Big Jim 11

by Marshall Grover

  He wasn’t unfavorably impressed. A man should make allowances, he reminded himself, at a time like this. How could any young woman appear poised and assured under such circumstances? What if a lock of her lustrous dark hair had fallen over her brow? What if her nose were shiny and the skirt of her gown rumpled? Here was a lady with ample cause for alarm.

  “For tending all these sprigs at the one time, they ought to hang a medal on you,” he opined, as he unstrapped his six-shooter. “Which one is yours?”

  “None of them—I mean all of them...”

  She was flustered. He produced his watch, a valued possession, and passed it to her for safe-keeping, as he grinned and asked,

  “How about it? None of ’em are yours—or all of ’em?”

  “I’m not married,” she frowned. “My name is Nora Fenton, and I’m the schoolteacher at Pringle.”

  “No school Saturdays,” he mused, passing his Stetson to Benito. “So you brought the kids out for a picnic.”

  “That’s how it all began,” she murmured. “I was sure I could keep them under control, but...”

  “Never sell kids short,” he grunted, scanning the upper reaches of the big pine. “How long has Leroy been up there? Well, never mind. It makes no difference.” He glanced toward the wagon. “Would there be any rope in the rig?”

  “As a matter of fact I did notice a coil of rope under the seat,” she recalled.

  “The rope—fetch it.” Jim snapped his fingers. The Mex flashed Nora Fenton a grin and hustled across to the wagon. “Don’t mind the Mex,” Jim then thought to tell her. “I’ll allow he looks a mite untrustworthy, but he’s harmless—while I’m around to keep an eye on him. Espina is his name—-Benito Espina. Mine’s Jim Rand. Your servant, ma’am.”

  “I’m so grateful,” she began.

  “Thank me after I get him down,” he suggested.

  “You can get him down?” she anxiously demanded.

  “I can try,” was his cautious reply. Benito returned with the coil of rope. It was of generous length, and he estimated he would have enough line by which to lower the boy to the ground. He explained his intention to Nora and then Mex, and added, “There’s no other way. I could climb down with the little feller hanging onto my back, but we have no guarantee he wouldn’t fall off. To lower him by the rope would be safer.”

  “If you can reach Leroy,” said Nora, “you’ll find him subdued—ready to obey orders for a change.” She gestured soothingly at the other children. “Everybody be quiet!”

  “Miss Fenton, Miss Fenton,” piped a freckled six-year-old, “when’s Leroy gonna fall and break his crown?”

  “Maybe not at all, Alvin,” said Nora, “This kind gentleman is climbing up to rescue Leroy.”

  “Aw, gee!” said Alvin; he sounded bitterly disappointed.

  Jim had removed his spurs. The coil of rope was slung across his chest from his left shoulder, and now he was ready to scale the tree. It would not be too difficult a chore, he assured himself, although his generous proportions would be of no help on this occasion.

  He ordered Benito and the school ma’am to keep the kids clear. Bending, then leaping, he managed to grasp one of the bottom branches. For some time thereafter, he was involved in the muscle-straining activity of clambering from branches to trunk and upward, always upward. Never once did he make the mistake of pausing to stare downward. Had he done so he might have been surprised at the progress so far achieved. By the time he reached the topmost limbs of that towering pine, Nora and Benito appeared as midgets far below.

  From the trunk, he reached up to the branch from which dangled the helpless child. As he hauled himself up to straddle it, he addressed the dangler, quietly, reassuringly.

  “Howdy, boy. Got yourself in a real fix, eh? Well, don’t you fret. We’ll have you down out of here in no time at all.”

  “My pants are tearin’, mister,” the boy dolefully announced.

  “That so?” And, still, Jim contrived to sound calm, “Well, I guess we got here just in time.”

  He lay almost prone along the high limb now, so that he could reach down with his long, muscular arms and touch the boy. His left hand he clamped tight to the small back, his right he used for a firm grip at the front, gathering the boy’s shirt and jacket, bunching them. Quietly he explained,

  “I’m gonna pull hard, haul you clear off that spike. You savvy?”

