Big Jim 12

by Marshall Grover

  When Gurney and Trock entered Shadlow’s Bar, the only occupants were the Shadlows and the runty Mex seated at a corner table, strumming his guitar and softly crooning. Willy Shadlow was behind his bar, perusing an outdated copy of the Santa Fe ‘Leader’. His wife stood in the kitchen entrance, warily eyeing the newcomers.

  Willy got rid of the newspaper, eyed them enquiringly.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “We ain’t so desperate we’d drink your rotgut, Shadlow,” leered Gurney.

  “Willy...!” began Harriet.

  “It’s all right,” Willy gently assured her.

  “Hey you, greaser,” scowled Trock. “Quit that caterwaulin’.”

  Benito unslung his guitar, placed it on the table and slanted his head forward so that the broad, floppy brim of his sombrero shielded his face from view. Steadily, Willy assured the thugs, “I don’t serve rotgut, but I don’t aim to get in an argument with you jaspers. You want rotgut—you’ve drunk plenty of it at Bullivant’s High Card, and you’ll likely drink a lot more.”

  “What I’d like,” drawled Gurney, grasping a fistful of the little man’s shirtfront, “is to hear you play the pianner.”

  “That’s right,” nodded Trock. “Me and Gurney are real partial to music.” He let his heavy-lidded eyes run insolently from the top of Harriet’s head to the toes of her slippers. “Hear tell your man aims to play the organ at the chapel Saturday.”

  “That’s none of your business!” snapped Harriet.

  “C’mon, Shadlow...” Gurney was hauling Willy over the bar counter now, heedless of Harriet’s gasped protest. “Let’s hear how good you can play.”

  “Let go of him!” fumed Harriet.

  In vain, Willy struggled in Gurney’s grasp. He was dropped to the floor, pulled to his feet again and dragged to the piano. Trock came to him then, shoved him onto the stool and said, “Go ahead. Play.”

  “I’m in no mood for...” began Willy.

  “The hell with your moods, Shadlow,” chuckled Gurney. “Let’s have us a tune. Go on now.”

  He swaggered over to the batwings and positioned himself there on the off-chance this sadistic scene might fee interrupted. Trock stood beside the piano, waiting for Willy to begin playing. Willy hesitated a moment, caught Harriet’s eye and lifted his shoulders in a philosophical shrug. He dropped his hands to the keyboard and his pudgy fingers began vamping an introduction to “Across The Rockies And Far Beyond” and that was as far as he progressed.

  The gasp of pain and anguish that erupted from him was the most harrowing sound his wife had ever heard. It merged with the ugly, thudding, discordant sound produced by Trock, when he quickly closed the lid of the keyboard, bringing it down onto the little man’s fingers’ with crushing force. Harriet screamed, her hands flying to her mouth. Benito began the instinctive action of rising to his feet. He made no move towards the weapon holstered at his right side, but Trock shot him anyway. The lean killer was baring his teeth in a grin, and Gurney was still chuckling, as the Smith & Wesson roared. Trock had performed his lightning-fast cross-draw and, while the thin wisp of smoke spiraled from the muzzle of his pistol, his small victim flopped forward on the table, his blood spilling on his battered guitar. Harriet screamed again and, with a triumphant leer, Gurney said:

  “C’mon, Trock. Let’s go get us a drink.’

  The sound of gunfire interrupted Big Jim’s meal. He quickly dropped money on the table donned his hat and made his exit. Outside, he quickly scanned the street and noticing a crowd milling around the entrance of Willy Shadlow’s, raced in that direction. He strode into the barroom and at once summed up the situation. Willy Shadlow was squatting on the floor, blinking at his broken fingers, Harriet was crouched beside him weeping. But it was the Mex who commanded the most attention.

  Within a matter of seconds the medico, Lucien Hayward arrived, and Jim, easing Benito off the table and lowering him to the floor, moved aside to allow the doctor to examine him. It took only a few moments for the doctor’s initial examination.

  “Bad,” he told Jim, “but not critical. Bullet passed straight through—missed the heart. So he stands a good chance of survival.”

  Then turning to the crowd he commanded, “Couple you fellers tote him to my clinic.”

