The Home of Great Western Fiction!
CONTENTS
About the Book
Copyright Page
About the Author
Series so far …
About Piccadilly Publishing
One – Larceny—Petty and Grand
Two – Not a Private Ruckus
Three – Talk About A Tinhorn
Four – The Troubadour
Five – A Promise to a Lady
Six – No Groom For Big Rosa
Seven – Decision of the Hunters
Eight – Seeds of Suspicion
Nine – The Not So Cold Trail
Ten – Silence, Uproar, More Silence
To Reach The Bridge … The Killers Had To Get Past Big Jim!
Beyond that bridge was the west bank of the Rio Colorado — beyond that the Utah border, and safety for the six gunmen who had looted the Delandro bank and ended the career of a veteran lawman.
Between the outlaws and that bridge stood Kell Garrard, gambler, man-hunter, son of the murdered sheriff, and Hurst, the dead sheriff’s loyal deputy, and grinning Benito Espina, who was never really loyal to anybody.
And last, but never the least, the tall, tough and formidable Jim Rand, the relentless avenger whose deadly gun-skill was destined to increase the odds against escape.
One – Larceny—Petty and Grand
Idling by the hitch rail directly opposite the Midwest Bank of Delandra, the two cattlemen quietly traded opinions.
‘Forty-five thousand, I’d reckon,’ muttered Kane Wilton. ‘When Belbin and Keyes come home from that trail-drive to Fort Slade, they’ll deposit their sale-money and ...’
‘And that bank safe’ll be holdin’ more than forty-five thousand,’ drawled Horrie Luscombe. ‘Closer to fifty is my hunch.’
‘Forty-five or fifty,’ shrugged Wilton. ‘It would add up to a handy passel of dinero, Horrie.’ He scratched a match for the Long 9 clamped between his teeth, squinted through the smoke-haze at the imposing facade of the bank. ‘We’d only have to pick the right time to make our play. We’ll make it at night when things are nice and quiet and take it real easy-like.’
‘I’m ready when you are,’ said Luscombe, ‘and I know we can count on the rest of the outfit.’ He dropped his voice, glanced cautiously along Delandro’s busy main street. ‘The boys crave to get their hands on some real money, Kane. Speakin’ for myself, I’ve had my bellyful of try in’ to make the spread pay.’
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said Wilton, ‘the L-Bar-W is a bad luck outfit. What’ve we got to show for all our work—you tell me that. A little over three hundred head of stock, a wagon and horses—and not much else.’ Studying the bank again, he asserted, ‘That’s the only way me or you could ever make a pile, Horrie. We have to move in and take what we want, and the hell with the risks.’
‘Like I said before,’ frowned Luscombe, ‘I’m ready when you are.’
And thus was born the germ of the idea, a conspiracy destined to result in the looting of the Midwest Bank of Delandro and the loss of several lives—violently. Adversity affects men in many and varying ways. Many a Marris County rancher had known bad times—the droughts, the onslaught of Texas fever, the dust storms and, in the old days, the constant threat of attack by marauding redskins. They had combated these threats in their own individual ways and had survived, some by borrowing from the banks or the big cattle combines, some by risking the shrunken residue of their resources in a wild gamble. And, always, there would be some who sought the easy way—or what they supposed to be the easy way.
In this category were the lean, sharp-featured Kane Wilton and the muscular, bearded Horrie Luscombe, two Marris County cattlemen who owned one of the least profitable of the local spreads in partnership. At various times throughout their checkered careers, these two had turned to the changing of brands on strayed stock, the snapping of a window-catch in the dead of night, the rifling of a cashbox, the ambushing of a stagecoach toting gold or cash—and various other pursuits familiar to riders of the owlhoot trails. They were law-abiding only when it suited their purpose. By nature they were larcenous and homicidal.
Almost immediately after this council of war, Wilton and Luscombe began smoothing the rough edges of their plan of attack. To rob the Midwest Bank was one thing; to escape with the loot and stay out of reach of the law was something else, something even more important. Within twenty-four hours, a new item was added to the gossip passed around by the citizens of Delandro, the seat of Marris County.
‘You hear about Wilton and Luscombe? Gonna run their whole herd west to the Utah line. I heard Wilton say they’re gonna unload all their beef at Lupton City, buy breed-stock, then come back and start all over again. Seems that’s the only way—for an outfit like the L-Bar-W.’
