Big Jim 11

by Marshall Grover

  A few moments later, when Jim glanced back over his shoulder, he realized that the collection was absolutely safe. Benito was edging toward the main entrance, when a fatherly, round-bellied man materialized in front of him and gently steered him to the corner accommodating the box with the narrow aperture in its lid.

  “Knew you’d be wonderin’ where the money goes,” whispered Abe Fenton, the town marshal. “Here’s where, friend. Right here in this box.”

  “Ah—si. Muchas gracias.”

  Benito showed his buck teeth in a weak apology of a grin and tilted the plate, letting every coin slide through the opening, and probably thinking, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  After the service, Jim was introduced to several more locals by the radiant Nora. While baring his head to the ladies and trading handshakes with the men, Jim was gradually becoming aware of an undeniable fact. He didn’t believe in such exaggerated emotionalism as love at first sight, but it was all too obvious that the young schoolteacher was indulging in hero-worship where he was concerned.

  “You’ll think me brazen,” she murmured, as soon as they were able to have a word in private, “but I planned on kidnapping you today. Well, at least for part of the day.”

  “How’s that again?” he challenged.

  “I guess you didn’t notice the basket under the buggy seat,” she smiled. “I planned on taking you to a favorite spot of mine. Or maybe you think picnics are only for children?”

  “Now look,” he frowned “You scarce know me, after all. If your folks thought you’d do such a thing, they...”

  “Mother helped make the sandwiches,” said Nora, her smile broadening. “As for Dad, he prides himself on being a good judge of men. They approve of you, Jim.”

  “Well...” he began.

  “As well as the sandwiches,” she offered, “I fixed cold cuts, a chicken, a jar of pickles, some preserves and...”

  “You’re making your point,” he grinned. “You’ve convinced me we won’t starve.”

  “So,” she prodded, “what are we waiting for?”

  “The trouble is,” said Jim, “Benito could steal this whole doggone town before we get back.”

  “He won’t steal as much as a weed from the mayor’s cabbage patch,” promised Marshal Fenton, who had unobtrusively hovered into earshot. “I aim to keep a wary eye on that thievin’ little jackass.”

  “Jim Rand—may I present one of my favorite relatives,” said Nora. “My Uncle Abe Fenton, Marshal of Pringle.”

  “Go have yourselves a picnic,” urged the lawman, as he shook Jim’s hand. “Forget the Mex. Where he goes, I’ll go, and that’s a promise. The exercise’ll be good for me. Things have been slow in Pringle, ain’t that so, Nora?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you....?” she began.

  “All right,” grinned the marshal. “I’ll quit sayin’ ‘ain’t’.” To Jim, he cheerfully remarked, “This here niece of mine never forgets she’s a school ma’am.”

  “Marshal,” said Jim, “keeping an eye on Benito will keep you plenty busy.”

  “Don’t worry,” soothed Abe. “I can handle him.”

  “Just don’t get too close to him,” Jim advised. “He’s apt to steal your badge, your wallet—the shirt off your back.” Again, he helped Nora up to the buggy-seat. Again, he slowly and carefully climbed up beside her. She flicked the filly with her reins and that handsome animal began a descent of the hillside.

  “Lovely day for a picnic,” chuckled Nora.

  “All right.” Jim grinned indulgently. “It’s a fine day for a picnic. You’re the boss.”

  “I want so much to show you the country around by Crow Butte,” she told him later, after they had reached the trail leading southeast. “It’s so peaceful—and a beautiful view. You can see for miles.”

  “Whatever you say,” grunted the big man.

  He relaxed on the buggy seat, remembering the violence of the past months and deciding that, here in tranquil Pringle, he might as well take his ease. Did he have a choice? Hardly. Not while ever Doc Fenton deemed it unwise for him to sit a saddle. So why not make the most of his Pringle stay? He was in pleasant company. The day was fine and his appetite keen. Later, within the shadow of Crow Butte, he would certainly do justice to the lunch put up by the Fenton women.

  As Nora carefully guided the filly around a bend, Jim shifted position slightly, re-adjusting the hang of his holster.

  His long-barreled .45 seemed a superfluous piece of equipment on such a happy excursion, or so he thought.

