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

by Marshall Grover

  He kept one strong hand clamped to Benito’s shoulder, as they trudged the boardwalk uptown to the livery stable. Undismayed, the little thief politely offered his congratulations.

  “On you, my friend,” he remarked, “the badge of the rurale looks muy bello. It was only a matter of time, no? A hombre accustomed to authority—a hombre so grande …”

  “Don’t try to butter me up, little cucaracha,” growled Jim. “As soon as I put you on that bug-bitten burro of yours, you’re gonna head clear out of Libertad and never come back.”

  “It grieves me—in here ...” Benito patted his chest to indicate the region of his grief, “that you have no affection for me—your dearest friend. Did I not save your life, Amigo Jim?”

  “You should pardon me for reminding you,” said Jim, with heavy sarcasm, “but I did the same for you.”

  “Si. That is true,” Benito agreed.

  And, at that moment, he stumbled. For only a fraction of a second, he clutched at Jim for support. Then he regained the perpendicular and mumbled his thanks, and Jim said, “Give it back.”

  “No comprendo,” frowned Benito.

  “My wallet,” scowled Jim, “which you just slipped out of my back pocket.” He snapped the fingers of his left hand, while holding his bunched right under Benito’s nose. “You never give up, do you? I could’ve let you rot in that jail, but no. I had to get big-hearted. So I turned you loose—and now you pick my pocket.”

  “You would condemn me ...” Benito blinked aggrievedly, as he returned the wallet, “because of a harmless jest? I swear to you, Amigo Jim, I would not have kept the moohila. A good thief must practice to maintain his skill.”

  “Nothing wrong with your skill, I’ll grant you that,” muttered Jim. He checked his wallet to ensure its contents were intact. “But don’t ever try that on me again, cucaracha. Next time, so help me, I’ll put a dent in your ugly head. Go on—move.”

  A few moments later, lounging in the doorway of the livery stable, he watched the little Mex readying his burro for the trail, and marveled at his resilience, his fatalism, his almost constant good humor. A rare hombre was Benito Espina, and that was putting it mild. He spoke affectionately to Capitan Cortez, his burro, and whistled tunelessly through his buckteeth, while lashing his gear into position. Then, hooking a grimy forefinger in his burro’s bridle, he led it to the doorway. His shrewd brown eyes surveyed Jim’s impassive visage.

  “What do you do now, Amigo Jim?”

  “Not that it’s any of your doggone business,” drawled Jim, “I go on back to the Hotel Regio and catch up on my sleep—while you straddle that critter and head for the yonder. East or west, north or south, it doesn’t much matter, Benito. Just so long as you get the hell out of this territory.”

  “Is a pity I must leave at this time,” mused Benito. “There will be many interesting things to happen, I think. These tosco hombres you have brought to the carcel—they will make much trouble for you.”

  “I don’t need any warnings from you, boy,” mumbled Jim, and he yawned again. “As for the Burdettes—they’re gonna stay right where they are—stuck in that calaboose.”

  “You make history tonight—you know?” grinned Benito.

  “How?” challenged Jim.

  “Is first time any vaqueros of this Block B rancho are arrested,” said Benito.

  “Don’t call ’em vaqueros,” countered Jim. “They aren’t regular cowhands. They’re gunslingers—pistoleros—and mighty bad medicine. The young one is gonna hang for murder, bet your life on that.” He gestured impatiently. “All right, Benito. Straddle and ride.”

  “Si. I go,” shrugged Benito, as he swung astride.

  “Try to keep those itchy fingers out of other men’s pockets,” Jim advised.

  The little Mex flashed his buckteeth in an insolent grin and called farewell.

  “Adios, Amigo Jim.”

  “Adios,” grunted Jim.

  He dawdled to the south side of Libertad and stood in the bright moonlight awhile, staring after the slow-moving burro and its indolent, irresponsible master. When he sauntered back to the Hotel Regio, it never once occurred to him that Benito Espina might double back. He had not seen the last of the scruffy little opportunist—not by a long shot.

  At the Hotel Regio, he had been assigned a ground-floor room. Its window offered as uninteresting a view as could be found within the precincts of Libertad—a vacant lot, bare and cheerless. Maybe a new building would be erected here. The lot had been cleared of rock, brush and rubble, but no foundations had been laid, and the rubble was heaped fifteen feet high, a short distance from Jim’s window.

