Big Jim 9

by Marshall Grover

  ‘You see how it stacks up, Jim?’ frowned Kell. ‘Jenner gave Nat the same advice I gave him.’

  ‘Same feller. No mistake about it.’ Forrester folded and returned the picture. ‘Hartwell, he called himself. And brandy was his pleasure. I swear he drank that stuff like it come out of a pump.’

  Jim moodily bit into another sandwich, chewed and swallowed.

  ‘You wouldn’t know if Hartwell is still at Coyote Spring?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t guess so,’ said Forrester. ‘He acted kind of restless. Chances are he quit the Spring right after I started north—only he was headed someplace else. I didn’t run into him anywhere along the route.’

  ‘I wonder if we’ll ever know why Jenner changed his mind about coming back here,’ mused Kell.

  ‘Hard to say,’ shrugged Jim, ‘about a man like Jenner. He lives with the taste of guilt in him. Guilt is apt to keep a man restless.’

  ‘This means you’ll be headed south-west,’ guessed Kell.

  ‘Rightaway,’ nodded Jim.

  ‘You ought to wait till around midnight, or maybe tomorrow morning,’ opined Forrester. ‘Us professionals get the word fast when a couple of big spenders like Belbin and Keyes are whoopin’ it up. There’ll likely be sporting gents arriving from all over.’

  ‘That’s a fact,’ Kell assured Jim. ‘Like flies to a honey pot.’

  ‘And you might meet one who ran into Hartwell somewheres,’ said Forrester. ‘It’s worth waiting around for, isn’t it?’

  ‘Until tomorrow morning,’ said Jim, after thinking it over. ‘But no longer.’ He finished eating, emptied his glass and got to his feet. ‘Obliged for the information, Forrester.’

  ‘Welcome,’ grunted the veteran tinhorn. ‘Young Kell told me how your brother got cut down. Personally, I hope you find that lousy killer and settle his hash.’

  ‘I aim to, Forrester,’ said Jim. ‘I sure as hell aim to.’

  He walked out of the Silver Queen Saloon with the intention of checking all the other houses of entertainment, talking to any new arrivals who might have passed through the area travelled by Forrester. Until midnight, he showed the sketch of his quarry to trail herders, drummers, itinerant gamblers and aimless drifters. None had seen Jenner. By 1.15 a.m. he had returned to his room at the Calvert House. Despite the din raised by the roistering cowhands in the saloons along the main stem, he slept deeply.

  At this same time, in the law office, Sheriff Garrard and his deputies flipped coins, their time-honored method of deciding who should remain on duty during the night and who should catch up on his sleep, to be ready to take over at dawn. About such matters, Garrard was always scrupulously fair, never delegating his assistants to chores he could handle personally.

  ‘Those cowpokes will keep it up till sunrise,’ he predicted. ‘So far we haven’t had to bring any in, but a lot could happen between now and sunrise. There’d better be two of us on duty till dawn. The lucky one gets to sleep till six o’clock.’

  ‘Might be better if all three of us stay on duty,’ suggested Kittridge.

  ‘No.’ The sheriff shook his head. ‘I like the idea of a third man coming on duty in the morning.’ He winked at the deputies. ‘Clear-eyed and bushy-tailed.’

  ‘Well,’ shrugged Hurst, ‘you’re the boss.’

  Garrard produced a coin. They followed his example. ‘Odd man sleeps,’ he said.

  They flipped the coins, caught them.

  ‘I got tails,’ observed Kittridge.

  ‘Tails,’ nodded Garrard, checking the half dollar on his palm.

  ‘Heads,’ said Hurst.

  ‘Lucky Leo,’ grinned Kittridge.

  ‘Well, damnitall,’ frowned the younger, deputy, ‘I don’t relish the notion of hittin’ the feathers, leavin’ you two to handle that passel of likkered-up cowpokes.’

  ‘Max and me, we were whuppin’ the tar out of proddy cowpokes,’ drawled Kittridge, ‘when you were havin’ your first shave.’

  ‘Don’t fret on our account, Leo,’ said Garrard. ‘Just be sure and turn out at six sharp. Between now and then, sleep deep.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ nodded Hurst.

