Big Jim 6

by Marshall Grover

  “Sheriff’s office.” Jim’s expression became grim, and a mite wistful. “I always start at the sheriff’s office, cowboy.”

  “Well …” Pat gave his gunbelt a hitch, “luck to you, Big Jim.”

  “Luck to you, too,” frowned Jim, “and remember what I told you. Don’t do anything rash.”

  At a nearby saloon, while downing a tall beer, Pat McNear engaged a barkeep in conversation and, like so many of his kind, the beer-puller was a sympathetic listener.

  “Baggot, he called himself?” He searched his memory, after Pat had mumbled his tale of woe. “Tall feller with a long black beard? Nope. Don’t believe I ever seen him.”

  “Well, they were headed this way sure enough,” declared Pat.

  “Likely rode clear of town and kept right on movin’,” suggested the barkeep, “clear out of the county.”

  “That damn storm wasn’t nothin’ but black luck for us,” Pat complained. “We had good sharp tracks to follow, until the wind swept the trail smooth.”

  “In such a storm, maybe they didn’t even sight Tascosa,” offered the barkeep. “A rider travelin’ strange territory could easy get forced off the regular trail. That was quite a storm, while it lasted. As for fake money—nope—we haven’t had any of that kind of trouble in these parts.”

  In the other houses of entertainment lining Tascosa’s main stem, the story was pretty much the same. A fine cross-section of bartenders, table-hands, percentage-women and saloonkeepers assured the disgruntled cowpoke that the name ‘Baggot’ meant nothing to them. Of course the name was probably an alias, as false as the banknotes peddled by the man with the black beard and smoked glasses. A skinny tinhorn gambler, after listening to Pat’s story, solemnly advised him to:

  “Look for a hombre who’s near-sighted.”

  “Near-sighted?” frowned Pat.

  “The smoked eye-glasses, cowboy,” said the tinhorn. “Figure it out for yourself. Why does any man wear smoked eye-glasses? Such glasses are supposed to protect his eyes from the glare of the sun. You mind what I’m tellin’ you, kid. Any man that has trouble with his eyes, he’s apt to get blinded travelin’ this territory. All that alkali and yellow rock and bright sky plagues a man with failin’ eyesight. So you look for a weak-eyed hombre, savvy?”

  “That’s probably good advice,” Pat conceded. “Only trouble is how can you tell a near-sighted man from any other kind, after he takes off those smoked glasses?”

  A burly, florid-complexioned deputy directed Jim to the county law office.

  “Just keep movin’ towards the middle of town. County jail is opposite the courthouse, and the boss is always in the office this time of mornin’.”

  “I’m obliged,” Jim acknowledged. “And what do I call the sheriff?”

  “Rowenstock’s his name,” said the deputy. “Walt Rowenstock.”

  Approaching the law office, Jim flicked his cigarette butt away and observed that the boss-lawman had company. Two horses were tethered to the rack. Well, if Rowenstock proved to be busy at this time, he might nominate an hour at which it would be convenient for him to delve through his files in search of a bulletin on the elusive Jenner.

  He climbed the steps to the porch, moved across to the open street doorway. A lean, elderly man was seated behind the desk, puffing at a bent-stemmed briar and looking even more placid, more somnolent, than the old-timers sunning themselves outside the barber shops and livery stables. Jim supposed the sheriff to be in his early fifties although, thanks to the leathery complexion and receding ash-gray hair, he could have passed for a man approaching seventy. To add to the illusion of advanced age, Walt Rowenstock spoke very slowly, softly, deliberately, as though brisk conversation might cause him confusion. His eyes were cloudy brown and mild of expression.

  “Mornin’.” He nodded a greeting. “You lookin’ for me?”

  “If you’re Sheriff Rowenstock—and I reckon you are,” said Jim.

  “Come on in,” offered the sheriff. “Bound to be a spare chair around here someplace.”

  “You already have company,” Jim pointed out, nodding to the two men seated in front of the desk. “I don’t mind coming back later.”

  “He’s polite,” Rowenstock calmly remarked to his visitors. “I surely appreciate that. You ever notice, Mace, how good manners are gettin’ to be a lost art?”

  “Sad, but true,” smiled Carrick.

  “Uh—yeah—sure,” grunted Emhart.

