Big Jim 6

by Marshall Grover

  “Glad you threw in with us?” grinned Baggot.

  “This is the life for me,” Burch assured him. “Fat profits and not much risk.”

  “Scarce any risk,” drawled Williams.

  “As a gambler who hates to lose,” Baggot dryly jibed at Burch, “it’s only natural you’d appreciate our system.”

  “Does any gambler enjoy losing?” shrugged Burch.

  “Well,” frowned Baggot, “some take their losses like gentlemen.”

  “When you gamble,” retorted Burch, “there are no gentlemen. There are only winners and losers.”

  Those sentiments would have won Jim Rand’s immediate interest, had he been able to overhear them. And he would have been even more interested in the appearance of the man who expressed this philosophy, for Burch was a sandy-haired dandy with a fondness for pearl jewelry and neat brandy. Burch was Jenner, the sore loser, the cunning cardsharp who, when thwarted, would never hesitate to kill—provided his adversary’s back was turned.

  Chapter Two

  The Gardner Fury

  Pat McNear had slightly miscalculated the time that would elapse before his reunion with his lady-love; he hadn’t expected to see the Gardners for another three days. It was early afternoon of the following day when, from where he labored in the hay-loft of the big CG barn, he stared out across the lush green pastures and spotted the familiar four-seater buggy hauled by the high-stepping bays. They were headed home—the master of CG, his wife, his foreman and, most important of all, his comely daughter.

  The elated Pat took time to wash his face and hands and don a clean shirt, while the rig approached the ranch buildings at a steady clip. The driver was lean, gaunt, laconic Webb Haines, and he was more than foreman at CG; he was Clem Gardner’s best friend and godfather to the beautiful Molly. At fifty, he was as flat-bellied and as leather-tough as any strapping thirty-year-old, a craggy-faced veteran with little sense of humor but a fair element of sentiment in his character.

  “Old spread,” he grunted to the bulky man seated beside him, “looks like it’s still in good shape.”

  “My range looks bare,” scowled the bulky man. “Where in tarnation’s the pay-herd? Any rustler could ride in and steal every critter—includin’ the spare horses and the milkin’ cows—with that no-account whippersnapper settin’ by, too blame stupid to know a thief from a parson.”

  “Clem Gardner,” chided the thin woman seated directly behind him, “that’s no fitting way to speak of the young man who’ll likely become our son-in-law.”

  “If he gets to be our son-in-law,” snorted Gardner, “it’ll mean our daughter is twice as loco as him."

  “He is not loco,” protested Molly Gardner. She was twenty, blonde, hazel-eyed and the prettiest spinster in Quinn County. “You never treat him fairly, Dad, because you’re prejudiced. If only you’d take a second look at him—think about him more—you’d maybe learn to appreciate him.”

  “One look is enough,” retorted Gardner. “As for thinkin’ about him, it only makes my head ache. I must’ve been out of my natural mind, lettin’ you females talk me into leavin’ him to boss the ranch.”

  “Land’s sakes, Clem Gardner,” frowned his spouse. “You had to leave somebody in charge.”

  “Sure,” he agreed. “But it didn’t have to be him. I’d as soon have made Coogan or Wicks or even old Lonny Doan my temporary ramrod.”

  “You’ll change your opinion of my Patrick,” Molly confidently predicted. “When we get home, you’ll see what a fine job he did for you while we were gone, and then maybe you’ll show your appreciation.”

  “If we find he set fire to the house—just remember,” growled Gardner, “leavin’ him in charge was your idea.”

  “Everything looks fine from here,” offered the ramrod.

  “Where’s the pay-herd?” wondered Gardner.

  “Best place for ’em would be the north pasture,” drawled Haines. “That’s where they’ll be grazin’ right now, I reckon.”

  “There’s Patrick now!” cried Molly. She rose to wave eagerly. “Coming out of the bunkhouse ...!”

  “Sit down, child,” murmured Lorna Gardner. “It doesn’t pay to let a man think you’re hankering for him.”

  “Patrick knows how I feel about him,” smiled Molly, as she resumed her seat. “We have no secrets from each other.”

  “Let me in on one secret,” her father sourly countered. “How’d he manage to get full-grown—without some hombre shootin’ him? We shoot horses with busted legs to put ’em out of their misery. We shoot coyotes and rattlesnakes and all kinds of pests—so how come McNear should live so long?”

