Big Jim 10

by Marshall Grover

  “Quite the bravado, aren’t you?” challenged Jim, as the fat man clasped hands to his belly. “I guess it takes a lot of courage to handle a woman that way.”

  “Please …” began Wilma.

  “Leave this hero to me,” Jim sourly suggested.

  “Gringo coyote…” breathed Alvaredo.

  Jim struck him again, this time a hard, swinging blow to the jaw. Weighty though he undoubtedly was, the fat man was sent reeling. He lost his footing, fell on his round backside with a thud that seemed to cause the ground to vibrate. In the Spanish of an extremely disgruntled peon, he mumbled a curse at his assailant.

  “Stay down,” growled Jim. “I’ll tell you when to get up.” He turned to the woman. In the light shafting from the shack doorway her face was clearly visible. He got the impression she was sober—or sufficiently so to realize what was happening. “You hurt bad, ma’am?”

  “Who …?” she began.

  “I just happened to be passing by,” he lied.

  “You aren’t—one of my husband’s men?”

  “No, ma’am. A stranger.”

  “I’m so—thankful! If only you’ll—I mean—yes, I need your help …”

  “Couldn’t help overhearing,” Jim told her. “You have an injured man here?”

  “In the bunkhouse,” said Wilma. “He’s in great pain.”

  “I heard you mention a doctor in Brigg City—name of Wesley? You’re acquainted with him?”

  “Yes. There might still be a chance for the man—if we can get him to town in time.”

  “Anybody else here?” As Jim asked that question, he glanced towards the house. “No? All right, ma’am, you hustle back to the bunkhouse. I’ll be along with the buck-board in just a couple minutes.” He glowered at the apprehensive Alvaredo. “The fat man will hitch up a team to the buckboard. He’s about to make a fast, slick job of it.”

  “¡Por favor!” began the Mexican.

  “Get started,” scowled Jim.

  He picked up the six-gun, uncocked it, then flung it away and unholstered his own. Wilma gasped her thanks and hurried back to the bunkhouse, while Jim forced the fat man to rise up and walk to the barn. He kept his gun on Alvaredo and, with much scathing profanity, kept him busy and apprehensive; the team-horses were harnessed to the buckboard in double-quick time. He then swung lithely up to the seat.

  “Climb up beside me,” he ordered Alvaredo. “Take the reins and drive over to the bunkhouse.”

  The fat man obeyed with alacrity. When the rig was stalled;-’ Jim ordered him down again. They entered the bunkhouse and, almost immediately, Jim sensed that the man in the bunk could last only a short time. Would he survive the journey to town? It didn’t seem likely. The woman rose to her feet as he entered. Didn’t she realize that she wore only her night-clothes? He wondered about that, as he doffed his Stetson and accorded her a polite nod. Blanton blinked at him and asked, anxiously:

  “Doc …?”

  “Sorry, friend.” Jim shook his head, dropped to one knee beside the bunk and began a careful examination. “I’m no doctor, but ...”

  “You’re a minister, of course,” observed Wilma. “I’m so very grateful, Reverend. My name is Wilma Ellinger, and this is one of my husband’s hired hands.”

  “I want no damn-blasted preacher!” groaned Blanton. “Just—fetch the doctor—for pity’s sakes!”

  “Take it easy, boy.” Jim raised the dressing slightly. One brief glance at that ugly wound told him the worst. That—and the patient’s feverish condition—indicated there was little or no hope of his survival. “There’s a buckboard outside. We’re taking you to town rightaway.”

  “She did it,” panted Blanton, staring incredulously at the woman. “I swear I—never believed she could do it, didn’t think she’d get half-way across the yard …”

  “Stay quiet,” advised Wilma. “You must save your strength.”

  “I sure owe you—apology—ma’am,” mumbled Blanton. “I cussed you—when you were only tryin’ to help me …” His eyes closed. Abruptly, he had lapsed into a coma. Jim looked at the woman then, and assured her:

  “I’ll take care of him from here on.”

  “I’m coming with you,” she announced.

  “The Senor Ellinger does not wish …” began Alvaredo.

  “Nobody asked you, fat man,” scowled Jim.

