Big Jim 3

by Marshall Grover

  “Plenty,” said Luke. “Why? Does young Gillery need another bracer?”

  “Bring the bottle and five glasses,” grinned Russell. “We could all use a bracer.”

  He replaced his instruments in his bag and made way for March, who toted a chair over beside the bed, straddled it and lit a cigar.

  “All right now, young feller,” he grunted. “You and your brothers are as ornery a bunch as ever raised hell in my territory, but you’re still entitled to the protection of the law and a full investigation of this attempt on your life. You follow me, son, or am I talking too fast for you?”

  “That’s okay, Sheriff,” mumbled Archer. “I savvy you good.”

  “Fine,” said March. “Now—headache or no headache—concussion or no concussion—I want you to start remembering.”

  “I guess you mean,” frowned Arch, “about them skunks that back-shot me.”

  “I don’t mean how much turkey did you eat last Thanksgiving,” growled March.

  “There was five of ’em,” Arch recalled. “Don’t ask me which one shot me. I wouldn’t know. It didn’t happen till after I told ’em goodbye and came ridin’ on.”

  “You mean you had a conversation with these jaspers?”

  “Sort of.” Arch went on to explain the circumstances of his encountering the five riders on the trail. “Then, after I dug the stone outa my prad’s hoof and give the knife back to this big redhead, why, I just hit the leather and told ’em goodbye. But I only rid a little ways ’fore I heard the shot and—and that was the last thing I heard—till I woke up down the bottom of the cliff. My prad was dead and I was—uh—achin’ all over. And this Sam hombre was talkin’ to me.”

  “You were riding north when you met these strangers,” prodded March. “Were they travelling north too? Did they come up behind you—or toward you?”

  “Toward me,” said Arch. “They was headed south.”

  “Eli,” frowned the deputy. “He says one was a redhead—a big redhead. I reckon that’d be ...”

  “Weems, most likely,” nodded March. “But he speaks of five riders, Josh, and that puzzles me.” He offered Arch a terse but accurate description of Holbrook, Clayburn and Billy Joe Hale, and won immediate response; Arch even remembered Holbrook’s scar. “All right, boy, you’re doing fine. I know those four hombres. But what about the fifth man? Have you ever seen him before?”

  “I never saw any of ’em before,” muttered Arch.

  “This fifth man—describe him,” said March.

  “Oh—kinda average.” Archer squinted, trying to remember. “No. That ain’t so. He wasn’t really average at all. A real good-lookin’ hombre. A dude. Yeah. Fancy duds like an Easterner wears.”

  “Like a tinhorn gambler, huh?” prodded Pardelow.

  “Like that,” nodded Archer. “Only fancier. He was rigged rich.”

  The sheriff was silent a while, searching his mind, trying to recall a local fitting that description. As it happened, he had never met Calvin Truscott.

  “Who do you suppose he could be—this fifth feller?” asked Pardelow.

  “Damned if I know,” frowned March.

  Loomis rejoined them, hefting a quart of rye and five glasses. The deputy helped with the pouring and distribution. All five men drank slowly. March’s cigar was smoked halfway, when he asked the patient, “Did you do anything more than just borrow a knife from one of these men—pass the time of day with them?”

  “That’s all,” Arch assured him.

  “There wasn’t any argument?” demanded March. “Hell, boy, they had to have some reason for trying to kill you.”

  “We was talkin’ along sociable, and that’s the gospel truth,” insisted Arch. “I swear to Betsy I just don’t savvy why they did it.”

  “Talking sociable,” reflected the sheriff.

  It was Pardelow, not March, who thought to ask:

  “Who did most of the talkin’?”

  “Oh—well ...” Archer grinned sheepishly, “I guess I did. Doc was right about me. I run off at the mouth.”

  “What did you talk about?” asked March.

  “About how I was headed for Byrne City to fetch a J.P.—and about Lucy Rose gettin’ hitched—and all that,” said Arch.

  Thaddeus Russell interjected a note of levity.

  “They got irritated. They were sick of the sound of Arch bending their ears—so one of them pulled a gun and shot him—just for the sheer pleasure of silencing him.” Upon noting the grim expression on the sheriff’s face, he shrugged and apologized, but with a grin. “All right, Eli, it was a poor joke.”

