Big Jim 11

by Marshall Grover

  “For her sake,” said Jim, “I daren’t let ’em find a gun on me.”

  He raised his eyebrows as, from inside his camisa, the runty Mex produced a tiny hide-out gun, a double shot Remington derringer. Showing his buck teeth in a sheepish grin, Benito placed the weapon on the small table between their beds.

  “Is not much,” he mumbled. “But maybe they will not find it, eh? A pistola so small does not need a pocket. It could be pushed into the boot—no?”

  “I’ll think about it, cucaracha,” said Jim.

  In the alley opposite the hotel, Toby Munce and Phoebus Williger were engaged in a heated exchange all the more vehement for the necessity of keeping their voices low.

  “Why didn’t you throw it?” Toby wanted to know. “They was crossin’ the street and climbin’ up the steps to the porch—and all you had to do was light that fuse and hurl that can!”

  “I still hanker to do it outside of town,” muttered Phoebus. “Like I done said before, dynamite is for sure. Only—uh—it makes a lotta noise. Where’s the sense to us gittin’ chased clear from Pringle to Cordova by a doggone posse? And what about this fuse? You claim you gave two dollars and seventy-five cents for it, bought it off a prospector from Utah.”

  “And that’s a fact. Best quality fuse that is. You put a match to it and it’ll do exactly like it’s suppose to do—so what more can you ask?”

  “I’m a mite leery of anything I get from you, little Toby. I ain’t forgot that genuine French brandy you bought off of a liquor drummer last fall. It turned out to be cheap corn with a half-pint o’ bay rum in it. I’m sure of this dynamite, boy. I just wish I could be as sure o’ the fuse.”

  “Well, when’re we gonna do it? When’re we gonna blow him sky-high?”

  “Tomorrow—maybe sooner.”

  “We gotta squat here all night?”

  “Uh huh. ‘Case he comes out again and rides off somewheres before mornin’. If he does, why, we’ll just sneak off after him, wait for him to light some place and then—boom.”

  “Well—all right,” said ,Toby, and he shrugged resignedly.

  The doughty dynamiters settled down to a long and uncomfortable vigil in the alley opposite the Pringle Hotel. There would be little sleep for them this night, and the same could be said for the terrified woman confined to the bunk in the old homestead west of Slocum’s Rock.

  To kill time, Keane and his minions were playing poker. The night was warm, so a table had been toted out onto the porch. One man, seated nearest the doorway so he could keep her under observation, had taken the precaution of covering most of his face with a knotted bandanna. It was he, Keane, who jeeringly opined to the others,

  “We got nothin’ to fear from this female—that’s for sure.”

  Chapter Ten – Cavalry Style!

  There was some justification for the killer’s assumption. During a brief period in which her gag had come loose, Nora had pleaded with her abductors, begging for her life, hating herself for this display of abject fear and all the time wishing she could have accorded them the scorn of silence. They had laughed at her pleas. The gag was retied.

  She had overheard snatches of conversation that made their intentions grimly obvious. These desperadoes were using her as bait, a decoy to lure Jim Rand out here to his death! They needed him dead, but were loath to risk their own lives in open combat with him. And so, because she had come to be identified with that burly, gregarious ex-soldier, because she had been seen in his company, these gunmen took it for granted he would make the supreme sacrifice for her—and they were probably right. Wouldn’t this be typical of Jim? Yes. He would ride out here to face the guns of these coldblooded killers; he would do this out of a sense of responsibility.

  Shame had plagued her in the past, but never as mercilessly as during this time of waiting. She felt useless, inadequate, unworthy of the man who would give his life in the faint hope of saving hers.

  By sunrise, more than one potential participant in the grim drama was in a condition of near-exhaustion. Toby and Phoebus cat-napped behind a discarded packing crate in the alley opposite the hotel to which came the brothers Fenton in dawn’s first light. With the marshal and the medico came Benito, straddling his burro and leading Jim’s saddled stallion by its rein. The black was minus the scabbard usually used for toting Jim’s Winchester and, when the big man emerged from the hotel, his loins were ungirded; he toted his coiled gunbelt under his arm. As he passed it to Benito, he said,

  “Take care of it for me.”

  “Por cierto,” nodded the Mex.

