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In the Arizona Territory,Bosworth County was in a state of tension, its citizens living infear. Six soldiers and two civilians had been wantonly murdered. Anentire shipment of repeating rifles, capable of swift and accuratefire, had been hijacked.
Army Intelligence wasbaffled. The county law officers were becoming desperate. And then,as quietly as a raging Texas tornado, Larry and Stretch arrived.The West's rowdiest troubleshooters were buying into a grimintrigue ready to risk their lives in a fight to the finish againstthe forces of lawlessness.
LARRY AND STRETCH 13: FOLLOW THE TEXANS
By Marshall Grover
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales,Australia
First Smashwords Edition: April 2018
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional,and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, orpersons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced ortransmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,including photocopying, recording or by any information or storageand retrieval system, without the written permission of the author,except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing PtyLtd.
One
The UnavailableMajor Telliger
“They’re coming now,” said WebbCollier. “Choose your targets, boys, and make every shot count. Remember, we’re leaving nowitnesses.”
He lay prone with the stock of a rifletucked snugly against his right shoulder and the barrel pointed atthe oncoming wagons and escort. The stake-out was perfect, thisvantage point ideal for Collier’s evil purpose; the flat summit ofa twenty-foot mound of lava-rock, within close range of a lonelysection of the trail to Bosworth.
Three hard-faced men were sprawled toCollier’s left, three more to his right, and all lining rifles onthe approaching vehicles. Collier’s chief henchman in thisnefarious enterprise, a burly, pig-eyed rogue named Rube Sunday,spat on the sun-baked surface of the rock and remarked,
“So that’s Stone’s idea of a good enoughescort, huh? Just a half-dozen troopers. Hell! They won’t know whathit ’em.”
“Aim for the wagon-drivers and thesoldiers,” muttered Collier. “Try to shoot clear of the cargo.We—uh—wouldn’t want to damage any of that beautiful merchandise,would we?”
Sunday chuckled softly, and on came thewagons, two of them, big, strong, heavy-laden vehicles, drawn byeight-horse teams—a sure indication of the weight of the cargo. Thedrivers were elderly and veterans of the freighting trade, so thosebroad-backed teamers were behaving exactly as they should. Closebehind the second wagon rode the smooth faced officer in charge ofthe escort-party, a slim, boyish lieutenant. Behind him, fourtroopers rode two abreast. The fifth trooper was riding level withthe seat of the first rig.
With cold-blooded patience, Collier waiteduntil the wagons and escort were close, so close that it would bewell-nigh impossible for his cohorts to miss their targets. Thenquietly, he gave the command.
“Let ’em have it.”
Seven rifles barked and crackled in angrychallenge. In that first burst, both wagon-drivers were killedinstantly, also the trooper riding level with the first rig, alsoone of the troopers in back. Desperately, the young lieutenantreached to his holster, and the other troopers made haste to readytheir carbines—but too late. They were being raked by a secondfusillade. Two bullets struck the lieutenant and drove him out ofhis saddle. The other horses were suddenly riderless. In the dust,six soldiers of the 9th Cavalry lay sprawled in the ugly posturesof violent death. One of the drivers lay sideways on his seat. Theother had pitched to the ground.
Collier’s voice was as steady as ever, as hedrawled his next command.
“Climb down. Make sure of them.”
Sunday and three of his sidekicksdescended from the mound and hustled to where their victims lay.The rifles barked again. In response to Collier’s orders, theremaining ambushers climbed down and hurried into the timber to theright of the trail. They reappeared a few moments later, leading aformidable procession of mules, hefty pack-animals bred to totesizable loads. Collier descended unhurriedly and lit acigar.
In his advanced thirties, he wasdarkly-handsome, a dandy rigged in the traditional garb of theprofessional gambler—beaver hat, black frock coat, grey stripedpants, fancy vest and cravat, snow-white linen. His accompliceswere garbed as miners. Already, they were hard at work,transferring the precious cargo from the freight-wagons to thewaiting mules.
Sunday came to Collier to report, “Nosurvivors.”
“I should hope not,” grinnedCollier.
“I’ll say this for you, Webb,” drawledSunday. “When you plan a deal, you sure plan it right.”
“No loop-holes, Rube,” said Collier. “Thearmy will never know to whom the quartermaster-sergeant releasedthe information. By now, our friend the sergeant is well and trulydead, and dead men fell no tales.”
“The army,” Sunday cheerfully predicted,“is gonna be plumb puzzled—and sore as a new boil.”
Gesturing nonchalantly to the sprawledbodies, Collier asked,
“You’ve made sure?”
“Certain sure,” growled Sunday.“Buzzard-bait—all eight of ’em.” His cronies were making short workof a heavy chore. Despite the considerable weight of the longboxes, they were being toted from the wagons and lashed to themules at brisk speed. “Ammunition, too,” Sunday observed. “Easypickin’s, huh, Webb? Everything we need to talk a deal with acertain party—and all in one big passel.”
“He’ll be satisfied,” Collier coolly assuredhim. “More than satisfied. I’m not expecting any arguments.” Hejerked a thumb. “Get back up top, Rube. It isn’t likely there’d beanybody close enough to hear those shots, but ...”
“Not this far from town,” assertedSunday.
“But,” insisted Collier, “let’s not take anychances. You keep your eyes peeled, while we finish unloading. I’llcall you when we’re ready to move.”
Thanks to the energetic endeavors of thehijackers, the mules were laden and ready to move within a veryshort time. Sunday descended from atop the mound and announced,“Nary a soul in sight.”
“Fine,” nodded Collier. “We’ll move backto the horses and head for the creek. You pass the word to Arnieand the half-breed.”
“Don’t you fret about a thing, amigo,”grinned Sunday. “When it comes to killin’ a back-trail, there ain’tan Injun as smart as Ernie Ellis or Jimmy Red Cloud.”
From the scene of their bloody triumph,the hijackers led the mules northward through the timber to
