Big Jim 4

by Marshall Grover

  “I don’t see how anybody could hate Jessie,” he sighed.

  “I certainly didn’t,” she assured him. “Well—are we friends?”

  He hesitated, but only for a moment.

  “Uh-huh,” he nodded. “Friends.”

  “All right, Bill.” She offered her hand. “Please call me Sarina, and sit down and be comfortable. We have a great deal to discuss.”

  He held her hand briefly before lowering his bulk into a chair near the window.

  “I got a fair notion what was in Jessie’s letter,” he muttered, “but I’d want to be dead certain. So you go ahead and tell me.”

  “My legacy,” said Sarina. “May I see it?”

  “Don’t happen to have it with me,” he apologized. “It’s hid safe in my room. I’ll go fetch it for you as soon as we’re through talkin’.”

  “Mother describes her diary,” she continued, “as a fair-sized book with a fancy cover—and she emphasized that it is sealed, and the seal is not to be broken.”

  “That seal is official,” Bill assured her. “It was done legal by a regular lawyer name of Wilkinson. You’ll find the imprint of his signet-ring in the wax. And don’t you forget Sarina, that seal has to stay just the way it is. If you try to peek inside the book, you’re bound to bust the seal, and then the book wouldn’t be worth a dime.”

  “I do realize the significance of the seal,” she nodded.

  “All right.” He slumped lower in his chair, lit a Long 9 and, through the haze of smoke, studied her intently. “Now—how much did Jessie say in her letter? I recall it was a mighty hefty letter, so she must’ve told you plenty.”

  “Bill,” she frowned, “did the Joyhouse really have such thin walls—and was Mother an eavesdropper?”

  “Let me put it this way,” he said. “The Joyhouse was just a clapboard and tar-paper honky-tonk which your ma operated for many a year. It’s only natural that, in all that time, a lot of Cadiz County men drank and gambled and raised hell in the Joyhouse—and maybe talked too much and too loud. And, it’s only natural your ma would hear what they said, and remember.”

  “She claims—or maybe I should say she hints,” said Sarina, “that much of what she overheard is recorded in her diary—the statements made, and the names of the men concerned. She was certain that some man with a guilty secret would offer to buy the diary, just for the privilege of burning it.”

  “So now you savvy why we can’t bust the seal,” he pointed out. “You’re gonna offer it for sale. As long as he’s sure nobody else knows what’s in it, I reckon some local man’ll offer you a fair price. That’s the only thing that makes this diary valuable, Sarina. The fact that only Jessie knew what was inside. I was with her when she went to Wilkinson’s office to have it legally sealed up. I recalled both Wilkinson and me swore affidavits that Jessie tied a string around the book and that Wilkinson fixed his seal without tryin’ to lift the cover.”

  “All types patronized the Joyhouse,” she mused.

  “Yeah—all kinds,” he nodded. “And every man talked free when Jessie was around. She had a reputation for—uh—dis ...”

  “Discretion?” asked Sarina.

  “That’s it,” said Bill. “Discretion.”

  “You don’t like it, Bill.” She voiced the accusation abruptly, and he was vaguely surprised that she could read his mind so clearly; he reflected that he would never make a fortune at poker. His face gave everything away. “You don’t like any part of this whole idea.”

  “Well ...” He squinted at the glowing tip of his cigar, “… it seems like kind of a dirty way to win a grubstake. I mean—takin’ advantage of the old mistakes, the things men do and say when they’re full of rye whisky and feelin’ ten feet tall.” He nodded toward the door. “You take Burbridge, for instance. He’s a stuffed-shirt that tried to treat you like dirt, and yet I could almost feel sorry for him—when I think of the shock he’s in for.”

  “Just between ourselves,” said Sarina, “do you happen to know his guilty secret?”

  “It’s somethin’ he wouldn’t like his wife to hear about.” Bill grinned mirthlessly. “Nor any of his high-falutin’, psalm-singin’ friends of the Reform Committee. A poker game at the old Joyhouse. The other players are long gone, Sarina. Dead—or livin’ somewhere further west. Well, Clyde Burbridge did somethin’ mighty foolish, and Jessie knew about it, because she was there when it happened. Probably the only such mistake Burbridge ever made in his whole life. He tried to deal himself a high card from under the deck.”

