The Night McLennan Died (A Big Jim Western Book 1)

by Marshall Grover

  “Rope,” grunted Jim. “And I mean right now.”

  “Holy smokes!” breathed Gearey.

  As Calvert tottered around the bar and out into the saloon kitchen, Jim addressed the old-timers, the two Circle T hands and the barkeep. Doc Giddons was still crouched beside the body of Dan McLennan, but was giving the new deputy his undivided attention.

  “I guess you all realize,” said Jim, “you’ll be called to testify at the trial.”

  “There’ll be no trial—you ...!” began Arnie.

  “Damn right there will!” snapped Jim. “You’ll have your day in court—and that’s my solemn promise!”

  “Deputy,” jeered Arnie, “if you think any of these galoots would dare testify against a Burdette, you’re plumb loco.”

  “How about that?” Jim demanded of the witnesses.

  One of the old men shrugged forlornly, and said, “I hanker to die in peace.”

  “Meaning?” challenged Jim.

  “You’re new here, Deputy,” muttered Gearey. “You dunno how it is, how it feels. I mean—bein’ scared all the time.”

  “You all saw what happened,” growled Jim.

  “I have not the courage,” mumbled the vaquero, “to risk my life.”

  “You?” Jim stared hard at the barkeep.

  “I got nothin’ to say,” frowned Nash.

  Calvert returned, hefting a coil of rope. Taking it from him, Jim hammered down, holstered his .45 and eyed the fourth Block B man coldly.

  “I’m takin’ these Burdettes to jail,” he announced. “Also your foolish friend with the busted wing.” His eyes narrowed, as he tucked his right thumb in his cartridge belt. This professional gunslinger could probably outdraw him—but why let him know it? “You can head for home—or you can come along to the calaboose. All it takes is one rash move.”

  “I ain’t budged an inch,” the gunfighter carefully pointed out.

  “Budge now,” Jim suggested. “Out that door—to your horse—and out of town.”

  He didn’t fail to note the significant glance that passed between this man and the murderer of Dan McLennan. The fourth hardcase would become, of course, a special courier; he would ride fast to the Block B headquarters to advise the much-feared Cyrus Burdette of the arrest of both his sons—one for murder, the other for impeding an officer of the law in the performance of his duty. And that was just fine by Deputy Jim Rand. An irate Cyrus Burdette would be dangerous, but vulnerable. The hotter his fury, the stronger the possibility of his making a tactical error.

  After the gunman walked out, Jim advanced on the youngest Burdette and brusquely ordered him to turn his back. It took him only a few moments to lash his prisoner’s wrists behind him. He then disarmed the wounded gunfighter, unconscious now from loss of blood. Travis Burdette still slumbered. He unstrapped that third gunbelt, hung it over his left arm with the others, then seized Travis by his shirt-collar, hauled him upright and draped him across his shoulder. Just as he had anticipated, the younger brother suddenly panicked, spun around and made to dash out into the street. Jim emptied his holster, and his movement was smooth and deft, despite the considerable weight of the befuddled Travis slumped across his shoulder. He cocked, aimed and fired and Arnie froze in mid-flight, because the bullet had kicked splinters from the doorjamb bare inches from his head.

  “The next bullet I have to use on you,” vowed Jim, “is gonna blow you to Kingdom Come.”

  Sweating profusely, trembling a little, Arnie Burdette again turned to face him. He gestured with his Colt to indicate the gunhawk with the broken arm. “You look strong enough to tote that other hero. Go pick him up, then move out ahead of me. We’ll be marching slow and easy to the jailhouse—as if you haven’t guessed.”

  As he trudged to the huddled and bloodied gunfighter, Arnie cursed luridly and assured him:

  “You’re never gonna get away with this, big man.”

  “You think not?” countered Jim. “Well—don’t take any bets.” He waited for Arnie to pick up the wounded man and tote him to the entrance. Then, just before moving after him, he glanced back at the tense-faced locals and asked, “Whatever made you hombres think the Burdettes were unbeatable? You mind what I said about giving evidence at the trial. It’ll be your privilege—and your responsibility.”

  “Jim,” said Giddons, “the dead man’s name was Dan McLennan. The sheriff would need to know. You go ahead now. I’ll be along to tend those wounded prisoners, after I’ve arranged for the removal of the body.”

