Big Jim 10

by Marshall Grover

  “They can’t all be held responsible!” protested the one-armed man.

  “We read the newspapers, Mayor Chasely,” scowled the deputy. “We know What happened up north and east at Warrentown. You think we can afford to trust any of ’em? I sure don’t.”

  “That’s enough, Roy,” chided Wagner. “Come on back to the office.” As he holstered his gun, he stared hard at Jim and the Mex. “Now maybe you’ll have sense enough to heed my warning. Ride on. Get out of Frankston just as fast as you can.”

  The lawmen turned and retraced their footsteps downtown. The area in front of the Occidental was almost deserted now, except for a few locals watching from a distance, the two battered strangers and the one-armed man slowly descending from the buck board seat. Jim re-donned his Stetson, blew on his skinned knuckles and said:

  “Thanks for talking up for us.”

  “They don’t listen to me.” The one-armed man sighed heavily. “Their fury has blinded them to reason.” He gestured towards a tree-lined street angling off the main stem. “My home is close by, and I’m sure my wife would be glad to tend your injuries, Mr…?”

  “Rand,” said Jim. “Thanks, but I don’t need any doctoring.”

  “I’m Webb Chasely, mayor of Frankston.” The one-armed man nodded absently at the still-nervous Benito. “Mr. Rand, this community owes you an explanation.”

  On the shaded front porch of the mayor’s home a short time later, while they disposed of steaming coffee brought them by Chasely’s spouse, the mayor assured them: “It was always a sociable town—with a great deal of respect for the army—until a few weeks ago. Our bank was robbed. The Settlers’ Security. It was a shattering experience for the people of Frankston, the first such tragedy to occur here in many a long year.” He shook his head worriedly. “And many a long year will pass before the people will forget—if they ever forget.”

  “How does the army figure in a bank robbery?” wondered Jim.

  “The outrage I speak of,” said Chasely, “was committed by a group of soldiers. Witnesses described them as one officer, a sergeant and six troopers. They arrived in town that day—that never to be forgotten day—just as the bank was closing. The captain gave the impression of being here on urgent business and, well, I guess it was easy for him to gain access to the manager’s office—”

  “You saw all this?” frowned Jim.

  “No,” said Chasely. “There were no clients in the bank at that late hour. Only Hugo Florent, the manager, and Mitch Darrell, the cashier. Darrell made a statement before, he died. He took a savage beating, Mr. Rand. The sergeant gun-whipped him when he tried to help old Hugo.”

  “And how badly …” The words didn’t come easily, but Jim finished his query, “how badly did old Hugo need help?”

  “He had been forced to unlock the safe,” said Chasely. “When Mitch heard the old man cry out—it was because he too was being gun-whipped—by the captain.” He set his cup aside, stared moodily along the quiet street. “There are some who claim Mitch was the more fortunate. Poor Hugo Florent will probably die of old age, but he’ll die blind. He hasn’t been able to see—since he took that terrible beating. And Doc Howard says the condition will be permanent.”

  Jim was silent for a long moment. He had finished his coffee and was rolling another cigarette, and he was thinking, choosing his words with care. Loyalty to the army was still strong within him; he would never change, because the cavalry had been his whole life up until the time of his mustering out and becoming a man-hunter. His first impulse was to argue heatedly against all that Mayor Chasely had told him. But, of course, this would be pointless and futile. Facts are facts.

  As diplomatically as he knew how, he declared, “The soldiers who pulled that robbery ought to hang from an army gallows—as long as they’ve been properly identified and court-martialed. But what of all the other army men, Mr. Mayor? Are they all to be tarred with the same brush here in Frankston? Can no soldier walk the streets of this town without being attacked by a passel of hotheads?”

  “It’s a grim situation,” fretted Chasely. “The people have lost their faith in the army—and this is a terrible thing. You see, this wasn’t the only outrage. We’ve heard reports of others in this general area. Yes, other banks have been looted, and it seems those soldiers are on a killing spree. They turn their guns on anybody who gets in their way.” He heaved another sigh. “I can’t make them understand. I keep trying to remind them of—of our great need for the army’s protection.”. Somewhat self-consciously, he indicated his empty sleeve. “Can you imagine how I feel, Mr. Rand? Nobody regrets this tragedy more than I do. Hugo and Mitch were both good friends of mine. I’m sick with indignation against the army—but I can’t bear the thought of our people turning against them. We need the army. What if the Kiowa nations begin raiding again? I lost an arm during the last uprising, Mr. Rand. And—and I saw women and children butchered—in the short time that passed before the cavalry arrived.”