  Meanwhile, the florid-faced Lynn Bissell was standing beside his fatigued horse in that block of Main Street nearest the avenue leading up to the chapel. Of the would-be assassins, he was the first to arrive; his would be the first attempt; on the life of ex-Sergeant Rand. He lit a cigar, while his mount dropped its head to the drinking trough. How much further could this horse tote him? Not another quarter-mile, he decided. Not until it had been rested, rubbed down and fed. Well, no problem there. He would check it into a livery stable and, if needs be, hire another. It would depend on whether or not his intended victim was in the vicinity.

  This was to be the killer’s lucky morning, up to a point. While his mount satisfied its thirst, three local spinsters, elderly women devoted to gossip and the sound of their own voices, paused some short distance away. They had come from the chapel and were about to separate, but not until their conversation was concluded. One of them was inclined to deafness which necessitated that her companions speak at full volume. Upon hearing a name that was significant to him, Bissell pricked up his ears.

  “...that nice. Mr. Rand—such a gentleman...”

  “So big, so tall! I declare I never saw a man so handsome since my Elisha was taken.”

  “Nora Fenton’s got good taste, I’ll say that for her.”

  “Don’t waste much time, does she? I heard her invitin’ him out for a picnic—just the two of ’em. Crow Butte, she said.”

  “Well, Crow Butte’s a right pretty place for a picnic—if you’re young enough for that kind of thing...”

  They chattered on for a few more minutes, and all Bissell had to do was loiter and listen. He was chuckling inwardly, marveling at the ease with which he had gotten a lead as to the movements of his intended victim. When the women went their separate ways, he resumed his slow progress along the main stem, not pausing again until he reached the livery stable presided over by the pudgy and lazy Barney Gordon. His mount was led out to the corral behind the barn and his saddle transferred to a rangy sorrel gelding. Soon afterward, he was riding that horse out of

  Pringle in a southeasterly direction; he hadn’t made the mistake of openly enquiring the whereabouts of Crow Butte from the livery proprietor. There was no need. A towering butte was clearly visible in the distance and, along that winding trail, he found fresh tracks of a horse and rig. He was, he assured himself, not far behind his next target.

  Five minutes later, while the buggy negotiated another bend, Jim glanced idly away to the east and observed the dust-cloud, a big one hovering above the horizon. He drew Nora’s attention to it and, after a brief glance, she nodded and told him,

  “That will be a trail-herd. They’ll probably reach Pringle this afternoon, or early tomorrow.”

  “Cattle drives are no novelty in Pringle,” he supposed.

  “No novelty at all—and very welcome,” said Nora. “You have to remember that ours is the first water in many a long mile, and we’re right on the route traveled by the cattlemen pushing herds northwest to Lupton City. That’s up along the border. A big railhead.”

  “Sure,” he nodded. “I’ve heard of Lupton City.”

  “Pringle becomes a whole lot livelier when a trail-herd stops by,” she smiled. “They usually bed their cattle on the flats east of town—that big level stretch we passed a little while ago...”

  “I noticed.”

  “And then they visit Pringle, buy supplies, drink and gamble. Well, I don’t sup
pose I have to tell you how trail-herders behave.”

  “A busy time for Uncle Abe, eh Nora?”

  “He manages. I know he’s getting old and he probably doesn’t seem very formidable, but he’s quite a diplomat when it comes to controlling a crowd of pleasure-hungry cowhands. They respect him. We’ve made friends with many of the men who drive herds regularly to Lupton. It’s good for business, you know?”

  “Sure,” agreed Jim.

  And he forgot about the trail-herd for some time thereafter, because they were drawing closer to their destination now, an impressive vista of cactus, desert and rock formations rearing to the hot sky in craggy grandeur. The butte from which this region took its name soared high and cast a shadow that would provide Jim and his fair companion with ample shade, welcome protection from the harsh sun. Also in the shade of the butte bubbled one of the tiny springs abounding in the square mile claimed so many years ago by Barnaby Pringle and Jonas Fenton.

