Big Jim 12

by Marshall Grover

“A thief?” Quaine frowned reproachfully at the quaking Benito. “Ah, well. I don’t believe he will steal—here in my humble forge.”

  He made his point. The Mex would stay put until Jim emerged from that back room with Nathan, and there was little or no danger that he would attempt to rob the hammer-hefting giant. Jim turned and followed Nathan to that rear doorway.

  The room proved to be small. Its window was high and, from wall to wall, it was cluttered with discarded pieces of harness. There were a couple of rickety boxes. Jim perched on one, gestured for Nathan to take the other. As he produced Durham sack and papers, he told the ex-corporal, “I met a girl called Trish. She thought I might be one of your brothers.”

  “My future sister-in-law,” said Nathan, accepting the makings. “Yes, it’s only natural she’d jump to conclusions. She’s heard so much—read so much—about my famous brothers. I invited all four of them to the wedding, not just because they’re kin, but because I’m badly in need of protection. When Trish saw you—well—she just took it for granted you were Lee, or Marcus.”

  “I’d forgotten that we had a corporal in the Eleventh,” mused Jim, “who was part of a famous family of lawmen. The battling Page brothers—every inch as tough as the Earps—and a sight more honorable.” He took the makings returned to him by Nathan, began building a smoke. “But before we talk of your brothers, what about you? I know you were discharged so you could be treated at a Phoenix hospital. You had pneumonia and it didn’t seem you could survive. There aren’t many men who can brag of licking pneumonia.”

  “A heap of waiting—a heap of praying—that’s what did it,” muttered Nathan. “When I finally left that clinic, I was scrawny and weak, and surprised to be alive.” He waited for Jim to roll his cigarette, then scratched a match. They lit up, and their smoke rose as one sociable cloud.

  He stared pensively at the big man and assured him, “You think about a lot of things, Sarge, when you’re that close to death.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Jim soberly asserted.

  “I knew I’d never go back to the army,” said Nathan. “I was through with fighting. I became—uh—what they call a pacifist. My brothers were a mite ashamed of me. Oh, they didn’t say as much, but I know they wanted me to pin on a law badge just as soon as I’d got my strength back.”

  “But you didn’t re-enlist,” prodded Jim, “and you never became a lawman.”

  “I wanted to work with my hands,” Nathan confided. He examined his work-stained hands with great intensity, squatting there in his overalls and calico apron, with the nails causing a sagging of the large pocket. “I wanted to build, rather than destroy, to help, rather than hurt. I’d always been a fair hand at carpentry, so I hired out to a Phoenix carpenter. Spent a half-year with him, worked for nickels and dimes, but getting stronger all the time, and learning plenty. Later, I came to San Rafael. Took a liking to this town right away. It was a fine place to live—at first. I set myself up a workshop of my own and I’ve been working steady ever since, building, fixing—you know how it is. There are always chores for a good carpenter.”

  “After licking pneumonia,” frowned Jim, “I’d say a man had the right to do whatever he wanted with the rest of his life.”

  “Pretty soon,” Nathan continued, “I was getting friendly with the Garfields that run the emporium, but especially with Selma. That’s Trish’s sister. She—well—you’ll never see a more beautiful woman, and she has a mighty gentle nature. I think we’ll have a good life, Jim.” His face clouded over, as he added, “If I ever make it to the altar.” He frowned at the tip of his cigarette. “Trish said you tangled with a couple of Magnus riders.”

  “Three,” said Jim.

  “So you savvy what kind of trash this Magnus hires,” said Nathan. “The dangerous kind. Gun-toters who don’t care a damn about...” He gnawed at his underlip, “the dignity of a human life.”

  “Magnus has been pushing you?” asked Jim.

  “Magnus wants Selma,” Nathan said it bluntly. “When you meet her, you’ll see why. Beautiful is a mild word for her, Jim. I’ll tell you frankly, Selma isn’t the brightest little woman in all New Mexico. In a lot of ways she just isn’t very smart at all. But beautiful? Man, alive, she’s something special.”

  “Magnus was courting her before you came to San Rafael?” prodded Jim.

