Big Jim 9

by Marshall Grover

  ‘Sure,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’

  Max Garrard was seated alone in his office when, a few moments later, the pretty daughter of his senior deputy came in. There was no exchange of greetings; it wasn’t necessary. Boone Kittridge was Garrard’s closest friend. He thought of Kittridge’s daughter as his own niece. She took the chair opposite the desk, frowned moodily at the weapons on the gun-rack.

  ‘He was trying to be gallant, Uncle Max. He really did make the effort to protect me. I mean—I wasn’t in great need of protection, but ...’

  ‘But it was up to any real man,’ said Garrard, ‘to go to your aid.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘And Kell did.’

  ‘That’s a mercy.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Bad enough he should earn his living from a deck of cards. I can abide that, because I don’t seem to have any choice. But—if he’d stood by while some hardcase cowpoke grabbed your arm —I don’t reckon I could abide that.’

  ‘He’s no coward,’ she assured him. ‘He’s lazy and never as serious as he ought to be, but he’s no coward.’

  ‘Your folks scrimped and saved to send you east for a good education,’ he mused. ‘It was money well spent, Emma, because you’re a lady—and mighty intelligent. I did the same for Kell, and look how he ends up. Instead of studying criminology at the Bayone Institute, he takes a fancy to three card monte, faro, blackjack and poker. He comes home to Delandro and becomes a—a smart-talking tinhorn ...’

  ‘Maybe he just wasn’t cut out to be a lawman,’ said Emma.

  ‘He could’ve been a good lawman,’ Garrard sourly asserted. ‘Better than average-—you know what I mean? Not just a handy man in a hassle, but smart up here.’ He tapped! at his temple with a gnarled finger. ‘A detective, more than just a gunslinger with a badge.’

  ‘I wish there were more I could do,’ she sighed.

  ‘You did your best, Emma,’ he muttered. ‘I thought he’d get wise to himself after you bawled him out, after you told him you didn’t hanker to be wed to a tinhorn. Well, he didn’t, so I guess you’re better off. You can do better for yourself, and you sure deserve better than a card-playing smart aleck.’

  She smiled, stared wistfully towards the table at which her father so often tinkered with firearms.

  ‘Maybe old friends should never play Cupid,’ she suggested. ‘You and Dad hoped Kell and I would marry, but it doesn’t always work out, does it?’

  ‘Your mother is like a sister to me,’ he declared. ‘Next to Kell’s mother—God rest her soul—I’ve never been as close to anybody as to you and your folks. It would’ve worked out fine, Emma, and you know it. You always did have a feeling for Kell.’

  ‘I still have that feeling,’ she murmured. ‘But don’t ever tell him, Uncle Max.’

  ‘I wish I’d arrived in time to put a stop to that ruckus,’ he said, as she rose from her chair.

  ‘What you mean,’ she countered, ‘is you wish you could’ve seen Kell trading punches with that roughneck. Well, he certainly didn’t distinguish himself, but let’s give credit where it’s due. He made the effort.’

  ‘Barlow and Doan looked like they’d tangled with a corral full of mountain lions,’ recalled the sheriff.

  She frowned pensively, as she remarked, ‘It was downright frightening—the way that man Rand put them down. A girl can’t live in a cattle town and never see a street fight. I guess I’ve seen more than my share, Uncle Max, but I declare I’ve never seen the equal of what happened just now.’

  ‘When Rand hits ’em,’ Garrard supposed, ‘they stay hit.’

  ‘He’s a giant,’ she asserted.

  ‘Not quite,’ he grinned. ‘But I guess he’s as big a man as you’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Dad down at the stage depot?’ she asked, on her way to the door.

  ‘Escort duty—your father and Leo,’ he nodded. ‘When the stage from Denver arrives, they’ll be guarding a shipment of cash from the depot to the Midwest Bank. So long for now, Emma. I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Mother said to remind you it’s a whole two weeks since you’ve had supper with us,’ said Emma.

  ‘Tell her thanks,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll drop by and eat with you again real soon.’

  Out at the headquarters of the L-Bar-W ranch, some sixty minutes later, the joint owners were interrogating three very short-tempered would-be hell-raisers much to the amusement of the chuck-boss. Barlow, Doan and Underfield had returned; Barlow and Doan still showed the marks of their run-in with the hefty newcomer.

