“Yeah.” Jim nodded thoughtfully. “I did get the idea that Carrick and Rowenstock were old pards.”
“And what kind of a hombre is this Rowenstock?” enquired Pat.
“Old,” frowned Jim. “Quiet. A mite lazy, maybe.”
“Some badge-toters,” asserted Pat, “are just as crooked as any bandido.”
“Not all lawmen,” Jim pensively conceded, “are one hundred percent honest.” He finished eating, reached for his coffee cup. “Well, it seems I’ll have to tread wary with friendly old Sheriff Rowenstock—till I can be dead certain about him.” Having disposed of his coffee, he began building his after-lunch cigarette. “You say you heard talk of Carrick?”
“Oh, sure,” nodded Pat. “He’s kind of a novelty in this territory, because he runs a gold-mine as well as a ranch. All the old-timers say he’ll get calluses instead of gold. Nobody ever made a strike in Tascosa County.”
“Tascosa County has possibilities,” opined Jim. “I keep thinking of their reactions—Carrick and his friend—when I showed them the picture of Jenner. Carrick must be a fine poker-player. He was steady as a rock.”
“But his friend ...?” prodded Pat.
“Fretted and sweated,” Jim recalled. “Uh huh. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, Carrick’s friend is one mighty worried hombre.” He scratched a match for his cigarette. “So—maybe it’s too early for us to move on. We ought to hang around awhile, keep our eyes peeled and our ears cocked.” To the Mex, he suggested, “You could help. When it comes to snooping, you’re quite an expert.”
“Ask anything of me, and I obey.” Benito gestured expansively. “You tell me to snoop—por cierto! I snoop!”
By mid-afternoon, when Carrick and Emhart returned to the ranch-house in the shadow of Powder Mountain, the boss-thief’s ire had cooled slightly. He was still furious, but his fury was under control. He would be coldly deliberate, rather than hot-headed, when he expelled the man who called himself Burch.
Emhart made straight for the track leading up to the secret tunnel, while Carrick strode into the ranch house.
Chapter Seven
The Challenge
During Carrick’s bitter harangue, the sardonic Sam Williams wisely refrained from comment. He sat by the parlor window, gnawing on an unlit cigar and listening intently. Jenner, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, recoiled from Carrick’s cold fury.
“You’re like a powder-keg with a short fuse,” Carrick grimly pointed out, “or a maverick with Texas fever—wandering among healthy cattle—contaminating them! When I invited you to throw in with us, I made one provision, didn’t I? Remember that one question I asked you? I asked if you were on the run, and you lied to me, damn you!” His vicious back-hander caused Jenner to spin off-balance and flop across a chair. “You told me you were clean skinned!”
“I didn’t know ...!” began Jenner.
“Didn’t know you’d killed an army officer?” jeered Carrick. “What’s the matter, Jenner? You have a short memory, can’t recall back-shooting a certain Lieutenant Rand—in a town called San Marco? You damn-blasted fool!”
“I swear I thought they’d given up on me!” panted Jenner.
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” breathed Carrick. ‘The local law gave up. So did the Pinkertons and, after a preliminary search, the army had to abandon the case. But you reckoned without the lieutenant’s brother!”
“I didn’t even know Rand had a brother!” protested Jenifer. “Rand was just a smart-aleck soldier in a poker game.”
“And you had to lose your temper and shoot him—from behind,” scowled Carrick.
“This brother—who is he?” demanded Jenner, as he lurched to his feet.
“He used to be a sergeant in the same outfit,” muttered Carrick. “His name is Jim Rand. He’s big—and probably a smart hombre.”
“Well, damnitall,” fretted Jenner, “if he’s in Tascosa …”
“Exactly.” Carrick nodded slowly. “He’s too close for comfort and, when he catches up with you, it better not be on my range. I’m playing for high stakes, Jenner, and I can’t afford to get involved in your troubles.” He jerked a thumb. “You’ve been paid a share of our last haul. That’s all. Now you go. You saddle your own horse, pack your gear and vamoose. I want you off my land within thirty minutes. Is that clear?”
The murderer of Lieutenant Christopher Rand was in no position to argue. In haste, he quit the room. Carrick, still grim-faced, helped himself to a stiff shot of whisky, and Williams finally got around to commenting.
