Big Jim 7

by Marshall Grover

“Damn right.” Melrose nodded earnestly, while the deputies traded grins. “I’ll have it written and printed and circulating by sundown.” He added, frowning at Jim, “But it’s too bad Curtis didn’t talk before he cashed in. The last words of a dying gunfighter always make good copy.”

  “He said nothing,” Jim assured him.

  “Well, thanks for the interview,” shrugged Melrose, after which he quit the office.

  ~*~

  Towards sundown of that day, when two boys came hustling out of the Courier office, hefting bundles of the special edition, Jim and the Mex were taking their ease in boardwalk chairs nearby. In response to the big man’s beckoning finger, one of the youngsters sold him a copy. He was satisfied to note that Melrose had given the shooting the front page treatment under a banner headline. This, surely, would come to Trantor’s attention, and Trantor would assume that his ruse had succeeded.

  Some fifteen minutes later, when a southbound stage switched teams at the Lewisburg depot, Jim saw a trussed bundle of the latest edition tossed up to the shotgun guard, who secured it with the other freight on the coach roof. He lingered by the stage depot only long enough to ascertain that this coach would reach Durrance mid-morning of the morrow. Then, grim-faced, he told the Mex:

  “We’re moving out.”

  “Not back to Durrance?” blinked Benito.

  “Back to Durrance for sure,” nodded Jim. ‘I’ll tell you why, but after we’ve left town.”

  Later, while they idled their mounts along the south trail some two miles behind the fast-moving stage, the Mex pressed him for an explanation, and got it. In a few terse sentences, Jim pointed out the possible advantages of letting the real murderer believe that the hunt had ended. And he was equally terse in asserting:

  “Trantor signed Curtis’ death warrant, when he sent me north to find him. He probably guessed there’d be gun trouble. He figured one or both of us could die, although the one he really wanted dead was Curtis.”

  “One muy inteligente hombre, this Señor Trantor,” opined Benito.

  “Cunning,” corrected Jim. “Not necessarily smart. There’s a heap of difference between cunning and wisdom.”

  “You will punish him—how?” prodded Benito.

  “He’s cooking up some kind of deal,” drawled Jim. “I don’t know what it is, because Curtis didn’t have time to tell me about it. All Curtis said was that Trantor could now go ahead with his big plans. Curtis was the only other party who knew the plan. He said something about a dead man not being able to blackmail anybody. From that I get the notion Curtis was blackmailing Trantor.”

  “So?” challenged Benito.

  “So I watch Trantor,” said Jim. “When he moves, I move. Where he goes, I go. Whatever this deal is, you can bet your last peso it’s crooked. I’ll fall on that sidewinder like all the fury of hell, and he’ll learn it doesn’t pay to get tricky with an army man.”

  ~*~

  By late afternoon of the eighteenth, most of the damage to the Cimarron Saloon had been repaired and business was being carried on as usual. The saloonkeeper and some of his associates—Clay Morrow included—were seated at a table by a front window. Joanna Gifford was plying her trade, luring optimists to the faro layout presided over by Rollo Yuill. The others sharing the table with Trantor were Ed Larkin and Gus Lundy.

  Clay, who was seated nearest the window, was the first to catch sight of the big man on the high-stepping charcoal and the runty Mex on the plodding burro.

  The storekeeper-turned-adventurer was, by now, adept at the art of keeping his true feelings concealed from his new companions. He felt a surge of hope upon recognizing the rider of the black stallion, but his face remained impassive. At the saloon hitch rack, Jim and the Mex dismounted. The Mex loitered outside, while the big man approached the batwings.

  “Well, well, well,” drawled Lundy.

  Trantor looked up from his reading of the Courier’s special edition. His eyes became wary, though the corners of his mouth lifted in a grin of welcome, as Jim came through the entrance and turned towards their table.

  “He looks kind of pleased with himself,” observed Larkin. “Your idea must’ve paid off, Ernie.”

  “Who are you jaspers talking about?” demanded Clay.

  “Nobody you’d be interested in,” said Larkin.

  “I know him anyway,” Clay announced, turning in his chair, staring directly at Jim. “His name is Rand, isn’t it? Sure. We talked some before he quit town.”

