Meet Me in Moredo (A Big Jim Western Book 2)

by Marshall Grover

  “The serape.” Jim gestured impatiently. “Put it on.”

  “This day will be so hot,” she protested. And, appealing to Benito for support, “Muy caliente.”

  “Si,” shrugged Benito.

  “What do I have to do? Spell it out for you?” challenged Jim. “Look, Maria, the sombrero hides all your beautiful hair, and I’ve taught you how to walk like a boy, but there’s a part of you that just can’t be disguised and—well—if we can’t disguise it, we just have to keep it covered up.”

  The camisa or blouse was too snug fitting—and that was that. The serape, therefore, just had to be worn. Bowing her head to study her sandaled feet, Maria noted the reason, and blushed to the roots of her hair. In haste she donned the serape.

  “Now walk some more,” he ordered. He watched her shuffle back and forth across the room, nodded his satisfaction. “Uh huh. I reckon that’ll do it.”

  “We go now?” grinned Benito.

  “We go,” said Jim. “You get a hustle on. Go fetch my horse and the burro.” He jerked a thumb. “Go this way.”

  Benito hurried to the window, unlocked it, climbed through.

  “I still do not understand,” said Maria, “how a man such as you—a man of authority and much wisdom—could make an amigo of this unclean ladron, this miserable little thief.”

  “It puzzles everybody,” he dryly assured her. “Well, the explanation is simple. It’s a question of obligation. He once saved my life, so I feel obliged to keep him out of trouble. I once saved his life, which is why he tags after me all the time.” He resumed his vigil and, a few moments later announced, “Here he comes. We’re ready to go.”

  He went to the door, pulled away the chair which he had tilted and wedged under the knob. The blankets were dumped onto the beds and all of Maria’s effects stowed into a gunnysack; the room showed no sign of the recent presence of a woman. Just before they made their exit, he unlocked the door. But they did not leave that way; they left by means of the window.

  In the back alley, Benito helped “Cousin José” astride the runty burro. She watched the tall man swinging into the saddle of the mighty charcoal stallion, and wanted to know:

  “Why can’t I ride with you? This black caballo—so ugly, but so strong—could carry the both of us.”

  “Hank’s a one-man horse,” drawled Jim, as he led off. “He was wild when I bought him. I had to break him and train him. Well, we understand each other now. He’ll let Benito throw a saddle on him, just so long as Benito—or anybody else—doesn’t try to mount him.”

  Burnett Junction was just coming awake, as Big Jim and his companions quit the alley, travelled along Calle Hernando and turned into the main stem. They moved along toward the railroad depot, Jim riding straight-backed and Cavalry-style, Benito trudging along beside the plodding burro that toted Maria.

  Six – Adios, Burnett Junction

  The northbound was stalled beside the plank platform, its locomotive emitting squealing and hissing sounds. Under supervision of the conductor, a lean, gloomy-looking veteran in the advanced forties, several passengers were entering the second and third cars. The first carriage was, of course, the caboose, located behind the fuel-tender.

  Studying the conductor, Jim was reminded of the brief description offered him by the ticket-clerk. “Toby Jethrow. Kind of a miserable feller, but friendly enough.” He dismounted and, leading the black by its rein, approached the side door of the caboose with Benito, Maria and Capitan Cortez in tow. The conductor sighted them and came trudging toward them.

  “You the gent the ticket-seller told me of?” he called.

  “That’s right,” nodded Jim. “The name is Rand. Jim to my friends.” He fished out the tickets, handed them to the conductor. “Your name’s Toby Jethrow—right?”

  “That’s right,” grunted Jethrow, as he accepted the tickets. “And you mightn’t think it to look at me, but I used to be a happy man. Yessir, that’s what I was. Happy. But that was ’way back when I was a bachelor. Gettin’ married was the worst mistake I ever made in my whole life. The way Beulah plagues me, it’s a wonder I don’t just set down and die of plain misery ...” His voice trailed off. He shook his head, as though trying to clear it. “I got to break myself of the habit, and that’s a fact. It’s gettin’ worse. When a man starts bendin’ the ears of strangers, it’s time he got a hold of himself.” He squinted at the tickets. “Only two tickets here.”

