Big Jim 12

by Marshall Grover

  From the barkeep, he learned that the big man had last been seen entering the Drury House. A few moments later he was entering the lobby, aiming a query at the proprietor.

  “Room Three up the stairs,” Drury replied. And he added, pointedly, “If you’re sure you want to see him.”

  On his way to the stairs, the ramrod paused to frown at him.

  “Is that supposed to mean somethin’?” he demanded.

  “You’ll be the second XL man to come looking for Jim Rand this afternoon,” said Drury. “Before you, it was young Vinson. Maybe you’ve heard...?”

  “I’ve heard,” nodded Storl.

  Drury shrugged, as he said, “I wouldn’t want any more trouble here.”

  “There’ll be none,” Storl curtly assured him. “I’m here for a parley with Rand—not a hassle.”

  He climbed the stairs, walked the corridor to the door numbered ‘3’. From beyond, he heard the tuneless strumming of a guitar. When he knocked, the guitar music ceased abruptly and the doorknob rattled. A key turned in the lock. The door swung open and, from here, he could see neither of the room’s occupants.

  “Entrar,” invited the Mex.

  Storl stepped in, and now one of the occupants—the larger—was clearly visible, standing beside the doorway with his right fist full of cocked Colt. Noting that Storl’s weapon was in its holster, Jim re-sheathed the Colt and calmly explained, “I thought you might’ve been one of the kid’s sidekicks.”

  “Uh—well...” began Storl.

  “Real proddy outfit, this XL,” mused Jim. He ambled across to perch on the window ledge, while Benito shoved the door shut and reseated himself on his bed. “I haven’t quite figured out what they’re trying to prove, but they sure are proddy.”

  “The way I hear it,” muttered Storl, “you ain’t a hombre to get spooked by a passel of gunhawks.”

  “I fret,” shrugged Jim, “when there’s a fair reason for fretting. And what’s your problem?”

  “I’m Perry Storl.” The visitor folded his arms, studied the big man with keen interest. “I ramrod XL for Kane Magnus. But—uh—I’m just a courier right now, here to give you a message from the boss.”

  “What kind of a message?” asked Jim.

  “Call it an invite,” said Storl. “Mr. Magnus wants to parley with you.”

  “What you really mean,” accused Jim, “is your boss is curious. He wants to look me over.”

  Storl grinned mirthlessly.

  “You and the boss’ll get along fine,” he predicted. “What d’you say, Rand? You feel like takin’ a ride out to XL now?”

  “Now,” Jim supposed, “would be as good a time as any.”

  His mind was turning over fast. Every once in awhile, men were apt to misjudge him. This was one of those times. He had the impression that Storl took him to be one of his own kind, or at least a trouble-shooter, a drifter whose gun was for hire. Well, so much the better. What had he to lose by visiting the headquarters of the man so feared by the honest citizens of San Rafael? On the contrary, he might gain something, some insight into the true character of the would-be despot. Magnus wanted to size him up. So be it. This would work both ways. By the time he rode away from XL, his own assessment of Kane Magnus would be complete; he would have some knowledge of the cattle baron’s strength—and weakness.

  Benito appeared apprehensive, when Jim indicated his willingness to accompany the XL foreman.

  “Twice you have fought with men of this XL rancho,” he protested. “Now you will go to their patron? This could be a trap, Amigo Jim.”

  “Pay no mind to the little feller,” said Jim, grinning affably at Storl. “He’s the nervous kind.”

  “He don’t look much,” observed Storl. “Hell, Rand, I’d think you’d be particular about the company you keep.”

  Benito mumbled something unintelligible. Jim, while donning his Stetson, told him, “You stay put. If Drury claims you’ve been robbing him when I get back, I’ll take a gun-barrel to that head of yours, so help me.” He nodded to Storl. “Let’s go.”

  Soon afterwards they were riding stirrup-to-stirrup out of San Rafael, and the big man felt no disquiet at the prospect of meeting the XL boss in his own headquarters. He was sure of his hunch. The all-powerful Kane Magnus would be more curious than alarmed, at this early stage of the game. Later he would find cause to order Jim’s assassination. Later, but not yet.

  During that ride, he observed and committed to memory all the landmarks en route to the eastern entrance to the canyon. His memory of these details was of great potential importance.