  At Nora’s suggestion, they descended from the rig some short distance from the spring. West of this position, a long and high ridge acted as a barrier to the hot wind. To the east stretched the desert, dull yellow, pitted with a myriad of small basins, dotted with cacti and grotesque formations of lava rock.

  Jim had not yet resigned himself to the small indignity of having to descend so carefully from a rig.

  “I feel,” he complained to her, “like a fragile old-timer slowed down by rheumatics. Don’t often share a buggy with a lady but, when I do, I figure I’m the one ought to be helping.”

  “You’re a very independent man, Jim Rand,” she chuckled, as she toted the basket to a patch of grass. “I wish I’d known you when you were a sergeant of cavalry. I have a feeling you’d have worried about the welfare of wounded troopers and injured horses, but never about yourself. And, now that you’re forced to move slowly for a while, you have no patience.”

  “I’m trying to be patient,” he earnestly assured her. “It’s not the first time I’ve had to slow down because of a wound. It’s just...” He grimaced, then showed her a rueful grin, “this darn plaster gets to itching after a while.”

  The morning lengthened. Contentedly, the filly grazed by the spring, while Jim sat close to his beautiful hostess and watched her spreading a cloth, taking the appetite-tempting dishes from the basket. They didn’t wait until noon to begin eating and, during that pleasant meal, they talked of many things. She wistfully repeated her father’s assertion that Pringle was a fine place in which to settle. Just as wistfully, he talked of his compulsion to seek and deliver to justice the back-shooter who had so treacherously cut short the promising career of Lieutenant Christopher Rand. Also, he declared himself to be army through and through.

  “When it’s over,” he told her, “when Jenner is mounting a gallows, I’ll be heading back to San Marco, or to wherever my old outfit is stationed. I’m just not the settling kind, Nora.”

  “You’ll be in Pringle at least another ten days,” she reminded him, “so I’ll have plenty of time in which to change your mind—or at least make the effort.”

  Although her demeanor was light-hearted, almost facetious, he sensed she meant much of what she said. She really did intend working her feminine wiles on him and, under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed the experience. Frontier schoolteachers, he reflected, were a much maligned type. Because some of them were elderly, irascible, forbidding spinsters, it was generally assumed that all of them were the same. He would travel far before meeting a woman to compare with Nora. She had the charm, the poise and the good looks that belonged in the sedate, luxuriously-furnished homes of wealthy Easterners,

  They had eaten their fill and he was building a cigarette, when Lynn Bissell took up his position atop the ridge and readied his Winchester. The assassin had gone to pains to scout the area and to attain this vantage point as quietly as possible.

  He sprawled on his belly, the rifle held firm, its muzzle directed at the shirtfront of the seated man. At this range, he assured himself, one well-aimed slug should be enough.

  Perhaps it was luck, freak coincidence or just fickle Fate up to its old tricks, but Jim Rand moved in the same instant that Bissell’s finger tightened on his trigger. To the watching Nora, it was a terrifying, almost unreal experience. She was seated opposite the big man, separated from him by less than four feet. He had just lit his cigarette and, in his gentle, soothing baritone, was unhurriedly recounting a humorous incident in the far distant past. The picnic basket had been re-packed and was placed a few feet to her left. Jim paused half-way through his reminiscing, grimaced and felt at that section of his anatomy immediately above his pants’ belt. Simultaneously, he turned slightly, and it was then that the harsh bark of the rifle smote their ears and echoed, as though not only one but a great many shots had been triggered in rapid succession. All of Nora’s attention had been centered on the big man, so she actually saw portion of his coat-lapel torn away by the slug, the front of his shirt burned by it, and then the ugly, swishing sound as the bullet bored a hole in the picnic basket.

  She was as ill-prepared for the manner of Jim’s reaction as for the attack itself. His tone was abrupt—brutally so—as he reached forward and, with his left hand, grasped her shoulder.

  “Down! Get down and stay down...!”

  She was pulled forward by his grasp and, with scant regard for her feelings, deposited face-down on the grass. He then leapt to his feet and moved away from her, heedless of the second report, the fact that the second bullet had kicked up dust dangerously close to his feet. He was unholstering his long-barreled .45 while bounding toward the scattering of rocks at the base of the ridge. Of necessity, he ran in zigzag fashion, and every warning voiced by Nora’s father now came to mind. ‘No strenuous activity—walk; don’t run—don’t try to do anything quickly.’ Well, so much for his promise to follow doctor’s orders. Unless he broke all the rules now, his chances of survival would be worse than slim.

