At Showdown Time, The Big Man Needed A Miracle
Was this to be the last ride of Big Jim Rand? The killers awaited him dead ahead. Another of them rode directly behind him, covering him. And, inside the disused shack, a desperate woman risked her life to give Jim a fighting chance of survival.
Big Jim had become a target for the professional assassins, because his quarry, the elusive and badly scared Jenner, had posted bounty on him. As well as the professionals, a trio of inept amateurs invited themselves to the ruckus, injecting humor into an otherwise grim situation.
BIG JIM 11: 1000 DOLLAR TARGET
By Marshall Grover
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
First Edition: July 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
Series Editor: Kieran Stotter
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
Chapter One – Decision at Cordova
“Your real name is Jenner,” drawled the salesman. “You killed an army officer name of Rand about sixteen months ago, and now Rand’s brother is looking for you—looking to put you away, Jenner. But good.”
The face of the man seated at the desk turned pasty white. Drinkers and gamblers of Cordova knew him as Al Somers, new owner of the Casino Ricardo, the town’s busiest house of entertainment. He was flashily garbed and well-barbered but, now that his informant had said his piece, he looked somewhat less poised than before. A haunted expression came to the shifty eyes. A nerve twitched at the temple.
“Where—how…?” he began.
“I figured this information would be worth something to you,” grinned the traveling salesman. His name was Vernon Towle, and haberdashery was his line. Less than ten minutes ago, he had ridden a lathered and panting horse into Cordova’s main street. “As soon as I had the situation sized up, I hired a horse, found out all the short-cuts to Cordova and came on like a damn pony express rider. It ought to be worth something, Jenner. It ought to be worth plenty.”
“You must be wrong—you have to be wrong!” Jenner muttered. “Rand believes me to be dead. He killed a gambler in a town called Lewisburg, and he believed that gambler to be me.”
“What makes you think…?” began Towle.
“I read about it in a newspaper,” said Jenner.
“Well, I’m sure sorry to disappoint you,” said Towle. “The plain truth is Rand is headed in this general direction—looking for you.”
Jenner produced his wallet and tugged out a couple of bills. As he placed the money before the drummer, he told him, “I’ll double this as soon as you’ve spilled everything you know.”
“I ran into this Rand feller in Coyote Spring,” said Towle. “That’s a two-bit burg way north of here, you know?”
“I know Coyote Spring,” nodded Jenner.
“This Rand—he’s a big one,” Towle continued. “Big Jim, they call him. He was showing this sketch, Jenner, and it must’ve been made by a real artist. I recognized you at once. Rand was showing it around in a saloon called the Lucky Chip.”
“Did anybody else recognize the picture?” demanded Jenner.
“Not while I was there,” shrugged Towle. “Why? Were you ever in Coyote Spring?”
“Yes—unfortunately,” sighed Jenner.
“So it’s only a matter of time before Rand arrives in Cordova,” said Towle.
“You say you rode the short-cuts?” prodded Jenner.
“Sure enough,” nodded Towle. “I looked him over, this Rand feller, and he didn’t look any too prosperous. So….”
“So you figured you’d earn more by warning me,” sneered Jenner, “than betraying me to Rand.”
“You should be grateful I came through Cordova a little while ago,” asserted Towle. “If I hadn’t remembered where I’d seen you...”
“All right—you’ve made your point.” Jenner grimaced impatiently, drew two more bills from his wallet and tossed them to the drummer. “You left Coyote Spring—when?”
“Three days ago,” said Towle, as he pocketed the money. “It’ll take Rand that long—or longer—if he doesn’t learn about the short-cuts.” He sketched the saloonkeeper an ironic salute, as he ambled to the office door. “So long to you, Jenner. I wish you luck—and you’re sure gonna need it.”
As the drummer quit the office, Jenner opened a drawer of the desk, took out a chart, unrolled it on the desktop and began studying it with great intensity. How far away was Coyote Spring—how many miles? How soon might his Nemesis come riding into Cordova to demand a shooting showdown, a reckoning from which he could not hope to emerge unscathed?
