His only reminders of the Mex were the packroll and saddlebag dumped in the corner. He now recalled that, while being hustled out of the Gay Lady by Deputy Robinson. Benito was still in possession of his beloved guitar. The lawmen of Ortega, he reflected, would soon have cause to regret the oversight, should they permit Benito to keep the guitar. The Mex would undoubtedly sing, accompanying himself on the guitar, and that instrument was no more tuneful than the nasal, rasping voice of the grimiest pickpocket north of the Rio Bravo.
He had been asleep almost two hours when he was awakened by a rapping at his door and a voice calling his name. The voice was Rockwell’s. He sat up, yawning, rubbing at his bare chest.
“Yeah—I’m here. What is it?”
“We’re sure sorry to wake you up, Mr. Rand, but …”
“We?”
“Yessir. Quite a few of us out here—hankerin’ to talk to you.”
“Can’t it wait till morning?”
“I reckon we’d all feel a sight easier if we get it settled tonight.”
He felt for his matches, scratched one and got his lamp working, then quit the bed and wrapped a bath towel about his midriff. Other voices reached him now. He unlocked and opened the door, gestured for them to enter. As they moved in, three of them offered apologies.
“We’re sure sorry …” began Rockwell.
“Helluva time to bust in on a man,” mumbled Jonah Welsh.
“But we decided to parley with you,” explained Owen Leith, “while the notion was still hot in our minds.”
“Howdy again,” grinned Kurt Richter.
There were eight in all, so that the bedroom now appeared overcrowded. Undismayed at his near-naked state, Jim rolled and lit a cigarette, perched on the ledge of the open window. Jonah and Leith occupied the only chairs. Richter squatted on the floor with his broad back pressed to the closed door. The other five perched on the edges of the beds. Leith, the good-looking owner of L Bar, seemed to have been elected spokesman; he introduced those men with whom Jim was not yet acquainted.
“These gentlemen were also on the Garcia jury, Rand. I think you’ve already met Mort Brinkley of the MB Corral and Livery …”
“Hello again.” Jim nodded to the doleful Brinkley, and couldn’t resist a jibe. “You look naked without your Bible.”
Brinkley bowed his head. Leith talked on, indicating the other men.
“Greg March, Linus Hungerford and Erwin Dodd.”
“So we’re all here,” drawled Richter.
“Yep,” grunted Rockwell. “Eight of us. Twelve minus four.” He eyed Jim uneasily. “We got a proposition for you. Mr. Leith’ll explain it.”
“Until tonight,” frowned Jonah, “I didn’t really believe I was in any kind of danger. My wife tried to warn me.” He shrugged self-consciously. “I should’ve listened to her—because what she said made a heap of sense. We’re all targets, all eight of us.” He nodded to Leith. “Go ahead, Owen. You tell him.”
“If you’re a sporting man, Rand …” began Leith, with a companionable smile.
“I never turn my back on a fair gamble,” Jim assured him.
“Well then, this proposition should appeal to you,” said the L Bar boss. “You’ve made quite an impression in the few hours you’ve been here. You’re a stranger, but you’re learning fast—about the troubles plaguing us all—so now we’re ready to hire you.”
Seven – One Very Active Corpse
Jim let his gaze drift from face to face, and then back to Owen Leith. His visitors were studying him expectantly, some of them obviously ill at ease, some patient and philosophical. Jonah Welsh, Richter and Rockwell were in the latter category. He watched with interest, as Leith produced a long envelope. It was unsealed and it bulged, and the reason for the bulge was a thick wad of banknotes.
“Twenty-five hundred dollars,” said Leith, “in cash.”
“We all chipped in,” said Rockwell. “It was Mr. Leith’s idea, and we’re all agreed to it. Each man contributes as much as he can afford.”
“I’ll raise the ante—independently—if twenty-five hundred ain’t enough for you,” said Jonah.
“Who’d we appoint as treasurer?” asked Leith.
“Linus,” said Richter. “On account of he owns a good safe.”
“Oh, sure. Here, Linus.” Leith passed the envelope to Hungerford, who stowed it in an inside pocket of his coat. “Well, that should satisfy you that we mean business, Rand. The money has been collected and will be held for you. When you deliver—we deliver.”
