“All right,” said Jim. “Tag along if you want—but don’t get in my way.”
In little more than ten minutes, they were on their way back to Libertad, hustling across Block B range towards the regular trail. Despite the aching of his left arm, Jim felt better than at any time since learning of his brother’s demise. It was as though an insupportable burden had been lifted from his broad shoulders. He would rest easier from this moment on, knowing that Chris’ murderer could never again commit such a treacherous act, the wanton slaying of a young man on the very threshold of a promising career.
Surprisingly, the burro didn’t lag too far behind the fast-moving charcoal and the sorrel gelding to which the blanket-covered body of Jim’s victim had been tied. Jim had reloaded both his Winchester and his Colt. If, when he entered Libertad, he heard the clamor of gunfire, he would be ready—and more than willing—to lend the power of his weapons to the forces of law and order.
It was ten minutes to ten and they were less than a half-mile from Libertad’s north side, when Jim raised a hand, signaling the Mex to halt. A rider had topped a rise dead ahead and was approaching at speed. In Jim’s eyes, there was something distinctly ominous in the sight of a woman garbed in an ordinary gown and straddling a hard-running horse. Had Celie Kilminster been rigged in her riding clothes, the effect would not have been as startling. She came on fast, her hair flowing in the wind. When she reined up in front of the charcoal, her face was ashine with perspiration and smeared with trail-dust; she was panting heavily.
“I just had—had to find somebody—anybody,” she gasped. “Oh—Jim ...!”
“Take it easy now,” he muttered, nudging the charcoal forward and reaching for her arm. “Catch your breath and then tell me what happened.”
He was vaguely surprised to observe that her eyes were red from weeping. Somehow, Celie hadn’t seemed the type to be reduced to tears in an emergency.
“I—got used to being an orphan,” she breathed. “Now it seems—I’ll have to learn to get along without—Uncle Luke ...”
“They got to your uncle?” he demanded. “The Burdette bunch?”
“Not yet—but it’s only a matter of time.” She shook her head dazedly. “I never realized before. There just aren’t—aren’t many really brave men in Libertad. I think the—only heroes are—with Uncle Luke in the law office. Everybody else is keeping out of sight. Well, we did tell you the Burdettes would—rule by fear—if they ever got the chance.”
“Exactly where are they?”
“In the old Coslow barn, directly opposite the office. It’s been empty for nearly three years. Just a ramshackle old barn—but a perfect position for that terrible old man and his hired gunmen. Doc Giddons ...”
“Where is Doc?”
“Uptown—under cover. He’s our only doctor, Jim. When it’s all over, we’ll have to rely on him to—to ...” Her voice trailed off. Only now had her eyes strayed to the second horse and the blanket-wrapped bundle draped over its back. She shuddered, and Jim increased his grip on her arm.
“This had to be,” he quietly assured her.
“He’s the one?” she frowned.
“My brother’s killer,” he nodded. “All right now, Celie, where were you headed?”
“I had some wild notion of riding to the nearest ranch and begging for help,” she murmured. “I’m not really sure what I mean to do, Jim. All I know is—I need to help Uncle Luke.”
“Burdette and his men have opened fire on the law office?” he prodded.
“I think so,” she sighed. “After I’d ridden out of town I thought I heard shooting—so I guess it’s begun already. Doc told me old Cyrus Burdette tried to bully Uncle Luke into releasing the prisoners. He was—yelling at him from inside the old barn ...”
“Celie, wipe those damn-blasted tears from your eyes,” he gruffly ordered. “It’s too early for you to compose an obituary for the sheriff. You can bet Luke and his friends have barricaded the windows. Old Man Burdette won’t get it all his own way—I can promise you that.” He turned in his saddle to call an order to the frowning Benito. “You’ll take care of the señorita—¿entender?”
“The señorita is muy bello and I would not see her in danger,” replied Benito, “but I must refuse what you ask of me, Amigo Jim.”
“Now you listen to me, you sawn-off little ...!” began Jim.
“I owe you my life,” Benito reminded him, with dignity. “I cannot let you return to Libertad without me.”
