
“Up Montana way?” frowned Baysley.
“That’s it,” said Greb. “Happy Rock, Montana Territory.”
“Merchandise for the miners,” mused Larry.
“Everything a prospector could possibly need,” declared Bellew. “You could ask your own price—because this kind of merchandise is mighty scarce up there.”
“Quite a chunk of collateral,” commented Baysley.
“Just the wagons alone,” opined Jeffries, “would be worth a sight more than Bellew owes you, Larry.”
Larry gave it some thought. “You’re right,” he drawled. “I am a sportin’ man. So I’ll say you’re puttin’ up the two hundred you already lost—plus the wagons, teams and merchandise—against what’s in the pot.”
“Fair enough!” beamed Bellew. He grinned at Baysley and Jeffries. “You gents are witnesses that we ...”
“Stow the gab and show what you got,” growled Stretch.
He displayed his own hand—four jacks and a deuce. Baysley dropped his cards, fished out a cigar and muttered: “Too rich for my blood.”
“I’m out,” announced the doctor.
Larry spread his cards face up—four aces and the seven of clubs. Bellew heaved a sigh. Greb shook his head sadly.
“Let’s see ’em,” ordered Larry.
The best Bellew could offer was three queens. Greb had been sitting on a pair of tens.
“A cheap bluff,” sneered Stretch.
Bellew mopped perspiration from his brow.
“Larry,” grinned the doctor, “it looks like you and Stretch own a couple of wagonloads of merchandise.”
“So now what?” Greb asked Bellew.
“Nothing we can do but pull out,” said Bellew. “We still own those saddlers. We’ll ride to Red Springs and ...”
“Not right away, mister,” growled Larry. He placed his hand on his Colt. Bellew and Greb flinched, “You think you’re dealin’ with a couple greenhorns?”
“If we let you ride out now,” drawled Stretch, “you might just head back to your camp, hitch the teams to the wagons, and skedaddle. It ain’t we’re suspectin’ you. It’s just we don’t trust you.”
“I assure you ...” began Bellew.
“Big feller,” grunted Larry, “you ride along with ’em a ways. Make sure they quit the territory—and make sure they leave the wagons behind.”
“That’s just what I’ll do,” Stretch assured him. Bellew and Greb got to their feet. So did Stretch. And, standing, he showed himself to be uncommonly tall. He towered over the unlucky gamblers, a lean, stringy, sandy-haired Texan almost six feet six, with a lantern-jaw and deceptively-mild blue eyes. Like his partner, he wore travel-stained range clothes. Unlike his partner, he toted a double load of hardware, two Colts, one housed at each hip in tied-down holsters slung from a well-stocked cartridge belt.
Bellew and Greb quit the Rialto with the taller Texan in close attendance. Outside the saloon, they filled their saddles and nudged their mounts to a jog trot.
“We’ll show you where to find the wagons,” offered Bellew, “then we’ll be on our way. Will that be satisfactory, friend?”
“Reckon so,” grunted Stretch. “Just so long as you head off in the opposite direction. Me and Larry’d take it plumb unkind, if you doubled back to grab them wagons.”
“We wouldn’t do that,” Bellew humbly assured him. “Your partner licked us fair and square.”
“We aren’t sore losers,” mumbled Greb.
South of town and within sight of the rippling creek, they reined up on the rise. It was now three-thirty in the morning. Thanks to the bright moonlight, the stalled wagons were clearly visible, also the eight hefty teamers picketed along the creek bank. Stretch folded his hands on his saddlehorn, squinted down towards the silent vehicles, while Greb fidgeted uneasily. The tall Texan yawned, shrugged unconcernedly.
“Well?” prodded Bellew.
“Well,” grinned Stretch, “get goin’. Make tracks.”
“We enjoyed the game,” offered Bellew, “even if we did lose. So long, Mr. Emerson.”
Stretch lifted a hand in casual farewell. Bellew and Greb wheeled their mounts and descended from the rise. Soon they were moving westward.
Stretch sat his mount atop the rise, chain-smoking, staring westward until the two riders were no longer visible. Then for a short time, he debated whether he should ride down and make a closer examination of the wagons and their cargo. No hurry, he decided. Larry would be content to check the rigs in daylight. Sometime after sunup, they would come out here and inspect their new possessions. He quit the rise and rode unhurriedly back towards Egansville.
