Big Jim 11

by Marshall Grover

  He reacted, but not in the way Bissell had anticipated. Instead of bellowing a reprimand and making a move to draw on Bissell, he began striding toward him. Abruptly, Bissell stopped talking. The twelve-yard range suited his purposes when it came to a gun-duel. Why was the big man closing the gap? Jim came on briskly, not pausing until he was in arm’s length of the killer. He voiced a counter to what Bissell had said, and it wasn’t a long speech; he kept it short and to the point.

  “Don’t know what you hoped to win by insulting a lady that way,” he muttered. “But all it gets you is…”

  “Back away from me and make your play, big man!” snarled Bissell.

  “…all it gets you,” finished Jim, “is this.”

  For the third time, the warnings impressed upon him by Nora’s father were forgotten. He brought up his left hand fast—too fast to avoid wrenching the plaster. With the back of it, he struck hard at that florid visage, sharp, jolting blows that threw Bissell off-balance. The third became a punch; he closed his fist as he drove it like a piston to Bissell’s jaw, and Bissel! reeled from the blow, slumping against the fence, spitting blood.

  Turning, Jim walked toward the gateway, growling a reproach at the transfixed Nora.

  “I told you to go inside.”

  Just as he reached her, she found her voice and gasped a warning. He whirled to face Bissell at a distance of less than eleven yards. The trunk of the oak was directly behind him, the gateway to his left. Bissell stood crouched, his left hand hovering over the butt of his Colt, his teeth bared in a snarl. The bloodlust was upon him. Jim saw it, recognized it for what it was and suddenly remembered that he was in no condition for fast gunplay. Long or short, he reflected, this battle would be won by the cold nerve, the steady deliberate aim, rather than the fast draw. It would have to be that way—if he were to survive.

  “Been playin’ house with her, have you, big man?” panted Bissell. “Damn near like bein’ her husband, hey? Only thing missin’ is the weddin’ ring! Well? You gonna let me get away with that? Go ahead. Draw! Defend her honor—if she’s got any to defend!”

  Abruptly, Jim moved. He was well aware that Bissell would take this as a signal to begin drawing on him. But, before reaching for his own weapon, he made a quick left turn, to position himself side-on to hi« challenger. It was the only protective move he could hope to achieve under these circumstances, but it served its purpose. Side-on he was a somewhat leaner target than face-on. As he moved, he saw Bissell’s lightning draw. The bulky killer hadn’t used that left hand after all. It was the right that darted beneath the open vest to whisk the .38 from its shoulder-holster. Jim drew and cocked his Colt. He thought to take a quick step backyard, and that movement saved his life, because Bissell’s .38 barked in that same moment and the slug whined past his chest with only inches to spare.

  As Jim’s gun roared, Nora saw the bulky man shudder and stagger backward. Simultaneously with the second report of the .38 a chunk of bark was chipped off the trunk of the oak tree. Bissell reeled to the fence. The .38 slid from his right hand, because he had lost all feeling on that side, Jim’s bullet having creased him above the elbow. But he hadn’t given up on the idea of slaying the big man. His left hand darted down and up and was suddenly full of Colt .45; his hip-holster was empty now. The two heavy weapons boomed in unison, and Jim had dropped to one knee while firing. He felt the tug of Bissell’s bullet as it tore his shirt a few inches under his right armpit, but there was no pain to plague him—other than the new aching of his damaged ribs. Bissell gave vent to a startled oath and a gasp of pain, stumbled backward with his shirtfront bloody. Nora screamed as the heavy body came up hard against the picket fence and slumped over it, the arms and legs sagging grotesquely. And Jim didn’t think it a sign of weakness that, then and there, the young school ma’am fainted. He hurried across to her, but was too late to catch her before she slumped to the dust.

  Like ants from a disturbed heap, the children began spilling out of the schoolhouse. Jim treated them to the full intimidating volume of his best parade-ground bellow.

  “Hah—bout—face! Turn around and get back inside there!”

  It was the largest and most resounding voice any of those young hopefuls had ever heard. Half-way down the path they came to an abrupt halt, whirled and dashed back to the schoolhouse. Down Brackett Road came several locals at the double. In the lead was a grim-visaged Marshal Fenton. Somewhere in the rear came the bright-eyed and inquisitive Benito.