  “Clem Gardner,” gasped his spouse. “That’s a terrible thing to say!”

  The veteran ramrod grinned inwardly. His almost extinct sense of humor could still appreciate Lorna’s droll habit of addressing her husband by his full name. Never just ‘Clem’. Always ‘Clem Gardner’. It was as though, after twenty-two years as his marriage partner, she still thought it necessary to identify him.

  “Don’t fret about Dad,” Molly advised her mother. “He’ll have to admit that Patrick is a smart cattleman, sooner or later. All Patrick needs is a chance to prove himself.”

  Cowpokes lethargically materialized, as the buggy rolled to a halt in the front yard. All doffed their hats, and a couple decided to unload the baggage packed behind the rear seat at once, instead of waiting for their cantankerous boss to bawl commands at them. The beaming Pat McNear doffed his Stetson with a flourish, greeted the Gardners and the ramrod, and then proudly announced the sale of the pay-herd.

  Gardner stood very still, a cigar half-raised to his mouth, his gaze fixed on Pat’s smiling face.

  “You did—what?” he challenged, with his voice shaking.

  “Sold ’em all, boss,” grinned Pat. “Well, all the good stuff, you know? All the prime beeves—all five hundred of ’em.”

  “How in blue blazes could you sell ’em?” demanded Gardner. “Who’d buy ’em? The Association says there’ll be no buyers comin’ to Quinn County till next month.”

  “Well, I guess Mr. Baggot and his sidekicks are startin’ early,” shrugged Pat.

  “Baggot?” blinked Gardner. “I never heard of him.”

  “He buys for a big combine,” explained Pat. “The Haywood-Todd outfit.”

  “I never heard of them either!” said Gardner, raising his voice.

  “Colorado outfit, I guess,” said Pat. “Mr. Baggot did say he was headed for Denver.”

  Finally, Gardner voiced the question that filled him with dread. He perspired. He mopped at his brow, traded glances with the frowning Webb Haines, and then:

  “How much did—did they pay?” he asked.

  “You’re gonna be mighty pleased, boss,” asserted Pat. “Yes, siree. You’re gonna jump for joy, when I tell you ...”

  “How much?” bellowed Gardner, turning purple.

  “Fifty-five hundred,” beamed Pat. “He figured to offer me eight dollars and fifty cents, but I ...”

  “You said—fifty-five hundred?” mumbled Gardner, gaping incredulously. “Five thousand—five hundred?”

  “That’s it,” nodded Pat. “He only wanted to pay eight and a half per head, but I held out for eleven. I said eleven dollars for every prime steer, or no deal. Well, I finally broke him down, and that was that. He paid in cash, too.”

  “Cash?” The rancher started convulsively. “Are you tellin’ me you’ve stashed fifty-five hundred dollars of my money in the house? Damn and blast—I don’t have a safe! Where’d you hide it?”

  “You don’t need to fret about the money,” grinned Pat. “I’ve been takin’ real good care of it—and here it is.”

  He tugged the bulging wad from his hip-pocket, placed it in Clem Gardner’s trembling hand. The rancher made gulping, gasping, choking sounds, as he fingered the bills. He mumbled something unintelligible. Molly and her mother watched him, both radiantly smiling, as he checked the tally. “It’s—all he
re!” he breathed. Again, he whirled and stared at his ramrod. “You hear what I’m sayin’, Webb? Fifty-five hundred! More than enough to settle my debts! I can ride into town and—and face up to Darius King and—pay him off—get myself off the hook ...!”

  He quivered with excitement, while Webb Haines was thinking, “It’s no wonder you were always such a lousy poker-player, Clem. You never did learn to hide your feelings. I swear I never knew a man so easy to figure.”

  Aloud, he said:

  “This is what you’ve been waitin’ for, Clem.”

  “I’d have settled for seven dollars a head!” panted Gardner. “As I live and breathe, Webb, I never believed I could get better than seven a head. And this boy ...” he turned to the grinning Pat, transferred the wad to his left hand and offered his right, “this smart-as-paint young feller—he bamboozled some slick cattle-buyer into payin’ eleven a head! Pat—my boy—my son ...!” He seized Pat’s hand and pumped it. “There ain’t enough words to tell you how I feel. I’m choked up—all the way up to here …” The wad of bills was raised to his throat to indicate the extent to which he was ‘choked up’. “I swear I don’t know what to say to you ...”

