Big Jim 6

by Marshall Grover

  “An official investigation,” nodded Jim, “of a counterfeit operation.”

  Chapter Eight

  Close Call for Bart Shelley

  At ten-forty-five of that morning, Bart Shelley was studying the Carrick herd, but at a safe distance. With the aid of his high-powered field-glasses, he transferred his attention to the distant ranch-house and the clapboard office of the mining company nudging the base of Powder Mountain. The distance was considerable; he would have to get closer. There were riders patrolling Carrick range, but he anticipated no difficulty in eluding them.

  Alert though he was, his assailant took him by surprise. He was walking the bay through a natural corridor in the timber, when one of Carrick’s lookouts sidled out from behind a rock, grasped at his left boot and heaved. The boot parted company with its stirrup and Shelley felt himself keeling over sideways. He gasped a protest as the man heaved again. Off-balance, he hurtled over the bay’s back and crashed to the ground.

  The horse pranced away from him, whinnying. He rolled over, rose to hands and knees and stared at the guard. The man was covering him with a Winchester and grimly informing him, “Snoopers ain’t popular hereabouts.”

  “Snoopers?” Shelley began struggling to his feet. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  The hard muzzle of the rifle was rammed into his chest. His captor gripped the weapon one-handed, index finger curled around the trigger.

  “All I have to do is squeeze,” he told Shelley.

  “Uh huh,” grunted Shelley. “Now—take it easy, friend. You’ve nothing to fear from me ...”

  “Lift that iron out of leather,” ordered the guard. “And pass it to me butt-first—and keep your thumb clear of the hammer.”

  Shelley obeyed with scrupulous care, outwardly perplexed and mildly indignant, inwardly fuming.

  “Why did your luck have to run out now?” he asked himself. “Now, when you’re so close? This has to be the place. None of the other cattlemen are taking such precautions.”

  He knew this for a fact.

  The guard snatched the Colt from him, rammed it into the waistband of his levis. Pressure of the rifle-muzzle increased. Shelley panted a protest, as the man leaned towards him, questing with his left hand. Suddenly he thought of his wallet. Why in blazes hadn’t he left it behind? His identification—a dead giveaway! Of course he hadn’t counted on being apprehended.

  The questing paw checked Shelley’s inside coat pockets, and Shelley’s scalp crawled. No wallet? Thunderation. He obeyed the guard’s order to turn around with his hands held high. The man checked him thoroughly. He then whistled shrilly and a saddled horse came plodding out of the timber.

  “Go on,” he commanded. “Fetch the bay—and don’t try to make a run for it.”

  “Just what do you intend doing with me?” demanded Shelley.

  “I’ll let the boss decide about that,” said the guard. “Well, that’s okay by me,” drawled Shelley. “He’s the man I’m looking for anyway.”

  “You claim you came lookin’ for Mr. Carrick?” challenged the guard.

  “Certainly,” nodded Shelley. “To ask him for a job.”

  “Is that so?” The man sounded dubious. “Go on. Fetch your horse.”

  Shelley began walking to the bay. After moving a few yards, he glanced back over his shoulder. His captor was mounted now. The ever-threatening muzzle of that Winchester was still covering him. He moved a few more paces, drew level with the bay and lifted a boot to stirrup. His field-glasses! What if the guard thought to check his saddlebags? Well, somewhere between here and the Carrick headquarters, he would make some attempt to get rid of them. Job-hunting drifters rarely own expensive binoculars.

  He swung astride. The guard rode up level with him and, with his rifle held across his chest, ordered him to proceed.

  “Just keep movin’ dead ahead, snooper, and keep it slow and steady. You’re gonna have your wish.”

  “I get to see Mr. Carrick?” prodded Shelley.

  “Damn right,” nodded the guard. “Come on. Move.” While they were moving through thick brush and under low-hanging branches, forced to hunch low in their saddles, Shelley was presented with a short-lived opportunity, and took quick advantage of it. He bent lower, delved into the saddlebag for his field-glasses, lifted them out and let go. In his mind’s eye, he marked this spot. Maybe he would be riding back this way and could retrieve the binoculars.