  “It’s the other way round,” said Nathan. “I was courting Selma right from the first day I arrived. Magnus and his cut-throats didn’t show up till nearly a year later.” Again, the sensitive visage clouded over. “I saw how he looked, Jim, the first time he ever laid eyes on her. Then and there, I knew there’d be trouble. He gave her presents, got friendly with her folks, did his damnedest to nudge me out. The only Garfield he couldn’t fool was Trish. She savvies what kind of scum he is. So do I. So do all the decent folk of San Rafael. The trouble is we’re no match for the two dozen gunslingers on the XL payroll.”

  “You’ve been threatened?” frowned Jim.

  “Magnus warned me, told me to forget about marrying Selma,” said Nathan. “I said—the hell with him—said I’d go right ahead with our plans, get married to her at the Community Chapel next Saturday.”

  “That made him mad,” guessed Jim.

  “He has—uh—kind of a spooky way of proving he’s sore,” mumbled Nathan. He grimaced, as he recalled, “He laughed in my face, said I’m loco if I think I can take—take anything he wants for himself.”

  Jim was silent awhile, puffing on his cigarette, thinking. Presently, he asked, “Are you afraid some XL gunhawk will take a shot at you between now and Saturday, or try to prod you into a fight to make it look like self-defense?”

  “I don’t believe Magnus’ll do it that way,” sighed Nathan. “That man has a mighty mean mind, Jim.” He tapped his temple significantly. “Mean and twisted—and cruel.”

  “So?” prodded Jim.

  “It’s more likely he’ll wait till the last moment,” opined Nathan. “Yeah. He’ll wait till I’m almost inside the chapel—or maybe on my way to the chapels That’s when hell strike, right when it’ll hurt most.”

  “You weren’t fooling, amigo,” drawled Jim, “when you said you need help.”

  “I need a best man,” declared Nathan, “a man to stand up with me in church.”

  “You call it a best man.” Jim grimaced wryly. “I call it a bodyguard.”

  “Yeah.” Nathan heaved a sigh, nodded slowly. “No use fooling myself. It’s a long time since I was any use with a gun—and every hardcase on Magnus’ payroll is a professional.”

  “They’re professionals,” Jim conceded, “but that doesn’t mean they’re expert gun-handlers.”

  “I’m not forgetting those shooting contests in the old days.” Nathan reminisced for a few moments. “Sergeant Rand, champion shot of the Eleventh Cavalry. With a handgun or a rifle, you always won. I used to say the only man as gun-smart as my brothers was Big Jim Rand.”

  “About these brothers of yours,” said Jim.

  “Well Marcus, he’s marshal of Winslow, Nebraska, took a bullet from a couple of stage-robbers. He’ll pull through all right, but he’ll be laid up for a spell. Hub and Davey from Guymon County, North Colorado, are fighting a range war and big brother Lee, he’s deputy sheriff of Seladia, Missouri, got throwed by a horse and broke his leg.”

  “Seems most things are going bad for you, Nate,” Jim opined. “Anyway, how much help can you expect from the honest citizens of this town?”

  “Not much,” sighed Nathan. “Not much at all. Magnus and his gunhawks rule the roost now. They’re too strong for the other cattlemen of the territory. On payday, cowpokes of the other spreads have to boycott San Rafael, have to travel all the way west to Medano Blanco to have their fun.” He dropped the butt of his cigarette, ground it under his boot heel. “Every so often, Magnus reminds us that he’s the big shot, and getting bigger. For instance, the XL spread is located inside of Trinidad Canyon. He owns all the canyon land, but, a few days ag
o, he started grazing some of his stock outside of the canyon—on Triangle J range—just to prove he can get away with it.”

  “I’ve already talked to your marshal,” muttered Jim, “so I’m getting a fairly clear picture of the whole dirty set-up.”

  “Magnus’ gunhawks beat all the fire out of Keefe Lomax,” nodded Nathan, “and that’s not all. There has been at least one murder. Everybody knows young Burt McRowan was killed by Magnus’ men.”

  “Who was Burt McRowan?” asked Jim.

  “Just a kid,” growled Nathan. “He wasn’t yet of age when he tangled with those trigger-happy butchers. Just a farm boy trying to mind his own business and stay out of trouble, you know? The McRowan’s homestead is out by the Senora Basin. They’re good people. They sure didn’t deserve that kind of grief. And Magnus’ men walk Scot free —while poor Keefe Lomax cringes in the law office, trying to hide behind a bottle of rye. A fine situation, eh, Jim?”