  The derisive chuck boss was the sixth member of the outfit, a brawny, unkempt individual answering to the name Red Modine. When the three hardcases returned, Modine was wielding a hammer and saw, working alterations to the chuck wagon in the broad yard fronting the clapboard ranch house. Kane Wilton and Horrie Luscombe were in conversation over by the horse corral, the latter having just ridden in from an inspection of the stock grazing in the east pasture. Wilton listened to all Luscombe had to say regarding the condition of the herd, the number of saleable steers that could be rounded up at twenty-four hours’ notice. Then, as Barlow and his cohorts brought their mounts to a halt, he began hurling queries at them. Luscombe joined in with a stream of profanity, while Modine sawed and hammered and chuckled.

  ‘One agin three of ’em,’ he jeered, when Barlow had finished his one-sided report of the incident. ‘All three of you couldn’t handle one proddy drifter.’

  ‘Damnitall, Modine,’ scowled Doan, ‘he was a giant.’

  ‘Strong,’ breathed Barlow. ‘Strong like an ox. It was like gettin’ hit by a rock.’

  ‘Anyway, we had two of ’em to tangle with,’ mumbled Underfield. ‘Kell Garrard bought in—and I sure settled his hash.’

  ‘The sheriff’s whelp?’ challenged the big redhead. ‘He don’t count worth a damn. A ten-year-old boy could whup that dude.’

  ‘You’re supposed to stay out of town for the next five days?’ demanded Wilton.

  ‘That’s what the sheriff said,’ nodded Doan.

  ‘Leave it at that,’ said Wilton firmly.

  ‘Yeah.’ Luscombe nodded in agreement. ‘You can afford to stay patient—till we make the other side of the Utah border.’

  ‘What’s that about the Utah border?’ prodded Barlow. ‘I’m still working on the plan,’ drawled Wilton. ‘When it’s all clear, when everything’s figured out, I’ll explain it to you. All I’m saying now is we’ll be headed west—after the end of the month—fifty thousand dollars richer.’

  Four – The Troubadour

  It was 5.15 p.m. when Big Jim paused in the mouth of the alley separating the jailhouse from the next door building. He had delivered Hank to McDade’s barn, bathed and shaved and decided on a visit to Benito. The next door building, he observed, was a Mexican restaurant, the establishment of one Antonio Pasquale. Its second-story window overlooking the alley boasted a small balcony, and a Mexican girl was seated there. Well, maybe ‘girl’ was a slight under-statement of the lady’s actual vintage; she was probably around thirty-five or thereabouts, and Jim wondered that the balcony didn’t sag, because this was a lot of woman. He supposed her reason for sitting up there was the serenade aimed at her by Benito Espina. The runty Mex must have been squatting at his cell-window. Accompanying himself on his battered guitar, he raised his tuneless tenor in raucous song. Maybe the señorita was impressed. Jim had no way of knowing.

  He entered the law office, passed the time of day with all three lawmen and requested permission to visit with the prisoner.

  ‘You’re welcome, Rand,’ the sheriff assured him. ‘Cell block door’s unlocked. I won’t offer to let you in to Espina’s cell. It’s a sure way of getting your pockets picked—as if you didn’t know.’

  Jim nudged the cell-block door open and ambled along the corridor to the cell occupied by the raffish Benito. Sighting him, the little Mex showed his buck teeth in a wolfish leer and ceased his serenade.

  ‘Saludos, Amigo Jim!’

  �
�Howdy, cucaracha,’ nodded Jim. He leaned a shoulder against the bars, fished out his makings and began building a smoke. ‘You behaving yourself?’

  ‘Always, I behave,’ Benito virtuously assured him. ‘Always I am to be trusted. Am I not a hombre of much honor?’

  ‘All right,’ sighed Jim. ‘It was a damn fool question.’

  ‘How long we stay in this place, this Delandro?’ Benito wanted to know.

  ‘Not much longer,’ said Jim.

  ‘We go presto—no?’ prodded Benito. ‘Mañana?’

  ‘Not quite that soon,’ frowned Jim. ‘Anyway, I won’t be headed after Jenner this time. I’m waiting for him to come to me.’

  ‘This I do not comprehend,’ blinked the Mex. ‘There’s a strong chance he’ll be coming back to Delandro any time from now on,’ Jim explained. ‘He’ll be looking for a high stake poker game. I’ve talked to a gambler who gave Jenner the word.’

  ‘So close.’ Benito eyed him somewhat wistfully. ‘It could be over muy pronto, eh, amigo? A few days ...’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ said Jim, ‘but not a certainty.’

