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THE HOUR BEFORE DISASTER
If the killers had their way, the bride would soon be a widow...
The most powerful man in the territory coveted beautiful Selma Garfield. With her wedding to Nathan Page only a few days distant, Big Jim Rand rode into San Rafael and discovered that the bridegroom was an old army acquaintance. Naturally, the big man stayed to play bodyguard to Nathan, who had been threatened with violent death by the XL bunch, the minions of the power-hungry Kane Magnus. Naturally, there had to be a fight to the finish, with the rock walls of Trinidad Canyon echoing to the gun-thunder.
BIG JIM 12: THE HOUR BEFORE DISASTER
By Marshall Grover
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
First Edition: September 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
Series Editor: Kieran Stotter
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
Chapter One – One New Gun in San Rafael
From up there on the ridge, this looked like a right fine town,” the big man grimly commented. “When you get closer, it looks dirtier.”
“Is a frightened town, I think,” mumbled the runty Mexican. “Better we move on, eh, Amigo Jim?”
“I’ll move on,” said Jim Rand, “when I’m good and ready.”
He was a lot of man, so much so that the three rowdies tormenting the scrawny barfly should have thought twice before defying him. There was an air of authority about Jim Rand, a legacy of his army career; he had been a sergeant of cavalry up till some seventeen months ago. Brawny, six feet three inches tall and ruggedly handsome, he was a force to be reckoned with. His riding clothes were of simple design, strictly utilitarian; Big Jim despised ostentation. The ivory butt of a long-barreled Colt .45 jutted from the holster at his right hip. The stock of a Winchester ’73 protruded from his saddle-scabbard. His horse was a black stallion, big and cantankerous, a one-man animal, and woe betide the stranger who attempted to swing astride.
Benito Espina, the big man’s constant companion, was a sharp contrast in more ways than one. He stood little more than five feet tall and his mount was a somnolent-looking burro which answered to the incredibly grand title of Capitan Cortez. He was lank-haired, buck-toothed, narrow-chested and hump-shouldered. Also he was unwashed, unprincipled, amoral and a dedicated kleptomaniac.
Here in the unhappy settlement of San Rafael, in the northwest corner of New Mexico Territory, there would be many who would marvel at the striking contrast between these two—the one so big, so impressive, the other so runty, so nondescript. They would remark on the contrast and would be offered an explanation as to why two such men should choose to travel together. But not right now.
Right now the big man’s attention was focused on a situation that caused him no pleasure and demanded his intervention.
The three rowdies were hefty and muscular. Their victim, befuddled, shabby, much the worse for liquor, was elderly and lean, no match for them, incapable of defending himself. He was forced to his knees, groaning a protest against the cruel blows rained on him by the three cowpokes. Several others, also wearing the rig of cattlemen, emerged from nearby saloons. They didn’t remonstrate, Jim observed. They called encouragement, not to the drunken barfly, but to the men attacking him.
“Go get him, Howie!” one of them urged, grinning broadly. “Hit him again before he drops!”
“Hold him up, Gribbon,” suggested another. “Pull his paws away from his face.”
Jim’s scalp crawled. An unhappy town? A frightened town? Sick might be a better word. Yes, by thunder, San Rafael was a sick town, if its citizens cringed indoors and refused to lend aid at a time like this.
As he began dismounting, Benito flashed him a nervous glance and mumbled a warning.
“There are too many of these hombres, Amigo Jim. Better we move on.”
“Lead Hank to the nearest hitch rail,” Jim gruffly ordered, as he slid to the ground.
The Mex took the black’s rein and wheeled the burro leftward towards a hitch rack. Jim was striding forward, calling a reprimand to the three roughnecks. His parade-ground bellow won the instant attention of every living soul within earshot.
