“A good enough town,” the old man confided,“’cept for the fear that’s eatin’ at it. You’ll see signs of itever’ place you go. Folks is gettin’ plumb edgy.”
“There’s a reason,” shrugged Larry, “andthe reason has a name. Gayatero.”
“Damn right,” nodded Little Lew. “Even withthem blue-britches camped right close to town, we don’t relish totangle with the Apaches. It could happen any time, folks say. MebbeGayatero ain’t boss any more. Mebbe the young bucks’ll paint theirhides and beat the drums and come a’raidin’, treaty or no treaty.The cavalry’d likely whup ’em in an open fight, but you can betthere’s many a Bosworth citizen’d end up with an Apache arrow inhis belly.”
“Nobody,” opined Larry, “enjoys an Injunwar.”
“I keep hearin’ rumors,” muttered LittleLew. “Like f’r instance, what happened to Sam Lowell and Mace Taft,and all them new repeaters gettin’ hijacked. Helluva thing.Whatever become of them rifles anyway? Was it Gayatero’s buckshijacked ’em? By thunder, if them red skinned varmints gets a holdof that kinda gun ...!”
“Yeah,” grunted Larry. “The cavalry couldstill whip ’em—but it’d take longer, and it’d be one helluvahassle.”
Then, just as Stretch came, sauntering tothe entrance to join them, the old man squinted uptown and mumbleda curse.
“There’s a sight that hurts these old eyes,”he growled. “If I was just ten years younger, I wouldn’t stand byand see an honest woman treated thataway.”
The Texans followed his pointing finger.Uptown, the big freight-wagon was still stalled outside the generalstore. The routine of unloading merchandise consigned to thestorekeeper had been rudely interrupted. Four brawny men werebedeviling a loudly-protesting Martha. They must have accosted hersuddenly, because she wasn’t gripping her shotgun. The storekeeperhad stood to one side. He was elderly and thoroughly intimidated.Young Joey was attempting to grapple with Martha’s assailants, butwas no match for them. The heaviest of the roughnecks had gotten agrasp on the girl’s arm and was now trying to lift her from thewagon-seat. His three sidekicks were laughing harshly and yellingencouragement.
Little Lew spat in disgust.
“Rube Sunday,” he sneered, “and three ofhis hell-raisin’ pards. Prospectors, they call ’emselves.Trash!”
“It’s time,” Larry quietly informed Stretch,“you and me had some exercise.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” grinned Stretch.“Well—what’re we waitin’ for?”
“There’s four of ’em,” warned LittleLew.
“Sure,” nodded Larry. “Only four of’em—against the two of us.”
“Which means,” said Stretch, “we got ’emoutnumbered. Hey, runt, maybe I better take ’em all by myself; justto keep it even.”
But that quip was lost on Larry, who hadalready quit the barn entrance and was advancing toward the generalstore. With a what-the-hell grin, Stretch tagged after him. LittleLew, sensing that coming events would be worth viewing, hobbledfrom the barn entrance and mounted an empty packing crate on theporch of a hardware store.
Martha broke free of Sunday by planting aboot in his face and lunging. He lurched back, clutching, while shescrambled higher on the wagon seat and reached for her shotgun.
“Leave the cannon where it is, Martha,”called Larry. “You ain’t gonna need it.”
“Here comes Larry!” whooped Joey Taft.“He’ll show ’em!”
Sunday and his sidekicks turned to face theoncoming Texans.
“Larry who?” demanded Sunday. “What’s sospecial about him?”
“He don’t look so salty,” opined theslovenly Arnie Ellis. “Not him—nor his skinny sidekick.”
“Coupla saddlebums,” decided Sunday.
The Texans kept coming, not pausing untilthey were within leaping distance of the hardcases. Larry jerked athumb and said, curtly,
“Skeedaddle.”
“It ain’t polite,” Stretch chided, “to fazea lady.”
Sunday’s eyes gleamed.
“And it ain’t smart,” he countered, “tobrace me and my friends. We could mash you two heroes topulp—without workin’ up a sweat!”
“Let’s do it anyway,” suggested Ellis, as hehurled himself at Larry.
The storekeeper started convulsively andcringed into his doorway. Young Joey swung up beside Martha, thebetter to view the proceedings. Martha had retrieved her shotgun,but it was all too obvious that she wouldn’t be needing it. In aruckus of this kind, nobody needed to cover for the Lone StarHellions.
Being the first to make a hostile move,Ellis was also the first casualty—a matter of simple logic. Hiswild blow never landed. Larry’s did. Ellis plunged to the hitchrail, backward and over in a neat somersault. The other threerowdies charged to the attack and events followed their naturalcourse.
Seconds later, when Webb Collier cameriding along Main Street, the battle was in full swing. Sunday’sface was bloody, but still recognizable. Collier recognized him andcursed luridly. In haste, he dismounted and ran to the brawlingmen.
“Break it up!” he protested.
And, to add weight to his protest, heemptied his shoulder holster. Simultaneously, Larry whirled, notedthe cut-down Colt in Collier’s fist and reacted instinctively. Theedge of his hand struck Collier’s right wrist and the Coltclattered to the boardwalk. Collier yelled in pain, and was wideopen for Larry’s jabbing right. The punch exploded in his face withthe force of a mule’s kick and sent him reeling into thestreet.
Stretch, meanwhile, was gainfullyemployed. To the delight of the onlookers, he was ramming the headof one of his attackers between the spokes of a wagon wheel.Another of Sunday’s cronies was sprawled unconscious in the storeentrance. Ellis had regained his feet, but only temporarily. A harduppercut from Larry threw him off the boardwalk to collide heavilywith Collier, who was about to struggle upright. Sunday bounded atLarry and tried to bring him down with a kick to the groin. Larrydodged it nimbly, threw two jabbing lefts and a roundhouse right.As Sunday sagged he seized him by his shirt-collar and hauled himto a trough.
It was past time for the intervention ofthe law, represented at this moment by the lean, shaggy-hairedDeputy Clarence Creel. Brandishing a six-shooter, the scrawnylawman arrived to witness the aftermath of the conflict—one minerslumbering in the store entrance, another struggling to extricatehis head from the wagon-wheel, another prone in the street besidethe
