“No, Trish,” said Jim. “I never heard of XL before today. I’m just a stranger passing through.”
“Well...” she shrugged forlornly, “I’m certainly sorry for—for making such a foolish mistake.”
Before resuming his walk to the law office, he thought to ask her, “Where does he hail from—this Nathan Page?”
“Nathan was Illinois-born. Why? Is the name familiar to you?”
“I guess he couldn’t be the same man,” shrugged Jim. “The Nate Page I knew—well—he’s probably dead by now.”
“Our Nathan,” she assured Jim, “looks too healthy to be near death.”
He doffed his Stetson to her and resumed his short walk to the law office. She stared after him a moment longer before climbing the steps and re-entering the emporium operated by her parents, Myron and Rose Garfield. At the law office rack, Jim and the Mex secured their mounts. The big man’s face became grim again, as he climbed to the office porch.
“Wait for me here,” he ordered Benito.
The barfly emerged from the office, just as Jim was crossing the porch. He still moved shakily and winced from the pain of his injuries. He wore a head-bandage and two patches of adhesive plaster on his left cheek. Over his shoulder, he mumbled his thanks to the lawman.
“Sure obliged to you, Marshal Lomax.”
There was no reply from the occupant of the office. Jim moved aside for the deadbeat, then advanced to the open doorway and stared in. The lawman was seated at his desk. With trembling hands, he uncorked a bottle and poured a stiff shot of whisky into a tin mug. His brown lackluster eyes focused on his hefty visitor for a moment.
“You want something?” he asked.
“Just a closer look,” said Jim. He propped a shoulder against the doorjamb, folded his arms and studied Lomax in keen disgust. “A closer look at a man unfit to wear a law-badge...”
“Unfit?” Lomax held the mug in both hands, gulped a generous mouthful. “Well—we sure won’t argue about that!”
“You’re sorry for Mooney—that’s plain enough,” observed Jim. “Yet you stood by while they worked him over. You didn’t make a move to help him until he was a battered and bloody wreck.”
“Jeff got off light this time,” mumbled Lomax. “You bought in—before they could dent his ribs with their boots.” He stared morosely at his drink. “If you’re here to cuss me out and call me yellow, you might as well save your breath. I’ve been cussed by experts, and it doesn’t hurt any more. If you have official business...” He raised his eyes to study Jim’s rugged visage and burly frame. “I take it you’re some kind of lawman?”
Jim shook his head, advanced to the desk and offered ‘his picture of Jenner for the lawman’s inspection. Although Abner Bullivant seemed very sure that the gambler had never visited San Rafael, he deemed it advisable that Lomax should check his files. Lomax did that, while listening to Jim’s repetition of the facts surrounding his brother’s demise, and the characteristics of his murderer.
“No such man ever came to this town,” Lomax eventually opined. “I have no record of him. If he was ever in San Rafael, I’d have spotted him for sure.”
“Drunk or sober?” Jim scathingly challenged, nodding to the bottle on the desk.
“So I’m drunk most of the time,” he mumbled. “That’s my grief and nobody else’s.”
Jim pocketed the sketch of Jenner and strode back to the doorway. From there, he subjected the lawman to another appraisal.
“I guess it wouldn’t make any difference if I reminded you,” he muttered, “about the lawman’s obligation to the people who elected him?”
“Rand...” Lomax sighed heavily, “I’ve done my duty by the people—and then some.”
“This is a sick town,” said Jim, harshly.
“Sick—and frightened,” nodded Lomax. “It’ll always be that way, while ever the law is weaker than the land.” He blinked wearily at the big man. “The land belongs to the strong and the rich, didn’t you know that, Mr. Rand? And, when a cattleman gets to be mighty rich—like Kane Magnus —he’s like a king in this country. His word is law, and a county sheriff or a town marshal is nothing, is no better than a—a messenger-boy with a badge on his vest.”
Jim stood there a moment, searching his mind for a counter to what Lomax had said, wondering if heated debate would be of any advantage in this grim situation. Lomax was a man devoid of spirit, courage, ambition; a corpse still able to move around.
Without another word, he turned and strode across the porch to the steps.