“I haven’t said I’m for hire,” frowned Jim. “You haven’t told me exactly what I’m supposed to deliver.”
“It ain’t a ‘what’,” grunted Richter. “It’s a ‘who’.”
“You’ve proved that you know how to handle yourself in an emergency,” Leith pointed out. “Couple of Box 10 riders have told us how you stopped that runaway, the horse that was dragging poor Harp Drayton. And Rube Fiske is still talking about the way you tore into Langtry and his hardcase friends this afternoon.”
“Tonight,” said Jonah, “you risked your hide. You shielded me when I got shot at.”
“After you’d been shot at,” Jim corrected.
“You weren’t to know they wouldn’t shoot again,” argued Jonah. “And you were wide open—which proves you’re always willin’ to take a risk.”
“Another thing,” said Leith, earnestly. “It’s often the outsider—the stranger—who’s first to root out the truth. I don’t know. Maybe a stranger sees things clearer. You might get to the bottom of this whole lousy business—a damn sight faster than Rube Fiske.”
“We mean no disloyalty to our sheriff,” mumbled the portly Erwin Dodd. “But he’s no detective—that’s for sure.”
“I’m no detective,” Jim hastened to point out.
“Maybe not,” shrugged Jonah, “but it’s plain that you got a quick brain.”
“Also,” smiled Leith, “you could get lucky.”
“Lucky enough for what?” demanded Jim.
“Lucky enough—smart enough,” said Leith, “to dig deep into everything that’s happened since Pepi Garcia was hung, and maybe to find out who the killer is—the sniper who’s trying to wipe out the whole damn jury.”
“You get the drop on him,” muttered Rockwell. “Shoot the crazy sonofabitch—or at least find out who he is and turn him over to Fiske.”
“And we’ll pay off,” Hungerford assured him. “You’ll collect the whole twenty-five hundred—and welcome.”
Jim frowned at his cigarette. It had become a two-inch butt, so he flicked it into the dust of the side alley. Again, he let his gaze drift from face to face.
“You’re all jumping to a conclusion,” he warned them. “The first juror to die was old and prone to heart failure. Neither Fiske nor the coroner saw any cause to suspect he’d been murdered—and the same applies to the hombre who fell off a ladder. I’m not satisfied that McDaniels really committed suicide, but ...”
“We can’t afford to be satisfied—about any of it,” growled Leith. “Look at it from our point of view, Rand. We have to take it for granted that Brady was scared to death, that somebody made sure Landell would fall off that ladder. If the fall hadn’t killed Landell, you can bet the killer would’ve finished him off. As for McDaniels, that might’ve been suicide, but the same killer is to blame, because it’s clear that McDaniels didn’t have the guts to wait. He got scared and took his own life. Anyway—that’s how it looks to me.”
“As for Harp Drayton,” frowned Richter, “that was murder, sure enough; Poor Harp was doomed—from the minute his horse bolted. And now—tonight—the killer made a try for Mr. Welsh.”
“I could surround myself with protection, Mr. Rand,” drawled Jonah. “Ain’t a man on my payroll wouldn’t risk his life for me. Or I could make Rube Fisk lock me in jail. Protective custody it’s called. But I just don’t crave to be penned like a fractious old cayuse. I’d as soon move free. Hirin’ you might just be
the slickest way of gettin’ this mess tidied up.”
“We got faith in you,” mumbled Brinkley.
“I reckon we’ll all sleep a lot easier tonight,” muttered Rockwell, “if you agree to our proposition.”
“Well?” challenged Richter. “What d’you say?”
The cigarette hadn’t stimulated Jim; he could barely keep his eyes open. To attempt to explain the irony of their offer to these eight men would be a time-waster. The irony was the simple fact that he had already decided to remain in Ortega and try to unmask the killer. An offer of 2500 dollars for his services was a mere incidental.
“All right,” he nodded. “I can’t guarantee results, but I’ll take a whirl at it.”
“Bueno.” Jonah nodded approvingly. “How soon can you start?”