“The best way you can help me,” Jim heatedly pointed out, “is to take care of the señorita—and guard what’s on the other horse. I need to move fast.”
“I’m coming back with you anyway,” Celie interjected. “Don’t worry, Jim. I won’t cause you any delay. I promise I’ll come no farther than the edge of town.”
Jim, eager to render assistance to the men in the beleaguered jailhouse, had no option but to agree to these terms. He released the tie line of the second horse to Benito, accorded Celie a reassuring nod and then heeled the charcoal. It bounded forward; he gave it full rein and it began racing along the town-trail at breakneck speed.
Once during that hectic ride, he threw a backward glance over his shoulder. He hadn’t imagined Celie or the little Mex would be such a short distance to his rear; they were less than a hundred yards back. Benito had transferred the body of Clegg Seymour to his burro and was now riding the sorrel, which was hitting a fine turn of speed in its pursuit of the hard-riding Celie. Not until they began climbing to the summit of the last rise east of town did they slow their pace. All three horses were panting and lathered, but still giving of their best. Capitan Cortez was far to the rear, still plodding, still keeping his master in view.
From atop that rise, a goodly section of the township could be viewed; they could see the area in which the law office was located—and they could hear the sullen booming of six-shooters, the crackle of rifle-fire, the roaring of shotguns. Libertad looked like a town that had been evacuated because of a plague threat.
Celie sighed heavily, as she reflected, “Maybe I’ve done them an injustice—the townsmen I mean. So many of them are old men. And the Mexicans—well—I’d forgotten this is Sunday morning. Almost the entire Mexican community leaves town around seven-thirty Sunday mornings to travel two miles south to Mission San Lazaro.”
“Si. To Mass,” grunted Benito. “¡Naturalmente!”
“Sunday morning ...” Jim scowled in bitter exasperation. “A fine time for a shooting showdown. Well, I guess nothing is sacred to an old hellion like Cyrus Burdette.” About to begin a descent of the rise, he suddenly changed his mind and reached into his saddlebag for the binoculars. Better to figure all the angles, to have some specific plan in mind, than to ride in bull-headed. From here, he could study both buildings. On his left, the jailhouse fronted by the sheriff’s office. On his right, the shabby clapboard facade of the disused barn. While he watched, the muzzles of guns showed about the wide doorway of the barn and he again heard the din of gunfire. He swung the glasses farther to the right and focused on something he hadn’t noticed before. “That hill behind the old barn ...”
“What about it?” frowned Celie.
“Could a wagon be driven up there?” he demanded. “Why, yes,” she nodded. “Easily.”
“And the hill slopes clear down to the back of the barn?” he asked.
“Fairly steep,” she recalled, “to about ten yards behind the barn. But why, Jim? What do you ...”
“The slope is fairly clear, huh?” he prodded. “No rocks? Not too many potholes?”
“As near as I can remember,” she assured him. “What is it, Jim? If you’ve thought of some way of helping Uncle Luke, please tell me!”
“I reckon there’s time for me to give this idea a whirl,” he drawled. “Your uncle and his friends are still in business, judging from the sound of shooting from the law office. This siege could last all day, or for as long as the ammunition holds out. Well, I don’t aim to wai
t that long.”
“These desperadoes cannot be reached,” Benito soberly pointed out, “while ever they remain inside the granero.”
“I know it,” nodded Jim. “And that’s why I wanted to know about the hill behind the barn. There’s a way of flushing the Burdette gang out of there. It’s drastic—but that can’t be helped.” He returned the binoculars to his saddlebag, patted Celie’s shoulder. “Here’s where I tell you ‘so-long’ for awhile. If you’re following, don’t come any farther than the edge of town. Do I have your promise on that?”
“Yes …” She gestured helplessly, “but I wish I knew what you ...”
“I’ll be seeing you,” he muttered, as he began the descent to where Calle Central began.
Benito waited for the big man to ride out of earshot. Then, apologetically, he told Celie:
“I must leave you now, señorita. One million apologies, uh? And, when Capitan Cortez catches up, will you of your generosity restrain him? I would not want for him to follow me and be shot maybe.”
