The Home of Great Western Fiction!
A MAN DIES ... A HUNT BEGINS
The bullet that killed Chris Rand sounded the death-knell to one career and started another for the tall, tough and relentless Jim Rand—the man they called Big Jim.
To strife-torn Libertad, a trouble-town on the Arizona-Mexico border, came Big Jim, hunting his brother’s killer. It was inevitable that he should become involved in the struggle for power in Libertad, the conflict between Sheriff Luke Hillary, who had lost the use of his gun-arm, and the Block B outfit, the ten trigger-happy hellions led by the fearsome Old Man Burdette.
And never far behind Big Jim—always lurking somewhere close—was that pocket-picking, ugly little Mexican, Benito Espina. The Mex sided Big Jim in the final hectic showdown ... and a strange alliance was born.
BIG JIM 1: THE NIGHT McLENNAN DIED
By Marshall Grover
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
First Smashwords Edition: December 2016
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges * Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
One – To Soldier No More
“Jacket, britches, boots ...” The quartermaster-sergeant of the 11th Cavalry checked the equipment neatly stacked on Jim Rand’s bunk. “Hat—with emblem—belt and saber—spurs ...”
“It’s all there, Roy,” drawled Jim. “You don’t have to count every last piece of equipment. You ought to remember I was always mighty particular about the care of my gear.”
Sergeant Roy Gallard, lean, lantern-jawed and lugubrious, heaved a sigh and continued his chore.
“Sidearm ...?”
“You’ll find my Colt under my blankets,” said Jim. The quartermaster-sergeant uncovered the shining belt and flapped holster, drew the pistol and examined it, then returned it to the holster. He discarded his check-sheet and pencil, eyed the taller man wistfully and remarked:
“You’ve used it for the last time, huh, Jim? You’ll never again compete in the battalion shooting matches—”
“You used to bet on me,” Jim recalled.
“Bet on you every time,” nodded Gallard. “And you never cost me a cent. I never saw a shooter so accurate with a handgun as Big Jim Rand.” He heaved another sigh, sadly shook his head. “The outfit is surely gonna miss you, Jim. The old Eleventh won’t seem the same.”
“This,” said Jim, “is the way it has to be.”
This conversation took place in the N.C.O.s’ barracks of Camp Allison, headquarters of the 11th Cavalry, in the mid-spring of 1877. This conversation—and this necessary routine of checking and repossessing all the equipment of a veteran cavalry sergeant. Less than an hour before, Sergeant James Carey Rand had tendered his resignation. In accepting it, his commanding officer had expressed deep regret that such a move should be necessary, and had assured him, “I’d rather grant extended leave of absence, but you know that’s impossible.” He had then offered Jim his hand. “The records of this regiment will show that you were honorably discharged. Good luck to you, Rand. I hope you find your man, and that you’ll re-enlist for another hitch with your old outfit.”
“I hope so, too, sir,” Jim agreed.
“You’ll be saying so-long to the other officers?”
“And the other sergeants,” nodded Jim, “and every last trooper in my camp.”
“Supply-wagon will be headed for San Marco about an hour from now,” offered the colonel. “Corporal Yates will be glad to take you along—I guarantee that.”
“Thanks,” Jim acknowledged. “I’ll be glad of some free transportation, until I can buy myself a horse and saddle.”
And so the army life of Big Jim Rand was quickly coming to an end.
~*~
Having paid his respects to the colonel and acknowledged the good wishes of all the officers of Camp Allison, Jim Rand paid a brief visit to the small cemetery north of the administration block. He was in sight, but out of earshot of the horse-breakers at work in the big corral to the east, so he didn’t hesitate to say a few words, while standing beside the new grave.
“It isn’t just a hankering for vengeance, kid. You know that. It’s the wicked waste, the knowledge that a yellow-bellied tinhorn could kill an officer of the United States Cavalry—and get away with it. If you had to die so young, I’d as lief you died in battle. Not that way. Not the way that Hickok hombre was killed last year, up north in Dakota.” He re-donned his brand-new Stetson, stood to attention a moment and solemnly saluted the headstone. “Adios, Lieutenant. I’ll even the score for you—and that’s a promise.”