  “Sure,” said Jim. “We didn’t know Benito’s cousin would be coming along until just a little while ago.” He gestured casually to Maria who, with surprising nonchalance lifted one grubby finger in a jaunty salute to the conductor. “I guess it's not too late to buy a ticket for little José, eh? We’ll all be riding in your caboose anyway.”

  He fished out his wallet. Jethro eyed the black, the burro and the two small Mexicans, and told Jim:

  “Sure, plenty of room for all of you. And you don’t have to go back to the depot office for an extra ticket. I can write one for you.” He produced a pencil and a book of tickets. “Moredo one way?”

  “Moredo one way,” nodded Jim.

  The ticket was duly purchased. Two porters toted the loading ramp to the caboose and placed it in position at the side door, after which Jim prepared to lead Hank into the car. The porters offered to assist. One made to grasp the black’s bridle and, hastily, Jim growled a warning.

  “Jump clear!”

  Both porters retreated, and just in time. That massive charcoal would permit no stranger to touch it. Hank was rearing with his forehooves flailing, nostrils flaring and eyes ablaze.

  “Down ...” breathed Jim. “Stead—eee ...!”

  It took him all of two minutes to quieten Hank. For the first time in his life, the big black was coaxed up a man-made slope by his master and into a stall—a stall smaller than any that had previously accommodated him. Obviously he didn’t cotton to the smells and sounds of the caboose.

  While Jim made Hank as comfortable as possible, off saddling him, tethering him to the stall-door with a tie-rope, Benito and Maria pushed and pulled Capitan Cortez up the ramp and accommodated him in the adjoining stall. They then obeyed Jim’s pantomimed orders, squatting side by side near a mound of freight, their backs to the rear wall of the car. Jim propped a shoulder against the side door and idly studied the other arrivals. Standing just below him on the platform, Toby Jethrow remarked: “That cayuse of yours is sure a heller.”

  “Very strong and very fast,” Jim told him.

  “One-man horse, by any chance?” prodded Jethrow.

  “That was an easy guess for you,” grinned Jim.

  “Well, here they come, Mr. Rand.” The conductor changed the subject, gesturing toward the expensively gowned women and the swarthy, handsome men now assembling on the platform.

  “Call me Jim,” offered Jim.

  “All right, call me Toby. Here they come, like I say. Same bunch every year. All the regulars headed for Moredo to celebrate Foundation Day.”

  “It gets monotonous for you?” grinned Jim.

  “Well, no,” frowned Toby. “Not if it only happens once a year.” He yawned, adjusted his peaked cap. “You know somethin’? On this one mornin’ of the year, the old northbound always totes twice as many Mexicans as Americans. We pick up scarce any Americans at the border, or here at the Junction. Not that I mind. They’re real high-class, this bunch. Nothin’ but rich hacendados and their women. Real high-class, and plumb polite. Have to ask you to excuse me now, Jim. Got to go get ’em all settled.” He moved toward the assembled passengers, raising a hand to his cap in respectful salute. “Glad to see you again, folks. Howdy there, Señor Quintana—Señor Montoya—Señor Valdez. Mornin’ ladies. Well now, Señora Gomez, I swear that purty daughter of yours has grown a whole two inches since this time last year …”

  Jim relaxed, rolling and lighting a cigarette. He wasn’t even slightly surprised to see Sheriff Croy arrive, accompanied by the distinguished-looking—if somewhat agita
ted—Don Diego Castaldez. He assumed the elderly Mexican to be Don Diego because the entourage was much in evidence—the four lynx-eyed and very aggressive bodyguards, the black-gowned, wailing duenna. Over his shoulder, and in a voice barely louder than a whisper, he warned Maria:

  “Here comes your old man—with the sheriff. Be ready for anything.”

  The Castaldez group broke up. While the fat duenna took a seat over by the depot office, the bodyguards climbed into the passenger cars to check the northbound travelers. Don Diego paced the platform in agitation and the sheriff steered a course for the caboose. Toby climbed in, hefting a strongbox.

  “Another regular routine,” he explained to Jim, as he dropped to his knees beside the safe in the rear corner and fitted his key into the lock. “These rich Mexicans always bring their jewelry along.”

  “I hope this train isn’t jumped by bandidos,” drawled Jim, “I got urgent reasons for wanting to reach Moredo fast, so I wouldn’t appreciate a delay.”

