“You’ll find my field glasses in the bottom drawer of the desk,” offered Hillary. “So-long, Jim, and I sure wish you luck.”
“Gracias,” grunted Jim.
After the big man had gone, Hillary’s volunteers looked to him for an explanation. And Hillary kept it short and simple.
“He’s huntin’ a back-shooter—the man that gunned his kid brother. There’s a chance the killer is holed up at Block B, and that’s a chance Jim can’t pass up. He figures—if the old man brings the rest of his outfit to town for a showdown—this back-shooter will stay behind.”
“Who is he?” the blacksmith wanted to know.
“In San Marco, where he killed Jim’s brother,” said Hillary, “he called himself Jenner. But he could be Clegg Seymour—who happens to be kin to the Burdettes.”
~*~
Riding northeast, Jim had everything he needed—directions as to the location of Block B, a pair of field glasses through which he could keep the ranch buildings under observation, his loaded Winchester snug in its saddle-sheath and the butt of his Colt nudging his right hand. He expected to encounter two town bound riders along that northeast route, and his expectations were realized. A clump of cottonwoods to the left of the trail provided useful cover, when he heard the clatter of hooves heralding the approach of another rider. He sat the black in the concealment of the timber and watched Ned Calvert ride by, thinking:
“First you, Calvert, and then the telegrapher. Both of you running out to Block B like paid messengers. And now the old man knows. Not only that his hired killer missed his target and ended up in jail, but that Judge Ford and the army are on their way.”
Some twenty five minutes after he had resumed his journey, he again sought cover. It suited him to hide behind a rampart of lava-rock while Abe Latham rode past, just as it had suited him to stay out of sight of Calvert. Had they spotted him, they might have turned tail and headed back to Block B to announce his coming. He didn’t want it that way. Let the old man mount an advance on Libertad by all means. The citizens would have ample warning from Doc Giddons, and would have the good sense to stay clear of the scene of conflict. Yes, let Burdette lead his men to town—and would Seymour be among them? Jim doubted it. Seymour he would find at Block B, still lying low. Seymour he would challenge and arrest—or fight and kill.
In the pale light of the hour after daybreak, he lay on his belly at the edge of a timbered ridge on Block B range and, through his borrowed binoculars, watched Cyrus Burdette’s preparations for the attack on the Libertad jail. Six saddled horses stood in the yard fronting the ranch house. Two men were clambering out of the horse-corral; three more were emerging from the bunkhouse. All toted rifles and wore sidearms.
The Block B boss wasn’t alone on the ranch-house porch. As the old man descended the steps and strode across to his waiting horse, another man moved out into the early morning sunlight. On him, Jim focused the binoculars and all his attention. Perspiration beaded on his brow; his scalp crawled.
Seymour stood just below the steps, hands thrust in his pants pockets, and watched the old man swing astride a rangy bay colt.
“Sorry I can’t go along, Cy,” he called.
“Forget it,” grunted Burdette. “I’d as soon have one man stay behind and keep an eye on the spread.”
“This shouldn’t be too rough a chore for you, old-timer,” drawled Seymour. “I’m bettin’ the local law will holler for mercy when you ride in.”
“No, you’re wrong about that,” muttered Burdette. “Hillary won’t surrender his prisoners without a fight. Well, damn and blast him, a fight is what he’s gonna get.”
“And you’ll need to keep your eyes peeled for that new deputy,” Seymour suggested. “If he was tough enough to get the drop on Waco Sammy ...”
“I swear I never believed Harbin would let me down,” scowled Burdette. “Four Block B men in jail—includin’ my own sons. And now, to make it worse, they’ve sent for the circuit-judge ...!” He turned red, snarled an oath. “An escort of soldier-boys, huh? This Rand hombre thinks of everything.”
Kyle Burt offered his chief a word of consolation. “Unless the judge and his escort sprout wings, they won’t make Libertad before sundown. We got damn near the whole day to bust Arnie and Travis out of jail.”
“Luck to you, Cy,” said Seymour, as the old man wheeled his mount.
