“Find out what?” asked Jim.
With a grimace of impatience, Hillary unbuttoned his right cuff and rolled up the shirtsleeve. Jim frowned at the bandages thickly wound from elbow to wrist, and quietly enquired:
“What is it? A knife-slash?”
“Worse than that,” growled the sheriff. “It’s broken. A clean break, Doc calls it. He claims the bone will knit, but he wants me to use a sling and—of course—I can’t do that.”
“That arm would be no use in a shoot-out,” mused Jim.
“I couldn’t hold my gun,” scowled Hillary, “let alone dear the holster at speed, cock and fire it.”
“It just happens,” explained Deitch, “that scarce any of the law-abidin’ citizens of this territory are handy with a shootin’ iron. Oh, they can shoot, but they ain’t what you’d call gunslingers. They ain’t professionals, and they could never stand up against the Burdette outfit. So, when the Burdettes learn that Luke’s right hand is useless, there’ll be no stoppin’ ’em.”
“No stopping them,” said Celie Kilminster, and there was no mirth in her now. She was suddenly a very serious young lady. “And no hope for the decent people of Libertad—including the women and children.” She eyed Jim steadily. “Block B is more than just a gang of roughnecks, and old Cyrus Burdette is more than just another boss-outlaw. There’s real evil in him, Jim.”
Jim had rolled a cigarette. Now, as he scratched a match for it, he grimaced impatiently and said:
“I’m sorry for all of you, but you have to realize I got a chore of my own.” He inhaled, blew smoke through his nostrils and let his solemn gaze travel from face to face. “The man I’m hunting, the man who called himself Jenner, killed my brother. Shot him in the back. My brother was a second lieutenant in the U.S. Cavalry, and he was many things to me. More than just a kid brother. He was an old friend, sometimes. Other times—he was like a son.”
The only comment came from Celie. The three men were temporarily tongue-tied, and obviously very worried.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” was all she could think of to say.
The medico, when he finally found his voice, rose up toting his little valise, and muttered:
“I have other patients to visit. Goodbye, Mr. Rand. No charge for my services.”
“Gracias,” frowned Jim.
Deitch shrugged helplessly and, as Giddons made for the door, rose to follow him. Over his shoulder, he told Jim, “You don’t owe me anything for the return of the stuff. After all, it was yours to start with.”
“But ...” began Jim,
“Forget it,” said the storekeeper. “We could give you plenty reasons why you should stay and help us, but we can’t compete against a kid brother that got shot in the back.”
“Today’s Saturday,” Hillary moodily reminded them, as they opened the door. “There’ll be cowpokes ridin’ in pretty soon—Burdette men, too—so I’d be obliged if one of you would make sure Celie gets home safe.”
“Come along,” said Giddons. “I’m going past your house anyway.”
Celie showed Jim one last wistful smile, then followed Giddons and Deitch out through the doorway. Her uncle re-secured the door, frowned at Jim and assured him: “They’re mighty disappointed—but they understand.” With his cigarette drooping from the side of his mouth and his moody eyes scanning the articles returned to him by Deitch, Jim asked:
“How will you manage? I mean—without a deputy?”
“I don’t know,” said Hillary. “But I’ll think of something—I hope.” He crossed to his desk, perched on a corner of it and studied Jim intently. His demeanor had changed. He was now the typical lawman dealing with official business. “About that killin’ you speak of—was Jenner’s description circulated?”
“It sure was,” nodded Jim. “But he must be a magician. Quite a disappearing trick he pulled.”
“Easy enough for a hunted killer to find a hideout along the border,” opined Hillary. “It’s a big country, Jim.”
“Did you get a bulletin on him?” asked Jim.
“Nothin’.” Hillary shook his head. “I don’t get official correspondence all the time.” He grinned mirthlessly. “Some big towns acknowledge Libertad’s strategic importance—but most law enforcement agencies think we’re just a fly speck on the map.”
“I could give you a description of this Jenner hombre,” Jim suggested. “If you’d file that description, try and contact me or the army or the Pinkertons, if he ever shows up.”
“Sure,” nodded Hillary. “I reckon that’s the least I can do.”
He moved around behind the desk, seated himself and reached for paper and pen.