Very soon, the entire county was aware that Wilton and his partner expected to be absent from the local scene in the very near future. Stage One of their plan was complete.
Two days later, in the Silver Queen Saloon, a professional gambler almost had his pocket picked, and ‘almost’ proved to be a word of painful significance for the would-be pick-pocket, an itchy-fingered felon born and raised far south of the Rio Grande and answering to the name of Benito Espina. The gambler’s name was Kell Garrard. He was twenty-five years old, well-groomed and, in a fresh, boyish way, passably handsome. Also, he was wise to the ways of his fellowman, as the hapless Benito soon discovered. The unwashed brown paw had barely touched the left-side pocket of the gambler’s coat before the thin wrist was seized in a vice-like grip.
Benito gave vent to a howl of pain, as Kell dropped his cards and rose to his feet. The young gambler had just cause to be angry, but was smiling good-humoredly.
‘How about that, fellers?’ he challenged the other players. ‘A pick-pocket in the Silver Queen.’ He transferred his grin to the owner of the saloon, the saturnine Steve Erikson. ‘Hey, Steve!’
‘I hear you, Kell,’ grunted Erikson. He was leaning against the bar, working on a short , shot of rye and conversing with one of his bartenders. ‘You near got your pocket picked—and what are you gonna do about it?’
‘I was about to remark,’ drawled Kell, ‘that this is the first time we’ve had a pick-pocket in the Silver Queen in—uh—let me think now. Hey. It must be all of five weeks!’
This quip won a burst of laughter from the dozen or so patrons present at the time, including the other men seated at Kell’s table. Erikson and the bartender joined in the mirth. So did the buck-toothed, hump-shouldered little Mexican, until Kell increased his grip on his’ wrist, stopped grinning and coldly enquired:
‘What are you laughing about?’
‘Everybody else laughs—so I laugh,’ shrugged Benito. He showed his buck-teeth in what was intended as a disarming grin. ‘I am one very friendly hombre, señor. Muy amistoso.’
‘With a friend of your caliber,’ Kell sourly retorted, ‘a man would need no enemies.’
‘Por favor—my arm!’ wailed the Mex.
‘Be grateful I don’t snap it off at the elbow,’ growled Kell. He queried the saloon owner again. ‘Steve—what should I do with him?’
‘It’s up to you, boy,’ drawled Erikson. ‘It was your pocket he tried to pick.’
‘Turn him over to the law, Kell,’ advised one of the card-players. ‘Hell, if you leave him loose, he’ll only rob some other hombre.’
‘I am reformed!’ Benito hastened to assure them. ‘I have seen the evil of my worthless life and I will never steal again!’
‘Do you gents get the impression he’s said that before,’ asked Kell, ‘a couple of hundred times?’ He frowned severely at his captive. ‘Well, I guess I’d best march you down to the law office and swear out a complaint against you.’ He added
, to the delight of all within earshot, ‘And will my illustrious pappy ever be surprised! It’ll be the first and only time Kell Garrard made an arrest.’
The runty Mex with the guitar slung to his back wondered at the knowing chuckles of the locals. He was a stranger in these parts, having arrived only a short time before, so he was ignorant of the relationship between Marris County’s boss-lawman and the smiling young dandy who dealt poker at the Silver Queen; Kell was the son, the only surviving relative, of Sheriff Max Garrard. The whole county knew of Max Garrard’s great disappointment at the career chosen by his son. There were some who sympathized with the sheriff in this disappointment, and others who insisted on looking at the humorous side of it. That hardy old veteran had yearned to see his beloved son sworn in as a deputy, wearing the tin star with pride. Instead, the unpredictable Kell had developed a fine talent for the intricacies of poker, faro, monte and many other games of chance, and was now solidly established at the Silver Queen. He dealt for himself or for the house, depending on his mood. Whenever he gambled on Erikson’s behalf, that saturnine opportunist picked up a percentage of the winnings or shared the loss as the case might be. To Kell’s credit it had to be acknowledged that he was no cardsharp. If he couldn’t win with skill and luck, he would take his losses as a gentleman should.