  “He was a card sharp?” challenged Sarina.

  “For a fraction of a second,” said Bill, “he was a card-sharp. Jessie called him on it and he fell to pieces, begged everybody’s pardon, darn near busted out in tears. I guess you don’t need me to tell you that cardsharps are as popular as rustlers or horse-thieves, anywhere west of the Mississippi. If that story leaked out—even this many years later —Burbridge’s precious reputation wouldn’t be worth burned-out matches.” He sighed heavily, watched the smoke from his Long 9 wafting up to the ceiling. “We can only guess about how many secrets Jessie wrote into her diary, how many men she accused—and what she accused ’em of. She was a good friend to me, Sarina. I’ll keep my promise to her, and I’ll do anything you want me to do, but I’m askin’ you to remember my heart won’t always be in it.”

  Sarina’s voice sounded harder, as she retorted, “I don’t need your approval, Bill. Just your loyalty— and your obedience to my mother’s wishes.”

  “So you’ll go through with it?” he prodded.

  “For all it’s worth,” she vehemently asserted. “I’ve had my fill of poverty and indignity. I’ll follow Mother’s advice all the way. Many a big shot of Cadiz County is going to squirm, and the man who buys the diary will squirm more than all the others, because I’ll make him pay—believe me —it will cost him thousands.”

  “When times were rough, Jessie used to fight like a bearcat,” muttered Bill. “Sarina—you ain’t much different after all. You’re every inch as tough as she ever was.”

  “Sorry if I shock you,” she murmured, with a wry smile. “Mother had a hard life. Well, my life hasn’t exactly been a bed of roses.”

  “And you figure the world owes you somethin’,” guessed Bill.

  “Mother certainly owed me something,” said Sarina. “And now, even though she’s dead, she’s trying to settle the debt—and I’m grateful to her.”

  “You’ll be wantin’ to visit her grave,” he opined. “I’ll walk you to the cemetery if you want.”

  “No,” she frowned. “I’m going at once, but I’d rather go alone. I have other chores for you.”

  “All right,” said Bill. “Cadiz City has only the one cemetery. You won’t have any trouble findin’ the grave.”

  She rose from her chair, re-donned her bonnet. “This newspaper Mother mentioned—the Clarion . ...?”

  “The Clarion,” he nodded. “It’s run by a feller name of Elroy Haggerty.”

  “When would his next edition be published?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow, I’d reckon,” he told her. “Haggerty’s bound to put out a special edition. He always does—every time there’s a stage hold-up.”

  “You could arrange for the advertisement to be featured in this next issue?”

  “Sure enough. Jessie made up the ad herself and gave me more than enough cash to pay for it. A mighty special ad, Sarina. She worked on it real careful. Won’t be nobody could accuse you of—uh—tryin’ to blackmail anybody.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean. Mother thought of everything.”

  He rose up, reached for his hat and trudged across to open the door for her. As she moved out into the corridor, she made another request.

  “Will you bring me the diary as soon as you’ve finished your business at the newspaper office?”

  “I sure will,” he nodded, and his tone suggested he would be glad to be rid of such an inflammable item.

  A few minutes
later, while Sarina stood by her mother’s grave in the Cadiz County cemetery, the burly bartender entered the office of the Clarion and held a brief conversation with the owner-editor. Elroy Haggerty was a cheerful, bright-eyed man with a ruddy complexion and thinning, iron-gray hair, a veteran of his trade, slight of physique but a compelling personality. After accepting the hand-printed sheet offered him by Bill Swann, he read sections of the advertisement aloud—with much nodding and grinning.

  “Offered for sale by Mrs. Sarina Hale, currently residing at the Territorial Hotel—uh-huh—Mrs. Hale being the only child of the late, beloved Mrs. Jessie Kingston. I like that part, Bill. Always did have a soft spot for Jessie ...”

  “Never mind your own comments, eh, Elroy?” yawned Bill. “Just check the ad and tell me how much it’s gonna cost.”

  “All right,” chuckled the newspaperman. “Let’s see what else it says here ...” He again consulted the draft of the advertisement. “Jessie Kingston’s diary—not only because of its interest-value—being a record of this city’s progress as observed by the proprietress of our most popular house of entertainment—ha, ha, ha ...!”

