Big Jim 11

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Big Jim 11 Page 13

by Marshall Grover


  The wound inflicted by Sayle had caused profuse bleeding. Jim was weakening. He lacked the strength to get to his feet, when Nora opened the shack door and came dashing toward him, weeping. As near as he could judge, the bullet had lodged between his ribs at his left side. The irony of it caused him to lose consciousness with a wry grin stamped on his face. Those damn ribs—if he wasn’t cracking them, he was catching lead between them!

  She was crouched beside the sprawled giant, his head resting in her lap, when the Mex brought his burro to a plodding halt beside them.

  “Señorita...?”

  “He will live,” Nora told him, with gratitude. “But he’ll need proper medical attention, and as quickly as possible. You take one of the other horses Señor Espina. Ride fast to the settlement and report to my father and uncle.”

  “Si, señorita. Muy pronto.”

  “Assure them I am safe. Tell them I will wait with Señor Rand...”

  Some short time later, as the laden Comstock rumbled further away from Pringle and on toward Cordova, Phoebus Williger perched by the tailgate, gloomily inspected the messenger of destruction that had been his pride and joy, his sure-fire method of liquidating-the large and formidable Jim Rand. To Toby, who was driving, sharing the front seat with Fiona, he said for the sixth time,

  “I swear I don’t savvy why this here dynamite didn’t go off.”

  “Cheap dynamite,” snorted Toby. “Besides, you ain’t no explosives expert. What would you know about riggin’ dynamite?”

  “All I know about that li’l old thing,” sighed Fiona, “is it sure smells awful unpurty—like a whole family of skunks.”

  Phoebus sniffed at the canister again.

  “Come to think of it, it don’t smell like any doggone nosegay, and that’s a fact.”

  At last it occurred to him to tug the lid from the canister. Right away, the reason for that odor was obvious—compellingly, terrifyingly obvious. The three inches of fuse within the canister—with the dynamite—still smoldered. The lid had served to keep the burning of this very inferior, undoubtedly faulty fuse half-subdued. Removal of the lid, exposure to the current of air fanning the south trail caused it to splutter again.

  “Noooohhh…!” yelled Phoebus, as he flung the canister from him.

  Later that day, as he rode the south trail on his way home to Cordova, Del Krauss sighted a wagon-team proceeding eastward at speed. He was mildly intrigued, because the teamers were still in harness and dragging what appeared to be portion of a wagon-tongue.

  A short distance further south, his horse had to pick its way in and out of what could have been the wreckage of some kind of vehicle. Those splintered lengths of timber might have been part of a wagon’s sideboards or tailgate, and the blackened pieces of canvas certainly looked to be of the kind used as wagon canopies. A sight that did win his interest was a wheel dangling from a tree-branch a full thirty yards to the east of the trail.

  He rode another hundred yards before encountering the two men and the woman journeying south on foot. Their clothing was in tatters, their faces streaked with dust and what looked to be soot. The woman trudged along in the lead, having steered a course for Cordova and being, at times like these, curiously philosophical. The men moved along behind her, pausing at intervals so that the fat one might heap abuse and rain blows on his companion.

  “Only the best quality fuse you said...” Thump! Kick! “Some fine fuse, by golly...” Thump! Kick! “You near killed me and darlin’ sister Fiona...!”

  Less than forty-eight hours later, seated in the office above the bar-room of the Casino Ricardo in Cordova, Del Krauss was reporting to the man he knew as Al Somers.

  “When they brought Rand back to town,” he told the shifty-eyed saloon owner, “he was shot up, had a few dented ribs or something...”

  “Dying?” There was a note of pleading in Jenner’s voice.

  “No.” Krauss shook his head emphatically. “I hung around and eavesdropped. Quite a few towners gathered outside the doc’s house to find out how the big feller was making out. The doc’s wife made ’em an announcement, kind of a bulletin, you know? He’d be out and about in less than four weeks, she said.” He took a pull at his cigar, blew a smoke-ring and grinned at Jenner. “Those professionals you hired—they weren’t so lucky.”

  “They’re dead?” frowned Jenner.

  “Five are dead,” growled Krauss. “Not just Bissell and Keane, but three hardcases who’d thrown in with Keane.” He studied his employer intently. “Of course—uh—you know this Rand better than I do, but, if anybody was to ask me, I’d say he’s damn near indestructible. He’s a lot of man, by golly.”

  “As soon as he’s fit to travel,” muttered Jenner, “he’ll be headed this way. Yes—he’ll come to Cordova. There’s nothing can stop it.”

  Krauss grinned, while watching Jenner pour and dispose of a stiff shot of raw brandy.

  “I hear tell Vance Waldron hankers to expand,” he offered. “You know Vance? He runs the Gay Lady downtown, and I hear tell he’s got ideas about buying into an uptown business, operating two places at the same time. You’ll see Vance, eh? You’ll work out a little deal—and then you’ll be quitting Cordova?”

  Jenner was trembling when he walked to the office window and stared away to the north. A nerve twitched at his temple and the palms of his hands felt clammy; he needed another shot of brandy.

  “Yeah, sure,” he grunted. “I’ll—go talk a deal—with Vance Waldron.”

  About the Author

  Leonard Frank Meares (February 13, 1921 - February 4, 1993)

  Sydney born Len Meares aka Marshall Grover, published around 750 novels, mostly westerns. His best-known works feature Texas trouble-shooters Larry and Stretch. Before starting to write, Meares served in the Royal Australian Air Force, worked in the Department of Immigration and sold shoes. In the mid-1950s he bought a typewriter to write radio and film scripts. Inspired by the success of local paperback westerns, he wrote Trouble Town, which was published by the Cleveland Publishing Company in 1955.

  His tenth yarn, Drift! (1956), introduced Larry Valentine and Stretch Emerson. In 1960, he created a brief but memorable series of westerns set in and around the town of Bleak Creek. Four years later came The Night McLennan Died, the first of more than 70 westerns (sometimes called oaters) to feature cavalryman-turned-manhunter Big Jim Rand.

  The Big Jim Series by Marshall Grover

  The Night McLennan Died

  Meet Me in Moredo

  Gun Trapped

  Gun Sinister

  One Man Jury

  Killer’s Noon

  No Escape Trail

  Devil’s Legend

  The Valiant Die Fast

  League of the Lawless

  1000 Dollar Target

  … And more to come every other month!

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