  As the old lawman arrived, Jim forestalled a lengthy interrogation by offering a terse but comprehensive explanation.

  “No use asking me who he is. I never saw. him before. He was here to prod me into a gunfight. He forced it by using Nora.”

  “Started off by insultin’ her?” frowned the marshal. “By thunder, it sounds like he might’ve been a real professional. That’s an old gunslinger’s trick, Jim. To faze a man into tryin’ for a draw, they insult his woman.”

  “You’ll be taking charge of the body,” Jim guessed.

  “Right away,” the lawman assured him. He nodded to a couple of the townsmen. “Milty—Efrem—you two go fetch a stretcher.”

  “Whatever you find out by searching him—I mean to identify him,” said Jim, “I’d be obliged if you’d let me know.”

  “Sure. I know what you mean.” The marshal eyed him soberly. “You got a right to be curious about this hombre—about any hombre that tries to kill you.” He crouched beside his niece now, cradling her head in his left arm. “One other thing I got to know, Jim...”

  “She’s my witness—if you need one,” muttered Jim. “This jasper sparked off the whole ruckus. I had to settle his hash, but it was self-defense.”

  “I’ll talk to her about it,” nodded Fenton, “and that’ll be good enough for me.”

  Several women emerged from the fast-growing throng. Instead of bustling into the school house to seek out their excited progeny, they insisted on taking charge of Nora, who was only now reviving. Quietly, Jim drawled a command to the Mex.

  “Go check the other hotels. I want to know where this gunhawk was holed up—how long he’d been in town.”

  “Is not a big town,” shrugged Benito. “I will find out muy pronto, I think.”

  Another Fenton now arrived on the scene; rarely had the school ma’am’s father appeared so agitated. He looked at Jim, as the big man ejected his spent shells and began reloading. He looked at his daughter, who was being led away by the two women. And, while he paused in indecision, Jim read his mind and told him,

  “Get on after Nora. Take care of her. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “A woman recovers from a fainting fit,” growled Doc, “a darn sight faster than your cracked ribs will heal.”

  “This time, I’m fine,” Jim assured him. “The pain has eased. Go on now, Doc. Take care of Nora.”

  By the time the other gunslinger and his three roughneck companions reached the corner of Main and Brackett, it was all over. They were too late to witness the shooting, but right on time to identify the loser. The two men toting the laden stretcher came past the corner where Jason Keane stood in company with Moberley, Sayle and Dusang. At that moment, the sheet of canvas covering the body fell away, revealing the pallid countenance and bloodstained chest of the dead man. Keane experienced a hollow feeling as, for just a moment, he gazed on the face of a colleague, a gunman generally regarded as being of superior talent to himself. He swallowed a lump in his throat, muttered a suggestion to Moberley and the others.

  “Let’s go get a drink.”

  “Fellers, I declare old Jase is losin’ his nerve,” said Moberley, leering at his friends.

  Not looking at Moberley, and with his voice barely rising above a whisper, Keane delivered a warning.

  “Don’t ever say that again, Chet. If you hanker to die of old age, don’t ever say I’m losin’ my nerve.”

  “Well, damnitall,” frowned Moberley, “I was only joshin’ you.”

&n
bsp; “Some things,” asserted Keane, “I never joke about.”

  Soon afterward, sharing a corner table in a saloon well-patronized by locals and visiting trail-herders, the four sat quiet, drinking, smoking, listening to a variety of descriptions of the shootout. Present were at least three men who, from a safe distance, had witnessed that brief and bloody set-to, and their eagerly offered reports differed, except in one regard—the big man had outfought the florid-faced gunslinger in no uncertain terms.

  “You hear that, Jase?” prodded Moberley.

  “I hear,” nodded Keane, scowling morosely at his half-empty glass.

  “That must’ve been quite a fight to see,” mused Sayle.

  “Professionals, both of ’em, I guess,” drawled Dusang. “Just like Jase.”

  “Not the both of ’em,” muttered Keane. “Only one.”

  “You knew those two?” demanded Moberley.

