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    Larry and Stretch 14: Lone Star Fury
    Larry and Stretch 14: Lone Star Fury
    Larry and Stretch 14: Lone Star Fury
    Ebook139 pages2 hours

    Larry and Stretch 14: Lone Star Fury

    By Marshall Grover

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    About this ebook

    From Illinois to Wyoming, the Lone Star Hellions grappled with the enigma of a beautiful, headstrong woman and the man hired to murder her, the man whose identity was a tight secret. At Omaha, Marshal Jefford boarded the Special, to escort a captured outlaw to the Laramie calaboose, and an already complicated situation became fraught with intrigue, danger, the threat of sudden death. Here are Larry and Stretch, the West's toughest trouble-shooters, at their free-swinging, trigger-fast best, risking their lives in a violent showdown. And Death rides the rails right alongside them!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPiccadilly
    Release dateMay 31, 2018
    ISBN9780463669761
    Larry and Stretch 14: Lone Star Fury
    Author

    Marshall Grover

    Leonard Frank Meares was an Australian writer of western fiction. He wrote over 700 Westerns for the Australian paperback publishers Cleveland and Horwitz using the pseudonym "Marshall McCoy", "Marshall Grover" "Ward Brennan" and "Glenn Murrell".

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      Book preview

      Larry and Stretch 14 - Marshall Grover

      The Home of Great Western Fiction!

      THE LADY WAS A TARGET

      From Illinois to Wyoming, the Lone Star Hellions grappled with the enigma of a beautiful, headstrong woman and the man hired to murder her, the man whose identity was a tight secret.

      At Omaha, Marshal Jefford boarded the Special, to escort a captured outlaw to the Laramie calaboose, and an already complicated situation became fraught with intrigue, danger, the threat of sudden death.

      Here are Larry and Stretch, the West's toughest trouble-shooters, at their free-swinging, trigger-fast best, risking their lives in a violent showdown.

      And Death rides the rails right alongside them!

      LARRY AND STRETCH 14:

      LONE STAR FURY

      By Marshall Grover

      First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

      Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

      First Edition: June 2018

      Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

      This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

      Text © Piccadilly Publishing

      Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

      Chapter One: Illinois Lady

      Them consarned Texans have quit town, reported Deputy Turner.

      You mean Valentine and Emerson? demanded Sheriff Quillen.

      I mean Valentine and Emerson, nodded the deputy. Rest of them trail-herders are up to the saloon and still raisin’ hell, but the Texans told ’em goodbye a little while ago. One of ’em said as how they were headed for Omaha, on account of they hanker to live it up in a big town.

      By Godfrey, breathed the sheriff. Heaven help Omaha!

      This conversation was conducted in hushed undertones. Quillen was addressing his deputy from inside the barricaded law office of Garret Junction, in southwest Nebraska. For two days, ever since the coming of the trail-herd, the local law had stayed under cover, giving the pleasure-hungry visitors a wide berth. Quillen wasn’t the most courageous peace office west of the Mississippi—not by a long shot. He well realized the futility of trying to control a dozen roistering cowpokes who had just finished a long drive, the pushing of a big herd all the way from North Arizona. Control them? It just couldn’t be done. At least, not by one sheriff and a deputy. By a score of armed vigilantes—maybe.

      Standing on the porch and casting apprehensive glances over his shoulder, Turner announced,

      They’re drinkin’ hard and gamblin’ like crazy. No fights so far, and no destruction of property—but I reckon it’s only a matter of time.

      And still Quillen made no move to raise the bar of the street door. Out there on the porch, with the sounds of revelry clearly audible, Turner felt vulnerable. He grimaced nervously and muttered a plea.

      Let me in, Saul.

      Wait, grunted Quillen. I’m thinkin’.

      Thinkin’ about what? challenged Turner. Hell, Saul!

      Quit gripin’, chided Quillen. All ten of them herders couldn’t start half as much trouble as Valentine and Emerson. With them Texans gone, we got plenty to be thankful for.

      Well, conceded Turner, it’s quieter already, and that’s a fact.

      But I got to think of my obligations to all other peace officers, mused Quillen. Specially the Omaha law. I mean, what with Valentine and Emerson headed for Omaha, the least we can do is warn ’em.

      Yeah, nodded Turner.

      Tell you what you better do, Milty, said Quillen. Go find the telegrapher and have him wire the Omaha marshal right away. If them Texans aim to ride all the way, it’ll take ’em three-four days to get there. Omaha law is entitled to that much time—to get ’emselves ready.

      I hate to think of how much damage them proddy Texans could cause, sighed Turner, in a fine big city like Omaha. He trudged to the porch steps. What’s the message?

      Keep it short, shrugged Quillen. Just say ‘Valentine and Emerson headed for Omaha.’ That ought to be enough.