  “I want to go with you,” the woman declared, very firmly. “Please—don’t refuse me.”

  “It’s your rig, and this is a free country,” he shrugged.

  “But how fast can you get dressed? This man needs a doctor in a hurry.”

  “I’ll be back in just a few minutes,” she promised, as she turned and dashed to the doorway.

  “You.” Jim nodded to Alvaredo. “Sit quiet—and stay Where I can see you.”

  The fat man trudged to a chair and seated himself. He looked nervous now—more nervous than any man Jim had challenged in many a long month.

  “The Señor Ellinger,” he fretted, “will be much angry—furioso.”

  “He’d sooner leave an injured man to die in this bunk-house?” jibed Jim. “Quite a feller, this boss of yours.”

  It would be necessary to pad the floor and sides of the buckboard, he reflected, to ensure the dying man as gentle a journey as possible. Blankets would serve the purpose. He moved to the bunk next to Blanton’s, seized the edge of the blankets and hauled them out—a quick, rough movement. that dislodged the mattress. Right away, something caught his eye, a triangle of material in a very familiar shade of blue.

  Alvaredo mumbled something unintelligible, rose up and made a move towards the doorway. Jim halted him in his tracks by emptying his holster and muttering a warning.

  “You’d have three slugs in your fat carcass before you moved another twenty-four inches—and I’m not fooling.” The chuck-boss became a bulky, bug-eyed statue, while Jim pulled the blue tunic out from under the mattress.

  NINE

  PRELUDE TO A SHOWDOWN

  It took Wilma Ellinger no more than ten minutes to garb herself for the journey to Brigg City. Strangely, she was not plagued by her need for liquor at this time. She was excited, but no longer confused. All too soon she would feel the need for alcoholic solace, she supposed. Right now, however, she could think clearly, reason things out.

  Not by accident—or even carelessness—had that hapless employee been left unattended in the Rafter 7 bunk-house. It was grimly obvious that her husband had been well aware of the man’s injury, but had-refused to send for a doctor. Why?

  “You’ve become a very strange man, Todd Ellinger, since I married you,” she thought. Ironically, she was forgetting the change she had undergone, her descent from the status of carefree housewife to hopeless drunkard. “I don’t understand how you could be so cruel, Todd. Well, maybe it’s not too late for me to make amends. At least I can deliver that poor man to Doc Wesley while there is still time.”

  She hadn’t worn this gown, this bonnet, these shoes in a long time; it seemed she’d been living in a nightgown and robe. Briskly, she descended the stairs and hurried out into the yard.

  By now, Jim had investigated every bunk. Tunics and blue britches with yellow stripes were heaped in the center of the floor. He glowered at the fat man.

  “Do Ellinger’s hired guns join the army every so often? I doubt it!”

  “I know nothing!” Alvaredo hastened to assure him.

  “Like hell you know nothing,” scowled Jim.

  He returned to Blanton’s bunk. In the act of feeling under the mattress in search of another uniform, he paused to study the stricken man. The eyes were closed, the face still pallid. He covertly checked for pulse and heartbeat, and realized that those eyes would never open again; the man had died quietly. Blood poisoning. Not a pleasant way to go. Well, was there a pleasant way to go?

  From under Blanton’s mattress he produced the sixteenth uniform, the tunic bloodstained.

  “You could have been saved—after
my bullet gashed you.” This thought smote him with jarring clarity. “If your sidekicks had taken care to clean your wound, and if they’d gotten you to a doctor in a hurry, you’d have had a better than even chance of pulling through. Well, it proves one thing. The local doctors aren’t part of the organization.”

  He heard sounds of movement in the doorway. Wilma Ellinger stood there, eyeing him expectantly. Alvaredo hadn’t budged. The woman’s eyes switched from Jim to the heap of uniforms on the floor, and he sensed her astonishment was genuine.

  “What—what on earth …?” she began.

  “Mrs. Ellinger,” frowned Jim, “how often does your husband leave the county?”

  “You mean—his business trips?” she asked.

  “Silencio!” hissed the fat man. “Say nothing!”

