“Damn-it-all, man!” barked Lansing. “I’m nothere to join a confounded party!”
“Please don’t shout,” groaned the clerk.“I’ve had not a wink of sleep since those Texans arrived.”
“Perhaps the army has come to eject them?”Wyvern eyed Lansing hopefully.
“Nothing of the sort,” snapped Lansing. “AllI want is a few moments of their time. It’s a personal matter—andconfidential.” He stared hard at Wyvern and asked a fair question.“If Valentine and Emerson have been causing such a disturbance,such damage to the hotel, why haven’t you summoned your local lawauthorities?”
“Oh, hell ...!” gasped Sneddon.
“Control yourself,” chided the manager.
From atop the stairs, Lansing heard a malevoice raised in raucous song. Then, with keen distaste, he followedthe progress of the elderly, heavyset local as he descended to thelobby. The bulky man was brandishing a half-empty bottle. He wore athree-day beard and a vacant expression, and his eyes werebloodshot. Half-way down, he lost his foot, fell and rolled therest of the way. Groggily, he regained the perpendicular andsteered a course for the entrance, grunting a greeting to Lansingen route.
“Hi ya, Corporal.”
It took him quite some time to negotiate therevolving door, he departed four times and returned just as often.At his fifth attempt, he made it to the street.
“That,” Wyvern sadly informed Lansing, “isJacob Burns.”
“Our sheriff,” sighed Sneddon.
“You can't be serious,” protestedLansing.
“Sheriff Burns was serious.” Wyvernrecalled, “when we first sent for him to restore order. That was onthe first night of the party.”
“Three nights ago,” mumbled Sneddon. “It’sbeen terrible—terrible ...”
“Our sheriff,” declared Wyvern, “was never aman to condone rowdiness—or so we thought. He went up there withthe intention of ejecting those Texans—and all the otherriff-raff.”
“And then?” prodded Lansing.
“And then,” frowned Wyvern, “he made themistake of admitting that he too is a Texan. They invited him tostay—and this is the first we’ve seen of him since. Colonel, areyou laughing? I see no humor in this ghastly state ofaffairs.”
Lansing regained his composure.
“Couldn’t you order them to leave,” hesuggested, “for non-payment of rent perhaps?”
“How can we do that?” countered Wyvern,“They paid for a week in advance. They have ample funds.”
“Valentine was flashing a wad of hundreddollar bills,” said Sneddon, “thick enough to choke a horse. Andthey’ve been spending it like water. Their bill for liquor, foodand musicians ran to almost a thousand dollars in the first threedays.”
“You said musicians?” blinked Lansing.
“They hired the entire hotel orchestra,”muttered Wyvern. “It didn’t play loud enough, they said, so theyalso hired the Fort Gale brass band.”
“Well,” said Lansing, “if you’ll kindly tellme the number of their room ...”
“Suite Twenty,” shrugged Wyvern. “Thebridal suite, on the top floor.”
Resolutely, Lansing turned away from thedesk and marched to the stairs.
Arriving at the door numbered “20”, thecolonel rapped loudly. A voice called to him from somewhere beyond,in an unmistakable Texas drawl.
“It’s unlocked. If you’re sober, stay out.If you’re drunk, c’mon in and have yourself a hair of thedog.”
He turned the knob, shoved the door openand moved into the room. He had to shove at the door because of thehuman impediment huddled behind it. Thunderation. Was the man dead?He certainly appeared lifeless. A small, sad-looking fellow insomber black, clutching a violin to his chest. His eyes were open,but was he seeing? Lansing raised him to his feet, and urgentlyenquired,
“Are you all right?”
The man was alive. He proved it byspeaking.
“Better than ever, I believe. Yes,Sergeant. Professor Emerson’s Lone Star Elixir has made a new manof me—just as he promised. Goodnight, Sergeant.”
With that, the little man toted his violinto the door, opened it, strode out into the corridor andcollapsed.
“Shut the door,” said the brawny man risingfrom the chaise lounge.
With some astonishment, Lansing surveyedthe suite. The furniture, drapes and glassware were in a sorrycondition. Had it been a mere party, or a pitched brawl? From achandelier dangled a lariat, the bottom end fashioned into ahang-noose. He was grateful to observe that the noose wasunoccupied. The window was open. From where he stood, Lansing couldsee the balcony beyond, most of which was occupied by a blondefemale of generous proportions who slumbered on two chairs; she wastalking in her sleep.
An adjoining doorway was open. Lansingwalked to it, fearful as to what he might see. For a few moments,he frowned into the bedroom. Onto the big double bed had beenpacked seven snoring locals, a stuffed moose-head complete withantlers, a plaster statue of the Venus de Milo, a bass-fiddle andan uncountable number of empty bottles. He grimaced, pulled thedoor shut and turned to face the man who had addressed him.
“I’m looking,” he announced, “for Valentineand Emerson.”
“You’re lookin’,” grunted the brawny man,“at half the outfit. If your luck holds, you’ll get to see both ofus.”
“Which one ...?” began Lansing.
“I’m Larry Valentine,” said the brawny man.“Who’re you?”
“Colonel Jethro Lansing—of ArmyIntelligence.”
“That so? Well, pull up a chair,Colonel.”
Lansing found an undamaged chair, seatedhimself and subjected Larry Valentine to a searching scrutiny. Thenotorious trouble-shooter seemed unruffled by that intenseappraisal—if, indeed, he was aware of it. He stood by the lounge,yawning, rubbing at his bare chest. All he wore was a pair of blackevening pants. It was obvious to Lansing’s discerning eye thatLarry was severely hung over. Three days stubble showed on hisweather-beaten, ruggedly handsome face. Though bootless, he lookedto be almost six feet three inches tall. He was dark-haired andsquare-jawed. Even in his present reduced condition, he lookedformidable, and Lansing was impressed.
“Where,” he enquired, “is your friend?”
“Meanin’ Stretch,” grunted Larry.
“Meaning Stretch,” nodded Lansing.
“That’s a good question,” Larrythoughtfully conceded. He trudged to the bedroom door, opened itand spent quite some time in checking the befuddled occupants. Hepeered behind the drapes at the window, squinted out to the balconywhere the bulky blonde still slumbered. Then, unhurriedly, he movedinto another room. It was deserted, except for a clutter of bottlesand glasses, an empty keg and, unaccountably, a large mongrel dogof advanced years, curled up on the bed. He ignored the dog andmoved across to a closet door, opened it. Clad in naught but hisunderwear and brandishing a bottle, Stretch Emerson emerged fromthe closet and mumbled a complaint.
“These rooms