“You, you and you...!” He pointed to the rowdies one by one. “Move away from him—and I mean now!” Rarely had the roughnecks heard a voice so loud. Momentarily taken aback, the one grasping the barfly released his grip. The barfly promptly made for the far boardwalk, but at a slow pace and moving on his hands and knees. While Jim watched, his strength gave out. Incapable of moving along on hands and knees, he began crawling, hauling himself on his elbows. Again, Jim’s scalp crawled. He glowered scathingly at the three hardcases.
“That took a lot of guts, I’ll bet,” he bitterly suggested. “Only the three of you—against one sawn-off little drunk. Weren’t you afraid he’d rise up and beat your brains out? You took a helluva risk, didn’t you?”
The sarcasm caused the three to redden. They spread themselves, studying him warily, sizing him up, while one of their colleagues on the boardwalk drawled a reprimand.
“Butt out of this, big feller, while you’re still in one piece.”
‘Jim took a moment to look at the speaker, a solidly-built, sallow individual in range clothes—complete with bat-wing chaps and crossed gunbelts. To him, Jim said:
“I’ll listen to any advice you have to offer—after I’m through talking to your heroic sidekicks.” He glared at the trio again. “No more—savvy? Stay away from the drunk. If I ever again find you beating up on him—heaven help you.” The three cursed luridly. One of them squared his shoulders, bunched his fists and began advancing.
“You better be mighty strong, mister,” he scowled. “Any man hands out warnin’s the way you do—better be strong enough to back ’em up!”
He came on faster, breaking into a run and unwinding a savage uppercut, a very spectacular but ineffective blow, because Jim sidestepped; it missed his face by a full eight inches. All of his would-be assailant’s weight was brought forward by the impetus of that swing. His arm was still raised, his mid-section wide open for the slamming, jolting assault of Jim’s hard left. The rowdy’s complexion abruptly changed to pasty white. He made a grunting, gasping sound and flopped to his knees.
Meanwhile two sidekicks attempted to bring Jim down with a headlong rush, but all to no avail. One came in with his head down, obviously intending to ram Jim dead centre and drive him backward. Anticipating that intention, Jim sidestepped and flung out his left boot. The cowhand tripped over it and after a rabbit-chop to the back of his neck, he pitched face-first to the dust. His colleague darted in close and landed a hard blow to Jim’s jaw; the big man didn’t budge, but retaliated with an uppercut, the impact of which was sickeningly audible to the startled watchers. His victim’s feet left the ground.
Jim took a pace backward, singled out the man with the crossed gunbelts and growled a warning. He was forced to empty his holster, because the verbal warning wasn’t enough; the man was beginning to draw. And something about the alacrity of it, the ease and speed with which that big army Colt was whisked from its leather sheath, cocke
d and aimed unerringly at the two-gunner’s chest, effectively discouraged the other cattlemen from further opposition. The man with the crossed belts blinked uneasily, licked his lips. His right-hand weapon was half-drawn. He hesitated a moment longer, then released his grip of it, letting it slip back into the holster.
Another cattleman chuckled softly and said, “All right, big man, you’ve sure made your point—and now you can put up your iron.”
“I’ll put up my iron,” Jim grimly informed him, “when this street has been cleared. Your three brave friends make it look mighty untidy.”
While ever he held that long-barreled Colt rigid in his right fist, none of these hardcases were apt to argue with him. His three battered victims were hauled to their feet and helped across to where their horses awaited. In a matter of moments, they were riding out, but slowly, in consideration of their aches and pains. The others retreated into the saloons lining San Rafael’s main stem.
Now, at last, San Rafael’s lawman put in an appearance, and Jim was shocked to the core by what he saw. He had heard of cowered, dispirited lawmen intimidated by force of numbers, but never had he laid eyes on a lawman as defeated as the badge-toter who now came to the aid of the groaning barfly.
A lawman without a gun!