“Who on earth is Capitan Cortez?” blinked Celie.
“The burro,” said Benito. “He carries a dead gringo desperado, but do not be nervioso, señorita. The dead can do us no harm.”
He doffed his floppy sombrero, flashed her a white grin and took off after Big Jim, who had veered to the right of Calle Central and was now riding the alley that ran parallel with the main stem on its north side. When he caught up with Jim it was because Jim was drawing rein at the rear entrance to a livery stable. Stalled in the alley was a somewhat decrepit-looking wagon loaded with hay. Jim was briskly making an offer to the pot-bellied old-timer seated by the doorway.
“Are you licking the boots of the Burdette outfit—like Ned Calvert and the telegrapher—or would you like to see ’em whupped, once and for all?”
“Mister,” scowled the old-timer, “I’m a friend of Gus Durrance and Oscar Deitch. Only reason I ain’t down to the law office to lend ’em a hand is I don’t see so good any more. Ain’t been able to use a gun in many a long year.”
“You could still help,” declared Jim.
“All you gotta do,” said the old man, “is tell me how.” And Jim told him how in a few terse sentences. Taken aback by the cold-blooded audacity of the scheme—and its violent potential—the old man hesitated before agreeing.
“You say the county’ll pay for a new wagon—and the team won’t get hurt?”
“I personally guarantee it,” nodded Jim. “And now—how fast can you get a team harnessed?”
He dismounted and lent a hand, and so did Benito. When, a short time later, he climbed to the driver’s seat of the wagon and started it rolling along the alley, the little Mex made haste to clamber up beside him.
“This will be dangerous, Amigo Jim?” he coolly enquired.
“This will be dangerous,” Jim nodded grimly. “Especially for the Burdette gang.”
Ten – Devil’s Reckoning
One block from the disused barn, Jim turned the team to the right, entering a side alley barely wide enough to permit passage of the hay-wagon. From the north end of that narrow alley, he could see and study the hill. It wasn’t especially high, but the slope leading down to the rear of the old barn did appear steep—steep enough to offer a laden rig plenty of impetus. They were bumped and jolted and the little Mex gasped and hung onto the seat-rails for dear life, as Jim drove quickly around to the north side of the hill and then upward.
At the summit of the hill, he drove on to the edge overlooking the scene of conflict. Directly below, beyond the base of the steep slope, was the rear of the old barn from the front part of which Old Man Burdette and his men were trading shots with the defenders of the law office across the street. He thought it highly unlikely that any of Burdette’s men would be stationed at the barn’s rear end. What was to follow would come as a severe shock to the raiders—and would undoubtedly force them out into the open. There would be only one direction they could travel. Out front—into the street. And woe betide the desperado that went out shooting. Luke Hillary and his volunteers would have the advantage.
“You savvy how to unhitch a team?” he asked Benito, as he began climbing down.
“Si,” nodded Benito.
“Drive ’em forward and onto the slope,” ordered Jim. “Stall ’em when I give you the word. I want those front wheels right at the edge.” He waited for the little Mex to take the reins, then gestured him forward. “Easy now. Eas-eee ...”
The teamers stepped gingerly onto the slope, descended a few feet. At Jim’s sharp command, Benito jerked back on the reins and, for the second time, the hay-wagon stalled. Now the front wheels were mere inches from the edge of the slope. Benito hastily applied the brake, then leapt down and made short work of unhitching the horses and leading them clear.
From a safe distance, he watched the big ex-sergeant climb to the seat, release the brake, then drop down again. There was a brief pause in the din of gunfire below. Old Man Burdette was again yelling his ultimatum to the sheriff.
“Only one of my men is wounded, Hillary, and not so bad that he can’t still fight! Can you say the same for your bunch? Get smart, Hillary! Turn my sons loose—Kramer and Harbin, too!”
While cocking an ear to the sheriff’s reply, Jim grinned wryly and dug out a match.
“We ain’t hurt so bad that we’d surrender to a crazy old coyote!” Hillary’s voice had spirit in it. “Both your sons are gonna stand trial, Burdette. One for murder. The other ...”