  “Well, hello there, Rand,” called Trantor.

  Jim arrived at the table. “I’m mighty grateful you got such a good memory, Trantor. You were right about Curtis.”

  “It’s all in the Lewisburg paper,” nodded Trantor. “So he tried to ambush you? Well, that’s pretty much what you could expect from the likes of him. I mean, if he shot your brother in the back …”

  “Uh huh,” grunted Jim. “I feel a sight easier now, knowing Chris’ killer has been put away.” He offered Trantor his hand. They shook. “Thanks again.”

  “Glad I could help,” drawled Trantor.

  Jim now deigned to notice Clay. “Howdy, Morrison.”

  “Howdy yourself,” nodded Clay.

  “And where do you go from here, Rand?” asked Trantor.

  “South,” said Jim. “Back towards the Arizona Territory. But no hurry. Durrance is a friendly town. I think I’ll hang around awhile.” He sketched them a nonchalant salute.

  A few moments later, covertly following Jim’s movements from his perch near the saloon’s front window, Clay saw him enter a small restaurant in the next block, tagged by the Mex. At which of the local hotels would the big man be staying? Time was running out. Trantor had announced that they would be quitting town and beginning their cross country journey to Warsmoke Pass at a quarter after five of the morrow. Big Jim had returned not a moment too soon always provided that he would agree to assist a now thoroughly demoralized adventurer. He had to talk to the big man as soon as possible and in the utmost privacy. How to arrange this? Well, it couldn’t be organized from where he now sat.

  Abruptly, he shoved back his chair and got to his feet.

  “That’s my last drink before the big job,” he briskly informed Trantor, nodding to his empty glass. “The next time you and I look at each other from behind whiskey glasses, we’ll be celebrating—right?”

  “Right,” grinned Trantor.

  “Quarter after five in the morning,” said Clay, “is one hell of a time to get woken up.”

  “But that’s the way it has to be,” muttered Larkin. “If it’s good enough for the rest of us, it’s good enough for you.”

  “I aim to buy myself a good supper and then hit the feathers early,” said Clay. “See you in the morning.”

  “See you, Morrison,” nodded Trantor. “And I guarantee you’ll never regret joining up with us.” He relaxed, puffing at a cigar, as he watched Clay making his exit. To Larkin, he calmly remarked, “You don’t have to follow him anymore. I’ve made up my mind about him, Ed. He’s one hundred percent reliable.”

  In the matter of establishing contact with the big ex-sergeant, Clay Morrow took elaborate precautions. He was haunted by the fear that his new associates might become suspicious of him—in which case his life would be forfeit. From the moment of his signifying his acceptance of the proposition, one of Trantor’s friends had kept him under observation; it seemed Lundy, Yuill, Joanna Gifford or the irascible Ed Larkin were forever hovering close.

  From that small restaurant, Jim and the Mex made their way to a livery to stable their animals, and from there to, of all places, the Hotel Augusta, the same boarding establishment at which Clay was staying. He was watching from the opposite boardwalk when they entered the lobby. A sigh of relief escaped him. Was his luck changing at last?

  Soon afterwards, when he dawdled into the lobby of the Augusta, the desk clerk was dozing. Checking the number of the room assigned to Big Jim and the Mex was no trouble at all; he simply threw a s
idelong glance at the register on his way to the stairs. Room 6.

  Room 6 was small and poky, too much so to be called a double; however it contained two beds and would serve Jim’s purpose for the time being. He was seated on the window ledge, a vantage point that afforded him a clear view of the Cimarron Saloon. Benito was unrolling his gear.

  It was at that moment that Clay Morrow rapped gently at the door. Jim called an invitation that caused his heart to jump.

  “The door’s unlocked—Morrow. Come on in. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  After an apprehensive glance along the corridor, Clay opened the door and sidled into the room.

  Nine – The Reluctant Desperado

  The furtive visitor stood quiet, staring at the big man perched on the window ledge. Without glancing his way, Jim said, “You ought to shut that door, if a private parley is what you crave.”

  Clay closed the door, began moving towards him, but froze in his tracks when Jim warned him, “You could be seen from the windows of any building opposite us.” He jerked a thumb. “Squat on a bed, Morrow, and keep your head down.”

