“It only smarts a mite—and I don’t care anymore,” he fervently assured her. “What matters is to be rid of the poison. When a man can be that lucky, he surely oughtn’t complain of the pain from the bite.”
“I admire a man that counts his blessin’s,” muttered Hillary. “My old pappy used to say that’s the only way to be truly happy—bein’ thankful for what you already got.”
“I can’t see all the-saloons from here,” frowned Jim. “Where do most of the cattlemen spend their pay?”
“The bigger houses, mostly,” said Hillary. “Arlington’s Palace—the Long Rail—the Rialto—the Lucky Ace.” He finished eating, frowned thoughtfully towards the doorway and told Jim, “As for pay-nights, it’s hard to guess how such a Saturday is gonna end. I recall many a pay-night when there wasn’t any real trouble at all. Just a drunk or two that had to be locked up. No fights. No shooting. Even nowadays, with the Burdettes always on hand, we can be lucky. We can have a quiet Saturday—once in awhile.”
~*~
At the Rialto Saloon, around seven o’clock that evening, a Circle T cowpoke name of Dan McLennan stood at the bar with two fellow-employees, nursed a short beer and traded friendly talk with the barkeep. Not yet twenty three years old, McLennan was boyish, mild-mannered, passably good-looking and, as the Circle T boss would have willingly testified, a hard worker. His companions were a barrel-chested cowpoke named Saul Gearey and a lean, impassive vaquero, Luiz Varez. An oddly assorted trio they seemed, but they got along. The barkeep was short, pudgy Ike Nash, a taciturn dispenser of liquid cheer.
The Rialto’s owner, Ned Calvert, was officiating at the roulette layout. Tall, lean and lank-haired, with hawk-like features and a too-ready smile, Calvert was inclined to toady to the Block B faction. Maybe he didn’t admire that old hellion Cyrus Burdette or his two trigger-happy sons, but he certainly pretended to, because it was good for business. The Burdettes, Calvert felt sure, were destined to become the leaders of this community.
Outside, in Calle Central, a clatter of hooves heralded the arrival of yet another group of pleasure-hungry cattlemen, a quartet this time—the brothers Burdette and two of their cronies. When these four came swaggering into the Rialto, the owner greeted them with an expansive smile and an invitation.
“Step up to the bar, boys. Your first drinks are on me.”
“See you fellers later,” Nash muttered to McLennan and his friends. “Looks like I’m gonna be busy awhile.” The Circle T men concentrated all their attention on their drinks and made a point of ignoring the new arrivals. Cowhands from some of the other local spreads finished their drinks in a hurry, or abandoned their card games, and quietly retreated, some exiting by the front door, some heading for the rear. As for the towners, few cared to remain in the same barroom with men as rough, as arrogant, as aggressive as Travis and Arnold Burdette. In less than a minute, only a handful remained.
“Muy depravado, these hombres,” Luiz Varez quietly remarked to his two colleagues.
“Real bad medicine,” mumbled Gearey. “All of a sudden I wish I was someplace else.”
“Well,” said the peace-loving McLennan, “we don’t have to stay here. Finish your drinks and we’ll mosey downtown to the Palace.”
He propped his elbows on the bar-top, took another pull at his beer and, in the long mirror, studied the reflections of the four hardcases. The two men siding the brothers were typical of all the roughnecks hired by Old Man Burdette—big, unprepossessing, with their hardware housed in tied-down holsters; one Block B gunman looked pretty much the same as the others. Of the two brothers, Travis, the elder, most resembled the father. He was tall, scrawny and lethal, as ugly as old Cyrus himself, with the craggy Burdette features and a stubble of ginger hair covering his jowls, a thinly rolled cigarette adhering to his underlip. The younger brother, Arnold, was the more talkative of the two, a squatly-built, flashily-garbed braggart whose chief pleasure was the harassing and provoking of men too weak or too nervous to stand up to him. It was well known that Arnie Burdette was lightning-fast with the pearl-butted .45 slung to his right thigh.
“Where are the girls, Ned?” the elder brother demanded of the grinning Calvert. “Me and the boys hanker for company tonight.”
“Bring ’em out, Ned,” ordered his kinsman. “Tell ’em Arnie’s here.”
“I reckon they know already, Arnie,” chuckled Calvert. “They saw you ride in—so they’re upstairs now, getting prettied up for you.” He nudged Nash. “Get a move on, Ike. The boys are thirsty. Serve ’em my best bourbon.”