Downstairs, while sampling a stiff shot of whisky at the bar, Towle cheerfully remarked to the barkeep and a gaudily-garbed percentage-woman,
“I sure gave your boss plenty to fret about.”
“A man’s troubles are his own affair,” countered the barkeep, pointedly.
“Don’t worry,” shrugged the drummer. “I wasn’t about to tell you the whole story. All I’m saying is I gave him plenty to fret about.” He took another pull at his drink, glanced toward the gallery. “I knew I’d find him here, but...”
“Meaning Al Somers?” frowned the percenter.
“Meaning him,” nodded Towle. “Yeah. I remembered him from when I passed through Cordova a little while ago, but I didn’t realize he owned the place.”
“He didn’t own it, up till a week ago,” drawled the percenter. She was typical of her class, over-powdered and over-rouged, a well-curved redhead in a gown so revealing as to guarantee pneumonia at any other time of the year. It was hot in Southwest Colorado right now; the temperature was relentlessly climbing to 92 degrees. “Al was working for Monty Ricardo, just like the rest of us, until he got lucky.”
“How lucky?” Towle asked.
“Al invested some of his own cash at our roulette layout, and won quite a pile,” explained the redhead. “This made Monty sore. Well, maybe Al felt like he could lick the world that night—eh Phil?”
“He licked poor Monty, that’s for sure,” grinned the barkeep.
“Al challenged Monty to take his winnings away from him—at poker,” she told Towle. “That game lasted four hours and, when it was all over, Monty had lost his bankroll, this saloon and his shirt. And that’s how come Al Somers got to be our boss.” It was her turn to ask a question. “What did you say to Al that started him fretting?”
“The bartender is right,” shrugged Towle, as he finished his drink. “A man’s troubles are his own affair.”
He nodded farewell, ambled from the barroom. The redhead stared thoughtfully at the swinging doors and remarked to the barkeep,
“This might be just the right time.”
“Right time to promote yourself?” The barkeep grinned mirthlessly. “You hanker to be Somers’ girl, Trina?”
“I could do worse,” she pointed out. “When Cordova gets to be a trail-town—and it will—Al Somers will make a fortune with this saloon. It’s the biggest in town.”
“And the girl with the most jewelry and the fanciest clothes,” guessed the barkeep, “will be the girl closest to Al Somers,”
“That’s what I’m think
ing, Phil,” she smiled, as she sauntered toward the stairs. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
A few moments later, when she entered the office without knocking, the man she knew as Al Somers was still worriedly studying a chart of the county of Cordova and all approaches thereto. He was perspiring now. Pomade melted on his scalp, mingled with the perspiration trickling down his cheeks. He looked far from attractive at this moment. She smiled enticingly, perched on a corner of the desk and crossed her legs.
“Not now, Trina,” he mumbled, without raising his head. “Any other time, but not now.”
“When a man feels lowest,” she drawled, “that’s the time to talk, to confide in somebody he can trust. Like me, for instance. You can trust me, Al.” She leaned over sideways to place a hand on his arm. “How about it? What did that drummer tell you that caused you so much fear?”
“Somebody’s out to get me.” Jenner said it softly, his high-pitched voice husky and edgy. “He—he’s been after me for damn near a year and a half.”
“Too tough for you to handle?” she prodded.
“Too big—too good with a gun,” he confessed.
“Anybody I know?” she asked.
“An ex-cavalry sergeant name of Rand,” he sighed. “Big Jim Rand. He’s on his way from Coyote Spring by now, I guess. Somebody’s bound to remember me at the Spring. They’ll tell him I was headed south so, as sure as it’s summer in Colorado, he’ll be riding that south trail.”
“You’d appreciate a little advice, wouldn’t you?” she suggested. “Smart advice from a girl who has your interests in mind?”