  And, from that moment on, Emhart was perched on the very edge of his chair. It wasn’t that he recognized the big stranger. It was, perhaps, his ragged nerves and the fact that Big Jim’s demeanor suggested quiet determination. The man was a hunter; Emhart sensed that much. There was something implacable, relentless, ominous, in the way he stepped into the office, even though he was smiling.

  “You could walk the whole length of Main Street, nowadays,” remarked Rowenstock, “and never run into a genuine gentleman, a hombre that remembers to say ‘please’ and ‘thanks’. It’s sad—mighty sad.” He studied the big man with placid interest. “You’re new hereabouts.”

  “Just arrived,” said Jim. “The name is Rand.”

  “Well, you know who I am,” drawled Rowenstock. And then, gesturing to his guests, “Say howdy to Mace Carrick and Marv Emhart, couple friends of mine.” Greetings were exchanged, after which the lawman invited Jim to state his business, and explained, “I got no secrets from my friends. Of course—uh—if you figure your problem is real personal ...”

  “It’s personal enough,” Jim assured him. “But it’s no secret. I’ll never find the man I’m hunting unless I get help, and I can’t expect help, a word of advice, a clue to his whereabouts, unless I move around and ask questions.”

  He helped himself to the spare chair, positioned it near the door and seated himself. Rowenstock eyed him soberly and said, “Yeah, that’s a fact.”

  “You in the law business, Mr. Rand?” enquired Carrick.

  “No. You could say I’m working independently,” replied Jim. “But don’t mistake me for a bounty hunter. My motives are strictly personal.” He looked at Rowenstock again. “The man I’m hunting called himself Jenner at the time he gunned my brother.”

  “Name doesn’t mean a thing to me,” said Rowenstock. “And that means I’m not holdin’ a bulletin on him. Did they put out bulletins—descriptions and stuff? They did? Well, I guess those records never travelled as far east as Tascosa.” He cupped a hand about the bowl of his pipe, studied Jim intently. “It wasn’t a fair fight?”

  “Jenner could never claim self-defense,” muttered Jim. “He shot my brother from behind. Chris was seated, playing poker. There were three witnesses. Also Chris’ six-gun was in a flapped holster.”

  “Flapped holster?” prodded the sheriff. “You mean he was army?”

  “A second lieutenant,” nodded Jim. “I was a sergeant in the same outfit, the Eleventh Cavalry.” He went on to recount other aspects of the case, then produced the all-important picture. “This is a good likeness of Jenner. It was made by a mighty talented artist, a man named Tully who actually saw Jenner in Burnett Junction.” He passed the paper to Rowenstock. “Take a close look at it. I’d be obliged if you’d try to remember if you ever saw him before.”

  “You don’t need to worry about my memory, Rand,” grunted the sheriff. “If I’ve ever seen this jasper, I’ll recall him right off.” He examined the pen-portrait. “Hmmph! A mean one.”

  “A back-shooter,” Jim soberly reminded him.

  “It happened in San Marco, you say,” mused Rowenstock. “And he called himself Jenner?”

  “Jenner,” nodded Jim.

  “I’m sorry,” said Rowenstock. “We got no record of him, and I’d take my oath I’ve never seen him. Now—what else d’you know about him?”

  Jim had lost count of the number of times he had repeated these characteristics; it had become automatic.

  “Height about five-ten. Sandy hair and moustache. Pale blue eyes.
Slim build. He’s partial to pearl jewelry and raw brandy. His voice is kind of high-pitched and nasal, and he’s a sore loser, a sharper who can’t abide to be licked in any kind of gamble—poker, dice, roulette, anything at all.”

  “So he’s just as mean as he looks,” frowned Rowenstock.

  “Bad medicine,” declared Jim.

  “Mace, you and Emhart ought to take a look,” said the sheriff. “Could be you spotted this hombre someplace while you were gone.” For Jim’s benefit, he explained, “Carrick and Emhart just got back from a trip north. They were buyin’ equipment for the mine.”

  “I’m expanding my interests,” Carrick blandly informed Jim, as he accepted the proffered sketch, “investigating the possibilities of striking a pay-vein on my range.”

  “That makes Mace the only ranchin’ miner in all of Tascosa County,” grinned Rowenstock.

  “Jenner could be somewhere north of here,” opined Jim, “so I’d be obliged if you’d check the picture.”