  “I have unfinished business, Nate,” frowned Jim. “More than anything in the world, I crave to find Jenner.” He butted his cigarette, got to his feet. “On the other hand, I haven’t been a wedding guest for quite a spell.” He showed Nathan an encouraging grin. “I always did like weddings.”

  “So you’ll stay on,” asked Nathan, “at least until Saturday?”

  “At least that long,” nodded Jim.

  “I’ll be beholden to you,” muttered Nathan, “more grateful than I can ever ...”

  “Forget it,” said Jim. “Let’s go introduce me to the future Mrs. Nathan Page.”

  At about the same time that Big Jim and Nathan were beginning their conversation at the Quaine forge, the three hardcases challenged and defeated by Jim were riding through the eastern gateway to Trinidad Canyon. Back on XL range, the bruised and battered roughnecks steered a course for the temporary camp some two hundred yards west of the canyon gate. Here, calves were being branded. Three waddies were hard at work, watched by two mounted men who were sharing the shade of a tall cottonwood.

  Jim’s victims—their names were Moss, Gribbon and Hillary —recognized one of the mounted men as the XL ramrod.

  Perry Storl had ridden in the shadow of Kane Magnus right from the start, aiding and abetting his every venal move, his every act of aggression and intimidation. And he was peculiarly suited to such nefarious activity. A bully by nature and a thief by instinct, he was of powerful build, had some talent for giving orders and was a dangerous adversary in a gun-battle. He was sandy-haired, with blunt features and bright blue eyes that seemed too small for such a broad countenance. His side-arm was an ebony-butted, .44 caliber Smith & Wesson housed low at his right thigh.

  The condition of the trio’s faces told a grim story. Sourly, the ramrod remarked to his more youthful companion, “Moss and his pards must’ve tried to saddle a wild steer.”

  “They look toil worn,” sniggered Craig Vinson, “and then some.”

  If this smooth-faced tyro gunslinger lived long enough, he would probably acquire some kind of nickname. Certainly he was determined to acquire a reputation, itching to make his mark, to be numbered among the most notorious gunfighters of his time. He was, at the age of 24, a curly-haired, pink-complexioned braggart with jug-handle ears and a thick-lipped, petulant mouth, as unlikeable a man as had ever ridden into San Rafael. He was of slim build and his riding rig had been chosen with care. The shirt and pants were black and tight-fitting. The white, flat-crowned Stetson boasted a snakeskin hatband. The broad gunbelt from which hung two pearl-butted Colts was studded with conchos. And this wasn’t all of Craig Vinson’s armory. Tucked inside his pants belt was a Remington derringer.

  Moss and his cronies brought their mounts to a halt and smarted under the scathing rebuke of the ramrod.

  “You should’ve got back hours ago. That might’ve been healthier for you—judgin’ by your looks. You were fightin’ among yourselves,” Storl accused.

  “No,” frowned Moss.

  “Don’t lie to me,” growled Storl. “There isn’t a man in San Rafael with nerve enough to brace an XL rider.”

  “There is now,” countered the sore-headed Gribbon.

  “He hits like he totes rocks in his fists,” mumbled Hillary,

  “And he’s fast with a gun,” Moss assured Storl. “He beat Shilo’s time, anyway.”

  Young Vinson pricked up his ears.

  “This stranger out-drew Shilo?” he prodded.

  “With time to spare,” said Moss.

  Storl pursed his lips, stared thoughtfully towards the canyon entrance.

  “He’s still around?” he asked.

  “He might still be in town,” shrugged Moss. “I wouldn’t know for sure.”

  “Who is he?” demanded Storl. “He has to have a name.”

  “Hey!” breathed Vinson. “He’s likely one of Page’s almighty brothers—come to San Rafael for the weddin’! Man, oh man! I’d sure admire to trade lead with one of those big shot gunslicks.”

  “You trade lead with any of Page’s brothers,” muttered Hillary, “and you’ll end up in a pine box—but fast.”

  “You haven’t seen my speed, Hillary,” retorted Vinson. “You don’t know just how fast I am.”

  “Who is this stranger?” Storl wanted to know.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” said Moss. “All I know is he’s plenty big...”

  “A big man!” breathed Vinson, and he sniggered again.

  “Way over six feet tall,” Moss told them, “and mighty strong. A big, dark-haired hombre. His horse is really somethin’...”