Chapter Two – Interlude at Shadlow’s Bar
For two old-fashioned and very basic reasons, the big man and the little Mex could not quit San Rafael immediately. One of those reasons was thirst; the other hunger. It was close to noon when they stepped up to leather and rode slowly away from the office of Marshal Lomax. They needed lunch and liquor, also provisions. In their saddlebags they toted naught but a few ounces of coffee beans, some jerky and a Chunk of bread well-nigh inedible.
They found a quiet establishment on a side street a short time later. It rejoiced in the title of Calle Linares, according to the faded lettering on the post at the intersection. Here, business was far from brisk. Or, as Benito suggested, “Is time for siesta, Amigo Jim. Many people sleep in the heat.”
Half-way along Calle Linares they came to a small saloon described on its shingle as Shadlow’s Bar. The entrance was open and nary a sound issued from within. As they dismounted, Jim remarked:
“We aren’t apt to find a place so quiet.”
The pounding of hooves and jingle of harness smote
his ears quite suddenly. From beside the hitch rack outside Shadlow’s, he glanced back to the intersection of Linares and Main in time to see a stagecoach go rolling past. The driver was exchanging greetings with the few locals abroad at this hour, and so quiet had been the atmosphere that the coming of the coach seemed as noisy as the sudden advent of a thunder-storm, He shrugged, turned towards the entrance to Shadlow’s.
Their arrival in that tomb-quiet bar-room touched off quite a reaction. Jim was bemused when the shirt sleeved, moon-faced little man behind the bar started convulsively and exclaimed, “Holy smoke! Customers!”
Jim nodded affably as he ambled over to the bar with the Mex in tow.
“Howdy,” he nodded. “If your beer is cool…”
“Ice-cold,” the moon-faced man earnestly assured him. “Let’s just sample it, eh, friend?” Jim good-humoredly suggested.
“And, for me, tequila,” grinned Benito, “por favor.”
“Comin’ up!” panted the moon-faced man, hustling to fill their order. “Welcome to San Rafael, boys. I’m Willy Shadlow, and you’ll find this here little bar is the friendliest place in town.” He placed a brimming tankard before Jim, a bottle, glass, pitcher of water and half a lemon before Benito. Over his shoulder he yelled a summons, aiming it at the alcove to the left of the bar counter. “Lily—Lily! We got company!”
A few moments later, a woman came sidling in from the rear room. She was well-curved and of similar age to the proprietor. Her well-knit frame was tightly encased in a beaded gown of bright green. The fire-red hair—obviously hennaed—was piled high atop her head and held in place by a comb studded with imitation gems. The rice-powder and rouge had been applied generously—with gay abandon, maybe—on that heavy-featured countenance. She sidled in with arms akimbo, paused to strike a pose, then resumed her advance, strutting right up to the big man, raising a bare arm and placing a hand on his shoulder. She fluttered her eyelids as she drawled the age-old invitation:
“Howdy, stranger. You want to buy me a little drink?”
“Give the lady whatever she wants,” Jim automatically instructed Shadlow.
“Comin’ up!” beamed Willy the proprietor.
Somehow, Jim couldn’t rid his mind of the impression that this saloon-woman had dressed in haste. There was something about the hang of her gown. For that matter, there was something about
her expression, the manner in which her war-paint had been applied, the frequent glances passing between her and Willy Shadlow. A suspicion was suddenly born in Jim’s brain, and he was more amused than angry.
“What’ll it be, Lil?” asked Willy.
“Straight gin, Willy,” she murmured, smiling invitingly at Jim.
Willy placed a sizeable, brimming glass before her. She raised it to clink it against Jim’s tankard. Solemnly, Jim said, “Here’s lookin’ at you, Lil.”
“Down with temperance,” she giggled.
“Salud,” leered Benito.
They took stiff pulls at their drinks, and Jim was thinking, as the woman’s glass half-emptied, “If that’s straight gin, I’m a buck private—in the infantry.”
“Drink hearty, friends,” urged Willy. “Your next is on the house.”
“What do they call you, big man?” she enquired.
“Rand—-Jim Rand,” he told her. “And my sawn-off sidekick is called Benito Espina.”
“Jimmy boy...” She raised a hand to pat his cheek. “How’d you like to fatten up your bankroll, eh?”
“Every game of chance in Shadlow’s Bar,” Willy stoutly asserted, “is strictly on the square.”
