The Home of Great Western Fiction!
CONTENTS
About No Escape Trail
One – Man of Purpose
Two – The Runaway
Three – Thieves’ Conspiracy
Four – Night of the Swinging Hatchets
Five – The Gambler’s Last Hand
Six – Penalty of Gun Glory
Seven – Deadly Decision
Eight – Unanswered Question
Nine – The Reluctant Desperado
Ten – To Wander No More
Copyright
About the Author
Clay Morrow was trapped.
He should have stayed in Ellistown, his small hometown wherein life passed unhurriedly and the sound of gunfire was rarely heard. But rebellious instincts compelled him to ride out in search of a new identity and wild adventure.
Very soon, Clay was involved in more adventure, more trouble, more danger than he could handle. His trail had crossed that of the desperate men who conspired to attack and loot an army supply wagon.
In the moment of crisis, the adventurer was thrown together with a veteran manhunter, the astute, courageous Jim Rand, and that bucktoothed bravado from south of the border, Benito Espina.
Thereby hangs a tale …
One – Man of Purpose
“I said the game’s crooked!” As he repeated himself, the visiting gambler drew and cocked a Colt .45 and glowered belligerently at the dealer and the other players. “The cards are marked. I must be losing my touch—else I’d have got wise right at the start.” He drew a bead on the dealer’s fancy vest, nudged his chair back and rose to his feet. “I lost seventy dollars to you, and I’m a man that don’t like to be cheated—so I’ll take the seventy back.”
“Like hell you will!” scowled the dealer. “Put up your gun and get out of here, Curtis. You’ve worn out your welcome.”
“I’m going,” Curtis assured him, “but not without the money you cheated me out of. You ought never try to sharp an old professional like me.”
Jay Curtis wasn’t all that old. At thirty-seven, he stood some two inches under six feet, slim of build, sardonically handsome with a sallow complexion and black hair. His garb was what might best be described as the working uniform of the professional gambler—a well-tailored town suit, checkered vest, white linen shirt, flowered cravat and high beaver hat. He had drifted into the border township of Durrance a few days ago and had found opportunities for increasing his bankroll. But, here at the Cimarron Saloon, his luck had gone sour—thanks to the chicanery of the house’s poker dealer, the beefy, flashily-garbed Lee Burch.
“My seventy dollars.” He gestured impatiently with his sixgun. “I’ll take it now.”
“You want to bet your life on that?” taunted Burch, and a satirical grin creased his florid visage. He butted his cigar and gestured about him. “Take a look around you, Curtis. If you think that Colt of yours is an ace in the hole, you’d better be sure it can beat our full house.”
A nerve twitched at Curtis’ temple. His brow was suddenly clammy and he could feel a trickle of perspiration working its way into his left eye. The saloon was tomb-quiet. The piano player hadn’t budged from his instrument, but sat with arms folded, his long face expressionless. The percentage women had temporarily abandoned their efforts. From behind the bar, an uncommonly brawny barkeep emerged, hefting a cocked shotgun. The faro dealer, a lynx-eyed, hawk-faced hombre with an ugly scar running from cheekbone to chin, was sauntering unhurriedly towards the poker table—from which the other players were now retreating. In the faro dealer’s right fist gleamed a wicked-looking revolver, nickel-plated and with the barrel cut down, the better for toting in the holster under his left armpit. The proprietor, tall, well-groomed and becoming fleshy in his mid-forties, had been supervising the roulette layout until this moment. Now, with his pale blue eyes gleaming angrily, he drew a pistol and came striding towards Curtis. Simultaneously the local law made ready to intervene.
Marshal Gus Lundy may not have been the fattest lawman Curtis had ever seen, but he was certainly the sloppiest, a big, mountainous, flabby man in a rumpled alpaca jacket and baggy pants. His mouth was invisible, because it never occurred to him to clip his scrubby ginger mustache. The hair nestling atop his big pink ears was also gingery. His jowls quivered, as he chuckled wheezily at Curtis:
“Kinda bit off more’n you could chew, didn’t you, mister?”