  He quit the office and ambled towards the side street on which his rooming-house was located. Within the quarter-hour, he was sleeping as soundly as the big man in the hotel room overlooking the Silver Queen. And now, at twenty minute intervals, Garrard and Kittridge took turns to patrol the main street, to look in on all the houses of entertainment and ensure that no whisky-hazed cowpoke was brandishing a cocked .45 or trying to dent the head of a towner with a full or empty bottle. There was noise and more noise, a great deal of laughter, impulsive gambling and wild drinking. Surprisingly, however, none of the pleasure-bent cattlemen had as yet gotten out of hand.

  At 2 a.m. the men of L-Bar-W were in position, ready for the assault on the packed safe of the Midwest Bank. Sam Doan was in the back alley, sitting guard on the five horses. In the mouth of a side alley, a vantage point from whence a goodly portion of Main Street could be kept under observation, Luscombe and Barlow stood guard. Their hands were full of Colt .45s, their faces partially concealed behind tightly knotted bandannas. Further down that side alley, Wilton and Underfield had gained entry to the bank by attacking the mortar with the blades of Bowies. Several bricks had been removed, and this had proved to be an easier means of breaking in than an assault on the front or back doors. Wilton was in the manager’s office now, packing short-fused dynamite sticks in strategic positions about the lock and hinges of the big Grunheimer safe. Underfield, blinking nervously and licking his lips, stood by with two empty grain sacks held in readiness.

  ‘How soon …?’ he began.

  ‘We don’t have to wait any longer,’ muttered Wilton, producing a match. ‘You hustle back to that hole in the wall and check with Horrie. No sense to my setting this blast if those Belbin and Keyes riders are right out front.’

  ‘I reckon they’ll all be uptown at the Silver Queen,’ said Underfield. He went to the opening in the side wall, thrust his head and shoulders through and whistled softly. In the mouth of the alley, hearing that signal, Luscombe turned and pantomimed to indicate the all clear. Underfield withdrew his head, called to Wilton. ‘It’s okay!’

  ‘Right!’ breathed Wilton. ‘Now’s the time. And remember, Marty, we have to get it emptied fast! We stow everything in the sacks, then we hightail it. Don’t stop for anything or anybody.’

  ‘As if you need to tell me,’ mumbled Underfield.

  Wilton had carefully memorized the positioning of his dynamite sticks; he was able to light every fuse from the one match, after which he hastily retreated from the manager’s office and took cover behind the counter, while Underfield dropped flat on the floor. A moment pf heart-chilling suspense passed—and then ...

  Deputy Kittridge was patrolling the main street, drawing level with the law office porch. He knew his chief was seated there; he could see the glow of Garrard’s cigar, the only small light visible up there. He paused and they exchanged a few words.

  ‘Still quiet,’ Garrard remarked. ‘Well, that’s a mercy.’

  ‘You suppose they’re learnin’ respect for our old bones?’ grinned Kittridge.

  ‘With liquor in their bellies and money in their pockets,’ drawled Garrard, ‘no cowpoke has respect for old-timers—whether or not they wear a law-badge. No, Boone. If we have a quiet time from now till dawn, it’ll only be a happy coincidence.’

  ‘Belbin and Keyes are winnin’, it looks like,’ offered Kittridge. ‘Erikson’s lookin’ plenty worried. Your boy is dealin’ for ’em, and ...’

  He never finished that sentence. From somewhere downtown the sound of an explosion assailed their ears, loud, sullen, ominous. Garrard mouthed an oath, flicked his cigar away and came hustling down the steps with his hand on his holster. Kittridge broke into a run and, side by side, the two veterans advanced towards the source of the blast. ‘The bank is my guess!’ panted Kittridge.

  ‘Not
much doubt about it,’ growled the sheriff. ‘The blast knocked all the glass from the front windows. You can see it from here.’

  ‘If some fool cowpoke is playin’ with dynamite!’

  ‘Whoever they are,’ scowled Garrard, ‘you can bet they aren’t playing.’

  In the mouth of the alley, while Barlow drew a bead on the oncoming lawmen, Luscombe glanced over his shoulder and saw Wilton and Underfield emerging from the hole in the wall. They both toted bulging sacks, both whirled and dashed towards the rear alley.

  ‘That’s it!’ Luscombe nudged Barlow. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

  ‘Just a couple of seconds longer,’ muttered Barlow, ‘and they’ll be comin’ past this alley.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘One of ’em is Garrard—I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Well—damnitall!’