  “I’m no killjoy, Doc,” muttered March. “It’s just I can’t see any humor in Holbrook—or one of his sidekicks—shooting this young feller in the back. There’s no humor to it—and it seems there’s no reason to it.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” argued his deputy. “I always say there’s a reason for everything.”

  “I’ll be obliged,” declared March, “if somebody’ll give me one sane reason why this cowpoke had to be ambushed that way. It wasn’t robbery ...”

  “Hell, no,” Arch gloomily agreed. “Us Gillerys is dirt-poor. That’s why Dewey hankers to get Lucy Rose wed. If she can get herself a husband ...”

  “All right, boy, you don’t have to tell me,” sighed March. “I know about the terms of the Fullerton will.”

  “You want another drink, Eli?” asked Loomis.

  “Thanks—but no,” said the sheriff. “Josh and me will be riding now. I want to be at the place where it happened by the time the sun rises.”

  “Right near Lampazo Bend,” offered Arch.

  “You’re going to tag the Holbrook outfit?” frowned Russell.

  “I don’t like mysteries, Doc,” said March. “Yes, I aim to follow Holbrook’s sign. Maybe that coyote is on a killing spree—maybe he’s gone loco. If he’s gonna take a shot at just anybody at all—like young Gillery here—the border country won’t be safe for man, woman or child.”

  “Two of you mightn’t be enough,” frowned Loomis. “If you want, I’ll rouse up four good men and you can swear ’em in as special deputies.”

  “Muchas gracias,” nodded March. “Rouse ’em out right now, Luke, because I’m ready to move.”

  Eight – Marauders at Sun-Up

  It was still dark when Calvin Truscott awoke to the feel of a rough hand on his shoulder and the sound of Holbrook’s voice.

  “On your feet, Truscott. We gotta eat fast, and then ...”

  “So early?”

  “Gus claims he can smell cattle. I calculate we must be close to Box G range—and sun-up is a fine time for raidin’.”

  The boss-outlaw’s scarred visage creased in a grin of anticipation, as he squatted on his heels and accepted the food and coffee passed him by Red Weems. Truscott somehow managed to refrain from shuddering. He couldn’t eat, but was badly in need of coffee—any kind of booster for his frayed nerves. It was a shattering experience, watching these veteran hardcases preparing for whatever the day might offer.

  While Clayburn tended the horses, Billy Joe checked the loading and mechanism of his Colt with loving care. The youthful outlaw’s expression was ugly, as his tapered fingers caressed the weapon’s gleaming barrel and smooth grips. Truscott’s scalp crawled. Weems began rummaging in his saddlebag and, sharply, Holbrook said:

  “You be damn careful with that stuff!”

  “Let me use it today, huh?” begged the burly redhead. “Maybe just a couple sticks?”

  “Maybe,” frowned Holbrook. “It’ll depend on how things look at Box G.” Noting Truscott’s puzzlement, he explained, “Red used to prospect ...”

  “Red was a prospector,” sniggered Billy Joe, “when he wasn’t claim-jumpin’.”

  “He likes dynamite,” Holbrook told Truscott, “the way kids like sugar.”

  “Dynamite ...?” gasped Truscott.

  “Keep your shirt on, tinhorn,” chuckled Weems. From the saddlebag he produced two sti
cks with fuses attached. “I ain’t about to use these purty things on you. If ever we have to settle your hash, one bullet’ll be enough.”

  “All this talk of killing …” fretted Truscott.

  “Once it starts,” growled Holbrook, “there’s no turnin’ back. I’ve got rid of one Gillery. I might just have to get rid of the others. We’ll wait and see. Meantime ...” He eyed Truscott coldly, “I don’t want no arguments from you.”

  “I only meant ...” began Truscott.

  “I know what you mean,” muttered Holbrook. “You’d like it fine if you could finish this deal with your hands clean and your pockets full of greenbacks. Well—it’s never that simple, Truscott. You’ll be a thousand dollars richer—but I don’t promise your hands’ll be clean.”

  “About the dynamite ...” prodded Weems.

  “You can have your fun, Red,” shrugged Holbrook, “if and when I say so.”

  The breeze of early morning was blowing from the south. Gus Clayburn moved away from the horses and stood some distance from the spring, his eyes probing the gloom.

  “Can’t say how far, Pete,” he muttered, “but south is where they are. Nothin’ surer.”

