Big Jim 12

by Marshall Grover

  In the history of New Mexico Territory, had any bride ever gone forth to her wedding in so unconventional a fashion? The bride’s father doubted it, and said as much, when interviewed by Marshal Lomax and Harriet Shadlow at midnight.

  “Quit town at two o’clock in the morning? Take my family away out to the woody ridge near Trinidad Canyon—and Selma and Trish all rigged in their wedding clothes? It doesn’t make sense, damnitall!”

  “It makes a heap of sense, Myron,” Lomax assured him.

  “I always respected you, Keefe,” frowned the storekeeper, “and I’m mighty glad to see you looking healthy again—sober—and with a few pounds of iron on your hip. But you’re talking wild now.”

  “No,” said Harriet. “It all makes sense, if you’ll only let us explain. And, after we’ve explained it, you talk it over with Trish. She understands the whole situation.”

  For ten minutes, Harriet talked to the storekeeper, impressing on him the need for secrecy. He listened, hanging on her every word, then blinking incredulously at the marshal and asking, “But how will they know where to find us? The Wilkies and Cousin Wilma and Uncle Jethro and the rest? All those folks are coming from a long way...”

  “We figure they’ll reach the ridge about the same time as you Garfields,” said Lomax. “They’re on their way from Mesilla Bend by now, Myron, and they have a guide.”

  “What guide?” frowned Garfield.

  “Cliff McRowan,” said Lomax. “Now don’t you worry, Myron. Do everything the way we tell you, and Selma and Nathan will have a right fine wedding.”

  And so it was that the bridal party departed from San Rafael many hours earlier than originally scheduled. For a bridal carriage, they were obliged to use a vehicle that would guarantee ample concealment of the ladies’ finery—a covered wagon loaned by Jebediah Quaine.

  At this same time, other interested parties were quietly moving out of town and heading northward. The Reverend and Mrs. Breen traveled in their own surrey, accompanied by a shotgun-toting Jebediah and with Lomax and Mooney riding escort. Big Jim Rand and Nathan Page were riding level with the seat of the Garfield wagon, and other local guests were bringing up the rear—Willy and Harriet Shadlow in a buckboard, plus the loyal friends willing to risk the wrath of Magnus by attending the wedding.

  The journey to the wooded ridge just north of Trinidad Canyon’s eastern entrance was accomplished without mishap and unbeknown to any employee of XL; Jim had chosen the ideal time for such mass movement to the canyon’s very portals. No Magnus riders were abroad, and the formidable representation of Garfields and Wilkies waiting in the timber had the good sense to maintain silence. Their guide, Cliff McRowan, had offered them a comprehensive explanation during the journey south from Mesilla Bend.

  By 4.30 a.m., all the introductions and explanations had been disposed of. The wedding guests, sturdy pioneer stock to whom danger was no stranger, understood what was expected of them. To make doubly certain, Jim explained it again, after gathering the people into a tight crowd.

  “We’re sorry we can’t light fires, folks, but things could be a heap worse. It’s not too cold a morning. Now I know you all hanker to see Selma and Nathan joined in matrimony with no slip-ups and no trouble of any kind, and that’s exactly how it’s gonna be—so long as everybody stays patient.”

  “We don’t mind the waitin’, mister,” declared old Great-Uncle Chester Wilkie. “It’ll give us a chance to chew the fat with Myron and his women.”

  “Talk all you want,” said Jim. “But no hollerin’. And when our guards give you the word, you all stay quiet. It’ll mean Magnus’ outfit is quitting the canyon, and we wouldn’t want ’em to guess that the entire wedding party is hidden on this ridge—would we now?”

  Towards 5 a.m., he sauntered to the south rim of the timber for a parley with the men who, if his expectations were realized, would comprise the nucleus of the attack force. Would there be an attack? He didn’t see how it could be avoided. Attack, however, was the best form of defense, and the wedding guests would hold the advantage of the element of surprise.

  He was impressed by the quiet determination apparent in the three McRowans, gaunt old Burt, balding and hatchet-jawed, the stockily-built Cliff, the stringy, wiry Darius. Conversing with the McRowans were Lomax, Mooney, Quaine and Anse Drury, the latter having volunteered to come along and lend his mite of support. Nathan’s absence from this group was necessitated by the large number of Selma’s distant kin who insisted on getting acquainted with him.

