He left the threat unfinished, but Benito got the point. After the Mex had led the horses away, the three men took up their positions. The last building on the right was a hardware store. In the alley separating it from the next building had been stowed a great many discarded crates and nail-kegs. At Jim’s suggestion, Hurst took up his position there, hefting a rifle. When Benito returned, Jim gestured towards the alley and told him:
‘You’re with the deputy.’
Benito drew his pistola, checked its loading, threw an apprehensive glance along the street and then, with another philosophical shrug, trudged into the alley.
‘You and Kell?’ called Hurst.
‘Behind the pump,’ said Jim. He nodded to the well under the oak tree some ten yards past the hardware store. ‘We’ll challenge them from there.’
He raised a hand in nonchalant salute. Hurst returned the gesture, watched the big man and the gambler stride to the well.
‘Not much cover,’ Kell observed. ‘Still, I guess it will do.’
‘One of us can stand in back of the tree,’ said Jim. ‘You make the choice, Kell.’
‘I’ll settle for the well,’ Kell decided.
‘Bueno,’ said Jim.
He moved around the thick trunk of the oak. Kell squatted on his haunches behind the well, looked to the loading of his father’s .45 and began talking.
‘So this is where it ends.’
‘Here and no further,’ nodded Jim. ‘If they made it to the bridge, they could be across the Utah line before sundown. So we have to stop them right here, Kell.’
‘In a way,’ said Kell, ‘I feel I owe you an apology.’
‘Why?’
‘We have something in common, Jim. Both of us wanting vengeance for a murdered kinsman. I thought I could help you find Jenner, and I was wrong, and here you are helping me find the man who killed my father.’
‘No need to apologise, boy.’
‘I wonder which of them actually pulled the trigger on my father? That’s a question I’ve been asking myself ever since it happened.’
‘One of them might talk. There’s always a chance we’ll take some of them alive.’
‘I’ll let you in on a secret, Jim. This will be the first time I’ve used a gun in actual combat. Beside you, I feel like a raw amateur, a hairless boy.’
‘That’s okay, Kell. We can’t all be scrappers. If we were, there’d be no civilization.’
‘Mighty charitable of you to put it that way, Jim.’
‘You’re entirely welcome,’ said Jim.
He had finished his check of the loading and mechanism of the weapon presented to him by his old friends of the 11th Cavalry upon the occasion of his mustering out. He was ready for action now, hefting the Colt .45 with the ivory grips and the 7½ inch cavalry length barrel. And he was calm. This crisis was, after all, naught but a diversion. He should have been on his way to Coyote Springs to pick up Jenner’s trail. Well, he could spare the short time it had taken him to throw in with Kell Garrard and Deputy Hurst, to pursue and apprehend the murderers of Max Garrard. But, as soon as this trouble was over, he would be on his way again.
The minutes passed slowly. Behind the well, Kell tried to ignore the merciless heat that caused his shirt to cling to his moist skin. He adjusted his Stetson, stared along the main stem. From this vantage point, he could see clear to its east end. In the mouth of the alley, Hurst and the little Mex bided their time. Never oblivious to Benito’s talent for larceny, the deputy was being careful to stay out of arm’s length of him.
‘Presto, I think,’ frowned Benito.
‘Uh huh,’ grunted Hurst. ‘Real soon.’
The silence persisted unbroken until, clearly audible on the afternoon air, Jim and his companions heard the clatter of hooves increasing in volume. There was a flurry of dust at the eastern outskirts of Wilkie and then, slowly but steadily, the men of L-Bar-W advanced along the main street.
In the lead were the unscrupulous partners, followed by Barlow, Doan and Underfield in that order, with Modine bringing up the rear, leading the other team horses. Just as Jim and his party had done before them, they reined up half-way along the first block. Wilton and Luscombe traded wondering glances. Barlow swore explosively and asked:
‘Where is everybody? What kind of a half-alive burg is this Wilkie?’
‘Half-alive, you say?’ Doan looked to right and left, grimaced. ‘Looks to me like Wilkie is well and truly dead.’
‘I hear nothin’,’ mumbled Underfield. ‘No voices. Nothin’ at all.’
Over his shoulder, Wilton called a command.
‘We’ll keep moving—but slowly.’
‘Keep your eyes peeled,’ growled Luscombe.
They started their horses moving again, continuing their advance until they had reached the town square. It was Modine who heard the groaning sound of the hinges on the store door, sighted the little man and called a warning to the others. They all reined up and, with hands on their gun butts, eyed the little man intently. Dooley Quift had thought to remove his badge of office. His expression was woebegone, as he shuffled to the edge of the sidewalk.
‘Hey, you!’ called Luscombe. ‘Where is everybody? What the hell happened to this here town?’
‘Gents, you ain’t got time to hang around and gab about it,’ sighed Dooley. ‘Not if you value your lives.’
‘Not if what?’ challenged Wilton, while the other men traded uncertain frowns.