Bellew and Greb didn’t pause to spell their mounts until many a mile separated them from the observer on the rise. In a cottonwood forest, they reined up and traded glances. Greb grimaced and mumbled an accusation.
“You did it deliberate, Gus. Lost the whole outfit to those Texans. Valentine wasn’t that hot a poker-player.”
“I was getting desperate,” grinned Bellew. He heaved a sigh of relief, mopped at his florid face with a grubby kerchief. “I saw a chance for us to get rid of those damn-blasted wagons ...”
“And what’s inside of ’em,” growled Greb.
“And what’s inside of ’em,” chuckled Bellew. “Hell, Thad, it was a golden opportunity! We couldn’t just sell ’em—or talk some fool into taking them off our hands. Better to let somebody win ’em.”
“We stood to make a tidy profit,” sighed Greb.
“Was it worth it?” challenged Bellew.
“At the start,” muttered Greb, “I thought we’d have it easy.”
“Well,” said Bellew, “I’m cured. From now on, I’m riding clear of that kind of merchandise. Too damn dangerous for my liking.”
“It was always easy enough before,” Greb reminded him.
“This was a rough cargo,” growled Bellew. “The way things were shaping up, we’d never have made it to Happy Rock. We’d have been dropped by the trail with our heads stove in.”
“Trouble is,” frowned Greb, “we were outnumbered.”
“Look on the bright side,” urged Bellew. “We’ll keep headed west. In Salt Lake, I can borrow a grubstake. Then it’s California for us.”
“Just so long as we stay clear of Banning.” Greb fidgeted uneasily, cast a nervous glance to the north. “If he ever found out what we’ve done ...”
“He’ll find out sooner or later,” shrugged Bellew. “After all, he furnished the wagons for this little deal.”
“Nobody double-crosses Cole Banning,” fretted Greb, “and lives to brag of it.”
“We won’t be bragging,” Bellew assured him, “and Banning will never find us. California is a long ways from Montana.”
Thus, Gus Bellew and his sidekick rode out of reach of the Lone Star Hellions. They would never return to Egansville, nor would Larry and Stretch ever run into them again.
It was four twenty-five in the morning when Stretch loafed back into the Rialto. The barkeep had served another round and had now abandoned all efforts to keep his eyes open. He lay on the bar top, snoring. Baysley, a confirmed night owl, was having no difficulty concentrating on his cards. The same applied to the seemingly tireless Doc Jeffries, a healer well accustomed to broken sleep. Larry didn’t appear overly tired.
Another player had joined the game. He was a freckled redhead around thirty years old, and a deputy’s badge adorned his shirtfront. Rarely did the drifters mix so congenially with lawmen. There could be only one explanation. The deputy was a Texan. Larry performed introductions.
“Stretch—say howdy to Sam Hale. He’s sittin’ in for a few hands.”
Stretch and the deputy traded “howdies”.
“Heard of you two,” grinned Hale.
“Who hasn't heard of Larry and Stretch?” chuckled Jeffries.
The game continued until sunrise. By then, Baysley and the medico hankered for their beds and the Texans had an appetite. Larry was moderately satisfied.
“We just about broke even,” he told Stretch.
“So?” prodded Stretch. “How big is our bankroll?”
“About the same,” said Larry. “Three hundred—give or take a few dollars.”
The barkeep was roused from slumber and persuaded to rustle up ham and eggs in the saloon kitchen. While they disposed of their breakfast, Stretch asked the deputy: “Don’t badge-toters ever sleep in this town?”
“Doc Jeffries has a name for what ails me,” shrugged Hale. “He calls it insomnia.”
“Sounds real fancy,” grinned Stretch. “Is it catchin’?”
“Tell you somethin’,” drawled Hale. “The sheriff sure ain’t caught it off me. I never knew a man could sleep so deep. But me, I go whole nights and scarce close my eyes.”
He nudged his empty platter aside, taking a pull at his coffee. “Hear tell you boys won yourselves a couple wagons.”