  “Bueno,” grunted Holbrook. “We’ll be on our way in a few minutes.”

  Now that the end was almost in sight, Truscott would gladly have changed places with anybody living in North Montana—or even Alaska. He was haunted by a feeling of impending doom. There was something overpoweringly sinister, eerie, blood-chilling, in the demeanor of these casehardened rogues.

  They had eaten their fill and the coffeepot was empty. Billy Joe kicked dirt onto the fire while Weems redistributed the cooking utensils. One by one, they swung into their saddles and nudged their horses away from Bugle Spring, following Holbrook southward along the bank of a dried-out arroyo.

  Before reaching the northern fringe of Box G range, they covered two miles of arid, boulder-littered terrain, undulating, cheerless. No straggle of mesquite was sighted until they were actually on Gillery land with, in the first pallid glow of dawn, a few strays dimly visible. The ranch headquarters, Holbrook decided, must be located dead ahead. But how far?

  “Somebody has to go ahead and scout,” he muttered, as they reined up behind a screen of brush.

  “You askin’ for a volunteer, Pete?” challenged Billy Joe. He flicked his cigarette away, eased his Colt in its holster. “Well, I guess it’s up to me.”

  “Before you move,” frowned Holbrook, “we’ll have to find a better stake-out. A few yards of mesquite ain’t enough.”

  Some eighty yards further south they came upon a sizeable mound of lava-rock, a formation tall enough, wide enough to provide concealment for a dozen or more horsemen. Holbrook was well satisfied.

  “Here’s where you’ll wait for me?” grinned Billy Joe. “Here’s where,” nodded Holbrook. “And you know what I want. Get as close as you can to the ranchhouse. Scout it good. I want to know the whole set-up before I make my move.”

  “Pete enjoys killin’,” Billy Joe cheerfully informed the frowning Truscott, “but he also likes to stay alive.”

  “You’re wastin’ time, kid,” chided Holbrook. “Get goin’.”

  Billy Joe sketched them a nonchalant salute, wheeled his mount and began riding away from the rock-mound, travelling slowly and observing all due caution.

  ~*~

  Box G was beginning to stir.

  The first pale light of sunrise was shafting through cracks in the plank wall of the harness-shack, when Big Jim roused from sleep. He was well rested, but not really refreshed, and his mood was bitter.

  “Nothing like sleeping hog-tied,” he sourly remarked, “to cramp a body from head to toe.”

  He glanced at Benito—casually at first, then incredulously. Were his eyes deceiving him? It didn’t seem possible. It didn’t make sensed—but it was happening. There could be no mistaking the fact that Benito had arched his back and had drawn his feet up, and that he was reaching into the top of his left boot—and that he was extracting something that looked suspiciously like a jack knife.

  “What in blue blazes ...?” he began.

  “Quedo, por favor!” hissed the little Mex. “Have you forgot the Senor Ricardo on guard? Not so loud, Amigo Jim!”

  He darted a glance towards the door, hastily nudged the jack knife back into his boot and resumed his slumped posture. Jim, after muttering a few explosive oaths, dropped his voice to a whisper and moved his head close to Benito’s.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you had a knife stashed in your boot?”

  “You did not ask, amigo.”

  “One more funny answer like that and I’ll kick that grin clear off your ugly face!”

  “My amigo—my close and dear friend ...”

  “Don’t try to butter me up! How long have you had that consarned knife?”

  “Oh—not such a long time. I stole it—with great skill ...”

  “Quit bragging and talk straight! I know you’re the slickest pickpocket west of Saint Louis. That’s something I’ve already learned—the hard way. Now answer my question.”

  “I removed it from the pocket of Senor Archer.”

  “Brother Arch? You picked his pocket—when? It couldn’t have been while I was tangling with all three of ’em ...” Jim paused to think. “Arch wasn’t here. He’d left to ride to Byrne City. And, besides, how could you pick a pocket with your hands tied in back of you?”

  “It was earlier,” Benito calmly confessed.

  Jim studied him intently.

  “How much earlier, cucaracha? Just when did you lift Arch’s knife?”

  “When they capture us,” mumbled Benito, and he tried to produce a shy grin; it finished up as a buck-toothed smirk.