By the time Seymour re-entered the house, the town-bound riders were out of sight and Jim was ready to move in. For once in his casehardened, battle-wise life, he acted too impulsively; he couldn’t wait to get to grips with the blond man inside the Block B ranch house. A soft whistle brought the now well-trained charcoal loafing out of the timber. He swung astride and heeled the big black to movement, putting it to the slope leading down to the flats. And, very soon, the clatter of hooves alerted the occupant of the ranch house to the fast approach of a lone horseman. Seymour armed himself with a rifle, positioned himself at a front window and scanned the area to the south west, immediately spotting the oncoming rider. The morning sun glinted off the metal star affixed to Big Jim’s vest.
“Lawman!” breathed Seymour, as he readied the rifle. “A rash one—mighty rash. Well, the hell with him. I’ll never again see the insides of a cell.”
He squinted along the barrel, sighting on the tall rider. Just as his finger tightened on the trigger, Jim swerved the charcoal clear of a boulder; that first bullet whined a full twelve inches past his right shoulder and, simultaneously, he heard the echoing bark of the repeater. He cursed luridly, jerked the black to a slithering halt, then swung its head leftward and got it moving again. There was, less than forty yards distant, a scattering of tall boulders that would provide ample cover—if he reached them alive. He cussed the black and it bounded towards the rocks, just as Seymour triggered his second and third shots.
Something hot and metallic buzzed past Jim’s face like an angry, spiteful hornet, and now he was on familiar ground, reliving what he had experienced many times in the past fifteen years. He was under fire; a cavalryman under attack while hunting cover. The third .44/.40 slug came wider of its mark, whining high over his head.
In a flurry of dust, he reined up behind the rocks, eased his boots from the stirrups and leapt to the ground. He flopped on all fours, jerked his Colt out and made to raise himself and draw a bead on his adversary. And then, so close at hand that he started convulsively, he heard himself greeted by that nasal, impudent voice.
“Saludos, Amigo Jim. Is fine day for to be shot at, uh?”
Jim gritted his teeth, rolled over and glowered at the nondescript figure huddled behind a boulder some nine feet to his left.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jim sourly enquired.
“Watching ...” sniggered Benito, “while you make a target of yourself, amigo. Your big self.”
“Don’t rub it in,” scowled Jim.
“From Libertad I follow you,” Benito explained, “but with great care. When you descend from the ridge, I follow. But, instead of racing towards the hacienda ...”
“As if,” jeered Jim, “that flea-bit burro could move any faster than a crawl.”
“I am discreet,” shrugged Benito. “I have deep concern for the welfare of my so beautiful hide, and I ...”
“Quit jabbering,” growled Jim. “I’m trying to think.” He doffed his Stetson, gingerly raised his gun-hand and the top half of his head, drew a fast bead and squeezed trigger. At this range, he couldn’t be sure that he had scored on his quarry. It didn’t seem likely. But he had certainly smashed a window; he could hear the tinkle of glass. Seymour retaliated with another burst from his rifle and, again, the slugs whined and ricocheted about the boulders. As Jim ducked, Benito placidly resumed their conversation.
“Si. You think of ways and means of getting closer to the hacienda, uh?”
“I want that hombre,” breathed Jim, “and I don’t much care if I have to take him in dead.”
“He stole from you?” prodded
Benito.
“Worse than that,” muttered Jim. “I’m fairly sure he’s the coyote that killed my brother.”
“Ah, si.” Benito nodded pensively. “Bueno. I go now. You wait, Amigo Jim. You keep this asesino busy, uh? And, muy presto, you will have your chance. You will mount the caballo negro and ride very close to the hacienda, and this asesino will be so confused ...”
“Just what do you aim to do?” Jim challenged.
“Is simple,” grinned Benito. “I will cause the cattie to stampede—towards the hacienda.” He lifted a hand in farewell, began crawling towards Capitan Cortez. “Hasta la vista.”
“Likewise,” grunted Jim. “And muchas gracias.”
He went to the charcoal, slid his Winchester from its sheath.
Nine – Death-Duel
A few moments later, Clegg Seymour hastily abandoned the window, throwing himself flat and crawling frantically to another vantage point. It was all too obvious that the attacking lawman had ceased to rely on a pistol and was cutting loose with a rifle. The bullets were aimed by an expert; that much was obvious. He had heard four reports in rapid succession, and all four slugs had whined through the already shattered window. Two of them missed his head by mere inches before lodging in the far wall. Another shattered a lamp on the table behind him. Another gouged a chunk out of the edge of the table.