“That could’ve been awkward, Mace. Ver-ee awkward.”
“Worse than awkward,” growled Carrick. “For a long time, I’ve concentrated on establishing friendly relations with the local law. Jenner could’ve wrecked all my plans. One of Walt’s deputies might’ve turned leery, if he learned I was employing a wanted killer.”
“Lucky it was Emhart you took to town,” opined Williams, “and not Burch—I mean Jenner.”
“That lying son of a ...” began Carrick.
“About this Rand hombre,” interrupted Williams. “He’s dangerous, Mace. Specially if he’s travelin’ with young McNear.”
“No.” Carrick shook his head emphatically. “I honestly don’t believe we have anything to fear from Rand. He’s in cahoots with McNear, sure, but his big ambition is to find and punish Jenner. He’s a man-hunter, and man-hunters never stay long in any one place. It’s my hunch he’ll get impatient after a couple of days of snooping around Tascosa County, and then he’ll move on—regardless of how McNear feels about it.”
“He might snoop all the way to here,” warned Williams.
“With my men patrolling our range, there’s no chance a snooper could get close enough to see anything he shouldn’t,” declared Carrick. “Marv Emhart’s printery will remain a secret—mark my words. The important thing is to get rid of Jenner.”
So thought Mace Carrick, when the very apprehensive Jenner made a speedy departure from the Powder Mountain area, hustling his mount eastward towards Texas. The boss-swindler wasn’t about to panic because of the presence of Pat McNear in Tascosa. Could McNear identify Williams or Emhart? Possibly. But he wouldn't get the chance, for the simple reason that Williams and Emhart would stay hidden in this remote corner of the county until McNear and his friends had quit.
“As for myself, I’m not worried at all,” he told Williams. “Even if I came face to face with McNear on Main Street, he’d never connect me with Archer Baggot. He’s a proddy cowpoke, not a detective. He’s looking for a man who wears smoked spectacles, a long black beard and expensive town-clothes.”
“McNear certainly wasn’t very bright, eh, Mace?” grinned Williams.
“Not exactly a genius,” smiled Carrick.
“And Rand?” prodded Williams.
“Rand could be a problem,” drawled Carrick. “Let’s wait and see. If I thought he was getting too close to the truth, I could get rid of him in a flash.” He snapped his fingers. “As easily as that.”
“You mean drygulch him?” frowned Williams. “Or scare him off?”
“Neither,” said Carrick. “There’s a faster and safer way. He’s looking for Jenner, and that’s all he really cares about. Suppose I tell him I’ve seen Jenner ...”
“Hold on now,” protested Williams. “If you turn Jenner in, he’s just bound to turn us in!”
“I’m no fool, Sam,” said Carrick. “I’d tell Rand that I saw Jenner riding north or south—not east.”
“Well, I guess that’d satisfy this Rand hombre,” nodded Williams. “But, speakin’ for myself, I’ll be glad when Rand and McNear have quit the territory. I sure don’t crave to be stuck here on the ranch—week after week.”
~*~
Situated directly opposite the Tascosa County law office was a nondescript, poorly-patronized bar known as Ryan’s.
Ryan, a lazy Irishman of indeterminate vintage, wasn’t in the business of renting rooms, but in the case of Barton Shelley he had made an exc
eption. The urbane, smooth-talking Shelley had offered to pay handsomely for the dubious comfort of the poky bedroom directly above the bar-room; its window offered a clear view of the area fronting Sheriff Rowenstock’s headquarters. Hard cash was all it took to change Ryan’s mind and, some little time ago, Mr. Shelley had moved in.
Ryan saw very little of his one and only boarder; it seemed Shelley was a gentleman of temperate habits and preferred to keep to himself. This was Ryan’s opinion, an opinion that would have changed very quickly had he been able to follow Shelley’s actions that day.
Armed with binoculars and with a bottle of good bourbon at his right hand, Shelley had watched the coming and going of the sheriff’s visitors—first Carrick and Emhart—then the hefty stranger. He wasn’t interested in the hefty stranger, but was somewhat concerned about Tascosa County’s boss-lawman and his friendship with Carrick and Emhart.
