Big Jim 6

by Marshall Grover

  The three lawmen were riding southward along Main, not in urgent haste, but slowly, almost casually. From this elevated position, Jim and the government man were unable to study the three faces, shielded as they were by the broad brims of their Stetsons, but the sun glinting off their metal stars made identification positive.

  “They’re on their way to Carrick’s—nothing surer,” muttered Shelley. “The presence of a Treasury agent is a danger signal to any man involved in counterfeiting. It seems my suspicion was no idle hunch, Rand. These tin stars have been living out of Carrick’s pocket!”

  “Don’t judge ’em too harshly,” Jim quietly advised. “You could be wrong.”

  “Jim,” frowned Pat, “I could fetch our horses, have ’em out front muy pronto, if you hanker to go after those lawmen.”

  Jim dug out his bankroll, peeled off a bill and passed it to the cowhand.

  “Hire two fast horses while you’re collecting our own,” he ordered. “One for Shelley and one for Benito. That burro of his could last the distance, but he isn’t built for speed. Saddle my black for me, but don’t try to mount him. He’s a one-man horse.”

  “Ten minutes,” said Pat, on his way to the door.

  “Make it five,” frowned Shelley.

  “Go with him, Benito,” said Jim. As Pat and the Mex quit the room, it occurred to him to ask Shelley, “What brought you to Tascosa in the first place? Were you following a lead?”

  “Wild money had shown up all over this part of the territory,” muttered Shelley, “everywhere—except in Tascosa—and that’s mighty significant, Rand. Few counterfeiters would risk circulating their product close to home.”

  “As simple as that, eh?” Jim was impressed. “It just goes to prove—a hunch can be as reliable as a positive clue.”

  “When you hang around a town like Tascosa, listening to talk—always listening,” said Shelley, “you get to learn a great deal about the movements of the more notable citizens. It didn’t take me more than a few weeks to learn about Carrick. He was always on the move, always taking a trip somewhere—accompanied by most of his employees. Simultaneously, wild money was showing up everywhere—except right here in Tascosa—and doesn’t that strike you as too much of a coincidence?”

  Jim leaned closer to the open window, staring southward. “You know the route to the Carrick spread,” he frowned. “How are our chances of getting there ahead of Rowenstock and his deputies?”

  “We’ll have to move fast,” said Shelley.

  “All right,” nodded Jim. “Let’s get downstairs and wait for Pat and the Mex.”

  A few moments later, when the cowhand and the Mex came hustling along Main leading the four horses, Jim and Shelley were awaiting them outside the hotel. For Shelley, Pat had hired a clean-limbed pinto; for Benito, a rangy calico. They swung astride, turned the animals southward and heeled them to a hard run, racing along Main at high speed.

  ~*~

  The three lawmen had rounded a rock-bordered bend of the south trail, when Walt Rowenstock’s sixth sense went to work for him. Abruptly, he reined up. Lew Adams and the other deputy, cold-eyed Jesse Denning, had no option but to follow suit.

  “I got a muscle always itches when somebody starts doggin’ my trail,” drawled the sheriff. “Lew, you climb atop one of them rocks and look back a ways. Keep your head down. If I’m bein’ tagged, I’d admire to know who he is.” Adams dismounted, hustled to the right of the trail and scaled a mound of lava-rock. Atop it, he sprawled flat, scanning the stretch of country across which they had just travelled. Their pursuers were coming on fast. He told Rowenstock as much, and added:

  “Four of ’em.”

  “I figure one’ll be a stranger,” called Rowenstock. “Some hombre we never seen before. How about that?”

  “A stranger,” nodded Adams. “Also the big feller—Rand—and two others. One’s a Mex.”

  “Well now,” mused Rowenstock, “it looks like Rand found the feller he was lookin’ for.”

  Adams climbed down, trudged across to his horse and stood beside it, frowning up at the sheriff.

  “This trail leads straight to the Carrick spread,” he muttered, “as if I need to tell you.”

  “Maybe they aim to pay Carrick a sociable visit,” drawled Denning, and his smile lacked mirth.

  “Told you before, Jesse,” grunted Rowenstock. “The stranger’s just bound to be a Treasury agent—name of Shelley. And you can bet your boots he won’t be feelin’ sociable.”