  Emhart instinctively edged closer to Carrick. They studied the picture together and, watching them covertly, Jim was conscious of sudden tension. It apparently didn’t affect the sheriff. Rowenstock had slumped lower in his chair and seemed completely absorbed in the re-lighting of his pipe. And Carrick appeared quite serene—but the same couldn’t be said for Emhart. Was it so hot, so stifling here in the law office, that Emhart should perspire this way? His face was shiny and, for a brief moment, Jim thought he would give vent to some ejaculation. He didn’t. He sat very quiet and clasped his hands in his lap, probably to control their trembling.

  Poker-faced, Carrick refolded the picture and returned it to Jim.

  “The man’s a stranger to me,” he drawled. “How about you, Marv? You ever see him before?”

  “Never,” grunted Emhart.

  “Well,” shrugged Carrick, “I’m not apt to forget such a face. If I ever sight this Jenner, you may be sure I’ll contact Walt in a hurry.”

  “Thanks,” said Jim. “I’d certainly appreciate that.”

  “Too bad we couldn’t help you, Rand,” remarked the lawman.

  “You might still be able to,” said Jim. He restored the sketch to his pocket, dug out his makings and began rolling a cigarette. “Jenner isn’t the only man I’m hunting. I’ve learned that he’s now riding with a bunch of swindlers who’ve been circulating counterfeit money, and this is as far as we could follow them.” While building and lighting his smoke, he told the sheriff of his joining up with the luckless Pat McNear and tagging tracks of the swindlers as far as the wind-swept pass. Again, Carrick and Emhart hung on his every word. “I guess I don’t need to tell you what that wind did to their hoof-tracks,” he concluded.

  “Quite a storm it was,” nodded Rowenstock. “Four places had their roofs damaged here in town. South wall of the Lennox barn was blown in, and Doc Chapman’s buggy was shoved over on its side. Sure, I know how a high wind sweeps out all tracks. But, up until the storm, they were headed this way?”

  “For sure,” said Jim.

  “I wonder if any of that wooden money is gonna show up in Tascosa,” frowned Rowenstock.

  “How serious is the situation, Walt?” Carrick politely enquired. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. I never imagined counterfeiters would operate so far west.”

  “I got a dodger from the Treasury Department a few months back,” shrugged Rowenstock. “We never had no complaints of fake dinero hereabouts, so I didn’t think any more of it.”

  “Well,” said Jim, rising to his feet, “they might just try to pass a few hundred dollars worth, if they’re in this area. I reckon the temptation would be too strong for them to resist.”

  “You gonna hang around in Tascosa a while?” Rowenstock asked.

  “A while,” nodded Jim. “At least until I’m sure Jenner isn’t here.”

  “I’d best take another look at that dodger from the Treasury,” decided Rowenstock, “pass the word to my deputies and have ’em warn all our merchants and bartenders and saloonkeepers. A thing like this could cause a heap of trouble—and that’s puttin’ it mild.” He nodded farewell. “Thanks for stoppin’ by, Rand. I’ll be seein’ you.”

  “Pleasure meeting you, Rand,” drawled Carrick.

  “Likewise,” said Jim, as he moved out into the sunlight.

  Some ten minutes later, Carrick and Emhart said so-long to the sheriff and quit the law office. As they descended from the porch and walked to the hitch rack, Emhart opened his mouth to speak, but Carrick quietly cautioned him.

  “Not here—and not now. Later.”

  They untethered their mounts. Emhart took his cue from Carrick, began sauntering uptown, leading his horse by its rein. Not until they were drawing abreast of an alley mouth in a not-so-busy section of Main Street did Carrick speak, again, and then only to say:

  “Into the alley. We can’t be overheard there.”

  “We have to get out of town—and fast!” breathed Emhart.

  “Don’t worry,” grunted Carrick. “McNear isn’t apt to spot you. Take a man out of town clothes, rig him in riding clothes, and there’s quite a difference.”

  “You take too much for granted!” fretted Emhart. “You take too many chances!”

  “Not so loud!” scowled Carrick. He turned into the alley with Emhart following. They mounted, scanned the immediate area. Satisfied there was no danger of their being overheard, Carrick continued. “Our position isn’t half as critical as you suppose.”

  “Not critical?” gasped Emhart. “Are you out of your mind? Of course it’s critical! That damned cavalry sergeant …!”