“You’re supposed to give protection,” mumbled Curtis. “Don’t let ’em crowd me, Marshal. I’ve been cheated, and …”
“Nobody gets cheated at the Cimarron,” snapped Ernie Trantor, the proprietor. “I’m calling you a liar—and giving you just fifteen minutes to get out of town.”
“That’s tellin’ him, Ernie,” approved the marshal.
Curtis’ shock was only momentary; it wasn’t the first time he had encountered a lawman and gambling house owner working hand in hand. But he was ill-prepared for Lundy’s next move. The fat lawman ignored Curtis’ gun, picked up a jug of beer and emptied it over Curtis’ head to the accompaniment of much laughter from Trantor’s customers. Spluttering and recoiling, Curtis felt a sudden agony in his right wrist. Burch had risen and was lashing out at him with his own weapon.
As Curtis’ pistol dropped, Lundy bent to pick it up and eject all the cartridges. Then, while Curtis was rubbing at his numbed right hand, the scowling Ernie Trantor advanced on him and struck at him with his clenched fists, slamming blows at his face and belly. Curtis cursed the saloonkeeper, as he toppled over a chair.
“Go ahead, Ernie,” grinned Lundy. “Muss him up good.”
Trantor drove another hard blow to his face.
“I don’t hire cardsharps!” he snarled, as he struck at Curtis again and again. “And I can’t abide a sore loser!”
“Your man cheated me …!” panted Curtis.
His voice choked off. Dazed from a savage uppercut, he stumbled backwards to the street doorway and collapsed. A groan was torn from his contorted mouth, as he rolled over and struggled to a sitting posture. Something thudded into his lap—his empty .45. He returned it to his holster, raised his bloodied face to glare at his assailant. He was well and truly aware of the others—the frowning Lee Burch, the grinning Marshal Lundy, the impassive bartender and Rollo Yuill, the scar-faced faro dealer. He was aware of them, but all his attention was focused on Trantor. Of all these men, Trantor was the one he would most remember.
“You’ve just made a bad mistake,” he warned the saloonkeeper, as he lurched to his feet. “I’m going to make you regret this—and that’s a promise.”
“Threats from cheap tinhorns,” drawled Trantor, “don’t worry me one little bit.” He jerked a thumb. “Get out. And remember I said fifteen minutes, exactly a quarter-hour and not a moment longer.”
“That’s as much time as you’ll need, I reckon,” opined Lundy.
“You’ll remember what I said, Trantor,” muttered Curtis. “I’ll make you sweat for this. I swear it.”
Abruptly, he turned and strode out into the night, and that was the last that was ever seen of Jay Curtis, drifting gambler, in that border town. The unscrupulous Trantor—thief, opportunist and hirer of cardsharp-gunhawks—never expected to see or hear of Curtis again, but he was only half-right. He wouldn’t see Curtis, but would certainly hear of him, and to his chagrin.
The following morning, in a small town some distance to the south of Durrance, two travelers stopped by Clay Morrow’s general store to purchase supplies. Clay was glad to see them, as he was glad to see and to converse with any strangers. Ellistown was, in his own prejudiced opinion, the lowliest, lonesomest, most no-account little burg in the entire West, and located in the most isolated region, that stretch of country that was part
of the Oklahoma Territory, bordered on the south by the northernmost section of Texas, and on the north by Kansas’ southwest corner—the ‘in-between land’ was one of Clay’s scathing descriptions for the area of which Ellistown was a part.
“Nothing much ever happens in Ellistown,” he told the big American and the sawn-off Mexican, “and we don’t see many strangers.”
“You bragging—or complaining?” The big man good humoredly enquired.
“Complaining,” Clay replied. “Heck—did I sound proud of Ellistown?”
“Not very,” said the big man. He dug a wallet from an inside pocket of his vest, scanned the clutter of merchandise on the shelves behind the counter and began listing his needs. “I’ll want a box of shells—forty-five caliber—couple sacks of Bull Durham, some papers and matches, sack of flour …”
“I never get mad when strangers call it a hick town,” Clay continued, as he began assembling the items, “because I agree with ’em. It is a hick town.”
“Too quiet, eh?” mused the big man.