  “What did I tell you?” challenged Molly. “Didn’t I say he was the best man you ever hired?”

  “All this time you’ve been calling this fine young man a no-account, Clem Gardner,” his wife reminded him. “And now ...?”

  “I’m apologizin’!” chuckled Gardner, as he pounded Pat’s back. “Forget it, son. Forget I ever spoke a mean word to you.”

  “It’s forgot,” shrugged Pat.

  “And, if you still crave to hitch up with Molly,” beamed Gardner, “you sure as heck got my blessin’. Welcome to the family, boy. Us Gardners’ll be proud to have you.”

  “Let’s start by having Patrick for supper tonight,” suggested Molly. For almost a year, she had clamored for recognition of her sweetheart’s sterling qualities, and now she wasn’t about to pass up any opportunities. “We’ll use the best silver, and you and Patrick will wear your Sunday suits.”

  “Anything you say, daughter!” chuckled Gardner. “Nothin’s too good for the man that—that pulled the old CG out of the rut of financial disaster.” He turned and reminded the ramrod, “I was near out of my mind—frettin’ about all those debts.”

  “Yeah,” grunted Haines, poker-faced. “I noticed.”

  “I can’t wait to see the look on Darius King’s face,” said Gardner, “when I face up to him and pay off my note in cash.” He brandished the wad of banknotes in high glee. “I can’t wait—and I won't wait! Webb, have somebody saddle me a horse. I’m ridin’ to Quinn City right away.”

  “There’s no rush,” opined Haines. “I mean—now that you got the dinero.”

  “Would you ask a thirsty man to wait,” retorted Gardner, “when he finds water in a desert? If I hustle, I could make Quinn City before the bank closes. Go on, Webb. Get a horse saddled for me.”

  “You oughtn’t be ridin’ to town all by yourself with that much dinero in your pocket,” decided Haines, “so I’ll get two horses saddled.”

  Ten minutes later, the owner and foreman of CG were on their way to the county seat, straddling fresh cow-ponies and racing them at breakneck speed. It was as though the years had left Clem Gardner; he was like a man reborn. He was younger, full of spirit and optimism and good humor.

  Bob Gill, the heavy-set, cigar-chewing sheriff of Quinn County, was taking his ease on the porch of the Hillary Hotel, when Gardner and the ramrod rode past. He waited for the dust-cloud to settle, before remarking to his checkers-playing companions, “It’s many a long year since Clem or Webb rode so almighty fast.”

  “Well, it couldn’t mean trouble,” granted one of his cronies, squinting after the two horsemen. “They’re stoppin’ outside of the bank—not the county jail nor the doc’s house.”

  “They saw me anyway,” shrugged Gill. “If they needed me, all they had to do was stop right here.”

  A cashier was in the act of closing the front door, when the men of CG came hustling in. He greeted them courteously and, in response to Gardner’s query, assured them the manager was still in his office and would be delighted to see them. Darius King, portly and genial, opened the door of his private sanctum at that moment, sighted the two old-timers and called a welcome. Despite the fact that Gardner had become heavily indebted to the bank, the manager never lost sight of the fact that he was one of Quinn County’s founders, an early pioneer and deserving of the utmost respect.

  “Good to see you, Clem. Hello there, Webb. Come on in and make yourselves comfortable. How are things in San Miguel?”

  As they strode into King’s office, Haines announced, “That bank-thief ain’t gonna shoot no more cashiers for quite a spell. San Miguel judge gave him twenty years.”

  “I heard Mrs. Gardner and Miss Molly went along for the ride,” smiled King, as he gestured them to chairs and seated himself at his desk.

  “Lorna’s got a second cousin in San Miguel,” shrugged Gardner. “Hankered to visit with her a spell.” Now that his great moment had come, he was determined to live it to the full, to prolong it, to savor every detail. “And how’ve you been, Darius?”

  “Middling,” said King. “A slight stomach complaint. Nothing serious. Doc Marlowe has it under control. And you, Clem?”