  With a sigh of relief, Jim then turned to the Shadlows. Blinking up at him, the pain-wracked Willy somehow managed to summon up a grin. Harriet had stopped crying. Her face was pale, but her voice steady, as she answered Jim’s question.

  “Yes, we know them. Their names are Trock and Gurney and they work for Magnus.”

  “Harriet,” said Jim, “where am I apt to find them?”

  “The High Card—nothing surer,” she breathed.

  “Don’t look for a fair fight.” Willy shrugged helplessly. “Trock’s the lean one with the six-shooter slung to his left side. He draws with his right—a cross-draw. Gurney’s a big redhead, and mean as they come.”

  “I’ll be seeing you,” said Jim.

  Harriet watched him stride from the barroom. The unconscious Benito was now being toted out on a stretcher, and Hayward was coming over to check on the condition of Willy’s hands. Just before the medico reached them, she asked her husband:

  “Is that sawn-off shotgun still where it ought to be?”

  “And loaded,” nodded Willy. “But leave it alone, sweetheart. Don’t do nothin’ rash!”

  “Whatever I end up doing, Willy,” she asserted, “you can bet it won’t be rash.”

  The avenging Big Jim didn’t become any calmer as he strode along Main towards the High Card, that saloon so popular with the swaggering gunslingers of XL. Rather than ease his ire, the night breeze fanned it to fever-heat. He thrust his way into that barroom like a rampaging bull, arriving while Gurney and Trock were half-way through describing the maiming of Willy Shadlow to an audience comprising the proprietor, his barkeep and a few table-hands and percentage-women.

  “You should’ve heard him howl...” Gurney guffawed and slapped the bar, “when Trock slammed down with that pianner-lid...”

  “Shuddup, Gurney!” boomed Jim, and the silence came so quickly that his voice echoed. Willy had offered him only a brief description of these braggarts, but that description was more than adequate. “Shuddup—and move your no good carcass clear of Trock!”

  In this first moment of shock, Gurney actually obeyed that truculent command. Trock took a step towards Jim, eyeing him insolently, sizing him up.

  “Big man,” he grinned, “you’re buckin’ the XL outfit—and that’s a powerful bad mistake.”

  “I’m here to take you two polecats to jail,” scowled Jim. “It’s called a citizen’s arrest. I’m no citizen of San Rafael, but I’m taking you in anyway. You’ll walk—or be carried. Either way is okay by me.”

  “Well—damn and blast!” breathed Gurney. “Will you listen to the stone-cold nerve of this...”

  “I told you to shuddup!” snarled Jim. “You, Trock! Unstrap that gun and march to the door!”

  “What...?” Trock apparently found it hard to credit the evidence of his ears. “Who does he think he’s foolin’?”

  They were separated by less than seventeen yards, when Trock doubled his right arm across his belly, the tapered fingers drooping towards the forward jutting butt of his Smith & Wesson.

  “Don’t try that!” warned Jim, as he turned side-on to the lean gunhawk.

  “If you know any prayers…” chuckled Trock.

  His draw was fastest, but his accuracy could never be compared with that of the 11th Cavalry’s ex-champion pistolero. The saloon’s staff and customers scattered for cover, as Trock’s gun barked, Jim threw himself sideways, unsheathing his Colt and triggering in retaliation. He slumped against the bar, conscious of the fiery pain in his left upper arm, but far from intimidated. He knew no nausea and, had Trock been capable of continuing the duel, he could have fought on. But Trock was finished, buckling at the knees, sagging to the floor with his eyes glassy
and his shirtfront bloody.

  They watched in acute shock—Bullivant and Usher rising from behind the bar—the drinkers and gamblers huddled behind overturned tables—the percenters who had fled up to the gallery. Gurney, standing only a few feet from the dying Trock, blinked incredulously at the big man, who coldly assured him, “You’re next.”

  “Why, you...!” began Gurney.

  “I give you the same choice,” growled Jim. “If you want to make it easy on yourself, unstrap your iron and we’ll walk along to the law office. If you want to make a fight of it...” To the surprise of the onlookers, he deftly returned the long-barreled Colt to its holster. “You get as much chance as Trock. A better chance—because he winged me.”

