Big Jim 3

by Marshall Grover

  A few minutes later, deep within the brush, Waldo surprised another jackrabbit. As the critter bounded past his line of vision, he took quick aim, squeezed trigger and knocked it spinning.

  “That’s one,” he drawled aloud, as he loafed forward to pick up his kill. “Plenty of ’em around, just like Sis said. I’ll get maybe four or five, and we’ll have more stew than we can eat.”

  Just as he reached the dead cottontail, he heard a twig snap close behind him. He began turning, but froze to the feel of something hard butting his backbone.

  “Guess what this is?” sniggered Billy Joe. “Business end of my Colt, boy. All I gotta do is squeeze trigger—and what d’you suppose happens to your spine? Even if you stay alive, you’ll never walk straight again.”

  “What—who ...?” began Waldo.

  “For a starter,” said Billy Joe, “drop the rifle.” The rifle clattered to the ground. “Bueno. Now you answer me a question—and no back-talk hear?”

  “If you’re gonna ask where we hide our money,” scowled Waldo, “I’ll laugh fit to bust. Never was a thief could make a profit from the old Box G.”

  “Let me fret about the profit,” Billy Joe suggested. “I hear tell your sister’s all set to get married—is that so?”

  “How’d you know ...?” wondered Waldo.

  “Answer me!” snapped Billy Joe.

  “All right—sure,” shrugged Waldo. “She’s gettin’ hitched real soon.”

  “Who’s hid in the shack?” prodded Billy Joe. “The bridegroom?” He rammed harder with the muzzle of his Colt. “No stallin’ now!”

  “Yeah,” sighed Waldo. “The bridegroom. He wasn’t willin’, so we hog-tied him and stashed him in there.”

  Billy Joe chuckled softly.

  “Well, well, well! Now ain’t that a shame? I got sad news for you, boy. There ain’t gonna be no weddin’ at all.”

  “There’ll be a weddin’,” Waldo curtly asserted.

  “Can’t be no weddin’ ’less you got somebody to say the words,” grinned Billy Joe. “Like, for instance a preacher or a J.P.”

  “There’s gonna be a J.P.,” declared Waldo.

  “Nope,” grunted Billy Joe, “That brother of yours ain’t fetchin’ no J.P.—on accounta he never made it to town. We met him along the trail.”

  “Why—you dirty—lousy ...!” gasped Waldo.

  Goaded beyond all endurance, he began whirling to strike at the bandido. As he did so, Billy Joe hammered down, raised and swung his Colt with savage relish. That punishing blow put an extra dent in the crown of Waldo’s Stetson, drove it lower on his head and plunged him into oblivion.

  Billy Joe chuckled again, bent to slide his victim’s Colt from its holster and to pick up the fallen rifle. It took him only a few moments to return to the north side of the rise and collect his horse. When he returned to the clearing in the mesquite, the hapless Waldo was still well and truly unconscious.

  Though they hadn’t engaged in honest work in many a long month, it suited the Holbrook quartet to wear the garb of cowhands and to carry lariats hitched to their saddlehorns. Billy Joe now unslung his rope and made short work of trussing his victim. For a gag, he used Waldo’s own bandanna.

  He made his way toward the rock-mound beyond which his accomplices awaited him—and the attack on Box G had begun.

  Standing just inside the open doorway of the harness-shack, Lucy Rose was frowning down at the grim faced Jim, and the bland-smiling Benito, and announcing, “You get your eggs scrambled this mornin’—and the bacon chopped up and mixed in. Makes it easier for feedin’ you.”

  “You could at least untie us and let us eat like grown men,” chided Jim.

  “That’ll be the day,” scoffed Rick. “We already had a sample of how you act up—if you get your hands loose.”

  Rick had made a careful check of the ropes securing both prisoners and was now crouched beside Benito, ready to begin feeding him. Dewey lounged in the doorway. He cradled the shotgun in the crook of his right arm and kept his eyes peeled.

  “We gonna have more trouble from you?” he demanded of Jim. “I’d sure hate to see you kick this tray outa Lucy Rose’s hands. You never in your life tasted scrambled eggs so fine.”

  “You must be mighty hungry,” suggested Lucy Rose.

