Big Jim 11

by Marshall Grover

  The cloudy blue eyes surveyed Jenner expectantly. The face of Jason Keane had about as much appeal as the florid countenance of Lynn Bissell, and this was no compliment. The nose was large and aquiline, the blue eyes heavy-lidded, the mouth thin-lipped, the chin pointed and the ears too long.

  “About this proposition... ?” he prodded.

  Jenner helped himself to the room’s only chair, and told him,

  “You forget about your gambling debt right here and now.”

  “I call that a right fine start,” grinned Keane. “But I’d need my usual price, Somers.”

  “Sure,” nodded Jenner. “The going rate. The same price charged by Bissell. Incidentally, Keane, I’ve offered him the same deal.”

  “For the same hombre?”‘ blinked Keane.

  “For the same hombre,” said Jenner. He went over it again, quietly repeating every detail offered Bissell a short time before. The same proposition in every respect. At the end, while Keane was still turning it over in his mind, he added, “I’ll know which of you earns that second five hundred because, in a little while, I’ll send a man north to check.”

  “A thousand,” reflected Keane. “Double the pay—for the same amount of work. Well, well, well. I call that a real bargain.”

  “Then we have a deal?” challenged Jenner.

  “Damn right,” said Keane. He chuckled softly. “And I feel plumb sorry for Bissell, because I got a hunch my luck is changin’. I’ll find this Rand hombre first, and...”

  “You’ll need to move fast,” said Jenner, as he dug out his wallet. “In fact, if you hustle, you’ll catch up with Bissell.”

  “No thanks,” grinned Keane. “I’d as soon stay clear of him. But one thing I’m sure of. When Rand goes down, he’ll have my lead in his carcass.”

  Jenner surrendered another 500 dollars; at this stage of his checkered career, he could afford it. Later, strolling back to the Casino Ricardo, he mentally congratulated himself.

  In the very near future, his nemesis would be disposed of once and for all, and he would feel secure again, with his future assured. He had no regrets concerning the manner of his wanton slaying of Lieutenant Christopher Rand; some eighteen months ago, he had killed that youthful officer of the 11th Cavalry with a well-aimed bullet in the back. His only regret was on his own account. It hadn’t occurred to him that the young lieutenant would prove to be kid brother to a tough, battle-hardened sergeant in the same regiment, an experienced tracker and an expert with every variety of firearm, a vengeance-hungry pursuer who had sworn to apprehend his brother’s murderer.

  Jason Keane left Cordova within the hour. When he checked out of Munce’s Retreat, he paid five dollars back rent to the blowsy, bovine female lazing behind the counter in the lobby. Her name was Fiona Williger and, at the age of thirty, hers wasn’t exactly the kind of beauty that inspires suitors to fight duels. She was freckled, frumpish and fat, with untidy hair, lack-luster eyes and an unfortunate expression caused by her habit of leaving her mouth half open most of the time.

  Keane went his way, and Fiona now shifted her bulk out from behind the counter and trudged along a hallway to the kitchen. Her bother awaited her there. Two years her senior, and every inch as obese, he sat slumped at the kitchen table, eating. Let the sandy hair of Phoebus Williger grow to shoulder-length and he could have passed for his own sister. On the other hand, should Fiona ever think to don men’s clothing and have her hair cut short, she could have passed for Phoebus.

  “Eat up them vittles, brother Phoebus,” she urged, as she waddled to the stove, “while I whup up another mess o’ flapjacks for us. Gotta keep up our strength, don’t we?”

  “That we do, sister Fiona,” he grunted, still chewing. “That we surely do.”

  Along the corridor, a door opened. The man who emerged was Tobias Munce, who enjoyed the dubious status of proprietor of the doss-house. The room from which he emerged was the room next to that recently vacated by Jason Keane. Of medium height and spare physique, the squint-eyed, sharp-featured Toby was as unprepossessing an individual as his partners in this enterprise—the slovenly Fiona, the uncouth Phoebus.

  His lank black hair fell over his brow as, with pulse pounding, he squinted to right and left along the corridor. Very quietly he re-closed the door. On tiptoe he crept along the corridor, through the lobby, and into the short hallway that led to the kitchen.

  As he entered, Phoebus looked up, shrugged indifferently and went right on eating. Fiona eyed him enquiringly from her position at the stove, frowning over a fat shoulder.

