“It could take the rest of your life,” opined Ingall. “There are worse ways for a man to spend his life,” said Jim. “This Jenner is trash—but dangerous trash. If he isn’t hung or shot, he should at least be locked up. Any man who’ll kill for the reason he killed—just because he lost fifty dollars in a game of poker—just because he lost his temper and Chris laughed at him ...”
“That was rough,” sighed Ingall. “Mighty rough. Chris tried to make a joke of it, you know? Just for the sake of keepin’ things friendly, I guess. But Jenner had his heart set on turnin’ mean. He cussed Chris plenty, before Chris ordered him out. And, for a while afterwards, we went right on playin’ and forgot about Jenner.”
“But he came sneaking back,” muttered Jim, with his face turning pale beneath his heavy suntan, “to stand behind Chris’ chair—and shoot him to death.”
“When Jenner whipped that gun out from under his coat,” said Ingall, “I swear I froze. It was like I’d left Arizona and was suddenly way up in North Montana in mid-winter, you know? I was chilled to the bone.”
“You’re sure about the gun?” prodded Jim.
“It was easy for me to recognize,” said Ingall. “I’ve sold many a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight.”
“And he rode south towards the border,” growled Jim, as he began moving through the store entrance. “So that’s where I’ll be headed. Southeast.”
“I sure wish you luck, Big Jim,” Ingall called after him.
And Big Jim needed that luck, needed it desperately three days later. He was making noon-camp some two miles north of the Arizona-Mexico border. His horse was staked out and feeding. He was moving small boulders to rig a fireplace, because he had eaten sparingly at dawn and now intended rustling up a substantial lunch. The attack was unexpected. Like his hapless brother, he was attacked from behind, but not by a vindictive human armed with a six-gun. He didn’t hear the sidewinder’s rattle until immediately after the reptile had struck and bitten. The pain assailed him somewhere in the region of the small of his back. With a vehement oath, he sprang to his feet, whirled and drew his Colt, hammered back and drew a bead on the slithering snake, as it made for the concealment of a clump of brush.
Two – “Saludos, Amigo”
The Colt boomed and jumped in Jim’s fist and the rattler stopped slithering abruptly. He cursed, stared wildly about him, struggling to regain control of himself.
“Take it steady, boy. You’ve been in bad trouble before, and always managed to fight your way out. What do you know about the bite of a rattlesnake? The poison has to be extracted—sure—but how do you reach the wound?”
He felt chilled as much from anger as from fear. Had the reptile bitten his wrist, arm or leg, an accessible portion of his anatomy, he could have gotten to work with a jack-knife, sucked out the venom and rigged a makeshift poultice, a bandage. But there was no way he could get at this throbbing wound in the center of his back.
Luck was on his side, for he soon spotted a moving speck on the western horizon.
He tried to shout, but his voice seemed to choke in his threat. He waved urgently, using his jacket as a flag, and still wasn’t sure whether or not the rider had sighted him. Finally, just as the nausea assailed him, he discharged his Colt skyward, cocking and triggering twice. The weapon was still clutched in his fist, when he flopped face-first to the earth.
How long was he unconscious? He asked himself that question when next he opened his eyes. The sun blazed directly overhead. High noon. He hadn’t slept long at all. Hauling himself to a sitting posture and blinking against the sun-glare, he noted the cheerful fire, the decrepit-looking burro hobbled beside the charcoal, the nondescript, undersized Mexican hunkered by the fire.
“Saludos, amigo.” The Mex showed his buckteeth in a bland leer. “We eat pretty damn soon, huh?”
Gingerly, Jim felt at the small of his back with his left hand. There was a poultice over the wound, held in place by a makeshift bandage of knotted bandannas which made his torso feel stiff. He breathed a sigh of relief, as his benefactor informed him:
“You will not die of this snakebite, I think. A bullet—the fever—old age—¿quien sabe? But not of this snakebite.”
“You—got all the poison out?” asked Jim.
“Si. All the poison,” nodded the Mex.