  Gurney hesitated for a long moment. Jim’s left arm was bloody. He wondered if Jim had been weakened by loss of blood, wondered if his gun-skill had been impaired by shock of the wound inflicted on him by Trock. And then, glancing at Trock, huddled on the floor now, lifeless, he suddenly decided against risking a similar death. Instead, he would take full advantage of the big man’s injury. He would attack him with bare fists and reduce him to a bloodied wreck.

  “I’m gonna make you suffer, big man,” he muttered, as he began his advance. “Trock’s a goner—but I ain’t so easy to kill.”

  And so, in the mistaken notion that Jim’s wound was serious, he charged with his fists flailing. He landed a hard left to Jim’s face, but he might have been slugging at a rock wall for all the effect his blow had. Like a battering-ram, Jim’s left slammed into his midriff. He groaned and began slumping, as Jim’s right swung up in a savage, powerful uppercut. Gurney sagged. Jim grabbed him, hauled him four yards to the side window and administered another uppercut. To the accompaniment of a yell of protest from the saloonkeeper, Gurney hurtled backward through the window. In a welter of shattered glass, he sprawled on his back in the side alley.

  By the time the, big redhead was lurching to his feet, Jim had leapt through the window and was attacking again, seemingly tireless, an avenging fury. Panic now caught Gurney in its icy grip. He didn’t want to die as Trock had died, so he lacked the courage to grope for his six-gun. He didn’t relish being battered into oblivion—and this it seemed was Jim’s intention.

  Groaning, he raised an arm to protect himself. Jim’s fist came on like a piston, exploding in his face, filling his head with blinding pain. Another uppercut sent him reeling five yards down the alley. Jim followed, and now Gurney was braced against the opposite wall, the wall of the triple-storied Palace Hotel. Behind him he felt a slanting rail, the rail of the fire stairs. Jim was again looming before him, raining blows at his face and body, and he was worse than frightened now. Desperate to escape those punishing fists, he landed a kick at Jim’s belly and turned to make a last bid for liberty. He knew he couldn’t hope to move to left or right and outrun his merciless Nemesis. In panic, he began climbing the fire stairs.

  During the past fifty seconds of this bloody struggle, the owner of the High Card had made a sorry error of judgment. It occurred to Abner Bullivant that the man who now rescued Gurney from the big avenger would find considerable favor with all the XL faction, and especially with Magnus himself. With this thought in mind, he drew his pistol from its shoulder-holster and, from that shattered side window, took aim at Jim’s broad back.

  The report that assailed Jim’s ears was not the harsh bark of a Smith & Wesson; it was more like thunder. From

  the street end of the alley, somebody had discouraged Bullivant with a shotgun. He turned to see Bullivant cringing in the window, yelping from the pain of his wounds. At that range, -buckshot wasn’t apt to be lethal. But it could hurt. Bullivant’s condition was somewhat worse than uncomfortable. He had discarded his pistol and was luridly cursing the woman behind the shotgun. Harriet Shadlow stood in the mouth of the alley. The sawn-off scattergun was still held leveled, and Jim knew she was more than ready to cut loose with the second barrel if needs be. For a pregnant moment, his gaze locked with hers. Then, grim-faced, he took to the fire stairs and resumed his pursuit of the panic-stricken Gurney.

  On the second landing, Gurney paused with the idea of smashing a window and climbing into the hotel. He hadn’t counted on Jim’s climbing so fast, reaching him so quickly. He was aiming a kick at that locked window, when Jim suddenly finished his ascent, rose up in front of him and delivered a jolting left to his jaw.

  “No—damn you...!” wailed the redhead.

  He caught Jim in a bear-hug and, for a few hectic moments, they wrestled on the landing. The end came abruptly. Gurney, dimly aware that Jim’s back was to the outer rail, lunged at him with all his might. The force of his rush might have carried one or both of them over the rail, but Jim, despite the injury to his left arm and the other blows he had taken, was still very much on the alert. He sidestepped nimbly. Gurney kept coming. His midriff slammed against the rail and he pitched over, unable to stop himself. He yelled in fear and the onlookers scattered, as he somersaulted to the floor of the alley.

  Breathing heavily, Jim began descending the fire stairs. First of the locals to reach the sprawled and unconscious Gurney was Doc Frome, XL’s personal physician. And, as Jim finished his descent, he heard part of the pudgy medico’s listing of Gurney’s injuries.