  ‘We might’s well take care of ’em here and now, Horrie. They’d follow us anyway.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ Luscombe thumbed back the hammer of his Colt. ‘Kane wasn’t countin’ on the law gettin’ here so all-fired fast.’

  ‘Stand flat against the wall,’ ordered Barlow. ‘They won’t see us in the shadows.’

  They pressed flat against the wall of the bank. The two veterans came on fast, hustling past the alley mouth and heading straight for the bank’s front entrance.

  ‘Now!’ breathed Barlow, as he squeezed trigger.

  They each got off four shots, before turning and running to the rear alley to join their accomplices. In that clamor of gunfire, they heard and relished the startled oaths and gasps of pain raised by the veterans. Garrard didn’t get a chance to turn and fire at them; Barlow’s first two shots inflicted mortal wounds on him and he went down in a huddled heap. Kittridge did manage to turn, but saw nothing; he was plunged into oblivion by a bullet creasing his skull, and the oblivion was merciful. At least he was no longer conscious of the agony of his broken left arm, the fire in his chest.

  In the back alley, Luscombe and Barlow swung up to leather and fell in behind Wilton, Underfield and Doan. At speed, they raced their mounts along the alley towards the south edge of town and, just as Wilton had anticipated, they succeeded in reaching the outskirts unchallenged. They wheeled their animals westward now, riding through a strip of mesquite and on across open prairie. L-Bar-W was their destination, but they would reach it by devious means, staying on a route carefully mapped out by the wily Kane Wilton; their pursuers would be faced with a formidable chore.

  And, for the harassed and shocked Deputy Leo Hurst, that formidable chore was only just beginning. It seemed circumstances were conspiring against him, preventing his restoring order to the section of town adjacent to the looted bank. News of the outrage had spread along Main Street like wildfire, while the badly wounded Boone Kittridge was being carried to the clinic presided over by the brothers Lake, the most progressive of Marris County’s resident physicians, and while the body of Max Garrard was being carried to the funeral parlor on Morgan Road. By the time Hurst arrived at the bank, over-stimulated cowhands of the Belbin and Keyes spreads were galloping back and forth along the rear alley, raising shrill whoops, shooting at shadows and, worst of all, obliterating any tracks left by the bank robbers. To add to Hurst’s problems, almost three quarters of the population turned out in their night attire, crowding into the block in which the bank was located, yelling queries and advice, causing more confusion than the deputy could hope to handle.

  The echo of the blast had rattled the window of Jim’s room. He was out of bed and donning his clothes at about the same time that the booming of the six-shooters was heard. When he reached the street, four men came trudging towards him. They were toting a blanket-covered stretcher. Their faces were grim in the light of a nearby streetlamp. To question them, he fell in beside them and accompanied them some twenty-five yards, rather than impede their progress. The face of the man on the stretcher was obscured by the blanket.

  Jim confined his query to just one word.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The sheriff,’ grunted one of the bearers. ‘Yeah, he’s a goner. Ain’t no doubt about that.’

  ‘Two slugs in the back,’ remarked another of the bearers. ‘Wouldn’t you just guess it? Wouldn’t you know there’d never be a gunslick with nerve enough to face old Max? Old as he was, he was still a good lawman—best sheriff we ever had.’

  Jim came to an abrupt halt. His acquaintance with Marris County’s boss-lawman had been brief and yet he was shocked to the core—as shocked as when he had heard of the death of Lieutenant Chris Rand.

  Five – A Promise to a Lady

  The confusion was still at its height. Posses were being mustered, but without proper organization. A band of ten riders led by a cashier of the Midwest Bank rode put of Delandro at 2.40 a.m. It was the first time that the cashier had taken charge of such a group and he was ill-fitted for the responsibility. Deputy Hurst’s posse, numbering a dozen, had quit town some ten minutes earlier. By 3 a.m., more riders were moving out, but in ragged fashion. Most of these were employees of Belbin and Keyes and the other local ranchers, and badly hung over.

  In a back room of the undertaker’s premises, Jim stood beside a tense and pallid Kell Garrard, viewing the remains of the murdered sheriff. Kell hadn’t said much as yet, and Jim supposed he was still in a state of shock. The undertaker had finished his preliminary chores. Gaunt, and expressionless, he waited in the open doorway of the adjoining room.