  “Toby—whatsamatter?”

  “Pssstt!” hissed Toby, as he made for the rear door.

  “Eh?” enquired Phoebus.

  “I said pssstt!” scowled Toby.

  “Yeah,” grunted Phoebus. “That’s what I done thought you said.”

  After a quick scan of the rear yard, Toby closed and locked, the back door. Then, still on tiptoe, he hustled across to secure the door opening into the hallway. He turned, leering triumphantly, and Fiona enquired of her kinsman,

  “What d’you suppose is up with Toby?”

  “With his kind, you can never tell,” shrugged Phoebus. “Only we gotta be charitable, sister Fiona. It likely ain’t his fault if he’s just plain stupid.”

  “Just plain stupid, am I?” Toby glowered at him and shook a fist. “You’ll see, Phoebus Williger! You’ll durn soon change your tune!”

  They wrangled a while there in the cluttered, pungent smelling kitchen of Cordova’s most run-down boarding establishment—Fiona and her fat brother and the inept opportunist who had courted her for five years or more, panting, hungering for her and suffering all the traditional pangs of unrequited love. Toby Munce was a Kansan. Fiona and her brother were from Tennessee. Five years ago, when he first met them, Toby had been informed of the promise extracted from Fiona by her parents, both of whom were long since deceased. She had been obliged to vow that she would never marry unless the man of her choice was solvent to the extent of 500 dollars. Ever since, by fair means or foul, Toby had done his utmost to acquire that specific sum, but in vain. His every get-rich-quick scheme had blown up in his face. This doss-house, The Retreat, was a case in point. He had hoped that the Retreat would become Cordova’s most popular hotel. Not surprisingly, it had not.

  Where Toby traveled, Fiona followed, with brother Phoebus tagging along as chaperone. They had come a long way from Tennessee, and Toby was no closer to that elusive 500 dollars. In every unsuccessful enterprise, Fiona had aided him in her own sluggish way. So had Phoebus—even more sluggishly.

  Impatient after five minutes of wrangling, Phoebus urged Toby to make his point.

  “What’s it gonna be this time?”

  “Just wait till you hear!” enthused Toby. “Just wait!”

  “That’s what I am,” scowled Phoebus.

  “Git on with it, darlin’ Toby,” urged Fiona.

  “I’m gonna earn that five hundred—that’s what,” Toby announced. “Better’n five hundred. Twice that much!”

  Fiona and her brother traded thoughtful glances,

  “Twice of five hundred,” she reflected, “Land sakes—that’s—uh—that’s …”

  “A whole thousand dollars,” frowned Phoebus. “A pow’ful heap o’ cash-money, I declare.”

  “Boy,” leered Toby, “you ain’t whistlin’ Dixie.”

  “Where we gonna git all that cash?” Fiona wanted to know. “You already tried to hold up a bank, but…”

  “But you stumbled and fell on your fool head,” Phoebus sourly reminded his would-be brother-in-law, “while you was mountin’ the steps to the bank door. And then me and sister Fiona had to tote you away.”

  “And robbin’ a stagecoach,” sighed Fiona. “That didn’t work neither.”

  “On account of,” drawled Phoebus, “poor Toby kept fallin’ offa his horse. A man that can’t stay mounted, he’s got no business tryin’ to rob no stagecoach.”

  “I would purely like
to know why in tarnation you always gotta remind me about that,” scowled Toby. “That’s somethin’ I’m real curious about, brother Phoebus. You gonna keep on needlin’ me—even after me and Fiona get hitched?”

  “You and Fiona ain’t gittin’ hitched,” asserted Phoebus, “till you can show us five hundred dollars of cash-money right there in your skinny paw.”

  “How you gonna git so much money, darlin’ Toby?” demanded Fiona.

  “The easy way,” Toby informed her. “Dead easy! And, when I say ‘dead,’ I sure ain’t foolin’.” He seated himself opposite Phoebus, crooked a finger to beckon Fiona over to the table. Then, “It’s thisaway,” he told them. “You know that jasper in room six...?”

  “That was Jase Keane—the gunfighter,” nodded Fiona. “He checked out just a little while ago.”

  “And I’ll tell you why he checked out,” chuckled Toby. “He’s headed north to find a feller name of Jim Rand.”