  “Right,” grunted Jim.

  He departed with his prisoners, and the locals traded pensive glances. Gearey stood somewhat straighter now. His sidekick, the Mex frowned solemnly down at the dead man and muttered:

  “This butchery must end, amigo.”

  “Yep,” breathed Gearey. “And maybe the time has come.”

  “He was one amiable hombre, this McLennan, a true amigo,” Varez declared. “And what of us? Are we so loyal?”

  “Only way we can prove that,” asserted Gearey, “is to say our piece when Arnie Burdette stands trial for killin’ him. And—so help me—that’s exactly what I’m fixin’ to do!”

  “And me,” nodded Varez. “We will stand together in this.”

  “Count me in,” drawled Ike Nash. This taciturn barkeep had never sought the limelight, but now he had something to say, and there would be no stopping him. He was deeply affected, not only by the wanton slaying of the amiable McLennan, but by the relentless, grimly-efficient way in which Big Jim had dealt with the four hardcases of Block B. “I saw what we all saw. Dan had his fists raised high. I bet he never in his life drew his gun in anger, and he wasn’t about to draw on Burdette—and Burdette knew it—when he butchered him.”

  “Well ...” frowned one of the aged locals, “if you fellers are gonna take a chance ...”

  “Hold on now!” Calvert hastily remonstrated. “You all better think twice about this! What does the life of one no-account cowhand matter? The Burdettes are the leaders of this territory. They’ll bring prosperity—security for all of us. They’ll keep Libertad alive ...!”

  “You boot-lickin’ skunk,” said Nash. Even now, in the heat of passion, he didn’t raise his voice. He spoke quietly, while his employer whirled and gaped at him. “Any man that praises the Burdettes is a fool, a liar, or no man at all.”

  “Damn and blast you!” panted Calvert. “You can’t talk to me that way! You’re fired, Nash!”

  “Thanks,” said Nash. He untied his apron, tossed it onto the bar and donned his hat and coat, then came around front. “And I really mean thanks, Calvert, because I’ve always believed it’s bad luck to clobber the man that pays your wages.”

  With that, to the chagrin of the saloonkeeper and the astonishment of the locals, the barkeep administered a short and powerful punch to Calvert’s mouth. Calvert yelped and swore, fell back against the bar and began dabbing at his bloodied mouth with a kerchief, but made no attempt at retaliation, despite his being a much taller man than the grave-faced Ike Nash.

  The four aged locals traded glances, rose from their seats and followed Nash out into the street. For a distance of some thirty yards beyond the batwings, they had to shoulder their way through the growing crowd gathering to shout queries and, ultimately, to watch the transfer of Dan McLennan’s body to the funeral parlor.

  Gearey and the Mexican stayed behind with Giddons. “If it’s okay by you. Doc,” muttered Gearey, “Luiz and me will help tote Dan out. He was our friend, and—”

  “And you’ll do your duty?” prodded the medico. “You’ll give testimony against Arnie Burdette in court?”

  “Damn right we will,” growled the cowpoke.

  “Si,” nodded Varez. He shrugged self-consciously. “We are not brave hombres, Señor Doc, but I think this new rurale, this muy alto hombre, has prove something. He has prove these evil ones can be beaten.”

  Max Giddons repeated the vaquero’s statement to Jim and the sheriff some forty-five minutes
later. It took him that long to tape the fractured jaw of Travis Burdette, to extract the bullet from the arm of the wounded gunhawk, cleanse the wound and set the broken bones. The Burdette brothers now shared a cell, and Arnie Burdette was handling all the talking, because conversation would have been difficult for his brother. The gunman with the broken arm slept fitfully in an adjoining cell while, across the corridor from them, Benito Espina squatted on his bunk and crooned a love song.

  Luke Hillary had ordered a reliable local to see his niece safely home. Grim-faced and somewhat harassed, he sat slumped behind his desk and listened to Jim’s understated report of the arrests, while Giddons perched on the couch and restored his instruments to his valise. When Jim had finished his description, the medico grinned wryly and assured Luke:

  “It all happened just as Jim has told you—except that he told it army-style. Everything trimmed down to the bare essentials. Either your new deputy is a man of remarkable modesty, or he just doesn’t realize the extent of his achievement.” He stopped grinning abruptly. “Luke, this was a mighty significant victory for law and order in Libertad, and more than just an arrest. It was humiliation for Block B. Jim made the Burdettes look like a couple of amateur hell-raisers. And, when old Cyrus gets to hear about it, he’ll be positively sick with rage.” He paused a moment, then thoughtfully enlarged on that possibility. “He may even suffer a stroke. By golly, that would save us a heap of grief.”