He settled the pan on the flames—Jim’s own pan—then stood upright, revealing himself to be uncommonly short, even for an under-developed peon. On appearances, Jim wouldn’t have trusted him any farther than he could throw the charcoal stallion. The buck-toothed leer reflected predatory, animal cunning in large quantities. It was as ugly a face as Jim had ever viewed. An unkempt moustache drooped clear down to the pointed chin. The oily black hair showed tousled under the floppy brim of the large straw sombrero shoved to the back of his head. As well as being a sawn-off, he was stoop-shouldered and paunchy, with a sunken chest. The conchoed vest, patched shirt and baggy pantaloons were filthy—like the wearer. He was unprepossessing, unkempt and unclean, but Jim would never forget that this Good Samaritan had saved his life. That was the simple fact, he reminded himself. He felt weak and sick but, had this scruffy little Mex not happened along and doctored him, he wouldn’t be feeling anything; he would be dead.
“My name is Jim Rand,” he offered, “and I’m mighty beholden to you.”
“My name is Benito Espina,” said the Mex. “Amigo Jim—I have seen other wounds from the bite of the culebra, but none in such a bad place. The middle of the back ...” He frowned and shook his head. “Muy peligroso.”
“If you hadn’t come along,” Jim soberly opined, “I’d be dead by now.”
“Si,” agreed Benito Espina. “Muerto.”
“There aren’t enough words—to express ...” Another wave of nausea assailed Jim and, for the time being, he gave up on trying to convey his gratitude. For twenty-four hours or so, he would have to expect this—the nausea coming and going—frequent bouts of pain, but gradually decreasing—and a tendency to sleep, an inability to keep his eyes open. Well, tough as his constitution undoubtedly was, he supposed he couldn’t hope for speedy revival from the bite of a sidewinder.
He remained conscious long enough to eat his share of the food prepared by Benito, and to gulp a few mouthfuls of black coffee. The Mex heaped a second platter and proceeded to account for a substantial quota of Jim’s rations. Around one in the afternoon, when Jim was again beset by the great weariness, his benefactor was squatting cross-legged some short distance from the dying fire, plunking at the most battered guitar Jim had ever seen and softly crooning a Mexican love song—very much out of time.
Jim slept fitfully until a few minutes before three p.m. He could manage to lift his eyelids and peer muzzily about the shelf, but found it impossible to regain his feet. Where was little Benito, and what was he doing? The Mex was still there, and engaged in a chore that caused Jim to give vent to startled profanity. Into a gunnysack, he was stashing the residue of Jim’s provisions, plus Jim’s cooking utensils. The new Winchester was already lashed to the burro, and the new gunbelt with the ivory butt of the .45 protruding from the holster was hooked over Benito’s left shoulder. He was humming softly, padding back and forth, very busy and obviously very happy; not in the least ashamed of his actions. Jim blinked incredulously, tried to struggle to his feet, made it as far as his knees and then fell on his face. Benito chuckled, and assured him:
“It will be some little time before you are strong enough to mount the caballo negro.”
“What—what kind of—a thieving sonofagun are you?” panted Jim, still lost in wonderment. “You save a man’s life—and then—you rob him!”
“I was sure you would wish to reward me, Amigo Jim,” grinned the Mex. “To show your appreciation, no?” Jim got a hand to his hip pocket. It was empty. He groaned a curse, as Benito exhibited his wallet.
“My need is greater than yours, Amigo Jim.”
“You—sneaking—lousy little thief …!” gasped Jim
.
“Count your blessings,” Benito advised him. “Be grateful for the loyalty of this magnificent animal, this caballo negro. He would not permit me to saddle him—let alone mount. You will survive your injury, my friend. I do not leave you to die.” Again that crafty, buck-toothed grin. “But I have no fear you will pursue me. You will be weary a long time.”
“Damn your unwashed hide, Espina!” snarled Jim. “You’re no better than a buzzard!”
“Sleep deep, amigo, and adios,” said Benito, as he slung the gunnysack to the burro and swung astride. “If you are thirsty when you wake, your canteen is beside your saddle. Benito Espina is a man of honor. He would not leave you to die of thirst.”
“Benito Espina,” breathed Jim, “is a yellow-bellied polecat—a skunk—a sneaking coyote ...”
He was still mumbling curses and describing the little Mex in unflattering terms when, with a parting wave, Benito hustled the burro off the shelf and down the slant towards the flats. Just before the oblivion claimed him again, he forced himself to subdue his bitter indignation and to think clearly—or as clearly as was possible under the circumstances. He would sleep again.
