Big Jim 9

by Marshall Grover

  ‘Well,’ shrugged Jim, ‘they didn’t have to wait till they reached the trail before turning west.’ Pensively, he began drawing designs in the dust with the point of his finger. ‘I’ve been thinking about it, and I scouted around for a while. What I found up top of a hill could be the reason our men rode so far northeast.’

  ‘Just what did you find up top of that hill?’ asked Hurst.

  ‘More tracks,’ said Jim. ‘Wilton and his men were being watched, I’d say.’

  ‘From that hill,’ prodded Hurst, ‘can you see clear to where they changed direction?’

  ‘No.’ Jim shook his head. ‘There’s a stand of cottonwood in between.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ grunted Hurst. ‘So it looks like they didn’t want these jaspers to know they were headin’ west.’

  ‘That’s how it looks to me,’ said Jim.

  ‘What should we do now?’ wondered Kell. ‘We can’t be absolutely certain the tracks Jim found were made by the L-Bar-W bunch. On the other hand we know damn well the herd was driven west through this canyon. So which set of tracks do we follow?’

  ‘Rand?’ frowned Hurst. ‘You got any ideas?’

  ‘For a starter,’ Jim suggested, ‘we could stay on the trail of the herd. We can always change our minds, if we suspect they’re leading us on a wild goose chase.’

  ‘Let’s say we track the herd till sundown,’ offered Hurst. ‘We’ll spell these horses awhile longer, then get movin’ again.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Kell.

  They were grateful when, later that day, they moved clear of the canyon’s western gateway and took to open country. It was greener terrain from here on, and the canyon had become a swirling, blinding confusion of alkali dust, thanks to a powerful wind blowing up from the south.

  As they crossed the green plain dotted with the lumbering steers seeking shelter from the wind, they sighted riders moving towards them. Their hands dropped to their holsters, until the riders advanced close enough for their features to be distinguished; none were L-Bar-W men, although many of the beeves hustling across the flats wore the L-Bar-W brand.

  The three cowhands dispensed with greetings and formalities. Only one of them paused, and no longer than it took him to jerk a thumb and say:

  ‘The ranch house is thataway. The boss ain’t liable to turn anybody away in a storm. You just stay headed west.’

  ‘Much obliged.’ Jim raised his voice as the rider began moving away. ‘Hold it! What about those steers—branded L-Bar-W?’

  But the man was out of earshot already, and the wind was becoming stronger.

  Nine – The Not So Cold Trail

  Visibility improved slightly when, in the late afternoon, the hunters reached the adobe and clapboard buildings of the Bar M headquarters. From the open doorway of a sizeable barn, a bulky man in range clothes sighted them and beckoned. They urged their plodding mounts past the corrals, across a broad yard and on to the barn entrance, where the bulky man stood aside and gestured for them to move in.

  ‘Might just as well get those horses off-saddled,’ he advised. ‘These damn storms last five-six hours sometimes. If you want to know where you are, this here’s the Bar M spread.’

  ‘You the owner?’ asked Hurst, as he urged his snorting sorrel through the doorway.

  ‘The owner is Wes Merril,’ said the bulky man. ‘You’re lookin’ at the ramrod. The name’s McHaig— Barney McHaig.’

  ‘Well, we’re sure obliged for the hospitality,’ declared Hurst.

  He performed introductions, while the travelers rid their animals of saddles and harness. All the stalls were occupied so, at McHaig’s suggestion, they secured their mounts near the barn’s rear door. The business of watering, rubbing down and feeding got under way.

  ‘We saw stock branded L-Bar-W,’ prodded Kell, ‘while we were coming across the flats.’

  ‘Sure,’ nodded McHaig. ‘But they’re Bar M beeves, make no mistake about that. Wes paid for ’em in hard cash only yesterday.’

  ‘Ah, ha!’ breathed Hurst.

  He snapped his fingers, traded knowing nods with Jim. Kell said, thoughtfully:

  ‘Smart. A very smart move indeed.’

  ‘Por cierto,’ agreed Benito.

  The burly ramrod eyed them challengingly.

  ‘Now look,’ he growled, ‘I don’t know what this is all about, but what I’m tellin’ you is gospel. Wes Merril bought three hundred head branded L-Bar-W, took a bill of sale and paid up in cash …’

  ‘That’s okay, McHaig,’ said Hurst. ‘We ain’t doubtin’ your word.’