  Chapter Five – Lair of a Smiling Enemy

  By the time Jim and his escort were riding into the wide space in front of the patio, the big man had been recognized by Hillary and Gribbon, off duty now, still smarting from the injuries inflicted on them this morning. They came out of the bunkhouse and, accompanied by a half-dozen other XL hands, hurried after the two riders. Kane Magnus, seated on the patio, followed the big man’s approach with an inscrutable smile.

  “Take it easy, Gribbon,” chided Storl, as he reined up. “You, too, Hillary.”

  “He won’t get off so easy this time!” fumed Hillary. “In town I’ll allow I was a mite drunk, but now...!”

  “Stay clear of him,” ordered Storl. “He’s here because the boss invited him.”

  “Don’t fret, Storl,” drawled Jim, as he slid to the ground and flexed ‘his muscles. “If those two fools want some more of the same, it’s okay by me.”

  These were show-off tactics and all for the benefit of the plump man seated on the patio, the man he had guessed to be Magnus. The two hardcases had broken away from the other men and were advancing on him with grim faces and bunched fists.

  “That’s far enough!” he boomed that warning loud enough for all to hear. “I don’t really care a damn how many barflies you beat up—only don’t try the same with me!”

  “Gribbon!” called Storl. “Hillary!”

  But the hardcases ignored him. For the second time that day, they tried to crowd the big man. They were cold sober now. Their bruises hurt but, worse than that, they were spurred by the derision aimed at them by their colleagues since their return. Big Jim would now pay dearly for that derision, or so they thought.

  Gribbon was the first optimist. He barged at Jim, made to swing a wild uppercut, then changed his mind and darted in close with his right jabbing at Jim’s face. Simultaneously, Hillary attacked from Jim’s left, unleashing a hard kick. Jim ducked under Gribbon’s jab, sidestepped nimbly to avoid Hillary’s lashing foot. His right swung outwards, the hand’ open, the edge of it slamming hard against Hillary’s Adam’s apple. Hillary gasped and began sagging. Gribbon’s wild left glanced off Jim’s chin. He threw another jabbing right to Jim’s face, and neither blow caused the big man great discomfort. He punished Gribbon in a way that brawler would never forget, with an uppercut that jarred every tooth in his head and plunged him into oblivion. It was Gribbon’s turn to sag now. As he went down, Jim gripped him by his bandanna. His right hand flashed out and closed over the bandanna of his other assailant and then, hard and fast, he rammed their heads together. The thud was grimly audible. Some of the other XL men, hardened though they were, winced and traded frowns. In an untidy heap, Gribbon and Hillary collapsed.

  Jim stepped over them, bent to retrieve his hat. Frowning past Storl at the other men, he curtly enquired: “Anybody else got any fool ideas?”

  The gunmen were silent. Storl gestured impatiently at the befuddled Gribbon and Hillary and said, “Tote ’em back to the bunkhouse.” He crooked a finger at Jim, as he moved towards the patio and the table Where Magnus sat.

  “The boss is waitin’ for you.”

  Magnus remained seated, his well-manicured right hand wrapped about a tall glass half-filled with fine quality bourbon. One of his expensive cigars was held in his left. The slate-gray eyes were taking Jim out of winding in no uncertain terms; rarely had he been subjected to such an inten
t scrutiny.

  Jim came to a halt, stood with his thumbs tucked in his gunbelt.

  “The name is Rand,” he offered. “You wanted to see me—why? Exactly what’s on your mind?”

  “Take it easy, Rand,” chided Storl. “Nobody hustles Mr. Magnus.” He frowned at his employer.

  “Before you two get to talkin’, there’s somethin’ you ought to know. Young Vinson is all through. I fired him when I got to town.”

  “Why?” demanded Magnus, still studying Jim.

  “He tried to take Rand all by himself—hankered to make a name for himself, I guess,” shrugged Storl. “Well, Rand took his hardware away from him, mussed him up some and—uh—busted his arm.”

  “I did the kid a kindness,” shrugged Jim. “He had too much sass for a gunslinger anyway—couldn’t have lasted another year.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” said Magnus, with a bland smile. “All right, Perry, you can go. Have one of the boys take care of Rand’s horse.”