  “Uh—yessir.”

  “When you feel yourself coming free, you grab one of my arms and hang on tight. That’s all you have to do—savvy?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Right. Here we go.”

  The ruse worked. Several strategic inches of little Leroy’s britches adhered to the outgrowth after Jim had lifted the lad clear, but there were no complications as yet. He gathered the boy close to him, gently commanded him to sit still while he fashioned a noose from the end of the rope. Leroy watched this operation with some misgivings.

  “You gonna lynch me?” he demanded.

  “Nope,” grunted Jim, poker-faced. “I don’t know if tree climbing is a hanging offence in this territory.”

  “Well—wha…?” began Leroy.

  “I aim to slip this noose under your armpits and pull it tight,” Jim told him. “And then I’ll lower you way down—down and down—and pretty soon you’ll be on the ground again.”

  “I guess that’ll be an easy chore for you,” Leroy remarked; his speech was as matter-of-fact as that of a mature adult. “I mean—you bein’ so big and me bein’ so little.”

  “Yeah, sure,” nodded Jim. “No strain at all.”

  He dropped the noose over Leroy’s head, ordered him to raise his arms, then secured it about his chest under the armpits. The boy offered no protest when, after scanning the foliage immediately below, Jim nudged him off the branch and began lowering him. The strain on his muscles caused him no great discomfort, and Leroy was shrewd enough not to panic. Inch by inch, foot by foot, he passed through green foliage and brushed against thicker branches, and it never occurred to him to wonder how he had managed to climb so high.

  “Ah, ha!” Benito grinned at the other children. “He comes now—your amigo.”

  A cheer erupted from the small fry, as Leroy was lowered into view. From high above, Jim yelled to Benito and the school ma’am to warn them that the line was paid out. Leroy now dangled some four feet from the lowest branch, but this presented no problem. Benito had already thought to hitch up the team and back the wagon to the base of the tree. By standing on a sideboard of the rig, he was able to reach up and grasp the boy.

  “¡Bueno!” he called to the big man, as he released Leroy from the noose. “You pull up the rope and climb down, eh, amigo?”

  “Be with you in a minute!” was Jim’s reply.

  That rope, unfortunately, was far from new. Its aging strands had supported the weight of a small boy, but Jim was a somewhat more substantial burden. He had descended only a few feet when he noted the fraying strands. Nimbly, he climbed upward to where he had knotted the line. Straddling a branch, he untied the knot and began recoiling.

  “The rope won’t take my weight,” he called, to Benito, “but I’ll make it all right. I’ll have plenty of branches to grab on my way down.”

  When he had finished recoiling the rope, he threw it far clear of the tangle of foliage, and it was then that Nora called a warning.

  “Come very carefully, Mr. Rand! You’re much higher than you realize!”

  “I’ll be careful,” he promised.

  And he did take all reasonable precautions, while lowering himself from that branch to the next, but he was a lot of man after all, and one of those branches was about to give under his weight. Simultaneous with the harsh, crackling sound, he felt himself lurching outward, far clear of the trunk. His arms flailed as he quested for a handhold on another limb of the tree, a fistful of foliage, anything at all. He began falling, feet-first at the start, then head over heels when a stout branch made harsh contact with h
is back and doubled him over. He was suddenly lacerated by spines that seemed to ram into his face or tear at his clothing. His head slammed hard against the trunk, or it might have been portion of a thick bough. With his senses reeling, he grabbed for a handhold and missed again.

  Down below, the sharp ears of Benito Espina had caught the ominous sounds—Jim’s grunt of pain, the rustling sound of something heavy falling through foliage.

  “¡Cuidado!” he gasped. “Move clear—pronto, pronto, niños! Señorita.”

  In sudden alarm, Nora gathered up three of the children and made for the sunlight beyond the shade at the base of the tree. Benito followed, toting another child and shooing the remainder ahead of him. When she paused, Nora was disheveled, stoop-shouldered and apprehensive. Also it was obvious she was stronger than she appeared to be, because she held a child under either arm while the third was perched on her shoulders.

