“Let’s take one thing at a time,” suggested Jim. “We need a place quite a ways from town, some ranch or farm where Magnus’ bunch can be drawn. At this same time, Nate and Selma will be married somewhere else. That’s the first part of the plan, and I shouldn’t have to tell you that we’ll all need to keep our mouths shut.”
“Selma and her folks have to be told,” protested Nathan.
“Sure,” agreed Jim. “But not right away, not so soon that one of them might say a wrong word at the wrong time and tip our hand.”
“Burt McRowan would let you use his farm,” opined Quaine, “even if he thought Magnus would burn it to the ground. He’d be glad to do it—for a chance at defeating Magnus.”
“McRowan has a sizeable farm,” Lomax explained to Jim, “It’s located a fair distance from the settlement. His son—the youngest—was killed by some of Magnus’ men. He has two other sons, and all three of them crave a chance to even their score with XL.”
“Poor Abby McRowan died from the shock,” murmured Harriet, “When she heard of her son’s death. I’d say Burt McRowan and his boys would give their right hands to make Magnus pay for that.”
“It sounds as though we could count on plenty of help from the McRowans,” frowned Jim.
“You can bet your life on it,” muttered Willy.
“Jim, you’ll have to tell us your whole plan, and I mean right here and now,” insisted Nathan. “Saturday morning is getting too darn close.”
“No need to hesitate, Rand,” said Lomax. “There’ll be no talk of it outside this room.”
“All right,” nodded Jim. “But I’ll need two messengers. Could one of McRowan’s sons ride to Mesilla Bend to meet the wedding guests and bring them to the wedding?”
“I reckon we could arrange that,” said Lomax. “And what about the other messenger?”
“That’ll be Mooney.” Jim stared hard at the little man. “You’ll be a messenger, but not like the McRowan boy. I want you to talk about the wedding at the McRowan farm.”
“You do?” blinked Mooney.
“Quietly,” said Jim, “and in or near the High Card Saloon.”
“Well—my gosh...!” began Mooney.
“The idea is for some of Magnus’ friends to overhear you,” Jim pointed out. “Magnus has to get the word, but we can’t expect him to believe an anonymous note, for instance, can we? He’ll be convinced—if he thinks he’s getting a little inside information, and if the word comes from one of his own friends.”
“Mr. Rand,” grinned Mooney, “you’re seven times sneakier than an old-man coyote—and I’ll be proud to do like you say.”
That meeting continued into the wee small hours of Friday morning. It was after midnight when Jeb Quaine saddled a horse and began the two hour ride to the McRowan farm to recruit the farmer and his sons to their cause. It was two hours later when all participants of the conspiracy finally retired to their beds. Every detail of the plan had been worked out and would be rigidly adhered to, and the result would mean defeat for the over-ambitious Kane Magnus. For a man of his caliber, ridicule was as lethal as a bullet in the heart. And ridicule would be the inevitable consequence of the scheme so painstakingly worked out by Big Jim.
By sunrise, the eldest of Burt McRowan’s sons was headed north for the landmark at which the Garfield-Wilkie clan would meet. According to Trish’s calculations, all the visitors would have reached Mesilla Bend by 1 a.m. of Saturday.
That Friday passed quietly, but with an undercurrent of tension in the atmosphere of San Rafael. It seemed the entire community was poised in expectation, trying to guess at the next violent act to be perpetrated by the minions of Kane Magnus. The gunman killed by Jim Rand was buried late Friday morning, and it was common knowledge that Trock’s sidekick, Gurney, was now accommodated in a bedroom of Doc Frome’s house and would be incapable of taking any part in XL’s affairs for quite some time to come. It was also known that Craig Vinson had left the territory and that another gunman, one George Gill, was suffering a badly damaged right hand. Was the all-powerful XL outfit being slowly whittled down? It seemed a great deal of damage had been caused by the advent of the big ex-sergeant.
Out at XL, on Friday afternoon, Magnus discussed the situation with his ramrod.
“As far as I’m concerned,” he told Storl, “the big fellow has signed his own death warrant.”
“That’s puttin’ it mild,” scowled Storl. “Any man that can put three of your hired hands down—he’s too dangerous to have around. I’ve already passed the word to the boys. Also I hinted there’d be a bonus for the gun that gets Rand. That okay by you?”
