Big Jim 6

by Marshall Grover

  “His what?” interrupted Jim, sharply. “Did you say—a pearl stickpin?”

  He well realized that the elusive Jenner may have ceased to wear such showy jewelry, may even have overcome his craving for raw brandy and switched to whisky or some other spirit. Nevertheless, these were positive characteristics of the man who, with one bullet triggered treacherously from the rear, had ended the life, the promising career of Lieutenant Christopher Rand. Jenner’s appearance may not have changed.

  Pat was eyeing him blankly.

  “How’s that again?”

  “The man with the pearl pin in his cravat,” frowned Jim. “Think about him. Try to remember how he looked.”

  “Jim,” said Pat, “I ain’t about to forget how any of ’em looked.” He wrinkled his brow. “Feller with the pearl stickpin—yeah—he wore another pearl. Lemme think now. Oh, sure. A ring. He had a pearl ring.”

  “And he was rigged like a dude tinhorn ...” prodded Jim.

  “Damn right,” nodded Pat. “Sandy-haired jasper. His eyes were kind of light blue and hazy.”

  “Amigo Jim,” grunted Benito from his prone position under the window, “this could be the one.”

  Jim produced the picture of Jenner, unfolded it, offered it for Pat’s inspection. After only a brief glance at it, and without any hesitation, the cowpoke assured him:

  “That’s the same jasper. Burch—I think that’s what they called him. Yeah. Burch.”

  “You couldn’t be mistaken?” challenged Jim.

  “He was one of ’em—I guarantee it,” growled Pat. And then he thought to ask, “How come you’re totin’ a picture of him? You a Federal marshal, maybe?”

  “I’m no lawman,” sighed Jim, as he restored the picture to his pocket. “Just a hunter. I want this skunk who calls himself Burch. I’d as soon take him alive but, if he wants to make a fight of it ...”

  He shrugged expressively. Studying him with renewed interest, Pat soberly remarked, “Big man—there’s murder in your eyes.”

  “I didn’t know it showed,” muttered Jim.

  “This tinhorn,” frowned Pat, “what did he ever do to you?”

  “He’s a sure-thing killer—a back shooter,” said Jim. “And his last victim was my brother.” While Pat worked on the cigarette and hung on his every word, he told it all again, everything he had learned about that cowardly killing in faraway San Marco. And, having told it, he added, “This isn’t the first time Jenner has joined up with others of his kind. I guess he believes in safety in numbers.”

  “Mañana,” interjected Benito, “we ride with this young one, no?”

  “Damn right,” nodded Jim. He got to his feet, flexed his muscles, yawned, then told the cowpoke, “You can have the other three. I’ll settle for just Jenner.”

  “Hey now!” breathed Pat. “That makes me feel a heap better. I never did like to ride lonesome. We’ll tag ’em for as far as they go, eh, Jim? And they’ll be easy to find, by golly. Five hundred steers leave plenty sign for the followin’.”

  “We’ll find ’em,” Jim promised, as he prepared for bed. “I don’t much care how long it takes, but we’ll surely find ’em—you can count on that.”

  After an early breakfast at Mama Rosalia’s next morning, and despite a severe hangover, Pat McNear was eager to begin the hunt. He had discarded his wrecked Sunday suit in favor of his levis and flannel shirt. His Colt was strapped about his lean hips. He was as ready as he would ever be.

  He was impressed at the quality of the animal ridden by Big Jim, a sizeable, hefty stallion, coal-black and with a capacity for great speed. And he was bemused at the contrast between the two mounts—Jim’s and Benito’s. The little Mex straddled a nondescript burro that answered to the grandiloquent title of Capitan Cortez.

  “Will that critter last the distance?” he wondered, as they rode out of Quinn City.

  “Por favor,” begged Benito. “Speak not unkindly. Capitan Cortez is—how you say—sensitive.”

  “The burro can keep up,” Jim assured Pat. “I don’t say he’s built for speed, but he’s some stronger than he looks. When we need to move fast, I hire a regular saddle-horse for the Mex. Let’s ride!”

  Fording the Canadian at the section most favored by trail-herders was no problem at this time of the year. On the east bank they easily located the tracks of the five hundred and tagged them north to the area at which Baggot had given the order to change direction.

  “They never did aim to head for Denver,” Pat sourly opined, as he studied the broken ground. “Straight east they pushed ’em—probably clear to Texas.”