“Damn right,” nodded Clay. “And, when I say quiet, I mean as quiet as something dead.”
“That’s plenty quiet,” the big man agreed.
“Didn’t think to introduce myself.” Clay dumped the small sack of flour beside the other items, offered his hand. “My name’s Morrow—Clay Morrow.”
“Jim Rand,” said the big man, as they shook. “And the little feller is Benito Espina.”
“Saludos, amigo,” leered the Mex.
“Likewise,” Clay acknowledged.
Thus did the small town storekeeper meet Big Jim Rand and his runty shadow for the first time, and he was deeply impressed. The big man seemed to radiate assurance, strength and authority. He stood well over six feet tall and was as compelling a personality as Clay had ever encountered; handsome too, in a dark-haired, weather-beaten way. Physically he appeared tough enough to challenge and defeat more than his weight in bloodthirsty Indians, rustlers, bandits, gunhawks or any of the ungodly who infested the wild frontiers. That was the impression he gave the lonely and easily-impressed Clay Morrow, who was no authority on wild Indians or badmen.
For obvious reasons, he found the little Mex far less impressive. Benito Espina was a leering, buck-toothed, unwashed runt with shifty eyes and lank hair. His humble height of five feet two inches made him appear as a dwarf beside the brawny, towering Jim. His clothes were a mixture of the garb favored by peons and vaqueros, and were shabby and threadbare. An outsized sombrero was clamped to the back of his head. A battered guitar was slung to his back.
“Some hominy grits,” decided Jim, “a fair-sized hunk of bacon. You got any jerky?”
“Sure. Got everything you’re apt to ask for.” Clay sighed heavily. “I never run out of stock of what my wife calls staple items, because business isn’t exactly booming.”
“I noticed it’s a quiet town,” shrugged Jim. “Well, there are plenty of people who’d be grateful.”
“Like my wife, for instance,” growled Clay.
Extended residence in the farming community of Ellistown had robbed the storekeeper of whatever personality he had ever possessed. He was colorless. His voice had a monotonous sound. There was nothing distinctive in his appearance. He was around five feet ten inches tall, with even features, a mane of dark brown hair and a compact, if not especially muscular, physique. In shirtsleeves and with a white cotton apron girding his middle, he looked what he was, a discontented citizen of a town where life passed at a snail’s pace.
Having filled Jim’s order, he lit a bent-stemmed pipe, propped an elbow on the counter and waited for the big man to pay him.
Jim stowed his purchases into his saddlebags, paid for them and then, to Clay’s keen interest, produced a folded sheet of paper. Unfolded, it proved to be a pen sketch, a portrait of an unattractive individual, saturnine, narrow-eyed and, if the artist had depicted him accurately, something of a dude.
“Take a good look at him,” said Jim. “You ever see him before?”
“I—uh—know you couldn’t be a lawman,” frowned Clay, “because this isn’t an official notice. It looks original.”
“Drawn specially,” nodded Jim, “by an artist with a good memory for faces.”
“Who is he?” asked Clay.
“He called himself Jenner,” said Jim, “when he killed my brother in San Marco, Arizona.”
Clay tried not to stare at the ivory butt of the Colt holstered at the big man’s right hip, as he asked:
“Was it a gunfight?”
“No gunfight,” said Jim. “No self-defense. My brother had his back turned—he was playing cards when Jenner sneaked up behind him … Much of the pain had eased. After searching many a long month for the elusive Jenner, he had learned to accept the fact of Chris’ tragic, wasteful death. He could speak of it dispassionately. His sense of humor had been restored—but his determination to find Chris’ murderer was as firm as ever. “My brother was a lieutenant of the Eleventh Cavalry. I was a sergeant in the same outfit.”
“I guess he was a sight older than you,” said Clay. “Your brother, I mean.”
“Why do you say that?” prodded Jim.
“Him an officer,” said Clay. “You still only a sergeant.”
Jim chuckled softly.
“Never say ‘only a sergeant’,” he warned the storekeeper. “Most sergeants believe they’re running the whole damn cavalry—they’re the backbone of the service and all the officers are no better than errand boys.”