  Just before he extinguished his lamp, he had the feeling of being watched. Were his reflexes too sharp tonight? Was his sixth sense working overtime? He extinguished the lamp and moved over to the window to scan the area beyond. Not a sign of life. Not a sound to indicate the presence of a marauder.

  He returned to his bed, and Benito Espina edged away from the rubble-heap and retraced his steps to where his burro waited. To the Mexican quarter he now rode, to single out some aged and talkative countryman who could offer pertinent information on the local scene.

  Later, when he rode out of Libertad in a northeasterly direction, the little opportunist had a positive destination in mind, plus a scheme that might achieve either or both of two purposes. He might become rich, while offering valuable assistance to the muy alto gringo who had saved his life—or he might not earn one peso from this enterprise, and still be helping Big Jim. There was, of course, a risk involved. He would be visiting a killers’ lair, and at an hour when tempers would undoubtedly be frayed. According to his informant, the lobo antiguo—the one they called “old wolf”—was of violent temperament, vindictive, unpredictable. No doubt he would not appreciate to be visited at so late an hour, and by so unprepossessing a visitor. Not that Benito considered himself to be unprepossessing. He was uncommonly handsome. The only difficulty was that nobody else realized it.

  It was a quarter to eleven when he idled the burro past the Block B herd and steered a course for the lamplit adobe ranch house. Deliberately, he unslung his guitar and began singing. They must know of his coming; he needed to give the impression of having nothing to hide—at least not from Block B.

  He rode past a pole corral housing several horses, then halted the burro and let his song die in mid-chorus. It cost him quite an effort to maintain his bland smile because, of the seven men converging on him, one was the most fearsome he had ever seen.

  “Buenas noches, señors,” he mumbled. “You do not need to point the pistola at me—Benito Espina—for I wish you no harm. I am here to offer much valuable information to the patron—the Señor Burdette ...”

  “We oughta post guards!” snarled the Block B boss. “It’s gettin’ to where any lousy no-account wetback can come snoopin’ in under our very noses!”

  Old age hadn’t mellowed Cyrus Burdette; on the contrary, his temper shortened as his life lengthened. He was the personification of malevolence. Benito’s scalp crawled as the old man advanced closer to the burro and glowered at him. It seemed fire blazed from those wide-set, dilated eyes. The nostrils flared and, stark under the flowing moustache, the teeth were bared ferociously. The beard was long and matted; any way you looked at him, Old Man Burdette was short on appeal.

  “Giddown offa that burro—greaser!” he breathed. “I’m gonna teach you a lesson—’bout trespassin’ on private property. I’m gonna whup you till you can scarce stand up!”

  “But I come to help,” protested Benito.

  “Day ain’t dawned,” retorted the old man, “when I’ll need help from any stinkin’ wetback.”

  He reached up, grasped at Benito’s pants-belt and hauled backwards. With a startled yelp, the little Mexican parted company with the burro, striking the ground hard, then rolling over and beginning the effort to regain his feet. He was in a kneeling posture when Old Man Burdette swung a hard kick at his face. In frantic haste he
bobbed his head, and the lashing boot deprived him of his battered sombrero.

  “Por favor ...!” he gasped.

  “Shuddup and hold still!” boomed the old man. “I crave to beat your brains out, you ...!”

  “But I am your friend!” panted Benito. “I come to help—to make what you call—the proposition. Do you not wish for your sons to be free? I was only now released from the carcel—banished from Libertad by this new rurale this one they call Big Jim ...”

  “Hold it, boss,” one of the onlookers suddenly cried out. “He’s talkin’ about the hombre that arrested Arnie!”

  Burdette grasped at the front of Benito’s shirt with both hands and began shaking him violently.

  “All right, snooper!” he fumed. “What d’you know about the new deputy?”

  “¡Caramba ...!” groaned Benito. “You will—shake every tooth from my beautiful head ...!”

  The man showing interest had been the fourth member of the quartet that had invaded the Rialto earlier this night—the only one to escape damage at the hard hands of Big Jim. At his urging, Burdette finally agreed to give Benito a hearing. He stopped shaking the little Mex, who promptly flopped to the dust, gasping for breath.

