Big Jim 10

by Marshall Grover

  Soon afterwards another group rode in, led by the youthful gunslick with the pearl-butts of his .45s gleaming at his hips. Big Jim was never favorably impressed by smooth-faced braggarts who favored expensive riding clothes and two fancy guns; show-offs were among his pet aversions. The hardcases steered a course for the Lucky Chance. Jim guessed, without waiting for his spy’s report, that they were all Rafter 7 men.

  Croll found Murle and Durango feeding their ire with raw whisky in a small hole-in-the-wall bar uptown.

  “Been lookin’ all over for you,” he announced by way of greeting. “How come you ain’t drinkin’ at the Lucky Chance?”

  To this query, Durango grimaced, raised a hand to his jaw and mumbled: “The hell with the Lucky Chance.”

  And Murle sourly declared, “I don’t enjoy gettin’ laughed at.”

  “We’ll never live it down, and that’s a fact,” sighed Durango. “We oughta quit the territory. Yeah. That’s just what I’d do—if only ...”

  “If only,” grinned Croll, “you weren’t drawin’ ten times a cowpoke’s pay, ridin’ for Rafter 7.” He spoke softly, although the bartender was well and truly out of earshot. “And that’s why I stay on, boys. I never had it so easy. Neither did you.”

  “You sighted that preacher yet?” demanded Murle.

  “Preacher?” frowned Croll. “What preacher?”

  “Big hombre,” scowled Murle. “We tangled with him at the Lucky Chance.”

  “What would a preacher want at a place like the Lucky Chance?” challenged Croll.

  “He was preachin’,” grunted Durango.

  “What else?”

  “Preachin’ in a saloon?” blinked Croll.

  It called for an explanation. He was offered a terse, one-sided account for their brief run-in with the big stranger, after which he grinned unsympathetically and muttered a taunt.

  “You jaspers are gettin’ too soft to ride owlhoot—if one doggone psalm-singer can clobber the both of you.”

  “Don’t laugh, Jase,” countered Durango. “You didn’t shape up so good—today—when the boss set Farnley against you.”

  Croll shrugged nonchalantly, took a stiff pull at his drink.

  “I ain’t frettin’,” he assured them. “I admit Farnley is fast with that fancy hardware of his—so why should I risk my hide tryin’ to beat his speed? The hell with that. I aim to stay alive to spend my share of the loot.”

  “You might just have to play poker with Farnley tonight,” Murle predicted. “And how will you like that, Jase? I swear the boss does it a’purpose. He knows you and the Kid hate each other’s guts, and it pleasures him to make the both of you set down to the same game.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” drawled Croll. “I don’t mind playin’ poker with Farnley—so long as the boss plays too. Plain truth is Ellinger is a lousy poker-player. I whup him every time. He’s a real expert when it comes to settin’ up a little raid across the border. But at poker?” He shook his head, grinned satirically. “It’s like stealin’ milk off a baby.”

  Durango finished his drink, gestured for the barkeep to bring him a refill. After the barkeep had moved away, he stared moodily at his reflection in the mirror and quietly asked Croll:

  “How’s Blanton makin’ out?”

  “Still whinin’,” said Croll. “Fat Juan patched him up again, but he still whines. That’s Blanton’s big trouble. He never could stand pain.”

  In those callous words, Jason Croll dismissed the hapless Blanton from his thoughts; he was probably as unconcerned with Blanton’s agony as with the wanton butchery of which he’d been guilty during the attack on the Frankston-bound coach. These were the attitudes typical, of Croll, a hardened thief, a killer to whom life was cheap.

  At 7.30 p.m., while Jim was finishing a substantial supper at a small diner near the rooming house, his runty spy came shuffling in. For the benefit of the other diners, Benito greeted him with great respect.

  “Saludos, Reverendo. One million pardons for this intrusion, but I am a poor sinner who needs your spiritual advice.”

  “Be seated, brother,” Jim gravely invited, “and tell me of your problems.”

  The little Mex took the chair opposite and, for some short time thereafter, they conversed in undertones.

  “At the cantina of the bello viuda, a bartender remarks that many Rafter 7 pistoleros are in town. He does not say all. He says many.”

  “Bueno,” grunted Jim. “I reckon I’ll ride out there after supper and take a look around.”