  “Never felt so good in years,” drawled Gardner. He accepted a cigar from King, then a light. Leaning back in his chair, he blew a smoke-ring and watched it waft towards the ceiling. “Darius—how much would it take to get me out of the red? Last time we talked business, I owed this bank quite a passel.”

  “It wouldn't take but a few moments to ascertain the precise figure,” frowned King. “I’m—uh—glad you raised the subject, Clem. Head office has been clamoring for a substantial lessening of the amount involved. They expect a payment from you within a few weeks.”

  He raised his voice to call the cashier. When that impassive employee thrust his head into the office, he was requested to fetch a certain ledger. He did so, after which King gave him permission to leave. It took King only a few moments to leaf through the ledger and locate a certain entry.

  “Go ahead,” Gardner airily offered. “Name it.”

  “Well—including interest,” said King, “it amounts to three thousand, four hundred and seventy-two dollars—give or take a few cents.”

  “That’s okay,” said Gardner, and he shrugged nonchalantly as he produced the fat roll of bills given him by Pat McNear. “Help yourself, Darius. Take it out of this.”

  “Good grief!” breathed King. “Did you hold up a San Miguel stage—or hit a winning streak at some gambling house ...?”

  “Young Pat McNear, my future son-in-law, sold five hundred head of CG stock for eleven dollars a head. Go on, Darius,” offered Gardner. “Count out how much I owe the bank, and then I’ll be on my way. Got to be home for supper. We’re havin’ young Pat eat with us tonight. Might’s well get used to havin’ him around the house, seein’ as how him and Molly are gonna be wed soon.”

  King began counting. Gardner puffed another smoke-ring. Haines sat with his back ramrod-straight and his battered Stetson resting on his knees. Matters of high finance were somewhat beyond his ken. He was here only to ensure that his chief made it safely to the bank and home again.

  Abruptly, King stopped counting. He rose up, toted several of the banknotes across to the window, the better to examine them. He held them up to the light. He returned to his desk and, one by one, subjected each and every bill to a close scrutiny. Gardner’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Darius—what the hell d’you think you’re doin’?”

  “Somethin’ wrong?” demanded Haines.

  “I’m sorry for you, Clem, extremely sorry,” sighed King, as he made a neat stack of the bills and returned them to the rancher. “This will be a tremendous blow to you. The loss of five hundred prime beeves—added to your debt to the bank ...”

  “Wh-what ...?
” gasped Gardner.

  “Those bills are worthless, Clem,” said King.

  “You mean ...?” began Haines.

  “Counterfeit,” said King. “Every one of them. Clever fakes—but fakes nevertheless. Yes, those buyers paid young McNear in counterfeit notes.”

  “No ...!” It began as a frantic denial and ended as a strangled yelp, as Gardner’s voice soared. “They couldn’t!”

  “They’ve done it, Clem,” growled Haines. “Took the boy for the whole herd—every critter that was ready for market.”

  “A variation on the fine art of cattle rustling,” mused King. “Instead of trying to drive off the herd in darkness and having a running fight with your nighthawks, they operate in broad daylight, pretending to purchase stock, paying for it with worthless paper. How many cattlemen could detect a forged bill? Not many. And so …”

  “I’ll massacre him!” yelled Gardner.

  “Steady now, amigo,” soothed Haines.

  “I’ll break every bone in his fat head!” roared Gardner. “I’ll shoot holes through his no-good carcass, and then I’ll drag him to the Canadian River and drown him with my own two hands!”

  “I dunno as it’s any use blamin’ the boy,” muttered Haines. He got to his feet. “Clem, you better let me have one of those bills. I’ll give it to the sheriff, and you can bet he’ll round up a posse and start huntin’ those thieves. Also, he’ll need to send a sample of the fake bills to the federal authorities, I think.”

  “Ruined!” groaned Gardner. “I’ll be ruined ...!”

  It was melodrama on the grand scale, the scene enacted at CG some seventy minutes later. When Gardner stormed into the ranch-house parlor, he found Pat McNear seated in his own favorite chair, wearing a smug grin and his Sunday suit, while Molly and her mother excitedly discussed wedding plans. Molly’s eyes flashed angrily and she unleashed a torrent of reproach at her father, as he furiously abused the suddenly alarmed Pat. Lorna added to the confusion by contributing much wailing and sobbing—loudly.