Big Jim 8

by Marshall Grover

  It was the warming, reassuring smile of a woman whose character was well-developed, whose word and discretion could be relied upon. No run-of-the-mill saloon girl was Nadine Searle. He judged her to be in her thirties, and well-preserved. Her complexion was still good, without benefit of too much powder and rouge. The blonde hair glowed. The hazel eyes were clear and expressive. The gown of pale green satin wasn’t exactly a garment to be worn outdoors or by a respectable housewife. Even in that revealing rigout however, with its low-cut bodice and slit skirt, the owner of the Gay Lady was something better than a mere saloon girl.

  “I can darn near hear your brain buzzing with questions,” she told Jim. “Bring your drink and your friend over here, and I’ll be glad to explain the whole sorry situation.”

  Tagged by the Mex, he toted his beer to Nadine Searle’s table. He seated himself opposite her, and Benito was about to take the other spare chair when she spoke again.

  “The men of Ortega are becoming too nervous for their own good. Personally, I just don’t believe in curses or witchcraft or old women with the evil eye.” She gave vent to a throaty chuckle, as Benito headed for an unoccupied corner. “Your little friend scares easily.”

  “He’s brave sometimes,” grinned Jim, “but scared most times.” At the very mention of curses and witchcraft, the Mex had lost interest in Nadine’s good looks. “I don’t believe in witchcraft either,” he assured her, “but I’m curious.”

  “Curious,” she nodded, “because Leith and Hungerford think Drayton’s accident was caused by the curse.”

  Jim flatly declared, “It wasn’t an accident—and it sure wasn’t caused by any curse. The cause was a bullet that nicked Drayton’s horse and started it bolting. Maybe that slug was aimed at Drayton. We’ll probably never know for certain, but one thing I’m sure of, Miss Nadine …”

  “Just Nadine,” she offered.

  “One thing I’m sure of,” he finished. “That trigger wasn’t pulled by any witch.”

  “So here we are.” She flashed him another companionable smile. “A couple of rock-hard realists.”

  “My pleasure,” he acknowledged.

  “Mutual,” said Nadine. “I heard you introducing yourself to the boys. Jim Rand? I like that name. You have style, Mr. Jim Rand. And manners. I’ll bet you believe in ladies first.”

  “Ladies first,” he nodded.

  “In that case,” she drawled, “you won’t mind answering my questions before I answer yours.”

  “There’s something you wanted to ask me?”

  “I’m going to explode from curiosity,” she vowed, “if you don’t soon tell me how in the world you ever joined up with that ugly little Mex. He looks like a combination of rustler, stage-robber, pickpocket, skirt-chaser ...”

  “You’re only half-right, Nadine,” grinned Jim. “Rustling and stage-robbing are a mite too much for Benito but, when it comes to picking pockets, I’d rate him the champion of the entire Southwest. And skirt-chasing? Yeah. You’re right about that. Quite a ladies’ man is Benito—if he’s any judge.”

  Her expression became wistful. “So many ugly no accounts are so all-fired conceited,” she reflected, “and so many handsome men …” She eyed him intently, “never realize the power they have over women.”

  “I’ve never thought about it,” he shrugged.

  “About you and the Mex?” she prodded.

  “He once saved my life,” said Jim. “A little while later, I saved his. It’s that simple, Nadine.”

  “You feel beholden to him?” she frowned.

  “Let’s just say I remember how I could’ve died of snakebite,” said Jim, “every time I feel the urge to take a boot to him and kick him out of my life.”

  “That paper you showed to Leith and the others …?” she asked.

  He dug out the sketch and, while she examined it, explained, “This man murdered a lieutenant of the 11th Cavalry, back in San Marco, Arizona. The luck was with him and he made a clean getaway. I’ve been searching for him these past seven months. In San Marco, he called himself Jenner. He’s used quite a few fake names since then, so maybe Jenner was an alias, too.”

  “I’ve never seen this man before,” she murmured, “and more’s the pity. I wish I could help you, Jim, because it all seems very personal to you.”

  “It is personal,” he assured her. “The lieutenant was my kid brother. I was a sergeant in the same outfit. There were a lot of years between us and, in many ways, he was more like a son than a brother.”

  “You’re determined to even the score,” she frowned. “You’ll find Jenner—and kill him?”

