Big Jim 12

by Marshall Grover

  “Sit down, child,” ordered Harriet.

  “As soon as you’re through patching me,” Jim told Harriet, “I’d like to get washed up and go check on Ben—”

  “You won’t have far to go,” offered Willy. “The Hayward house is at the end of Calle Linares. You can’t miss

  “Everything seems different now,” mused Trish. “Until a couple of days ago, we never believed there’d be an end to it. But now—things are happening so fast...”

  “I said this to Nathan and Benito, and I still believe it,” drawled Jim. “Saturday’s wedding is a symbol, proof of the balance of power in this territory. If Magnus doesn’t stop it, he’ll be laughed at—not just behind locked doors, but out in the open. When people start laughing at a man like Magnus, he’s finished.”

  “And so?” demanded Harriet, as she applied balm to his wound.

  “I’m not ready to quit,” he declared, quietly and without bravado. “I won’t be ready to quit—until Magnus is finished.”

  “He sure is doin’ his damnedest to make life miserable for us,” complained Willy.

  “You can bet it wasn’t any accident that brought Gurney and Trock here tonight. They were sent by Magnus, and Magnus knew I’d promised to play the organ at the weddin’.”

  “Speaking of a weddin’,” frowned Jim, “where’s Nathan?”

  “He was visiting with us a little while ago,” said Trish. “When I heard the people running past, I got curious and came out to take a look. I’m not sure about Nathan, but I think he was right behind me.”

  “I’d better check on him before I go visit Benito,” decided Jim.

  But he was spared this necessity. A few moments after he had re-donned his bloodied shirt, the carpenter called to them from beyond the outer door. Harriet admitted him—a somewhat different Nathan. He looked the same, as he entered the kitchen in company of the burly Jebediah Quaine and the self-effacing Jeff Mooney. Not until Jim noticed his skinned knuckles and the dazed expression in his eyes was the change apparent.

  “I’ve been a pacifist all these years,” he humbly assured the Shadlows and his future sister-in-law. “Swore I wanted no part of any fight, any bloodshed.”

  “Men do what they must do, Nathan,” rumbled the blacksmith.

  “Yeah,” grunted Mooney. “A man can only take so much.”

  Jim studied the barfly in some surprise. Maybe ex-bar-fly was the correct term to describe Mooney now. His clothes were brushed. He was freshly shaven and didn’t appear quite as helpless as the befuddled misfit who, on the day of Jim’s arrival in San Rafael, had been taking a beating in the main street. Jim transferred his attention to the embarrassed Nathan.

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  “Well, I suppose some of Magnus’ hardcases were bound to attack me sooner or later,” frowned Nathan. “I followed Trish out of the store, after telling Selma and her parents to stay behind. And then, When I was passing the alley between the emporium and the bank, this gunhawk barred my way. One of Magnus’ men for sure, but I don’t know his name. He—he ordered me to hurry on back to my workshop and—start building a coffin. I asked—Who for? And he said—for myself. He said I’d need it in a hurry, if I tried to marry Selma.” Dazedly, he raised his right hand to examine his skinned knuckles. “I guess I must’ve—lost my head.”

  “You laid one on his jaw, it looks like,” observed Jim.

  “Knocked him down.” Nathan nodded slowly. “He rose up and dashed right at me, swinging a punch. I dodged out of his way and his fist struck the wall of the bank. It was—a very hard punch. The way he yelled—I think he must’ve broken several fingers—or maybe the whole hand. He didn’t want to fight any more. He just ambled out of the alley and headed for the High Card Saloon. It was right afterwards that I met Jeb and Mooney.”

  “This hombre you tangled with,” prodded Jim, “did you notice which side he wore his gun—and which hand he damaged?”

  “It was his right hand,” said Nathan. “And he wore his gun on that side.”

  “Another XL gun out of action,” drawled Jim. “Friends, I think the time has come for us to hold a little parley, a council of war. This wedding is scheduled for the day after tomorrow, so time is running out—for everybody.”

  Chapter Seven – The Strategist

  Alone in the gloom, Marshal Keefe Lomax stood on the porch of his office and listened to the sounds issuing from the general direction of the High Card. He wasn’t about to go and investigate; the sense of futility still weighed him down, confining him to his office. A passer-by, so old as to be a neutral, paused to tell him the score.