“I’m too damn worried to think,” said Jenner.
“Last night you played poker with a few optimists, and you won quite a bundle,” she reminded him. “Two of those optimists got in mighty deep, and now you’re holding their I.O.U.s.”
“Sure,” he nodded. “Keane and Bissell. What about them?”
“I guess you didn’t know.” She chuckled softly. “Those two aren’t exactly like angels, Al. They never worked together. They’re loners, and I don’t believe they ever met before that poker game last night. But one thing I can tell you. They’re both in the same line of business.”
“Gunslingers?” he blinked.
“Professionals,” she nodded. “If the price is right, they’d thrown down on any target—anybody from a badge-toting lawman to somebody’s white-haired mother. Ice water in their veins instead of blood, you know? And both of ’em in debt to you, Al.” She patted his hand. “It’s an opportunity, a great opportunity. They’re broke, and you can afford to make ’em a big offer, maybe double their usual charge.” She gestured to the map. “Between here and Coyote Spring, this Rand feller has to travel quite a piece of territory. He might pass through Pringle. Why couldn’t Keane or Bissell head him off somewhere between here and there—and settle his hash once and for all?”
“That’s what I need.” Jenner fervently confided. “To get Rand off my back for good and all.” He glanced about the office. “Especially now, Trina. I never had it so good. The profits are high and steady here at the casino. In a few years, I could make enough to retire on. The hell with Rand! I can’t turn my back on all this.”
“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” she challenged.
“Sure, I would.” He nodded vehemently. “I’d quit cold, if I knew Rand had gotten past Keane and Bissell. What use is money to a dead man? My life won’t be worth a hoot in hell if Rand ever gets me in his sights.”
“Al,” she frowned, “you go proposition those gunslicks right away.”
“You got any idea where I’ll find ’em?” he asked.
“Always ask Trina,” she smiled, “I can tell you a lot about nearly every citizen of this burg. Keane bunks at that doss-house downtown, the one run by that crazy Munce jasper...”
“Keane must’ve been desperate for accommodation,” mused Jenner.
“And Bissell,” said Trina, “has a room above the Half Moon Diner.” She slid from the desk, adjusted her skirt. “I’d go see ’em right away, if I was you.”
“Thanks for the advice, Trina. That’s just what I’ll do.” Jenner rose from his chair and reached for his hat. “And I won’t forget you for this.”
It was exactly 10:18 of that hot and sunny morning, when Jenner, alias Somers, walked out of the Casino Ricardo and hurried toward Cordova’s seedier sector, the downtown area. And, at this same time, Big Jim Rand was traveling the regular trail at a steady pace, approaching the northern outskirts of the settlement of Pringle, accompanied by his constant shadow, the thorn in his side, the grimy, bucktoothed little Mexican who answered to the name Benito Espina.
They presented a startling contrast to the casual observer, the big ex-sergeant of cavalry and the runty sneak-thief. James Carey Rand rode straight-backed and square-shouldered and was as impressive a personality as would ever be seen in this neck of the woods. Brawny, ruggedly-handsome, aggressively-healthy, he stood all of six feet three inches tall. The ivory butt of a long-barreled Colt .45 jutted from the holster at his right hip. The stock of a Winchester ’73 protruded from his saddle-scabbard. His mount was a magnificent black stallion, an animal capable of great speed. He had broken and trained this horse and had named it “Hank” after an old-time cavalry sergeant of his acquaintance. This was a one man horse. Hank might permit others to feed and water him, even to saddle him, but woe betide the man—other than Big Jim himself—who attempted to swing astride him.
“¡Por Dios!” scowled the Mex. “This heat!”
“It’s the place for it, and the time of year for it.” The big man shrugged philosophically. “You just have to make the most of it, cucaracha.”
“Why we go to this other town, this Pringle?” Benito wanted to know.
“For a damn good reason,” growled Jim. “The only water between Coyote Spring and Cordova is at Pringle, and our canteens are near empty.”