  “Only if he forces me to,” countered Jim. “The important thing is to find him, turn him over to the law and see him brought to trial. I’d as soon take him alive, Nadine.” He took a pull at his refill, eyed her enquiringly. “And now what’s all this talk about a curse?”

  She stared pensively towards the batwing doors, as she remarked, “With three of them dead—all within eight days—I guess it’s only natural Leith and the others would be nervous.”

  Two – The Widow’s Curse

  The story told by the beautiful owner of the Gay Lady was calculated to intrigue Big Jim Rand, to delay his visit to Ortega’s center of law and order. That was his routine in every town through which he passed. Always he headed straight for the office of the town marshal or county sheriff, to show his picture of Jenner, to ask the same old question. But Ortega’s lawmen would be busy at this moment, riding out to Hagen Ridge to search for track of the sidewinder who had fired on Harper Drayton. So another hunter could take time to listen to Nadine Searle’s story of the widow’s curse.

  “They live on the south side of town in the Mexican quarter—old Margarita Garcia and her brood. Her husband died about a year ago and you’ll meet many who claim she’s never been the same. The kids—well—they’re as mixed a bunch as you’re ever apt to see. Poor Consuelo is fat and slovenly, but sweet-natured. Little Pablito is cute as a button. The other boys, Miguel and Jose, have possibilities—if they can stay out of trouble. And Reba is the prettiest Mexican I’ve ever seen. But Pepi …”

  Nadine paused to heave a sad sigh and shake her head.

  “What about Pepi?” Jim asked.

  “You’ll find his grave in the Mexican cemetery,” she murmured, “behind the chapel of San Joachim. He died on a gallows in the alley alongside the jailhouse two weeks ago. He’d been tried and convicted of the murder of a bartender.”

  “Everything fair-square and legal?” asked Jim.

  “There just couldn’t be any doubt about Pepi’s guilt,” she shrugged. “He was always hot-tempered—dangerously so. A bartender at Lew Paxton’s saloon threw Pepi out for begging drinks. That boy—I shouldn’t call him a boy, because he was over twenty-one, the eldest child—had a thirst that was bound to get him into trouble.”

  “And a temper,” Jim supposed.

  “Like the trigger-section of a two dollar pistol,” said Nadine. “He waited for that bartender, waited until the saloon closed for the night, then followed him into a side alley and knifed him.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “Yes. Two of them, and very reliable. The kind of people who wouldn’t lie to save their lives. Strict church folk. The window of their bedroom overlooked the alley. They saw the whole thing.”

  “No alibi for Pepi—and two reliable witnesses for the prosecution. Sure. He wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “Those witnesses—Jake and Annie McQueen,” said. Nadine, “quit Ortega right after the trial, sold everything and fled to California.”

  “Fled?” prodded Jim.

  “To escape the curse.” Nadine smiled mirthlessly. “While the judge was pronouncing sentence of death on Pepi, old Margarita climbed onto a table, and cursed them all—the witnesses, the prosecutor, the judge and the jury—especially the jury. And she swore that, if her beloved son died, they’d die too.” Her smile faded, as she added, “The poor old soul suffered a heart atta
ck the day they hung Pepi, and now she’s paralyzed—mentally as well as physically. She just sits outside that pitiful adobe shack, mumbling to herself, fingering her beads.” She shook her head sadly. “The sorriest sight I’ve ever seen.”

  “You said three men are dead already,” Jim reminded her. “Who were they?”

  “All members of the jury,” said Nadine.

  “And they all died violently?” asked Jim.

  “One of natural causes, one accidentally and one a suicide,” she told him. “That’s the sane, logical truth, Jim. But the nervous citizens of Ortega all claim those deaths are a direct consequence of Margarita’s curse.”

  “Exactly how did they die?” demanded Jim.

  “Clem Brady was very old anyway,” she frowned. “They should never have allowed him to serve on that jury. It’s my hunch the excitement was too much for him. He collapsed the day after Pepi was executed, and Doc Cray’s verdict was heart failure—plain and simple. As for Mace Landell, I refuse to believe his death was anything more than a genuine accident. It could happen to anybody. But, of course, the know-it-alls claim Pepi’s brothers must have given the ladder a shove.”