  ‘If that was stolen stock,’ asserted McHaig, ‘there was no way Wes could know.’

  ‘It wasn’t stolen stock,’ said Hurst. ‘Wilton and Luscombe had a right to sell their herd if they wanted to.’

  ‘You mean Walters and Layton,’ corrected McHaig. ‘That’s what they called themselves?’ frowned Jim. He described the partners, then added a fairly accurate description of the red-haired chuck-boss. Kell contributed a word-picture of Barlow, Doan and Underfield, and the ramrod nodded emphatically.

  ‘Same bunch.’

  ‘A very smart move,’ repeated Kell, bitterly. ‘They’ll travel faster now.’

  ‘That’s the hell of it,’ nodded Hurst. ‘And we can’t go after ’em on winded horses.’

  ‘Maybe the owner of this spread will loan us some fresh animals,’ Kell suggested.

  ‘I reckon he would,’ said McHaig, ‘but …’

  ‘But you’re forgetting something,’ said Jim. ‘The men we’re after are out in that storm, while we’re in safe shelter. They aren’t moving far, Kell. They’ll scout around for a basin, a small canyon, a forest, any place where they can shelter awhile.’

  ‘That’s what I was gonna say,’ nodded McHaig. ‘Ain’t nobody could ride more’n a couple miles with this wind damn near blowin’ him out of his saddle. You might just as well stay at the Bar M, get some chow inside of you, rest your horses and then move on when the wind drops.’

  ‘I call that a welcome offer,’ said Hurst.

  ‘And now,’ demanded McHaig, ‘what about these hombres that sold their herd to Wes? I see a tin star …’ He gestured to the badge affixed to Hurst’s vest, ‘so I’m guessin’ you’re a law posse …’

  ‘Unofficial,’ Hurst hastened to point out. He removed the badge, slipped it into a pocket of his vest. ‘I should’ve taken it off as soon as we crossed the county line. This far from home, I got no authority at all.’

  ‘They’re on the run?’ asked McHaig. ‘Hell! This’ll be the first time I ever heard of trail-herders on the run. Just ridin’ herd on three hundred steers is trouble enough.’

  ‘Do I hear talk of trouble?’ Wes Merril came trudging into the barn at that moment, shaking a cloud of alkali from his battered Stetson. ‘Looks like you fellers found the old Bar M just in time. She’s blowin’ like fury out there.’

  ‘Wes,’ said McHaig, ‘this here’s kind of an unofficial posse. Say howdy to Deputy Hurst from Marris County.’ He named all four strangers. They shook hands with the rancher. Hurst, appointing himself spokesman, explained the circumstances leading up to their beginning this pursuit of the L-Bar-W outfit, after which Merril promptly made him an offer.

  ‘If you could use some help, you only have to say the word. Got a dozen good men on my payroll—handy with their hardware. You’re welcome to borrow half of em.

  ‘Thanks,’ frowned Hurst. ‘We appreciate the offer, but I don’t reckon we’ll find ’em any faster for having six extra riders along.’

  ‘So you’ll shelter here till the storm blows out.’

  Merril supposed. ‘Then take off after ’em again.’

  ‘What I don’t savvy,’ said McHaig, ‘is why are they headed east again? You wouldn’t think they’d ride back to where they came from.’

  ‘They aren’t headed east, McHaig,’ said Jim.

  ‘They sure are,’ asserted McHaig. ‘Couple of our men sighted ’em from atop a hill, and ...
’

  ‘I know,’ nodded Jim. ‘I found their tracks. But Wilton’s bunch changed direction as soon as they reached the regular trail. They’re moving west now. At least they were—until this storm.’

  ‘Headed for Utah, nothin’ surer,’ mused Merril. He propped a shoulder against the division of a stall, lit a cigar and cast an admiring glance over the big black, while Jim continued the rub-down. ‘Well, it goes to prove I ain’t such a good judge of human nature. Was a time when I thought I could size a man up, but not anymore. Yesterday, when I bought Walters’ herd off of him …’

  ‘Wilton,’ corrected McHaig.

  ‘Whatever he calls himself,’ shrugged Merril. ‘I’d have said he was fair and square—one hundred per cent.’

  ‘There’s a better than even chance that he planned and led the raid on the Midwest Bank of Delandro,’ Kell grimly assured the rancher. ‘He—or one or several of his men—shot and killed the sheriff of Marris County, who happened to be my father.’