  “The dead one was Lynn Bissell,” frowned Keane. “He’s been hirin’ his gun out for a long time. Longer than me. I’ve heard it said he couldn’t be beat. Well, he got beat today—and then some. And not by any professional gun.”

  “Who’s the big feller?” prodded Moberley.

  “Name of Jim Rand,” said Keane. “He used to be in the Army.” He hesitated a moment. Then, “Bissell stood to earn a thousand dollars by puttin’ Rand down,” he told them. “I know, because I got the same offer.”

  The three hardcases traded pensive glances.

  “This Rand,” opined Moberley, “must be mighty dangerous to that certain party. A thousand dollars—that’s a helluva bundle to pay for one dead man.”

  “You goin’ out and brace this Rand feller, Jase?” challenged Dusang.

  “Not the way Bissell did,” muttered Keane. “I’ll get Rand, but not that way. It should’ve struck me before.”

  “What…?” began Moberley.

  “Bein’ in the Army once,” said Keane, “it figures Rand would be a fair hand with a gun. Bissell should’ve thought of that. He couldn’t afford to miss with his first shot—but he did. And then he was up against a sure shot.” He finished his drink, lit a cigar, peered critically at Moberley through the smoke-haze. “I’ve been thinkin’ about it. The boss-man paid me half of the thousand already. That leaves another five hundred to be collected—but maybe I can hustle him into payin’ more. An extra thousand, maybe.”

  “How?” asked Sayle.

  “There are ways.” Keane grinned bleakly. “It’s easy—when you’re dealin’ with a man who has to pay some other hombre to handle his killin’ for him. You play on his fear. For instance, I could tell this hombre that Rand talked before he cashed in, that I know why he wanted Rand killed and maybe I’ll run off at the mouth—unless he drops an extra thousand in the pot. Somethin’ like that.” He blew a smoke-ring. “You interested?”

  “You mean—all of us?” frowned Moberley.

  “We’ll make it a sure thing;” nodded Keane. “That way, none of us gets hurt and all of us collect from the man who hired my gun.”

  “When you say a sure thing...” began Dusang.

  “I already got an idea how it can be done,” said Keane. “The important thing is to bring Rand out in the open—and unarmed.”

  “That’s kind of a tall order, ain’t it?” challenged Sayle. “It can be done,” drawled Keane. “We’ll give him a damn good reason—I guarantee that.”

  “All right, Jase.” Moberley chuckled softly. “You can count us in.”

  “Which means we’re through with Double G?” asked Sayle.

  “What d’you think?” countered Dusang, grinning. “Well,” said Sayle, “here’s our chance to make it official.”

  He jerked a thumb toward the batwings. They glanced in that direction. Gil Goodwin had just entered in company with Luke Bristow. They were advancing on the bar, when Moberley called to them. Changing direction, they came to the corner where the roughneck trio sat with the dispenser of leaden death. Ignoring Keane, Goodwin eyed Moberley sourly and announced,

  “It’s gonna be a short stop in Pringle. We’re moving out at three o’clock this afternoon—figure to make Rosalia Canyon by sundown. I want every man back in camp and ready to move by.”

  “Not us, Goodwin,” grinned Moberley. “It breaks our hearts to tell you—and we’ll know you’ll be real disappointed—but this is as far as we come with you.”

  “And don’t waste our time,” jibed Sayle. “Just pay us off and leave it at that.”

  The trail-boss’s jaw jutted aggressively. Scorn flashed in his eyes.

  “What kind of cattlemen do you call yourselves?” he challenged. “Any man who’d up and quit—before the end of a long haul to market...”

  “Pay ’em off,” grunted the ramrod. “Good riddance, Gil. With luck, I might be able to hire us a couple good hands hereabouts.” He studied the trio scathingly and added, loud enough for them to hear, “Even farmhands’d be more use than these three trouble-makers.”

  Without another word, Goodwin produced his bankroll, peeled off a few bills and dropped them on the table. He then accompanied Luke Bristow to the bar and, while waiting to be served, the old ramrod quietly assured him,

  “You’ll never be sorry you let ’em go, but one thing’s for sure. They’re gonna be sorry. That jasper they’re drinkin’ with is Jason Keane—a killer. When you throw in with a killer, you’re just beggin’ for grief.”