  “Landell fell off a ladder?”

  “That’s how it happened. He was fixing shingles on his roof. His wife heard the ladder crash. A half-dozen of her neighbors were there when she found the body, and—”

  “They sent for Doc Cray?”

  “Yes, but there was nothing he could do. Poor Mace’s neck was broken. He must’ve died instantly.”

  “And the third man? You said he committed suicide.”

  “Saul McDaniels, a cashier at the Lone Star Bank. He wasn’t one of my customers, so we were never acquainted. Like Mace Landell, he was found by his own wife.”

  Nadine grimaced, frowned at Jim as she reflected, “That must be the worst thing any woman could endure. I mean to find her husband—dead.”

  “Just as tough for Mrs. McDaniels,” nodded Jim, “as for Mrs. Landell.”

  “McDaniels had shot himself with his own pistol,” said Nadine. “I guess the strain was too much for him. He knew about Mace and old Clem and he took it for granted that the curse was working. He just didn’t want to wait.”

  “You’re too hard-headed to believe in witchcraft,” Jim made it a statement, not a question. “I’d guess you’re just as hard-headed as me.”

  “That’s true enough,” she nodded. “But those other jurors are getting a bad scare, and I can’t help feeling sorry for them. Most of them are customers of mine—Kurt Richter the blacksmith—Mort Brinkley from the livery stable—Jonah Welsh, the Circle W boss; Owen Leith; Linus Hungerford and all the others. There’s a lot of bad feeling against the Garcias, Jim. People claim old Clem could have been scared to death by one of Pepi’s brothers. The ladder could have been shoved from under Mace Landell, and McDaniels’ gun could have been placed in his hand after he’d been shot.”

  “You don’t believe any of that,” opined Jim.

  “I don’t.” She shook her head emphatically. “But many do. Too many.”

  Jim reached for his Stetson, got to his feet.

  “Quite a story, Nadine.”

  “You aren’t bored,” she enquired with a roguish smile, “from listening to the troubles of Ortega County?”

  “Not the way you tell it,” said Jim. “But it’s time I paid a visit at the law office.”

  “And too early to know if you’ll be staying—or riding on,” she supposed.

  “I’ll know,” he told her, “after I’ve checked with the sheriff.”

  “Stop by again,” she murmured. “You’ll be welcome any time.”

  He nodded so-long, crooked a finger at Benito and headed for the door. A few moments later, having left the Mex in charge of their animals at the law office hitch rack, he entered Sheriff Rube Fiske’s untidy but businesslike domain and was accorded a nonchalant greeting by the lean, cigar-chewing man seated behind the old mahogany-topped desk. The boss-lawman was bald, big-nosed and alert-eyed, fiftyish and durable-looking. That bulbous nose was his most outstanding feature. He propped an elbow on the desktop, rubbed at one side of his nose with a brown forefinger, while the shrewd eyes scrutinized the big stranger.

  “Rand, you said? Sure. Clegg Robinson described you good. Well, I sent Clegg out to the ridge to check for sign of that sniper, but I don’t hold much hope. Whoever he was, that sidewinder had plenty time to cover his back-trail. It’s for sure he ain’t gonna leave a trail for Clegg to follow.” He propped the other elbow, began rubbing the outer side of his nose with the other forefinger, and managed that maneuver without dislodging the unlit cigar jutting from his thin-lipped mouth. “Harp Drayton ain’t as young as he used to be. I just hope he’s strong enough to pull through. And what brings you to Ortega, Rand?”

  “I’m looking for a man—this man,” said Jim, as he placed the sketch on the desktop. He had lost count of the number of times he had described his quarry, but did so again with care and patience. “Last time I got a lead on him,” he told the sheriff in conclusion, “he was headed in this general direction.”

  “A tinhorn, you say?” mused Fiske. “Well, you could check all the saloons and the gamblin’ houses, but I don’t know.” He shook his head dubiously. “I think we’d have spotted him. It’s a big town, but we keep our eyes peeled—me and my deputies.” Returning the sketch, he abandoned the massaging of his nose long enough to gesture vehemently and voice a warning. “You look like a shrewd hombre. Do I need to remind you it ain’t smart to take the law into your own hands? If you do find Jenner hereabouts …”

  “If I do find Jenner hereabouts,” Jim calmly assured him, “I’ll be doing my damnedest to take him without a fight, and deliver him to you alive and kicking.”