  “At the establo, I learn where this rancho is located,” offered Benito. “One must depart this town by the east end, ride along the marked trail to a crossroads and then go north.”

  “All right then,” nodded Jim. “That’s exactly what one will do.”

  “This could be dangerous,” warned Benito.

  “I’m going anyway,” Jim assured him.

  “Then you must ride alone, my amigo,” mumbled Benito, “for I am worthy member of the great Espina family after all. No true Espina ever purchased what he could steal, and ...”

  “Sure, boy,” grinned Jim. “I know you come from a long line of bandidos and skirt-chasers.”

  “But,” Benito reminded him, “besides being thieves, all Espina hombres ...”

  “Are cowards,” finished Jim.

  “Sí.” Benito nodded vehemently. “You would not wish me to dishonor the traditions of my ancestors—would you?”

  “Nope,” grunted Jim. “I don’t believe I could stand by and let that happen.” He gestured in dismissal. “Muchas gracias for the information, and adios.”

  “Hasta la vista, Amigo Jim.” The little Mex shrugged forlornly, as he added, “I hope.”

  EIGHT

  SHADOW OF A TALL MARAUDER

  Many a long month had passed since Todd Ellinger and his wife had shared the same bedroom. He avoided her as much as possible, this ill-starred woman whose addiction to alcohol he had so cunningly engineered. He even contrived to take his meals in private, rather than sit opposite her in the oak-paneled dining room.

  Tonight, having finished his meal, he stood before the mirror in his bedroom, carefully knotting a floral-patterned cravat, admiring the cut of a new checked vest and the pants of a new suit of black broadcloth. If love is blind, perhaps self-love is even more so. Ellinger fondly considered himself to be an extremely handsome man—downright irresistible in fact. It was his intention to visit Cass Broderick again this night, and he was determined to look his best. This morning’s interruption by Nick Farnley had been but a temporary annoyance. Croll and those other fools would not forget his reprimand, would obey him to the letter from this day on. That small crisis was over, and now he could spare an evening for dalliance with the beautiful redhead.

  The receding clatter of hooves told Wilma Ellinger her ‘husband was on his way to town. There were no sounds of movement or conversation from the direction of the bunk-house; he was being left completely alone, as on so many other occasions.

  It was now that Fate took a hand in the fortunes of Rafter 7 and the future of the venal Todd Ellinger. On any other occasion, Wilma might have headed straight for her husband’s office for a desperately needed drink. On this occasion, a cry in the night won precedence over her addiction; she opened the door at the end of the ground-floor hallway and moved out onto the porch, and struggled to the bunkhouse.

  A few yards from the bunkhouse entrance, she thought of all her nightmares, the hundred and one occasions When Todd could have rescued her from the horror of it all, simply by shaking her shoulder, rousing her from her troubled sleep. He had never done so and, for this, she would never forgive him. Well, at least she could perform that small act of compassion for her fellow-sufferer beyond that door.

  She turned the knob, shoved the door open and stepped into the low-ceilinged, acrid-smelling room. The cry was repeated again. She now recognized it as a groan. The fear and anguish prevailed; here was a man in dire need of help.

&n
bsp; When she bumped against a table, she heard a familiar rattling sound. Fumbling, she located a box of vestas, scratched one and, by its light, discovered the lamp near the edge of the littered table. She raised the funnel and the wick, applied the match, then lowered the funnel again. Yellow light filled this corner of the bunkhouse. She could see the rows of bunks, the clutter of discarded harness and tattered blankets, and she found the pungent odors of stale tobacco-smoke and unwashed eating gear curiously disturbing.

  Blanton lay on his back in the bunk to the right of the doorway. His unshaven visage was contorted in agony, his eyes bleary and red-rimmed. He tried to focus on her, as she crouched beside him. Despite his reduced condition, he did recognize her.

  “You?” he began.

  “Don’t be afraid anymore!” she panted. “I’ll wake you—and all the horror will go. That’s all you need—just to be woken up …”

  “Woken up?” He gritted his teeth against another wave of agony. “Damn and blast—lady—I wish I wasn’t awake! You think a man could sleep—in pain like this?”

  She shook her head in puzzlement.

  “Pain?”