“Naturally,” nodded Magnus. “And now, what about the preacher, the organist, the marshal...?”
“Luke Johnson put the fear of hell into the Breens,” shrugged Storl. “It’s my hunch Breen won’t dare poke his nose outside of his house tomorrow, let alone show up at the chapel for the weddin’.”
“Who had they hired,” demanded Magnus, “to play the organ?” He added, loftily, “Not that it matters a damn.”
“This’ll give you a laugh,” grinned Storl. “Gurney told Nash all about it, after Nash helped tote him to Doc Frome’s house. You know Shadlow—no account runt that runs a bar on Calle Linares...?”
“I remember Shadlow. What of him?”
“It seems he’d agreed to play the organ at the hitchin’. Well, he won’t be playin’ no organ for a long time—maybe never—because Trock smashed his paws. And, before they fixed Shadlow, Trock and Gurney paid Lomax a little visit.”
“Fine,” grunted Magnus. “I’m sure we can rely on the marshal to do his duty.” He grinned blandly. “No organist. No preacher. No bridegroom! If Selma ever becomes Mrs. Nathan Page, it’ll be a miracle!”
Throughout that day, watching Main Street from the window of his room at the Drury House, Big Jim was well aware of the presence of a great many heavily-armed hard-cases. He assumed they were looking for him and, at intervals, he yearned to leave his room, descend to the street and challenge them. It wasn’t fear that kept him out of sight. Discretion was the better part of valor. He would trade lead with these desperadoes soon enough—but on his own terms.
Nathan, too, was keeping out of sight, while a busy Jebediah Quaine was visiting various friends and neighbors, borrowing as many rifles and shotguns—and as much ammunition—as people could spare. Perhaps Marshal Lomax would have handled this chore faster but, for the sake of keeping XL in ignorance of his change of heart, it seemed wiser for him to confine himself to his office. At the right time, he would be ready to move—and with his cleaned and oiled six-shooter holstered at his right hip.
At the High Card Saloon, one hour after sundown, Abner Bullivant was surprised to see Jefford Mooney conversing with an aged local over by the dice layout. Mooney’s presence in this or any other saloon was no surprise. It was his condition, the fact that he was obviously sober, that surprised Bullivant. Moreover he appeared spruce, well-barbered and extremely pleased with himself.
Bullivant’s mood was still sour; he had been the butt of many an unsympathetic jest after last night’s humiliation. It had taken Oscar Frome quite some time to prize every stinging pellet of buckshot out of the saloonkeeper’s over-padded hide. He wore several patches of adhesive plaster on his right cheek and neck and a considerable area of his anatomy was swathed in bandages. He was still smarting from the indignity of it all. Certainly he was in no mood to ride a hired horse all the way out to Trinidad Canyon. But, within a very short time, he would be doing exactly that.
His curiosity got the better of him. It appeared the aged local was somewhat staggered at what Mooney was telling him. Edging closer and cocking an ear, Bullivant overheard as much as Mooney intended he should.
“The whole durn shebang?” challenged the old man. “‘Way out to the McRowan place? But, doggone it...”
“That’s how it’s gonna be,” chuckled Mooney. “Well, heck, Roy, you know a smarter way to fool Kane Mag
nus? Instead of comin’ to the chapel at eleven o’clock, they’re all gonna be over to the McRowan place at ten. The preacher, the bride and groom and all the kinfolks...”
Bullivant’s heart beat faster, as he sidled away to the door leading to the rear. Here was an opportunity, he assured himself, a golden opportunity for consolidating the friendly overtures already made to the powerful Kane Magnus. Wasn’t Magnus the biggest man in the territory? There could be no doubt in that regard. In time, the High Card might well become Magnus’ town headquarters. Magnus was in the ascendant and would be grateful to those who showed him loyalty.
Blissfully unaware that he was being followed by Mooney, the pudgy saloonkeeper followed the back alley to an uptown livery stable. Here he rented a horse and, soon afterward, was riding out of San Rafael at a hard gallop, not enjoying the physical discomfort, but relishing the prospect of a sociable visit to the palatial XL headquarters.