  In sight of the ranch buildings, he welcomed this chance for a closer examination. The house, barn and corrals were in clear view, as was the clapboard building over by the base of the mountain. Also, gazing up to the face of the mountain, he could see a narrow track leading up to a tunnel mouth.

  Carrick had been seated alone on the ranch-house porch. At the approach of the guard and prisoner, he rose from his chair and moved out into the sunlight.

  “Hendry?” He called to the guard. “What’s this all about?”

  “Caught this hombre spyin’,” the guard replied. “Figured you’d want to look him over.”

  “That’s a damn fool accusation,” blustered Shelley. “Why would I be spying? I came here to ask for a job.”

  “So you rode through the timber,” sneered Hendry, “’stead of out in the open?”

  “I was looking for a short-cut,” said Shelley.

  “And a job?” prodded Carrick.

  “Who’s asking?” drawled Shelley.

  “I’m the owner,” drawled Carrick. “Mace Carrick.”

  “Well, hello there,” nodded Shelley. “You’re just the man I want to see. Is this any way to treat a harmless job hunter? Armed guards attacking from ambush? Threats? Accusations ...?”

  “Certain circumstances,” Carrick smoothly pointed out, “demand certain precautions—Mr. ...?”

  “Shelley—Barton Shelley.”

  “Well, Shelley, if you have nothing to hide,” shrugged Carrick, “I see no cause for our quarrelling.”

  “He claims he needs a job,” offered Hendry.

  “You searched him of course?” asked Carrick.

  “Six dollars and thirty cents in his pants pocket—and that’s all,” said Hendry, as he surrendered the money. “Just a few cigars—a kerchief—the usual stuff.”

  Carrick returned the money to Shelley, remarking, “Not much of a bankroll, Shelley.”

  “If it were just three times bigger,” said Shelley, “I wouldn’t have ridden all this way in search of a job. I’d try my luck at the dice or roulette in Tascosa.”

  “You’re a gambling man?” challenged Carrick.

  “Whenever my stake is high enough,” nodded Shelley. “But, when I need to work, I’m not afraid of sweat or calluses, and I’m a mighty handy man.”

  “Just how handy?” demanded Carrick.

  “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” drawled Shelley. “I’ve had experience as a ranch-hand. I savvy horses and cattle. I’ve even done a little prospecting in my day.” He glanced towards the mountain. “Hear tell you run a double operation out here. Mining as well as ranching. Well, if you can’t use a spare rider, maybe there are chores for an extra digger.”

  “No,” frowned Carrick. “I have all the help I need.” He had been studying Shelley with great care and was now convinced that the guard had been over-zealous. “Sorry, Shelley, but the mine hasn’t begun to pay off. Of course I hope to locate a pay-vein—eventually.”

  “The way your guard jumped me,” complained Shelley, “I’d have thought you were mining the stuff at the rate of a thousand dollars’ worth per day.”

  Carrick grinned blandly.

  “Ever hear of claim-jumpers, Shelley? Every mine-owner is entitled to protect his property.”

  “I guess you’ve a right to protect what’s yours,” Shelley conceded.

  Carrick nodded to Hendry. “Return Shelley’s sidearm. He’s leaving now.”

  Shelley holstered his Colt, cast another glance towards the mine office and the track leading up to the shaft entrance.<
br />
  “Too bad,” he frowned. “I don’t claim to be an expert prospector, but I might have been useful to you.”

  “My men are off-duty at the moment,” said Carrick. “If you’re all that interested, I’ll be glad to take you up to the shaft. But I can’t use an extra man right now, Shelley, and that’s final.” As Shelley dismounted, he nodded to Hendry. “That’s all, Hendry.”

  This would not be the first occasion upon which he had personally escorted a visitor on an inspection of that first shaft. When it came to avoiding suspicion, he was willing to go to pains. Walt Rowenstock had been out here more than once. So had the mayor, some of the other ranchers and many an inquisitive citizen of Tascosa County.

  After climbing the narrow track with Carrick, Shelley followed him into the shaft, trudged along to its far end. It wasn’t the first time he had inspected mine diggings, and everything certainly appeared as it should.