“A weary brain is no use to any man,” said Jim. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
“Got any ideas already?” asked Richter, as he rose to his feet.
“I’m not ready to believe the killer is influenced by the Garcia case,” frowned Jim. “Everybody takes it for granted, but that doesn’t make it a fact. He could have some other reason—something that hasn’t occurred to any of us.”
“So?” prodded Rockwell.
“So I’ll have to start checking on you—all eight of you,” said Jim, “and find out what you’ve been doing recently—find out if you all have a common enemy.”
“For a man who complains of bein’ brain-weary,” observed Richter, “you sure think deep.”
“All we can do now,” suggested Leith, “is say goodnight and let Rand catch up on his sleep.” He shook Jim’s hand warmly. “We thank you, in advance.”
“It’s a mite early for thanks,” said Jim.
“No,” said Leith. “I have a feeling you’ll run the guilty party to ground. I have confidence in you.”
The others insisted on shaking Jim’s hand, before trooping out into the corridor. Jim then closed the door and, while listening to their receding footsteps, crossed to the table beside his bed and reached for the lamp with the intention of extinguishing it. And then, as on so many occasions during his army career, his sixth sense began working, a thrill of foreboding smote him like a physical blow. Weary though he was, the feeling was very clear, insistent; demanding the conviction that he could not afford to sleep in this room tonight. Had he not been identified as a potential enemy of the anonymous killer? The man must have gotten a clear view of him in those few tense moments after he had gone to Jonah Welsh’s aid out there in Main Street.
Also, he hadn’t thought to instruct Leith and the other jurymen to keep their agreement a secret. By now, Rockwell or Brinkley or any of the others could be discussing their hired bodyguard across the bar of some local saloon. Within the hour, a great many towners—the killer included—could be aware of his interest in the case. 2500 dollars is a lot of incentive. Why wouldn’t the killer consider him an enemy?
His next movements were automatic. He began by donning his pants and rolling all his other clothing into his slicker. The bundle was placed in his bed and the covers drawn up to completely conceal it. He wasn’t at all sure that he had anything to gain by rigging his makeshift dummy; his only motive was a vague notion that, if the assassin triggered a shot at the dummy from the open window, the report would surely awaken him. He might arrive on the scene in time to apprehend the killer. Yawning, he extinguished the lamp.
Quitting the room, locking the door after him, he padded along the ground-floor corridor in his bare feet. The first door he tried was locked. The next was unlocked, but the room was well and truly occupied, judging from the loud snores issuing from within. The third door was both unlocked and unoccupied. He made no attempt to locate the lamp or to open the window, but made straight for the bed, fell onto it and began sleeping almost immediately.
When next he opened his eyes, the chill of early morning was already giving way to an uncomfortable warmth, a promise that the day would be hot. He rolled over, fished his timepiece from his pants pocket and squinted at it: 7.10 a.m. No sounds in the corridor outside, so he would be able to return to his room unobserved.
The corridor remained quiet, as he walked along to the room originally assigned to himself and the Mex. He unlocked the door, moved inside, pulled the door shut behind him, then walked across to the window. It had been left open, but with the shade drawn. One-eyed, around the edge of the shade, he scanned as much as he could see of the side alley. It appeared to be deserted.
He spent a few moments in careful inspection of the room. At first glance, nothing had changed; nothing had been touched. On the edge of Benito’s bed, the impressions made by the behinds of Messrs. Hungerford, March and Dodd still showed clear. His bed appeared the same. The dummy was still in position. The covers hadn’t been moved—but ...
Something was jutting up from the blankets, where they stretched over the makeshift dummy. He stepped closer to the bed, studied the object intently and felt his scalp crawl. He bent, got a firm grip on the hilt of the knife and tugged it free of the bundle. The angle of the hilt indicated the weapon had been thrown, rather than wielded. Had the assassin stood beside the bed—to lunge at that shapeless mass—he would certainly have detected the subterfuge. And he would not have left the knife behind.
“Besides,” Jim reflected, “this is a special kind of knife designed for throwing …”
He hefted it in his left hand, testing its balance. Yes, a throwing knife, nothing surer. The killer had hurled it from his vantage point at the open window, had seen it lodge in the bundle and had assumed that his grisly task was done.