And Jim, who could go along with any charade up to a point, said, “I’ll take a flyer at your faro set-up.”
“Here we go!” grinned Willy.
A man of many parts was Willy Shadlow. After pouring refills all round, he darted into the back room. When he reappeared, his thinning hair was slicked down and he had divested himself of his apron; he now wore a fancy vest and a hammer tail coat. To the faro layout he strutted. Jim took the chair opposite and the game began, with the woman standing at his shoulder, urging him to increase his
bets. He played the faro for some ten minutes, won a little, lost a little and, when he announced that he was through with the game, the woman asked:
“How’d you like to dance with me?”
“Did somebody say ‘dance’?” asked Willy.
“I bet Jimmy boy dances a fine waltz,” sighed the woman.
“One waltz—comin’ up!” panted Willy.
So quickly that Benito blinked in astonishment, the little man performed another costume change. After disappearing into the backroom, he reappeared in shirtsleeves, puffing on an evil-smelling stogie and with a beaver hat perched rakishly atop his balding dome. He made for the piano in the corner, a battered, knife-scarred upright as badly in need of tuning as the guitar slung to Benito’s back. He struck a chord, while the woman insinuated herself into Jim’s arms. They began waltzing to the music supplied by Willy, who proved to be a better than average musician.
A few moments later, still convinced that his flirtatious partner was not all she pretended to be, Jim decided to bring matters to a head. The mask of rice-powder and rouge was being wrinkled by what was intended as an enticing smile, when he bowed his head and whispered in her ear.
“Let’s kiss this two-bit burg goodbye, Lil. You travel along with me, and I guarantee we’ll have a lot of laughs—in a lot of other towns...”
Just as he had anticipated, she tensed in his embrace, planted both hands against his chest and began wailing a plea to Willy Shadlow.
“Willy—help! He wants me to...!”
“Don’t worry—don’t worry!” gasped Willy, leaping to his feet. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you, Harriet!”
“Harriet?” Jim Chuckled softly. “Yeah. That sounds more like it—more convincing than Lil.”
He released the woman. She moved clear of him. Willy dashed forward, placed himself in front of her and raised his clenched fists.
“She’s my wife,” he informed Jim. “I can’t—can’t just stand by and let you insult her. You’re a sight bigger than me, but, if I have to fight you...”
“Take it easy, Willy,” grinned Jim.
“He hadn’t gotten around to insulting me, Willy,” frowned Harriet. “It was just—he looked like he was about to. Oh, Willy, I don’t know. I try, but I guess I’m no use at this kind of thing.”
“You can only do your best, Harriet darlin’,” he mumbled, still shaping up to the big man. “Well, come on, Mr. Rand. I’m ready to take you.”
“Caramba!” breathed Benito.
Grinning, Jim bent, gripped Willy by his bent elbows. Harriet gave vent to a startled gasp, as she watched her roly-poly spouse lifted off the floor so that his face was level with Jim’s.
“The trouble with Harriet and you,” Jim explained, “is you’re a couple of bad actors. You never had me fooled—not for one moment. I damn soon guessed Harriet was no percentage-girl.”
“And—you weren’t gonna insult her?” frowned Willy. “I don’t go around insulting respectable women,” the big man gravely assured him, “or any other kind of women.”
“In that case,” grinned Willy, “you can put me down —and I’ll buy another drink all round.”
Harriet Shadlow heaved a sigh of relief, as Jim deposited her husband back on his feet.
“Thank heavens for that,” she breathed. “I don’t need to pretend any longer, eh, Willy? I can go put on my own clothes—take off this consarned corset that’s squeezing the life out of me?”
“And you can scrape off that war-paint,” chuckled Jim, “and stop pretending you’ve been drinking raw gin.”
“Caught onto that too, did you?” prodded Willy. “Guessed she was drinkin’ plain water?” He shrugged forlornly. “He’s right, Harriet. We’re a couple lousy actors.”
As she made for the back room, Jim called after her, “We could sure use some chow, Harriet. Anything you have will do.”
“Be right with you,” she promised.