  Jim looked at her. She was again rigged in strictly utilitarian gingham—patched here and there—but her appearance was pleasing, fresh, healthy and wholesome. He thought it a great pity that this poorly educated young woman should be denied the finer things of life.

  He roused from his reverie and gruffly assured the Gillerys, “We’re too hungry—and too blame weary—to give you any trouble.”

  “Now you’re talkin’ sense, Big Jim,” grinned Rick.

  He took a bowl and spoon from the tray and began feeding Benito. Lucy Rose did the same for Jim, squatting to one side of him, plying a laden spoon deftly, steadily. Jim savored every mouthful and conceded Dewey hadn’t exaggerated; his sister’s scramble-and-bacon was something special.

  “Good,” he complimented her, between mouthfuls. “Better than good.”

  She hadn’t yet smiled.

  “You laughed at me,” she bitterly accused. “I wish you hadn’t done that, Jim. It’s humiliatin’ for a girl to be laughed at.”

  “I apologize—if it makes you feel any easier,” he offered. “The trouble with me is I can never stop myself from laughing—when I see a girl with potato on her face.”

  “There you go again,” she chided.

  “All right—I’m sorry.” He accepted another spoonful, munched and swallowed. When next he spoke to her, his tone was serious. “Lucy Rose, have you thought about this situation? Do you appreciate both sides of it? Not much pleasure for a nice girl—suddenly married to a man she hardly knows.”

  “Don’t try to discourage her, Big Jim,” growled Dewey. “She’s a Gillery. She’ll do what’s right for the family.”

  “I ain’t marryin’ for pleasure,” Lucy Rose pointed out. “I’m marryin’ so we can collect all that money, and get wells sunk on Box G range—so the feed-grass’ll grow again and there’ll be new calves come spring ...”

  “And we could buy lumber and fix the barn wall,” mused Rick.

  “Lay in a few sacks of flour,” said Lucy Rose, wistfully. “Maybe a whole barrel of apples.”

  “That’s the kind of family we are, Big Jim,” muttered Dewey. “All we ask is a chance to survive. We ain’t lookin’ for nothin’ fancy.”

  “No,” Jim solemnly agreed. “All you ask is ten thousand dollars. And, to collect it, you think nothing of kidnapping a stranger, letting your sister marry a man she doesn’t know—at gunpoint.”

  “Well, damnitall ...” Dewey gestured impatiently. “It ain’t as if you gotta stay here forever. If you want a ride out as soon as the knot is tied, it’s okay by us. Ain’t nobody gonna stop you. All we care about is seein’ your John Henry on that little old weddin’ certificate—so the lawyer will know Lucy Rose got herself hitched fair square and legal.”

  Jim and the little Mex finished eating simultaneously. Lucy Rose poured coffee into two tin mugs from which the prisoners drank their fill. As on the other occasion, she rolled and lit a cigarette for Jim and inserted it in his mouth; Rick did the same for Benito.

  “Gonna be a hot day,” Rick idly remarked.

  “Jackrabbit stew for lunch,” drawled Dewey. “I heard Waldo’s long gun poppin’ just a little while back. Guess he’ll be moseyin’ in soon, totin’ three-four plump cottontails.”

  At this same time, Billy Joe Hale was returning to the rock-mound in the northern sector of Box G range, delivering his prisoner and cheerfully greeting his cohorts.

  “Howdy, Pete.” He nodded to the boss-outlaw. “Look what I found. Here’s another Gillery that ain’t gonna give us no trouble today.”

  Nine – Dig and Run

  Dumped unceremoniously to the hard ground, huddled awkwardly with his wrists bound behind him, Waldo Gillery
blinked up at his captors. For just a moment, the thought occurred to him that a big man name of Jim Rand had suffered this uncomfortable posture for more than forty-eight hours. Except, of course, they hadn’t gagged Big Jim or his runty Mex sidekick. At least they had the satisfaction of cussing aloud if they felt inclined. All he could do was grunt.

  Holbrook frowned down at him a moment, then enquired of Billy Joe, “Where’d you find this one?”

  “A ways north of the house,” drawled Billy Joe. “He was out shootin’ cottontail.” He dug out his makings and began building a cigarette. “We got us an easy chore, Pete. Only two of ’em left now.”