  Chapter Nine – A Test of Courage

  By 10.30 of that morning, Nora had recovered from the shock of witnessing that brief and frightening fight to the death. For the second time, the man she so admired had seen her stripped of whatever courage she possessed. Somehow, this thought caused her more disquiet than the almost-primitive violence of what had taken place. She needed the respect of this formidable, solemn and completely likeable man; winning Jim’s esteem had become something of an obsession with her.

  The children were in a somewhat over-stimulated condition but, gradually, she managed to restore order in the classroom. As the morning drew on, the turmoil in her brain subsided. She gathered her small charges closer and won their earnest attention by reading to them aloud from a simplified history book, and her turmoil would have returned had she suspected that predatory eyes were watching her.

  In the brush to the north side of the schoolyard crouched Chet Moberley, armed with a pair of binoculars loaned him by Jason Keane. With the aid of those glasses, he was able to see through the nearest window of the schoolhouse and commit details of Nora’s appearance to memory. At this moment, as he well knew, Keane was scouting the surrounding territory.

  Jim Rand returned to the schoolhouse during the luncheon break and, for some ten minutes or so, shared a seat with Nora in the front yard. She listened to his polite query as to the state of her health, and sadly commented, “I’d be a miserable failure as a soldier’s wife, wouldn’t I?”

  To which Jim diplomatically replied,

  “Most well-raised ladies are apt to faint under those conditions—seeing a man shot down right before their eyes. Nora, aren’t you being a mite hard on yourself?”

  “Who was that man?” she demanded. “I realize—now that I’ve had time to think about it—that he only had one reason for—saying those terrible things to me. He wanted you, Jim. He was goading you…”

  “The idea,” he patiently explained, “was to get me so crazy with rage that I couldn’t shoot straight.”

  “Yes,” she frowned. “That’s obvious enough. He was there to kill you, and I don’t understand how...”

  “We’ve been checking,” said Jim. “Your Uncle Abe, Benito and me. It seems that red-faced jasper was a professional gunhawk name of Bissell. Quite a reputation he had.” He crossed his long legs and began building a cigarette, the while his dark brown eyes pensively surveyed the yard, the laughing children playing tag, cavorting, running in all directions. “One explanation comes to mind, Nora, and it’s not such a wild notion.”

  “You know why he was here?
” she asked.

  “Why he was here is no mystery at all,” he assured her, as he scratched a match for his cigarette. “He was here to kill me.”

  “Yes…” She nodded slowly. “That’s all too obvious.”

  “A more important question,” said Jim, “is who sent him? Who was paying him? And the answer is Jenner—or whatever he calls himself nowadays. Jenner, the man who murdered my brother, somehow learned I was passing through this territory. Rather than risk my running him to ground, he hired a professional killer to get me off his back—once and for all.”

  “And now you’re eager to leave Pringle,” she guessed. “And you would—but for two cracked ribs.”

  “I got to admit I ached like all get-out,” he ruefully confided, “when I straddled Hank yesterday.”

  He stayed with her until the end of the luncheon recess, then returned to Main Street and the Pringle Hotel. More than one pair of pensive eyes now surveyed him, a fact he never once suspected as he slowly strode to the hotel porch. Sayle and Dusang studied him covertly from the porch of a building opposite, Toby Munce and Phoebus Williger, those tireless would-be assassins, subjected him to an intent scrutiny, like a couple of undertakers mentally measuring a prospective client. Outside the Ashdown House, leaning against an awning-post and puffing at a Long 9, Del Krauss looked the big man over and gave some thought to the potential significance of Bissell’s spectacular defeat. Would Jason Keane now move in to make his play? He thought it more than likely. In order to comply with all the instructions given him by Al Somers, the spy would need to remain in Pringle a little while longer—at least until Keane had won or lost.

  At 2 o’clock that afternoon, Keane again held council with his three willing aides, and reported,

  “I’ve found a place that’ll do just fine.”

  “What kind of a place?” demanded Moberley. “An old line-shack? A little canyon far from town?”

  “An old homestead,” Keane told him. “So damn old—the roof’s about to fall in. But it’ll do fine, because it’s surrounded by a hundred yards of open ground.”