  “Yeah,” nodded Gribbon. “Black stallion. Looks like a thoroughbred.”

  “And there was a greaser taggin’ the big feller,” recalled Hillary. “Yeah. I seen this greaser straddlin’ a burro. When the fightin’ started, he stayed out of it.”

  “I sure hanker to kill me a big man,” chuckled Vinson. “Big man makes a big target. Reckon I’ll take me a little ride. He might still be in town, and, if he is...”

  “You’ll stay out of town, kid,” growled Storl.

  “I ain’t afeared of no proddy stranger that comes snoopin’ into our territory,” protested Vinson.

  “I know you ain’t scared, kid,” said Storl, “but you’re a sight too proddy for your own good. You’ll stay out of town, savvy?” He patted his chest. ‘”I’ll tell you when you can ride to San Rafael. Meantime, you and Gribbon and Hillary go check the south pasture for those strayed breeders, while I take Moss back to the ranch. The boss’ll want to hear about this stranger, I reckon.”

  “I sure crave to...” began Vinson.

  “The hell with what you crave,” scowled Storl. “You do like I’m tellin’ you.” He jerked a thumb. “Get goin’.”

  The ambitious Craig Vinson was still complaining, when he spurred his pinto to a run and rode away in company of Gribbon and Hillary. Storl now wheeled his mount and nodded to Moss. Side by side, they rode the canyon floor, heading for what had once been a comfortable and strictly utilitarian ranch-house. The XL headquarters had undergone quite a few changes since its purchase by the predatory Kane Magnus.

  Not for Magnus the austere solidity of pine logs, clapboard and a shingle roof. He did things in style. The ranch-house and its environs were being remodeled to the new owner’s specifications; a small army of Mexican laborers and artisans were employed continuously at XL, replacing the roof shingles with tiles, planting flower gardens, constructing a patio where the horse corrals used to be. The XL bunkhouse was now located a goodly distance from the main building; it was as though Magnus were drawing a broad line of class distinction between himself and his employees.

  He was taking his ease in that section of the patio already completed, when Storl and Moss dismounted a respectful distance away and came striding towards him. In great satisfaction, he studied the now-imposing ranch house and congratulated himself. He was taking giant strides forward. His future was secure. He would, within a few years, become this territory’s wealthiest and most inf
luential citizen, and San Rafael’s most desirable spinster, a woman of pulse-quickening beauty, would attain the status of a noblewoman, a queen. So thought the venal Kane Magnus, as Storl and Moss came hustling towards him. Hearing their footsteps, he roused from his reverie and lit an expensive Havana cigar.

  A diamond gleamed on the little finger of his right hand as he flicked the used match away. He had a taste for the expensive, the flamboyant. In his late thirties he was a moderately good-looking man who imagined himself to be impressively handsome. He was somewhat less than a six-footer and, thanks to an appetite for sweet food, fast developing a paunch. His receding black hair was pressed close to his cranium with pomade. He was clean-shaven except for a thin moustache and long sideburns. The nose was inclined to be bulbous, and the mouth was somewhat too broad. These small defects, plus his perpetually self-satisfied expression, combined to mar an otherwise pleasing exterior. Well-groomed, expensively-tailored, he relaxed and thought of himself as monarch of all he surveyed. This intrusion by Storl and the shifty-eyed Howie Moss was a small annoyance.

  “I didn’t send for you,” he quietly chided Moss.

  “Storl fetched me,” mumbled Moss, bowing his head. Magnus now observed the condition of Moss’ face, but his query was directed at the foreman.

  “What the devil happened to him?”

  “That’s what I’m here to tell you,” drawled Storl. “Three of ’em—three mighty tough hombres—got into a ruckus with a stranger...”

  “Just one stranger?” challenged Magnus.

  “Just one,” nodded Storl. “And he whipped ’ em—but good. Gribbon and Hillary don’t look any better than Moss. Also, this stranger outdrew Shilo.”

  “I’m interested,” said Magnus, with a faint smile. “Shilo is supposed to be one of the fastest guns on the payroll-He snapped his fingers. “You can dismiss Moss. I presume you’ve already questioned him.”

  “Sure,” grunted Storl. “Go on, Moss. Vamoose.”

  The hardcase turned and trudged away from the patio. Storl stepped closer to the chair occupied by his chief, who gestured grandiloquently towards the house.