  “That big stranger just beat a couple XL hands, Keefe. You ‘member Trock and Gurney...?”

  “I’m never likely to forget Trock or Gurney,” sighed Lomax.

  “Trock’s dead,” said the old-timer, “and Gurney’s so sore—I bet he wishes he was as dead as Trock. Quite a hassle it was. Well, it just goes to prove any man can be licked, huh, Keefe?”

  “Any man.” Lomax nodded in moody agreement. “Yeah. I learned that for myself.”

  He drifted back into his office, lit his lamp and settled down to the slow, inexorable routine of drinking himself into oblivion, an oblivion troubled nowadays by bad dreams. Later, when he was only halfway through the bottle, Quaine and Mooney came in. The little man closed the door and stood with his back to it, While the blacksmith advanced to the desk to stare down at the slack-jawed, baggy-eyed lawman.

  “Keefe, you’re gonna be needed now.” Quaine declared this in his heavy, forthright way. “We’re having a meeting—to decide some way of getting Nathan and Selma wed.”

  “Better be quiet about it,” mumbled Lomax. “Magnus wouldn’t approve.”

  “We’re meeting in Willy Shadlow’s back room,” said Quaine. “You know what’s been happening this night, Keefe? And today?”

  “I know Trock’s dead and Gurney’s hurt bad,” shrugged Lomax.

  “Did you know our preacher has been threatened?” challenged Quaine. He had visited the Breens. In conversation with this mountainous pillar of their church, the preacher and his wife hadn’t hesitated to recount their harrowing experience of that afternoon. Now, Quaine described the incident to Lomax and added an account of the assault committed on the hapless Willy Shadlow. “We can no longer judge them as human beings, Keefe. They’re no better than bloodthirsty animals.”

  “Bloodthirsty animals,” sighed Lomax, “who have us outnumbered. We’re a captive community, Jebediah, and we can’t do a thing about it.”

  “There’s plenty we can do,” interjected Jefford Mooney. “I reckon Mr. Rand is provin’ it.”

  About to pour himself a refill, Lomax blinked uncertainly at the barfly.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “You look sober.”

  “I’ve been sober ever since, Marshal,” said Mooney.

  “Ever since...?” began Lomax.

  “That beatin’ I took.” Mooney grinned forlornly, raised a hand to his still-bandaged head. “I was too scared to get drunk again, Marshal. They proved somethin’ to me, those XL fellers. They proved just how helpless a man is—when he’s drunk—too drunk to even try to run away from ’em.” He grinned again, as he shook his head and declared, “I’m through with liquor, Marshal. And, if anybody’s gonna fight Kane Magnus, I want to lend a hand.”

  “You’re a better man than I am,” muttered Lomax. “You aren’t the only man who took a beating from Magnus’ gunhawks, but there’s a difference. I’m not hitting back. I’m finished.”

  He refilled his mug, but couldn’t raise it to his mouth. Gently, but firmly, Quaine had reached over and seized his wrist.

  “You’re the same as Mooney,” growled the ‘smith. “You’ve had your last drink.”

  “Let go of me, Jebediah,” frowned Lomax.

  “I’ll say what I have to say,” asserted Quaine. “When I’ve finished, you can hide inside that bottle for the rest of your days—or y
ou can honor your responsibilities.”

  “You don’t speak of honor,” Lomax bitterly chided, “when you speak to a man like me—a burnt-out failure.”

  The bearded visage of Jebediah Quaine became very grim. His grip increased.

  “She would grieve,” he declared, “to hear you speak this way.”

  “Who?” frowned Lomax.

  “Anna,” said Quaine.

  “That’s enough,” growled Lomax. “You have no right to bring her name into this. Let the dead rest easy, Jebediah.”

  “I have the right—more right than you know,” said the ‘smith. “You never realized it, and I never spoke of it before. There was nothing to gain. No good could be done by telling you...”

  “Telling me what?”

  “There was a time, Keefe, when she might have been mine.”

  “What?”

  “I tell you no lie, Keefe. Remember Gibson’s Ford, where we first met—where you courted Anna? I was there first, my friend. We were very close—Anna and me. And then you came and, after awhile, she had to make a decision, had to choose between us.”