  “There’ll be counter-action from Block B,” muttered Luke. “And I’d welcome an open fight, a shooting showdown with the old man and his trigger-happy scum, if it wasn’t for ...” He indicated his useless right arm, grimaced in disgust. “I wouldn’t feel so damn foolish if I’d been thrown by a horse or got in the way of a bolting team. But to just fall downstairs like some dodderin’ old-timer ...” He tensed, darted a glance to the locked and barred street-door. There were sounds of movement outside on the porch. Somebody rapped at the door. Jim gestured reassuringly, put his hand on his holster and unhurriedly sidled to one of the closed front windows. By standing with his back to the wall, he could study some of the men on the porch.

  “Nobody’s showing a gun,” he told Luke. “I think I recognize ’em. Uh huh. They were at the Rialto when I took the Burdette boys.”

  “Well,” frowned Luke, “we’d best find out what they want.”

  The knock was repeated. Jim lifted the bar, unlocked and opened the door. Into the office trooped Saul Gearey, Luiz Varez and the four aged towners who had witnessed the killing of Dan McLennan. After them came a curious Oscar Deitch and a placid Ike Nash. The office looked jam-packed, when Jim reclosed the door and stood with his back to it.

  “Don’t all try to talk at once, gents,” begged the sheriff. He nodded to one of the old-timers, a gnarled, gray-bearded seventy-year-old. “You want to be spokesman, Linus Critchley? I’d as soon you talked for the others, because you aren’t a man for long speech-makin’.”

  “We all done agreed to it, Luke,” old Critchley announced. “We seen what we seen, and we figure it’s up to us to tell it. Only we hanker to get it writ down and witnessed legal, ’case we’re all dead by the time that kill-crazy whippersnapper has his day in court.”

  “Affidavits?” prodded Luke, his eyes agleam. “You want to volunteer statements, swear to ’em and ...?”

  “That’s it, Sheriff,” nodded Gearey. “Just like Mr. Critchley says.”

  “I couldn’t lay my head to my pillow in peace this night,” mumbled another of the old-timers, “’less’n I got it outa my system.”

  “Doc,” said the sheriff, “where do you go from here?”

  “Straight down to the funeral parlor to sign the death certificate on McLennan,” said Giddons.

  “Would you first go find Mayor Navarro?” begged Luke. “Have him hustle up here to draw up the affidavits. I want these statements to carry a little muscle, when I present ’em to the prosecutor.”

  “Well,” frowned Giddons, “I guess the alcalde is qualified.”

  “The alcalde,” Varez pointed out, “is also a justice of the peace.”

  “Oh, sure,” nodded the medico. “I was forgetting.” He moved across to the door, voicing a thought. “This could be the beginning, huh, Luke? What we’ve waited for—hoped for—ever since Old Man Burdette and his gunslicks came to Libertad?”

  “Damn right, Doc,” said Hillary. “It might just be the beginning of one big showdown.”

  Within an hour the formalities were over. Into Luke Hillary’s safe were placed the duly witnessed affidavits of Saul Gearey, Luiz Varez, Ike Nash and the four old-timers. Those seven volunteer witnesses had gone their way, as had Mayor Emilio Navarro. Only Oscar Deitch remained with the sheriff and his new deputy. The storekeeper was in two moods—elated at this first manifestation of opposition to Block B—sobered at the knowledge of Dan McLennan’s untimely end.

  “By the time we’re through with the Burdettes,” he opined, “there could be more than one new tombstone in the Libertad cemetery.”

  “There’ll be trouble,” Hillary flatly asserted, “just as sure as there’s corn in Iowa. Old Cyrus isn’t the kind to wire some Tucson lawyer and bring him in to defend his precious sons. No siree. The Burdettes don’t hold with courts or attorneys—or even judges. Direct action is the only law the old man savvies.”