‘Your lives.’ Dooley shrugged forlornly. ‘They won’t be worth a plugged cent—’less you get outa town muy pronto.’
‘You tryin’ to scare us, old-timer,’ asked Underfield.
‘Shuddup, Marty,’ chided Luscombe. ‘Let him talk.’ He stared expectantly at Dooley. ‘I asked you a question. Where is everybody?’
‘Them that could, skedaddled,’ mumbled Dooley. ‘Hitched up their teams, saddled their horses and vamoosed while they still had their health. The others—well …’ He jerked a thumb, ‘go take a look in our cemetery if you’re all that curious. Personally, if I were you, I’d be makin’ tracks. I wouldn’t wait another minute—not one more minute.’
‘Kane,’ breathed Luscombe, ‘it’s a—dead town.’
‘You said if, mister.’ Dooley nodded wearily. ‘Good and dead. Everybody dyin’—and fast. I’m the only one left.’ He sighed at Wilton. ‘Don’t you fret. I won’t step any closer to you than I am right now.’
‘What …?’ began Wilton.
‘But you oughta move out while you can,’ advised Dooley. ‘Cholera don’t give you no second chances. I know I’m a goner, but I don’t crave to take anybody with me, so …’
‘Cholera!’ gasped Doan.
‘Damn and blast!’ yelled Barlow. ‘We gotta get outa here!’
The color drained from Wilton’s face.
‘There’s the bridge!’ he growled. ‘Let’s get across that river in a hurry!’
He dug in his spurs and his men followed his example. The old man turned and trudged back into the store, as he six desperadoes raced their mounts along Main, passing he next block, the next, and then …
Abruptly, Jim showed himself and bellowed to the incoming horsemen.
‘Hold it! That’s as far as you come!’
Kane brought his mount to a slithering halt, startled to find the big man here. Then, while the other hardcases drew rein, Hurst added his voice:
‘You’re covered—all of you! Unstrap your guns! You’re under arrest!’
With their horses milling, the six threw desperate glances to right and left, Barlow belligerently asserted: ‘They tricked us! There’s no cholera here!’
‘We outnumber ’em, Kane,’ muttered Doan.
‘Say nothing, you fool!’ snarled Wilton. He rose in his stirrups, ignoring Jim and addressed the deputy in the alley-mouth. ‘Hurst—what the devil do you mean?’
‘It’s too late to plead ignorance, Wilton!’ called Kell, and now all eyes turned to the well. The young gambler was
clearly visible, his right fist full of gleaming death, cocked and ready for action. ‘We know all we need to now! You’re carrying the money stolen from the Midwest Bank! You’ll surrender it, or—’
‘Or we’ll take it off your dead body,’ vowed Jim.
‘Something else we want,’ said Kell, ‘is the hero who shot my father in the back!’
That challenge shattered Luscombe’s nerve and goaded him to rash action. He drew and fired at Kell. So did Ladlow, and there was naught the others could do but follow suit. Wilkie’s west end became a thunderous welter of booming Colts and rising dust, as the desperadoes traded hots with the four man-hunters. Wilton, Underfield and iodine were pouring lead into the alley mouth, while Luscombe, Barlow and Doan were rushing Jim and Kell in a futile bid to reach the bridge.
When Kell fell wounded, Jim darted forward to assist him. A bullet creased Kell at his left side and, a few moments earlier, Jim’s brow had felt the angry heat of a bullet-burn. He had been momentarily blinded, but was again a force to be reckoned with. His Colt still held four live shells, as he dropped to one knee beside the prone Kell Garrard and cut loose at the oncoming trio. Barlow was already sagging in his saddle, mortally wounded by a slug from Kell’s gun, struggling in vain to stay mounted. Luscombe was coming on fast, his Colt aimed at the big man. It roared and the bullet missed Jim by a full twelve inches. He returned fire to deadly effect. Luscombe was jolted by the impact of the slug, driven clear over the rump of his racing pony to crash to the dust in an inert heap. Doan got off two more shots. One ricocheted off the side of the well-house. The other came too low, kicking up the dirt at Jim’s boots, just as he aimed and fired. With a yell of agony, Doan pitched from his saddle and sprawled, losing his grip on his gun.
Dragging Kell behind the well-house, Jim broke cover and began stumbling past the horse toting the dying Barlow. Just as he drew level with the animal, Barlow’s lifeless body flopped in front of him. He stepped over it and continued his advance on the surviving thieves. Underfield was huddled in the dust, his knee smashed by a well-aimed slug from Hurst’s rifle, his face contorted in pain.
Wilton had dismounted and was dashing towards the mouth of an alley at the far side of the street, while the irate and homicidal Modine wheeled his horse to charge it at the flimsy barricade erected by Hurst and the Mex. The big redhead’s gun roared. The bullet bored a hole in the crown of Benito’s sombrero, and this was more than enough excuse for Benito to abandon the fight and hurl himself flat on the ground. It was a bullet from Hurst’s Winchester that put paid to Modine, penetrating to his heart and killing him instantly. The redhead crashed to the dust while, still running, Wilton swung his gun towards the advancing Jim and squeezed trigger. Maybe if he had ceased running, Jim would have died; as it was the bullet actually fanned Jim’s face, and Jim wasn’t about to give him a second chance. He crouched and fired and Wilton’s dash to the other alley was rudely checked. He fell hard, sprawling on face and hands.