“My sons,” boomed Burdette, “will never see the inside of a courthouse!”
“Don’t bet your life on that!” retorted Hillary.
Jim scratched the match to life, flicked it neatly so that it spun upwards to fall atop a bundle of hay—which immediately caught fire. He hustled around to the other side of the rig, lit another match—then another—then another. In a matter of seconds, every bundle was flaring, and he was at the tailgate of the wagon, palms pressed against it, feet digging into the ground. As he exerted pressure, shoving with all his might, his arm-wound began bleeding again. But he was oblivious to it. He bowed his head, increasing pressure, straining every nerve and muscle. Sparks from the flaring hay settled on his face and clothing, stinging, but nothing could deter him now, because he was getting results; he could feel the wagon moving away from him. One last lunge. He flopped to his knees, then scrambled to his feet again in time to see the back of the blazing wagon dipping over the edge of the slope.
It was, to the watching Benito, an awe-inspiring sight. Once on the slope, the wagon rolled downward at high speed, headed directly at the target, the rear entrance to the old barn. There was no adobe; the entire structure was of clapboard. It had a plank roof and this section of the border rarely experienced rain. That old building was tinder-dry.
Jim was hustling down the slope gun in hand, when the rig crashed into and through that rear entrance, scattering sparks, splintered timbers and blazing bundles of hay. One bundle rolled to the right-side wall, igniting it almost immediately. Another flopped off the back of the rig and in less than a second, the entire rear section of the barn was ablaze.
Dumbfounded, shocked to the core, Burdette and his minions gaped over their shoulders. The wagon stopped rolling when its right front wheel caught against the corner of a horse-stall. The impact slewed the blazing vehicle around, and now its woodwork was afire, the flames dancing up towards the roof. On all sides, the Block B hard cases heard the ominous crackling of fast-burning timber and, already, the heat was bedeviling them; their clothes were damp with perspiration.
Kyle Burt rose up, gesturing urgently with his cocked .45.
“We’ll fry if we stay here!” he warned. “C’mon! Everybody head for the street!”
“Hold on there, you blame fools!” yelled Burdette. “You can’t go out there! You’ll be wide open! Hillary and his pards will pick you off—easy as shootin’ lame coyotes!”
“You got any better ideas?” challenged Burt. “S
uch as stayin’ right where we are—till the roof falls on us?”
Over the roar of the flames and the snapping, crackling of blazing timbers, Hillary tried to raise his voice loud enough for the desperadoes to hear.
“Come on out while you can—but come gunless! Surrender ...”
Three of the five men barging out into the street took no heed of the sheriff’s advice, or maybe they never heard him. But they did hear the harsh, penetrating voice of Big Jim, bellowing at them from somewhere to their right. Jim had gained entry to Calle Central by means of a side alley. Now, crouched side-on to the stumbling, coughing Block B men, he was in a position to lend powerful aid to the defenders of the jailhouse. His right arm was extended, his long-barreled Colt rock-steady.
“Drop the guns! This is your last chance ...!”
Two men immediately whirled and fired at him. They were gun-fast undoubtedly, but accuracy had been sacrificed in favor of speed. Their bullets came wide, as Jim triggered and knocked one of them sprawling with a bullet in his thigh. The other man came bounding towards him, gun leveled for another shot, but Jim gave him no time. He re-cocked, fired and saw the man spin crazily and pitch headfirst to the dust. From the windows of the law office, the defenders cut loose with renewed ferocity. A hail of buckshot buffeted Kyle Burt and sent him keeling over sideways a full twenty feet from the hitch rack to which his horse was tethered.
The survivors, both wounded, abruptly abandoned all hope of escape. From directly ahead they were menaced by the rearing guns of Hillary and his volunteers. From somewhere to their right, an expert pistolero was ready, willing and obviously able to cut them down. The Burdette outfit, as a fighting force, had suddenly ceased to function. The wounded discarded their guns and trudged towards the jailhouse with their arms raised.
Jim, about to move, heard Hillary calling to him.
“Stay low, Jim! Don’t forget the old man’s still in there!”
The Night McLennan Died (A Big Jim Western Book 1) Page 11