“Comin’ up,” grunted Nash.
“Place looks kinda empty, all of a sudden,” observed Travis, with a mirthless grin.
“Now ain’t that a shame?” guffawed Arnie. “Seems like we scared half your customers away, Ned.”
Quickly, he turned, stepping away from the counter to position himself in front of the three Circle T punchers, who had set down their empty glasses and were making for the door. McLennan came to a halt with Gearey and Varez hovering directly behind him.
“Goin’ some place, boys?” Arnie challenged, while his brother and his sidekicks traded amused grins. “Hey now—it ain’t polite to just sashay outa here without sayin’ so-long.”
Gearey and the Mexican grimaced uneasily. McLennan merely gestured impatiently and said:
“All right, Burdette, if it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll say so-long.”
He made to move past Arnie, but was again forced to halt. The leering younger brother had sidestepped to intercept him.
“I ain’t sure ‘so-long’ is enough,” he drawled. “Nope, I ain’t sure at all. Reckon you hombres better ask for my permission—you know what I mean? ‘May I leave, Mr. Burdette?’ Just like that—seein’ as how there never was a Circle T saddlebum worth one quarter of any Block B man.”
“Move clear of us, Burdette,” frowned McLennan. “I hate to spoil your pleasure, but I ain’t about to beg your permission—not for anything.”
“Better be real careful there, brother,” cautioned Travis in mock alarm. “You’re apt to make McLennan real sore.”
“I ain’t sore,” McLennan coolly assured him. “Just a mite impatient.”
“He don’t act scared of you, Arnie,” sniggered one of the hired guns. “Why, I’d swear you don’t scare him one little bit.”
At that, the youngest Burdette ceased to grin; his temper was suddenly on edge.
“He’ll act scared,” he promised. “He’ll act plenty scared!”
“Now, look ...” began McLennan.
And then he was backstepping, stung by the fast blow swung at him by Arnie Burdette, a backhander that started one side of his face smarting, all the way from temple to jaw. He gasped, regained his balance and opened his mouth to voice a protest. His assailant cut it short by backhanding him a second time. Again he backstepped, with Gearey and Varez nervously moving clear, and Arnie barging after him, swinging a third blow. And now the most even-tempered young man on the Circle T payroll—probably in the entire territory—lost patience with the braggart and offered retaliation. With his left arm, he warded off that third swing. With his bunched right, he threw one fast, badly timed punch. Fighting wasn’t McLennan’s game; he was too ill equipped for it, too much of a peace-lover. Nevertheless that punch caught Arnie squarely on the point of the chin and sent him lurching backwards for three yards. The back of his knees made contact with a chair. He tripped over it, crashed to the floor with obscenities spilling from his contorted mouth.
McLennan stood his ground fully expecting that he would now have to defend himself in a hard and rough brawl, probably against all four Block B men. His clenched fists were raised to the level of his shoulders and he was eyeing the fallen man warily, but was still taken by surprise at Arnie Burdette’s impulsive and murderous reaction. From where he lay, the younger brother drew his Colt, hammered back and squeezed trigger. The weapon roared and McLennan shuddered. An expression of acute shock and pain showed on
his suddenly pallid face. His legs buckled. Varez made to catch him, mumbling:
“¡Por Dios!”
Gearey grasped McLennan’s left arm as, with a groan of anguish, the stricken puncher sagged to the floor. His shirtfront was wet; the red stain was spreading across his chest. He was gritting his teeth and that shocked look still showed in his eyes.
Abruptly, Arnie Burdette rose to his feet. He twirled his Colt by its trigger-guard, before deftly re-holstering it. His challenging gaze travelled from face to face. He drawled a warning to Calvert and his barkeep, the few townsmen still present and the two Circle T waddies.
“Just so nobody gets any wrong ideas—this was self-defense. You all saw what happened. McLennan was about to draw on me.”
Calvert was first to break the tense silence that followed. He licked his lips, nodded eagerly and muttered: “Yeah—I reckon that’s exactly how it was.”
“Damn and blast ...!” breathed the barkeep.
“Shut up, Ike,” chided Calvert.
“You say somethin’, bartender?” drawled the elder brother, turning to scowl belligerently at Nash.