After that thunder of gunfire, the silence seemed intense, ominous, endless. Benito put an end to that tension by raising his unprepossessing head above the barricade and calling to the big man:
‘Saludos, Amigo Jim.’
Jim didn’t return the greeting. Hurst had hustled into the street and, together, they were checking on the two wounded survivors, Doan and Underfield. Doan had lost consciousness, but the youngest of the bank bandits was still in good voice, pleading for medical attention, offering a deal.
‘You hombres can take all that bank loot. I don’t want any part of it. Just get me patched up and let me head on across that bridge, and I’ll tell you who gunned the sheriff. It was Horrie and Ike. Now ain’t that fair enough? Get me a sawbones! My leg hurts awful bad …!’
Kell Garrard was conscious when Underfield blurted out that statement. With his face pallid in pain, he stared up at the grim-visaged Jim and mumbled:
‘I have—at least that much satisfaction. The guilty have paid …’
‘They’ve paid,’ nodded Jim.
There was still daylight when the man-hunters prepared to leave Wilkie. Because the wedding guests would be returning during the evening, Dooley Quirt assured them it would not be necessary for them to act as undertakers. The bodies of the defeated bank robbers were left at the premises of Wilkie’s mortician. Dooley had conducted them to the doctor’s house; the fact that this dwelling had been left unlocked spoke volumes for the honesty and community spirit prevailing in Wilkie. With willing assistance from Deputy Hurst, Jim did a creditable job of cleansing and bandaging Kell’s wound and those suffered by Doan and Underfield. Old Dooley’s eyes dilated, as he watched the many bundles of banknotes taken from the thieves packed into grain sacks.
‘This is how they toted their loot away from Delandro,’ Hurst grimly reminded Jim, ‘and this is how it goes back where it came from—in grain sacks.’
‘I reckon the sheriff would be satisfied, don’t you?’ asked Jim.
‘Yeah.’ Hurst nodded wistfully. ‘Max would be satisfied—and right proud of his son.’
They had thanked Dooley for his co-operation and were now quitting the eastern approaches to Wilkie. The wounded thieves were roped to their horses. Hurst was leading them, with Kell riding stirrup-to-stirrup with him, still pallid, but capable of making the return journey to Marris County.
‘You can afford to take your time on the way back,’ Jim opined.
‘You won’t be returning with us?’ asked Kell. ‘Maybe some other time, Kell,’ said Jim.
‘My quest has ended,’ Kell nodded knowingly. ‘But you still have a murderer to find and punish.’
They reined up a short time later at a turn-off which, according to Hurst, would take Jim and the Mex in the general direction of Coyote Spring. Jim shook hands with the deputy, looked at Kell for the last time and asked, ‘Who’ll be Marris County’s next sheriff?’
‘Boone Kittridge is my guess,’ said Hurst. ‘Just as soon as he’s back on his feet.’
‘You’ll stay on as deputy,’ guessed Jim, ‘and there’ll be a vacancy for a second deputy. That’ll be you, Kell?’
‘That’ll be me,’ Kell promised.
‘Well,’ said Jim, ‘luck to you both.’
‘Sí,’ grinned the Mex. ‘Adios, amigos.’
‘Adios,’ nodded Kell.
And, again, the big man on the black stallion was headed for a distant horizon, tagged by the runty Mex on the plodding burro.
BIG JIM 9:
THE VALIANT DIE FAST
By Marshall Grover
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
First Smashwords Edition: March 2018
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
About the Author
Leonard Frank Meares (February 13, 1921 - February 4, 1993)
Sydney born Len Meares aka Marshall Grover, published around 750 novels, mostly westerns. His best-known works feature Texas trouble-shooters Larry and Stretch. Before starting to write, Meares served in the Royal Australian Air Force, worked in the Department of Immigration and sold shoes. In the mid-1950s he bought a typewriter to write radio and film scripts. Inspired by the success of local paperback westerns, he wrote Trouble Town, which was published by the Cleveland Publishing Company in 1955.
His tenth yarn, Drift! (1956), introduced Larry Valentine
and Stretch Emerson. In 1960, he created a brief but memorable series of westerns set in and around the town of Bleak Creek. Four years later came The Night McLennan Died, the first of more than 70 westerns (sometimes called oaters) to feature cavalryman-turned-manhunter Big Jim Rand.
More on Marshall Grover
The Big Jim Series by Marshall Grover
The Night McLennan Died
Meet Me in Moredo
Gun Trapped
Gun Sinister
One Man Jury
Killer’s Noon
No Escape Trail
Devil’s Legend
The Valiant Die Fast
… And more to come every other month!
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