  “No,” said Jim. “Tell all of the boys to step clear of the charcoal. Just leave him where he is. He’s a one-man horse. Anybody else gets too close to him, he’s apt to kick their head off.”

  “The right kind of horse,” chuckled Magnus, “for a man so strong.”

  He finished his drink, rose to his feet and, after gesturing for Jim to follow him, started for the main entrance of the ranch house. A few quick strides brought Jim level with him, as they moved along a flagged path; he wasn’t about to tag along behind Magnus like a menial.

  Inside the richly-furnished house, Magnus ushered him along a paneled hallway to his study, a handsomely-appointed room lined with bookshelves and boasting a cedar wood desk, liquor cabinet and upholstered chairs.

  “You do it up proud, don’t you?” Jim remarked. Without waiting for an invitation, he claimed the most comfortable chair. The smiling Magnus went to the liquor cabinet to pour drinks.

  “Cigars on the desk. The best Havanas. Help yourself.” Jim did that, lit up and relaxed. Magnus brought him a drink, then moved around to seat himself on the opposite side of the desk. The face of the beautiful Selma was everywhere, Jim noted. There were no fewer than four framed photographs on the desk. There were three more on the mantel and a larger one hung on each wall. He observed that all the pictures in this gallery were copies of three basic poses. All showed Selma’s gentle, unconsciously alluring smile.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she?” Magnus said it softly, almost reverently. “You could ride from here to Canada and never see a woman one quarter as beautiful.”

  “You’re right,” nodded Jim. “She sure is a looker.”

  “She will become my wife,” declared Magnus. “It will be in the very near future, I hope.”

  “You have good taste, Magnus,” Jim conceded. He took a pull at his drink, subjected the nearest picture to another appraisal. “Miss Selma Garfield, isn’t it?”

  “You’re acquainted with the lady?” frowned Magnus.

  “Nope,” lied Jim. “Saw her in town, though. Somebody told me she’s getting married Saturday. That’s a mistake, I guess. They must’ve been pointing at some other lady, and I thought they meant this Miss Selma.”

  “Selma is scheduled to be married on Saturday,” shrugged Magnus, “to an insignificant citizen called Page—a mere carpenter. I’m not discouraged, however. The wedding will be postponed—one way or another—and the lady will eventually become Mrs. Kane Magnus.” His eyes gleamed. A nerve twitched near his cheekbone as he stared at one of the pictures. He licked his lips. “A very rare woman, believe me...”

  “I’m convinced,” Jim dryly assured him.

  “She’ll be mine.” Magnus made that declaration in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “I’ll never permit her to give herself to that—that no-account!”

  Love and fanaticism, Jim reflected, were two widely contrasting emotions. It was interesting to speculate on the difference. What Nathan Page and Selma Garfield had found was the genuine, rewarding thing on which every worthwhile union of man and woman is based. What inspired Kane Magnus was something else—something less savory. Desire. He hungered for Selma, experiencing a frantic need to possess her, and his need was for the exterior—that beautiful exterior. Dig beneath the surface of Kane Magnus, he assured himself, and one would find a very shallow human being. Shallow, but dangerous.

  “I’m curious,” he grinned, as he blew a smoke-ring.

  “About what?” challenged Magnus.

  “She’s fixing to marry another man,” drawled Jim. “but you’re the man with all the pictures.”

  “They weren’t given to me,” Magnus grudgingly admitted. “I acquired them unbeknownst to her. A photographer came to San Rafael some months ago. By the time I, learned of him, he was on his way north. I sent Storl to bring him to XL, because I took it for granted Selma would have been one of his customers.”

  “You made it worth his time to make all these copies for you,” guessed Jim.

  “These pictures are a poor substitute for Selma,” muttered the rancher. “Well—all in good time—I’ll have something better than pictures to look at.” He chuckled softly, as though at some secret joke. “Something far better!”

  “You’re whisky’s good, your cigars are fine and I sure admire your taste in pictures,” said Jim, “but this isn’t why you sent for me, is it? Just what is on your mind, Magnus?”

  “That’s pretty much up to you,” said Magnus, settling back in his chair. “If you’re on the drift you wouldn’t care a damn for my proposition. If, on the other hand, you like what you see in San Rafael—if you’re thinking of staying awhile...”

  “I might stay,” said Jim. “So far I haven’t thought much about it.”