  Tired-eyed, slump-shouldered with fatigue, the medico and the marshal shook Jim’s hand and gave him the gunny-sack containing the ransom money.

  “Jim, are you still determined to go through with this?” frowned Doc.

  “She’s a good woman—a real lady,” Jim said it almost casually. “The least she deserves is an even chance of survival.”

  “Kidnappers don’t always have the gizzard to kill their hostage,” the marshal pointed out. “Maybe this bunch will think twice about it.”

  “That’s a possibility,” agreed Jim.

  “Thanks for the word of comfort, Abe,” Doc acknowledged. “I only wish we could be dead certain about that.”

  “I will ride with you, Amigo Jim,” said Benito.

  “Ride along and welcome,” said Jim, as he stowed the sack in his saddlebag, “but only for part of the way. I’m supposed to show up alone, remember?”

  “Ah, si,” nodded the Mex.

  By now, the amateur assassins in the alley opposite were wide awake and listening intently. So tomb-quiet was the area at this early hour that every word uttered by Jim and the locals reached them with infinite clarity.

  “You know exactly where to go?” prodded the marshal. “You remember my directions?”

  “The west trail,” said Jim. “I follow it till I come to the bend where the rock stands—Slocum’s Rock. It should be easy to find. Shaped like a letter ‘S’ you said?”

  “Yeah.” The marshal nodded soberly. “It’s real easy to find.”

  Toby almost yelped aloud, so tightly did Phoebus grip his arm.

  “You hear that? Slocum’s Rock. It’s out along the west trail somewhere, a big rock that looks a ‘S.’ Well, damnitall, why don’t we get out there first?”

  Phoebus didn’t wait to listen to Toby’s arguments. Shoving the improvised bomb inside his coat, he crept along the side alley to its rear end. Toby had no option but to follow. As they hurried to their waiting horses, the fat man chuckled elatedly and declared,

  “It’s gonna be easy! Didn’t I say I’d as soon do this job out of town? And that’s exactly how it’s gonna be!”

  Jim conversed with the father and uncle of the woman he hoped to rescue for some ten more minutes before striding to the black and swinging into the saddle. His movements were stiff and slow; he hadn’t had time to grow accustomed to the restriction caused by the plaster. Even now, fully realizing that the big man was his daughter’s only hope of survival, Doc sadly shook his head and asserted,

  “He oughtn’t be riding.”

  “In a little while,” muttered his brother, “it likely won’t matter a damn.” He watched Jim and the Mex ride slowly along Main toward the intersection and the street they must travel to reach the west trail. Through clenched teeth, he told his kinsman, “This is gonna stick in my craw for the rest of my days, Matt. This idea of havin’ to stay put—while Nora...”

  “It’s her life, Abe,” said Doc. “We can’t gamble with it. All we can do is put our faith in Big Jim—and pray for a miracle.”

  Along the west trail, sensing the bend was not far distant, Jim told the Mex,

  “This is as far as you go.”

  “I am of a family of cowards,” said Benito. “And yet, at this moment, I wish to ride with you, to help you fight these bandidos.” He blinked longingly at the ivory-butted .45 slung by its belt to the burro’s saddlehorn. “Is better you have this gun,
my friend.”

  “I have to follow their Orders,” drawled Jim. “Or at least pretend to follow their orders.”

  “Ah, ha!” Benito darted him an eager sidelong glance. “So you have the leetle pistola, eh?”

  “Por cierto,” grunted Jim.

  “In the boot?” asked. Benito.

  “In the boot,” nodded Jim. “It isn’t much—but you never can tell. It just might prove useful.” He raised a hand in farewell, as he hustled the black to a run. “Hasta la vista—maybe.”

  “Buen suerte,” said the Mex, with fervor. “Vaya con Dios.”

  He held back until the big man on the black stallion had rounded the next bend. Then, keeping the burro to his slow, plodding pace, he resumed his ride along the west trail.

  Already in position, crouched in a clump of brush close by the S-shaped rock, Toby and Phoebus followed the big man’s approach. Jim rode past, reined up beside the rock and rose in his stirrups to stare westward toward a stand of timber. The conspirators traded glances. Phoebus produced the canister with the eight inches of fuse attached. Toby produced a match.