  “Get on with it,” growled Bill.

  “With interesting comments,” continued Haggerty, “regarding many of our best-known citizens—uh-huh—this is a handsome, hand-bound book that would lend beauty to any room and—uh delight the most fastidious connoisseur. Hmmm.”

  “You got any objection to runnin’ such an ad?” demanded Bill.

  “Objection?” Haggerty raised his eyebrows. “By Godfrey, I’ll print it gratis—no charge! What’s more, you won’t find it with the other ads on the last page. I’ll clear space for it on Page One, right under my report of the attempted hold-up of the northbound stage. I’ll feature it—in a box—and will you convey my compliments to Mrs. Hale? Thank her for me—in advance.”

  “For what?” frowned Bill.

  “For what, he says,” chuckled Haggerty. “Why, for all the stories that can be written about the sale of Jessie’s diary to the highest bidder, all the extra editions that will sell like gallons of water in the middle of a desert. Jessie Kingston’s diary! Man, oh man! Better we should call it Jessie Kingston’s powder-keg—with a short fuse. You worked for her, Bill. Do I need to convince you? Why, all over this county there are men who’ll damn near die of heart failure when they read this ad. It’s explosive. It’s a threat to their security, their reputations, and why? It’ll tell you why. Because the Joyhouse was the kind of a honky-tonk where a lot of men dropped their guard and—to put it mildly—played a little too hard. I guess they all took it for granted Jessie would keep her mouth shut—but now she can afford to betray them, eh, Bill? It doesn’t matter how much they cuss her or threaten her, because she’s too dead to care.”

  “You got kind of a blunt way of puttin’ things, Elroy,” sighed Bill.

  “Our next edition will be on sale at nine a.m. tomorrow,” grinned Haggerty. “From then on, Mrs. Sarina Hale is gonna need a bodyguard—and I don’t mean maybe.”

  “Thanks for the reminder,” Bill acknowledged. “I’ll tell her.”

  Five – Hire the Gun Sinister

  Reaching the county law office, Jim ordered the Mex to remain at the hitch rack. The street-door of the office was open when he climbed the steps to the porch. Deputy Tarrant wasn’t seated at the sheriff’s paper-littered desk; he lounged in the entrance to the cell-block which, judging from the quiet, was unoccupied right now. There was no expression in his eyes as he stared along the stone-flagged passage between the cells, but Jim sensed he was absorbed in deep thought. From where he stood, framed in the outer doorway, he said, “There’s an old saying I’ve heard. Penny for your thoughts?”

  Tarrant eyed him unwinkingly.

  “You’re one of the strangers escorted the stage in—tangled with those ambushers. Well, it won’t cost you anything to know what I was thinking. I was thinking how it would pleasure me to fill those cells with the scum that gunned old Barney Linaker and that travelling salesman.”

  “You don’t believe the sheriff’s posse will run them down?” asked Jim.

  “Do you?” countered Tarrant.

  “No,” frowned Jim. “It’s a cinch they’ll take care to kill their back-trail.”

  “They’ve never yet left clear tracks,” muttered Tarrant, as he dawdled to the leather-covered sofa and seated himself. “Cadiz County has all kinds of hide-away corners and plenty of rocky ground, a hundred and one ways those killers could cover their sign. You want to come in and sit a while?”

  “Just long enough to ask you a question,” said Jim.

  “Official business?” prodded Tarrant. “You’re from the U.S. Marshal’s office, maybe?”

  “I’m no lawman,” said Jim, as he placed a chair close to the sofa and sank into it. “And, before you ask, I’m no bounty-hunter.”

  “Sounds like you’re looking for a man,” mused Tarrant.

  “I can describe him, and I can show you his picture,” declared Jim. “Not a photograph, but a sketch made by an artist who saw him face to face. He called himself Jenner at the time he murdered a cavalry officer in San Marco …”

  “San Marco is quite a ways from here.” Tarrant hunched his muscular torso forward, his elbows resting on his knees, chin cupped in his hands. “Seems to me we got a bulletin about that killing. Let me think now. The date was March Seven. The place was the Silver Dollar Saloon. Victim was a lieutenant—name of Rand—Christopher Rand ...”