  “And do what?” asked Phoebus.

  “And kill him,” shrugged Toby. “What else?”

  “For that he gits five hundred?” blinked Phoebus.

  “He already got five hundred,” explained Toby. “He gets to collect the same again, after this Rand feller is deep down in a six foot hole. And who d’you suppose is puttin’ up the money? Al Somers is who.”

  “New owner o’ that Fancy Dan gamblin’ house uptown?” prodded Phoebus.

  “Yep. Him,” nodded Toby. “He claims this Rand feller is somewheres up north—somewheres ’tween here and Coyote Spring.”

  “Thousand dollars—just for shootin’ some jasper?” To Fiona, born and raised in the feudin’ hills of Tennessee, it seemed an absurd sum; life had been cheap in the land of her childhood days. “Why, shucks! Any fool can take a gun and shoot some feller.”

  “Sure enough, sister Fiona,” agreed Phoebus. “Even a fool like Toby.”

  “You’ll quit callin’ me a fool,” Toby vowed. “You’ll show me some respect, Phoebus Williger, after I find this Rand feller and put a bullet in him.”

  “But,” frowned Fiona, “if Somers already hired Keane...”

  “And Lynn Bissell,” nodded Toby. “He also hired Bissell.”

  “Well, doggone it,” she protested. “One o’ them there perfeshionals is just bound to find Rand ’fore we do.”

  “Maybe, and maybe not,” grinned Toby.

  “You sayin’ Mr. Somers made you the same offer?” challenged Phoebus. “No? Well, how in tarnation d’you know ’bout it?”

  “I was in room four,” leered Toby, “and heard ’em talkin’—heard the whole durn deal! Them walls is so thin—I swear you can hear the footsteps of a fly. I heard the whole consarn proposition, and...”

  “So Mr. Somers didn’t make you no offer,” accused Phoebus.

  “Makes no never-mind,” shrugged Toby. “He’ll get a right happy surprise, won’t he, when we come back to Cordova and tell him as how he can quit frettin’ about this Rand feller? He’ll still pay up—you bet your doggone life.” He turned to Fiona and reminded her, “Keane was our only boarder, so it don’t matter if we close up the place a few days, just long enough to hustle up north and find Mr. Good-As-Dead Rand. We could take the wagon and, while we’re travelin’, we’ll figure out just how we’re gonna kill him.”

  “I like that.” Fiona nodded approvingly. “I always say it’s nice to have somethin’ to think about while you’re travelin’. Helps pass the time.”

  “Well,” grunted Phoebus, “I’ll have to come along. I got no objection to you and Toby killin’ some jasper, but you can’t travel all that way with him while you’re unwed. It’d be plumb undecent.”

  Chapter Three – Forced Stay In a Small Town

  “Welcome to Pringle, Mr. Rand. I’m Mamie Fenton, Nora’s mother.”

  “Howdy, Ma’am,” Big Jim incoherently answered.

  “That was a heavy fall you took, young man,” Mamie told him. “You’ve been unconscious for almost two hours. The doc is my husband. Doctor Matthew Fenton. This is one of our spare bedrooms and you’re welcome to it for as long as you need to stay. Matt couldn’t be sure about your concussion, but there is no doubt about the condition of your ribs.”

  Jim examined his torso almost completely encased in plaster and only then was he conscious of his completely naked state.

  “Broken?” he frowned.

  “Cracked,” said Mamie Fenton. “Two of them. It isn’t terribly serious, provided you follow Matt’s orders. No strenuous activity. No riding.” She smiled again. “And no climbing trees.”

  “Ouch,” he grinned.

  “You’ll be glad to hear that Leroy is none the worse for the experience,” she continued. “His father runs the Mangum Livery Stable so, naturally, that’s where you’ll find your horse.”

  “About that stallion of mine...” he began.

  “You don’t have to worry,” said Mamie. “Your friend Señor Espina warned Leroy’s father, before he traveled out with Matt.”

  “Before—what?” he frowned.

  “Such a friendly little man,” she mused. “Matt took it kindly, when Señor Espina insisted on accompanying him on his rounds. That’s why Matt isn’t here to greet you personally, you see. As soon as he’d checked you over, he had to hitch up the buggy and go visit his patients.” She consulted her timepiece again. “But you’ll have plenty of time to talk to him. They should be back around two o’clock.” As she rose and walked to the door, she told him, “It’s time for you to take some nourishment. Nora will join you in a little while. She’s fixing soup. I hope you’re partial to soup?”