  “I’m waitin’, greaser!” he snapped.

  “This—big rurale …” faltered Benito. “It was to him that the one called McLennan—the one shot by your son—spoke before he died. Only to the rurale did McLennan speak ...”

  “That’s exactly how it was, boss.”

  “Shuddup, Burt,” scowled the old man. “You were there. You had a chance to settle that deputy’s hash—but you didn’t—and now Arnie and Travis and Kramer are stuck in Hillary’s calaboose!”

  “If you’d been there,” retorted Burt, “you’d know why I didn’t throw down on this new tin star. I swear he’s damn near eight feet tall, and ...!”

  “Much taller than that,” mumbled Benito. “Muy alto ...”

  “Whatever you got to say, say it fast,” ordered Burdette. “I don’t appreciate to be propositioned by any sneakin’ wetback.”

  “For five hundred American dollars, I will do it,” said Benito, with an eager grin. “I will punish this gigante for what he did to me. I will slit his throat while he sleeps, uh? And then—who will repeat the last words of this McLennan in court? Only the deputy heard—no? He will be dead. The witnesses? They are of no importance, for they can be bribed or frightened—no?”

  There followed a brief silence. The man called Burt broke it by cursing softly and remarking:

  “Damned if he don’t make sense at that. Shuttin’ the deputy’s mouth would be a smart move.”

  “You think so, huh?” challenged Burdette.

  “Boss,” frowned Burt, “you should’ve seen the looks on their faces. I’m talkin’ about McLennan’s sidekicks, and the barkeep, and those four towners. This Big Jim jasper—he made it look like any one saddle tramp could whip the tar out of any three hombres from Block B. So now they look up to him, you know? Besides bein’ the witness that could put a noose around Arnie’s neck. He’s the one who could stir up this whole territory against us—so you just gotta get rid of him—and I mean fast.”

  Burdette’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t looking at Benito now, but he was listening.

  “I would do it muy quedo, Patron. Already, I know where he sleeps. And he is fatigado now. It would be easy for me—a simple matter ...”

  “And where does he sleep?” demanded the old man. “Hotel Regio,” said Benito. “A room on the ground floor. There are four windows that open onto the south side of the posada. He sleeps in the second room from the left.” He leered slyly, as he added, “And he is one brave hombre, this Big Jim. The window he leaves open.”

  “He was big enough and smart enough to down Travis with one punch,” scowled Burdette, “to put a slug in Jerry Kramer’s gun-arm—and then arrest Arnie.” He seized Benito by the collar of his jacket. “And you think you could get the drop on him or hike him by surprise? You, a no-account little wetback ...?”

  “I can do it,” Benito earnestly assured him. “Five hundred American dollars, Patron, is all I ask ...” He gasped in pain, as the old man slapped his face hard. “Bueno, Patron. Whatever you say. Four hundred? Three?”

  “¡Vamoose!” snarled Burdette. “Get the hell outa this territory—and don’t you never show your nose around these parts again!” He snapped a command to one of his men. “Cleave! Get saddled up and ride out with him. Make sure he moves clear of Block B land.”

  Smarting from the blows inflicted by the old man, outwardly miserable, but inwardly elated, Benito quit Block B under escort of a heavy-set roughneck with scarred face and squint eyes. Once clear of Burdette range, and in sight of the regular trail, the hardcase curtly ordered him to, “Keep movin’—and don’t turn back. I’ll be watchin’ you, greaser, and I got an itchy trigger-finger.”

  “No hombre trusts me,” sighed Benito, “and this is very sad. Ah, si. Muy triste.”

  “Git,” grunted the gunhawk.

  Benito travelled due east for all of a half-mile, before wheeling Capitan Cortez, hustling into the concealment of a stretch of mesquite and, by a circuitous route, beginning a return journey to Libertad.

  ~*~

  Under any and all conditions, Jim Rand was a light sleeper. He was possessed of that rare ability to rouse in an instant with every reflex working, every instinct and nerve functioning efficiently. And his nocturnal visitor was offered graphic and startling proof of this talent when, at ten minutes before midnight, Jim came awake and sensed the presence of an intruder. The little man was bending over the bed, about to place a hand on Jim’s shoulder, when he heard the ominous clicking sound of a cocking revolver and felt something cold, round and metallic pressed against his left cheek.