Towards evening, he sat at his small table, studying by lamplight a sheaf of papers and a yellowing photograph. In his mid-thirties, he was well-groomed, keen-eyed and handsome. At a time when many a frontier-dweller wore his hair long and forgot the existence of razors, this quietly-spoken newcomer appeared uncommonly tidy; his brown hair was close-cropped, his moustache neatly-tended. The black suit was of good quality, his linen shirt spotless. His quiet taste was reflected in the black string tie and vest of hounds tooth check, a contrast to the gaily-patterned apparel of the professional gambler. A pearl-butted Colt .45 nudged his right hip, housed in a holster slung from a well-stocked cartridge belt.
Before hiding the papers and photograph behind a framed print on the left-side wall, he smiled a knowing smile and reflected:
“You’ve changed somewhat, Hartnell, but not enough—not enough. I’d know you anywhere, even though you’ve grown a thick moustache and lost a lot of hair and added a few pounds of fat. So here you are in Tascosa—and that’s too much of a coincidence. Tomorrow, I’ll scout your new abode. Tomorrow, we’ll push this coincidence for all it’s worth, eh, Hartnell?”
Later, feeling the need to satisfy his healthy appetite, he visited Briscoe’s Beanery, the establishment patronized by Jim Rand and his companions earlier that afternoon. What exactly was Shelley’s business in Tascosa? Few people were curious in that regard, for the simple reason that few people had noticed him. This was one of Shelley’s peculiar talents, an ability to merge into the background, to become anonymous, the man most likely to be overlooked.
~*~
Of the three hunters, the little Mex was first to awaken next morning. Benito Espina was restless. Several days had passed since he had last attempted to force a window-lock or pick a pocket. His fingers itched. He resented being out of practice. This was, of course, one of the drawbacks of riding in company of a man such as James Carey Rand, late of the 11th Cavalry.
“Is too bad you are so foolishly honest, Amigo Jim,” he was thinking, as he rose from his bed and began donning his clothes. “You have no appreciation of my genius. When I steal, you abuse me—instead of praising me—and this is very discouraging.”
Time and time again, during the months that had elapsed since Fate had thrown them together, Big Jim had discouraged the Mex’s larcenous instincts with hard-eyed stares, growled warnings and well-aimed kicks to the seat of the pantalones. Whole weeks passed with Benito never once finding an opportunity to exploit his rare gifts. If he didn’t steal something pretty damn quick, he might lose his masterly touch and dishonor the memory of his father and grandfather—both of whom had been thieves.
He dressed without making a sound, donned his floppy sombrero, strapped on the short-barreled pistola he had purloined a few months ago and tiptoed from the room. Early sunlight bathed Tascosa’s main street, as he wandered downtown, his eyes ever questing for a vulnerable target, maybe a drunk sleeping in a side alley, an open window, a tethered horse with saddlebags that showed an enticing bulge.
It was around seven o’clock when he sighted a possible subject, a good-looking man in a dark suit. Such fine clothes, he assured himself, must be custom-made. And the wearer would certainly be well-heeled. He watched the man quitting Main Street and entering a side alley. As silently as a marauding redskin, he followed.
In the alley behind the Walford Livery & Barn, he again observed his intended victim. Bart Shelley, since his coming to Tascosa, had gotten into the routine of patronizing this particular stable on such occasions as he needed a horse. His special favorite was a high-stepping bay. The handler was saddling it for him now, and Benito could not have been more pleased. Here was an ideal opportunity for him to perform one of his lucrative tricks, a subterfuge that almost always paid off. In his mind’s eye, he could already see himself counting the contents of this man’s wallet. It would, of course, be a thick wallet, bulging with wealth.
Shelley was unaware of the little Mex’s presence until he led the bay into the back alley. The animal flinched. He heard a thudding sound and a Spanish oath and, when he glanced to his left and beyond the horse, there was Benito, huddled on the ground.
“Caramba!” gasped the Mex, rolling over, shaking his head dazedly. “Is this caballo blind—maybe?”
“Sorry,” frowned Shelley. “You must’ve happened along out of the blue. I didn’t see you—and obviously the horse didn’t.” He released the rein, stepped closer to Benito. “Are you badly hurt?”
“No—gracias,” panted Benito. “I think maybe I jump in time to be not crushed by this caballo.”
