Big Jim 6

by Marshall Grover

  “I fought and licked the Comanches,” raged Gardner, “and all the rustlers and land-sharks and scum that tried to take what was rightly mine. I held out through ten droughts and a dozen cattle-drives, and nobody could ever get the better of me. But you ...” He jabbed an accusing finger at Pat. “You’re more dangerous than the blood-thirstiest Injun that ever painted his face! You couldn’t take care of this spread for just a few days—without gettin’ played for a sucker by a passel of smooth-talkin’ thieves. You let ’em take my best beef! You helped ’em drive my cattle to the river! They paid you off in worthless paper—fake greenbacks ...!”

  “I didn’t know!” panted Pat. “How could I know ...?”

  “Shuddup!” yelled Gardner. “Get out of my house and off of my land ...!”

  “Don’t you dare yell at my Patrick!” chided Molly. “You’d better remember you’re talking to the man I’m going to marry!”

  “Like hell you’re gonna marry him!” retorted Gardner.

  “But you promised ...!” began his wife.

  “Forget what I promised, woman!” boomed Gardner. “D’you hanker to be grandmother to a litter of idiots? Maybe some of ’em’ll be two-headed! If you think I’d abide any McNear blood in this family, you’re out of your ever-lovin’ mind! He’s loco and he’s dangerous and I say—out—he—goes ...!”

  With which he seized Pat by coat-collar and pants-seat, frog-marched him to the parlor doorway and hurled him into the kitchen. Then, to further emphasize his deep desire to be rid of his daughter’s suitor, he grabbed a fistful of Pat’s shirtfront, hauled him to the outer doorway and threw him into the front yard.

  From a prone position and eating dirt, Pat desperately endeavored to reason with him.

  “Mr. Gardner—you got to listen to me! It was all a mistake! If I’d guessed that dinero was fake greenbacks ...”

  “Get!” ordered Gardner. “Scat! Vamoose! Skedaddle! And, by Henry, if you ever show your fool face on CG land again, I’ll have you shot and lynched. Get out of Quinn County! Get out of New Mexico! Get out of America ...!”

  Thus, in dire disgrace and in the deepest depths of despair, did Pat McNear quit the CG spread. His world had collapsed with a discouraging clatter that still plagued his ears. His future, once so full of promise, was now in grave doubt. How could he return to CG—to court his beloved Molly—when the very sight of him would be more than enough incentive for Clem Gardner to order him shot, or lynched, or tarred and feathered? He had failed miserably. Every saleable steer so carefully raised on CG range had been purloined by a quartet of sneak-thieves, and with ridiculous ease. They had flashed a wad of fake banknotes under his nose and, like a witless, trusting child, he had been hoodwinked—at Clem Gardner’s expense.

  Straddling his own horse and with his few possessions toted in his saddlebags and pack roll, he slowly rode the trail to Quinn City. Where else to go? He needed solace, a kind word, a friendly face. Most of all, he needed to drown his sorrows.

  ~*~

  Until sundown of that day, Sheriff Gill and an eight-strong posse were engaged in the futile chore of checking the territory between the bank of the Canadian River and the eastern boundary of Quinn County. Aiding in this sweep were both of his deputies, each accompanied by sizeable posses. The CG boss was much admired by the bulk of the county’s citizenry and, in this time of loss, many parties were eager to help. Because his jurisdiction extended no further than the county line, Gill faced the prospect of returning to town to telegraph the law authorities of the surrounding areas.

  At eight p.m., when Jim Rand and Benito Espina rode into town, the posses were still out. Jim found the county law office devoid of lawmen and staffed only by a bent-backed, lame old-timer named Hap Lacey. He was county jailer and, because the cells were unoccupied at this time, he couldn’t claim to be overworked. Placid, amiable and sociable, he lent an attentive ear to Jim’s query and examined the picture of Jenner with keen interest.

  “Don’t reckon such a feller has passed through this here town,” he opined, returning the picture. “If he was spotted, and if we already had a bulletin on him, you can bet Bob or one of his deputies would’ve arrested him. I’ll take a peek in the files. There oughta be a ‘wanted’ dodger at least.”

  “There probably will be,” said Jim, nodding wearily. “Bulletins were circularized to all the big towns, but it hasn’t helped much.” He waited for the old man to unearth the bulletin, the same ‘Wanted For Murder’ notice that had been mailed to law offices all over the southwest. There were no amendments or additions to the original information. “All right, Hap. He could have been here, but you don’t think so. Is that how it goes?”