He quit the cemetery and strode briskly to the ordnance depot, not yet completely comfortable in his civilian clothes, although he had chosen each item for comfort. The vest was unbuttoned. He toted a coat over his left arm, because the morning was warm.
Drawing closer to the ordnance depot, Jim slowed his pace and tried to summon up a grin. His farewell committee had increased to quite a crowd and now included the white-aproned cooks from the mess, the blacksmiths, the chaplain.
He came on slowly, stood by the four-horse team hitched to the supply-wagon. He nodded slowly to the crowd, too large to be called a mere deputation, and said: “Well—so long to all of you.”
A scrawny, ageing reprobate flashed him a grin and drawled a rejoinder. He had been a trooper for most of his adult life and, if he lived to be a hundred, would never make corporal.
“So long, Big Jim, and lotsa luck to you. You’re an ornery galoot, but you’re a square-shooter, and we’re sure as hell gonna miss you.”
“Jim,” said Gallard, “I reckon that goes for all of us.”
“Thanks,” frowned Jim. “I sure appreciate it.”
Gallard reached behind him, produced a gunbelt coiled about a holstered revolver, stepped forward and offered them to Jim, saying:
“Strap this on, friend. You’ll feel naked without a regular Colt hanging at your hip.”
Jim took the well-stocked cartridge belt, buckled it about his waist and eased the ivory-butted Colt from its holster. His expression was wistful, as he examined the weapon. Getting used to it would be no problem—no problem at all. It was of .45 caliber, and the barrel was seven and a half inches long; this was the Colt made for, and most highly favored by, the U.S. Cavalry.
“I never thought I’d own one with grips of ivory,” he muttered. And, just before re-holstering the weapon, he noted the three letters engraved into the ivory. U.S.C.—the initials of the outfit he had served so well, the United States Cavalry. “Thanks, friends. This means—a lot to me—more than I can say.”
“That’s only the half of it, Big Jim,” grinned Corporal Yates. “Go on, Sarge. Give him the Winchester.”
That fine new .44/.40 had Jim’s own initials burned neatly into the stock and was housed in a sheath which could be affixed to his saddle—just as soon as he got around to purchasing a saddle. He accepted it gravely, offered the assembly a brief but fervent speech of thanks and then, at Yates’ invitation, climbed up t
o the seat of the supply-wagon. To the accompaniment of much cheering and shouted advice from his well-wishers, the rig rolled towards the main gate in the pole fence that surrounded Camp Allison. Halfway through the gateway, Yates stalled his team long enough to permit Jim to rise and, for the last time, salute in the general direction of the flag hung from the pole atop the administration block.
And so a new life had begun for this ex-army officer. Dark-haired and brown-eyed Big Jim Rand, six feet five inches tall, with broad shoulders and an uncommonly powerful physique, said goodbye to Camp Allison for the last time.
And that was how the army career of Big Jim Rand came to an end; not with a blare of bugles or a roll of drums, not with the entire regiment lined up to do him honor, but quietly. A few raucous cheers following the rattling of the supply-team’s harness and the thudding of hooves—and it was over.
On the journey to San Marco, the town where Chris was murdered, he thought back to that day he received news of Chris’ death. A handsome lieutenant of the United States Cavalry, Christopher Rand, shot in the back by a luckless, two-bit gambler. His killer, a man called Jenner, had made a clean getaway and up till now had left no traces. But to a man like Big Jim he would not stop looking until his murderer had been brought to justice.
In the settlement of San Marco, some ninety minutes later, he said goodbye to Yates and visited a feed and grain merchant who doubled as a saddler. His bankroll wasn’t all that substantial; he would have to make his purchases with care. He settled for a second-hand saddle, saddlebags and harness all in good condition, paid the merchant and then toted his gear to the headquarters of a San Marco horse-dealer, that most slippery and devious half-breed, Juan O’Grady.