“Date of my brother’s death was March seventh,” said Jim. “The place was the Silver Dollar Saloon in San Marco.” He took a long drag at his cigarette, waited patiently for Hillary to note these details, then proceeded with the description of the man who had murdered Chris Rand. “Height about five feet ten—slim build—sandy hair—pale blue eyes. And he’s partial to pearls. Wore a pearl ring, a stickpin ...”
He talked on, relaying every minute detail offered by the three witnesses, until he noticed that Hillary had stopped writing. The sheriff had risen and moved back to the filing cabinet opposite the gunrack. His movements were slow and deliberate, but his eyes gleamed with excitement.
“Likes to wear pearls, you said? And he’s a sore loser even though he rigs himself like a regular tinhorn ...?”
“So you do have a bulletin?” frowned Jim.
“On a hombre name of Clegg Seymour,” nodded Hillary.
“You think he could be Jenner?”
“If this is a coincidence,” he muttered, “it’s too strong a coincidence for us to pass up. Seymour is a tinhorn wanted in El Paso on a charge of embezzlement—and a lot of these details shape up with what you say about Jenner. The sandy hair—the height—the pale blue eyes and the fondness for pearl jewelry. And wait till you hear this.” Hillary tapped the file with a sun-browned forefinger and stared hard at Jim. “Seymour always had a bad name where gamblin’ was concerned. You know what I mean, Jim? There’s a certain kind of hombre that oughtn’t ever gamble—because they ain’t able to lose. Losin’ turns ’em mean.”
“This Seymour,” prodded Jim, “is a notorious sore loser?”
“The worst kind,” said Hillary. “From El Paso, he headed northwest. Let’s see now ...” He consulted the file again. “A deputy-sheriff recognized him in Dalby’s Fork. He was up to his old tricks it seems losin’ at poker—gettin’ sore about it. Whipped out a sneak-gun and took a shot at the dealer, then picked up all the money and made a run for it. From Dalby’s Fork, he headed south—and that’s the last time he was seen.”
“Dalby’s Fork,” breathed Jim, “is due north of San Marco.” He wondered how he could keep his voice steady and his nerves under control, as he mouthed his next query. “When did Seymour ride out of Dalby’s Fork?”
“March second, it says here,” muttered Hillary. “That’d be time enough, wouldn’t it? He could easily have reached San Marco by the seventh.”
“Easily,” nodded Jim.
“Before, we couldn’t persuade you to sign on as my deputy,” frowned Hillary. “Now I think you’ll jump at the chance.”
“Why?” demanded Jim.
Hillary closed the file, got to his feet and moved back to the file cabinet, to return the folder to its drawer.
“What I’m tellin’ you now,” he drawled, “you wouldn’t find in the file. But it’s reliable information.”
“Go on,” prodded Jim. Then, noting Hillary’s sudden reluctance, “What’s the matter?” he challenged. “You afraid I’ll call you a liar?”
“I sure wouldn’t blame you,” shrugged Hillary, “because it’ll sound far-fetched. It’ll sound like I’m takin’ advantage of your need to find Jenner—and thinkin’ only of my own needs.”
“Say your piece anyway,” offered Jim.
“All right—here it is, plain
and straight,” said Hillary. “Seymour is kin to the Burdettes, which means he could be holed up somewhere in this territory. He could even be hidin’ out at Block B. Sure. The Burdette ranch would be the best place of all, because old Cyrus doesn’t encourage visitors. Wouldn’t be much danger anybody’d spot Seymour.”
“You said it would sound far-fetched,” muttered Jim, “and that’s exactly how it does sound.”
“In the Rialto Saloon, just a few weeks back,” said Hillary, “I overheard the Burdette brothers discussin’ their cousin Clegg. They spoke of him by name. Clegg Seymour. You could call me a liar and I wouldn’t care a damn. I know what I heard. And, these past few weeks, I’ve been tryin’ to figure a way of sneakin’ out there to take a look. Then my deputy quit and I had this fool accident—fell downstairs and busted my arm ...”
“An officer of the law could get shot at by Burdette’s men, if he rode out to Block B?” demanded Jim. “Is Burdette all that powerful?”
“So far, he’s just plain unpredictable, and proddy,” said Hillary. “In time, he’ll be powerful—unless he’s stopped.” He came closer to the couch. “Does this Jenner know you’re huntin’ him?”