  They watched helplessly, as the big man tumbled through the tree’s foliage and crashed to the ground.

  Chapter Two – The Amateur Assassins

  The period immediately following Jim Rand’s fall was one of consternation for Nora Fenton. She was unable .to restore Leroy’s rescuer to consciousness; he had been knocked senseless in no uncertain terms. The children gathered around and plagued her with useless advice, and Benito Espina appeared completely at a loss as to how to cope with the situation.

  “He may have internal injuries,” she fretted. “We won’t know just how serious his injuries are until my father can look at him. He’s the qualified physician in Pringle—Dr Matthew Fenton. But how can we lift a man so heavy into the wagon?”

  “Si Señorita,” Benito shrugged, “my Amigo Jim is one gigante.”

  So for fifteen minutes the party waited helplessly till Big Jim stirred, then with a great deal of effort and a little help from Big Jim they were finally able to load the big man into the wagon and with all the children crouched on either side of the unconscious giant, Nora made short work of gathering up the provisions and dumping them behind the seat, took up her position and gathered the reins. Benito secured Hank’s rein to the tailgate and remounted the burro, and the journey to Pringle began.

  Back in Cordova, the new owner of the Casino Ricardo easily located the homicidal Lynn Bissell. That hefty, florid-faced gunman was taking his ease in a boardwalk chair not far from the Half Moon Diner, chewing on a straw and idly scanning the sunlit street. His garb was simple and provided effective camouflage for the small armory distributed about his person. Approaching him, Jenner was reminded of all the rumors he had heard concerning the trickery, the many ruses practiced by this notorious pistolero.

  “When Bissell throws down on a man,” one of the rumors claimed, “you never can see where the gun is coming from. He totes hardware all over his carcass.”

  Actually this was a slight exaggeration. Bissell carried only four guns. The Colt .45 slung to his left hip was a blind inasmuch as he wasn’t particularly dexterous with his left hand. His favorite weapon was a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson with a cut-down barrel. He carried it in a holster hung under his left armpit and concealed by his vest. As an emergency measure, he carried a Remington derringer in his bottom vest pocket on the right side, and another in his right hip pocket. Bulky, untidy and deceptively placid, he followed the gambler’s approach. As soon as Jenner was within earshot, he drawled,

  “I don’t know if I appreciate this, Somers, don’t know if I appreciate it one little bit. Never did enjoy to be hounded.”

  “Hounded?” frowned Jenner, as he came to a halt beside Bissell’s chair. “I wouldn’t hound you, Bissell.”

  “You wouldn’t want to,” said Bissell, bluntly, “on account of I’m a man that never welshes on a gamblin’ debt. Told you I’d square my little account with you, and I will. But you’ll just have to wait a spell.” He spat out the well-chewed straw, produced a cigar and clamped it between his teeth. Jenner lit it for him. “I’m into you for four hundred and fifty-five dollars, Somers. Well, that ain’t exactly a fortune.”

  “Bissell,” said Jenner, “I’m not much worried about the money you owe me.”

  “You’ll get it back,” Bissell assured him.

  “That debt can easily be settled,” muttered Jenner. He stepped closer to the chair, squinted along the street and, from this moment on, spoke in an undertone to ensure his words could not reach the ears of passers-by. “We’ll write off your debt, Bissell.”

  “Will we now?” challenged Bissell. “And why would you do me any favors?”

  “I know who you are—and the kind of business you’re in,” said Jenner. “And—I need help.”

  “What you mean...” Bissell’s florid visage wrinkled in a scathing grin, “is there’s some hombre you want put away. You don’t have the nerve to go after him personal, so you’d as soon hire a professional to handle him.”

  “Do you quarrel with every man who needs to hire you?” asked Jenner, aggrievedly.

  Bissel stopped grinning. Curtly, he announced,

  “I don’t work for nickels and dimes. You want some jasper taken care of—it’ll cost you five hundred.”

  “I know how much you charge,” Jenner assured him. “You and Keane.”

  “How does Keane figure in this?” frowned Bissell.

  “I intend making him the same proposition,” said Jenner.