  “That’s what I said, ma’am. Pain!” He struggled to raise a hand in a pleading gesture. “Ma’am—for pity’s sake—I gotta have a doctor! They wouldn’t—fetch a doctor for me!”

  “A doctor?” She nodded slowly.

  “I’m hurt bad,” he mumbled. “Feel like—I’m on fire. And—I’m gettin’ awful weak.” His pain-wracked eyes opened wide. He stared at her and, failing to perceive any hint of comprehension in her expression, lost all hope. How much assistance could he expect from this fool female, the whisky-swilling spouse of Todd Ellinger? “Damn them all!” he groaned. “What do they know about—loyalty? They ain’t human! I begged for a doctor—begged Croll and Farnley—and Ellinger!”

  Mention of her husband seemed to bring Wilma back to awareness.

  “I’m sure Todd will do what’s best,” she frowned.

  “That’s funny!” gasped Blanton. “That’s real rich!” His ragged laugh became a groan. He slumped back on his filthy pillow, trembling. “If he was—gonna do what’s best—he’d have fetched a doctor long ago.” He shook his head. “Aw, hell! I need help. You—gotta help me—gotta send for a doctor.”

  “Do you mean—my husband refused?” she began.

  “That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you!” raged Blanton.

  “Well, if Todd refused,” she murmured, “I don’t know if I could go against his wishes …”

  “Are you gonna be as inhuman as that double-crossin’ man of yours?” he challenged. “You ain’t much, but at least you’re female.” He struggled to raise himself again. “Women are—supposed to have feelin’s—to be kinder than men ...”

  “But, if Todd refused …” she fretted.

  “What the hell do you care what he says?” snarled Blanton. His fury and his mortal agony had drained his face of all color. Unnatural light glowed in his dilated eyes. “What kind of a woman are you anyway? I’ll tell you, lady. You’re a fool! You fill yourself with rotgut liquor—you stay home and whine—while Todd Ellinger lives fast and fancy, chasm’ other women. Yeah! Ellinger’s got you bluffed! You ain’t a real human female at all! You’re nothin’!”

  She made a gasping sound as she rose to her full height.

  “How dare you speak to me that way—you—you’re only a hired hand!”

  “A hired hand who’s gonna cash in fast,” sighed Blanton, “if he don’t damn soon get—get tended by a regular sawbones.”

  “I’ll prove I’m still capable of a decision,” she breathed. “You want a doctor? Very well. A doctor you’ll have. I’ll tell Juan Alvaredo to ride to town and …”

  “Where’s Croll?” He blinked about him. “Where’s Durango? Where’s—anybody?”

  “There’s nobody here,” she frowned, “except us—and Juan Alvaredo.”

  “That fat, lousy greaser …” Blanton bowed his head, clasped a hand to his bandaged side and gave vent to a groan of despair. “You think you could make him—take orders from you? Not a chance. He’d only—laugh at you. Everybody’s been laughin’ at you, lady! Don’t you know that?”

  “Juan must obey me!” she panted.

  “He only takes his orders from Ellinger,” said Blanton, gritting his teeth. “Only way you—you’ll ever make Alvaredo do like you say—is by pointin’ a gun at him.”

  “If that’s what it takes,” she flared, “that’s what I’ll do!”

  Wilma’s next move was so unexpected that, for a few moments, Blanton was distracted from the fiery agony that had bedeviled him these past hours. His holstered six-shooter dangled above his bunk; the gunbelt had been draped over a nail. She got her left hand to the butt of the weapon and tugged, but was too weak to budge it. Undaunted, she wrapped both hands around the butt. The Colt slid from leather. She turned towards the open doorway with the gun sagging. He was sure it would drop from her trembling hands but, by a mighty effort, she managed to lift it level with her bosom.

  “No use …” he began.

  “At least I’ll try,” she fervently assured him. “Yes. I’ll do that much.”

  “Wouldn’t make—any difference anyway,” he lamented. “You could order Alvaredo to ride to town for the doc—and—he’d ride to town all right, sure, but not for the doc. He’d tell Ellinger—and that’d be the end of me.”

  In the doorway, she paused to stare at him.

  “Are you suggesting that—my husband is afraid to fetch a doctor for you?”

  “Are you suggestin’, she says …” He laughed mirthlessly, and that exertion caused him agony. He clasped both hands to his face, seeking solace in a stream of profanity. “Damn fool female—you don’t know nothin’!”