Nash shrugged forlornly and shook his head. The Burdettes stared enquiringly at Gearey and Varez, both of whom knelt beside the silent Dan McLennan.
“You jaspers satisfied?” Arnie demanded. “I say self-defense. Any arguments?”
He chuckled derisively, as Gearey averted his eyes and the vaquero bowed his head. Travis Burdette glowered at the townsmen. There were only four of them. They were elderly and appeared badly scared.
“How about you?” he prodded. “Any of you claimin’ it wasn’t a fair fight?”
The locals were dumbstruck. Again, Arnie Burdette laughed.
“C’mon,” he grinned. “We don’t have to hang around and answer Luke Hillary’s fool questions. Let Ned tell him what happened, while we sashay on down to the Lucky Ace.”
“Yeah—let’s just do that,” nodded Travis, glancing contemptuously at the prone victim of his brother’s fancy gun. “Ned’s floor is gettin’ to look plumb untidy.”
When the sound of that single report had reached the three people in the law office, Jim Rand had promptly risen to his feet and donned his Stetson. The sheriff said: “Probably just some half-drunk cowpoke lettin’ off steam. I’ll fetch a shotgun and ...”
“No,” said Jim. “You stay with Celie. We don’t both need to go and it’s about time I started earning whatever this job pays.”
“Sixty a month and ammunition,” muttered Hillary. “I meant to tell you.”
Jim nodded a polite farewell to Celie and moved out briskly. As he hustled uptown, he easily identified the scene of the disturbance. It had to be the saloon towards which Doc Giddons was hurrying. Toting his valise and looking somewhat less than patient, the medico disappeared through the batwings of the Rialto. A few moments later, when Jim reached the entrance, the Burdettes and their two cronies were in the act of leaving. The elder brother was nudging the batwings open, making to step out onto the porch. He backstepped instead, because Jim planted a large, firm hand on his chest, never slowing his pace, moving in swiftly, so that Travis Burdette was forced backwards into the bar-room.
The Burdettes, unaccustomed to such rock-hard defiance, surveyed Jim through narrowed eyes, as he calmly announced:
“I’ll tell you when you can leave, boys. Meantime, stand right where you are.”
Five – A Show of Strength
It was a saloon in which a cowhand had been shot and mortally wounded; Big Jim strode into it as though it were a barracks in which a couple of off-duty troopers had been brawling. Gearey and the vaquero stood behind the sprawled figure of their stricken colleague, watching Max Giddons at work. Ike Nash hadn’t budged from behind the bar. Ned Calvert folded his arms and eyed the newcomer defiantly, while the four aged towners sat quiet and the Burdettes and their two sidekicks glowered at Jim’s broad back. They might all have been green volunteers caught in the act of committing some breach of army regulations, for all the impression they made on ex-Sergeant Rand. Only one man in this barroom warranted his immediate interest; he would get to the others later.
“I didn’t know Hillary had a new deputy,” frowned Calvert. “Well, Calvert’s my name, and I own this place.”
“I’ll get to you later,” said Jim, without looking at him.
All his attention was focused on Arnie Burdette’s hapless victim. He strode forward, crouched on one knee beside McLennan and frowned expectantly at Giddons, who sadly shook his head.
“Only a matter of moments,” was all the medico could say.
Jim stared down into the pallid, pain-wracked countenance. There was no resemblance, yet he was reminded of his dead brother. Why should that be? Probably because Chris and this man had been of similar age. Or—more probably—because Chris was still very much in his mind. He crouched lower to support McLennan’s head in the crook of his left arm. The cowpoke blinked dazedly at the shining metal badge on Jim’s vest. His mouth began working. Very softly, Giddons remarked:
“I wouldn’t have believed he could find the strength, Jim. He’s almost gone.”
“He’s trying to talk,” muttered Jim.
“It’s no use,” sighed Giddons. “You won’t hear anything.”
But the expression in McLennan’s eyes was so compelling, so filled with entreaty, that Jim did his utmost to hear. He bent lower, removed his Stetson and put his left ear as close as possible to McLennan’s twitching mouth, and now the whisper was audible to him, every word clearly pronounced.
“… swear I wasn’t—gonna draw. My hands—way up in front of me. And—he knew it. He—just filled his hand and—shot me down ...”
“Which one?” breathed Jim.