“Full of freight,” nodded Larry.
“Everything a prospector could need, the man said,” offered Stretch.
“The way I hear it,” frowned Hale, “you hombres like to travel light. What can you do with a couple of wagonloads of freight?”
“We could,” reflected Larry, “drive the wagons to Happy Rock and sell the merchandise to the proprietors. That way, we’d make us a profit. Sam—how far away is Happy Rock?”
“Don’t know much about that burg,” said the deputy. “It’s up yonder of the border, into Montana. They had a big strike up there about a year back. Must be still plenty gold for the diggin’, because there’s many a Wyoming man quit his job and went prospectin’.”
“Tell you what we oughta do, runt,” suggested Stretch. “First off, we oughta check the merchandise.”
“Might’s well do that,” nodded Larry, “and might’s well do it right away.” He got to his feet. “See you around, Sam.”
“My pleasure,” nodded Hale.
The drifters ambled out to their horses, untethered them and swung astride, idling the animals south along Egansville’s deserted main stem.
Stretch led the summit of the rise. Gesturing westward, he nonchalantly informed his partner:
“The fat feller and the skinny hombre rode thataway. I watched ’em till I couldn’t see ’em any more. Down there are the wagons. What d’you reckon, runt?”
“They look okay,” shrugged Larry. “Horses look like they’d last the distance. Well, we’ll go on down and take a closer look.”
As they put their horses to the slope, Larry recalled, “Everything a prospector could possibly need.”
“Yup,” grunted Stretch. “That’s what the fat hombre said.”
“I reckon that means pickaxes and spades,” said Larry, “and provisions and maybe a few cans of blastin’ powder.”
“Pots and pans,” guessed Stretch, “coal-oil, lamps and such. And maybe a ...”
His voice trailed off. Larry was hastily reining up. They had reached the south base of the rise and were now only a short distance from the two stalled wagons.
A fire was being kindled by two women. They were young. They were comely, and they seemed to know what they were about. There were splashing sounds and a chorus of shrill giggles from the creek. Two other young women were frolicking in the water and, though he only caught a brief glimpse, Larry got the impression they were bathing in the nude. Another girl was quitting the water. She had spotted the intruders and was raising the alarm, the while she wrapped a large towel about her well-curved figure.
“What in tarnation ...?” began Larry.
“Holy sufferin’ Hannah!” gasped Stretch. “Female-women—millions of ’em!”
“You’re loco,” growled Larry. “I only see five!”
“Look out!” warned Stretch.
From the wagons, more women were emerging. Two hefted shotguns, and looked eager to use them. The Texans sat their mounts, momentarily frozen, too stunned to speak. In the creek, the bathers screamed and began swimming for the opposite bank.
“Turn them horses!” barked a buxom blonde in checked gingham, as she drew a bead with her shotgun. “Hightail it out of here, you no-good snoopers!”
“Now, look,” growled Larry. “You quit hollerin’ at us and put up that doggone cannon—and I’ll be glad to explain to you what we’re doin’ here.”
“I said git!” scowled the blonde.
“You’re trespassin’,” drawled the other shotgun-toter, a slim brunette garbed in men’s overalls.
“No,” countered Stretch. “You’re trespassin’!”
“We own these rigs,” announced Larry. “The wagons, the horses—and whatever’s inside the wagons. We won the whole shebang off a couple of sucker-gamblers name of Bellew and Greb.”
The women traded frowning glances. The shotguns were lowered. On the far bank, the two bathers were quitting the water and scuttling into the concealment of a stand of willows. The wearer of the voluminous towel reappeared to stand beside a front wheel of the near wagon and subject the Texans to an intent scrutiny. Her raven hair was still wet, gleaming. She was a rare beauty with expressive blue eyes and appeared to be the eldest of the eight. Larry guessed her to be around twenty-five.
The raven-haired beauty drew the towel tighter about her well-knit figure and drawled a query. Her voice was easy on the ear, a husky contralto.
“You claim Bellew and Greb gambled us away?”
“Ma’am ...” began Larry.
“Don’t call any of us ‘ma’am’,” she countered. “We’re unmarried—temporarily.”