      That warning was duly dispatched, and the message awaited Thomas Deavers Gillespie, town marshal of Omaha, when he arrived at his office at nine sharp of the following morning. It reposed on Gillespie’s desk in the neat and orderly headquarters of the Omaha town law authorities, having been placed there, along with other official correspondence, by Gillespie’s neat and orderly deputy, Henry Logan. Everything neat and orderly; Gillespie liked it that way.

      He seated himself and began checking the correspondence, while the stern-visaged Logan stood by a front window, inspecting Omaha’s busy main thoroughfare and puffing on a bent-stemmed briar. Briskly, Gillespie slit the flap of the Western Union envelope, extracted the telegram, unfolded it and read Quillen's message. A grimace of impatience clouded his well-barbered face.

      This, he called to Logan, is from Sheriff Quillen—and I never heard of him.

      Me neither, Tom, grunted Logan.

      Sheriff of Garret Junction, said Gillespie.

      That's a long ways west of here, as I recollect, offered Logan. Just another cattle town.

      The message says ... And Gillespie quoted, ‘Valentine and Emerson headed for Omaha.’ Is that supposed to mean something to me?

      I wouldn’t know, Tom, shrugged Logan.

      Who in blazes, wondered Gillespie, are Valentine and Emerson?

      You can search me, said Logan.

      With a shrug of indifference, Marshal Gillespie crushed the telegram to a ball and consigned it to his waste-paper basket—thus proving that, between the Mississippi and the west coast, there were still some law officers who had never heard of Larry and Stretch, oft described as the Lone Star Hellions or the Texas Hell-Raisers. Larry and Stretch had traveled far and wide in more than a decade of drifting, but it was a big country. Neither Gillespie nor his deputy had traveled quite so extensively.

      As for Miss Adelaide Chapman, of Elmford, Illinois, she had never traveled at all.

      Elmford, Illinois, was too far west of Chicago to be affected by the big city’s hustle and bustle, and too far north of St. Louis to be touched by that town’s gaiety. To call Elmford quiet would have been an understatement. Elmford was humdrum and lethargic, in a genteel way. So, for that matter, were most of its citizens.

      Adelaide Chapman was generally regarded as being typical of her environment. She had been born and raised here and had never ventured more than eighty miles from her sleepy hometown. Now in her twenty-fifth year, sitting demurely on a hard-backed chair in the office of Fergus Milliken, she looked what she was—a spinster of austere, respectable background. She was pretty, as pretty as any respectable Elmford woman dared to appear. No powder. No rouge. A clear complexion. Mild blue eyes. Dark brown hair drawn to a severe knot at the nape of her shapely neck and almost entirely concealed by a poke bonnet. And her neat, well-knit frame garbed in a gown of simple design and unobtrusive color.

      Beside her stood her future husband, Noah Hopkins. He was two years her senior, a healthy, ruddy-complexioned young man who had inherited a thriving general store from his parents. Thriving—on Elmford standards. Adelaide was deeply devoted to him, and vice versa. Nevertheless, he sounded downright hostile, as he complained to the lawyer, Two months before our wedding—and she wants to travel! To travel, Mr. Milliken! Now, I ask you, did you ever hear such an outlandish notion?

      Perhaps, suggested Fergus Milliken, we should give Addy a chance to explain.

      He smiled encouragingly at her. In his early fifties, he was a veteran of his profession, dignified, distinguished and, when dealing with a woman of her caliber, inclined to be paternal. His ash-gray hair was well-barbered, matching his flowing moustache and his neat imperial. It was a handsome, impressive countenance, justifying the compliments of those Elmford folk who were wont to remark that Fergus Milliken was ageing gracefully.

      What is there to explain? challenged Noah, and he dropped a protective hand to Addy’s shoulder. All of a sudden, she gets the wanderlust.

      Not all of a sudden, Noah. She sighed wistfully, raised a gloved hand to touch his. Dear, patient Noah. If you could only understand ...

      I’m trying to, he frowned.

      You feel restricted, Addy? The lawyer studied her shrewdly. Is that the right word? Restriction?

      Mr. Milliken, said Addy, you couldn’t have chosen a better word.

      I thought as much, he nodded.

      Well, fretted Noah, I just don’t understand. I don’t know what to think.

      I believe I do, smiled Milliken. But why don’t we let Addy explain it in her own way?

      It’s really very simple, she murmured, and not at all as outlandish as Noah claims. Mother died when I was sixteen. Father became ill soon afterward. I stayed by his side as a loyal daughter should—nursing him—until he was taken from us ...

      Ten months ago. Milliken nodded gravely. Rest his soul.

      And so, continued Addy, I think restriction is the right word. I’ve never been anywhere, Mr. Milliken. I’ve never done anything—except keep house for my father and earn a little money as a dressmaker. The mildness was gone from her blue eyes now. They gleamed with excitement. What of the outside world, all the other towns, all the fine country? I hear of it. I read about it—and that’s all.

      When you did me the great honor, said Noah, of promising to become my wife ...

      I’m not going back on anything I said at that time, she hastened to assure him.

      ... you told me, he finished, "that you’d be more

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