It was moonlight now—or was it the first pale light of dawn? Had he slept all that long? He took a swig of water, poured some into the crown of his Stetson and lurched to the charcoal to give that snorting, impatient animal a drink. His back smarted but, physically and mentally, he felt considerably more formidable than when he had awakened from that first sleep yesterday afternoon—to find his benefactor systematically robbing him.
He tested his strength, lifting his saddle, readying the charcoal for riding. No more nausea, no more weariness. He was hungry and unarmed but, by Godfrey, he was ready to pursue, apprehend and severely punish that double-crossing little Mex. Just before mounting, he thought to tug off his left boot. Yes, the two folded fifty-dollar bills were still there. The bulk of his bankroll had been carried in his wallet, the wallet stolen by the Good Samaritan with the eye to the main chance. But, like many a frontiersman, he was in the habit of caching some of his cash elsewhere, against possible emergencies.
“Emergencies,” he growled, as he stepped up to leather, “such as getting bitten by a rattlesnake—and then robbed by a prairie-rat.”
He stuffed the two banknotes into his shirt-pocket and examined his saddlebags. Give Benito Espina his due. He was, in certain matters, one very painstaking hombre. Like a locust, he had stripped Jim of almost everything. He now possessed naught but his horse and saddle, half a canteen of water, the clothes on his back and a hundred dollars.
“All right, little Benito,” he muttered, as he put the black to the slope. “I have enough—just about all I need for tracking you down and making you rue the day you robbed James Carey Rand.”
As a tracker he was well skilled, having been taught by experts—aged trappers, veteran army scouts, a few full-blood Apaches. In the first blaze of sunlight of that day, he easily cut sign of the burro. His quarry was moving eastward. Well, the hell with him. He didn’t have that long a start on him.
At a quarter to eight, track of the burro brought him to a well-marked trail and, some two hours later, he was able to ascertain his location by consulting a signpost erected to the left side of the trail. The sign read: “LIBERTAD, POPULATION 312, DUE EAST 5 MILES.” Had Benito Espina passed through Libertad? It seemed more than likely. And, by consulting the local law, or maybe a barkeep in some Libertad cantina, he might ascertain the direction taken by his quarry after his quitting town.
He spelled the charcoal whenever he deemed it necessary, which wasn’t often. Hank was living up to all his expectations, proving to be an animal of uncommon stamina and a formidable capacity for speed. He was snorting a protest and beginning to show lather, but still moving along at a steady pace, when Jim first sighted Libertad.
It sprawled beside three waterholes shaded by palms, in the center of a vast plain less than a day’s ride from the border, a town of adobe and clapboard shacks, stores and offices, with a few well-built dwellings, several churches and a general atmosphere of tranquility. Away to the north and east the territory looked to be slightly greener, suggesting this might be cattle country. Entering the west end of Calle Central, the town’s broad main street, he slowed the black to a plodding walk and alertly studied the few locals abroad. His wound smarted, but he ignored the pain. He was watching out for a familiar figure, runty, stoop-shouldered and nondescript, and a familiar visage, swarthy and unprepossessing, complete with buck-toothed leer.
He didn’t spot Benito Espina but, halfway along the second block, his observant eyes fastened on a mighty familiar weapon displayed in the front window of a store. Outside the store and almost directly opposite the local calaboose, he brought the charcoal to a halt. He barely noticed the shingle hung from the law office awning, proclaiming the local sheriff to be one L. D. HILLARY. All his attention was centered on the Winchester in the window of the Deitch General Store. Grim-faced, he walked the charcoal to the store hitch rack, dismounted and secured his rein to the rail. Up the steps to the porch and in through the entrance he strode, to confront the pudgy, bald-headed man loafing behind the counter.
In response to Jim’s curt query, the storekeeper subjected him to an intent appraisal, and replied:
“That’s true enough, mister. I did buy that Winchester yesterday afternoon around sundown.”
“From a skinny, sawn-off little Mex?”
“Who’s askin’?” enquired the storekeeper.
“The name is Rand—Jim Rand.”
“Pleasure, Mr. Rand. I’m Oscar Deitch.”
“And the Mex’s name is Benito. He robbed me yesterday afternoon.”
Deitch eyed Jim in some surprise.