  It was an involuntary movement, and it cost him a bump on his cranium and a period of senselessness; he took a step towards Wilma and raised a hand. Maybe he didn’t intend striking her or clamping that hand over her mouth. Maybe he only intended to plead for her silence. Jim wasn’t about to debate those possibilities; his patience had worn thin. He barged at Alvaredo, his Colt rising and falling.-The barrel made harsh contact with the fat man’s head. He uttered but one startled grunt, then buckled at the knees and crashed to the floor. Wilma’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “Sorry,” Jim apologized, holstering his six-gun. “I’ve heard more than enough from our fat friend. I’m a sight more interested in what you have to say.”

  “Who are you?” she nervously challenged. “Why did you come to Rafter 7?”

  “The name is Rand,” he told her. “As to why I came here …” He gestured to the pile, of uniforms. “You could say I came looking for them.”

  “I don’t understand,” she frowned. “I just—don’t understand ...”

  “About those business trips you mentioned,” he prodded.

  “Todd travels out of the county every so often,” she shrugged. “Sometimes, even if he doesn’t go, the others do.”

  “How many?”

  “Six or seven. Sometimes more.”

  “They’re gone a few days. Then they come back and—that’s all you know?”

  “Yes. Why, Mr. Rand? What does it all mean?”

  “Don’t fret about it, ma’am,” he muttered. He had found a lariat and was making short work of securing Alvaredo’s wrists and ankles. For a gag, he used a discarded bandanna. “We’ll take both these men to town. I’ll deliver you and that one,” he nodded to the bunk, “to Doc Wesley.”

  “We’ll have to get into town quietly,” she sighed.

  “We sure will,” he agreed.

  “Because,” she sadly informed him, “Todd would be furious, if he knew I was seeing the doctor. He’d just never approve.”

  “Ma’am,” said Jim. “It just happens I don’t care a plugged cent what your husband approves.”

  Discovery of the stolen army uniforms changed his plans somewhat; he had come to Rafter 7 seeking evidence, but hadn’t expected to stumble upon it so quickly. The buckboard would be inadequate for transporting the dead man, the bulky Juan Alvaredo, Wilma Ellinger and the two grain sacks into which he crammed all the army clothing. He returned the buckboard to the barn, transferred the team to the ranch wagon, a Comstock with a canvas canopy. Into the wagon bed he toted his prisoner, the damning evidence and the mortal remains of the hapless Blanton. "The sorrel he tethered to the tailgate of the rig, after which he helped the woman up to the seat and took his position beside her. The teamers responded to his muttered command. Away from Rafter 7 rumbled the wagon, town-bound.

  At 9.15 p.m., with the woman as his guide, he entered Brigg City’s residential section and easily located the home of Dr. Asa Wesley. She queried him as to why he did not immediately carry Blanton into the house and, deeming it wise to keep her in ignorance for the time being, he told her, “I’ll take care of him all in good time. First we’d best get you inside.”

  The Wesleys, a middle-aged, oddly-matched couple, were obviously deeply concerned for the welfare of Wilma Ellinger. The doctor’s wife fussed over her as she would a sick child, led her away to a spare bedroom, while the thin, humorless Wesley conversed with Jim on the front porch. In blunt terms, Jim assured the medico there was nothing to be gained by bringing Blanton in. Wesley listened to his description of the body and nodded agreement.

  “Cattlemen aren’t qualified to decide the seriousness of a gunshot wound,” he muttered. “The man might have been saved. Of course I wouldn’t commit myself without making an examination.” He offered Jim a cigar. Jim supplied a match and they lit up. “You’ll deliver him to the undertaker, or first visit the sheriff’s office? It doesn’t matter which, I suppose. If you take the body directly to the funeral parlor, you’ll be saving Elmer Leam a chore.”

  “How about these badge-toters, Doc?” challenged Jim.

  “That’s kind of an ambiguous question,” frowned Wesley.

  “You have to guard your tongue when you talk to strangers—is that it?” prodded Jim.

  Apparently he had struck a nerve. Wesley became curt.

  “I speak my mind at all times. Maybe you think Todd Ellinger and his roughneck crew ride roughshod over Brigg City. Well, they don’t. We aren’t intimidated. We’re just cautious.”