“I don’t reckon so,” said Jim.
“Bueno,” grunted Hillary. “You got nothin’ to lose and plenty to gain by stayin’ in Libertad awhile—and workin’ as my deputy.”
Four – Tin Star for a Big Man
Big Jim was hungry, weary and in no mood for argument, but the desire for vengeance still burned hot within him; to accept Sheriff Hillary’s offer seemed the only logical thing to do at this time. Hillary could be right. And, if Seymour had taken refuge at Block B and proved to be the man who had called himself Jenner on the night of March 7—it was safe to assume he would stay put awhile.
He accepted the badge, listened to Hillary’s brief but comprehensive description of the current situation and reflected that, in more ways than one, this community did need help.
“About the little Mex,” said Hillary, in conclusion. “Whether he stays in jail is up to you. If you swear out charges against him, we have to hold him for trial and feed him at the taxpayers’ expense—and there’s no tellin’ how long we’d have to wait for the circuit-judge.”
“Doesn’t the circuit-judge visit regularly?” asked Jim. “Judge Ford used to stop by every month,” sighed Hillary. “But he’s gettin’ on in years. Kind of nervous, you know? The last time he came was over two months back. Staked-out riflemen sniped at the stagecoach as it came past Castillo Butte.”
“Some of Burdette’s gunhawks,” suggested Jim, “having a little harmless fun?”
“I can’t think of anybody else that’d play so rough,” frowned Hillary. “The hell of it is I can’t prove anything.”
“Would the judge come and hold court again,” prodded Jim, “if we telegraphed a guarantee of his safe passage?”
“Why, sure,” nodded Hillary. “But how can we offer such a guarantee?”
“Time will tell,” muttered Jim. He gathered up his gear, trudged to the door. “How about the other spreads in this area?”
“A few rough outfits,” said Hillary, “but none that I’d call owlhoot—and none with nerve enough to oppose Block B.”
“All right,” frowned Jim. “Keep the Mex awhile. I’ll eat, check my prad into a stable and find myself a hotel.”
“Yeah—you do that,” Hillary urged. “Try and catch up on your rest this afternoon. It’s Saturday—and we might need all our strength.” Awkwardly and favoring his right arm, he unlocked and opened the street-door. “The Hotel Regio, on Peel Street, has good chow, clean rooms and a stable out back. You travel two blocks uptown, then take the turn left.”
“All right,” Jim nodded and yawned. “I’ll see you around sundown.”
~*~
At four-thirty, shaved, bathed, garbed in clean clothing and feeling refreshed from several hours of sound sleep, Big Jim quit his room at the Hotel Regio and sauntered up Peel Street to Calle Central. He was loafing along, but not with the stoop-shouldered, swaggering gait of the veteran cowpoke. He strode surely, his back ramrod-straight, his broad shoulders squared; there was still a lot of army in ex-Sergeant Rand.
Behind the locked door of his office, the sheriff was catnapping on the couch. He awoke to Jim’s knock, admitted him and, after an exchange of greetings, suggested: “We might’s well get our one and only prisoner fed early. How about you fetch his supper from the Hill and Santchez Diner?”
“You said Hill and Santchez?” frowned Jim.
“Sure enough,” grinned Hillary. “An Iowa man who used to be a chuck-boss, and a Mex cook who once worked with the Fortuna Nuevo outfit. They formed a partnership five years back. At that hash-house, you can eat like an Americano or a Mex or both.”
Soon afterward, Jim entered the cellblock and toted a laden tray to the cell occupied by the indolent, philosophical Benito. The little opportunist was huddled on the bunk, lazily. strumming his guitar, humming softly. His greeting was a bland, buck-toothed grin and a mumbled offer.
“Ah, Amigo Jim, you wish for Benito should sing to you? You have a favorite song, no?”
“If you sang my favorite song,” retorted Jim, “I don’t reckon I could recognize it. Consarn you, Benito, didn’t you ever learn to sing in tune?”
“I always sing in tune!” Benito warmly assured him.
“Forget it,” sighed Jim. “On your feet, boy. Chowtime.”
He slid the tray through the horizontal aperture in the cell-door, then squatted on his heels and rolled and lit a cigarette. The ugly little thief attacked that meal like a termite assaulting a slab of timber.