  Abruptly, Kell began speaking.

  ‘Regrets always come too late. You ever notice, Jim?’

  ‘It happens all the time,’ nodded Jim.

  ‘I was ...’ Kell stared at the weather-beaten visage so calm in death, ‘I was—his big disappointment. He had plans for me—but I wouldn’t listen to him. I’ll let you in on a little secret, Jim. When this—tough old man—asked me to sign on as his deputy—I laughed at him!’

  ‘Take it easy,’ frowned Jim.

  ‘That’s something for me to be proud of, eh?’ challenged Kell. ‘He paid for my education, made sacrifices so I’d have more advantages than he’d known. And then— when he got around to asking something in return …’

  ‘Well …’ shrugged Jim.

  ‘I laughed in his face!’ breathed Kell. ‘A deck of cards—a chair at a poker table—fine clothes—these things meant more to me than working with—the best father—the best lawman.’ He paused, bowed his head and was silent a long moment. His trembling right hand fumbled under the blanket, searched for and found the dead hand of his father. He gripped it, stared again at the familiar, weather-beaten face. ‘I’m sorry, old-timer. What the heck else can I do—but say I’m sorry? And it’s so damned inadequate.’

  He released his grip of the hand, turned from the table and walked into the other room with Jim following. There, the undertaker offered him a wrapped bundle tied with thick string.

  ‘Personal effects of the deceased,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll find his cash, tobacco and matches still in the pockets.’

  ‘Yes—well—thanks, Mr. Brodney,’ acknowledged Kell.

  ‘Only thing I’ve kept is his badge—the tin star,’ said the undertaker. ‘When a lawman gets killed in the line of duty, I’m responsible for returning the badge to the sheriff’s office.’

  ‘I understand,’ nodded Kell.

  ‘Everything else is in the bundle,’ the undertaker assure4 him. ‘Funeral will be arranged for ten o’clock.’

  ‘You mean tonight?’ Kell shook his head impatiently. ‘I mean—later this morning? So soon?’

  ‘I guess you never knew,’ shrugged Brodney.

  ‘Never knew what?’ demanded Kell.

  ‘Your father and me were pretty well acquainted,’ said Brodney. ‘A modest man he was—more so than folks realized, I reckon. He made me promise, if he died before me and—uh—if I was taking care of things …’

  ‘Yes?’ prodded Kell.

  ‘That there’d be no delay before the funeral,’ frowned Brodney. ‘
He didn’t relish the notion of a lot of busy-bodies coming to stare at him while he was laid out. “If they want to look at me,” he used to say, “let ’em look at me while I’m alive, and heed what I say.”. He figured the dead are entitled to privacy and dignity. Well, I always agreed with him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kell, quietly. ‘By all means go ahead and handle everything exactly as my father wanted.’

  ‘The chapel at nine forty-five, then up to the cemetery,’ Brodney told him. ‘It’ll only be a short service. That was another of his wishes.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Kell.

  Accompanied by Jim, and with the bulky bundle held to his side, he moved out into the gloom of early morning.

  ‘I’ll get this said here and now,’ muttered Jim, ‘rather than wait.’

  ‘Sure,’ grunted Kell.

  ‘I respected him,’ said Jim. ‘Can’t claim I knew or understood him. That would be a polite lie, Kell, and this is no time for lies. All I’ll say is I respected him—and I sure sympathize with you.’

  ‘It hasn’t been that long, has it?’ reflected Kell. ‘Less than fifteen months since you lost your brother. Yes. Naturally you’d understand how I feel.’ They were turning into Main Street now, their bootheels echoing on the boardwalk. ‘Helluva way for an old-time lawman to end up, isn’t it? In his heyday, he could lick twice his weight in hardcases and troublemakers. Few of them had the courage to face him in a gunfight. Almost every time he used his gun, it was because some owlhoot was trying to ambush him. And now—at the end—they had to attack him from behind.’ He fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘Listen to me. I seem to be talking my head off.’

  ‘Talk all you want, kid,’ Jim gruffly invited, ‘if it’ll make you feel any easier.’

  ‘I should go to the clinic now,’ muttered Kell. ‘That’s where they took Emma’s father. The least I can do is stop by and check on him. He was with Dad when—it happened. If I know Boone Kittridge, he probably went down with his gun in his hand—trying to protect Dad.’