As he rode through the gloom towards XL, it never occurred to Bullivant to pause and consider the future happiness of Nathan Page and Selma Garfield. Nor had it occurred to him that he had been duped, that he had become the unwitting tool of a company of conspirators sworn to engineer the downfall of the despotic Kane Magnus.
While the saloonkeeper rode to XL, the marshal of San Rafael paid a quiet visit to the Drury House. In the lobby, Anse Drury greeted him affably, and asked:
“You got a message for the big feller, Marshal?” Knowing Drury to be an avowed opponent of the Magnus faction, Lomax had no qualms about confiding the news.
“I won’t go up, Anse. You can give him the good word.”
“Good word?” grinned Drury. “You mean somebody fell for it?”
“Damn right,” nodded Lomax. “A special messenger is hightailing it out to XL at this very moment. And wait till you hear who he is!”
“Some XL gunslick, I’ll bet,” said Drury. “No? Well, Usher maybe, the barkeep at the High Card? No? Well—who then?”
“Bullivant himself,” said Lomax.
Drury guffawed, leaned back from the counter and slapped his knee.
“No!”
“Sure enough,” said Lomax. “Mooney tagged him all the way to the livery stable, and now he’s on his way to Trinidad Canyon.”
“That fat, greasy…” began Drury.
“Pass the word to Rand right away,” urged Lomax.
“Tell him we’ll all be ready to move out at the agreed time.”
The sounds of rippling piano music reached the ears of Abner Bullivant at 8.20 of that evening, as Perry Storl conducted him into the XL ranch house. He admired the alterations only recently completed to Magnus’ own specifications, the new drapes, the thick carpet along the ground-floor hall, all the other expensive appointments, and the ramrod’s laconic rejoinder was:
“Yeah. He likes to do things fancy.”
“He hired himself a piano-player, it sounds like,” remarked Bullivant.
“Hell, no,” said Storl. “That’s the boss himself. He’s a real educated hombre, didn’t you know? Plays the piano, reads books through from cover to cover. That piano was freighted all the way south from Denver.”
It pleased Magnus to refer to this sumptuously appointed room as the ‘salon’. The piano was mounted on a small dais. All the chairs and footstools were gilded and upholstered in velvet, and the carpet was even thicker than that in the hall. He was seated at the piano, puffing on a Havana and somewhat inexpertly performing a Chopin nocturne. It made no difference to Bullivant, who would not have known a Chopin nocturne from a honky tonk jig-tune.
Magnus stopped playing as Storl ushered the saloonkeeper in.
“Hello, Bullivant.” He nodded stiffly. “Did I invite you? I don’t think so.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Magnus,” grinned Bullivant. “I got news...”
“He claims it’s important,” Storl told his chief. “Else I’d never have brought him in.”
“Stay put, Perry,” ordered Magnus, as Storl made to quit the room. Then, eyeing the saloonkeeper impatiently, “All right—what’s it all about?”
“That weddin’ tomorrow,” said Bullivant. “I knew you’d want to know about...”
“I know all I need to know, Bullivant,” frowned Magnus. “It’s scheduled for eleven sharp at the Community Chapel. A lot of slow-witted rubes are going to turn out expecting to see the future Mrs. Kane Magnus married to a no-account carpenter. Well, believe me, they’re going to be disappointed. I have plans for the postponement of that little ceremony. The permanent postponement.”
“Listen, Mr. Magnus,” said Bullivant, “it won’t do you no good to bust in those church doors at eleven, because nobody’s gonna be there.’
Magnus’ eyes narrowed.
“What the devil are you talking about? Selma is superstitious. She thinks it’s unlucky to alter the time of a wedding.”
“She didn’t just alter the time. They even changed the place.”
“By Judas! You better know what you’re talking about, Bullivant!”
“I’m not supposed to know—but I do. They think it’s a real tight secret. Well, somebody got a mite loose-mouthed, and I happened to be listenin’.”
“Get to the point, man!”
“It won’t be eleven o’clock at the chapel. It’ll be ten o’clock—and they’re goin’ out of town. They’re gettin’ wed at the McRowan place.”
“A farmhouse!” gasped Magnus. “That’s plain crazy!”