To old Max Garrard, professional gamblers were little better than parasites. He had never shared the view of so many of his colleagues in this age that recognized gambling as an acceptable and highly respectable means of making a living. Being well aware of old Max’s attitude, the patrons of the Silver Queen saw a lot of humor in the present situation—Max’s son arresting a no-account pick-pocket.
Kell deftly relieved Benito of his pistol, spun him around and frog-marched him across to the batwings, to the accompaniment of much good-humored raillery from the gamblers and drinkers. A few moments later, he was hustling his prisoner into the musty-smelling domain presided over by his parent.
Two lawmen were present, but neither answered to the name Garrard. The deputies were keeping busy, but in a lethargic way in mood with the heat of a Colorado midsummer. 34-year-old, squatly-built, humorless Leo Hurst, was intent on his chore of filing official correspondence. The older deputy, Boone Kittridge, was playing gunsmith again. In his advanced 50s—which made him some six years younger than the sheriff—Kittridge was a veteran of shrewd mentality and placid disposition. Also he was possessed of massive patience; he could keep himself occupied for several hours at the chore of checking the firing mechanism of a sixgun, a rifle or shotgun, and enjoy it. Scrawny and shaggy-haired, he sat at a table close by the paper-littered desk and labored lovingly over the cleaning and oiling of a Winchester. The bushy, ash-grey eyebrows were raised in surprise, as Kell marched his prisoner in. Hurst turned from his chores, frowning.
‘I’ll be doggoned,’ breathed Kittridge. .
‘Afternoon, Mr. Kittridge,’ grinned the young gambler. ‘Howdy there, Leo.’
‘Kell,’ nodded Hurst.
‘What you got there?’ demanded Kittridge.’
‘Cell-bait,’ drawled Kell.
‘I am innocent!’ panted Benito, gesturing earnestly. ‘I beg you, señors, to look at me—to ask yourselves— does this man look like a thief?’
‘He sure does,’ said Kittridge, Hurst and Kell, in perfect unison.
Benito’s face fell. He shrugged dejectedly.
‘In this cruel world,’ he lamented, ‘nobody trusts anybody.’
‘Where’s Dad?’ asked Kell.
‘Lunch,’ grunted Kittridge. He looked at the Mex again. ‘What did he steal from you?’
‘Nothing,’ smiled Kell. ‘He was about to pick my pocket when I grabbed him.’
‘Leo …’ began Kittridge.
‘Sure, Boone,’ nodded Hurst. ‘I’ll take care of him.’ He took a keyring down from its nail, opened the entrance to the cell-block and scowled at Benito. ‘You—turn out your pockets—then come along with me.’
‘Guess I can leave him in your capable hands, eh?’ asked Kell. ‘I could come back later to swear out a charge —or whatever I’m supposed to do. Meantime, I was up to my ears in a good game with three optimists.’
‘Keepin’ the peace is a better game, young feller,’ growled Kittridge.
‘A matter of opinion, Mr. Kittridge,’ chuckled Kell. He raised a hand in farewell. ‘Say hello to my father for me, and tell him I’ll stop by later.’
Soon afterwards, having installed the Mex in a cell, Hurst arranged for the prisoner’s mount, a somnolent-looking burro, to be accommodated in the jailhouse yard. He then rejoined the senior deputy in the front office and remarked:
‘I wouldn’t trust this Espina hombre any further than I could throw City Hall.’
‘It’s been said that a book oughtn’t be judged by its cover,’ reflected Kittridge, who had. returned to his work on the Winchester. ‘But every so often you run into a jasper like that Mex, and you just know he’s as crooked as he looks.’
Hurst closed the drawer of the file cabinet, trudged over to the street doorway and lounged with a shoulder propped against the jamb.
‘Kind of sad, wasn’t it?’ he suggested. ‘I mean— seein’ young Kell sashay in here with a prisoner.’
‘Uh huh,’ grunted Kittridge.
‘I’m just as glad Max wasn’t here to see it,’ said Hurst.
‘I know what you mean.’ Kittridge nodded sagely. ‘So near and yet so far. He deals cards for a livin’, but I bet he arrested that Mex just as fast, just as slick as if he’d always been a lawman.’ He paused in his labors long enough to stuff tobacco into the bowl of a corncob pipe and, while thus engaged, observed that his colleague was staring intently towards the downtown area. ‘See anything special?’