  “No need to get sore, Doc,” drawled Jim. “I’m a stranger here myself, so I need to tread wary. I have to know who I can trust.” He clamped his cigar between his teeth, tucked his thumbs in his gunbelt and repeated his question, but in greater detail. “How about the local law? Are they apt to run to Ellinger if I deliver the Rafter 7 cook to the jailhouse?”

  “Neither Elmer nor Hobie kowtow to Ellinger,” growled the medico. “They’re very old. A lot of people jeer at them and claim they should retire. Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret, my friend. The only reason Elmer and Hobie haven’t retired is Rafter 7. They’re afraid Ellinger is becoming ambitious. They’re afraid Ellinger may attempt to put up one of his own men as county sheriff. If that ever happened, law and order wouldn’t be worth a damn in this territory.”

  “Doc, I sure appreciate your frank answers,” said Jim, as he moved to the edge of the porch.

  Jim returned to the wagon, climbed to the seat and started the team moving again. He knew the location of the sheriff’s office and county jail, and had no intention of approaching it by way of Brigg Street. Up till now, he had been fortunate in keeping his discovery a secret; he wasn’t yet ready to announce the villainy of Rafter 7 to the entire community.

  Brigg City’s south side was crisscrossed with narrow alleys and laneways, some long and wide, others short and narrow. One of the longer alleys ran parallel with the main street and offered the big man an easy approach to the rear, entrance of the jailhouse. His knock was answered by a scrawny man with untidy grey hair and a tin star gleaming on his threadbare vest. In mild reproach, Deputy Grisson informed him:

  “You’re buttin’ in on a good game of checkers. I near got Elmer beat—so you better have a durn good reason for …”

  “It’s a good reason,” Jim assured him, jerking a thumb to the wagon. “I’m bringing you a prisoner—also a dead Rafter 7 hand and a couple of sacks full of regulation rig”

  The deputy blinked at him.

  “Regulation rig? What …”

  “Tunics and britches,” drawled Jim. “Army outfits. Stolen, I’d say.” He glanced beyond Grisson; the passageway between the cells appeared deserted. “This jail empty right now?”

  “Empty,” nodded Grisson. He rubbed at his jowls a moment, then, “You wait here,” he ordered.

  He returned to that rear doorway a few moments later with his chief in tow. The sheriff muttered a few queries, all of which Jim answered in terse language. From then on, the senior lawman moved and spoke briskly; it was as though he were accustomed to handling such emergencies every night of the week. His deputy was ordered to drive the wagon to the funeral parlor and deliver the body of Tyler Blanton. Jim
toted the struggling but still tightly-bound Alvaredo into the jailhouse with Leam following, hefting the bulging grain sacks. The rear door was secured.

  Unceremoniously, the fat Mexican was dumped in a cell. Jim and the sheriff then moved through to the office. With the street-door locked and the shades drawn on the windows, the contents of the grain sacks were emptied onto the floor for Leam’s inspection. He was impressed—especially by the blood-stained tunic found under Blanton’s mattress.

  “We get newspapers regular,” he told Jim, while pouring whisky into three glasses. “I’ve read plenty about them thievin’ soldier-boys. Well, like I always hoped, it turns out they weren’t genuine soldiers after all.” He frowned at the bloodied tunic again. “If you’re sure you winged one of ’em—the four that jumped the Frankston stage …”

  “I don’t have any doubts about it,” said Jim.

  “Plain enough then,” nodded Leam. “Real plain, I reckon.”

  “A stolen army uniform hidden under every mattress in the Rafter 7 bunkhouse,” muttered Jim. “If that isn’t the cincher, I don’t know what is.”

  Grisson returned now, rapping gently at the street-door. Leam admitted him. The door was re-secured, after which the full significance of Jim’s find was discussed in some detail. In his summing up, a very pensive Sheriff Leam pointed out, “We got us quite a situation here. Enough evidence to arrest the whole damn Rafter 7 outfit.”

  “And it just happens,” offered Grisson, “that the whole outfit is right here in town. The preacher here could never of snooped all over Rafter 7 if Ellinger left guards.”

  “You don’t have to call me preacher, Deputy,” grinned Jim. He identified himself, and added, “I was a cavalry sergeant up till a year ago.”