  “Bueno,” grunted Fiske. “So we understand each other.” And now he glanced past the chair in which Jim sat, nodding to the man moving through the open doorway. “They here yet, Lon?”

  Jim turned to look at the junior deputy and felt his heart pound a mite faster. His scalp crawled. The palms of his hands were suddenly clammy. It was an eerie sensation—to be confronted by a man who so strikingly resembled the late Lieutenant Christopher Rand. Or maybe the resemblance wasn’t all that striking. The hair, now that he observed the youthful deputy more closely, was lighter in color. The eyes were slightly darker. He stood erect, so that his height could easily be assessed. Jim calculated that he could be slightly shorter than Chris. But other characteristics were poignantly familiar—the set of the shoulders, the tone of voice, the hint of restrained strength. Always, Lieutenant Rand had seemed to be saying, I’m young—and I look young—but nobody better mistake me for a greenhorn. It was the same with this deputy. Jim had met Robinson and now Fiske, and was ready to believe this youthful badge-toter to be the smartest of the three.

  “Just arrived,” nodded the deputy. “They took him to the Cray house in a wagon.”

  “He’s talkin’ about Drayton,” Fiske explained to Jim.

  “Yeah—sure,” nodded Jim, his gaze still fixed on the deputy.

  “This here’s Jim Rand,” offered Fiske, “the feller who reported the attack on Drayton.”

  “Lon Vurness,” said the deputy.

  He offered Jim a strong hand and a brief smile. As they shook, Jim’s breath caught in his throat. He coughed, released the deputy’s hand, but was incapable of shifting his gaze. Deputy Vurness eyed him curiously.

  “Something wrong, Mr. Rand?” he asked.

  “Well, no …” Jim slowly shook his head.

  “You look like you just saw a ghost,” grinned Lon. He looked at his superior then, and asked, “You needing me for awhile? I want to go visit …”

  “I know who you want to visit,” growled Fiske. “I can’t stop you, boy, but I can advise you. And if you got half a brain in your head, you’ll heed what I say. Stay away from ’em. They’re trouble.”

  “Through no fault of their own,” Lon heatedly retorted. “Hell, Sherif
f, you couldn’t believe it was Jose or Miguel took a shot at Harp Drayton. We saw ’em less than an hour ago. How could they get back to town so fast?”

  “Did I say it was either of the Garcia boys?” challenged Fiske. “Did I say that? All I’m sayin’, damn-it-all, is you ought to stay away from the Garcia house—at least until this scare has eased. Folks are apt to go off half-cocked and jump to conclusions.”

  “I’m getting to the point where I don’t care a damn how folks feel,” said Lon. “’Specially Ortega folks. I may be young, but it seems to me there are too many Mex-haters in this territory …”

  He talked on bitterly, telling his chief exactly how he felt about the American citizenry of Ortega County, and Jim was only half-listening. It wasn’t the gist of Lon Vurness’ speech that intrigued him; it was the phraseology, the way he expressed himself. ‘I may be young, but …’ How often had he heard Chris use that preamble, the same words delivered in exactly the same tone of voice! It was uncanny and downright unnerving, and he felt compelled to mutter an interjection.

  “Where are you from, Deputy?”

  Lon stopped talking in mid-sentence, while Fiske eyed Jim perplexedly.

  “How’s that again?” challenged the deputy. “Where am I from? What’s that got to do with …?”

  “You remind me—uh—of a man I once knew,” frowned Jim. “I wondered if you could be related.”

  “Virginia,” said Lon. “I’m the last Vurness you’re apt to meet in Texas. Both my folks died before I came west. I got a couple uncles and a whole mess of cousins back in Virginia—and none of ’em look like me. I favored my mother.”

  “You mind if I ask what was her maiden name?” prodded Jim.

  “Harrison,” said the deputy.

  No connection, Jim reflected. The Rands had originated from areas north of Virginia, and so had the Burgoynes; his mother had been a Burgoyne of Wisconsin. So it could be naught but a freakish coincidence. On closer appraisal, the resemblance lessened, or maybe his imagination was over-active, maybe Chris was too often in his mind.