  As yet, Bissell was no more than mildly annoyed that his first three shots had missed. He was, in fact, slightly amused at the irony of his target shifting while his finger squeezed trigger. He didn’t really lose his temper or become apprehensive until it became obvious that his fourth and fifth bullets had missed their mark, and that the big man was bound to reach the protection of the rocks. Grim-faced, he rammed fresh shells into the breech and took sight on the boulder behind which Jim had dropped. But that boulder was adjacent to another of equal size. Undetected by his would-be assassin, Jim had shifted to it; he had that much of an edge when he rose up with his Colt roaring. Bissell would never have believed that a pistolman could achieve such range, such harrowing accuracy, against a rifleman. He was unaware that Big Jim Rand had been the champion marksman of the 11th Cavalry. When he opened fire the ex-sergeant used his cupped left hand as a prop for the Colt’s long barrel. When he took aim, he made all due allowances for the long range.

  Bissell loosed an oath and ducked hastily, as the three .45 caliber slugs whined and smacked about the cluster of rocks atop the ridge. Abruptly, he made the decision to retreat. He was a sure-thing killer with a marked aversion to even chances. Having found cover, and being obviously skilled in the use of his Colt, Rand could hold him at bay indefinitely. This was a form of conflict that didn’t appeal to him at all; the fight would be lost by the man who arose to take aim in the same moment that his adversary had a bead on his position.

  Because he was being paid to kill, not to take risks, Bissell descended the opposite slope of the ridge and hurried to his waiting horse.

  Chapter Five – The Ominous Thunder

  Twelve minutes after the first shot had been fired, Jim cursed in impotent rage, but under his breath. He had nothing to gain, he reflected, by exhibiting his fury to Nora—a woman already distressed by a close escape from sudden death. Again the sound reached him and he had to acknowledge it for what it was—the receding hoofbeats of a hard-ridden horse far off, somewhere beyond the ridge. Obviously his a
ssailant had decided against a resumption of the attack and was now in retreat. He was in ill humor. Being male and normal, he bitterly resented being fired upon from safe cover, especially while in the company of a woman.

  Before bolstering his Colt, he ejected his spent shells and reloaded. When he rose up and began trudging back toward the stalled buggy, he was conscious of a smarting, wrenching sensation in several sections of his torso; his injured ribs were aching again, and not surprisingly. For Nora’s benefit he summoned up a wry grin.

  “Your pa wasn’t fooling—when he said I should take it easy...”

  She offered no answering smile. He approached her slowly, his face serious. The change came as a shock. He expected her to be startled by such an experience, maybe distraught, but this fear and trembling, this near-hysteria, seemed somehow out of character in a woman of her caliber. She had moved back to the buggy and was crouched by a rear wheel, sobbing brokenly. At intervals, she darted glances toward the summit of the ridge; in her eyes he saw pure naked terror. To call Nora a frightened woman would have been quite an understatement.

  “Steady,” he grunted, as he came to her and took hold of her arm. “It’s all over, Nora. Nothing for you to worry about.”

  “They—tried to kill you!” she gasped.

  “Well—maybe not,” he shrugged. “It could’ve been some practical joker, a cowpoke maybe, or a farm boy that just got himself a gun and decided to scare up some fun.

  “No...!” she groaned.

  “Anywhere you go,” he gently assured her, “you’ll run into the irresponsibles, people who never learned that a gun is not to be fooled with.”

  “You’re lying—for the sake of my peace of mind,” she accused. “You know—as well as I do—that they wanted to kill you.” She tugged a kerchief from her sleeve, dabbed at her eyes. “And now you know about me, and you’re despising me...”

  “Nora, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered. Solicitously, he released his grip of her arm and draped his own about her trembling shoulders. “You’ve had a bad scare. It’s only natural you’d be frightened. Why in blue blazes would I despise you for it?”