  “I won’t order Juan to town,” she frowned. “I’ll make him hitch a pair to a buckboard—and then I’ll take you to the doctor.”

  While riding the trail that would bring him to Rafter 7 range, the big hunter heard the sound of hooves dead ahead and decided against pausing for an exchange of greetings with a town-bound rider. He was sitting his mount behind the concealment of a rock-mound when Todd Ellinger came riding past. There was no moonlight, so it was impossible for him to discern the features of the man on the thoroughbred bay, he saw only a blurred silhouette. Patiently, he waited for the rider to move on out of earshot.

  When he emerged from cover and resumed his journey to Rafter 7, he gave some thought to the possible identity of the town-bound horseman, but not for long. There was only one significance in the presence of another rider on this trail; the chances of his being detected on Rafter 7 land were lessening.

  The herd was only dimly visible, as he rode the table-top south of a stretch of chaparral. Beyond the timber he came to the tree-ringed hollow in which the ranch buildings were located. The faint, far-off glow of two lights guided him down the slope towards the corrals. Soon, he would learn that one of those lights shone from the open doorway of the bunkhouse, the other from the window of the chuck-boss’ shack.

  While the sorrel was still walking soft grass and making little or no noise, he reined up and dismounted. From here on he would advance on foot and as silently as a marauding Apache.

  He was astonished when, a few moments later, he reached the harness-shack and sighted the figure outlined in the bunkhouse doorway. Quickly, he pressed himself flat against the outer wall of the shack. The woman hadn’t noticed him. She was moving away from that doorway, but not so quickly that he couldn’t confirm his first impression. Yes, she was rigged in her night-clothes and, yes, she was hefting a six-shooter. He wondered at her identity. Could this be the wife of the Rafter 7 boss? It didn’t seem likely. More likely she was Mexican, the wife or daughter of a house-servant.

  She was lost from sight in the gloom until she. reached the shack occupied by the fat cook. He changed position, sidling away from the harness-shack, running silently to the pump some short distance from Alvaredo’s quarters. Fro
m behind the pump he commanded a clear view of the woman—a closer view that revealed she was no Mexican. She had rapped at the door. Now, as it opened, she fumbled at the chore of cocking the Colt. The hammer was back by the time the pudgy Alvaredo showed himself in the doorway, frowning at her.

  “¿Que pasa, señora?” The beady eyes widened in surprise, as the fat Mexican noted her attire. “You should be in the house, Señora Ellinger.” And now he observed the gleaming threat gripped in her trembling hands. “¡Por Dios!”

  “I need your help,” Jim heard her telling the Mexican. “There’s a badly injured man in the bunkhouse …”

  “Sí, señora. He stays there. I know of him.”

  “You know.”

  “Sí. Already I have treat his wound.”

  “But—you aren’t qualified! He needs proper medical attention!”

  “I have my orders, señora.”

  “You will do as I say this time!” she gasped, lifting the Colt slightly. “Harness two horses to the buckboard! We’re taking that unfortunate man to Brigg City—to the home of Dr. Wesley!”

  “Por favor, señora …” He blinked uneasily at the Colt. “I beg you—do not point the pistola …”

  “Do as I say!” she gasped.

  “Sí, señora,” he shrugged. “En seguida.”

  “¡Pronto!” she breathed.

  “Sí,” he nodded. “Pronto.”

  He stepped out of the doorway and, as she instinctively moved aside, lashed out at her. Jim felt the blood rushing to his face—a sure indication of his rising indignation—as the woman spun round and slumped against the wall of the shack. The fat Mexican had acted very quickly, taking her by surprise. His left hand had closed over the Colt. His pudgy thumb was wedged between the hammer and the cylinder so that no amount of exertion on her part could discharge the weapon. That first hard slap had thrown her off-balance. Now, while Jim’s blood boiled, the pudgy paw was raised again.

  In fluent Spanish he called the fat man a name, as he leapt from behind the pump and dashed forward. Startled, Alvaredo snatched the Colt from Wilma’s grasp and turned to face the marauder. By then, Jim had arrived. His bunched left slammed into the round belly, seeming to ram in all the way to the wrist. Alvaredo loosed an anguished gasp and lost his grip on the six-gun; it thudded to the ground.