  “Any suggestions?” challenged Carrick. “As you can see, my men haven’t exactly been idle. I insist on a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay.”

  “As safe a shaft as I’ve seen,” muttered Shelley. “Well shored. And you look to be making progress. I mean progress at lengthening the tunnel—not at locating a pay-vein.”

  “The indications don’t seem promising to you?” asked Carrick.

  “No.” Shelley shook his head. “But remember, I don’t claim to be an expert. I’m experienced, but not expert. Well ...” He turned and trudged back to the tunnel entrance. “I certainly wish you luck.”

  “Thanks,” smiled Carrick.

  At mining, Bart Shelley was no expert. But, when it came to sizing up a situation, a location, the peculiar details of any specific area, he had few equals. Carrick didn’t even notice that Shelley had scanned the higher reaches of the mountainside, so quickly did he do so; he hadn’t turned his head, and still he had contrived to memories certain important features.

  They descended to level ground, walked around to the front of the ranch-house. Shelley remounted the bay, then, after waving farewell, he wheeled his mount and began riding away.

  It took Bart Shelley all of a quarter-hour to locate the clump of bushes into which he had dropped his precious field-glasses, but he figured the effort was worthwhile, and not merely because the binoculars were of expensive manufacture. He didn’t want to risk their being found on Carrick land.

  Replacing the glasses in his saddlebag, he swung astride and hustled the bay to a run. His nerves were as strong as the next man’s, maybe steadier than most, but he was perspiring now. His pulse was racing; he sought solace in profanity as he pondered the vexing question—what in blue blazes had become of his wallet, his identification? On the one hand it had been very fortunate that the guard had found no wallet. On the other hand—where was the wallet?

  ~*~

  At about the same time that Bart Shelley was first venturing onto Carrick’s range, Jim Rand was finishing his long and exhaustive interrogation of the larcenous Benito. The little Mex was unpredictable, and then some. There were times when he would readily admit to—even brag of—the deft picking of a pocket. This, unfortunately, wasn’t one of those times; the truth had to be bullied out of him.

  Finally, when Benito had told it all, Jim prepared to pay a visit to the sheriff’s office.

  “What for?” Pat demanded.

  “This Shelley jasper,” Jim explained, “carries a letter of introduction in this wallet—requesting co-operation from all federal and county lawmen—so you can bet he already parlayed with Rowenstock. All I know is he hired a horse from the Walford stable, a bay colt. How can I return his wallet if I don’t know where to find him? But Rowenstock would know.”

  “And, when you find Shelley and give him back his wallet?” prodded Pat.

  “I’ll tell him a friend of mine picked it up in a back alley,” muttered Jim, and he glowered at Benito and added, “Heaven forgive me.”

  “Remember,” said Benito, “I saved your life.”

  “Remember I saved yours,” retorted Jim. “And there are times—like now for instance—when I think that was a bad mistake.” On his way to the door, he told Pat, “Keep an eye on him. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

  “Are we gonna stick in this doggone room all day?” frowned Pat. “I hanker to be out and about—lookin’ for Baggot and his pards.”

  “We’ll be out and about,” Jim promised, “just as soon as this damn wallet is out of my hands.”

  When he approached the county law office some five minutes later, both of Rowenstock’s deputies were seated on the porch, not conversing, just sitting, smoking, impassively studying the passers-by. He nodded to them, climbed the steps and entered the office to find the county’s boss-lawman catching forty winks on the old black leather couch. Rowenstock grunted and came awake, as Jim moved in with spurs a-jingle.

  “Somethin’ I can do for you, Rand?”

  “Shelley—Barton Shelley,” said Jim. “Can you tell me where to find him? I figured you’d be bound to know—what with him being a government man.”

  “Government man?” prodded Rowenstock, frowning.

  “From the Treasury,” said Jim.

  The sheriff hauled himself to a sitting position.

  “No, Rand. I don’t know any feller name of Shelley.”

  “Now look ...” Jim grimaced in exasperation, “you don’t need to act cautious with me, Sheriff. I’m not apt to advertise this Shelley bird. All I want is to return something he lost.”

  “Like what, for instance?” demanded Rowenstock.