At that moment the first line of fast-running steers moved past the rocks where Jim crouched; it was time for him to move again. He rose up and, through the rising clouds of alkali, glimpsed the snorting, stamping charcoal. The big black was restless, needing to get clear of this scattering of lava-rock. He ran to it, slid the Winchester back into its sheath and swung astride.
Out from the rock he rode, to turn Hank and begin moving towards the house, staying level with the last dozen bawling beeves. He crouched low in his saddle and had to keep his eyes half-closed against the alkali. It was in his mouth and throat, threatening to choke him. It was in his ears and nostrils and, as they drew closer to the house, the big charcoal seemed to scare up larger and thicker clouds of it—with assistance from a hundred and fifty stampeding longhorns.
Abruptly, he jerked on the reins, swerving the black to the right of the last steers. He had spotted his means of entry. The window was on the near side of the ranch house and closed, but that latter detail could not deter him now, because the bloodlust was upon him with a vengeance. The house loomed before him. He eased his left boot—then his right—from the stirrups, let go of the reins and hurled himself sideways from the charcoal’s back, keeping his head down. His timing was perfect. In a shower of shattering glass, he pitched through the window and sprawled on the floor of the parlor.
Some, but not all, of the breath was knocked out of him. Instinctively, he changed position, rolling to his left as he emptied his holster, and that movement saved his life. The rifle barked from the parlor entrance. A .44/.40 slug plowed into the floor beside him.
He lifted his gun-filled right hand, caught a fleeting glimpse of a hastily retreating figure, fired and missed, then rose to his feet and hurried to the parlor entrance. For a long moment, silence. The thunder of the stampede was receding, the dust settling. He hesitated a moment longer, then stepped through the doorway into a narrow hallway, and heard the bark of the rifle again and felt the bullet’s hot wind on his face. Grim-faced, he retreated into the parlor doorway and looked to the loading of his Colt. The used shells he ejected and replaced with fresh cartridges tugged from his belt. All the time, his ears were cocked. He heard the too-quick working of the rifle’s breech, a sure indication that his adversary had run out of shells.
“Getting short on ammunition?” Jim called. “Do yourself a favor. Quit while you’re still alive.”
From somewhere beyond the dark area at the rear of the hall, Seymour yelled a retort.
“I’ve made myself a promise, lawman! I swore I’d never see the insides of a jail again! And—and if you think I’m short of ammunition—just try me, lawman! Try me!”
“Switching to the handgun, are you?” jibed Jim. “The thirty-eight?”
During the shocked silence that followed, he crept out into the hallway and began edging towards its rear end. His adversary’s voice sounded closer, when next he gave voice.
“How—how’d you know I tote a thirty-eight?”
Jim didn’t answer until he had reached another doorway. This one opened into an untidy bedroom. He hammered back, lined his Colt along the hall and assured the other man:
“I know plenty about you.”
“Been lookin’ all over for me, I bet!” jeered Seymour, as he opened fire with the Smith & Wesson.
Jim crouched, aimed slightly to the right of the gun-flash and squeezed trigger. Hard on the roar of the report he heard Seymour’s gasped oath and the rattle of a doorknob. Daylight shafted into the rear end of the hall. Seymour had opened the door leading into the kitchen. In haste, Jim broke cover, bounded along the hall to that open doorway.
He flopped to his knees as he reached it and, again, swift movement saved his life. The .38 barked again; Seymour had fired and missed.
“I’d as soon take you alive!” he growled.
And, as discouragement to the man leaping for the closed outer door, he aimed and fired twice, boring holes to right and left of the doorknob, just as Seymour reached for it. Seymour took the hint and drew his hand away. He could have—should have—surrendered then and there, but he didn’t. Crockery and cutlery smashed and clattered, as he overturned the kitchen table and crouched behind it. Jim huddled in the inner doorway, hefting his cocked Colt, remembering it still held three live shells.
“You’ve made yourself a barricade,” he taunted, “but it won’t help you any. There’s no way you can reach that back door—or the side window—without exposing yourself. So what do we do? Sweat it out? That’s okay by me. Time is what I have plenty of.”