“All right, Miss,” said Larry. “I’m givin’ it to you straight. Bellew and Greb ran out of money, but stayed in the game. They put up these wagons—the whole outfit—to see my cards.”
She smiled wryly. “So now you think you own us.”
“Don’t get any wrong notions, lady,” growled Larry. “Bellew placed it sneaky. He didn’t tell us he was totin’ women. He said these rigs were loaded with merchandise for Happy Rock—everything a miner needs …”
“Uh—well ...” grunted Stretch. “Maybe Bellew wasn’t lyin’ at that.”
“Hush your doggone mouth,” muttered Larry.
“Yup.” Stretch nodded nervously. “You better handle all the talkin’, runt. I’m plumb embarrassed.”
“We figured to drive these wagons to Happy Rock and sell the merchandise to the miners,” Larry told the brunette.
“What became of Bellew and Greb?” she asked.
“They lit out,” said Stretch. He jerked a thumb. “West.”
“That does it,” she sighed. “That really does it.” She eyed her travelling companions, shrugging philosophically. “No use taking it out on these two. They didn’t know what they were getting into.”
“When that fat little varmint left us,” frowned the big blonde, “he claimed he was gonna buy supplies in Egansville.”
“He was lying,” said the brunette, “as usual.”
“I guess,” mused the girl in overalls, “they were just itchin’ to be rid of us.”
“What do we call you?” the brunette asked Larry.
“I’m Valentine.” He nodded to Stretch. “He’s Emerson.”
Her eyebrows went up.
“Larry and Stretch?” she challenged.
“The same,” he grunted.
“I believe you,” she drawled, “but only because I saw your pictures once. Uh-huh. You’re them all right.”
“They anybody special, Rena?” demanded the big blonde.
“Special?” The brunette gave that query some thought. “Why sure. I guess you could call them special. They aren’t ordinary—that’s for sure.” She gestured with a still-damp, shapely arm. “Put up the hardware, girls. These boys are plenty rough, but I never heard of them molesting women.”
The shotguns were restored to the wagons. The volunteer cooks set about preparing breakfast over the fire.
“Wait for me there,” suggested the brunette, nodding to the near side of the second wagon. “I’ll be dressed in just a few minutes. Keep looking east. Give Donna and Katie a chance to swim back and fetch their clothes.”
The drifters dismounted, tethered their horses and trudged across to squat in the shade of the rear wagon. As they busied their fingers with the building of smokes, they listened to the excited chatter of the women, the splashing sounds as the bathers hustled from the water and into the other wagon.
The brunette joined them a few moments later. Garbed in a crisp white blouse and floral skirt, with the black hair piled atop her shapely head, she was quite a sight to see.
They studied her with more than casual interest, as she sank gracefully to the soft grass.
“The name,” she offered, “is Rena Marlowe.”
“All right, Miss Rena,” said Larry. “You mind tellin’ us how come eight unwed ladies are makin’ the miles with a coupla clowns like Bellew and Greb?”
“We came all the way from Iowa with Bellew and Greb,” she told him.
“All eight of you?” he blinked.
“That’s how it’s been,” she nodded. “I guess you could call us mail-order brides. Well—almost.”
“Make that plainer,” begged Larry.
“Bellew and Greb are marriage-brokers,” said Rena. “You know what that means? Well, they told us Happy Rock is full of respectable gents that hanker to marry respectable young ladies. They kind of introduced us by mail. We exchanged photographs with the men we’re supposed to marry. Bellew handled that side of the deal. We used our savings to pay transportation costs. The way it works, Bellew and Greb undertook to chaperone us all the way to Happy Rock, deliver us to our future husbands.”
“If they stood to make a profit,” frowned Larry, “why would they risk losin’ the whole shebang across a poker table?”
“They weren’t having a real pleasant trip, boys.” Rena smiled mirthlessly. “All the way from Baker’s Grove, Iowa, we gave them a rough time. They tried to take liberties with some of the girls. Well, Charity and Mary Ann discouraged them—in the worst way—if you get what I mean. I guess that’s why they hankered to get rid of us. When you accepted Bellew’s offer, you made it easy for them.”
She chuckled, as she added, “And now you’re stuck with us.”