  “Ex-cavalry sergeant,” corrected Carrick.

  “Rand is carrying a picture of Burch!” breathed Emhart. “I’m sure it’s Burch! It couldn’t be a better likeness if Burch had sat for a photographer!”

  “There isn’t any doubt about that,” Carrick agreed. “I don’t know if his real name is Burch or Jenner, but he’s certainly the same man.”

  “When Rand finds him ...!” began Emhart.

  “Rand won’t find him,” growled Carrick. “What kind of a fool do you think I am? Naturally I’ll make sure Rand never catches sight of Burch—at least not in Tascosa County.”

  “And what of McNear?” challenged Emhart.

  “McNear is no problem at all.” Carrick grinned derisively. “Just a dumb cowpoke with a chip on his shoulder, I know he’d never recognize me, and ...”

  “Maybe not,” frowned Emhart, “but what of me—and Williams?”

  “You and Sam had best stay out of town,” Carrick decided, “until McNear and his friends have quit the territory.”

  When Jim next saw his small shadow, it was after high noon and time for them to satisfy their appetites; Benito was loafing out of a side-street. Simultaneously, Jim sighted Pat emerging from a nearby saloon and, in response to Jim’s gesture, they all steered a course for the nearest restaurant. Briscoe’s Beanery wasn’t exactly an impressive edifice, but the aromas issuing from within were pungent and appealing. The pudgy, watery-eyed proprietor personally conducted them to a corner table and recited the bill of fare.

  “You can have just about anything—with beans. There’s steak with beans, stew with beans, chicken with beans ...”

  “I’ll take a chance on your steak,” said Jim.

  “No risk,” Briscoe assured him. “No risk at all.”

  “Any damn thing’ll do for me,” muttered Pat.

  “Any damn thing ...” Briscoe made a note on his pad, “with beans.”

  “Nothing would please me more,” grinned Benito, “than tortillas.”

  “With beans,” said Briscoe, as he shuffled away.

  Later, while they were working their way through this repast, Pat gloomily reported his failure to turn up a lead.

  “Nothin’,” he complained. “Nobody knows nothin’. There hasn’t been one fake greenback passed in this burg, near as I can find out.”

  “And that,” declared Jim, “might be more s
ignificant than you realize.”

  “Oh, sure.” Pat appeared dubious. “All it means is that Baggot and his pards never operated in Tascosa.”

  “Exactly,” nodded Jim. “And there could be a damn good reason for that.”

  “I don’t follow you,” frowned Pat.

  “The thoughts of my Amigo Jim,” Benito remarked, “are often muy misterioso.”

  “Nothing mysterious about it,” retorted Jim. “It makes good sense.”

  “What makes good sense?” demanded Pat.

  Jim chewed on another mouthful of steak, swallowed, then made his point.

  “If you had your own press with your own special engravings, and you were printing wild money right here in Tascosa County, would you try to pass the stuff close to home?”

  “Hell, no,” said Pat. “I’d travel a ways—before I started spreadin’ it around.”

  “Uh huh,” grunted Jim. “So hang onto that thought, cowboy.”

  “You already suspicion somebody,” accused Pat. “I can tell from the look in your eyes. C’mon, Jim. Who is he?”

  “It’s too early for wild hunches,” countered Jim. “I need time to think it all out.”

  “Tell us anyway,” urged Pat.

  “So far, all I have is a feeling that somebody lied to me,” muttered Jim. “That’s kind of an instinctive thing with me. Every so often when somebody lies to me, I guess it, I know it for a fact. I don’t claim it works all the time, mind. I can be fooled.”

  “But?” challenged Pat.

  “But I think somebody lied to me a little while ago,” said Jim. “I was at the law office, talking to the sheriff. He had a couple visitors name of Carrick and Emhart. When I showed the picture of Jenner, they claimed they’d never seen him before.”

  “And you think they were lyin’?” asked Pat.

  “It’s just an impression I got,” shrugged Jim.

  “Well, you could be wrong,” opined Pat. “What’s more, you might tangle with the local law, if you ever called this Carrick hombre a liar.”

  “What do you know about Carrick?” demanded Jim.

  “Only what I heard in the saloons,” said Pat. “It seems every time a local man speaks of the sheriff, they speak of Carrick in the same breath, because Carrick and the sheriff are so close.”