  From this vantage point, the occupants of the ridge could look down and across 200 yards of open ground to the natural gateway of the canyon. Staring bleakly in that direction, Burt McRowan tucked the stock of his rifle under his arm and said, “I calculate they’ll be ridin’ out some time ’tween seven and eight—if they hanker to reach my place before ten.”

  “That’s my guess,” nodded Jim.

  “Pa,” frowned the youthful Darius, “you think Magnus is gonna burn us out?”

  “He might,” said his father, without hesitation.

  “He’ll be sore,” drawled Cliff. “When a man as low as Magnus is feelin’ sore, there’s no tellin’ how far he’ll go.”

  “A farm can be built again,” muttered the old man. “More seed can be planted. But a son can’t be reborn. Little Burt will stay dead.” He turned to stare at Jim. “All this time, I’ve been askin’ myself how could I make Magnus pay for what his men have done. And I never had the right answer—until now. This is the way, huh, Mr. Rand? He couldn’t abide to be laughed at, but that’s just what’ll happen now. If he ever shows his face in San Rafael again, folks won’t be afeared of him. They’ll only laugh—and the laughin’ will hurt him in the worst way.”

  “That’s how I see it,” nodded Jim.

  And the vigil continued.

  Chapter Eight – Holy Matrimony and Hot Lead

  It was exactly 7.32 a.m., when Jim heard the clatter of many hooves, a sound gradually increasing in volume, welling out of the canyon entrance. He stepped back from the edge of the timber, turned to nod to Lomax, who cocked an ear and asked, “They’re coming?”

  “Coming now,” said Jim. He grinned wryly as he added, “And it sounds like a sizeable party.”

  “Darius, you got good eyes,” muttered Burt McRowan. “You tally ’em as they ride out.”

  The youngest McRowan dropped flat and bellied to the extreme edge of the ridge. Jim and the others took cover behind tree-trunks, while the bulk of the wedding party stayed put, back towards the center of the timber.

  With Magnus and Storl in the lead, the gunslingers came pounding out of the canyon mouth.

  “Seven—nine...” called Darius. “A dozen—sixteen—nineteen—that’s all, Mr. Rand. I make it twenty-two.”

  “Better than I hoped for,” Jim remarked to Lomax and Nathan.

  “Every gun on the XL payroll,” growled Lomax. “Including,” said Nathan, “Magnus and Storl.”

  “Won’t be any opposition left at XL,” mused Lomax. “Only a mess of Mex servants,” offered Mooney, “and they’ll be no problem.” He chuckled softly. “We could maybe invite ’em to the weddin’.”

  “Well,” grinned the bridegroom, “it’s a time for socializing after all.”

  The riders wheeled and began a fast run to the southeast. Grim-faced, Cliff McRowan asserted:

  “They’re headed for our place—nothin’ surer.”

  “They’ll be out of sight in a few more minutes,” observed Jim. “And then we’ll move.”

  The bride’s father and sister joined the big man for a few moments, as he stood by a tall tree and watched the XL riders moving fast towards the horizon.

  “It’s been explained to me more than once,” said Myron Garfield, tugging at his sleeve, “but it’s still a mite hard for me to believe. Let me get this straight now...”

  “Why, sure,” nodded Jim. “Ask away.”

  “Kane Magnus wanted to wed up with my Selma, right?” challenge
d Myron. “And there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do—to stop Selma from wedding up with Nathan, right?”

  “Right,” said Jim.

  “And you figured he’d surely start a ruckus at the chapel,” said Myron.

  “You could make book on it,” drawled Jim.

  “So you’ve fooled him into believing we’re gonna hold the wedding at Burt’s farm—only we’re not,” frowned Myron. “Instead, we’re gonna hold it right here at XL—right in Kane Magnus’ fancy home?”

  “That’s what we’re gonna do,” Jim assured him.

  “It’s the sassiest notion I ever heard of, I’ll tell you that,” said Myron.

  “It’s brilliant,” smiled Trish, linking an arm through Jim’s. “My Jim has more brains, more courage, than any ten other men.”

  “Don’t waste your breath on flattery, Trish,” countered Jim. “I’m still old enough to have sired you.” He threw another glance towards the horizon, then turned to call the command. “That’s it, friends. Hitch up your teams. Get saddled. We’re moving now.”