With all the peasant cunning and Irish charm of which he was capable. O’Grady endeavored to sell Jim a handsome bay colt for sixty five dollars, describing it as a rare bargain. Jim demurred so, for sixty dollars, O’Grady offered a fancy-stepping pinto which, in Jim’s own opinion, would not stand up to a long run, a hard climb or a steep descent. For a large and hefty rider, a large and hefty animal would be best.
All alone in one of the horse-dealer’s smaller corrals stood a tall, ugly, restless-looking charcoal stallion. While looking it over, Jim contrived to appear casual. O’Grady scoffed and advised him to ignore that critter and examine some rideable horses.
“For pity’s sakes, Sarge ...”
“You don’t have to call me ‘Sarge’ any more, Juan.”
“I wouldn’t sell that black devil to my worst enemy—and you’re a man I’ve always admired.”
“You’ve always admired me, Juan, except when I’ve stopped you from gypping the cavalry on a purchase.”
“Business is business, Big Jim.”
“What’s wrong with the charcoal?” Jim demanded. He had already decided—and he had more than enough experience to back such a decision—that the ugly stallion was possessed of great strength and probably capable of a fine turn of speed. “How come you aren’t anxious to sell him?”
“I’d be doing you no kindness, believe me,” said O’Grady. “The plain truth is nobody can stay on that varmint. He’ll take a saddle—but not a rider.”
“So he’s a liability,” countered Jim.
“He’s a what?” O’Grady eyed him warily.
“A liability,” Jim patiently repeated. “Meaning it isn’t gonna be too damn easy for you to sell him.”
“You makin’ me an offer?” challenged O’Grady. “Sure,” grinned Jim. “After you name a price.”
“He’s worth every cent of fifty-five dollars,” declared O’Grady, “but I’ll take a loss and let you have him for fifty.”
“Forget it,” said Jim.
“Forty-five,” sighed O’Grady, “and it couldn’t be worse if you held a gun to my head.”
“Forty is as much as I’ll pay,” drawled Jim.
“For pity’s sakes ...!” protested O’Grady.
“You’ve got just five seconds to make up your mind,” offered Jim. “Why should I waste my time arguing with you? There’s another horse-dealer in San Marco.”
“You mean Haskell?” scowled O’Grady. “Plague take Haskell—he’s a thief!”
“He’s a horse-trader, just like you,” countered Jim. “But, when you say ‘thief’, it means the same thing.” He produced his wallet. “Forty dollars.”
“Make it forty-two,” begged O’Grady. And then, as Jim made to return the wallet to his pocket.
“All right! All right! This is plain robbery but, because you’re a friend of mine ...”
It took Jim a hectic ninety minutes to convince the ugly charcoal that he had met his match. The mean and agile outlaw accepted the saddle, but not the rider. At least not without a struggle. He bucked, reared, jack-knifed, tried every trick known to man and horse, including a few Jim hadn’t encountered before, and some two-score locals gathered about the corral to witness the contest. At the end of it, the black horse stood quivering, panting, snorting, but more subdued than when Jim had begun working him.
“We’ll get along fine, Hank,” he opined, as he dismounted and led his new horse out of the corral. “I’ve checked you over and tested your strength. I’ve looked at your teeth, and I figure you’re just the age and size I need. Get used to your name—Hank. I’ve named you after the meanest-tempered N.C.O. I’ve ever known, old Hank Burns that fell at Shiloh—but not until he’d downed seven Rebs—four with his Colt—three with his saber.”
He rode three blocks of San Marco’s main stem to tether the black at the rail outside Ingall’s General Store. Marvin Ingall had been one of the men playing poker with Chris that fateful night. He was old enough to have sired the lieutenant and, at the inquest, had claimed to have had a soft spot for him. Gray-haired, with a bulbous nose and deeply-lined face, undersized and quietly affable, he leaned on his counter and accorded Jim a solemn greeting, studying him intently, as though assuming he would never see Jim again and, therefore, wished to commit every detail of his appearance to memory.
