Larry’s puzzled gaze travelled from the man slumbering in the woodheap to Rena’s flushed face.
“Didn’t you get kidnapped?”
“Kidnapped ...?” gasped Rena.
“Donna was screamin’ blue murder,” declared Larry, “claimin’ she saw a man draggin’ you up the hill, stashin’ you in a surrey ...”
“That was him!” Rena pointed to the woodheap. “The doctor! I wasn’t brought here by force, Larry. I came willingly—to help Leo!”
“Who’s Leo?” frowned Larry.
“The doctor,” she groaned.
“Rouse up that sawbones!” begged Lockhart: “Myra needs him!”
“Who’s Myra?” wondered Stretch.
“His wife!” Rena pointed to Lockhart. “She’s about to have a baby. That’s why she needs Leo!”
The Texans traded shocked glances. Larry whirled, dashed back to the woodheap and, at that moment, Jessup revived and began struggling to his feet.
“Hey, you ...!” called Larry.
Jessup recoiled, spat blood and yelled, “Stand back! Don’t—come any farther. I’ll defend myself ...!”
Fearful that Larry would strike him again, he whirled and began clambering over the stack of cut wood. He was atop the heap, still befuddled and struggling to keep his balance, when Larry called to him again.
“Come down here, you doggone fool!”
Dr. Jessup came down, but in the opposite direction. A cut log rolled from under his feet. With his arms flailing, he disappeared from sight, and the ominous thud drew a cry of exasperation from Rena. In urgent haste, Larry scrambled to the top of the heap and down the other side. The medico was sprawled on face and hands. His head was resting on Shep Lockhart’s chopping-block, into which the blade of the farmer’s axe adhered. Except for his attire, he might have been a condemned man of some other century at the moment of execution. Blood trickled from his face onto the surface of the block. A livid bump showed on his brow, when Larry rolled him over. He was unconscious, and then some.
Larry rejoined his companions, and tried to avoid Rena’s accusing gaze.
“He hit his head,” he muttered.
“You killed him!” she gasped.
“Hell, no,” he growled. “The doc’ll be okay—only I don’t reckon he’ll rouse for quite a spell.”
“Myra needs him now!” fretted Lockhart. “I dunno how to help her and, if she don’t have a doctor, I dunno what’ll happen!”
“Rena …” began Larry.
“Don’t look at me!” she fumed. “I never came any closer to childbirth than standing by a midwife—and I was so scared I couldn’t see what was happening.”
“For gosh sakes ...!” panted Lockhart.
He started convulsively. From inside the house, his wife was calling to them—loudly, desperately. Larry swallowed a lump in his throat, dropped his hands to his middle and began unstrapping his gunbelt.
Fifteen minutes later, Clarence Shepley Lockhart was wrapped in a towel and placed in his father’s arms, kicking, struggling, wailing lustily, and weighing all of eight and a half pounds. Stretch Emerson was lost in wonderment, and more than a little perplexed. Rena was staring at Larry Valentine with eyes ashine, as though he had suddenly become the handsomest, most noble hero in creation. Shep Lockhart was mumbling his humble thanks and the new mother was sleeping peacefully—and Larry felt uncommonly weary, like a man who has just finished a twenty-mile walk, toting a heavy load.
Innumerable years ago, during his checkered youth, Larry Valentine had come upon an aged Texas physician on a lonely trail, standing beside a butchered horse. The horse had stumbled and broken a leg, and the old doc had no option but to put it out of its misery. The salty youth had permitted the doc to ride double with him, all the way to an isolated cabin. Laid up with fever, the patient’s husband was incapable of helping her. She was just about ready to increase the population of the Lone Star State, and, thanks to Larry, the doctor had arrived in the nick of time.
“You’re young,” the old man had observed, “but maybe you'd better watch this. Might come a time when you got a woman of your own—and no doctor around to help her bear your child.”
Obediently, the youth had watched. More than that, he had lent a hand—confused and embarrassed, but willingly following the doctor’s instructions. And he had never forgotten. Every detail of the procedure, including the routine precaution of sterilizing his hands, had come back to mind with infinite clarity.
He trudged from the bedroom into the kitchen, flopped into a chair. Lockhart handed the babe into Rena’s temporary care and followed him. Stretch aimlessly paced the kitchen.
“I could use a drink,” muttered Larry. And that was an understatement.
“I’m sure sorry,” frowned the homesteader. “Plain truth is I fretted over Myra so bad I drunk up every lick in the jug. You want I should fix you some coffee?”
“Forget it!” sighed Larry.
A shadow fell across the open outer doorway. Jessup stood there. He was unsteady on his feet, but perpendicular nevertheless. He had re-donned his hat and had gone to the surrey for his bag. His head and jaw still ached—simultaneously. To Lockhart he announced, with as much dignity as he could muster:
“I’m Dr. Jessup. If you’ll take me to the patient ...”