  “If you stay,” smiled Magnus, “there’ll be a job for you right here at XL. I can always use a man of your caliber, Rand, a man who knows how to take care of himself.” He let his gaze drift to the big man’s bolstered Colt. “I understand you outdrew one of my men with that long-barreled iron. Quite a feat, my friend. You must be very fast.”

  “Gun speed isn’t everything,” shrugged Jim. “What really matters is accuracy.”

  “Spoken like a true pistolero,” approved Magnus. “Well, you keep thinking about it, Rand. I have great plans for this territory. I’m already the wealthiest rancher hereabouts, but this is only the beginning, and I can be very generous to my most loyal employees. How does San Rafael impress you?”

  “It’s just another town,” said Jim.

  “It has tremendous possibilities,” Magnus assured him. “I own a piece of almost every business in that town.”

  “Sure.” Jim nodded knowingly, and contrived to appear slightly bored. “I’ve seen it happen often enough. It’s easy for a cattleman to boss a whole town. All he needs is a couple dozen gunslingers on his payroll.”

  “You too, could become a very wealthy man,” vowed Magnus.

  “Well—I don’t know...” Jim appeared dubious.

  “I personally guarantee it,” frowned Magnus.

  “I don’t see how you can get any richer than you already are,” said Jim. “You own this spread and a piece of nearly every saloon in town. You raise a good herd, sell it for the right kind of profit. That’s fine, but how many times a year can you do it? And you’re a spender, Magnus. I bet it’s costing you a fortune to live this way.”

  “I told you—San Rafael has great possibilities,” muttered his host.

  “What possibilities?” challenged Jim. “Go on, Magnus. Make that plainer.”

  “You’ll see.” Magnus smiled another inscrutable smile. “All in good time, you’ll see.”

  “I’ve heard of men like you,” mused Jim. He was purposely flattering Magnus now, hoping to draw him out. “You’re what they call a visionary.”

  “I’m agreeably surprised,” said Magnus, “to find a gunfighter with a flair for English.”

  “I had some book-learning,” drawled Jim, “but not as much as you.”

&nbs
p; “The trick is to turn one’s knowledge to good account,” said Magnus. “When I won my first few thousand in Denver a couple of years ago, the first thing I did was to hire a couple of bodyguards. Perry Storl was one of them. We came south, looking for a ranch where the graze was lush and the stock prime. I bought XL and, in a matter of months, I was unloading the herd to the big city buyers, demanding and getting my own price. Yes, I’ve prospered, and I’ll continue to prosper. Rand—are you sure you don’t want to sign on right away?”

  “I’ll likely join your outfit, Magnus,” said Jim, “but not right away. I don’t like to be rushed.”

  “In a way, you owe it to me,” said Magnus, winking. “Young Vinson was shaping up to be a good hand. You put him out of action, so I need a replacement.”

  “I’ll think about it,” promised Jim.

  He finished his drink, rose from his chair and retrieved his hat. Only then did Magnus think to remark:

  “You won’t find much respect for the XL outfit in town. Don’t let it worry you. Those psalm-singing citizens of San Rafael aren’t worth a hill of beans. When they get out of line, my men damn soon straighten ’em out.”

  “I hear tell they settled the marshal’s hash,” drawled Jim. And, somehow, he managed to grin.

  “Lomax?” Magnus shrugged unconcernedly. “Well, he’s past his prime, but it suits me to keep him in office. I may appoint a replacement—after I become mayor.”

  “You think you could get elected?” challenged Jim. “There’ll be no election,” smiled Magnus. “San Rafael will wake up one morning and learn that it now has a mayor—and that will be that.” He got to his feet. “I’ll walk you to the patio.”

  Jim was given another escort, after the rancher had accompanied him out to the patio. When he swung astride the charcoal, a couple of taciturn, lynx-eyed gunmen were waiting to ride with him.

  Once clear of the entrance to Trinidad Canyon, he again surveyed the terrain to north and south. The Magnus headquarters was perfectly situated from a strategic point of view; not much doubt about that. It would be useless for the honest citizenry of San Rafael to rise up in force in the hope of overthrowing the XL faction. XL would be defeated—would have to be defeated—but it would take more than guns and courage. Chicanery would triumph in the end; the same brand of chicanery practiced by Magnus himself.