  “But I’ll check with the sheriff just as soon as he gets back,” offered Hap. “Where’ll you be?”

  “I ought to be moving on,” muttered Jim, “but my horse has a loose shoe. Also he could use a night’s rest, and that goes double for me.”

  “You got your cayuse stabled?” asked the turnkey.

  “At Oliver’s livery and forge,” nodded Jim.

  “That’s as good a place as any,” said Hap. “And how about a place for you to sleep?”

  “I’d settle for a regular rooming house,” said Jim.

  “Make it Conniger’s on Bailey Street,” suggested Hap. “Conniger’s most always got vacancies.”

  “That sounds ominous,” Jim dryly quipped.

  “Sounds what?” blinked the jailer.

  “Let it pass,” grinned Jim. “Thanks for the advice, Hap. I’ll be seeing you.”

  On the edge of the law office porch, just before descending to the boardwalk, he spotted his shadow again. The runty Mex had been loitering a few yards along the boardwalk. Rarely did he accompany the big man into a law office; he was allergic to jails, lawmen in general and the straight and narrow, being a pickpocket of considerable talent and a thief by nature. Benito was many other things, not all of them admirable, and still Jim managed to tolerate him. Benito was a philanderer who fondly imagined himself to be a gay caballero, a swaggering womanizer so devastatingly handsome that no female could resist him. And a coward, a liar and as lazy an individual as Jim had ever known. Time and time again, Jim was seized with the urge to dismiss the little Mex—with a boot-toe well-aimed to his rear section. But time and time again Jim was reminded of a certain harrowing occasion upon which he had sprawled on face and hands and waited for death, an occasion when he would most positively have died, but for the coming of the leering Benito, who promptly went to work with a jack-knife, treated the snakebite-wound and saved his life. Such obligations are not easily forgotten.

  At this moment, Benito was up to his old tricks. He had collided—purposely—with an elderly local. Having apologized with much bowing and doffing of his sombrero, he strutted on along the boardwalk. Jim sighed resignedly, committed the local’s face to memory, then hurried after the Mex, seized him by an arm and propelled him into an alley.

  “Don’t you ever quit?” he scowled, as he pinned Benito to the wall with his left hand and frisked him with his right. “Isn’t anything sacred to you? That man might be a preacher or a doctor. He might be dirt-poor—and still you go right ahead and pick his pocket—you evil-smelling, bucktoothed, thieving little sonofagun.”

  “Amigo Jim!” Benito eyed him reproachfully. “You do me grave injustice!”

  “What did you steal from him?” Jim demanded.

  To ask such a question was pointless, since Benito was incapable of answering truthfully. The obvious alternative was to check every article on Benito’s person. Thus he located a wallet that certainly did not belong to the Mex, plus a gold watch that was all too familiar to him. And why not familiar? It was inscribed: “B.J.R.” The grateful citizens of a certain settlement far to the south had not known him as James Carey Rand, but as Big Jim Rand. This timepiece, and the St. Christopher medal worn around his neck, were his mementoes of Libertad, the town in which he had fought his first wild battle with the lawless at the star
t of his quest for the elusive Jenner. He pocketed the watch, examined the wallet, then glowered at Benito and asked:

  “Don’t you ever get weary of stealing? You even steal from me—doggone your unwashed hide.”

  “Does a great musician cease to practice?” was Benito’s ready counter. “I am an artist among thieves. My padre was a thief, and his father before him, and ...”

  “Forget it,” sighed Jim. “I’ll return this wallet to the man you stole it from—and you try not to rob anybody before I get back.”

  He hurried along the boardwalk to the ambling, elderly local, tapped him on the shoulder, handed him the wallet and gruffly informed him, “You dropped this.”

  “Well, I’ll be gosh-durned,” blinked the towner, as he accepted his property. “How could I ...?”

  “Will you check it—make sure it’s all there?”

  “Uh—yeah—sure.”

  The local examined the contents, assured Jim there was nothing missing and humbly offered his thanks. Jim told him he was entirely welcome, bade him goodnight and returned to the alley.

  “Let’s go,” he growled, grabbing Benito’s left arm.

  “We stay in this town, no?” the little Mex enquired.