  “Walt, you have to make a decision,” said Adams.

  “Yeah,” sighed the sheriff.

  “You have to make up your mind here and now,” asserted Adams, “whether you can afford to let this Shelley hombre ride on to Carrick’s.”

  “He’s a government man,” shrugged Rowenstock. “I don’t have the authority to stop him.”

  “Do we have to stop him?” wondered Denning.

  “That’ll depend,” said Rowenstock, “on just what he aims to do.”

  “There’s one sure way of findin’ out what Shelley aims to do,” declared Adams. “Stop him—and then ask him.”

  “I reckon that’s just what we’re gonna have to do, boys,” nodded Rowenstock.

  Less than five minutes later, when the four riders rounded the bend, they were confronted by the sheriff and his deputies sitting their mounts in the center of the trail. Pat McNear gave vent to a startled oath. The Mex cursed luridly in his native tongue and dust billowed up in a white cloud as, in obedience to Big Jim’s bellowed command, the four horses were jerked to a sudden halt.

  Chapter Ten

  The Dollar-Makers

  They sat their quivering horses, separated by a distance of less than ten yards. The lawmen appeared very much at their ease; their guns were holstered, their hands folded over their saddlehorns, their faces impassive. Only the sheriff showed a flicker of expression; there was a hint of ironic amusement in his eyes. He nodded to Shelley, somewhat aloofly, and remarked:

  “It would’ve been more polite if you’d introduced yourself, Mr. Special Agent.”

  Shelley’s mouth set in a hard line.

  “Men in my profession,” he retorted, “don’t always advertise.”

  “You might’ve saved yourself some time,” drawled Rowenstock. “I guess you’ve been pussyfootin’ around the county, listenin’ to talk, askin’ questions. Well, doggone it, I could’ve made it easier for you. Anything you hanker to know about Mace Carrick, all you have to do is ask me.”

  “Sheriff Rowenstock,” Adams calmly informed Shelley, “is kind of an expert—on the subject of Mace Carrick.”

  “And why not?” scowled Shelley. “Carrick and the sheriff are old friends.”

  He glowered accusingly at Rowenstock, who grinned broadly and replied:

  “You bet your boots we’re old friends—but not in the way you think.”

  Jim and Pat traded curious glances, ignoring the mystified Benito. When Jim reached for his makings, he used his left hand, leaving the right dangling close to the ivory butt of his .45. Building a cigarette one-handed was an old cavalryman’s trick, one that he performed with ease. He rolled it and lit it, never taking his eyes off the three lawmen.

  “Sheriff Rowenstock,” said Shelley, “we’re evenly matched. I don’t doubt you and your deputies could put up quite a fight but, with the help of Rand, McNear and the Mexican, I’m sure I could get past you.”

  “Gettin’ past us,” drawled Rowenstock, “would be dead easy for you—on account of we ain’t about to stop you. If you’re all that set on ridin’ to the Carrick spread and raisin’ a ruckus, go ahead.”

  “On the other hand,” said Adams, “you might save yourself some strife by lettin’ Walt tell you a thing or two.”

  “You gents in a mood to listen?” prodded Rowenstock.

  “Well ...” began Shelley.

  “Try us,” offered Jim.

  “All right,” said Rowenstock. “For a starter, I’ll tell you why me and my dep
uties are headed for Carrick’s. I’ve never yet searched Carrick’s spread. Been bidin’ my time, you savvy? But, with a government man snoopin’ around, I figured Carrick might turn leery, pack up all his gear and skedaddle, and that’d be a gosh-awful shame—because he just might be the boss-man of that dollar-makin’ outfit.”

  “Are you saying …” Shelley almost gagged on the words, “that you already suspected Carrick?”

  “Damn right,” nodded Rowenstock. “Let me tell you somethin’, son. I’ve been totin’ a badge for more years than I can count, and made plenty of good friends. Enemies too, but mostly friends. Now, what really matters is how a sheriff makes friends. I’ve always been a mite suspicious of any hombre that showed up out of nowhere and wanted to pat my back and pay for my whisky and call me ‘old pal’. That’s how it was with Carrick, right from the start.”

  “You smelled a rat?” challenged Jim.

