Big Jim 6

by Marshall Grover

  “Listen, you—whoever you are,” scowled Holt. “What we aim to do with this galoot is none of your consarned business.”

  “That’s right,” nodded one of the others. “So why don’t you butt out?”

  “Be glad to.” Jim grinned affably. “Just as soon as I’m sure you don’t aim to hurt him.”

  “Hurt him?” challenged Holt, laughing harshly. “That’s puttin’ it mild. He won’t stop achin’ till next Thanksgivin’.”

  “Too bad,” sighed Jim. “I was hoping you heroes would turn him loose.”

  “We’ll turn him loose,” Holt sourly promised, “when we’re good and ready.”

  “I don’t reckon I can wait that long,” drawled Jim, and again he stared hard at the men grasping Pat’s arms. “So—I’ll thank you to take your hands off him right now …”

  “I swear he means it, Griff!” breathed the man directly in front of Jim. “He thinks he can bluff all three of us!”

  “He’s got another think comin’!” snapped Holt. “We’ll settle him first—and then we’ll take care of McNear.”

  “It won’t work out that way,” Jim warned.

  And it didn’t.

  He wasn’t much concerned with the rough ethics of combat under these conditions. These hardcases outnumbered him—so the hell with rules and the hell with letting any of them throw the first punch. He threw the first punch, and he threw it not at Griff Holt but at the man directly in front of him. Moreover, he threw it low, a hard, slamming, breath-robbing blow straight to the belly. Then, while the man sagged with his face turning pasty white, Jim’s right hand—open—swung outwards at dazzling speed, and the edge of his palm struck Holt at the throat; it was Holt’s turn to suffer a change of complexion. His face was as ashen as the first man’s, as he back stepped.

  The third Bar 16 waddy let go of Pat’s left arm, barged in close and swung a hard blow to Jim’s jaw. Jim’s only reaction was to grunt, to crouch slightly and then to sidestep, so that the second wild swing missed his face by a full twelve inches. Carried on by the impetus of that swing, his attacker stumbled half-way past him. He whirled quickly, got a grip on shirt-collar and pants-belt and swung with all his might. As he released his grip, the cowhand unleashed a startled yell, hurtled clear across the alley and made jarring contact with the opposite wall—face-first. With a groan, he crumpled.

  “And now,” Jim told Holt and the other man, “if you know what’s good for you ...”

  But apparently they didn’t—at least not yet. Holt cursed luridly, called Jim a name and swung a savage kick at his groin. Jim raised his left leg to parry the kick, then lurched forward with his bunched right driving hard to Holt’s face. Holt staggered backwards like a suddenly-unstrung puppet, his arms flailing, his legs buckling, and Jim didn’t see him drop, because something hard and punishing exploded against his left ear with stunning force; the other waddy was making another attempt to knock him down. He reeled from the blow, whirled, warded off a futile attempt at a stranglehold on his throat and struck out in angry retaliation. His swinging left spun the cowhand half-around. His pounding right sped unerringly to the exposed chin and, without a sound, his victim hurtled to the dust.

  He wasn’t sweating, breathing heavily or flushed with rage; in fact he experienced only momentary annoyance. Holt was sprawled on his back, slumbering. Holt’s sidekicks were just as unconscious. The only men still on their feet were Jim and Benito and Pat McNear, although the latter was beginning to sag; the combination of too much whisky and the onslaught of crisp night air was obviously too much for the outcast. As he sagged, Jim caught him and heaved him over a shoulder. Of Benito, he acidly enquired:

  “Where the hell were you?”

  “Watching,” grinned Benito. “Always watching.”

  “Well,” said Jim, with heavy sarcasm, “just so long as you didn’t strain yourself ...”

  “Is so beautiful a sight,” Benito enthused. “Muy bello! How you punch and dodge and punch again. Ah, si. Magnifico!”

  “Let’s go,” growled Jim, and he started walking.

  They reached Main Street by means of a narrow side alley. As they began crossing it diagonally, few towners spared them even a passing glance. The sight of a drunken cowpoke being carried off to a doss-house or a barn by solicitous sidekicks was obviously no novelty in Quinn City. But they hadn’t quite reached the opposite boardwalk when they were challenged.

  “Where are you taking him?”