“As far as one man is concerned—I’m dead.”
He set the knife aside, squatting on the edge of the bed and did some deep thinking. It was a safe assumption at that. One man—the killer—certainly did believe him to be dead. All right. Follow that thought, and where does it lead you? Suspects? The likeliest suspects could be narrowed down to eight—the same eight men who had visited him last night. Only one other man knew which of the beds in this double-room was to be occupied by Jim, and that certain party was now being accommodated at the expense of the county, in the local calaboose.
All eight of them had been in this room. Benito’s bed had obviously not been used. Just as obviously, Jim’s had. So the killer knew where to find him, knew which room, knew which bed. It had to be one of the eight—or an associate—one to whom the traitor had divulged Jim’s whereabouts.
His initial shock quickly gave way to grim satisfaction. The killer would not be so hard to detect.
“Not,” he assured himself, “if I play my cards right. Not if I tread wary.”
Could the killer maintain an impassive exterior, if suddenly confronted by a man he believed to be dead? Jim doubted it. Of course the assassin might be an expert poker player, skilled at masking his feelings. This was a chance he would have to take. One by one, he would seek them out. One by one, he would confront them, making sure that they would not see him at a distance, but up close so that their reaction could be observed.
He tensed at the sound of the doorknob rattling. Grim-faced, he slid his Colt from its holster, thumbed back the hammer and moved across to stand beside the door. It opened. Jason Rockwell stepped across the threshold, toting a steaming pitcher.
“Hot water, Mr. Rand. For your shave? Hey, you awake?”
Rockwell was ambling towards the bed, when Jim shoved the door shut. His cocked Colt, hefted in his right hand, was held out of sight behind his back.
“Thanks,” he growled. “I just hope it won’t be as close a shave as I had last night.”
Rockwell turned and nodded to him, affably, quite calmly. Not by as much as the flicker of an eyelash did he show alarm.
“Mornin’. How’d you sleep?”
“Just fine,” said Jim.
If he were wrong about Rockwell, his entire scheme would be doomed at the start. This he realized, as he hammered down and toted his six-gun to the chair across which he had hung
his gunbelt. As he slid the weapon back into its holster, Rockwell eyed him enquiringly and asked: “Anything wrong?”
“Plenty,” nodded Jim. He indicated the side walls. “How thick are these walls? Can we be overheard?”
“I don’t reckon so,” frowned Rockwell.
“All right,” said Jim. “Listen to this.”
While recounting all his movements since the departure of his eight visitors, he performed his morning ablutions. And, thanks to the mirror above the washbasin, he was able to keep Rockwell under close observation during every moment of it. The rooming house proprietor stood beside Jim’s bed, hanging on his every word, glancing from the gleaming knife on the dresser to the neat slit in the bedcovers atop the makeshift dummy. His ruddy countenance wore a look of tension and uncertainty, but his voice was firm, as he declared his agreement with Jim’s theory.
“I wish I could think up an argument, but I can’t. What you say—it sure makes sense. The knife was thrown by one of us that was here last night—or by somebody hired by one of us.” He lit a cigar, retreated to the other bed and seated himself. “You can forget about me for a start. I got no reason to want anybody dead. I wouldn’t know how to throw a knife, and I sure as hell wouldn’t know how to hire a knife-thrower.”
“Can you think of anybody,” challenged Jim, “who’d profit by your death?”
“No.” Rockwell shook his head. “I already been thinkin’ about it. Can’t think of any hombre that hates me enough to kill me, and I sure don’t see how anybody could profit from it.” He stared at the back of Jim’s head, watching him drawing his razor smoothly over his jowls. “I could be next. Is that what you’re thinkin’?”
“I can’t begin to guess the next name on the killer’s list,” muttered Jim. “The only thing I’m sure of is that he now believes I’m dead.”
“Damn right,” nodded Rockwell. “And he’s in for a bad surprise.” He grinned mirthlessly. “Man, oh man! Wait till he sees you!”
Big Jim 8 Page 8