The marshal of San Rafael looked to be around fifty years old. He was lean and shabby in his rumpled pants and shirt, scuffed boots and sweat-stained Stetson. Some of his receding hair was visible under the hat brim; it was ash-gray. His manner was self-effacing, if solicitous. It took him several moments to help the barfly to his feet. He mumbled something unintelligible to Jim’s ears, wrapped an arm about the barfly’s thin shoulders and led him a few yards along the street to a pump. While Jim watched, the lawman pumped water, saturated a kerchief and bathed the drunk’s face. It made for a sad, sobering little tableau, as sorry a sight as Jim had ever witnessed. Who was most in need of sympathy here?
Benito rejoined Jim. He had dismounted and was leading the burro and the stallion.
“Hacia donde?” he enquired.
“In there,” Jim decided, nodding to the nearest saloon.
He adjusted his Stetson and stepped up to the boardwalk. After tethering their mounts, the Mex followed. The shingle proclaimed this establishment to be the High Card Saloon and, from the moment he entered the bar-room, Jim was conscious of the animosity of the pudgy, oily-haired proprietor and the even pudgier bartender. Apparently the High Card owed its existence to the patronage of the cattle fraternity, men of the caliber of those who had ganged up on the hapless barfly.
At the bar, Jim produced the pen-sketch that had been shown in saloons and law offices all over the Southwest, his picture of the back-shooter who had so wantonly butchered Lieutenant Christopher Rand. The saloonkeeper’s name was Abner Bullivant. The unsociable barkeep was Fred Usher.
“I know why you’re here,” Bullivant sourly assured him, “and I’m tellin’ you there’ll be no welcome for you in this man’s town.”
“How’s that again?” frowned Jim, as he unfolded the sketch.
“We knew one of Page’s trouble-makin’ brothers would show up sooner or later,” muttered the barkeep. And, to his employer, he remarked, “Ain’t that just like Page? You could bet he’d send for his kin to help him out of a tricky situation.”
“Page,” said Bullivant, “I’d as soon you did your drinkin’ in some other saloon.”
Benito blinked at the big man and shrugged uncomprehendingly.
“Let’s get the air cleared. My name is Jim Rand. I have no brothers name of Page. The only brother I ever had was an officer of the Eleventh Cavalry, and I’m hunting the tinhorn who killed him. Is that clear enough for you?”
“I thought sure you’d be one of Page’s brothers,” frowned the saloonkeeper.
“Any fool can see you’re a gunslinger,” said Usher.
“Barkeep, I don’t take that as a compliment,” Jim frowned.
“No offence,” said Usher, nervously.
Jim placed the sketch before them.
“I’ll thank you to look at this, and tell me if you’ve ever seen such a man here in San Rafael.” While Bullivant and Usher examined the picture, he offered them other details concerning his elusive quarry. “He stands about five feet ten, wears pearl jewelry and drinks brandy—neat. His voice is kind of high-pitched. He’s a gambler and a sore loser.”
Bullivant shook his head, as he returned the sketch.
“Don’t waste your time askin’ around town, if this joker had ever been in San Rafael, I’d know.”
“We both got a good memory for faces,” offered Usher. “I sure never seen that jasper before.”
“Nor me,” said Bullivant. He watched Jim returning the sketch to his pocket, ran a critical eye over the powerful, bard-muscled frame. “And now, Rand, if I was you, I’d make tracks. Yes siree, I’d get the hell out of San Rafael and stay out.”
“You’re gonna be in the worst kind of trouble,” warned Usher, “if you hang around.”
Benito grimaced uneasily, cast a glance towards the batwings. Jim dug out his makings and began building a cigarette, the while he studied the other occupants of the bar-room. They were a motley bunch, towners for the most part. Few of them tried to match his accusing gaze; it was as though they had read his mind and had no answers for the questions he was about to ask.
He lit his cigarette, squinted at Bullivant through the smoke-haze. “I should get out of town in a hurry—why?”
“When you tangle with the XL outfit, you’re just beggin’ for grief,” declared Bullivant.
“XL is a local cattle spread, I take it?” prodded Jim.
“The biggest,” grunted Usher.
“Owned by Mr. Kane Magnus himself,” said Bullivant.