  “¡Por Dios ...!” he breathed.

  “What you’re feeling,” Jim quietly announced, “is the muzzle-end of a forty-five. You budge an inch—make one wrong move and I pull the trigger. From then on, I reckon you’d feel plumb uncomfortable, if you could feel anything at all.”

  “Do not shoot!” gasped Benito. “It is me—your close and dear amigo that you may always trust—me—Benito Espina.”

  “Oh, hell,” sighed Jim. “You again.”

  He hammered down, lowered his Colt and hauled himself to a sitting posture.

  “You will not be angry, Amigo Jim,” Benito promised. “When I have told you all, you will thank me one million times.”

  “I should’ve guessed it was you,” muttered Jim. “Consarn you, Benito, don’t you ever take a bath? Soap and water—¿comprender?”

  “I have come to save your life,” said Benito. He made to seat himself on the bed, but Jim dislodged him with a strong bare foot; he thudded to the floor, grunted and winced. “Is this how an Americano shows gratitude—to one who brings a warning, a warning that will save his life?”

  “My life,” Jim philosophically asserted, “has been in danger more often than I could keep count of. I was a soldier for many a long year, Benito. Danger and me are old friends.” It then occurred to him, “Didn’t I run you out of town? Why in blazes did you come back?”

  “Amigo,” said Benito, “some hombre will try to kill you—and soon, I think. Maybe before sunrise—maybe within the very next hour.”

  “You think so?”

  “It is for certain.”

  “And what makes you so sure?”

  “I am sure—because it will be my fault.”

  “How’s that again?”

  “I have—how you say?—give the invitation. I have suggest that some pistoleros should come to this posada and kill you.”

  “That’s right kindly of you, Benito. You got a big heart.”

  “Did I not say I am your close and dear friend?”

  “Uh huh. And, with you for a friend, what do I need with enemies?” Jim swung his legs to the floor, reached down and pressed a finger and thumb to the little Mex’s right ear, jerked him to his feet. “Now ma
ke sense, you back-talking little polecat!”

  “You have no cause to distrust me,” Benito plaintively protested. “All I did was go to the Señor Burdette and offer to kill you—for five hundred dollars.”

  “You offered to kill me—but I have no cause to distrust you.” For several seconds, Jim tried to reconcile one fact with the other. It wasn’t easy. “All right, cucaracha, keep talking. Maybe—in time—you’ll start to make sense.”

  “Is all very simple,” declared Benito. “I make the Señor Burdette believe that I wish to kill you ...”

  “You’re talking about the old man himself—out at Block B?” demanded Jim.

  “Por cierto,” nodded Benito. He then proceeded to repeat in detail his conversation with the sire of the homicidal Burdette brothers, describing the old man’s reaction, carefully emphasizing every word of the proposition he had offered, and then explaining, “This was what you call bait, my friend.”

  “You made sure they’d know exactly where I sleep,” mused Jim. “You reminded the old man that my testimony could put his son on a gallows—and then you gave him the idea of shutting my mouth—permanently.” He nodded thoughtfully. “A mighty useful hombre you are, Benito. Any time a man hankers to get himself killed, all he needs is for you to—uh—make arrangements.”

  “A hombre so inteligente,” leered Benito, “should comprehend my purpose in this. It was to give them the idea—by pretending that this was what I wish to do.”

  “So now,” prodded Jim, “you figure the notion will fester in Old Man Burdette’s brain, and that he’ll decide to send a gun to put me down. Maybe one gun. Maybe two. They’ll know where to find me. You made that easy for ’em.”

  “Si.” Benito nodded eagerly. “I have set the trap ...”

  “Using me for bait,” drawled Jim. “Sure. You’re a true friend.” He grinned wryly, rose to his feet. “All right, boy. You’ve said your piece, and now you’d better skedaddle.”

  “You comprehend my purpose in this?” asked Benito.

  “I reckon I savvy the general idea,” said Jim.

  “One hombre cannot fight many enemies all at one time,” Benito sagely asserted. “Is best if the enemy comes to him—not all at once, but one at a time. Already, three pistoleros of Block B are in jail. Before the rising of the sun, Amigo Jim, you could arrest one—maybe two more.”