  In a matter of moments, the long line of wagons, buckboards, buggies and horsemen had made the winding descent from the ridge, to proceed across open ground to the canyon’s natural gateway. Jim rode in the lead, flanked by Marshal Lomax and Burt McRowan, and with the other riders strung out in Indian file.

  As soon as they had cleared the entrance, Jim nodded to the aged farmer, who promptly rose in his stirrups and called a command to his younger son. Darius wheeled his mount out of the column and rode back along the line to the canyon gate. From there, he would keep all approaches to the canyon under observation. Whatever befell the wedding party from now on, they would not be taken by surprise—even if Magnus and his men returned earlier than expected.

  A very surprised collection of Mexicans emerged from their adobe cabanas, assembled just beyond the patio and gaped at the approaching vehicles. None of the male servants wore sidearms and, from these quick-grinning peons, Jim anticipated no trouble. He rode to the patio and addressed them in their mother tongue, announcing that the Señorita Garfield was to be married—here and now—to the Señor Page. Much food and liquor was being toted in the wagons, and the wedding guests would appreciate being waited upon by the servants of Señor Magnus.

  “But,” protested one fat and puzzled peon, “is not the señorita to wed our patron?”

  “She will wed the Señor Page,” Jim firmly assured him.

  “Our patron will be much angry,” fretted the servant.

  “By the time your patron hears of it,” shrugged Jim, “it will be too late for him to interfere. In the meantime...” He grinned encouragingly, slapped the fat man’s back. “Fiesta, eh? Dust off the guitars, pluck the chickens, pour the vino.” As an added inducement, he prodded the fat man’s chest, winked, and confided, “We brought plenty of tequila along.”

  “Ah—tequila!” leered the fat man.

  To the accompaniment of much laughter and good-humored conversation, the wagons were stalled in front of the patio. The guests descended and followed Myron and Selma into the house, while Nathan donned his ‘going to meeting’ coat and dusted his boots, and Reverend Breen ambled through the ranch house with his wife in tow, searching out a room suitable for the ceremony. Harriet and her husband discovered the salon and the grand piano. Having sounded a few chords to ascertain that this handsome instrument was in tune, Harriet summoned a half-dozen servants and bade them move the piano to the room chosen by the preacher.

  All thought of the possible consequences of these actions was thrust to the background, as the guests crammed into the oak-paneled dining room for the wedding service. Harriet sang “Oh Promise Me” in a soprano far sweeter than Jim had anticipated, while her husband grinned fondly, and various relatives wept or smiled, depending on their attitudes towards the cessation of the bachelor or spinster state.

  Noah Breen was in good voice. So, for that matter, were the bride and groom. Trish, looking uncommonly pretty, stood beside her beautiful sister and smiled a cheerful smile,, while the more solemn Jim hovered beside the harassed bridegroom—a mountain of steadying influence in time of strain.

  The ceremony proceeded without a hitch. At its conclusion, Jim warmly shook Nathan’s hand.

  “Congratulations, Corporal.”

  “Thanks a lot, Sarge. Without you, it wouldn’t have been possible.”

  Then, after planting a brotherly kiss on beautiful Selma, the big man ambled out onto the patio to confer with his self-appointed henchmen—Lomax, Mooney, Quaine, Drury and the McRowans.

  “Still plenty of time,” remarked the blacksmith, after Jim had consulted his watch.

  “Why, sure,” grinned Mooney. “Time for the folks to have a real old-fashioned shindig—just like at any other weddin’.”

  “They’ll need an hour or more,” opined Lomax, “to get back here from the farm.”

  “Maybe longer,” drawled old Burt -McRowan. “It’ll depend.”

  “On what?” frowned the lawman.

  “On whether Magnus believes the note I tacked to the door,” said the sodbuster.

  It was 9.45 a.m. when the XL bunch reached the rim of the massive basin on the floor of which the McRowan farm nestled. Right away, Magnus’ suspicion was aroused.

  “I don’t like this,” he growled.

  “It looks quiet down there—too quiet,” muttered Storl. “Ought to be a few rigs in sight by now.”

  “Unless they’ve hid their rigs and horses in the barns,” frowned Magnus.

  “Well,” shrugged the foreman, “that’s likely.”