  “Hasn’t been a train robbery in a long time,” Toby assured him. “If we were totin’ gold or a shipment of hard cash, that’d be different. That’s what thieves really admire—the kind of loot they can spend. You can’t spend trinkets, can you now?”

  Jim didn’t pursue the point, because the sheriff was now climbing into the caboose, muttered a greeting to him. Very softly, so that her words could not reach the ears of the other men, Maria questioned Benito.

  “Do you know ...?”

  She named a song very popular with Mexico’s peon element. He nodded and asked, in his native tongue: “Why?”

  “Play it,” she ordered, “and we will sing together.”

  “But ...!”

  “Do as I tell you!”

  Benito grimaced uneasily, unslung his guitar and, after plunking a tuneless introduction, began singing. To his surprise, so did she. It wasn’t the fact of her singing that surprised him; after all she had expressed her intention of doing so. But he hadn’t supposed she could so skillfully change the tone of her voice—or that she would be so well acquainted with this song. She was chanting along with him, nodding her head in time with the beat. Her voice was deeper, guttural, husky, like that of a peon between youth and manhood. She leaned closer to him and, when Croy glanced past Jim, they were squatting side by side, huddled with their heads bowed. Benito’s brown hands worked on the battered guitar and the nasal, tuneless voices persisted.

  “Do they have to keep up that caterwaulin’?” the lawman sourly demanded of Jim.

  “Pay no mind to ’em,” advised Jim. “They’re harmless.”

  “I’d say that depends,” interjected Toby, “on whether or not you’re a music-lover.”

  “It keeps ’em out of mischief,” shrugged Jim. “Benito’s a mite high on tequila. His cousin José—well …” He touched a finger to his temple, nodded significantly, “he never was very bright anyway.”

  “The heck with those wailin’ no-accounts,” growled Croy. “Well, Toby, how about it? Can you account for what’s in your caboose, or do I have to search it?”

  “What’re you lookin’ for?” asked the conductor.

  “Señorita Maria Castaldez—daughter of Don Diego.” Croy heaved a forlorn sigh. “And is he ever raisin’ a ruckus!”

  “There’s a lady missin’?” frown Toby.

  “Kidnapped—maybe,” said Croy.

  “Well, how could any kidnapper hide a grown female in here?” challenged Toby. “But you don’t have to take my word for it. Go ahead and look. I’ll vouch for every pound of freight in this caboose, but you go ahead and look anyway.”

  “Anybody sneak past you since you arrived?” Croy asked Jim.

  “Nobody,” said Jim.

  Croy dawdled past the occupied stalls, glanced briefly and scathingly at the dueting Benito and Maria and moved on to inspect the freight and baggage. There was very little of the latter. Because the wealthy rancheros stayed less than forty-eight hours in Moredo over the Foundation Day period, they were spared the need to bring trunks and large valises. For the most part, their baggage was carried with them in the passenger cars.

  It took the sheriff only a few moments to assure himself that no bound and gagged girl was secreted among the baggage and freight. He returned to the door and confided to Jim:

  “I already told the old man it’s no use searchin’ the train.”

  “Well,” said Jim, “I never yet heard of a kidnapping where the kidnappers took their prisoner away in a train.”

  “If you got no objection, Sheriff,” said Toby, “it’s near time for this train to roll. We’re due in Moredo high noon.”

  “You might as well ...” began Croy. He paused, clapped his hands to his ears and darted a resentful glance at the singers. “I said—you might as well get movin’!”

  “I hear you!” yelled Toby. “You don’t have to holler!”

  “The hell with it!” scowled Croy, as he climbed down to the platform.

  Watching the lawman walk across to where Don Diego waited, Jim doubled his right arm behind his back and snapped his fingers. Benito and Maria took that as a signal and brought their song to a close, so that Jim was able to overhear the brief exchange between Croy and the wealthy ranchero. Croy was assuring Don Diego that his daughter was not aboard the northbound. Don Diego was vehemently announcing his intention of extending the search beyond Burnett Junction and its environs. He would send posses to the east, to the west and to the south. No point in checking the terrain to the north; on this point he was adamant. It seemed most unlikely that his wayward daughter would flee toward Moredo—where lived the people she was so determined to avoid.

  “So you know damn well she wasn’t kidnapped,” Jim was thinking. “You had to make a lot of noise at the start, old-timer, and raise a real ruckus—for the sake of your own almighty dignity—the family traditions. But you know the girl flew the coop, and you know why.”