Benito wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeves, discarded an empty platter, reached for the coffee and took several large gulps. Then, after a resonant burp, he grinned at Jim and said:
“You will please accept my humble apology for robbing you, my amigo, and let me thank you from the bottom of my worthless heart for saving my life today.”
“That makes us even—you savvy that?” frowned Jim.
“Ah—but I will be forever in your debt, Amigo Jim,” asserted Benito. “Always I will remember you have save my life.”
“But you saved mine first,” Jim patiently reminded him. “It’s even-Stephen, Benito, you know what I mean? All debts paid up.”
“You have your fine pistola again,” Benito observed, as his dark eyes flashed on Jim’s holster. “Bueno. I am glad.”
“Just to satisfy my curiosity, boy,” drawled Jim. “Is this all you want in life? To snoop around from town to town, pickin’ pockets ...?”
“I am one fine thief,” said Benito, with dignity. “Very talented. This is what you gringos call the family tradition. My padre was a thief, and his padre before him.” He gulped the rest of his coffee, inserted an unclean finger and thumb into the top of his boot and produced a cigar. Gesturing in lofty impatience, he enquired, “Would you have me betray the memory of my illustrious forebears—uh?”
“Well,” said Jim, poker-faced, “I guess you do have to maintain your standards.”
“We understand each other—you and me,” chuckled Benito. “We will be true friends, I think.”
“Like hell we will,” scowled Jim.
“Amigo,” frowned Benito, “how long must I stay in this carcel?”
“That’s kind of up to me,” Jim told him, and only now did Benito observe the star on his vest. “When I signed on as deputy to Sheriff Hillary, he said we could hold you for the circuit-judge—if I swore out a complaint against you.”
“But you would not do that, uh?” begged Benito. “Not to me—your close and dear friend?”
“Hell’s fire!” gasped Jim. He was fast learning to appreciate the little Mexican’s peculiar psychology, but could still be taken aback by his sheer audacity, his stone-cold nerve. “You got the gall to call me your friend—you thieving little buzzard ...?” Abruptly he regained control of himself. “Maybe we’ll let you rot in this calaboose a month o
r more,” he growled, “or maybe we’ll turn you loose in a couple days—just so we don’t have to listen to that damn-blasted caterwauling.”
“Hasta la vista, Amigo Jim,” chuckled Benito.
“Go sing yourself to sleep,” snapped Jim.
It was easy for him to dismiss the little Mexican from his thoughts at six o’clock. By then, there were other matters requiring his attention, Celie Kilminster, attired in her Sunday-best gown, had fetched a fine supper to the law office for her uncle and for the new deputy; it was obvious that she was smitten by the large stranger and determined to win his admiration. While they worked their way through that more than satisfying repast, Jim sat at a slight angle to the open street-doorway, so that he could keep a goodly section of Calle Central under observation. Cowpokes were arriving in pairs and in groups. It was payday for all the county spreads, and every rider was pleasure-bent.
Celie had recovered from her initial confusion. Upon her arrival, her uncle had bluntly assured his new sidekick that this was a departure from their normal procedure.
“I usually have somebody keep an eye on the office while I go home for supper. Only reason Celie fetched it tonight—she hankers to impress you.”
In the manner of so many affectionate elders, the sheriff enjoyed baiting his niece. But that embarrassing moment had passed. Celie was now seated on the couch, her hands clasped in her lap, her eager eyes on the seated stranger sampling her cooking. She tried in vain to start him talking about his army career, his long hitch with the 11th Cavalry, and the sheriff drawled a reprimand—unheated, but firm.
“Quittin’ the army wasn’t Jim’s own idea, Celie, so don’t plague him. He misses his old outfit. Only reason he resigned was the boss-officer couldn’t grant him a long leave of absence.”
“That’s how it was, Miss Celie,” nodded Jim, without shifting his gaze from the street.
“Just Celie,” she begged. “It sounds friendlier.”
“Whatever you say, Celie,” he grunted, as he forked up another mouthful.
“If talk of the army stirs up too many memories,” she murmured, “might a lady enquire about your health? How’s that snakebite coming along, Jim?”
The Night McLennan Died (A Big Jim Western Book 1) Page 4