  Through a red haze of rage, Jim glowered at him. “You’ve got the stone-cold nerve to tell me you—you’ve had that knife stuck in your boot—all this time? You saw me struggling like a hog-tied steer to get my hands free—and didn’t make a move to help me? You saw me—sawing at these ropes with a rusted spur—and all the time you—you had that damn-blasted jack knife stuck in your boot ...?”

  “Si.”

  It took Jim almost a minute to regain control of himself.

  “All right,” he breathed. “All right! You’d better have a good reason, and you’d better tell me right now, before I lose what’s left of my temper and start beating on your ugly head with my heels.”

  “I had several reasons,” Benito softly assured him. ‘All good reasons.”

  “I’ll settle for a few,” scowled Jim.

  “The senorita is muy bello.” Benito sighed sentimentally and rolled his eyes. “For you, she would be one fine wife. You would cease to wander. We would live in comfort—never to starve again ...”

  “You hanker to see me shotgunned into marriage, so you kept your mouth shut about the knife.” Jim shook his head dazedly.

  “Also,” Benito continued, “I am most interested in your—how you say it—exhibitions of strength? So vigoroso! Ai caramba! This is a sight to inspire me—your humble and affectionate amigo ...”

  “It must’ve been mighty interesting, mighty entertaining,” breathed Jim. “I’m glad you had fun.”

  “And this last time ...” Benito sighed ecstatically. “Ai! Such imagination! Never have I seen a hombre so ingenioso. With the spur, you cut and saw—rub—rub ...”

  “Hour after hour,” recalled Jim. He had decided to strangle Benito as soon as was humanly possible. “You sat there and watched—while I near dislocated myself— hacking through those ropes with a rusty spur ...!”

  “But I have given this situation much thought,” said Benito, “and I have ask myself—am I being loyal to my dear and close friend? Should I not have given to him this knife much sooner? These barbaro gringos will not kill you, for they wish you to marry with the senorita—but what of me? Will they permit me to leave this place unharmed, after their sister has become your esposa? Maybe not. So I am muy nervioso.”
>
  “You’ll have some extra reasons to be nervous,” scowled Jim, “if you don’t pass me that knife—muy pronto.”

  “Momento,” shrugged Benito.

  Again he arched his back. His brown fingers delved into the top of his boot and then, suddenly, he was jerking back to his original posture; the voice of Lucy Rose Gillery had reached them with infinite clarity.

  “Brother Rickard! I’ll be fetchin’ breakfast for those guests of ours in just a couple minutes!”

  “Yeah—sure!” This was Rick’s voice. Very close to the door of the harness-shack. “Where’s Dewey?”

  “Comin’ to spell you purty soon,” came Lucy Rose’s reply. Her voice sounded louder as she called to her youngest brother. “Waldo—Wal-doohhh?”

  “Over here!” yelled Waldo, from somewhere south of the shack.

  “We’re gettin’ low on meat!” she announced. “If you boys hanker for some of my jackrabbit stew, somebody best go huntin’. You could likely down three-four big ones, this time of mornin’.”

  “You go, Waldo!” bellowed Rick.

  “All right,” agreed Waldo. “I guess I gotta.”

  Very quietly, Jim told Benito, “We’ll have to wait until after breakfast. They’ll be opening that door any minute now—so we wouldn’t have time for a break.”

  For his vantage point, the wily Billy Joe Hale had chosen the cottonwood clump atop the rise some short distance north of the house. He could see all the ranch buildings from there, and hear the shouted exchange between Lucy Rose and her kinsmen. An ugly grin creased his countenance as he watched Waldo fetch a rifle from the house and trudge away toward the brush to the east. He counted it as very significant that a Gillery should be sitting guard outside a small shack. Who was their prisoner? The bridegroom, maybe? Well, it shouldn’t be difficult for him While Billy Joe watched, Dewey came loafing out of the barn, hefting a shotgun, making his way to the small shack. Lucy Rose emerged from the ranch house, toting a cloth-covered tray. He had seen enough for the time being.

  As silently as a marauding Apache, he crept back from the summit of the rise. Descending its north side, he moved clear of the clump of brush wherein he had concealed his horse and steered a course for the larger area of vegetation, the mesquite into which young Waldo had ventured in his quest for game. He heard the bark of Waldo’s rifle. A bullet struck a boulder away to his right and ricocheted, whining, but he didn’t slacken pace; he sensed the shot hadn’t been fired at him. Waldo Gillery had sighted on a jackrabbit, but had missed.