“You’re too late, Doc,” grunted the homesteader. “It’s all over.”
“You mean ...?” began Jessup. His voice caught in his throat, as he spotted Larry. He pointed a trembling forefinger. “You! You’re the interfering roughneck who attacked me!”
“Yep,” nodded Larry. “Me.”
“I’ll hold you directly responsible ...!” raged Jessup.
“He’s responsible all right,” chuckled Lockhart. “Yes, siree, Doc. He tended Myra real good. She’s doin’ fine now, and I got me a son—best-lookin’ boy you ever seen.”
“Who—how ...?” demanded Jessup.
“Him.” Stretch nodded to his partner, with some pride. “Ol’ Larry hisself.”
“But this is unethical ...!” protested Jessup.
Again, his voice trailed off. He stood transfixed, staring in rapt admiration. Rena had appeared in the connecting doorway, holding the now-sleeping babe in the crook of her arm, looking down into the tiny face. Her eyes were gentle. A soft smile played about her mouth. Although her raven hair was disheveled, she was, at this moment, the most beautiful woman Larry had ever seen—and that went double for Leo Jessup.
“Where’s the crib?” she quietly asked Lockhart.
“I built one special,” grinned Lockhart. “Been keepin’ it in my harness-shack.”
“Go fetch it,” she ordered. “Bring it to the bedroom.” The homesteader hustled to obey. Larry, Stretch, Jessup and Lockhart crowded the bedroom door and watched, as Rena arranged swaddling clothes in the crib, laid the babe down and placed the crib beside the bed where the mother slept. Clarence Shepley didn’t as much as bat an eye. Larry grinned wearily. Lockhart inflated his chest with pride. Stretch, a sentimental soul under these conditions, heaved a sigh. And Jessup went right on staring at Rena. She raised a finger to her lips, cautioning them to silence. They retreated into the kitchen and she followed, quietly closing the door behind her.
“Sure wanta thank all you folks ...” began Lockhart.
“One way or another,” said Rena, “it was the least we could do. Stay with your family, Mr. Lockhart.” She stared hard at the Texans, nodded to the outer door. “Outside, boys. We owe Leo an explanation,”
She quit the house, followed by Jessup and the drifters. Jessup took hold of her arm and declared, earnestly, “You were magnificent. I didn’t realize—I mean—when I first saw you ...”
“Never mind about when you first saw me,” she bridled.
“The way you looked,” he breathed, “holding that baby in your arms ...”
“Tell him,” Rena ordered Larry.
“We thought you’d kidnapped her,” explained Larry. “We came to rescue her—only we didn’t know she didn’t need rescuin’.”
“And that’s the truth,” nodded Stretch.
“So now you know the score,” said Rena. “So long, Doc. It was nice knowing you. Come on, Larry. Give me a boost and we’ll get back to camp.”
“Any time you’re ready,” shrugged Larry.
“You can’t go now,” protested Jessup. “We have to talk. I have many things to tell you—and a great many questions to ask. You aren’t married, are you?”
“You’re getting a mite over-excited, Leo,” she frowned.
“Let’s go,” grunted Larry.
The Texans returned to the camp by the Big Horn with Rena riding double with Larry, and Jessup’s surrey never less than a few yards behind them. All the way, he kept on talking, but only to Rena. When they came to a halt beside the rope corral that housed the remuda, they were surrounded by Buck, Waco and the girls, some of whom had never expected to see Rena alive again. Explanations were demanded and given. Jessup waited impatiently. Then, when Rena made to rejoin her fair colleagues, he descended from the rig and grasped her arm.
“You have to listen to me,” he begged. “Gully’s Gulch is only a few miles to the southwest—a small town, but a town with possibilities. That’s where I’ve established my practice, and ...”
“Good for you,” approved Rena. “So go practice.”
“It’s obvious we have a great deal in common,” said Jessup. “Besides, you’re beautiful.”
“Hell’s bells and sufferin’ snakes!” frowned Waco.
“You’re purty, too, Leo,” chuckled Rena. “And now you’d better be on your way.”
“I refuse to budge from this spot,” declared Jessup, “until you give me an answer. I want to marry you, damn it.”
“Great day in the morning!” breathed Farnum.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” begged Jessup. “I realize I couldn’t expect you to marry me on such short notice. You’ll have ample time to consider my proposal. In Gully’s Gulch, I know a family that would take you in for awhile—welcome you with open arms. Seven children. Too many chores for Mrs. Todd to handle all by herself. And, while you’re staying with the Todds, I’ll visit you regularly. We’ll get to know each other, and ...”