“A no-account little runt like him—robbin’ a hombre as big as you?”
“I wasn’t feeling any too chipper when he robbed me,” Jim sourly explained. “Got bitten by a rattler when I noon-camped.”
“Well—for gosh sakes ...” began the storekeeper.
“Don’t worry. I’ll live,” growled Jim. “This Benito doctored me good.”
“And then robbed you?” Deitch sighed and shook his head. “Hell’s bells—there’s nothin’ sacred to some people. Well, Mr. Rand, I paid him good cash for the rifle but, if you can identify it …”
“The rifle was a gift—presented to me just a few days ago, when I mustered out of the army.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey! Maybe he sold you all my other stuff!”
“Describe it,” challenged Deitch.
“A new slicker,” said Jim. “Pair of blankets. Spare change of clothing. Some ammunition—forty-four-forty for the rifle—forty-five for the six-gun. Did he sell you the six-gun as well? It’s a Colt with a seven and a half inch barrel and ivory grips inscribed U.S.C.”
Deitch shrugged helplessly.
“The six-gun is a clincher, Mr. Rand. All your stuff is here. I should’ve guessed the Mex had stolen it.”
“All I have,” Jim interrupted, “is a hundred dollars. I guess you paid more for my gear.”
“More than a hundred dollars, certainly,” nodded Deitch. “All your stuff was in fine condition—practically brand-new.” He produced an oilskin tobacco-pouch and began filling a bent-stemmed briar. “Well, if it’s any consolation to you, the Mex is bein’ punished already. A bunch of his countrymen are about to string him up.”
“What …” breathed Jim.
“Kind of impulsive, these Mexicans,” mused Deitch. “Don’t take much to get ’em riled up, does it?”
“They aim to hang Benito?” challenged Jim.
“They sure do,” said Deitch.
Jim held out his hands.
“Let me have my Colt, Deitch. You won’t lose on the deal—I give you my word.”
From under the counter he produced Jim’s rolled gunbelt, coiled about the filled holster. He passed it to the big stranger and, as Jim strapped it about his loins, scratched a match and lit his pipe. “That little ja
sper skinned you of damn near everything you got—and now you want to save him from a hangin’?”
“He robbed me—that’s for sure,” muttered Jim, as he turned and made for the door. “The hell of it is ...” He paused in the doorway, “he also saved my life.”
“You’ll be outnumbered—and I don’t mean maybe.”
“Just tell me where to find ’em,” begged Jim.
“A grove in the cottonwoods,” said Deitch, “three-four hundred yards north of town. Easy enough for you to find. You’ll likely hear a heap of whoopin’ and hollerin’. These Mexicans make a lot of noise at a hangin’.”
Jim hurried out, unaware that the storekeeper was close behind him. Puffing on his pipe and trotting with his potbelly shaking like a jelly, Deitch crossed Calle Central diagonally, passed the three horses hitched to the rack and climbed to the porch of the sheriff’s office. The door was locked, because Sheriff Luke Hillary had excellent reasons for keeping a certain mishap secret from his fellow-citizens. The shades on the front windows had been lowered. Deitch rapped at the door and identified himself.
“You alone, Oscar?” came Hillary’s sharp challenge.
“All alone,” called Deitch, “and I got mighty important news, Luke. Open up.”
The door was unlocked and opened by a trim-figured young woman garbed in riding clothes, a divided skirt, checked gingham blouse, flat-crowned Stetson and custom-made riding boots. She was blonde, good-looking and, as Deitch well knew, of congenial disposition. Her name was Celie Kilminster, and the sheriff had cared for her ever since the death of her parents; she was his niece.
“Hello, Mr. Deitch,” she greeted. “Come on in.”
“And shut that door behind you,” ordered Luke Hillary. Libertad’s sheriff was rising from a chair in the center of the office and, with the assistance of Libertad’s doctor, carefully rolling his right shirtsleeve down and securing the cuff-button. At fifty-two, Luke Hillary was as lean and as wiry as Oscar Deitch was pudgy. He dressed soberly and the star on his vest was worn with dignity and pride. His face was deeply lined and his hair liberally flecked with gray, but he carried his age well, moving lithely, briskly.
The Night McLennan Died (A Big Jim Western Book 1) Page 2