  “No,” grunted Jim. “Only till tomorrow morning. By then, our animals will be rested, and we’ll be moving on.”

  “Where do we sleep?” demanded Benito.

  “A rooming house called Conniger’s,” Jim told him. “We’ll check in and get washed up, then go find a saloon where they also sell food. It’s been a long time since lunch.” It would be an overnight stay, with no complications, or so thought the tall avenger. Unwittingly, he had made a decision which would cause him to cross the path of the hapless Pat McNear, who was now making himself conspicuous in an uptown saloon called the Cinch Buckle.

  Several CG punchers had come to town to drink and gamble, and news of Pat’s expensive blunder had been carried along the length and breadth of Main Street. Many locals expressed sympathy for the CG boss. Most expressed derision and condemnation of the inept young cowpoke who had reduced his employer to near-bankruptcy. Such was the overall situation when, some little time later, Jim and Benito entered the Cinch Buckle.

  Chapter Three

  Back Alley Hassle

  The big stranger’s reaction to this noisy house of entertainment was mixed; he saw much that pleased him and much that caused him irritation. On the credit side, the beer was cold and the counter-fare plentiful, no shortage of sliced meat, bread, pickles, onions. Drinkers could help themselves. The barkeep was friendly. The blowsy redhead in the tight green gown, seated at the piano in the far corner, was playing a tune that reminded the ex-sergeant of childhood days, better times. He worked on a tall beer and a thick sandwich, while Benito drank tequila and built an even thicker sandwich—such was the credit side.

  Not so creditable was the behavior of a trio of cowhands, the three burly men tormenting Pat McNear. By now, Pat had imbibed far more than his customary quota and was much the worse for wear. His reflexes were slowed down, his nerves on edge, his eyes refusing to focus as they should.

  “Couldn’t—help—what happened,” he was mumbling, still striving to justify himself. “That fake dinero—would’ve fooled anybody ...”

  “Specially you, eh, McNear?” jeered another cowhand.

  “McNear,” chuckled another, “the cattle-thief’s friend.”

  “Don’t call me that,” begged Pat. “I never in my life—been friend to a rustler.”

  “While you’re around, they don’t need to rustle stock,” jibed the third member of the trio. “They just move in and help themselves—and pay you off with counterfeit bills.” These were Bar 16 punchers, big, bumptious and contemptuous of the outcast. One of them, the tall and lank-haired Griff Holt, had been trying to court the comely Molly Gardner for some eighteen months, and the arrival of Pat McNear in Quinn County, Pat’s successful wooing of that popular young lady, had put Holt’s nose somewhat out of joint. He had been toting a grudge. Now, with Pat in disgrace, Holt wasn’t hesitating to give vent to his feelings.

  “Just so you’ll know,” he taunted Pat, “I aim to start courtin’ Molly again right away. She’ll be feelin’ lonesome, I reckon, but she’d best get used to the idea that you’re never comin’ back. You’re on your way out of Quinn County, McNear. And good riddance.”

  Pat was seated near the pianist. Every time he tried to rise, Holt or one of his sidekicks shoved him back into his chair. To the accompaniment of much sniggering, Holt severed the lapels of Pat’s jacket with a jack-knife. Another man came to the bar-counter, jostled Benito aside and grabbed a fistful of dill-pickles which he toted back to the table and rubbed into Pat’s face. Pat struggled, but Holt and the other cowpoke were holding him tight. Some of the patrons of the Cinch Buckle saw humor in the situation. Some didn’t, but minded their own business; Holt and his two pards were a formidable trio.

  “You ever notice,” the barkeep remarked, “how some hombres just have to kick a feller that’s down? I wonder why it happens. There’s hombres that live a lot of years and never know trouble, and there’s others that get nothin’ but trouble. Misery on top of misery—you know?”

  “Sure,” nodded Jim. “I’ve seen it happen.”

  “You take young McNear, for instance …” The barkeep launched into what amounted to a reasonably accurate description of the confidence-trick that had resulted in Pat’s being fired from CG. Over the past hour, this beer-puller had heard four different versions; the tale was stretched and distorted somewhat in the re-telling. “And then,” he concluded, “old Clem personally threw Pat off CG range, and Pat came to town to drown his sorrows. Now, I ask you, ain’t that the saddest story you ever heard?”