  “Well,” shrugged Jim, “let’s find out about that.”

  As they began riding eastward, Pat complained, “This is the regular route. Every eastbound herd comes thisaway, and that means we could be taggin’ tracks of ten different outfits.”

  “So we need a lucky break,” said Jim.

  “Yeah,” nodded Pat. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

  It wasn’t until the following day, in the hour before sundown, that they observed tracks of a sizeable herd veering away from the regular cattle-trail and across flat country towards a range of hills. Close by a spring, they reined up to parlay.

  “It’s likely too much to hope for.” Pat was inclined to be pessimistic. “I don’t reckon Baggot’d be so foolish as to quit the regular route.”

  “I’d say that depends,” argued Jim.

  “On what?” demanded Pat.

  “On whether he could unload those steers to some rancher in this area,” drawled Jim, “instead of driving them across the Texas border.” He hooked a leg over his saddlehorn, rolled a cigarette. “You know this country, Pat? Ever ride this way before?”

  “About a year back,” nodded Pat. “But I don’t recall if there’s a spread hereabouts.”

  “Well, this is as far as we ride today,” said Jim. “These critters need resting, and so do we.”

  In the morning, after disposing of the remains of their provisions, they readied their mounts and began the ride to that division through which a herd had penetrated the hills. Beyond was a broad and verdant valley, fine cattle country. And, by ten-thirty a.m., they were sighting a herd—approximately five-hundred-strong—on the floor of a grassy basin. A dozen or more men were hard at work. The entire basin floor was a scene of activity.

  “Busy, ain’t they?” scowled Pat, as they drew rein at the lip of the big hollow. “Brand-changin’ is what they’re doin’, Jim. Believe me, this ain’t the first time I’ve spotted rustlers workin’ with runnin’ irons. We’ve caught ’em cold, by golly, and in broad daylight!”

  “Take it easy,” cautioned Jim.

  “What d’you mean—take it easy?” challenged Pat. “There’s a better than even chance those are CG steers!”

  “And the brand-changers don’t care a damn,” Jim pointed out. “They see us, but they aren’t worried. Look ...” One of the toiling cowhands had glanced their way and was raising a hand in nonchalant salute. “If these are rustlers, they’re the coolest crew I ever heard of.”

  “Well, damnitall …” began Pat.

  “Hang onto your temper,” Jim advised. “Let’s ride on down there, check the brands and then ask a few questions.”

  “Are you sayin’ these ain’t CG beeves?” challenged Pat.

  “They might be,” said Jim. “And, if they are, it doesn’t prove these cowhands are in cahoots with the counterfeiters.”

  “Also,” observed Benito, with a nervous frown, “we are outnumbered.”

  To his credit, Pat McNear did try hard to keep his temper under control, as he descended to the basin-floor with Jim and the Mex. But a close view of a dozen or so beeves clearly marked CG was too much for him. He was cursing luridly and muttering threats, when they reined up beside the first fire. A couple of cowhands discarded their running irons and rose to their full height, dropping hands to holsters. Others, including a gray-haired man astride a bay gelding, began converging on the newcomers.<
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  “Let me handle the talking,” Jim quietly insisted.

  “When it comes to cussin’ rustlers,” fumed Pat, “I don’t need nobody else to talk for me!”

  The cowhands were trading thoughtful glances. The man on the bay nudged closer to Jim’s charcoal, fixed an enquiring gaze on him and remarked:

  “Your young friend acts mighty proddy.”

  “He has good cause,” drawled Jim.

  “What I want to know is ...!” began Pat.

  “I’d rather parlay with your tall friend, boy,” frowned the gray-haired man. “He sounds like a man who makes sense—but I can’t say the same for you.”

  “Mr. Greer,” said one of the punchers, “I don’t much admire to be called a rustler.”

  “Stay quiet, Waco,” chided the gray-haired man. And then, staring hard at the flushed and indignant Pat, he suggested, “Let’s all stay quiet, eh? I’m not deaf, so nobody has to holler at me.”

  “My name’s Rand,” offered Jim. “The Mex is called Benito, and the young feller is Pat McNear. He used to ride for the Gardner spread in Quinn County.”

  “McNear?” The gray-haired man rubbed at his chin, wrinkled his brow. “That name’s familiar to me. McNear—McNear—oh, sure. I saw your signature on the bill of sale.”

  “Bill of sale?” blinked Pat.