  ‘You will take any chance,’ shrugged Benito.

  ‘Uh huh,’ grunted Jim. ‘If there’s one chance in a thousand that Jenner will be here at the end of the month —so will I.’ He lit his cigarette, glanced towards the window. ‘You wooing that señorita?’

  ‘Ah!’ Benito grinned again. ‘You hear me singing, no?’

  ‘Let’s put it this way,’ said Jim. ‘I heard a Helluva caterwauling as I came pass the alley.’

  ‘Music hater,’ sneered the Mex.

  ‘Music lover,’ corrected Jim. ‘How about the señorita?’

  ‘One must pass the time,’ shrugged Benito. ‘What better way to pass the time than to sing to the beautiful woman, to sing of love, to tell her what a grand caballero is Benito Espina?’

  ‘How many times have you proposed to her?’ Jim demanded.

  ‘One dozen times, I think,’ frowned Benito.

  ‘I guess that’s as much as you could manage,’ said Jim, poker-faced. ‘After all, you only got here this morning.’

  ‘Already we have talked,’ Benito smugly informed him. ‘A little while ago, she brings to me the tamales, the frijoles, the tortillas …’

  ‘Well, don’t get in too deep, cucaracha,’ warned Jim. He thought to add, ‘Unless you’re changing your ways. Unless you crave to stay in Delandro, marry up with the señorita and raise a family—a whole string of ninos.’

  ‘Ah, no.’ The little Mex chuckled, rolled his eyes. ‘I do not marry the señoritas. I only woo them. To give myself to only one—this would be a misfortune for so many others. A tragedia!’

  ‘Oh sure,’ agreed Jim, shrugging resignedly. ‘A tragedia.’

  ‘How long must I wait,’ Benito enquired, ‘before we have the jailbreak, eh, Amigo Jim? Soon I will be weary of this place. You would not leave your loyal amigo to rot in this carcel, would you?’

  ‘There’ll be no jailbreak,’ growled Jim. ‘I made a deal with the sheriff—and with the hombre whose pocket you tried to pick ...’

  ‘At the cantina?’ frowned Benito.

  ‘At the cantina,’ nodded Jim.

  ‘What is this deal?’ demanded Benito.

  ‘When I quit Delandro,’ said Jim, ‘I take you with me.

  ‘Muy bien,’ grinned Benito. ‘This will be satisfactory to me.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so,’ said Jim, ‘because you’re gonna stay in this calaboose until I’m ready to go. You savvy, cucaracha?’

  ‘Sí.’ Benito sighed heavily. ‘I savvy.’

  ‘In case I forgot to mention it,’ drawled Jim, as he began moving away, ‘that young feller you tried to rob—’

  ‘He makes big mistake,’ blustered Benito.

  ‘You made the big mistake,’ countered Jim. ‘That young feller turns out to be Kell Garrard—and his father is the sheriff.’

  ‘¡Por Dios!’ gasped Benito.

  ‘Hasta la vista,’ grinned Jim.

  Back in the office, he told Garrard of his conversation with his son concerning the elusive Jenner. Garrard and his deputies cocked attentive ears.

  ‘So now you know how long I’ll be staying in Delandro,’ Jim concluded. ‘When Jenner arrives, I’ll brace him. If he surrenders, I’ll deliver him to you alive. If he tries to shoot it out with me …’

  ‘You’ve made it clear, Rand,’ nodded Garrard. ‘I won’t preach at you nor hand out any warnings, because I don’t reckon you’re a man who’d get trigger-happy. I believe you really will try to take Jenner alive. Just one thing though.’

  ‘Yes?’ challenged Jim.

  ‘We’ve all seen your, picture of this Jenner hombre,’ Gerrard reminded him. ‘If any of us spot Jenner before you do, he’ll be our responsibility. We’ll make the arrest. That clear enough for you, Rand?’

  ‘Clear,’ agreed Jim. ‘And fair enough.’

  During the forty-eight hours following Jim’s visit to the county jail, the last forty-eight hours before the last day of the month, Kane Wilton’s plan was worked out to the smallest detail. L-Bar-W would be ready for action by the time the three dozen pleasure hungry cowpokes of the Belbin and Keyes spreads arrived from the north; the fat sums of money deposited by those two hard-living cattlemen would have little time to settle in the safe of the Midwest Bank of Delandro before Wilton, Luscombe and their minions were transferring it to a grain sack. Wilton had it all figured out now. Not just the robbery and the initial dash from town, but the clean getaway, including the obliteration of their back-trail.