“Leo,” frowned Rena, “you don’t know anything about me.”
“She’s had it rough, Doc,” Charity interjected. “We’ve all had it rough, one way and another, and we ain’t apologizin’ for what we are.”
“I don’t care a hoot in hell what kind of life you’ve led up till now,” Jessup warmly assured Rena. “I’m a realist, Rena. All that matters is the present and the future. Please—listen to me.”
Throughout the remainder of that day, the determined young medico stayed with the trail-drive. To be specific, he stayed with Rena, never budging from her side, pleading, cajoling, bullying.
In the hour before sundown, she was beyond offering further resistance. The doctor had won, and Rena’s smiling friends were transferring her few personal effects from the wagon to the surrey. Jessup climbed up to the seat and waited, while she shared a last moment with her travelling companions. Quietly, she told them:
“He’s a mite impulsive, but I think he’s a good man, and he means well. A girl could do worse for herself.”
“You don’t fool us, honey,” chuckled Charity. “Any fool can see you’ve taken a shine to him.”
“Don’t worry about me anymore,” she begged the Texans.
Her friends stood by the campfire and watched until the moving surrey had disappeared across the western horizon—and a hunch came to life and stirred within the agile brain of Larry Valentine. For his partner’s benefit, he put it into words.
“She’s the first,” he drawled, “but she won’t be the last.”
“Meanin’ what?” demanded Stretch.
“By the time we hit the railhead,” said Larry, “maybe there’ll be none of ’em left—no more females for us to bodyguard. A lot of territory between here and Fane City. We might just run into a few more hombres—square-shooters like the doc, hankerin’ for a wife.”
“You mean we could unload ’em?” grinned Stretch.
“One by one,” predicted Larry, “we’ll unload ’em.”
“One by one” proved to be a slight understatement when, two days later, the trail-herd came in sight of a small settlement, Atwater, one of the river-towns strung along the course of the great waterway. A sizeable basin south of Atwater offered ideal conditions for bedding the herd for an overnight stay. An important Atwater identity rode out to greet them and cheerfully approved Farnum’s decision.
“This basin,” he declared, “ought to be just right for you. Plenty of grass, and no trouble keeping the cattle under control. With two of your men patrolling the rim, you have nothing to worry about.”
“I already decided that,” frowned Farnum, as he looked the local over, “but thanks for telling me.”
The Atwater man beamed genially at the other herders, and at the seven comely young women climbing from the wagons. He sat a docile-looking bay mare. His clothes were sober black, and his name was Littleton.
“Caleb Littleton,” he announced, “a duly-ordained minister of the gospel. And you, sir?”
Farnum introduced himself, his men and the would-be brides. The preacher listened politely, then frowned at the girls.
“Happy Rock, you say? The gold diggings? Surely not. A mining town is no place for such fine young ladies.”
“My gosh,” Charity softly remarked. “He means us.” The situation of seven young spinsters travelling with a half-dozen trail-herders called for a more detailed explanation—especially to a clergyman. While Stretch, Curly, Waco and Turkey herded the beeves into the big hollow, Farnum and Larry gave Littleton a brief version of the whole sorry story, and the preacher’s interest was far from casual.
“All spinsters, you say?” he mused. “Young, too. Mighty attractive into the bargain.”
“When they first tagged onto us,” Farnum confided, “I was one worried hombre, believe you me. I couldn’t see how a bunch of females could run with a trail-herd and not be a doggone nuisance, you know?”
“Naturally, that’s what you’d think,” agreed Littleton.
“After the first couple days,” shrugged Farnum, “I knew I could quit worrying.”
“Can’t say they were a burden,” drawled Larry.
“No burden at all,” nodded Farnum. “One thing I’ll say for those girls. They aren’t afraid of hard work.”
“They’re experienced?” prodded the preacher.
“That’s putting it mild, Reverend,” smiled Farnum. “They can cook and sew, tend a sick horse, fix a wagon
“They’re from Iowa,” explained Larry. “Farm girls, mostly. No kin—and itchin’ to find husbands.”
“Perfect!” Littleton’s eyes lit up. “Perfect!”
“How’s that?” frowned Larry.
The preacher doffed his hat to the girls, slid one arm through Larry’s and the other through Farnum’s and hustled them out of earshot. Then, quietly, he explained:
“Atwater is struggling for survival, gentlemen. Our fine little community will undoubtedly die, if our young men continue to leave us. A gold strike, I’m sorry to say, is a mixed blessing. Far too many Atwater men have abandoned their homes and ventured north to Happy Rock.”