  Like an intimidated boy obeying the orders of a stern parent, Clay moved to the nearest bed, perched on the edge of the mattress. Benito eyed him curiously and remarked, “We meet thees hombre before, I think, but he had not the mostacho.”

  “Maybe he figures a mustache is all it takes,” mused Jim, “to turn a small town storekeeper into a bad man.”

  “How …” Clay swallowed a lump in his throat, “how’d you know I was me? I mean—where did I go wrong?”

  Still concentrating his attention on the Cimarron Saloon, Jim quietly offered the visitor some jarring facts.

  “For a starter, you’re no great shakes as a liar. How you could fool Trantor and his pards is something I’ll never savvy. Well, I guess killing Burch helped.”

  “I never wanted to kill Burch—or anyone else,” sighed Clay.

  “You’re not a professional, when it comes to killing,” Jim agreed. “A real killer never gets sick to his stomach from it—the way you did, the night you killed Burch.”

  “You even know about that?” blinked Clay.

  “I followed you,” said Jim. “And later, when I visited with you at this very same hotel, you offered me a mess of hogwash that I wouldn’t have swallowed when I was sixteen years old. I’ll admit your fight with Burch had me puzzled, but I was still sure about you—still sure it was you I met in Ellistown.”

  “I’d give ten years of my life,” muttered Clay, “to be back in Ellistown at this moment—to be safe again.”

  “You drink in rough company nowadays,” opined Jim. “I’ve got Trantor pegged for some kind of a thief, and I wouldn’t trust his friends any further than I could carry my horse.”

  “No,” grunted Clay. “They sure as heck can’t be trusted. I’ve been a damn fool, Mr. Rand. I was too proud—and too scared—to admit the truth about myself. When Trantor put his proposition to me, I went right on acting like a hardcase, like some gun-happy drifter.”

  “Cucaracha,” grunted Jim.

  “Si?” The Mex lifted his eyebrows.

  “Take your turn here,” ordered Jim, rising from the window ledge, “while I parley with the firebrand from Ellistown. You know what I’m waiting for. If Trantor or any of his friends make a move, I want to know rightaway.”

  Benito shrugged, lit a cigarillo and toted his guitar to the window. He perched on the ledge, gently strumming chords, boredly scanning the area in front of the Cimarron. Jim took a chair, crossed his long legs and began building a smoke. His tone was harsh, as he declared:

  “I can never sympathize with a man who runs out on his wife and kids—a malcontent who can’t appreciate what he already has.”

  “Sympathy?” frowned Clay. He sat upright, squared his shoulders. “I’m not begging for your sympathy. What I need is your help.”

  “Was Ellistown so bad?” challenged Jim. “The way it looked to me, you had everything a man could ask for. A family. Peace and quiet. Your own business. You mightn’t make a fortune from running a store in Ellistown, but the living would be easy.”

  “It was the monotony,” Clay confided. “I guess I got bored, so bored that I started wanting out.” He watched the big man lighting his cigarette and was reminded of his own need in that regard, so fished out his makings and began rolling one. “I was weary of it all—even weary of Nell’s voice.”

  “And now?” prodded Jim.

  “Like I said before,” sighed Clay, “I’d give ten years of my life to be back in Ellistown. I made a damn fool mistake—and I’m paying for it.” He eyed Jim pleadingly. “Can’t you understand how I feel?”

  “I reckon so.” Jim nodded slowly. “And I guess there’s still hope—for a man who’ll admit his mistakes.”

  “Then you’ll help me?” prodded Clay.

  “What kind of help do you need?” Jim demanded.

  “Well …” Clay scratched a match for his cigarette. “I want to get out of Durrance and home to Ellistown.”

  “Anybody stopping you?” asked Jim. “I don’t see any shackles on you. If you own a horse …”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I’m trying to. Keep talking.”

  “If they saw me riding out, they’d come after me. They’d have to stop me—because I know too much.”

  “You let them hook you into their plans?”

  “I had to pretend to go along with it! I’d been warned. Trantor couldn’t afford to turn me loose, not after he’d propositioned me.”

  “All of which means,” guessed Jim, “that Trantor’s plan is kind of illegal—and then some.” He showed the younger man a wry grin, “well, you sure got yourself into one helluva fix, didn't you?”