“So,” shrugged the Mex, “we go to Pringle.”
There couldn’t be a greater contrast. The Mex was of indeterminate vintage, a scruffy, skinny sawn-off with lank black hair, toothy leer and bulging, predatory eyes that betrayed him for what he was, for what he always would be—a thief by instinct, an itchy-fingered opportunist. Frequently, he picked Jim’s pockets, or at least made the attempt, so as to stay in practice.
He was amoral to extremes, almost devoid of conscience. In every way, he differed from the burly ex-cavalryman in whose shadow he always traveled. He abhorred soap and water, was ready to take advantage! of any and all women, provided he could give himself a better than even chance of winning their favor.
He would steal from anybody; in that respect he could be considered impartial. Rob from the rich and give to the poor? Never. Rob the rich, and the poor and the in-betweens; such was the policy of the unwashed Benito. His means of transportation provided another sharp contrast; he straddled a plodding, somnolent burro which bore the incredibly grand name of Capitan Cortez.
“This time we find this Jenner, no?” he suggested. “And you, my amigo, will search no more.”
“This time I might find him,” countered Jim.
“Is good information, I think,” said Benito. “In Coyote Spring, many recognize him from the picture. All see Jenner ride south along this very trail.”
“That was a little time back,” muttered the big man. “He’s had many a chance to make many a mile. He might be in Pringle, but I don’t think so. Cordova, more likely.”
The next bend of the trail was less than sixty yards ahead and, already, Jim knew he would find trouble beyond. The voices were audible, increasing in volume, and the note of urgency was unmistakable, although he could not distinguish what was being said. Benito frowned uncertainly. “Niños?”
“Uh huh. They sound like young’uns,” nodded Jim.
“Must the niños always scream?” Benito winced, clapped his hands to his ears. “Cannot the young ones play—without such screaming?”
“I’ve
got a feeling,” frowned Jim. “Those kids aren’t screaming just for the heck of it.”
He heeled the big black to a loping run to approach the rock-bordered bend at speed. When he had rounded it, with the hooves of the stallion raising a cloud of dust, he found himself viewing what might have been a pleasing sight under other circumstances. He knew little of the ways of children and was a confirmed bachelor in many respects, but never would he pretend to be unaware of the predicaments of the very young, and there could be no denying that one of these young hopefuls was in trouble—potentially fatal trouble.
There were ten children in all, representatives of both sexes and all very small; the youngest would have been aged five, the eldest seven or thereabouts. They stood on a patch of grass and yelled, screamed, wept, jumped up and down in excitement or offered advice, depending on their varied temperaments. All appeared to be rigged in their Sunday-best. There was no cook fire, but a white cloth had been spread on the grass to accommodate platters of sandwiches and other foodstuffs. Over to the left, a couple of docile, hefty team-horses grazed quietly, apparently oblivious to the crisis. Further away stood the wagon, minus its canopy and with its tailgate down. The very worried young woman over by the base of the tall pine was obviously in charge of the party, since Jim could see no other adults. There was more than a little cause for her dismay. The tenth of her small charges was dangling in the dizzy heights of the tree, barely visible from here. It seemed a sharp out-growth from a high branch had caught him by the seat of his overalls. Benito cursed luridly.
“Careful with the language,” chided Jim, as he urged his mount forward. “Some of these young’uns are female.”
He dismounted beside the young woman. She whirled to face him and, for a moment, her reaction to his generous size took precedence over her fears for the safety of the tree-climber. Men of such proportions were uncommon in that era. He doffed his Stetson to her, drawled a greeting.
“Morning. Looks like you got yourself quite a problem here.”
“It began so happily!” she panted. “The children were so well-behaved—like little angels—and then Leroy started climbing, and I didn’t see, because I was wiping Betty Lou’s nose and trying to stop Jethro from hitting Harriet in the stomach and—oh, for heaven’s sake, I don’t know what to do!”
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