  “I never knew, Jebediah,” breathed Lomax, and he stared up at the blacksmith as though seeing him for the first time.

  “There is more you should know,” muttered Quaine. “You should know what she told me, When she promised to marry you.” He let go of Lomax’s wrist, glanced over his shoulder at Mooney. “This is in confidence, little man.”

  “That’s okay,” grunted Mooney. “I’ll forget it after I hear it.”

  “For pity’s sake, Jebediah...” began Lomax.

  “Hear me,” insisted Quaine.

  “All right,” said Lomax.

  “I demanded an explanation. I was angry at that time,” Quaine recalled. “Her answer has stayed in my mind through the years. Your allegiance to duty, Keefe, was the quality that drew her to you. That—more than anything else.”

  “Oh, hell...” groaned Lomax.

  “Any man willing to sacrifice himself for the welfare of his fellow-citizens...”

  “Stop it, Jeb. Don’t say any more.”

  “…is very special. A man who’d never be selfish…”

  “Jeb...”

  “That’s what she told me,” finished Quaine. “I was still angry, Keefe, but my anger was overcome in time. I’ve held you in respect since those days, and even tried to understand how you felt, after Trock and Gurney and the others beat you so mercilessly. But you can’t mourn Anna forever—nor cower in fear of further pain.”

  Lomax stared fixedly at his bottle. It was uncorked; he had only to lift it and tip it to fill the mug.

  “Maybe I was worthy of her admiration,” he muttered, “that many years ago. But not anymore.”

  “Stay then,” said Quaine, straightening up. “Take refuge in your bottle. Betray Anna’s memory.”

  He turned towards the door. Then, just as Mooney was about to open it, Lomax got to his feet and said:

  “Wait. I’m coming with you.”

  The kitchen behind Shadlow’s Bar looked overcrowded after Lomax, Quaine and Mooney joined the group awaiting them there, yet the meeting was very quiet. Willy sat beside his spouse, his bandaged hands still resting on the table. Nathan stood by the rear window, staring out at the back alley. Trish occupied the room’s only other chair, while Jim perched on the edge of the table. He had returned just a few moments before Quaine, the marshal and Mooney, after a brief visit to the Hayward house.

  “The Mex will live,” he told Lomax. “No thanks to XL.”

  “Well—I’m glad,” frowned Lomax.

  “Good to see you, Marshal,” said Nathan.

  “I guess you had to drag him all the way?” Jim asked Quaine.

  “He came voluntarily,” announced Quaine.

  “Don’t let’s waste time with back-talk, Rand,” suggested Lomax. “I mightn’t look like much of a lawman...”

  “Without a gun, you don’t,” said Jim.

  “I’ll fetch my gun when needs be,” Lomax assured him. “Meantime. I have nothing to gain by advertising. The XL bunch think they’ve got me licked. Well, I was licked, until a few minutes ago.”

  “The marshal’s through with drinkin’,” Mooney mildly informed the gathering. “Him and me both. We’re temperance now.”

  “It’s a long time since I gave any thought to fighting the XL outfit,” said Lomax, “so I’m a mite out of practice—I don’t have any ideas yet. How about you, Rand?”

  “Just one idea,” drawled Jim. “The wedding is important.”

  “Yeah.” Lomax nodded understanding. “Mighty important.”

  “This community—the people who lick Magnus’ boots, the people who hate his innards,” said Jim, “wait for Saturday, to find out if Magnus can make good on his threat. Will Selma Garfield become Nathan’s wife—or won’t she?”

  “The wedding,” Lomax repeated, “is mighty important.”

  “You’ve seen the XL outfit in action,” said Jim. “What’s your hunch as to how Magnus will act—how will he try to stop the wedding?”

  Lomax said it grimly. “All he needs do is post his hired guns in and around the chapel.”

  “Does he have enough men?” asked Jim.

  “You ought to know,” shrugged Lomax.

  “Trock is dead,” said Jim. “Gurney won’t be fighting any fights for quite a spell. I broke the gun-arm of that flashy young ’un…”

  “Craig Vinson,” interjected Trish.

  “Another XL man tried to jump Nathan a little while ago,” Jim told the marshal. “This hombre swung on Nathan, missed, batted his gun-hand against a wall.”