  “I’m Jim Rand, the victim’s brother,” offered Jim, “and you have one helluva fine memory.”

  “The name’s Tarrant,” said the deputy. “Yeah, you’re right. A keen memory is handy to a lawman. I’ll tell you something, Rand, and I’m not bragging. There’s scarce a day goes by that I don’t check every wanted bulletin in our files. I read the descriptions. I look at the pictures. That’s the only way a lawman can hope to spot any of these on-the-run hombres.”

  “Why are you the deputy?” Jim couldn’t resist asking. “And why is that blabbermouth wearing a sheriff’s star?”

  “Thanks for the compliment.” Tarrant grinned a crooked grin. “A straight question warrants a straight answer. I’ll likely never be anything bigger than a deputy, Rand, because I don’t pat backs, lick the boots of the Reform Committee nor close my eyes to the hell-raising of cowpokes on pay-day—even if they ride for KD.”

  “KD being a local spread?” prodded Jim.

  “Owned by a smart jasper that also owns a sizeable hunk of Cadiz City,” nodded Tarrant. “His name is Karl Dreisser and I wouldn’t trust him any further than I could throw you.” He shrugged, fished out Durham sack and papers, began building a smoke. “But you aren’t here to talk about our local troubles. You’re only interested in finding the back-shooter that butchered your brother, and I sure don’t blame you.”

  “I got a lead on him in a town south of here,” said Jim, “a place called Drywood.”

  “He was headed north?” asked Tarrant.

  “North,” nodded Jim.

  “I haven’t seen a man answering the description on the bulletin,” said Tarrant. “You said you had a picture.”

  Jim offered the pen-sketch for the deputy’s inspection. After studying it for a long moment, Tarrant re-folded it and returned it. “That picture,” he remarked, “sure checks with the description.”

  “But,” shrugged Jim, “you haven’t spotted such a man in Cadiz City?”

  “Couldn’t give you an iron-clad guarantee that Jenner hasn’t been here. He might have come and gone. He might still be here. He could be anywhere in the county.”

  “I’ll stay a while,” frowned Jim.

  “And,” prodded Tarrant, “if you do find this Jenner hombre?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Jim, as he got to his feet. “I’d as soon take him in alive as dead. I won’t use a gun on him unless he refuses to surrender. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough,” approved Tarrant.

  By t
he time Jim moved out into the sunlight to rejoin Benito, Bill Swann had delivered Sarina’s legacy and had returned to his place of employment. Now, studying the street from the window of her room at the Territorial, Sarina caught sight of the large and formidable man who had so enthusiastically done battle with a half-dozen desperadoes; she was again reminded of her mother’s advice.

  “A bodyguard,” she reflected. “And not a local man. Well, Rand certainly falls into that category.”

  She donned her bonnet and quit her room to descend to the street. Her visit to her mother’s grave had been brief, but the memory of it lingered.

  Jim and the Mex were mounted and ambling their animals northward along Main, when she hailed them from the boardwalk. They veered left, reined up and doffed their hats.

  “Ma’am,” nodded Jim, “I hope you feel easier now. A stage raid is a mighty frightening business—especially for a lady ”

  “Thank you. I feel much better now,” she assured him. “Mr. Rand, may I ask if you intend staying in Cadiz City a while?”

  “Two or three days,” he told her. “A week at most.”

  “You’ve already checked into a hotel?” she asked.

  “I was about to start looking for a hotel,” said Jim. He flashed her a grin. “Seems as though you keep reading my mind, Mrs. Hale.”

  “I have a proposition to offer you,” she explained. “A valid business proposition—but I’m afraid this is too public a place to discuss it. As long as you haven’t yet arranged your own accommodation, why not check into the Territorial Hotel? My room is Number Seven, a second floor front. You may be able to get a vacancy close by. And then, if you’ll come visit me, we can discuss terms.”

  Benito raised his eyebrows and mumbled something under his breath. Jim eyed her curiously, and pointed out, “I’m a stranger to you—and I haven’t indicated whether or not I’m in the market for any kind of proposition.”

  “I expect to be in need of help,” she flatly informed him. “The kind of help you could give. That’s as much as I can say here. Will you come to the Territorial? I’m almost certain there are vacancies.”