Larry and Stretch 6 by Marshall Grover

Author:Marshall Grover
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Seven

The Vanishing Minstrel

He huddled beside Larry’s sprawled body, cursing bitterly, cursing the assassins—and himself as well.

“Fool! Stupid, shortsighted fool! You should have known! It was too big for you. You couldn’t get away with it!”

The heat was intense, the smoke stifling. All four walls were afire, except for a small section to the left of the window.

The excited shouts reached him with infinite clarity, rising above the roar of the flames. He rose up, staggered to the undamaged strip of wall and pounded on it, yelling at the top of his voice.

“Hola—hola!”

There were answering cries, a lusty oath, followed by the startled assertion, “Somebody inside!”

He retreated to the center of the shack, raised his head for a worried appraisal of the roof. A flaming timber fell, crashing within a few feet of the still-unconscious Larry.

He threw a glance to the wall. It was trembling under the onslaught of some heavy implement. A splintering sound heralded his brief glimpse of an axe-head. Could they do it?

They could—and did. An aperture large enough for him to climb through was cut by the slashing axe wielded by Buffalo. With Hunk and Salty, the burly Hashknife puncher had arrived on the scene close behind Sheriff Jennings and an excited double-dozen citizens. An obliging blacksmith had fetched an axe.

The beggar gathered up his guitar, bowed his head and hustled to the opening. As he clambered through, he mumbled in Spanish.

“One other man inside. You must take him quickly.”

“Stay out of there!” he heard Jennings warn Buffalo. “You’d never reach him in time!”

But, despite his shiftless ways and his penchant for rowdyism, Buffalo wasn’t lacking in courage. He insisted on struggling through the opening. The smoke assailed him, but the prone man was visible—and recognizable.

“Damned if it ain’t Valentine!” he roared.

Buffalo seized Larry by his shoulders and dragged him to the opening. As he shoved him through, into the waiting arms of his sidekicks, more blazing timbers crashed to the floor. He swore luridly.

“Tote him away fast! I want out!”

Head-first, he dived through the aperture. Jennings was yelling warnings to the gathering crowd. They retreated from the inferno and, within seconds of Buffalo’s squatting beside Jennings and his saddlepards, the remainder of the roof collapsed. Sparks flew skyward. The front wall crashed outward, a side wall inward. The shack had become a mound of crackling timber.

“Valentine,” countered Jennings, “must’ve been born lucky.”

Larry opened his eyes a few minutes later. Cold water was being splashed onto his face. Fingers were probing his aching head. He winced, blinked up into the stern countenance of Boyd Jennings, who fired a query, but not at Larry.

“How about it, Doc? Can he talk?”

“I don’t see why not.” It was Horton’s voice, as monotonous, as mournful as ever. “The head-wound isn’t much worse than a scratch.”

“But he was knocked senseless,” Jennings pointed out.

“Naturally,” shrugged Horton. “The scratch was inflicted by a bullet, I’d say. The impact must have been tremendous.”

“I was taggin’ the old Mex,” muttered Larry.

“Which old Mex?” demanded Jennings. “The blind beggar?”

“Him,” grunted Larry.

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