  Merril nodded pensively, still staring at the black stallion, but without seeing that magnificent animal; his mind was many miles away.

  ‘When you get through tendin’ your animals,’ he offered, ‘come over to the house. If I was in your boots. I’d be wantin’ to see a map. I’d want to know all about the territory between here and the border.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking of that,’ said Jim.

  ‘Sometimes it’s smarter to get ahead of the man you’re chasm’,’ drawled Merril, ‘than just stay in back of him for mile after mile.’

  The rancher’s office proved to be a sizeable, comfortable room with leather-covered chairs, a desk littered with ledgers and stacks of invoices, a liquor cabinet, a bear rug on the floor and, tacked to a side wall, a comprehensive map of all the territory between Salt Lake City and Denver. While they partook of the substantial supper toted in by the Chinese cook and drank coffee spiked with whisky, Merril indicated their present position on the map.

  ‘Here’s Bar M. This here is the trail Rand sighted— the regular route east to Fayette Springs and west to Wilkie. Here’s Wilkie—little one-horse burg on the east bank of the river.’

  ‘Just a fly-speck on the map, gents,’ offered McHaig. ‘but important.’

  ‘Important,’ nodded Merril, ‘and here’s why.’ He tapped at the map with a pencil. ‘Right here, just a few yards west of Wilkie’s main street, is the start of the bridge. I guess you could say that bridge is the only excuse they got for buildin’ a town there. There’s no town on the west bank, but there are a couple sodbuster communities upriver a ways.’

  ‘With the river runnin’ high,’ observed Hurst, ‘they’ll just have to use that bridge—or try to.’

  ‘And they’re bound to find their way to Wilkie,’ Merril assured him.

  ‘Soon as you get inside five-six miles of Wilkie, comin’ from any direction,’ grinned McHaig, ‘you’ll see the signs. Wilkie folk nailed ’em up here there and everywhere. Welcome to Wilkie for a safe fording, they say. Come use the Wilkie bridge. No toll charge. And stuff like that.’

  ‘Yeah—I see what you mean,’ frowned Jim. ‘Wilkie would be just the place for heading them off.’

  ‘You’re lookin’ at a good map, mister,’ drawled Merril. ‘The men you’re huntin’, they never saw this map —and that’s what makes the difference. You check this chart awhile and you’ll see a half-dozen ways you could reach Wilkie ahead of ’em. All you have to do is remember the landmarks.’

  ‘He’s right,’ breathed Hurst. ‘Our luck is changin’, gents.’

  ‘Will our quarry camp somewhere overnight, or will they move on as soon as the storm ends?’ wondered Kell. ‘I’d give my eye-teeth to be able to guess what Wilton is planning.’

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ said Jim. ‘We’ll be moving on as soon as the wind drops.’ He forked up another mouthful of Willie Soong’s fine-tasting stew, nodded to the map. ‘We won’t be travelling blind. We’ll know where we’re going and how to get there, because I aim to make us a map, copy it from this one.’

  ‘I’ll tell you this,’ grinned McHaig. ‘If you meet those bandidos in Wilkie, it’ll be the one and only time they ever had a fracas in that town. Quiet? Why, doggone it, the most excitement they ever have is a weddin’, a buryin’ or a church social.’

  ‘The wind’s dropping,’ announced’ the suddenly impatient Kell.

  Merril cocked an ear, shook his head.

  ‘You’re too eager, young feller. But it won’t last much longer. Another hour at most.’

  From high velocity to no velocity at all—never had Big Jim Rand known a storm to abate so quickly. The change came over a period of no more than a quarter-hour, after which a great silence descended upon the territory east and south of the big river.

  The hunters and their mounts were refreshed and eager to be on their way, despite the late hour; it was 10.35 p.m. when they offered their thanks for the hospitality accorded them by moving north-west across Bar M range, their immediate destination the range of saw-toothed hills clearly visible in the pale moonlight. They penetrated those hills in double-quick time and without mishap, thanks to the map drawn by Jim in Merril’s office. Not until 2 a.m. did they make night-camp and, wisely, they chose a clearing in the center of a mile-long forest of cottonwood and refrained from lighting a fire.

  They were on their way again some twenty minutes after sunrise. Once during the next hour they crossed the regular trail, pausing only long enough for Jim to examine the tracks of a wagon and horses.