  “I've learned my lesson,” Clay fervently assured him,

  “I’ll bet,” nodded Jim. “All right. Go ahead and tell me exactly what Trantor is planning.”

  “It's a payroll robbery!” Clay dropped his voice, leaned closer to him. “About noon tomorrow. A place called Warsmoke Pass. That’s somewhere between Brent City and Fort Gearey. It’ll be a big payroll, Mr. Rand, and …”

  “How big?” interjected Jim.

  “Si!” Benito showed eager interest. “How much is—?”

  “Keep your beady eyes on the Cimarron Saloon,” growled Jim. He eyed Clay impatiently. “How big a payroll?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” muttered Clay.

  Jim swore luridly, sat bolt upright.

  “As much as that? Well, damnitall, that money must be consigned to some big project—a lumber outfit or maybe a railroad construction camp …”

  “It’s an army payroll,” said Clay. “The Fourth Territorial Infantry …”

  “An entire battalion,” frowned Jim.

  “They get paid every third month,” Clay explained. “That’s why the payroll tallies so high.”

  “Where,” Jim grimly demanded, “does Trantor get his information?”

  “I don’t know,” said Clay, gesturing helplessly. “All I know is he planned this deal right down to the last detail.”

  “And the escort?” prodded Jim.

  “Only a half-dozen men,” Clay told him, “including the wagon driver. Trantor says they keep it small, because a larger escort would be advertising. Sooner or later, somebody would guess the wagon was hauling something more than beans and salt pork.”

  “How many men will Trantor use?” asked Jim.

  “Four,” frowned Clay. “Trantor himself, Larkin—he’s supplying the horses—and a faro dealer name of Yuill—and me.

  “Four against six,” reflected Jim. “Trantor isn’t the kind to give the opposition an even break. I guess he means to ambush the escort from cover. There’ll be no challenge. They’ll just—open fire—and those troopers will be taken by surprise.”

  “That’s pretty much what Trantor has in mind,” nodded Clay.

  “No live witnesses, eh?” challenged Jim, his brow darkening
. Clay nodded again. “Well—it goes to prove there’s many a white man who’s worse than any Indian.”

  “The hell of it is,” said Clay, “there’s nobody I could turn to. If you hadn’t come back to Durrance …” He shook his head worriedly, “I don’t know what I’d’ve done.”

  “When do you have to meet them?” demanded Jim. “And where?”

  “Early tomorrow,” said Clay. “Five-fifteen in the morning, in the alley behind the saloon. Trantor calculates we’d reach Warsmoke Pass long before noon.”

  “And that fat badge toter,” prodded Jim, “how does he figure in the deal?”

  “Lundy will collect his share of the loot,” scowled Clay, “just for saying none of us ever left town.”

  “If a posse comes to Durrance.” Jim nodded knowingly. “Or an army search party.”

  “That’s it,” nodded Clay. “Lundy supplies the alibi.”

  “A neat set up,” grunted Jim. “No wonder Trantor wanted Curtis killed.”

  “I heard about Curtis,” offered Clay. “The Gifford woman told me. Mr. Rand …?” He eyed Jim intently. “Did you …?”

  “I wasn’t lying to Trantor, or the editor of that Lewisburg paper,” Jim assured him. “Sure, we had us a gun argument, Curtis and me—and he lost. But Curtis talked, told me a few things just before he died. Not much. Just enough to make me curious—about Trantor.”

  “You tell me what to do,” urged Clay. “This is what I’ve been waiting for, Mr. Rand. Somebody I could talk to—confide in—rely on. Trantor has a lot of influence here in Durrance. I didn’t dare try to get a message to the army, or send a telegraph. The operator could be a friend of Trantor’s. Holy smoke, if he could buy the marshal, he could buy anybody.”

  “Has Trantor taken you over the route to the pass?”

  “No,” said Clay. “We haven’t been outside of town since I arrived.”

  “Has he shown you a map?” asked Jim.

  “No map.” Clay shook his head.

  Jim grimaced impatiently.

  “I’m as new to this territory as you, boy. You must have heard something to give me a lead. Which direction is Brent City—or Fort Gearey?”