  “Two,” mused Holbrook, “not countin’ the girl—and the bridegroom.”

  “That bridegroom ain’t gonna cause us no grief,” Billy Joe assured him. “They got him locked in a harness-shack. I saw the girl totin’ his breakfast—and them other two Gillerys sittin’ guard on him.”

  “Four of us against just two of ’em, Pete,” muttered Clayburn. “I’d call that an easy set-up.”

  “How much open ground around the ranch-house?” demanded Holbrook.

  “About eighty yards, I’d calculate,” shrugged Billy Joe, “give or take a couple feet.”

  “For eighty yards,” frowned Holbrook, “we’d be like ducks on a pond—if them Gillerys decide to shoot first and ask questions later. I’d as soon we played it smart.”

  “Sure, Pete,” grunted Clayburn. “You’re the boss.”

  “One man stays here to keep tabs on him.” Holbrook nodded to the bound and gagged Waldo. “The rest of us move in, but quiet. We find a closer stake-out, and ...”

  “That’ll be the top of the rise,” offered Billy Joe, “where I staked out.”

  “Fair enough,” nodded Holbrook. “From there, I’ll move in by myself. I could maybe pretend I’m just driftin’ by and needin’ to water my horse. All I have to do is get close enough to put a gun on one of ’em.”

  “You’ll holler, and we’ll come a’runnin’,” guessed Weems. “Is that how it goes?”

  “That’s how it goes,” drawled Holbrook. He snapped his fingers. “Billy Joe—give the tinhorn one of them spare irons.”

  Truscott accepted the weapon passed to him by Billy Joe, hefted it, checked its loading and, after a cursory appraisal of the helpless Waldo, remarked, “I don’t expect he’ll give me any trouble.”

  “Take no chances with him,” growled Holbrook. “If he tries to work loose, dent his skull with that Colt.” He grinned scathingly. “You could manage that, couldn’t you, tinhorn? He’s hog-tied and helpless. He can’t even holler.”

  “All right, Holbrook,” muttered Truscott. “I don’t pretend to be as expert as yourself, but I’ll take a good care of him.” Grimacing apprehensively, he opined, “He should have been blindfolded. I didn’t want to be identified ...”

  “It’s a mite late for you to fret about that,” chuckled Weems.

  “You’ll spend your share of that legacy,” Holbrook assured him, “but not in Arizona Territory.”

  The six-gun sagged in Truscott’s coat pocket. He squatted beside his rented mount and stared after the four desperadoes, as they started their horses moving southward. The doubts and apprehensions still plagued him and he couldn’t bring himself to look at the helpless Waldo Gillery, who was struggling in vain against his bonds, grunting through his gag, glaring at him balefully.

  Meanwhile, huddled close to Benito in the harness-shack, Jim was whispering orders.

  “This is as good a time as any, but we have to be careful. You stay quiet while I check on our guard. A lot depends on how close Dewey stays.”

  A short time before, Lucy Rose had departed. Dewey had closed and barred the door and, as far as Jim could guess, was now sitting guard outside. Where was Rick? It didn’t matter much—at least not for the moment. The girl, of course, had returned to the ranch house.

  He didn’t try to rise up and hop to the front wall. It seemed easier to roll over and then struggle across on his left side. Presently his perspiring face was pressed to the inch-wide separation between two boards of the front wall, just to the left of the door. Dewey Gillery was clearly visible, squatting on an upturned box ten yards from the shack doorway. The shotgun rested on his knees. He sat with shoulders hunched, chewing on a straw, gazing toward the house. Rick was only intermittently visible. Jim got the impression that he was engaged in some chore over by the corrals.

  He worked his way back to Benito’s side and quietly asserted, “Getting free of these ropes will only be the half of it. What matters is how we get out of the shack.”

  “Ah, si,” nodded Benito.

  “We can forget about the door,” said Jim. “Even if I could bust through it, they’d surely hear me. They’d be waiting for us out front.”

  “We could remove some of the boards of the wall, no?” suggested Benito.

  “That’d do fine,” frowned Jim, “if only Dewey wasn’t sitting so close. There’d be too much noise. He’d be bound to hear.”

  “Is very difficult, I think,” sighed the Mex.