  During this period, the one and only inmate of the county jail continued to serenade, flatter, cajole and beguile the bovine laughter of Señor Antonio Pasquale, with never a thought for the possible consequences of such indiscriminate romancing.

  And Big Jim haunted the area fronting the Silver Queen Saloon. When he wasn’t patronizing that joy house and keeping an eye on Steve Erikson’s customers or swapping talk with Kell Garrard, he was patrolling the street or keeping it under observation from the window of his room at the Calvert House.

  On the morning of the last day of the month they came riding in, the roistering employees of Messrs. Belbin and Keyes. Main Street vibrated to the thudding of hooves and the air filled with the din of wild whoops and gunfire, as the herders raced their mounts along the thoroughfare and discharged their revolvers to the sky. Men, women and children scuttled to the boardwalks and, perched on the ledge of his window, Jim gave the cattlemen his close attention; his eyes were alert for a sandy-haired rider who, in all probability, would not be garbed as a cowhand. Jenner would wear rig similar to that affected by Kell Garrard and other professional gamblers.

  It seemed a great many newcomers visited Delandro that morning. Jim saw many a stranger in town clothes, but none resembling the man he had sought for fourteen months. He quit his window, donned his Stetson .and was about to leave his room when somebody knocked for admittance.

  The messenger, a watery-eyed barfly, informed Jim, ‘Kell wants to see you right away—wants you should meet a feller.’ He held out a none-too-clean paw. ‘He said as how you’d gimme ten dollars.’

  ‘Like hell he did.’ Jim’s financial situation was in good condition at this time; while searching for Jenner he had played some successful poker and had collected a bounty or two. He was not, however, about to part with such a sum for so little information. ‘I’ll bet Kell already paid you for fetching me.’

  ‘He said—’ began the barfly.

  ‘A quarter,’ said Jim, flicking a coin, ‘or you go downstairs on the end of my boot.’

  ‘A quarter.’ The barfly grabbed eagerly for it. ‘That’s what the man said. I was only foolin’ when I said ten dollars.’

  He made himself scarce, while Jim descended to the lobby and out into the street. It was 1.20 p.m. now and the sensation of internal emptiness reminded him that he hadn’t gotten around to lunch. He would, he decided, dine off the counter fare a
t the Silver Queen. Who was this man Kell wanted him to meet? Obviously not Jenner. Information of such importance would not be sent him in care of a loose-tongued rumpot.

  He crossed the street, climbed to the saloon porch and shouldered his way through the entrance. Right away he sighted Kell. The young gambler was sharing a table near the gallery rail with a well-groomed stranger, a man many years his senior and obviously a member of the same profession. From that elevated position they could scan almost every corner of the crowded barroom below. Kell caught Jim’s eye, gestured for him to come up the stairs. En route, Jim pantomimed to a bartender to fetch beer and a platter of sandwiches.

  Kell’s guest was fortyish. His auburn hair was liberally streaked with grey and pressed tight against his scalp by too much pomade. His eyes were cloudy blue and set a mite too close together. He was lantern-jawed, humorless and world-weary. Kell presented him as he might a long-lost brother.

  ‘Jim Rand, meet Nat Forrester, old friend of mine. Nat owes me a favor or two, and you can believe anything he tells you—so long as you aren’t playing poker with him at the time.’

  ‘Bueno,’ grunted Jim, as he seated himself. ‘We aren’t playing poker right now, so let’s talk.’

  ‘The news isn’t good, Jim,’ said Kell. ‘I’m sorry about that. When I told you Jenner would be coming back to Delandro, I honestly believed it.’

  The barkeep delivered Jim’s beer and sandwiches. He began his belated lunch, while questioning Forrester.

  ‘First off,’ that veteran gambler suggested, ‘you better show me this picture Kell speaks of.’ Jim produced the sketch of Jenner, unfolded it and placed it before him. He studied it a long moment, nodded emphatically. ‘Yep. Same jasper. Nary a doubt about it.’

  ‘Where was he?’ Jim demanded.

  ‘Coyote Spring is where Nat met him,’ offered Kell. ‘That’s a small town a long way from here, Jim.’

  ‘Better than a hundred and fifty miles south-west,’ grunted Forrester. ‘I was there a few days back. Matter of fact it was this same hombre …’ He patted the picture, ‘give me the notion of coming to Delandro. He said I’d likely find a high stake game going here—plenty of action with a couple sports name of Belbin and Keyes.’