  “That hand won’t be much use to him,” opined Nathan, “for gunplay.”

  “According to my tally, that leaves Magnus all of twenty guns,” said Lomax, “not counting Storl or Magnus himself. We have to face a hard fact, Rand. Magnus can make that chapel mighty hard to reach.”

  A small voice—Trish’s—intruded a lugubrious lament. “I was so looking forward to walking down that center aisle in front of Selma and Dad, always did want to be a bridesmaid, all prettied up in a white gown...”

  “And I was gonna play the organ for that weddin’,” growled Willy.

  “Let’s not all wail in chorus,” chided the doughty Harriet. “Somebody has to think of something.”

  She looked at Jim as she said that. He met her gaze, grinned wryly and said, “Thanks for the compliment, Harriet. You’re taking it for granted I can figure a way out?”

  “You’ve fought in wars,” said Harriet. “You’ve had to be responsible for the lives of men serving under you. You had to think fast, make plans in a hurry. Yes, Jim. I have faith in you.”

  “Why don’t we take the bride and groom away from San Rafael—real quiet?” Mooney offered this suggestion nervously, as though wondering how such a shrewd idea could have originated from his humble self. “We just—uh—sneak ’em away and get ’em wed someplace else.”

  “Only trouble with that idea,” fretted Nathan, “is there’ll be forty or more wedding guests, kin of the Garfields arriving on Saturday morning. They’ll come straight to San Rafael, and...”

  “Where from?” demanded Jim.

  “From all over,” said Trish. “But they’ll probably meet up north of here, at Mesilla Bend, just like last time, and then all come on south together.” She smiled wistfully.

  “It’ll look like an emigrant train—except there’ll be more surreys than Conestogas.”

  “You said just like last time?” prodded Jim.

  “A couple years back,” Trish explained, “when Grandma Garfield died. Everybody came for the funeral.”

  Jim eyed her thoughtfully. “All those wedding guests could be intercepted at this bend...?” he challenged.

  “Mesilla Bend,” she nodded.

  “Intercepted?” blinked Nathan. “Hold on now, Jim. Whatever happens, we oughtn’t postpone the wedding. It’d be like admitting Magnus is boss of the whole territory.”r />
  “I don’t aim to postpone this wedding,” Jim assured him. “I want to stand up with you Saturday morning, Nate, and I want to be first to kiss the bride—after you.”

  “Well—what...?” began Nathan.

  “We’re gonna change the place is all,” said Jim. “You can’t get married at the chapel without a fight. None of us are scared to fight XL, but we want at least an even chance of winning. Also, Who wants a gunfight in a church?”

  “It better be a close-kept secret, I’ll tell you that,” warned Lomax. “If Magnus got word of your plans...”

  “That’s exactly what I want,” drawled Jim.

  Silence. His listeners traded wondering glances. Trish was first to find her voice. She began a protest.

  “But, Jim! If Magnus knows Where the wedding will be...”

  “Marshal—Jeb—Willy,” interrupted Jim. “You all know how Magnus works. What’s your opinion? What do you figure he’ll do, if he gets the word that Selma and Nate are to be married out of town? Let’s suppose, for instance, they’re gonna be married at some ranch-house quite a distance from San Rafael?”

  “You could bet your last dollar on what he’d do,” muttered Willy.

  “He’d move against you,” opined Quaine.

  “He’d take his whole outfit to that ranch,” said Lomax. “There’d be a raid, a shootout...”

  “Well—that’s what I want to do,” announced Jim. He grinned blandly at them, as he began rolling a cigarette. “We need somebody’s far-out ranch, or somebody’s far-out farm. We need for Magnus to hear that the wedding is gonna be held at that place instead of at the chapel.”

  That declaration won him blank stares from all save Lomax, who trudged over to scratch a match for his cigarette. He grunted his thanks for the light, blew a smoke-ring. Lomax grinned faintly, as he asked:

  “Exactly where would the wedding be? I savvy what you’re getting at, Rand. You want to draw the whole XL outfit miles away from where Nathan and Selma are to be married. But just where will they be married?”

  “If I told you,” said Jim, “you’d say I was out of my mind.”

  “I swear I don’t understand what you...” began Nathan.