  “And Frankston men have long memories, too,” mused Jim. “They’ll vent their spleen on any man at all—even an ex-soldier.”

  “As Deputy Shay said,” shrugged Chasely, “you can hardly blame them.”

  “Well, I do blame ’em,” growled Jim. “They aren’t thinking very clearly, Mr. Mayor. They saw eight blue uniforms here in Frankston, so they figure the entire U.S. Army has turned owlhoot. That’s loco, and you know it. Why couldn’t those thieves have been civilians—rigged in stolen army uniforms? Didn’t that thought occur to anybody?”

  “It did cross my mind,” muttered Chasely, “but I haven’t been able to convince anybody. The Department of the Army has denied all knowledge of those renegades and—and I wish they’d been more diplomatic about it.”

  “What do you mean by that?” demanded Jim.

  “The people assumed that the army was trying to dodge responsibility,” said Chasely. He gestured helplessly. “Not a very promising situation, is it? Ours isn’t the only community that has lost faith in the army.”

  Jim scratched a match for his cigarette and got to his feet. He was suddenly impatient, eager to be gone, to be putting plenty of distance between himself and this resentment-ridden town. Frankston had suffered a jarring shock; of this there could be no doubt. But James Carey Rand, late of the 11th Cavalry, lived by two deep-rooted loyalties. One was a blood-tie, his vow to avenge the death of his brother. The other was his unswerving allegiance to the army, to all it stood for. He felt genuine sympathy for Frankston and its citizenry, while still resenting their one-sided attitude.

  “We’re obliged for the explanation,” he told Chasely. “At least I understand why those hard-heads went off half-cocked.”

  “You’ll follow the sheriff’s advice now,” Chasely supposed. “You’ll leave Frankston at once?”

  “But not because of a run-in with a few hardcases,” said Jim, as he produced the picture of Jenner. “Will you take a look at this, try to recall if you ever saw this hombre here in Frankston? He’s the reason I can’t stay.”

  “I presume he’s the reason you would stay,” frowned the mayor, “if he were here.”

  “Damn right,” nodded Jim.

  “I’ve never seen him,” said Chasely, returning the picture.

  “Bueno,” grunted the Mex, rising from the steps. “We go now—eh?”

  “We go,” nodded Jim.

  And, in a matter of minutes, the big hunter and his runty shadow were riding northward out of Frankston, following what looked to be a regular stage-route. Jim was in a black mood, so much so that Benito tactfully refrained from comment until the county seat was a goodly distance to the south.

  “This was not—how you call it—a sociable visit.” He showed his buck teeth in a wry grin.

  Jim nodded curtly. “No. It sure as. hell wasn’t sociable.”

  “We did not buy supplies in Frankston.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll still eat. This looks like fair country for game. I might down us a couple sa
ge turkeys or a jackrabbit pretty soon.”

  The journey north continued, and Jim Rand managed to thrust all thought of renegade soldiers to the back of his mind—until 10.30 of the following morning, when the sullen boom of gunfire alerted him to the danger ahead.

  TWO

  TREACHERY AND TERROR

  Passengers on that southbound stagecoach had begun their journey at Omaha, and all but one were to be disembarked at Frankston. The sixth passenger, a representative of the Blackhawk Insurance Company, was headed farther south to Leedsville.

  Oley Hutchins, the gnarled, weather-beaten stage-driver, was in full control of his three spans and feeling fairly relaxed, as was his partner, the taciturn shotgun-guard, Joe Pike. When Hutchins hauled back on his reins to bring his team to an unscheduled halt, neither man saw any real cause for alarm. Annoyance, yes, but not alarm. After all, the four jaspers struggling to move a fallen tree off the trail dead ahead were obviously from some army camp, and the stage crew had yet to hear of a quartet of troopers who had taken to stage robbery.