  “I work alone,” declared Bissell. “So does Keane.”

  “That’s all right,” shrugged Jenner. “I wasn’t about to suggest you should join forces with Keane. It’s just that I need...”

  “You need to be mighty sure of this certain party,” mused Bissell. “So you’re hirin’ twice as much protection.”

  “I’m offering a retainer,” explained Jenner, as he produced his wallet. “Five hundred down. Another five hundred when I know for sure that you’ve taken care of the man. That’s double your usual charge, Bissell. And, if Keane beats you to the target, you still keep the retainer, and your gambling debt is still written off. You have to admit that’s a mighty generous proposition.”

  To this, Bissell unsmilingly replied,

  “You must be a very frightened hombre, Somers.”

  “I’m frightened.” Jenner nodded slowly. “I admit it.”

  “Who is he, and where do I find him?” asked Bissell.

  “His name is Rand—better known as Big Jim,” muttered Jenner. “He’s a big one. He used to be a cavalry sergeant. He travels in company of a sawn-off greaser. Espina, I think his name is. Rand owns the kind of horse people would remember, a big black stallion. And Rand himself should be easy to find, because he always uses his own name.”

  “A big one, you say?”

  “He stands about six-three.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’d have left Coyote Spring a little while ago. By now, he’d be passing through Pringle, or, if he moved fast, he’d be somewhere between Pringle and here.”

  “That kind of hombre,” reflected Bissell, “should be easy to find.”

  Jenner dropped five 100 dollar bills into Bissell’s lap, as he announced,

  “Your debt is written off as of right now.”

  “Fine,” grinned Bissell. He pocketed the money, got to his feet. “I’ll be back in a few days to collect that other five hundred.”

  “Well, I sure wish you luck.” Jenner said that with fervor.

  “Luck is what I never need,” Bissell retorted. “A big man makes a big target, and the target is all I need.”

  “He’s supposed to be a fair hand with a Colt,” said Jenner.

  “That’s what they’ve told me,” leered Bissell, “about every man I ever put down.”

  He nodded so-long and moved away from Jenner, heading for the Half Moon to pack his gear, while Jenner walked further downtown to one of Cordova’s smallest and dingiest doss-houses. To refer to Munce’s Retreat as a hotel or even a boarding house would be too great a compliment; it barely qualified for the term doss-house.

&nb
sp; In Main Street’s last block south it stood, a single-storied, clapboard establishment sandwiched between O’Hare’s Barn and a feed and grain warehouse. Sarcastic locals had oft remarked that one could walk past Munce’s Retreat a dozen times a day and never notice it; the Munce place was that nondescript.

  The poky lobby was deserted when Jenner entered. To ascertain the number of Keane’s room, he needed only to consult the dog-eared register on the knife-scarred counter. In less than a minute, he was rapping at a door at the end of the none too tidy corridor and being invited to identify himself. He did that. The door was unlocked and opened six inches to reveal portion of the hawk-like face and all of the lethal gun hand of Jason Keane, a drifting professional every inch as dangerous as the notorious Bissell.

  “Somers? What the hell do you want? If you’re here to whine about that I.O.U. ...”

  “No, Keane. Your I.O.U. is no problem.”

  “I always settle up, Somers.”

  “You won’t need to. I’m here to make you a proposition.”

  “Business?”

  “Uh huh. Your kind of business.”

  “Come on in.”

  Jenner nudged the door open wide enough to permit entry, moved in and closed it behind him, while Keane trudged across to the rumpled bed and seated himself. In appearance, he was different in many ways to the homicidal Bissell, taller, leaner, somewhat less impressive. It had always suited Keane’s purposes to rig himself in the garb of the working cowhand; he scorned flashy clothes, preferring the anonymity of the nondescript. Where the grim mechanics of his profession were concerned, he put his faith in his lightning speed and deadly accuracy with the one handgun he owned, or with the Winchester now leaning against the side wall. His handgun, the weapon slung low at his right thigh in a tied-down holster was a Peacemaker with the 4¾ inch barrel, the barrel-length most favored by practitioners of the lethal art of gunslinging.