  “They’ll try to bust Arnie and Travis and the other one out of jail?” prodded Jim. “Well now, that mightn’t be as easy as they think. You don’t have a rear entrance. Keep that front door locked and barred, and the windows barricaded, and there’s no way Block B could get in. They won’t try to burn you out, for fear of hurting their own men.”

  “I’ll bet a half-year’s pay the old man’ll make some kind of trouble,” muttered Hillary, “some attempt to bust his boys out. It mightn’t come right away—but we won’t have to wait long. It’ll happen soon enough.”

  “Three of them out of action,” frowned Jim. “How many does that leave?”

  “Seven, countin’ Cyrus himself,” said Hillary, “and not countin’ the certain party that just might be visitin’ out at Block B.” He shrugged and sighed. “I feel like I owe you an apology, Jim. You got your own axe to grind—meanin’ Jenner, or Seymour—and now I’ve tied you in to a shootin’ war with the Burdette outfit.”

  “I’ll make a bargain with you,” offered Jim. “You save your apologies till I start complaining—fair enough?”

  “Whatever you say,” said Hillary.

  “Luke,” grunted Deitch, “take a close look at your new deputy. He’s big—and plenty tough—but notice how his eyes keep closin’? It’s the rattlesnake bite. It comes back on a man, keeps wearyin’ him.”

  “Poison’s all out of my system,” Jim gruffly assured him.

  “Maybe so,” said Hillary, “but we ought to play it safe. You’re mighty valuable to us, Jim, so how’s about you go on back to your hotel and rest awhile?”

  “I won’t say no to that,” yawned Jim. “But first, I aim to turn Benito loose, if you got no objection. This would be a fine time to run him out of town.”

  Six – The Slow Exit

  Luke Hillary offered no objection to the release of Benito Espina; on the contrary he heartily agreed with the idea. It just didn’t seem prudent—leaving a devious, irresponsible little thief like Benito in close touch with such hardened miscreants as the brothers Burdette.

  When Jim entered the cellblock, jingling the key ring, the runty Mex was still crooning to the accompaniment of his own battered guitar. Two of the other prisoners were sourly ordering him to desist. The third, Travis Burdette, was in no condition to voice coherent protests about the quality of Benito’s performance—or about anything else—because of his taped jaw. The look he showed Big Jim was baleful in the extreme, full of the threat of reprisal. Jim ignored him, moved past the cell and on to Benito’s temporary abode. He leaned against the bars of the cell door while checking the ring for the key to this lock. Benito finished his serenade on
a sustained and ragged note, set his guitar aside and then blandly informed Jim:

  “Thees gringos do not appreciate the beauty of my golden voice, Amigo Jim. They are not music lovers, uh?”

  “On your feet, small fry,” ordered Jim, as he inserted a key in the lock.

  In acute alarm, Benito asked, “You would not give me back to the friends of Conchita Minoza? Caramba! Is better I rot in jail forever, than become the esposo of this fat potranca!”

  “You can quit sweating, Benito,” grinned Jim. “I’m not about to make you marry any woman. You might sire a few kids that look exactly like you—and that’d be the worst tragedy since the firing on Fort Sumter.” He shoved the door open, crooked a finger. “Let’s go, amigo. ¡Fuera, fuera, fuera!”

  “Muchas gracias,” leered Benito.

  He donned his battered wreck of a sombrero, tucked his guitar under an arm and, after a mocking salute aimed at the scowling Burdettes, strutted past Jim and out into the corridor. Jim hustled him through to the office, re-secured the cellblock door.

  Hillary’s visitors now numbered three. As well as Deitch, there were a pudgy, balding blacksmith name of Durrance and the now unemployed barkeep, Ike Nash. The ’smith was perched on a stool by a front window, a shotgun resting across his knees. Nash was chewing on an unlit cigar and becoming absorbed in the cleaning and oiling of a Henry repeater. Hillary was at the Justin stove, brewing up a pot of coffee—one chore he could manage with only his left hand. As Jim hustled the little Mex to the street-door, the sheriff offered directions as to the location of the barn at which the burro was stabled. Benito doffed his sombrero, bowed low and would have launched into a long-winded speech of farewell, had Jim not opened the door and hauled him out to the porch.