“You’re out of your mind,” called Seymour, “if you think I’d let you take me in! I don’t crave to be gaped at in court like some kind of freak! And I don’t aim to rot in any prison!”
Harshly, Jim retorted, “You won’t be long in prison. You’re gallows-bait!”
That threat must have goaded Seymour beyond all endurance. He showed himself. His head and shoulders rose above the edge of the overturned table—plus his gun-hand—the .38 belching fire. Jim slumped sideways, buffeted by the impact of a slug creasing his left arm. Seymour fired again and missed, and Jim lurched to his feet, his Colt roaring. The other man ducked in frantic haste and, when Jim next spotted him, he had crawled to the door again and was raising his left hand to the knob, turning it. As the door swung open, Jim triggered his fifth bullet. It didn’t penetrate Seymour’s left hand—on which a pearl ring shone so clearly—but it nicked the thumb and drew a yell of pain from the would-be escapee. Seymour rose to his full height, his .38 leveled at Jim and his face contorted in a snarl of defiance—and all Jim could do was fire again. He had only the one bullet left; it was Seymour’s life or his. Seymour shuddered convulsively, gave vent to an anguished yell and dropped his revolver. His legs buckled. His pain-wracked gaze was riveted to Jim’s grim countenance, the eyes dilated, glaring accusing. Pale blue eyes! He collapsed in an untidy heap and, with a sigh, Jim trudged into the kitchen and across to the outer doorway.
As he rolled the body over, he heard Benito calling to him. The little Mex was approaching somewhat hesitantly, moving across the yard, leading Capitan Cortez and Hank.
“Amigo Jim—you are wounded, no? ¡Caramba! So much blood!”
“His slug only creased me,” frowned Jim. “Do me a favor, Benito.” He removed his vest and began unfastening his shirt. “Fetch a bowl of water and some soap. See if you can find some whisky. I’m not badly hurt, but there’s no sense in risking lockjaw.” And he thought to add, “Wash your doggone paws before you start doctoring me!”
“Si,” shrugged Benito.
He stepped over the body of Jim’s victim and hus
tled across to the kitchen pump. Jim rid himself of his shirt and squatted beside the dead man, studying every detail of his appearance with great care, remembering with infinite clarity the description offered him by Marvin Ingall in San Marco.
Pale blue eyes. Yes. This hombre had died with his eyes wide open. No mistake about the color. Sandy hair and moustache. A pearl ring on the little finger of his left hand. A pearl stickpin in his cravat. He was of slender build and looked to be somewhat less than a six-footer. About five feet ten inches? Sure. Everything tallied—even to the weapon he had used.
While Benito rigged a bandage for his gashed arm, he quietly explained, “This is the killer that gunned my brother—from behind. I had to find him. I’ve thought of nothing else since I was told how Chris died.”
“Ah, si.” The little Mex heaved a sigh. “Is only natural, Amigo Jim. With such evil weighing heavy on your mind—there would be no peace for you until this thing was settled.”
“Bring a horse from the corral,” ordered Jim, when Benito had finished tying the bandage. He re-donned his shirt, took a stiff pull from the whisky bottle located by Benito in a kitchen cupboard. “I’m taking this hombre to Libertad. And we’d best lash him tight across the horse—because I’ll be moving fast.”
“You go back to Libertad ¿muy pronto?” asked Benito.
“Just as pronto,” said Jim, “as that black prad of mine can tote me. You saw a half-dozen riders quitting this spread?”
“Por cierto.”
“That was the Burdette outfit. They’re headed for town to raise a little hell, unless I miss my guess. Well, if I move fast enough, I might get back in time to lend Luke Hillary a helping hand.”
“Bueno. We go.”
“We go?”
“Si!”
“Hold on now, cucaracha. We’ve been all through this before. You got no good reason for tagging me—except to try picking my pockets again. And I wouldn’t call that a good reason.”
“I am—how you call it? A sport. Ah, si. I am a sport, and I wish to be satisfied in my curiosity. How will this conflicto end? Do the hombres honesto win, or will they be defeated by the desperadoes? This I must know.”
The Night McLennan Died (A Big Jim Western Book 1) Page 10