  The voice wasn’t loud nor belligerent; moreover it was female. Jim paused near the boardwalk, pivoted to stare at the good-looking blonde girl on the sprightly pinto filly.

  “That is Pat, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “That’s the name,” Jim nodded.

  “I’m not surprised,” she ruefully assured him. “This is pretty much what I expected—Mr. ...?”

  “Rand,” he offered. “Jim Rand. The Mex is called Benito.”

  “I’m Molly Gardner,” she told him, as she lithely dismounted.

  “Gardner ...” Jim repeated the name thoughtfully. “Would you be kin to the rancher who’s short five hundred prime steers?”

  “Clem Gardner is my father,” she murmured, “and Pat is the man I want to marry.”

  “Miss Molly,” he frowned, “that’s what I’d call a complicated situation—and then some.”

  “Por cierto,” leered Benito.

  “Button your lip,” growled Jim.

  “Si,” shrugged Benito.

  “Where were you taking Pat?” she demanded.

  “Back to the rooming house—place we checked into earlier,” said Jim.

  “You must have a mighty soft heart, Mr. Rand,” she declared. “I mean, to treat a stranger so kindly.”

  “You too, Miss Molly,” Jim suggested. “The boy doesn’t look very appealing right now, but you’re still loyal to him.”

  “Pat McNear,” Molly vehemently declared, “is the only man in the world for me.”

  “Loyalty.” He nodded approvingly. “I always say women are at their best when they’re being loyal to their men.”

  “Follow me.”

  “Where are we headed?” Jim enquired.

  “Mama Rosalia’s is only another half-block downtown,” said Molly. “She runs a restaurant—the best food in Quinn City, if you’re partial to Mexican cooking—and she’s a good friend of mine.”

  “Young and pretty?” he grinned.

  “A widow,” said Molly. “She’s fat, old enough to be my mother and has more children than I can keep count of—and she’s the kindest person I know. We’ll go around back into her kitchen. I could use some of her coffee—and I don’t need to tell you Pat has to be sobered up.”

  Benito Espina followed Jim and the girl through the rear doorway of Mama Rosalia’s cocina. The widow certainly was fat, a massive sphere of good humor, triple-chinned, and ample-bosomed and broad-hipped, and he might not have spared her a second glance, but for Molly’s mentioning: “It’s a profitable business. Her husband left her enough cash to establish the restaurant, and she has regular customers.”

  As far as Benito was concerned, any financially-independent female was a raving beauty, enticing, seductive, regardless of age or appearance; he was nothing if not mercenary. While Jim deposited Pat in a chair and Molly and the fat woman exchanged a few words, the little Mex kept trying to interrupt.

  “Querida!” he breathed, clutching at one of Mama Rosalia’s plump arms. “You are too beautiful for this life! For such a woman to cook for vagabundos and holgazans is unthinkable! Let me take you away from all this ...!”

  “Who is this comico hombre?” the fat woman cheerfully enquired of Jim. “He is loco, no?”

  “He is loco—yes,” nodded Jim. He winked at her, as he added, “But don’t call him comico. He thinks he’s one handsome caballero—and you wouldn’t want to break his heart, would you?”

  She giggled good-humoredly, so that her ample bosom shook like jelly. Molly Gardner, trim and deft in whi
te blouse and corduroy riding skirt, had filled a china mug with black coffee and was trying to force it into Pat’s mouth. Jim relieved her of that chore and, after a few moments, Pat was gulping gratefully. It was a noisy kitchen, and ‘noisy’ was an understatement. Mama Rosalia’s sixteen-year-old daughter assisted with the cooking. Another daughter, slightly older, played waitress. She came to the doorway separating the kitchen from the dining room, jabbered an order to which Mama casually retorted:

  “Tell Señor Rodriguez to wait. Good tortillas take time.”

  Either her children were uncommonly active and fast-moving or she had mothered double the usual number; they seemed to be here, there and everywhere, tall boys and girls, short boys and girls. The eldest looked to be around eighteen, the youngest a mere four year-old. They had one thing in common. They all talked loudly.

  “I knew you wouldn’t mind if we brought him here, Mama Rosalia, and I’m terribly grateful,” said Molly, raising her voice above the clamor.