“Let me help you up,” offered Shelley. It seemed the least he could do. Benito grasped at him for support, as he seized him by his left arm and hauled him upright. “No bones broken, eh? Well, I guess you’re none the worse for wear.”
Benito looked to be counting his ribs by feel; his arms were folded over his chest now, and he was hunched forward. The buck teeth showed in a reassuring grin.
“Ah, si. Now I am healthy, I think. As you say, señor, no bones broken.”
“Glad to hear it,” nodded Shelley, as he swung astride. “Well—hasta la vista.”
“Hasta la vista,” grinned Benito.
The well-groomed man lifted an arm in a friendly gesture of farewell, wheeled the bay and idled it down the side alley towards Main Street. For a long minute thereafter, Benito stood by the rear corner of the barn with a smug leer creasing his unprepossessing visage and the wallet of Bart Shelley making a satisfying bulk between his sash and his camisa. He felt elated and restored and was already figuring ways and means of spending his new-won fortune.
He made his way back to the hotel and the room he currently shared with the big ex-sergeant. His chagrin increased when he entered the room. Big Jim was very much awake, standing at the wash-basin stripped to the waist, shaving, conversing with Pat McNear, who was fully dressed and perched on the edge of Benito’s mattress.
“Where the hell’ve you been?” Jim demanded, eyeing his reflection in the cracked mirror.
“I couldn’t sleep,” shrugged Benito, as he flopped into a chair, “so I walked.”
“You’re the laziest hombre ever born south of the border,” retorted Jim. “You can even sleep standing up. I know. I’ve seen you do it.” He turned to stare hard at the little man. “As for you taking a walk—that just doesn’t sound right.”
“Always I must suffer these insults,” Benito complained to the grinning Pat. “Never to be trusted by this fine gringo to who I am so loyal ...”
“Stop it,” growled Jim. “You’re breaking my heart.”
“You are a hard one,” sighed Benito. “You have no heart, I think.”
“And you look as guilty as all get-out,” observed Jim, “so you’d better tell me what you’ve been up to—before I slap the truth out of you.”
“Of what do you accuse me?” Benito indignantly challenged. “Chasing the women—robbing a poor-box in the chapel—picking the pocket of a blind man?”
“They’ll do for a starter,” drawled Jim.
Pat chuckled, as the big man quit th
e wash-basin and advanced on the suddenly apprehensive Benito. The little Mex was rising up and whirling to make a dash for the door, when Jim captured him by the front of his camisa and began shaking him.
“This,” he explained to Pat, “is as fast a way as any other. Whenever this little skunk has robbed some poor galoot, he has to be kind of persuaded to confess.”
“How can you tell he just robbed somebody?” asked Pat.
“Benito was born with a guilty look on his ugly dial,” shrugged Jim. He shook the Mex with increased ferocity. “Come on, cucaracha! Let’s see it!”
“I am innocent!” gasped Benito.
The bulky wallet slid from his sash and thudded to the floor. Jim picked up the wallet.
“I am walking along the street,” panted Benito, “when I see this wallet on the boardwalk, and I ask myself ‘What is this?’ and ...”
“And the wallet said ‘Pick me up and find out’,” jeered Jim. “Hell, cucaracha, you couldn’t tell the truth with a gun at your head.” He began checking the contents of the wallet. “Feller that owns this wallet isn’t down to his last ten cents, that’s for sure.”
“Well-heeled, eh?” grunted Pat.
“Better than six hundred dollars,” said Jim.
Pat whistled softly, and somewhat wistfully.
“Man, oh man. It’s too bad I was born honest.”
In another compartment of the wallet Jim found a card of identification—stamped with the official emblem of the United States Government. His eyebrows shot up. An oath erupted from him and then, very carefully, he slipped the card back into the wallet, closed the wallet and shoved it into his hip pocket. To Benito, he bitterly announced, “This time, you’ve really done it!”
“Que pasa?” blinked Benito.
“Congratulations,” said Jim. “You picked the pocket of a government detective, a special agent of the United States Treasury Department.”
Benito clapped a hand to his brow and dilated his eyes. “The treasury?” frowned Pat. “Hey! Could that ...?”
Big Jim 6 Page 8