  And something clicked inside Jim’s brain. The sheriff had never heard of Shelley, was ignorant of his presence in Tascosa. Why would a special investigator refrain from making contact with the local law? Well, whether or not Shelley had good reasons, Jim wasn’t about to aggravate an already tricky situation. He had, it seemed, said far too much. He would say no more.

  “It’s not important,” he assured Rowenstock, as he turned towards the door. “Just a personal thing. I’ll find Shelley soon enough.”

  “What kind of a personal thing?” asked the sheriff. “And how d’you know it belongs to this Treasury man?”

  “Just a jack-knife,” drawled Jim. “It—uh—has his name on it.”

  “I’d like to see it,” said Rowenstock.

  “I don’t have it with me,” said Jim.

  “Oh?” Rowenstock nodded and shrugged. “Well, I never met this Shelley feller nor knew there was a Treasury agent in town. Does that answer your question?”

  “Why, certainly,” said Jim, nodding farewell. “And much obliged.”

  He strode from the office. Rowenstock rose up, trudged to the doorway and, with a shoulder propped against the jamb, watched the big man hustling across to the opposite boardwalk. Then quietly, he muttered orders to one of the deputies.

  “Lew—I got a little chore for you. Check the hotels and boardin’ houses. I want to know where he’s stayin’.”

  “The big hombre?” frowned Deputy Lewis Adams, as he stood up.

  “The big hombre,” said Rowenstock. “His name is Rand.”

  “I could tag after him,” offered Adams.

  “No, don’t do that,” said Rowenstock. “I don’t want him followed. All I want is to know where I can find him—if ever I need to find him—is that clear?”

  “Clear enough,” said the deputy. “All right. I’ll be seein’ you.”

  It took Jim only a few minutes to walk to the Walford stable. There, the handler readily recalled the man described by Jim. He was, of course, repeating the description bullied from Benito.

  “Good-lookin’ gent in a black suit—him that hired the bay? Sure, I remember him. He always hires that same bay. Mighty partial to it he is.”

  “Always?” challenged Jim. “You mean he rides out often?”

  “Every other day,” nodded the handler. “Name of Shelley. Real sociable feller.”

  “He didn’t happen to say how long he’d be gone this
morning?” asked Jim.

  “Well ...” The stableman scratched his head. “It was early when he rode out—and he only rented that critter for the half-day—so I guess he’ll be back any time now.”

  “All right,” frowned Jim. “Thanks.”

  Any time now proved to be almost two hours later and, by then, Big Jim Rand had quite an appetite. He was keeping the rear section of the Walford barn under observation, loitering in the back alley, when the man in the black suit returned. Shelley surrendered the bay to the handler and, with a half-smoked cigar jutting from the side of his mouth, began hustling along the alley with long strides. As he drew level with the packing crate behind a hardware store—Jim’s temporary perch—he heard his name called.

  “Shelley.”

  He came to an abrupt halt, turned to study the big man. “You have the advantage of me,” he frowned.

  “Rand,” offered Jim. He descended from the crate, dusted the seat of his pants, then produced the bulging wallet from his hip pocket. “This is yours.”

  It was a statement of fact, not a query. He placed the wallet in Shelley’s hand, grinned affably and made to move on. Shelley put a hand on his arm.

  “How’d you come by my wallet?”

  “Picked it up,” lied Jim, “right here in the back alley. You want to check your bankroll? Go ahead, friend. You won’t find a dollar less than when you dropped it.” He shook off the Treasury man’s grasp, sketched him a nonchalant salute. “So-long—and don’t bother to thank me.” With that, he retraced his steps to the Pascoe House, never suspecting that Shelley was tagging him. At this chore, this furtive tailing of a suspect, Shelley was quite a specialist. His blood was boiling and his curiosity aroused, yet he made no rash moves nor unnecessary noise. Not by a backward glance would Jim have known he was being followed.

  Returning to the bedroom at the Pascoe House, Jim kicked the door shut and cheerfully informed Pat and the Mex, “All finished. Shelley has his wallet—and Benito is still out of jail. They both have something to be thankful for.”

  “So much dinero,” sighed Benito. “So many hermoso Americano dollars—ai caramba—this is a tragedia!”