Soon afterwards, they were a congenial quartet, Jim and the Mex perched on stools drawn up to the bar, working their way through a meal of corn-bread, Chicken legs and pickles, while the Shadlows waited upon them and volunteered their opinion of the situation prevailing in this troubled outpost of civilization. Harriet, minus the powder and rouge and garbed in a blouse and skirt, was revealed as a homely, middle-aged housewife devoid of sensual allure and possessed of a great deal of horse-sense. She had a direct, down-to-earth manner infinitely preferable to the come-on tactics practiced by the inept ‘Lil’. As for her rotund little spouse, Jim had rarely met as sociable a saloonkeeper.
“Harriet’s just doin’ her best to help,” he explained to Jim. “She tries real hard, because business has been so bad —so dead—we scarce earn enough to keep us eatin’ regular. When I first started up here, we had a percentage-girl, two dealers and a barkeep, also a professor to play piano. Well, those were the good times...”
“Before Kane Magnus bought the old XL outfit,” interjected Harriet.
“Nowadays, it’s rough,” declared Willy. “What I mean —rough for any local businessman that don’t co-operate with Magnus. What Magnus wants, Magnus gets. You know what I mean?”
“Not exactly,” said Jim. “But keep talking. Make it plainer. I’ve seen other towns where law and order weren’t worth a plugged dime, where one man could boss the whole community, and I’m always curious about it. I always wonder how it could happen.”
“For Kane Magnus, it was dead easy,” Harriet bitterly assured him. “He arrived about a year ago, bought the XL ranch out in Trinidad Canyon, then hired himself as mean a passel of hardcases and gunhawks as you’re apt to lay eyes on.”
“Cut-throats,” scowled Willy. “A bunch of trigger-happy back shooters.” Moodily, he poured and disposed of a modest shot of rye, while Jim and the Mex resumed eating. “So now it shouldn’t be any surprise to you that Magnus owns a seventy-five percent share of every profitable business in San Rafael. Even the stores!”
“I’ll bet he’d have turned his bully-boys loose on the Garfields,” murmured Harriet, “if he wasn’t sweet on their daughter.”
Jim chewed on another mouthful of chicken, swallowed, then asked, “Is her name Trish?”
“No,”, said Harriet. �
��Trish is the younger sister. It’s Selma who caught Magnus’ greedy eye.”
“Any San Rafael merchant can get by—just makin’ a modest profit from the trail-herds and other transients,” Willy continued, “so long as he stays friendly with Magnus.”
“This Magnus,” mused Benito, “he is one muy ambicioso hombre.”
“Uh huh,” grunted Jim. “Mighty ambitious.”
“When I told him I wasn’t sellin’ no piece of this saloon to any outsider,” said. Willy, “he came right back at me and said, ‘That’s okay, Willy. You can stay in business.’ But what he meant was I could stay in business till I got to be too much competition for the other houses, the places he damn near owns. And, pretty soon, scarce anybody bought a drink in my place. You can see how it is. I had to fire my staff, and now Harriet and me, we have to handle all the chores.”
“Not that we need to work hard,” fretted Harriet. “We can scarce earn enough to keep going.”
“You’d think Magnus would be satisfied with what he’s got,” muttered Willy. “The richest spread in the territory. A fine house to live in. I hear tell his pay-’herd was sold for top market price a couple months back. Yeah. Magnus ain’t gonna die poor, that’s for sure.”
“Are all his hired hands so ornery?” demanded Jim. “To get onto the XL payroll,” Harriet dryly informed him, “you need to be a woman-chasing, trigger-happy coyote—with a mean streak.”
“And the marshal?” asked Jim.
“I hear tell Keefe Lomax used to be a real hot-shot lawman in the old days,” sighed Willy. “But not anymore. He’s no youngster...”
“I noticed,” frowned Jim.
“Ten months ago, some of those XL hardcases ganged up on the marshal,” said Willy. “Yeah, they sure worked him over. He could scarce stand up after they got through beatin’ him. There wasn’t any brain damage, Doc Frome says. It’s just—they killed his spirit, I guess. Nowadays, he
hides inside of a bottle, doesn’t even have the nerve to tote a gun—let alone use it. You wonder why Magnus didn’t put his own man in the law office, appoint another marshal? I think this is how Magnus wants it. Every time a citizen looks at Keefe Lomax, it reminds him that Magnus bosses this. territory.”
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