  Two factors combined to prevent Jim becoming aware of the spluttering missile. One—his attention was riveted on the rider emerging from the timber to the west of the trail. Two—the stallion snorted and stamped in the instant that the makeshift bomb struck the soft ground, so that the slight sound was muffled. To the east side of the rock rolled the can. When it stopped rolling, it was dangerously close to where Jim sat the charcoal, and its fuse still spluttered.

  Twenty yards from the rock, Arnie Sayle reined up and beckoned.

  “All right, Rand. You got the dinero?”

  “The whole three thousand,” Jim replied.

  “Bueno,” grinned Sayle. His right hand was gun-filled, the muzzle directed unerringly at Jim’s broad chest. “C’mon over here. Hold your rein left-handed and keep your right up high.”

  Raising his right arm, Jim urged the black off the trail and across the soft grass to join Sayle. To the great interest of Toby and Phoebus, the big man remarked,

  “It seems a lot of men want me dead.”

  “Rand, you’re a mighty unpopular hombre,” leered Sayle. He waited for Jim to draw abreast and halt the black. Then, roughly, he shoved the muzzle of his cocked gun against Jim’s ribs. Jim winced, because the touch of metal started his injury aching again.

  Expertly, Sayle checked him over, patting at his torso, investigating every pocket, but never thinking of his boots. From the saddlebags he took the sack containing the cash so painstakingly collected by the hostage’s father and uncle during the hours of darkness. He transferred the sack to his own saddlebag, then drew back, gesturing with his Colt.

  “Ride for the timber and straight through—but slow, Rand. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Jim turned the charcoal toward the timber while, back in the brush, Toby and Phoebus watched the fuse of Phoebus’s bomb burn clear down to the lid of the canister. No explosion. Nothing.

  “It should of gone off right away,” Phoebus bitterly complained. “Rand should of been blowed to Kingdom Come—him and his fine black horse!”

  Phoebus broke from the brush, strode to the rock and bent to pick up the canister. He squinted at it, sniffed at it and told it,

  “You failed me, consarn you.”

  “It was a good idea while it lasted,” mumbled Toby.

  “Tryin’ to kill him and earn us a fat bounty. Well, too late now.”

  “C’mon.” Phoebus gestured impatiently, shoved the canister inside his shirt. “We’d best get on back to the wagon and head home to Cordova.”

  Riding slowly along the trail to town, they heard the steady clip-clop of hooves heralding the approach of another rider, and deemed it discreet to take cover behind the cactus south of the trail until that lone rider had passed. That lone rider was Benito Espina, still urging his burro westward.

  Later, when the little Mex reached the S-shaped rock, he immediately perceived the track of the charcoal leading away toward the cottonwoods. He hesitated, but only for a few moments. Straight to the trees he rode, then along the narrow path leading to the west side of the timber. From there, he surveyed the open area surrounding the decrepit homestead. The two riders were now almost half-way to the house, moving slowly.

  “Whatever you will do, Amigo Jim,” he reflected, “is best you do it very soon—I think.”

  In the shack, Nora had rolled over sideways so that her back was to the wall. Her gag was loose again. More importantly, she had for several agonizing hours been working on the ropes securing her wrists. Had her captors used rawhide, she could never have achieved this gradual loosening of her bonds. All these long hours she had been forcing her wrists outward, then inward, outward, then inward, keeping up that rhythmic, painful action in the hope of eventually freeing herself. The ropes were now loose enough for her to extricate her hands—and what had she achieved? The few remarks exchanged by the men out front made it clear that their victim was fast approaching the jaws of the deathtrap.

  Only one of them remained inside. Dusang was standing at the open window, bent slightly forward the better to peer through at the two horsemen approaching across the flats. He was here ostensibly to guard her, but his whole demeanor suggested that he considered this a superfluous chore.

  From the holster lashed to Dusang’s right thigh the walnut butt of his Colt .45 protruded invitingly. The open doorway was less than five feet to the left of the window. Keane and Moberley were clearly visible outside; they were now descending from the porch. In a moment or two, she supposed, they would call a greeting to their colleague—and maybe to their intended victim. Her hands were free now, and how long would it take her to clamber out of this bunk, cover the few feet separating her from the man at the window? If she could reach him before he turned, or even while he turned, she might manage to reach his pistol.