  “Anything would taste good,” he assured her. Then, as she opened the door. “Mamie—just one last question...”

  She read his mind.

  “Who undressed you? Matt and Leroy’s father—naturally.”

  “Naturally,” said Jim. and he heaved a sigh of relief.

  A few moments later, Nora came in, smiling a greeting and toting a tray.

  “I expected I’d have to spoon-feed you,” she told him, as she set the tray down, “but Mother says you’re making a fast recovery…”

  “And you’re plumb disappointed,” he accused, “because you hankered to play nurse.”

  “That’s the mother instinct in all women,” she chuckled.

  She adjusted his pillows and he was struck by the startling resemblance between mother and daughter, the same warm, companionable smile, the same air of brisk efficiency. He supposed that, as a school ma’am, Nora was an outstanding success and much admired by her small pupils.

  “Hands quite steady?” she asked, as she reached for the bowl and spoon.

  “Like a rock,” he assured her.

  “Yes,” she reflected, while placing the bowl of soup before him. “I guess it would take more than such a fall to affect your nerves.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he quipped. “I can’t say I had a heap of fun—falling out of that doggone tree.” He became serious after disposing of the contents of the bowl. The soup was to his taste, but a gnawing problem plagued him. “Miss Nora...”

  “Let’s dispense with the ‘Miss,’ shall we?” she urged.

  “Well,” he frowned, “that cuts both ways. My first name is Jim.”

  “Jim,” she smiled, “what were you about to say? You’re so serious, all of a sudden.”

  “Letting Benito take a buggy-ride with your pa,” he fretted, “wasn’t a bright idea. If I’d been awake and knew what was happening, I’d have warned the doc.”

  “You mean—your friend can’t be trusted?” she blinked.

  “I don’t mean that he’d do your father an injury,” said Jim.

  “What then?” she demanded.

  “Benito’s a thief,” he sadly explained. “He doesn’t mean any real harm by it. He just—well—he steals as a matter of habit—”

  “A thief? Heavens above!”

  “Some men drink, chew tobacco or start fights. Benito steals. It’s what you’d call a re
flex action, you know? He can’t really help himself.”

  “He’s apt to rob Dad?”

  “It’s a certainty. But don’t worry.” He finished the last slice of corn bread, the last mouthful of coffee, then glanced about the room and asked, “What became of my gear?”

  “Your saddlebags and pack roll are at the livery stable, along with your horse and saddle.” she told him. “Your personal things—well—you weren’t carrying much...”

  “Which means,” he frowned, “you didn’t see a gold watch, a wallet with nearly three hundred dollars in it?”

  “You were carrying no watch, no money,” Nora asserted. “I should know, because—”

  “A medal on a chain?” he continued. “A Saint Christopher medal?”

  “No.” She shook her head emphatically. “And I’d have found them for sure, because I sewed up the tears in your shirt and vest—before I washed them.” She folded her arms, eyed him perplexedly. “Come to think of it, I did wonder about your personal effects. There was nothing in your pockets—nothing but a sack of Bull Durham, some cigarette papers...”

  “Benito only smokes cigars,” said Jim, philosophically. “How about the hardware?”

  “Oh—your gun?” She gestured to the dresser. “In the top drawer.”

  “I’d be obliged if you’d fetch it,” he requested. “I’ll need it when they come home.”

  “Surely you aren’t going to shoot Señor Espina?” she gasped, as she rose to her feet.

  “No,” he grinned. “I’ll be tempted, as I’ve been tempted many times, but I’ll relent when I see that ugly face of his. I’ll only use the gun to threaten him, Nora. It always works. Besides being a thief, Benito is also a coward.”

  She took the coiled gunbelt from the drawer, brought it to him and stood watching, as he unsheathed the long-barreled .45 and checked its loading.

  “Maybe it’s none of my business…” she began.

  “You and your folks have taken me in, doctored me and given me a bed,” he frowned. “I reckon that gives you the right to ask questions.”

  “I was going to remark that it’s a strange friendship you have,” said Nora, “you and Señor Espina. I mean—-if he steals all the time—even from you.”