  “A travelin’ rat,” chuckled Rowenstock. “Every once in awhile, he’d be gone. Wouldn’t come back for two, maybe three weeks. He’d claim he was lookin’ to buy good breed-stock or special equipment for his mine or some other such hogwash, and I’d make like I believed him.” He stared hard at Shelley. “Son, I bet I can guess why you came to Tascosa. I bet you drew a wide circle on a map—didn’t you? Then you checked all the big towns and little settlements in that whole area—didn’t you?”

  “Well—yes,” admitted Shelley.

  “Wild money had been passed in all them towns, right?” challenged the sheriff. “All but one—namely Tascosa—so you figured you’d better take a sneaky look at Tascosa, and ...”

  “By thunder,” breathed Shelley, “you’re like a mind reader.”

  “Just usin’ the brains I was born with, is all,” said Rowenstock. He glanced at Jim again. “Rand, you figure to find that Jenner feller at Carrick’s?”

  “Jenner was riding with the man who swindled Pat,” nodded Jim. “He wore smoked glasses and a beard and called himself Baggot—but he could be Carrick.”

  “You notice that Carrick’s pard near died of shock the other day,” prodded Rowenstock, “when you showed Jenner’s picture in my office?”

  “I noticed,” said Jim, “but I didn’t realize that you noticed.”

  “For a lot of years, thieves and killers have been sellin’ me short,” declared Rowenstock, with a smug grin.

  “And for a lot of years,” drawled Denning, “Walt’s been outsmartin’ ’em.”

  Rowenstock produced a dollar piece, held it in the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and eyed Shelley enquiringly.

  “You willin’ to toss for it? Heads the government bosses this little raid. Tails the local law calls the tune.”

  “I guess that’s fair enough,” nodded Shelley. “Go ahead. Let’s see how it falls.”

  Of the seven men who watched that shining coin spinning skyward and then falling, none would have believed that it could fall sideways—unless they had actually seen it happen. There was a pinging sound as the dollar struck rock and bounced. Pat, Benito and the deputies leaned forward in their saddles, blinking incredulously. The coin had become wedged neatly between two small boulders. It couldn’t be claimed that it leaned to right or left; it was, in fact, at a perfect right-angle to the ground. Adams whistled softly and declared:

  “That’s the damnedest thing I ever saw!”

  “On its side!” gasped Pat. “On its doggone side! Hell!”

  “Jesse, my bones ain’t as supple as they used to be,” grunted Rowenstock. “That’s my dollar piece, and I’d be obliged if you’d climb down and fetch ’er.”

  “Do we toss again?” asked Shelley.

  Jim answered, and gruffly, forcefully, so that all eyes turned his way.

  “No. You both had your chance, and you both lost. I figure I’m next in line—specially if this is gonna be a raid.” He let his challenging gaze travel from face to face. “You could do a sight worse than follow me. Don’t forget—I was a sergeant of cavalry.”

  “Are you going to spit on the infantry the rest of your days?” jibed Shelley, with a grudging grin. “All right, Rand. I’m willing that you should lead this attack—so long as I get to destroy all printing gear.”

  “Well?” prodded Rowenstock, as he pocketed his dollar. “What’re we waitin’ for?”

  Later, from the concealment of the copse in which Bart Shelley had been waylaid by a Carrick guard, they surveyed the ranch buildings and the mountain beyond, and agreed on their strategy. The opposite side of the vast plain was bordered by thick brush which would act as a screen for any riders approaching the mountain from that angle. Like all good strategy, Jim’s was uncomplicated. Accompanied by Benito, Pat and Shelley, he would ride a wide half-circle to the concealment of the brush, and then head for the base of the mountain. The three lawmen would give them sufficient time to reach the mesquite and would then proceed directly to the ranch headquarters, riding boldly across open ground and, en route, insisting that Carrick’s guards accompany them to the house for an important conference. If Carrick was all that determined to remain above suspicion, his guards wouldn’t be apt to disobey Rowenstock’s commands.

  Before they separated, Shelley told the sheriff, “I saw no sign of printing gear in that mine-shaft, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Carrick didn’t give me time for a thorough search—naturally.”

  “You figure to take another look in the shaft, eh?” mused Rowenstock. “Well, I reckon that’s the likeliest hideaway hole for such an operation.”