  “Now, look, young feller,” frowned the gray-haired man. “I run an honest spread. Circle G is my brand. The name is Greer, and any citizen of this territory—including the sheriff—will vouch for me. If you got an axe to grind, start grinding, but don’t go off half-cocked.”

  “Circle G,” breathed Pat. “That’s a right handy brand. The Gardner brand is a small ‘G’ inside a big ‘C’. To change it to your own brand, all you have to do is burn a half-moon onto the open ends of the ‘C’. Then you got a ‘G’ inside a circle. Real neat.”

  “So now you know how we’re changing the brands,” nodded Greer, “and I still don’t savvy what’s your problem.”

  “His problem ...” Jim explained it quickly, to forestall an outburst from Pat, “is that he sold five hundred head of prime stock to a passel of swindlers. They paid him in useless paper ...”

  “Useless paper?” interjected Greer.

  “Counterfeit bills,” nodded Jim.

  Greer produced a sheaf of papers from an inside pocket of his coat, examined them a moment, then passed one sheet to Pat.

  “Take a look at that,” he invited. “Is it your signature? Is it a regular bill of sale?”

  “It sure is,” Pat grudgingly admitted. “Only difference is Baggot changed the figures. I made him pay eleven dollars a head.”

  “That’s a lot of dinero,” remarked Greer, “even for steers in such fine condition.”

  “Baggot would’ve paid any price,” drawled Jim. “He could afford to—since he wasn’t using real money.”

  “Well, let’s get one thing straight, gents,” said Greer. “I had no way of guessing that Baggot and his pards were crooked. I took ’em to be genuine agents—and I paid for these steers with good money.”

  “How much?” asked Pat, with his heart sinking. “Thirty-five hundred,” said Greer.

  “Aw, hell!” groaned Pat. “Seven dollars a head!”

  “I figured that was a fair price,” declared Greer, “and I can show you a receipt that proves I acted in good faith.” He offered the receipt for Jim’s inspection. “In any court of law, I’d come through smelling like roses. I never suspected the herd had been stolen, and I don’t know any way you could prove I did.” He stared at Pat again. “Face up to it, McNear. Your quarrel isn’t with me. I sure didn’t swindle you.”

  “But, doggone it ...!” fumed Pat.

  “He’s right,” frowned Jim. “Baggot could’ve sold that herd to any rancher anywhere. Or he could’ve broken it up, selling a hundred head here, a couple hundred somewhere else. The whole five hundred could’ve been unloaded to three or four—or even a half-dozen—different ranchers. And then what? Could you yell ‘thief’ at all of them? No, Pat. It just isn’t that simple.”

  “If you aim to hunt ’em, they got a twenty-four hour start on you,” said Greer. “It was around this time yesterday that they drove their stock onto my range. I’ve got many an extra acre of graze since I bought out one of my neighbors—the old Jughandle outfit—so Baggot propositioned me at just the right time.”

  “Ten of ’em?” frowned Pat. “Six herders, and Baggot and his three pards?”

  “That’s them,” nodded Greer. “After we clinched the deal, they travelled straight east.” He pointed. “We haven’t had high wind for quite a spell, so maybe their tracks’ll still show.”

  “All right,” sighed Pat. “I reckon I owe you an apology, Mr. Greer. Wasn’t any use me cussin’ you out.”

  “Let me make a guess,” mused Greer. “You got fired, when your boss found out the sale-money was no good?”

  “I got fired,” growled Pat, “and then some.” He began wheeling his mount. “C’mon, Big Jim. No sense wastin’ any more time here.”

  “You’re forgetting we’ve used up all our provisions,” said Jim. “We won’t travel far on empty stomachs.”

  “Pop Stringer will take care of you,” offered Greer, jerking a thumb. “Ride north a half-mile and you’ll find the chuck-wagon. Tell Pop I sent you—and don’t let him charge more than store prices.” He grinned wryly. “Pop’s kind of an opportunist—but an amateur, compared with the Baggot outfit.”

  As they rode towards the north slope of the basin, Pat bitterly reflected on the audacity of the swindlers. To have locked horns with Greer would have been futile; he realized that now. Greer hadn’t purchased the herd without question. He had demanded to see proof of ownership and had been given a bill of sale which appeared one hundred percent genuine.

  “Thirty-live hundred dollars clear profit,” he scowled, “on five hundred head that didn’t cost him a cent in real money.”