  ‘Fresh,’ he calmly announced. ‘A wagon drawn by a four-horse team with five saddlers riding along. That’ll be Wilton and his crew, nothing surer.’

  ‘They can’t be too far ahead,’ suggested Hurst.

  ‘Not far at all,’ grunted Jim. ‘But let’s not go off half-cocked.’

  ‘It’s hard to resist the urge to hustle,’ muttered Kell. ‘Finding their tracks again—so fresh. Knowing they aren’t far away from us.’

  ‘From now on, if it’s okay by the deputy,’ drawled Jim, ‘we’ll work like a cavalry scouting party tagging a passel of renegade Apaches. We’ll do this army-style.’

  ‘It’s okay by the deputy,’ Hurst assured him. ‘Right,’ said Jim. ‘The worst mistake we could make would be to rush these killers in open country. We’d be four against six, and those two extra guns can make a heap of difference. If we can reach Wilkie first—and I reckon we can—we’ll have the edge on ’em. We’ll choose the time and place for stopping them and, when the shooting starts, we won’t be wide open. Not by a long shot.’ He led them across the trail diagonally, then on towards a straggle of mesquite and yucca. ‘Stay close behind me. We’ll reach a waterhole in a little while, and that’ll be another landmark.’

  ‘We should be thankful Wes Merril had a map,’ opined Hurst.

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Jim.

  At high noon of that day, the temperature had soared to ninety-seven degrees. The heat was bedeviling Wilton, Luscombe and their hirelings, despite the fact that they had attained some altitude and were feeling a breeze. There was no relief in that breeze; it seemed as enervating as the merciless onslaught of the sun.

  Red Modine, huddled on the seat of the rocking wagon, guiding the team around a bend of the trail leading down from the high country, was in ill humor, perspiring freely, cursing the horses, the heat and his travelling companions. Wilton and the others were descending in the wake of the wagon, moving in Indian file. They had warning of Modine’s abrupt halt, but not much.

  ‘Hold it!’ was all he said.

  The rig came to a shuddering halt with its left side wheels less than two feet from the edge of the trail; Modine had stalled it at a bend overlooking a slant some seventy feet deep. Luscombe, who had been riding closest to the tailgate, was obliged to jerk back on his rein. His mount reared, neighing shrilly.

  ‘What the hell, Red …?’ yelled Luscombe.

  ‘Just everybody haul up,’ growled Modine. ‘I got somethin
’ to say.’

  The other men drew rein. Wilton hooked a leg over his saddlehorn, lit a cigar and eyed the redhead impatiently.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Red?’

  ‘Speed—that’s what,’ said Modine. ‘Look, damnitall, you let Merril buy you out just so we could move faster—ain’t that so?’

  ‘That was the idea,’ nodded Wilton.

  ‘All right,’ said Modine. ‘I got a saddle in back. Why don’t we divvy up the loot here and now? We could all tote our share in our saddlebags and we wouldn’t be slowed down by the wagon. I’d saddle one of these teamers, and …’

  ‘Sounds okay, Kane,’ frowned Luscombe. ‘We must be gettin’ close to the border. No reason why the loot has to stay hid any more, is there?’

  ‘To reach the border, we have to ford the river,’ said Wilton. ‘Still, the river can’t be more than four or five miles ahead, so I guess this is as good a time as any for the divvy-up.’

  ‘That’s what I been waitin’ for!’ breathed Doan, baring his teeth in a grin of anticipation.

  ‘You and me both,’ growled Barlow.

  ‘And me,’ said Underfield, licking his lips.

  ‘How about the supplies?’ asked Luscombe, as Modine climbed from the wagon.

  ‘We can afford to leave our supplies behind,’ shrugged Wilton. ‘Go ahead, Red.’

  ‘I could use some help,’ muttered Modine.

  ‘Ike—Sam …’ Wilton jerked a thumb.

  The hardcases fell to with a will, emptying the wagon in a hurry, hurling provisions down the incline until the false floor so painstakingly constructed and laid by Modine was devoid of encumbrances. Chuckling elatedly, the big redhead pulled out two of the planks and hurled them down the slope. Then, under Wilton’s careful supervision, he groped in the opening to produce bundle after bundle of banknotes.

  It took quite some time for Wilton and Luscombe to complete their tally and dole out each man’s share, because the bills were of all denominations and had been snatched from the bank’s safe in haste. Ten dollar bills were rolled with notes of higher value, fifties and hundreds; there was no system.