  “I want to know for sure,” said Magnus, jerking a thumb. “Go on, Perry. Ride down there and take a look around. When you find the old man, or either of his sons, bring ’em up here at gunpoint.” His face hardened. “And I’ll question them.”

  “Moss—Hillary...” Storl beckoned, as he nudged his mount to movement again. “You tag along with me.”

  Impatiently, the XL boss awaited the return of his scouts. He walked his thoroughbred bay back and forth along the basin rim puffing on a cigar, cursing under his breath, ignoring the intent stares of his men. Down below, Storl, Moss and Hillary were clearly visible, moving in and out of the farm buildings. At 10.10 they came riding up the slope again. Storl made straight for his chief, exhibiting a crumpled sheet of paper.

  “Whole place is empty,” he reported.

  “Empty!” breathed Magnus. “That idiot Bullivant...!”

  “Damned if I can make sense of it,” frowned Storl. “Take a look at this note. It was tacked to the main door.” Magnus snatched the paper from him, glowered at it. The message was brief and, to him, as infuriating as a contrived insult. It read:

  “ELI AND HYRAM—IF YOU ARE LOOKING FOR ME AND THE BOYS,

  WE HAVE GONE TO THE GARFIELD-PAGE WEDDING.

  BURTON McROWAN.”

  “Damn and blast!” he raged.

  “The way it looks to me,” offered Storl, “somebody gave Bullivant a wrong steer. That weddin’ will be half-over by the time we reach town, and...”

  “That’s it!” gasped Magnus. “Bullivant was meant to overhear all that hogwash—about Selma getting married out here! It’s all part of a plot to keep us out of town!” He dug out his watch, scowled at it. “Damn them! Damn them all! If she’s married already, I’ll personally shoot Page!”

  “We could never reach that chapel before eleven o’clock,” protested Storl.

  “We’re going to try!” snarled Magnus.

  “And ride these critters into the ground?” challenged Storl.

  “Don’t argue with me!” fumed Magnus. “We’re going to San Rafael—just as fast as these animals can carry us!”

  Along the trail to the settlement raced the twenty-two riders while, at XL, Big Jim surrendered to the frantic pleas of Trish Garfield and partnered her in a sedate waltz. Young Darius McRowan was maintaining his lookout position at the canyon entrance with a fast horse standing in readiness. When needs be
, he could sound the alarm and give the guests ample time in which to vacate the ranch. The guests joined in the dancing, the merry-making, the eating and drinking, while the Mexican servants became befuddled on tequila and treated the intruders as old friends.

  It was 11.25 when Magnus and his men halted their panting and lathered mounts outside the Community Chapel. The building was closed and deserted, showing no sign of recent occupation. Magnus raved and ranted, yelled questions at a variety of startled passers-by, then led his men across town to the High Card to interrogate the hapless Abner Bullivant. In vain, die saloonkeeper argued that he had acted in good faith. Magnus shook him by his cravat and back-handed him time and time again.

  This enigma would, in years to come, be remembered as San Rafael’s best-kept secret. In a matter of minutes, almost every man on the XL payroll was accosting locals, plaguing them with questions—and learning exactly nothing. The nocturnal disappearance of the Garfields and all their friends had become a first class mystery.

  On a sudden inspiration, Magnus ordered one of his men to investigate the Breen house. That messenger returned to report, “Nobody home, boss. And no rig in the stable.”

  Magnus paced the porch of the High Card, trembling with rage.

  “They’ve done it!” he breathed. “I don’t understand it—don’t know how they managed it—but they’ve done it. They’ve taken Selma and that fool carpenter, the whole wedding party, somewhere out of town to be married.”

  “Now look,” frowned Storl. “I know you’re in no mood for talk of business, but there’s somethin’ you better remember.”

  “Business?” challenged Magnus. “What business?”

  “I’m talkin’ about the spread,” growled Storl. “You’ve invested all your dinero in the XL outfit and, at this moment, the whole damn canyon is empty---and wide open. Nobody left behind, except a passel of wetbacks that wouldn’t be any use in a fight.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” demanded Magnus.

  “A lot of people have seen us since we rode out of the canyon,” Storl pointed out. “Every gun on your payroll—out and about. What’s to stop some sorehead—some jasper that hates your guts—from sneakin’ into the canyon and stamped in’ your herd, or maybe settin’ fire to the house...?”