  “Right arm’s broken—left leg, too. He’s got What we call extensive abrasions—concussion too, unless I miss my guess, and you can bet his ribs are dented...”

  When Jim trudged clear of the crowd jamming the alley-mouth, a hand touched his arm and a familiar voice reached him. “Oh, Jim! Your face...!”

  “The hell with my face,” he growled. “They shot the Mex. They busted Willy Shadlow’s hands...”

  “I heard somebody say,” murmured Trish, “that you—killed an XL man.”

  “Three of ’em out of action now,” he muttered. “Three out of twenty-four. Well...” He shrugged his brawny shoulders, “at least it proves they can be beaten. Trish—where’s Harriet? I owe her my life.”

  “I saw her, while I was on my way to the alley. It looked like she was headed for home.”

  “All right. You’d best head back to the store.”

  “No. I’ll go home later, I promise. But right now I want to look after your wounds.”

  He was suddenly weary, too weary for argument. They walked on to the corner of Calle Linares and down to the small saloon. The street entrance was locked, so they made their way to the narrow back alley and the rear door. It opened into the small kitchen and, after admitting them, Harriet resumed her chore, and Jim’s heart went out to her.

  She was feeding her husband a cup of hot black coffee spiked with brandy, the kind of strengthening Willy badly needed at -this time. He couldn’t drink it unaided. Doc Hayward had treated him and had gone his way, and now he sat with his splinted and bandaged hands resting on the kitchen table, looking as though he were wearing outsized white gauntlets. The moon face creased in a rueful grin. “Howdy, Big Jim. You look like...”

  “Never mind how I look, Willy,” said Jim, as he came to the table. “How’re you feeling?”

  “About the same,” shrugged Willy.

  “He’ll have to take it easy, Doc Hayward says,” offered Harriet. “It’ll be—quite awhile before he can use his hands.”

  “But we’ll manage,” Willy assured Jim. “We’ll manage fine.”

  Very solemnly, Jim said, “Willy, I’m gonna kiss your wife.”

  “Go ahead,” grinned Willy. “You’re bigger than me—so I can’t very well protect her, can I?”

  “It’s all right, Jim ...” Harriet hastened to assure him. “It’s all right,” he agreed, as he draped his right arm about her shoulders. “But I wouldn’t be here now, if you hadn’t been in that alley with a shotgun.” He bent to kiss her brow. For a brief moment, he squeezed her tight. “I’m thanking you, Harriet.”

  “For gosh sakes!” Willy blinked at his spouse. “You did use that scattergun?”

  “It’s nothing for you to fr
et about,” she murmured. “She hasn’t told me,” Willy explained to Jim. “So how about it?-’ How many innocent bystanders did she cut down with that damn cannon?”

  “Don’t sell her short,” chuckled Jim, as he sank into a chair. “The only jasper she stung was the skunk who had it coming. Bullivant would have back-shot me, if . .

  “That’s the truth,” frowned Harriet. “It goes to prove how much a man like Kane Magnus can influence a whole community. A year ago, I swear Abner Bullivant wouldn’t have dared try to shoot anybody. It’s my hunch he’d do anything to please Magnus, and he’s not the only one.”

  “Is Bullivant dead?” demanded Willy.

  “Not dead,” said Jim. “But sore—plenty sore. I think he’ll keep that pistol in its holster from now on.”

  Willy finished drinking the coffee, ordered his wife to check on the condition of Jim’s arm-wound.

  “Let me,” begged Trish.

  But neither Jim nor Harriet would permit this.

  “If you’ve never patched a bullet-wound before, young Trish,” said Harriet, “this is no time for you to begin. Doc Hayward has his hands full with Benito so, if you made a hash of Jim’s wound, things could get mighty serious. You pour some of that coffee for Jim, then hustle into the bar and fetch some whiskey.”

  Stripped to the waist, Jim chain-smoked and submitted to Harriet’s brisk and efficient ministrations. The bullet-gash was not so deep as to be dangerous and, mercifully, there was no indication of infection. Some of Trish’s self-confidence left her; her jauntiness became subdued, when she looked at the wound.

  “That’s no pretty sight,” muttered Jim. “It’s better you don’t look at it.”

  “Oh, my!” she breathed.