  As the vehicle began slowing, the passengers traded puzzled glances. Old, snow-haired Linus Taffert was roused from a deep sleep; like so many people of his age, he seemed to have a talent for sleeping under any and all conditions. The insurance man yawned and shrugged. The plump, passably pretty young matron, known to the other passengers as Mrs. Nora Gilworthy of Frankston, adjusted her bonnet and bestowed a reassuring smile on her children, the sleepy, dark-haired girl who so resembled her mother, the freckled, tow-haired boy who so resembled his father. Seated opposite them, Archer Borden winked at the little girl, doffed his derby to her mother.

  “Can’t imagine why we’re stopping here,” Nora Gilworthy remarked.

  “Maybe one of those team-horses picked up a rock,” said Borden. “Well, no stage-driver would hustle a lame animal.”

  “What would you do if it was Injuns?” the little girl impishly challenged.

  Borden winked at her again.

  “Why, I’d climb right out and grab my sample-case,” he assured her. “And, before you could say ‘Sears Roebuck’, I’d be taking orders for high quality shirts and fancy cravats and …”

  “Injuns don’t wear stuff like that,” giggled the child.

  “Well, maybe I’m trying to teach ’em how to get civilized,” said Borden. He transferred his attention to the child’s mother. “Maybe you could tell me how many Frankston stores carry gents’ wear, ma’am? I never canvassed this territory before.”

  “Frankston’s growing fast,” smiled Nora Gilworthy. “We have better than a half-dozen general stores, and all of them handle gents’ clothing. You could start at …” She winced ruefully, as the vehicle jolted to a complete halt, “Ouch! I declare old Mr. Hutchins is an expert—when it comes to hitting every rock, every pothole …”

  “Seems to be some kind of obstruction ahead,” offered Borden.

  He had edged closer to the window and was staring out. Studying him covertly, it occurred to the young matron that this Sears Roebuck drummer was a slightly more impressive physical specimen that most of his colleagues. He lacked the blotchy complexion and discolored nose of the too-enthusiastic toper, the bleary eyes of the hard-working salesman who has played all-night poker with a prospect. He was good-looking, she decided. Almost as good-looking as her husband, to whom she was earnestly devoted.

  From his perch up top, Hutchins called to the four uniformed men.

  “That durn tree too heavy for the four of you?”

  “We could use some extra muscle.” One of. the four, a cigar-chewing, heavy-set man with the stripes of a sergeant showing clear on his sleeve, straightened up and waved to the crew. “Well, damnitall, we didn’t have to stop and try to move it. We could pretend we never saw it.”

  “Lightnin’, I guess,” grunted the guard. “Durn tree must’ve got hit in the last storm.”

  “Best lend ’em a hand,” decided Hutchins, as he began climbing down. “I’d as soon shove a tree offa the trail than try to drive around it. Ground’s too rough on both sides. We could end up in the ditch.”

  They descended and, flexing their muscles, trudged to the obstruction. And, by the time they realized their mistake, the damage was done. They were too close to danger to leap clear of it. Pike had left his shotgun on the seat, never suspecting that these four strangers were anything but what they appeared to be. As for Hutchins, his instinctive move towards his holstered Colt was forestalled by the leering rogue with the three stripes on his sleeve.

  “Don’t try it, Pop,” was all he said.

  Two of the uniformed men had turned on the stage-crew, swinging their six guns. The attack was sudden; neither Hutchins nor Pike had time to defend themselves. Hutchins dropped almost immediately. Pike did make the effort, did whirl and swing a blow at the cigar-chewer, but all to no avail. One of the other men slugged him with a gun-barrel. He felt the brim of his hat ramming his ears, then a flash of pain and, after that, naught but the oblivion.

  “That’s all,” chuckled the man with the cigar. “Let’s go, Blanton.” He turned and, brandishing a Colt, strode towards the stalled coach. “I’m bettin’ there’s a cashbox in back of the seat—and it won’t be empty.”

  “Not until we get through with it, eh, Croll?” grinned the man following him.