  “My poor niña,” sighed Mama. “This is bad time for you, I think. Your padre will never forgive this foolish vaquero for selling so much ganado—for dinero that is useless.”

  “You heard about it.” Molly nodded and caught Jim’s eye, as she remarked, “Bad news always travels fast, in a town like Quinn City.”

  “In any town,” opined Jim.

  Pat’s eyes were open now. He was blinking to right and left, getting his bearings, and Jim supposed it wasn’t the first time that Molly Gardner and her suitor had used the kitchen of Mama Rosalia as a rendezvous. The young cowhand began talking. His speech was a mite blurred; but what he said made sense.

  “You—oughtn’t be here,” he told Molly. “If your pa hears you came lookin’ for me, he’s apt to take a bull-whip to you.”

  “How do you feel?” she urgently enquired. And, fiercely possessive, she cradled his head in her arm. “Oh, my poor sad Patrick ...”

  “Molly, you got to get out of here,” pleaded Pat, “before some towner tells your old man ...”

  “The boy’s right,” opined Webb Haines, from where he lounged in the rear doorway.

  Molly and the man of her heart eyed the ramrod apprehensively; he had arrived unannounced and unheard—thanks to the kitchen noises, the clatter of pots and pans, the chatter of the niños. He puffed on a cigarette and studied the young folk with what Jim deduced to be genuine compassion.

  “Uncle Webb ...!” began Molly.

  “Had a hunch I’d find you here,” he drawled. “Your pa sent me to fetch you and soon as I hit town, I heard how Pat got himself stewed to the gills at the Cinch Buckle. So it was easy. I only had to add two and two.” He crooked a finger at her. “C’mon now, little lady. We’d best be headin’ home.”

  “Do like he says, Molly,” said Pat. “I don’t want for you to tangle with your old man on my account.”

  “But what’s to become of you?” she fretted.

  “Seems to me there’s only one thing I can do,” he frowned. “I’ll just have to go hunt those smart-aleck swindlers and get back all your old man’s stock.”

  “Young feller,” grunted Haines, “that’s kind of a tall order. If all those law-posses couldn’t run ’em to ground, how can you hope to?”

  “The posses couldn’t travel any farther than the county border,” Pat pointed out. “Me—I can travel as far as I want, and that’s just what I aim to do, Mr. Haines.”

  “Well, from the looks of you,” said Haines, “I’d say you oughtn’t start travelin’ tonight. Better to get some sleep and move out in the mornin’.” He looked at Molly. “Meantime ...”

  “All right,” she sighed. “I’m coming.” She bent to kiss Pat, flashed the fat woman a grateful smile and walked to the doorway to stand beside the ramrod. From there, she stared back at Jim and offered a brief speech of thanks. “It was kind of you to take care of Pat. If ever we can return the favor ...”

  “That’s okay,” said Jim. “No obligation.”

  Escorted by the attentive ramrod, Molly Gardner quit the kitchen of the hash-house. Mama Rosalia poured yet another mug of black coffee for the now-subdued Pat, and Benito resumed his fervent courtship.

  “My home in California,” he informed the fat woman, “is a palace—and you will be its queen. My fortune is yours ...!”

  “How much fortune?” Mama aimed that query at the grinning Jim, not at Benito.

  “A couple dollars at most,” drawled Jim.

  “Why do you betray me?” fumed Benito. “Do you not realize that this is the only woman in the world for me?”

  “Until the next one—eh, little coyote?” chuckled Mama. And now, abruptly, she transferred her attention to Jim and the woebegone cowpoke. “You wish some food?”

  “I’ve already eaten,” Jim told her. “Muchas gracias, Mama Rosalia.”

  “And—the way I’m feelin’,” mumbled Pat, “food is the last thing I need.”

  “You should sleep now,” opined the fat woman. “You have a room in town?”

  “He can bunk with Benito and me tonight,” offered Jim. “Don’t worry, Mama Rosalia. I’ll look out for him.”

  “I sure am beholden to you, and I don’t even know your name,” said Pat. “I was drunk before—but not so drunk that I didn’t know what was happenin’. I was in bad strife, eh? Griff Holt and his pards—they’d have roughed me up—and then some.” He raised a limp hand. “McNear’s my handle. Pat McNear.”