  “If we can’t locate the press in the mine-shaft,” said Jim, “we’ll just keep looking—in the ranch-house, the barn, the bunkhouse—everywhere.”

  “Carrick’s bunch mightn’t sit still for that,” drawled Adams. “Me now, I can’t see this deal endin’ peaceable. There’s just bound to be shootin’.”

  For the first time, the veteran lawman’s placid visage was creased in a frown, his jaw jutting belligerently.

  “If any of Carrick’s hardcases pulls a gun,” he growled, “show ’em no mercy. I’d as soon take dead thieves back to town as dead lawmen.” He nodded to Jim. “All right, big feller, on your way. We’ll give you a quarter-hour to make the brush. Then we’ll move.”

  The tricky chore of circling the plain to reach the screen of mesquite cost Jim and his companions a full twenty-two minutes. With the big man leading, they now headed for the ugly bulk of the mountain, riding the soft grass, making as little noise as possible. Once, rising in his stirrups, Jim stared away across Carrick range and spotted the three lawmen. They were advancing unhurriedly towards the ranch headquarters. One of the deputies was gesturing, and a couple, of mounted guards were obeying that gesture, falling in behind the trio of badge-toters. So far, so good.

  From the window of the ranch-house parlor, Carrick sighted the oncoming riders. He saw no cause for alarm; nevertheless he wasn’t about to take chances with the always-nervous Emhart.

  “This is probably just a social call,” he remarked to Williams and Nixon, “but old Marv is as jumpy as ever—just jumpy enough to make Walt suspicious.”

  “He’s up to the second tunnel,” offered Williams.

  “He feels safe up there,” drawled Nixon. “Chances are he won’t even know Rowenstock’s here.”

  “A nervous artist can be mighty dangerous,” countered Carrick. “And that’s exactly what Marv is. An artist—and too nervous for his own good. Is he alone up there?”

  “Three of the boys are guardin’ the shaft-head,” said Nixon. “Hendry and Rusk and Bronson.”

  “All right,” nodded Carrick. “You two keep these lawmen busy, while I sneak up the track and tell Marv the score. I’ll be back in just a couple of minutes.”

  “Keno,” grunted Nixon

  He followed Williams out into the front yard, while Carrick quit the house by a rear door and hurried to the base of the mountain.

  Less than two hundred yards from that narrow track, Jim and his companions were dismounting w
ithin a small clearing in the brush. For the first time, intruders were viewing the face of Powder Mountain from a different angle, a vantage point from whence the mouth of the main shaft was clearly visible but, more than that, a second narrow track, a kind of extension of the first, ending at what looked to be an isolated clump of brush. Thoughtfully, Jim scanned the area adjacent to the entrance of the main shaft.

  “No guards,” he observed.

  “What do they need with guards?” scowled Pat. “Who could climb up from here?”

  “We could—and will,” Jim assured him, “right now.”

  “It isn’t all that steep,” asserted Shelley. “Let’s get started, Rand.”

  “I wait for you here, my brave amigos,” offered Benito.

  “Like hell you will,” countered Jim. “You’ll stay with us.”

  As Shelley had declared, the slope wasn’t so very steep, certainly not too steep for climbing. Its only disadvantage, as far as Jim was concerned, was the lack of cover. All the way up the slope to that narrow track, they would be in clear view of anybody emerging from the shaft or advancing up the track. With this thought in mind, Jim kept his face turned upward, his probing eyes forever checking the area immediately above.

  When, finally, he clambered over onto level ground with Shelley close behind, the entrance to the main shaft was dead ahead. Pat clambered over, paused to reach back and seize the Mex by the collar of his jacket. Benito’s foot slipped, just as Pat hauled. But for the cowpoke’s grip on his collar, he might have toppled down the incline. He unleashed an anguished yelp, as Pat rolled him over the edge.

  “Quiet!” chided Jim.

  “Stay here,” grunted Shelley. “I’ve already seen the inside of this shaft, but I’m curious to take another look—a longer look.”

  “Go ahead,” nodded Jim.

  And, during the time it took the government man to make a more thorough examination of the mine-shaft, Carrick was drawing closer, advancing up the path to where the intruders now stood. So far, however, his footsteps weren’t audible.