“I didn’t mean any offense,” Clay hastened to assure him.
“No offense taken,” shrugged Jim. “As for my brother, he was quite a few years younger than me. I made sergeant back in ’sixty-four, when he was just a sprig. Later on, I sent him to West Point.”
“You sound mighty proud of him,” Clay observed.
“He was the top student of his graduating class,” muttered Jim, “and the youngest officer of the Eleventh—with a great future.” He nodded to the picture. “How about it? Does that galoot look familiar to you?”
“Uh huh.” The storekeeper half-closed his eyes, squinted towards the doorway. “It was about five days ago.”
“I’d want to be sure he’s the same man,” said Jim, “Sandy hair and mustache? About your height, but not as hefty?”
“That’s him,” said Clay.
“High pitched voice,” Jim continued.
“I remember that,” said Clay, without hesitation. “His voice was kind of high”
“He’s a tinhorn and a sore loser,” finished Jim. “He’s partial to raw brandy and pearl jewelry—and the bullet that killed my brother was fired from a .38 pistol.”
“I wouldn’t know about his jewelry, didn’t notice what he wore,” said Clay. “I wasn’t gambling or drinking with him either. He wasn’t here but a few minutes. Just rode in and bought a few supplies, rode on again. But one thing I do recall. He bought a box of cartridges …”
“You remember the caliber?” demanded Jim.
“Thirty-eight,” Clay told him.
“Six – seven days ago.” The little Mex shrugged and yawned. “I think by now he is many miles from here, Amigo Jim. Maybe you will never find him.”
“I don’t care if he hides in Canada,” retorted Jim, “I’ll still find him.”
That declaration sent a thrill through Clay Morrow, all the more so because the big man had spoken so quietly. His softly-worded speech carried more impact than a threat roared at full volume. Clay spoke with respect, as he remarked:
“From San Marco to this comer of Oklahoma is quite a distance to chase a man.”
“Quite a distance,” agreed Jim. “Now—did you happen to notice which way Jenner was headed? Did he quit town rightaway?”
“Rightaway,” nodded Clay. “He was headed north.”
“Well, I thank you for the information,” Jim acknowledged.
And then, to Clay’s astonishment, he placed his saddlebags on the counter, turned, grasped
the little Mex by his shoulders and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. Benito gasped a string of protests and profanity, but was powerless in the big man’s grasp. The shaking dislodged several articles that had been surreptitiously secreted inside his camisa. To the floor thudded a can of peaches, two cans of beans, three apples, a box of needles, several spools of thread and a bundle of lamp wicks. Clay’s eyes bulged, but Jim’s expression never changed; he seemed quite philosophical over the fact that his travelling companion had purloined these items during his conversation with the storekeeper. While Clay watched, he swung the Mex around and delivered a hard kick to his rear section, sending him plummeting out through the doorway and onto the store porch.
“Straddle the burro and stay put!” He called that command after the still cursing Benito. “You steal one more thing in this town and, so help me, I’ll hand you over to the sheriff and leave you to rot in jail.”
“We don’t have a sheriff,” muttered Clay. “Got no need of a lawman. Nothing ever happens here.”
“What the Mex doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” said Jim. “I’m sorry he tried to rob you.”
“You’re sorry,” Clay noted, “but not surprised. You act as though you expect him to steal.”
“It’s a disease with him,” shrugged Jim, “and a habit, a profession, a pastime. He comes of a long line of thieves, and I guess he aims to honor the family traditions.”
“Mr. Rand,” frowned Clay, “you seem like a mighty honest man—and a real' gentleman. It’s none of my business, but I’ll be damned if I savvy why you’d want to travel along with the likes of him.”
“I haven’t got what it takes to kick him out of my life,” Jim moodily confided, “or hand him over to some sheriff or marshal. It’s a question of obligation. He saved my life.”
“How?” Clay voiced the query instinctively, then averted his eyes and mumbled an apology. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rand. I bet you think I’m the nosiest jasper you ever ran into. Well, blame it on Ellistown. We scarce ever see strangers and, when a stranger does show up, it’s a chance to socialize, to swap talk—you know?”
Big Jim 7 Page 1