“It’s what you got to expect,” suggested Farnum. “Perhaps,” frowned Littleton. “But I resent it, Mr. Farnum. Atwater has plenty to offer the law-abiding settler. Some have stayed behind, but only because they were family-men. The bachelors keep leaving us, day by day.” He smiled and winked. Coming from a minister, the wink seemed out of character. “Would they be so eager to leave Atwater, I wonder, if there were young women to deter them? Brides-to-be? A happy marriage is worth more than gold, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, sure,” nodded Larry, “but ...”
“Your problem,” said the preacher, “is seven unattached young ladies who, despite their willingness to assist, have no place with a trail-herd. My problem is the bachelor-element of Atwater, the young men—potential husbands and fathers—who are suffering from a bad case of gold-fever. I offer a simple solution, gentlemen, which may bear fruit. Bring them face to face, under desirable conditions. Today is Saturday. Tonight, Atwater holds its regular monthly function, a church social. There’ll be dancing—music—a friendly welcome for all strangers.”
Farnum frowned, and Larry remarked, “The Reverend couldn’t make it any plainer. We’re invited to the shindig—if we bring the girls along—so the local bucks can look ’em over.”
“Well,” shrugged Farnum, “we’re making night-camp here, and I don’t see anything against the girls attending your church social. Larry—you and your sidekick won’t be night-hawking tonight. You’ll escort the girls to Atwater.” A happy clergyman hightailed it back to the settlement, while Larry relayed the invitation to the seven spinsters.
“Regular church social,” he told them. “Music and dancin’ and plenty to eat. It ought to be quite a night.”
“And we’re invited?” demanded Fern, with her eyes aglow.
“By the preacher himself,” drawled Larry. “What’s more, Stretch and me are comin’ along to chaperone you.”
“It seems a month of Sundays,” reflected Abigail, “since I got prettied up in my best gown and waltzed with a good-lookin’ man.”
“Let’s face it,” growled Charity. “High time we had us some fun. I say we go. Any arguments?”
“Who’s arguing?” giggled Tess. “We’re all going!”
For the first time in several days, Turkey Legg found himself back at his regular chore of cooking. None of the girls would tend the pots this sundown. They had scuttled to the river to bathe, to rig themselves in their best gowns in preparation for the night’s festivities.
And so, while the homicidal Lash Neemoy and his nine cohorts continued their southward journey, the Lone Star Hellions drove a wagon into Atwater and, outside the city hall, delivered their eye-catching cargo. After the seventh girl was deposited upon the sidewalk, Atwater’s eligible masculinity converged on the scene from all compass-points, with the alacrity of troopers summoned by a bugle call. They were dusting imaginary specks from their jackets, rubbing their boots against the backs of their trouser-legs and stroking their moustaches. And they were breathing heavily.
Church socials weren’t exactly a Texas nomad’s idea of fun. This particular social, however, proved to be somewhat more convivial than Larry and Stretch had anticipated. Very early in the night, they abandoned the chore of bodyguarding the girls and won the status of guests of honor. The applejack supplied by a local saloonkeeper was, perhaps, above average in potency and the Texans got in for their share.
The square-dances were called by Stretch, using language never before heard at an Atwater church social.
“Swing your partner—grab her by the hair!
Beat her on the haid with the leg of a chair!
She don't worry and you don't care!
’Cause we're all friends together here ...!”
Towards midnight, the dancers pressed closer to the orchestra to listen to the rowdy duets performed by the Texans. Their repertoire seemed endless, and still the locals clamored for encores. Shoulder to shoulder and strumming borrowed guitars, they rendered such plaintive Lone Star ditties as “Alamo Joe”, “Is There Anybody Here From Texas?”, “Lone Star Lulu” and “The Saddle-sore Preacher On The Sway-back Mule.”
The locals applauded, the applejack flowed and three pretty spinsters—once determined to take their chances in a brawling mining camp—listened attentively to earnest bachelors who talked of wedding rings, fine farm sites and a prosperous future.
When, in the dawn hours, the wagon returned to the basin, Buck Farnum squatted by the fire and counted the chattering girls. The drifters joined him, hunkered down beside him and flashed triumphant grins.
“You took all seven of ’em to the social,” drawled Farnum. “I counted ’em just now, and all I see is four.”
“Tess and Abigail and Fern,” said Larry, “are stayin’ in Atwater. They got better than a dozen bachelors to choose from, and, while they’re gettin’ courted, they’ll be livin’ respectable at the preacher’s house. Come sunup, we’ll deliver their baggage to the Littleton place. I reckon that’s fair enough.”
“You won’t hear me complaining,” Farnum assured him. “But what about Charity, Mary Ann, Donna and Katie?”
“They’re stayin’ with us,” grinned Larry, “but who knows for how long?”
“If I was ten years younger,” mused Farnum, “I’d give those Atwater bachelors a little competition—damned if I wouldn’t.”