McLennan mouthed the name with his last breath. “Arnie Bur … dette …”
His eyes closed. Giddons cursed softly, and confided, “I still find myself resenting the wanton waste of a young man killed in a gunfight—cut down in his prime. I’ve been in practice many a year, and ought to be used to it, but ...”
“This was no gunfight,” growled Jim.
He gently lowered the dead man’s head to the floor, then rose to his feet and turned to face the four Block B men. Calvert began talking again, quickly, urgently.
“We all saw it, Deputy. This was a fair fight. Too bad about young McLennan, but he shouldn’t have ...”
“McLennan whispered a few things to me,” Jim curtly interrupted, “before he died.”
“I didn’t hear ...” began Calvert.
“You couldn’t,” frowned Jim. “I’m the only one who heard—and only because I had my ear close to his mouth. But I heard him clearly, and he claimed he was gunned down in cold blood. He wasn’t about to draw on anybody. His hands were raised.” Grim-faced, he studied them all—the old-timers seated at the table to his right, Gearey and Varez visible in the bar-mirror, Calvert and his barkeep and, finally, the four Block B men. “That’s what McLennan told me—and is anybody about to accuse McLennan of lying with his dying breath?”
“McLennan was lyin’,” drawled Travis Burdette, and he took one pace forward.
Jim eyed him coldly, glanced beyond him to the other three and asked:
“Which one is Arnie Burdette?”
Silence. The tension hung heavy over the barroom like a dark, threatening cloud. Travis Burdette glared defiantly and countered with another question.
“What d’you want with Arnie?”
“McLennan named him as the man who shot him,” Jim replied, “so now he’s under arrest—and the charge will be murder.”
“Make a run for it, Arnie!” ordered the elder brother, as he leapt forward to intercept the suddenly moving Jim.
The blow aimed at him by Travis Burdette never came within eighteen inches of his face, because he threw up his right hand and blocked it. Travis winced from the impact and, for an enticing moment, his hirsute visage was a clear target. Like a battering ram powered by a lightning-bolt, Jim’s b
unched left flashed out. That driving, punishing blow plunged the elder brother into oblivion, lifted him and sent him reeling back to collide with his colleagues, and Jim took advantage of that confusion.
It wasn’t the fastest draw ever seen hereabouts, but it served the purpose. Jim’s Colt was out and cocked by the time the younger brother and his two cronies were ready to offer retaliation.
“I wouldn’t try it ...!” he called.
But one of the Burdette employees made the bad mistake of reaching to his holster; he was begging for discouragement—and Jim obliged. The Colt roared. The man raised a wild, anguished yell, spun around, slumped against the bar and then sagged to the floor. His gun-arm had been, broken by Jim’s well-aimed slug. He groaned curses, blinked at the big man through a red haze of agony.
The long-barreled .45, re-cocked, was now lined on the other hardcases. Jim sourly repeated his question.
“Which one is Arnie?”
Arnie Burdette spat, squared his shoulders and named himself.
“I’m Arnie Burdette and, by Judas, Deputy, you’re buildin’ yourself a pine box! You’re diggin’ your own grave! Any man that dares to brace us Burdettes ...!”
“Shuddup!” bellowed Jim, in his best parade-ground voice, so that the old-timers started convulsively. “One more yap out of you, boy, and I won’t march you to jail. I’ll carry you—the way I’m gonna carry your damn fool brother! Unstrap your sidearm. Do it now—and do it smart!”
Muttering curses, Arnie Burdette obeyed. The fourth Block B man, grimly intimidated by the punishment meted out to his colleague and to the still-unconscious Travis, wisely kept his arms folded. Jim sidled to the bar and drawled a command to Calvert.
“I’ll thank you to fetch some rope.”
“You’ll get no help from me, damnitall!” Here was Calvert’s chance to prove his loyalty to the Block B faction, and he was ready to offer the younger Burdette a heartening performance. “Arnie stands unjustly accused. You have no right to ...”
Jim didn’t let him finish that sentence; he was in no mood for a speech from the bootlicking owner of the Rialto. Without taking his eyes off Arnie Burdette, or lowering his Colt, he rammed his left elbow into Calvert’s midsection. Calvert gave vent to a gasp, a groan and a curse, in that order. His hawk-like countenance turned beetroot-red, as he clasped his hands to his belly.
The Night McLennan Died (A Big Jim Western Book 1) Page 5