‘Special enough,’ said Hurst, ‘if you admire good horseflesh. Don’t believe I ever saw that big horse before —and he’s a beauty.’
‘Big, you say?’ prodded Kittridge.
‘A black stallion,’ Hurst told him. ‘Handsomest cayuse I’ve seen in many a long day.’
The stallion had been named Hank by its owner, the big man now conversing with the proprietor of the Crystal Diner.
Standing tethered to the rail outside the eatery, occasionally dropping its head to drink from the trough, the big black won many an admiring glance from passers-by, especially those who considered themselves to be keen judges of horse quality. Coal-black with a shining coat and majestic stance, this was an animal to be proud of. Also, Hank was a one-man horse. His owner had broken and trained him. For that one man, the animal could be relied upon to show obedience and respect, but woe betide the stranger who came too close.
Vinny Owens, the hash-house owner, listened politely to the big man’s query and examined with interest the picture offered him.
‘That’s a good likeness of the man I’m looking for,’ said Big Jim Rand. ‘A clear sketch and just as good as a photograph. Does he look familiar?’
‘Some,’ frowned Owens. ‘But that don’t mean I’ve seen him. It’s just—well—you got to admit he looks kind of average.’
‘That’s true enough.’ Jim shrugged resignedly, dug into a pocket for a few coins. ‘Thanks, anyway, and what do I owe you?’
‘Let’s see now,’ mused Owens. ‘Mulligatawny soup, fried chicken, apple pie and coffee ...’
He named a figure. Jim paid up and was about to head for the entrance, when the heavy-set man seated at a corner table called to him.
‘Stranger—you want to show that picture to me?’ There were no other customers in the Crystal Diner at the moment. Even if there had been this big stranger would have been singled out by the man in the corner, would have been the only diner worthy of his attention. It wasn’t often that he saw a man so well-proportioned. Jim Rand stood all of six feet, five inches tall and held himself erect, so that his formidable width of shoulders and chest was always apparent. His riding clothes were of medium quality and well-worn; he had never favored showy garb. Th
e ivory butt of a long-barreled Colt .45 jutted from the holster at his right hip.
He held the sketch of his quarry half-folded in his left hand, as he traded stares with the elderly man.
‘What’s your interest?’ he demanded.
‘Well …’ The elderly man showed him a mild grin, ‘it wouldn’t be just idle curiosity, friend.’ He drew back the lapels of his rusty black jacket to reveal the gleaming badge pinned to his vest. ‘Call it an official enquiry. The name is Garrard.’
‘Mr. Garrard,’ Owens hastened to inform the stranger, ‘is county sheriff.’
‘Fine,’ shrugged Jim. ‘I’d have been stopping by the law office anyway.’ He strode across to the comer table, seated himself opposite the lawman, who gulped the rest of his coffee and reached for the sketch. ‘The name is Rand—Jim Rand.’
‘Howdy,’ grunted the sheriff. ‘And welcome to. Delandro.’
He looked gentle and fatherly, an amiable old-timer running to fat, sitting there with a table-napkin still tucked into the V of his Vest, a lock of grey hair falling over his furrowed brow. Jim felt drawn to him. He had known all manner of peace officers, the young, the eager, the cynical, the trigger-happy, the old and shrewd. Given a choice, he would always prefer to negotiate with the old and shrewd.
Sheriff Garrard unfolded the sketch, studied it pensively. ‘Um—yeah—hmmm.’
‘Know him?’ prodded Jim.
‘Thought I might recognize him, but I don’t,’ muttered Garrard. ‘Used to be able to memorize every face in my Wanted file, Mr. Rand, but that was a long time ago.’ He grinned amiably. ‘Way back before I started getting old.’
‘Well …’ shrugged Jim.
‘What you ought to do,’ Garrard decided, ‘is come along to the office. I’ll have one of my deputies check this hombre’s face against every man in our file.’
‘All right,’ nodded Jim. ‘I’ll be glad to do that.’
‘But first of all,’ said Garrard, ‘you’d better tell me why you’re hunting this feller.’ He subjected Jim to a probing scrutiny. ‘You from the U.S. Marshal’s office—in Denver, maybe?’
Big Jim 9 Page 1