  The bodyguards re-joined their employer to report that their search had failed. Grim-faced, Don Diego moved along the platform and called a request to one of the passengers, his friend and neighbor, Fernando Diaz. The journey to Moredo and the joyful reunion of the families Castaldez and Sharkey would have to be postponed. Would Diaz be so kind as to make Don Diego’s apologies to Don Arturo Sharkey, and to tell him of the great tragedy that necessitated Don Diego’s remaining in the Burnett Junction area at this time?

  Toby Jethrow re-entered the caboose and said, impatiently:

  “We’re ready to roll, I reckon.”

  “Por favor, Señor Conductor ...!” breathed Benito, leaping to his feet. “Would you do me this one great kindness?”

  “What’s he talkin’ about?” Toby enquired of Jim.

  “Wait and see,” Jim advised.

  “All my life I have prayed for such an opportunity,” declared Benito, with great fervor. “It would be, to you, such a little thing. But—for one so humble as me—such a magnificent experience!”

  “Talk plain,” frowned Toby. “I won’t say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ till I savvy what you want.”

  “To do as you do ...!” Benito’s eyes were aglow. “To wave the bandera. To blow the whistle and call to the driver of this magnifico locomotora. How you say it? All on the board?”

  “Not all on the board.” Toby grimaced impatiently. “What a conductor always hollers is ‘All aboard’—except he cuts it down a mite, so it sounds like ‘Board.’ That’s all there is to it.”

  “Por favor, Señor Conductor,” pleaded Benito. “On my knees ...!”

  “For gosh sakes, you don’t have to beg,” muttered Toby. “Not if it means that much to you.” He produced the small flag, dug his whistle from a pocket of his vest and passed them to the little Mex. “Here. Go ahead. You just shove your head out the side door and holler. It’s dead easy.”

  “One more great kindness ...” begged Benito, as he doffed his sombrero and accepted the flag and the whistle.

  “Now what?” demanded Toby.

&nb
sp; “The cap.” Benito gazed longingly at the conductor’s peaked headgear. “Ah! Muy bello! If I could but wear it—only for as long as it takes ...”

  “Might as well humor him, Toby,” Jim suggested. “He only wants to wear it long enough to get the train started.”

  “Well, I guess he ain’t askin’ too much,” shrugged Toby.

  He temporarily surrendered his cap. Showing all his buckteeth in a proud grin, Benito donned the official railroad headgear, thrust his head out the side door and blew on the whistle. Up ahead in the cabin of his locomotive, the engineer poked his head out and glanced backward. Benito waved the flag and yelled, at the top of his voice:

  “’Board … !”

  The engineer nodded, withdrew his head and settled himself at his controls. Then, as he released the brakes and started the engine puffing and steaming northward out of the Junction depot, he remarked to his fireman:

  “Griff—have you noticed how Toby Jethrow is changin’ lately?”

  “He’s been lookin’ sadder and sadder these past six months,” opined the fireman.

  “He’s lookin’ worse than ever, I’ll tell you that,” said the engineer.

  “Toby never was no oil-paintin’,” the fireman pointed out.

  “Even so, he must be sickenin’ for somethin’,” asserted the engineer. “He looks terrible. His eyes bulge and his teeth stick out. Sick is how he looks—sick and ugly. He needs help.”

  “It’s that wife of his,” scowled the fireman, who happened to be a confirmed bachelor. “Beulah Jethrow is an old witch that drives poor Toby near to crazy. Gab, gab, gab. Always whinin’. Always belittlin’.”

  “If she could see how Toby looks at this very moment,” declared the engineer, “she’d be ashamed of what she’s done to him.”

  Out of Burnett Junction and across the seven-mile plain to the north, the travelling was easy. The northbound rolled along at a steady pace and, in the caboose, the big stallion and the runty burro overcame their initial dismay at this unusual mode of transportation. Toby retrieved his cap, whistle and flag, shoved the side doors shut, filled and lit his pipe and proceeded to entertain Big Jim with a recitation of his wife’s shortcomings, while Benito and Maria maintained their huddled posture by the rear wall, Maria still taking care to keep her head bowed. For more reasons than one, it was fortunate that she did so; she couldn’t suppress her smiles, as Toby’s lament unfolded. Several times, she found it hard to fight back a giggle.