  “Jim Rand,” said Jim, as they shook. “And the sawn-off is Benito Espina.” He grasped at Pat’s shoulders, helped him to his feet. “And now we’d better get you to the rooming house.”

  “Could we stop by Pringle’s Barn first?” asked Pat. “My horse’ll be safe at Pringle’s, but I ought to collect my gear.”

  “Sure,” nodded Jim, waving farewell to the fat woman and her brood. “We’ll collect your stuff.”

  The night breeze smote Pat McNear with all the overpowering impact of a mule’s kick. He swayed. His eyes glazed over and he would have fallen flat on his face if Jim hadn’t anticipated this reaction. For the second time that evening, he got a grip on the luckless cowhand and heaved him across his shoulders. Then, tagged by Benito, he trudged away in search of the livery stable at which Pat had left his gear.

  Chapter Four

  Three Riders East

  Despite the liberal quantity of black coffee supplied by Mama Rosalia, the outcast was still in a befuddled condition when Jim toted him into Conniger’s. Benito loafed along in their wake, hefting the saddlebags and pack roll collected from Pringle’s.

  “You first.” Jim nodded to the Mex when they reached the door of their room. “Get it open, then hustle in and light the lamp.”

  Benito obeyed. Jim set Pat on his feet, frog-marched him into the room and dumped him on a bed. As he proceeded to remove Pat’s boots, Pat resumed his mumbling.

  “Gonna track them four—smart-talkin’ skunks—if it takes the rest of my life ...”

  “Sure you are,” Jim agreed. He dropped the boots to the floor, helped the cowhand out of his damaged jacket. Benito had deposited Pat’s gear in the corner nearest the window. Without glancing in that direction, Jim growled a warning. “If you as much as lift the flap of his saddlebag, I’ll kick you from here to the Texas border. Hands off, cucaracha!”

  Benito skipped away from Pat’s saddlebags and pack-roll as quickly as if they’d suddenly become white-hot.

  “Is a tragedia,” he complained, “never to be trusted by my great amigo.”

  “By now, you ought to be used to it,” scowled Jim. He unbuckled Pat’s pants-belt, unfastened his shirt, shoved a pillow under his head and resumed the perpendicular. “There cowboy. You’ll sleep deep from now till sun-up—that’s for sure.”

  Pat opened his eyes wide, mumbled a query.

  “How—how’d I get drunk again? Somebody feed me—a hair of the dog?”

  “Just take it easy,” Jim advised. “You’ll feel like hell in the morning—but you’ll feel wor
se if you don’t sleep. So close your eyes, boy.”

  Pat McNear propped himself up on an elbow, patted at his pockets and ruefully declared, “I could sure use a smoke.”

  “You ought to be sleeping,” chided Jim, as he offered him his Durham sack and papers.

  “Just one cigarette before I hit the feathers,” muttered Pat. He began building a smoke. “You know, Mr. Rand, it makes a man feel so all-fired low-down ...”

  “You can call me Jim,” offered Jim, perching on the edge of the bed.

  “Did anything like that ever happen to you, Jim?” demanded Pat.

  “Well ...” Jim grinned wryly, “I was never in the cattle business and, as for counterfeit money, I guess I could be fooled just as easily.”

  “If those cattle had been my own,” sighed Pat, “it would’ve been bad enough. But—to let those sneakin’ coyotes drive off five hundred of Clem Gardner’s best beeves …”

  “Maybe your luck will change,” soothed Jim. He scratched a match, held the flame to Pat’s cigarette. “One thing’s for sure, cowboy. Your luck couldn’t get any worse.”

  “You ain’t foolin’,” scowled Pat. “You sure as hell ain’t foolin’.” He took a long pull at his cigarette, blew smoke through his nostrils. “No wonder Mr. Gardner got so almighty mad. I should thank my stars he didn’t shoot me—or have me lynched. It’s a helluva thing for a man to have to admit, Jim. I mean—lettin’ myself get played for a sucker by those four sidewinders. Well, by golly, I’ll sure know ’em when I see ’em again. That boss-feller with his long black beard, and the hombre in the striped suit, and the fancy-rigged galoot that talked sassy—he had the nerve to ask if I knew how to sign my name! Him with his smart talk and his pearl stickpin ...”