  In the coach, Nora Gilworthy was startled at the change in the Sears Roebuck drummer. Borden’s face had become grim. He had drawn a pistol and was opening the door. To his traveling companions he muttered a command, and his demeanor invited no argument.

  “Stay inside the coach—and keep your heads down.”

  They began shooting at him while he was still descending from the vehicle. Croll’s gun boomed in unison with Blanton’s, the two guns setting up a deafening roar. Before Borden could raise his weapon, a .45 slug slammed into his left leg, knocking him off-balance. As he reeled, the cigar-chewing Croll calmly drew a bead on him and cut loose again. He spun drunkenly from the impact of a bullet creasing his ribs, lost his grip on his gun and, as he went down, caught a blurred impression of the ground rushing up to meet him.

  There was confusion inside the coach now. Like angry hornets, bullets whined about the vehicle, some hurtling through the windows, gouging chunks from the woodwork, ricocheting with a banshee-like wail, terrifying the Gilworthy children. Their mother shoved them to the floor and fell on them, spreading her arms, shielding them with her body. The insurance man reached out to touch old Linus Taffert, then froze in shock, because the old man’s shirtfront was suddenly bloody, the furrowed countenance suddenly dead-white, the eyes suddenly glazed!

  Davis was the insurance man’s name. He was well educated and a man of refinement and manners. But his refinement was discarded; he cursed in impotent rage as a wild bullet burned the material of his coat at the right forearm.

  “Butchers!” he shouted,’ thrusting his head and shoulders out of the window. “Dirty murdering butchers! You call yourselves men—shooting at women and children?”

  “Shuddup!” snarled Croll. “Climb outa there and grab sky—and not another yap outa you!” He gestured with his cocked Colt, muttered a command to his sidekick. “Take a look inside.”

  From then on, the raiders worked faster. It took Blanton only a moment to assure himself they had naught to fear from the woman, her children or the old man. He kept Davis covered, while Croll swung up to the roof, found the strongbox and threw it to the ground. Blanton smashed the lock with a well-aimed bullet and, after climbing down, Croll transferred the contents to a gunnysack. While thus engaged, he mumbled a reproach at Blanton.

  “You ain’t yet searched the dude. He could be heeled.”

  “I’m not armed,” scowled Davis.

  “Shuddup!” snapped Blanton.

  He was about to step closer to the insurance man when the drumming of hooves was heard, a sound ominous to the thieves at this moment, increasing in volume. Croll promptly slung the gunnysack over a shoulder and started back towards
the fallen tree and his waiting cronies. Blanton paused only long enough to pick up Borden’s fallen gun before following.

  From quite a distance, Jim and the Mex had heard the sound of gunfire, and Jim’s reaction had been instinctive. Benito kept the burro plodding in the wake of the hard-running black; he couldn’t hope to keep up with that speedy thoroughbred when Jim gave it full rein, had to be content just to keep it in sight. In any case he was none too willing to become involved in a shooting argument.

  Emerging from a stand of cottonwood, Jim took in the scene of the outrage in one sweeping glance—the stalled coach, the fallen tree, the three sprawled figures, the four blue-uniformed men swinging astride their horses, wheeling them, riding away towards the west. As they spurred their mounts, two of the fleeing riders turned in their saddles and opened fire at him. He sought relief in blistering profanity, as he rose in his stirrups with his cocked .45 lining on them, his gun-arm extended. It was an eerie, unsettling feeling after all these years, trading shots with men garbed in the uniform he knew’ so well.

  He got off three shots, as he raced Hank closer to the site of the hold-up. The four thieves were making good their escape, but he was reasonably sure that he had scored on one of them. Maybe the rider of the rangy bay would cling to his saddle horn, be transported far from this territory and then die of his wound, or maybe the wound would prove to be superfluous. He was slumped forward in his saddle now.

  Jim was in two minds as to whether he should continue the pursuit—until he saw the woman and the two small Children descending from the coach, and Davis struggling to help Borden to his feet. The bloodied condition of Borden’s clothing clinched it. It was all too obvious that these people were in no condition to help themselves.

  Reluctantly, he brought the big black to a halt. The woman cried out to him, while crouching and gathering her terrified children into a protective embrace.