  “Sad enough,” agreed Jim. “Also, a lot of people are acting mighty foolish. They forget that they could just as easily be fooled by a counterfeit banknote. Of course it all depends on how good a job the counterfeiters have done on those bills, but who could expect a working cowpoke to see the difference?”

  “You talk like a fair-minded man, friend,” said the barkeep. “Say, what line of business are you in?”

  “I’m not in business,” said Jim. “You might say I’m on the drift. I used to be a sergeant in the army.”

  “Is that so?” The barkeep was impressed.

  “Eleventh Cavalry,” Jim told him. “And, by the way ...” He produced the picture of his quarry, unfolded it and displayed it for the barkeep’s inspection. “You ever see this jasper?”

  “No. Don’t believe I did,” drawled the barkeep. “You’re huntin’ him, eh? Well, he mightn’t be easy to find.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Jim, as he restored the picture to his pocket.

  “Because he looks kind of ordinary,” said the barkeep. “An ordinary-lookin’ hombre is harder to run down than some jasper that looks special.”

  “Jenner isn’t all that ordinary,” countered Jim. “He wears a pearl ring and a pearl stickpin. What’s more, his favorite fire-water is raw brandy.”

  The barkeep grimaced.

  “Brandy neat? Hell. There’s some drinkers got no respect for their innards—nor their brains.”

  “You couldn’t recall serving a raw brandy-drinker recently?” prodded Jim.

  The barkeep shook his head. Benito then tugged at Jim’s sleeve and observed, with his mouth half-full, “These bravados have much fun, no? But is too bad for the young hombre who is so drunk. Si. Muy borracho.”

  Again, Jim’s attention switched to the men bedeviling Pat McNear. Hadn’t that hapless cowhand suffered enough indignity? A handful of dill-pickles had been rubbed into his face so that his eyes were smarting. Half a flagon of beer had been emptied over his shirtfront. He was mumbling protests, but weakly, and now Holt was hauling him to his feet; the three Bar 16 punchers were half-pushing, half-dragging him towards a rear door, and Jim was suddenly very interested.

  “What’s beyond that doorway?” he demanded
of the barkeep. “One of your back rooms?”

  “No,” frowned the barkeep. “Just the back alley.” He put a hand on Jim’s arm. “Look, friend, let me offer you a word of advice. Leave ’em be.”

  “I’ll leave ’em be,” Jim assured him, “if they only mean to douse the drunk’s head and help him to sober up. That’s all the young feller needs. His face shoved into cold water. His belly filled with black coffee.”

  “Well ...” the barkeep shrugged Uneasily, “I don’t reckon that’s what Holt and his pards have in mind.”

  “All the more reason,” growled Jim, “why somebody ought to lend McNear a helping hand.”

  “It ain’t your grief,” muttered the barkeep. “And, believe me, Holt and his pards play rough. They’re real bad medicine.”

  “Thanks for the advice—and the free chow,” grunted Jim.

  He dropped coins on the bar and started for that rear door. Benito, after shrugging philosophically, gulped the remainder of his drink and shuffled after him. It wasn’t that the little Mex intended becoming involved in physical violence; he had a deep-rooted respect for his own welfare. But, if there was to be violence, he hankered to be a spectator. The spectacle of the brawny and formidable ex-Sergeant Rand subduing a passel of rowdies never ceased to intrigue him.

  When Jim stepped out of the rear doorway, the four cowhands were coming to a halt some twenty yards down the alley. Light from a streetlamp on the corner of Main Street and a side alley dimly illuminated the scene. The befuddled Pat was being shoved against a board wall, his arms held by Holt’s friends. Holt stood before him, bunching his fists and asserting:

  “I’ve wanted to do this for a helluva long time.”

  “Go ahead, Griff,” urged one of his cronies. “Fix that purty face so his own mother wouldn’t know him.”

  “Don’t worry, boy,” Jim called softly to the outcast, as he strode towards the group. “They don’t really mean it. They’re only joshing you.” Holt and his friends froze, frowning at the tall man. He kept coming, not halting until he stood beside Holt. His expression was amiable and reassuring, as he gazed into the flushed countenance of Pat McNear. “I can tell, just from looking at them,” he continued, “that they wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of you. Three of them—beating up a poor drunk cowpoke? Hell, no.” He stared hard at the men holding Pat’s arms. “They’d never do that.”