“Word gets around, Big Jim,” he muttered. “Most of us know you aim to start your own personal manhunt for that cowardly skunk—that Jenner. The soldiers have been makin’ book on it right from the start, ever since the Pinkertons quit on the case.”
“I guess the Pinkertons did their best,” shrugged Jim, “and so did Intelligence. The southwest is a big hunk of territory, Marv. A thousand and one places a fugitive could hide. It seems Jenner did a smart job of covering his back-trail.”
“So now you’re goin’ after him, and you need supplies,” guessed Ingall.
“Should I write you a list?” asked Jim.
“No,” said Ingall. “I know what you’d need. Coffee, flour, hominy grits, beans, dried beef and such. It’s my business to know.”
“Make it fifty dollars worth of rations, a coffee-pot, a frying-pan and a pot,” said Jim. “Also a couple boxes of shells.”
“All forty-fives?” asked Ingall.
“And forty-four-forties for the rifle,” said Jim. He propped an elbow on the counter and rolled and lit a cigarette, the while he watched Ingall filling his order. “You were kind of partial to my brother, Marv.”
“You’ll need a canteen for water,” decided Ingall. “I have some that hold a mite more than an army canteen. That’s the kind you ought to have. Partial to Chris? Sure. It wasn’t hard to cotton to a young feller like Chris.” He paused in his labors to pay Jim a compliment. “You raised him good. He was a gentleman. Had lots of style. Treated his elders respectful.”
“Your description of Jenner tallies with what the other witnesses have said,” frowned Jim. “Height about five-ten. Sandy hair and moustache and sallow complexion. A thin man. He drank nothing but raw brandy all the time he played cards with you, Chris, Hardacre and Wilkie. And he was wearing pearl jewelry—a stickpin in his cravat and a pearl ring on his left little finger.”
“That’s about all I can recall,” said Ingall, as he dumped coffee, dried beef an
d a small sack of flour onto the counter. “The thing that sticks in my mind most of all is the way he swigged brandy. Mighty heady stuff is brandy. Hell! He put it away like it was water.”
“You’ve thought of nothing else since you described him to the sheriff?” prodded Jim.
“I’m sorry,” shrugged Ingall.
“How about the sound of his voice,” demanded Jim, “and the way he walked?”
“He walked like any other man,” Ingall recalled. “As for his voice, I’d say it was a mite higher than most. Kind of trumpet-like ...”
“Nasal? He talked through his nose?”
“Yeah. Like that.”
“And, outside of the pearl jewelry, you don’t remember anything special about the way he dressed?”
“Nothin’ that I didn’t already tell the law. He looked like a regular tinhorn, the kind that drifts from town to town and makes a livin’ from the cards. Brown derby. Brown checked suit. A flashy vest and cravat.”
Ingall tallied the rations. Jim, while packing them into his saddlebags, remembered:
“I’ll need a slicker and a couple of blankets.”
“That’ll be another thirteen dollars,” said Ingall. “Hey—thirteen’s unlucky. I reckon I’d best cut five cents off the price of the slicker and make it two dollars ninety-five.”
“This is my day for getting the best of bargains,” Jim dryly remarked.
He purchased a few more essential items—spare shirt, spare underwear, a pair of levis, some extra Bull Durham, plus cigarette papers and a supply of matches. Then, having rolled the clothing inside the blankets with the slicker on the outside, he gathered up all his new gear and turned to leave. Ingall asked, with a note of sadness in his voice: “Do you honestly believe you’ll find that killer?”
“I aim to try,” Big Jim informed him, quietly, without bravado, but compellingly. “I aim to try mighty hard, Marv.”
“The sheriff claims it’s a cold trail by now,” frowned Ingall.
“A cold trail can be warmed up a mite,” countered Jim, “and no killer can stay hidden forever. I don’t care how long it takes.”
The Night McLennan Died (A Big Jim Western Book 1) Page 1