  “This Señor Baggot,” leered Benito, “he is one fine thief, I think.”

  “He’ll be one dead thief,” vowed Pat, “when I catch up with him.”

  “Twenty-four hours isn’t too long a start,” offered Jim, by way of consolation. “We’ll cut their sign before sundown, I reckon. Meantime, we’ll have to buy provisions from Greer’s chuck-boss—because no man can fight if he’s weak from hunger.”

  “What I’m hungry for,” declared Pat, “is to get Baggot in my sights!”

  Chapter Five

  Plunderers’ Roost

  At four p.m. of that day, the man who called himself Baggot was working changes in his appearance. The black beard that had so impressed Pat McNear was genuine; the boss-swindler had to trim it with scissors before lathering up and plying his razor. Smoked spectacles, a beard and a suit of expensively-tailored town clothes had served as an effective disguise. Seeing him now, the disgruntled Pat might not have recognized him.

  He squatted beside a spring shielded from view of the trail by a screen of cedar and aspen, shaving unhurriedly, conversing with Jenner, Emhart and Williams. The town suit had been discarded in favor of a rig-out more utilitarian, more in character with the profession he pretended to follow in his home territory. Tascosa County knew him as Mace Garrick, a rancher on a small scale, owning a few acres in a remote corner of the county and trying to boost his profits by a mining project. The drovers, six hardened felons who obeyed his orders without question, had been paid their share of the recent profits acquired in this most recent sweep to the west. Now, they were on their way back to the Carrick ranch.

  “Got to hand it to you, Mace,” grinned Jenner. “This is the smartest set-up I’ve seen in many a year.”

  “Hell, Burch, you don’t know the half of it,” drawled Williams. “Wait till you see the mine. We ran a shaft eighty feet into Powder Mountain, just so Marv’d have a safe hidin’ place for the press.”

  “But that isn’t the only shaft,” muttered Carrick, as he slid the blade over his jowls. “The
main tunnel goes better than a hundred feet into the mountain and, if our esteemed sheriff ever thought to inspect it, he’d find a regular gold-digging operation. That tunnel entrance is in clear view.”

  “But not the shaft where Marv’s gear is hid,” grinned Williams. “We got it camouflaged, you know? There’s a bush growing right at the tunnel-mouth. You don’t see it till you’re right on top of it.”

  “Walt Rowenstock would die of heart-failure,” chuckled Carrick, “if he ever stumbled onto the truth. Of course there isn’t one chance in a thousand that he’ll ever get wise.”

  “Rowenstock—that’s the sheriff?” prodded Jenner.

  “Good old Walter,” nodded Carrick. “Fair, square and true-blue—but just not very bright.”

  “Over-confidence is dangerous,” mumbled Emhart. He was pacing back and forth beside the hobbled horses, puffing nervously at a cigar. “You speak of the sheriff as an old friend. You drink with him, play cards with him ...”

  “Exactly,” frowned Carrick. “And I may even become an alderman on the town council. That’s insurance, Marv, if you only realized it. The closer I get to Walt Rowenstock, the less chance he’ll get wise to us.”

  “All this hob-nobbing with the sheriff ...” Emhart shook his head, grimaced in distaste, “I don’t like it, Mace. I don’t like it at all.”

  “You’re becoming edgy, Marv,” observed Carrick. “Maybe I’ve been over-working you.” He smiled blandly. “We’ll have to arrange a little party for you—a few hands of poker in some sociable Tascosa saloon—or maybe dinner with a lady ...”

  “I’m not nervous,” muttered Emhart. “Just cautious.” Emhart was, in fact, both nervous and cautious; these were natural traits for a man so sensitive. Of this venal band, he was the artistic one. The plates used for the printing of the counterfeit bills were of his own design, and it wasn’t for the first time that he had become involved in the shady and hazardous pursuits of printing and distributing such dangerous merchandise.

  As for Mace Carrick, alias Archer Baggot, his was the shrewdest, most calculating mentality in the whole outfit. He was the planner, a master criminal with a genius for organization—or so he fondly believed. Audacity was one of his chief characteristics. It pleased him to rub shoulders with the three peace officers of Tascosa County, lean, hazy-eyed Walt Rowenstock and his taciturn deputies, and to be pointed to, during his frequent visits to the county seat, and described as, “Mr. Carrick—him that runs a cattle spread and a gold mine out to the south end of the county. Mighty sociable feller, and plumb respectable.”