“Hold on now,” interjected Storl. “It wouldn’t surprise me one little bit. Old Burt McRowan craves revenge for what happened to his youngest boy. He’d do anything to make you squirm...”
“No man makes me squirm!” snapped Magnus.
“McRowan knows how you feel about the Garfield girl,” Storl pointed out, “so he won’t miss a chance to help her get wed to somebody else.”
“The whole wedding party is goin’ out to the McRowan farm for the weddin’,” said Bullivant. “I knew you’d want to know, Mr. Magnus, so I got here just as fast as I could.”
“It oughtn’t surprise you,” Storl suggested. “Hell, you should’ve guessed they’d try somethin’.”
Magnus nodded slowly. An ugly grin creased his face, as he crooked a finger at his informant and ambled to the doorway.
“Come along to my office, Bullivant. I owe you a drink.”
A short time later, lounging behind his highly-polished desk and nursing a shot of bourbon, the master of XL listened again to Bullivant’s repetition of the conversation he had eavesdropped upon. Storl sat within reaching distance of the liquor cabinet, drinking, puffing on one of his employer’s Havanas. At the end of the saloonkeeper’s report, Magnus nodded calmly and remarked:
“You’re right, Perry. They were bound to try something—and this is it.”
“We got time—all the time we need,” Storl assured him, “to muss up their plans.” He added, nonchalantly, “if it’s all that important to you.”
“It’s more important than you realize, my friend,” frowned Magnus. “You can’t see further than the end of your nose, and that’s why you work for wages.” He gestured to the pictures of Selma. “I want her for myself. That’s one damn good reason for stopping this wedding. But there’s another reason. If I can’t stop it—if they get married after all—they’ll be proving that Kane Magnus isn’t invincible, isn’t so tough after all. He can be beaten. Anybody can make a fool of him—and get away with it.”
“Nobody’s gonna make a fool of you, I bet,” grinned Bullivant.
“Well...” Again the rancher grinned that ugly grin, “they can’t say they haven’t been warned. I told Selma I’d not stand by and see her given to another man. I told Page I’d never let him beat my time with Selma.”
“What time do we move out?” demanded Storl.
“How much time do we need?” countered Magnus. “How long to ride from Trinidad Canyon to the McRowan farm?”
“Couple hours,” said Storl. “Say two and a half hou
rs at most.”
“I want every gunhand ready to move out at exactly seven-thirty in the morning,” said Magnus. “Better make it seven-fifteen.”
“We head straight for the McRowan farm,” nodded Storl, “and wait for the weddin’ party to show?”
“I’ll plan a suitable counteraction after we arrive,” drawled Magnus. “We may surround the place and then move in as soon as the bridal party appears. Yes, I think that would be best.” He chuckled softly. “And I can’t wait to see the look on that carpenter’s face, when he climbs back onto his horse with twenty guns covering him.” He grinned amiably at the saloonkeeper.
“Certainly obliged to you for the information, Bullivant. I won’t forget you for this.”
“Anything else you want...” Bullivant gestured expansively, “all you got to do is ask.”
“The important thing now is discretion,” shrugged Magnus. “I’m sure I can rely on you to stay quiet about this. Tell nobody else what you overheard. Tell nobody else that you passed it on to me.” He jerked a thumb in a gesture of dismissal. “That’s all, Bullivant. You may go now.”
Storl downed his drink and strode out, tagged by the saloonkeeper. A few moments after the clatter of hooves was receding into the distance, the foreman returned to his employer’s office.
“While Bullivant was tellin’ you the score,” he challenged Magnus, “I was askin’ myself a question. Who could figure out such a plan—changin’ the weddin’ to a farm house and all that? I don’t see how Page could be all that smart, nor old Myron Garfield, nor the preacher. So?”
“Rand,” said Magnus, between his teeth. “It has to be Rand. One of my men put a bullet through Rand’s greaser sidekick, and this is Rand’s way of hitting back at me. Well, it won’t work, Perry.”
“I’ll pass the word to the boys,” Storl announced. “We’ll be ready to ride by seven-fifteen.”
“She’ll make a beautiful bride, won’t she?” Magnus was again staring at the pictures of Selma Garfield. “But not for Nathan Page, by Judas. Never for Nathan Page. She’ll be mine—nobody else’s! Only mine!”
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