“You should excuse me if I don’t stand to attention or lift my hat,” drawled Jim, “but I never heard of this Magnus feller—so I don’t care a damn. What’s more I’m not apt to fret about Magnus’ hired hands.”
“You whipped three of them,” Bullivant conceded. “But that don’t mean you could whip the whole outfit.”
“You’re sore,” Jim pensively observed. “Three hard-cases were beating up a harmless old drunk, and you’re sore because I stopped ’em.” His expression became derisive. “You interest me, Bullivant. I’ve heard of gamblers and saloonkeepers who lick the boots of big-shot cattlemen, but you’re something special.”
“Mooney ain’t nothin’ but a blame nuisance,” said Usher.
“A rumpot,” scowled Bullivant, “always beggin’ for a handout or a free drink. Just a lousy panhandler.”
“So you stand by and watch...” Jim aimed this grim reproach not only at Bullivant and the barkeep but at every man present, “while three muscle-bound cowpokes use their fists and boots on an old deadbeat.”
“Well, damnitall...!” blustered Bullivant.
“Forget it,” growled Jim. “I’ve said my piece, and seen all I crave to see of this no-account town.”
Abruptly, he turned on his heel and made for the bat-wings with Benito hustling along behind him. As they returned to the street, the little Mex nervously predicted: “These vaqueros will not forget you, my Amigo Jim. They will wish for vengeance, no? Better we go, I think. Better we look for Jenner in some other town...”
“I don’t plan on staying here,” said Jim. “On the other hand I’m not about to cut and run from fear of a passel of cowards.” They had untethered their mounts. Now, instead of swinging astride the black, he took its rein and began walking it downtown; he had sighted a faded paint shingle on which only one word was still readable—MARSHAL. “Before I go,” he frowned, “I aim to parley with that yellow-bellied badge-toter.”
They were passing a general store on their way to the marshal’s office, when the eager voice smote Jim’s ears, causing him to halt. The voice was female and compelling. It belonged to a girl who looked to be no more than sixteen years old, and here at last was one citizen of San Rafael worth looking at,
somebody worthy of his admiration. The general situation brightened somewhat, as that tow-haired, bright-eyed girl in gingham gown and white apron came bustling down off the store porch and, with a flurry of lawn petticoats, dashed out into the street to question him. Her questions were accompanied by a smile that touched his heart, a smile that revealed white teeth and caused the full-lipped mouth to lift at the corners, and put dimples in the slightly freckled cheeks and a gleam in the sky-blue eyes. For the first time in a long time, ex-Sergeant James Carey Rand found himself regretting that he was no longer a smooth-faced youth.
He bared his head. Benito followed his example, leered at the girl and drawled a greeting.
“Saludos, señorita.”
“Saludos yourself,” she replied. And then, eagerly studying Jim, “Which one are you? Are you Hubbard, Davey, Lee or Marcus? I’ll bet you’re Lee. You look like you’d be the oldest brother.”
“Ma’am...” he began.
“Miss!” she beamed. “I’m Trish!”
“Trish?” he frowned.
“Selma’s sister,” she explained. “Come on now, Lee. Don’t tease me. You are Lee, aren’t you?” She took a step backward, held a finger to her Cheek and inspected him critically. “Well, if you aren’t Lee, you must be Marcus—or some other Page. All the Page men are tall—like Nathan.”
“Amigo Jim,” grinned Benito, “I think she mistake you for some other hombre, no?”
“And I durn near wish I were the man she’s waiting for,” said Jim. He offered her a rueful grin, as he remarked, “This is the second time I’ve been taken for a Page. I’m sorry, Trish, but the name is Rand—Jim Rand.”
She raised a hand to her mouth, shook her head sadly. “Oh—no.”
“Yes,” he nodded.
“You aren’t kin of Nathan Page?” she demanded, and she sounded desperate now. He shook his head. “Oh, my! I was—so sure.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
Her gaze dropped to the ivory butt of his six-gun. Without hesitation, and with a hint of accusation, she asked: “Did you come here to join the XL outfit?”
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