  Jim twisted to squint through cracks in the planks at his back. The area behind the shack was littered with empty bean-cans and other rubbish. Just a vacant strip some five yards wide with, directly beyond, a clump of mesquite. Handy. Mighty handy! He thought about the general structure of the shack. Not exactly a masterpiece of the builder’s art. Would the Gillery brothers have laid firm foundations for such a structure? It didn’t seem likely, since they used it only for the storing of discarded saddles and harness. All right, if there were no regular foundations, it might be possible for them to burrow their way out. He offered this theory to Benito, who nodded in agreement.

  “Por cierto! And then we run into the mesquite and—”

  “And wait a while.”

  “And—what? But, Amigo Jim, we must run for our lives, once we are out of this cabana!”

  “Guess again, cucaracha. I aim to work my way around to the back of the ranch house. You can hide in the mesquite—or run a mile—if that’s what you want. As for myself, I’m not leaving Box G without my personal property—my six-shooter and cartridge belt, my rifle, all my provisions, my saddle and ...”

  “Not the caballo! If you wait to take your horse ...”

  “And your burro, Benito,” grunted Jim. “My horse and your burro—our transportation. Think about it. How far do we travel on foot? Not far enough.”

  “So ...” shrugged Benito.

  “So dig out Brother Archer’s jack knife and we’ll cut these ropes,” muttered Jim. “And then—we start burrowing.”

  For the last time, Benito arched his back and slid the fingers of his bound hands into the top of his left boot. He managed to ease the knife out, but dropped it. Jim twisted around, gathered it up and, working by feel, thumbed the blade clear of the handle. For a brief moment, the fleshy part of his thumb tested the edge of the blade. Sharp enough, he decided.

  He reversed the handle so that the blade was pressing against his bonds. There was to be no long and tiring process of sawing and hacking, as when his only cutting tool had been the rusted rowel of a discarded spur. The blade of the jack knife cut cleanly and quickly and it was a novelty, something rare and wonderful, to be able to move his arms again. He slashed through the ropes securing his ankles and then, with scant ceremony, rolled Benito over on his belly and did the same for him. Benito heaved a sigh of relief and, for some moments thereafter, sat rubbing at his wrists.

  As for Jim, he was already at work, scooping earth away from the bottom of the back wall, digging fast and hoping against hope that Dewey Gillery would not venture any closer to the shack or—worse, still—move around behind it.

  “Crawl across to the front wall and keep an eye on ’em,” he ordered Benito. “If any of ’em head this way, I want to know—and I mean pronto!”

  “Si,” grunted Benito.

  He crouched at the front wall, squinting through a crack and keeping the seated De
wey under observation, while Jim scooped out the earth and made a heap of it. He now had ample light by which to work. As well as the sunlight shafting between the wallboards, a bright glow of it illuminated the dirt floor, entering by way of the three-inch gap under the door. Deeper and deeper he dug until after what seemed only a short time, more sunlight streamed in. He had cleared an opening under the boards.

  “Progress,” he whispered to Benito.

  “Bueno!” grinned the Mex.

  Jim widened the aperture. He wasn’t concerned with Benito’s ability to crawl through it; for a narrow-shouldered, skinny little jasper such as Benito, it would be no problem at all. But he had to consider his own generous dimensions. About the shoulders and chest, he was uncommonly hefty. He worked on, making the opening still wider, still deeper. Then, huddled on his knees, he stretched his arms to either side of the opening, making sure his hands were in a direct line with his shoulders. Yes. The aperture was wide enough; he could get through.

  “You first,” he grunted.

  “Where ...?” began Benito.

  “You just crawl under and out,” Jim told him, “and then scuttle into the mesquite as fast and as quiet as you know how—savvy?”

  “You wish I should wait for you in the mesquite?” frowned Benito, as he crawled across to the opening.

  “That’s up to you,” shrugged Jim. “If you want to make a run for it, you’re welcome. But remember this. You’ve got better than an even chance of getting your burro back if you wait for me. I aim to grab everything that belongs to us. Not just my horse—but your critter, too.”

  “I will wait for you in the mesquite,” Benito decided, “but I will be muy temeroso.”

  “So squat and sweat,” scowled Jim. “Go on. Move!”