  She sat up slowly, swung her feet to the floor. Dusang’s soft chuckle caused her scalp to crawl, but he hadn’t heard her, hadn’t turned. He was still staring out the window, laughing at what he saw. She stood up, hesitated for only the briefest moment before advancing on him. One step—two steps—three steps…

  A startled oath erupted from him, as he felt the sudden lessening of weight at his right side. He whirled to face her, his mouth wide open for a warning yell to his cronies but, by then, Nora had managed to thumb back the hammer and squeeze trigger; not too difficult a chore, because Dusang’s Colt had a hair-trigger action. Dusang’s yell choked off, simultaneous with the deafening report. Instinctively he grasped at her, but his grip was weak; a man already dead was clutching at her, his eyes glazing, mouth still wide open, shirtfront red-stained.

  She screamed a warning at the full strength of her lungs, as she stumbled over the body and lurched forward to shove the door shut.

  “I’m safe, Jim! I’m safe! Protect yourself! Don’t let yourself be butchered on my account!”

  Outside, Keane and Moberley had turned to gape at the slammed door. Moberley reacted instinctively, drawing his .45 and cutting loose. His bullet slammed into the door, just as Nora fitted the bar into position.

  The moment the scream smote his ears, Jim drew back on his rein. A quick glance to his rear showed him that his escort had also halted; Sayle was rising in his stirrups, frowning uncertainly toward the shack. Into the top of his right boot delved Jim’s index finger and thumb, to feel and pull at the butt of the derringer. He flicked a quick glance toward the house, saw the two men darting to right and left, heard the reason for their sudden confusion—a second and third shot fired from that open window. Hell’s bells! It had to be Nora behind that gun!

  Sayle’s Colt roared, just as Jim turned in his saddle with his right arm extended. Maybe Sayle had spotted the tiny sneak-gun, or maybe the slug he triggered at Jim was all part of a reflex action. The fire of it caused Jim a wave of pain, but he kept his right arm steady as he got the derringer working. His first shot appeared to have lit
tle effect on Sayle. The hard case was re-cocking, drawing another bead on the big man when the second shot from the derringer struck a vulnerable spot—his throat. He promptly dropped his Colt, clasped both hands to his neck and keeled from his saddle.

  Jim’s heart leapt as, from the timber to his rear, Benito came hustling into view. Through a red haze of pain he watched the little Mex approach, waving the holstered .45 presented to ex-Sergeant Rand by his old friends of the 11th Cavalry, heeling the burro to its utmost endeavor.

  “Throw me the hardware, cucaracha!” Jim bellowed.

  Benito swung with the belt and let go. It hurtled through the air, speeding unerringly to Jim’s outstretched arm. The flap of the belt smote his wrist. He grabbed for it with his left hand, drew the long-barreled .45 with his right, then threw the belt from him and began wheeling the big charcoal.

  Cavalry-style, he advanced on the two desperadoes dashing away from the house. Keane had the battle-savvy, the instinct for self-preservation lacking in the over-stimulated Moberley. He dropped to one knee and, steadying the barrel of his Colt in his cupped left hand, took careful aim at the hard-riding Jim, while Moberley kept on running, shooting wildly.

  The terrain was even and, although the black was moving at breakneck speed, Jim was a veteran of this brand of warfare; he knew how to shoot with accuracy from the neck of a galloping horse. His Colt boomed and, to the accompaniment of a strident yell, Moberley stumbled and sprawled on face and hands.

  A moment later Keane’s gun roared, and he had aimed a shade too high. His bullet struck the top of Jim’s Stetson, tearing it from his head. He cocked and fired again, and now Jim had reined up in a cloud of dust and was easing his boots from his stirrups. He struck ground with an impact that jarred every bone in his body, rolled over with Keane’s bullets kicking up the dust near his face and limbs. And then, while Keane was thumbing back for another shot, at a distance of less than eighteen yards, Jim lifted the big Colt again and squeezed trigger and, for Keane, it was all over. The killer’s expression was one of acute shock, as he lost his grip on his gun and struggled to rise. He actually made it, standing upright for just a few moments, while the bloodstain on his shirtfront increased. And then, shapelessly, he crumpled and collapsed to the dust.