“Ask away,” offered Hingle.
“If Lucy Rose is pretty, and if she’s a fine cook,” said Jim, “how come her gun-toting brothers have to hunt a husband for her? She sounds like a girl who’d have plenty of suitors.”
“Well,” sighed Hingle, “by the time those Gillerys heard about the will, the damage was done.”
“What damage do you mean?” asked Jim.
“Since Lucy Rose was knee-high,” frowned Hingle, “her brothers have been beatin’ up any feller that looked sideways at her. I guess they figured they had a responsibility—to protect her—you know what I mean?”
“Sure,” agreed Jim, “but ...”
“Trouble is they did too good a job,” muttered Hingle. “By the time they got to hear about old Brigg Fullerton’s will, there wasn’t an unwed man left in this here territory that’d dare look at Lucy Rose—let alone court her. Those proddy Gillerys scared everybody off. So now the only thing they can do is hunt all over for strangers, and let me tell you strangers are plumb scarce hereabouts. We’re all of two days ride from the nearest town. You likely noticed this is a lonesome hunk of territory.”
“I noticed,” nodded Jim. “Well, so much for the Gillerys. Thanks for explaining the situation—and I hope I never run into them again.”
“Uh-huh,” grunted Hingle. “Back to business. Let’s take a look at that fancy six-shooter.”
Jim tugged the silver-plated Colt from his waistband and offered it for the storekeeper’s inspection. Hingle ejected the shells, checked the cylinder and mechanism, admired the engraving, the sheen on the mother-of-pearl grips, squinted along the barrel, tested the balance.
“Yeah, by golly, it sure is a fine-lookin’ weapon. Too fancy for the likes of me. Of course—uh—I never was a gun-toter, anyways.”
“You might get a chance to sell it someday,” Jim suggested, “and, with that silver plating, the engraving and the pearl grips, you could ask more than twenty-five dollars. I’ve known men who’d gladly pay thirty-five for such a gun.”
“Well now ...” Hingle gave it some thought, “… how about thirty dollars worth of provisions?”
“Include a sack of Bull Durham,” said Jim, “and we have a deal.”
“Pleasure to trade with you, Mr. Rand,” said Hingle. He shoved the fancy Colt under the counter, began assembling such rations as a travelling man might require—flour, dried beef, coffee, canned food, etc. “Don’t usually ask a man no personal questions, but I’m a mite curious about you. You don’t look no cattleman and, like I said before, you’re no saddle bum.”
“I was a sergeant in the Eleventh Cavalry until a little while back,” Jim explained. “My kid brother was an officer in the same outfit—a second lieutenant. He was shot in the back by a man calling himself Jenner, and ...”
“So you mustered out,” said Hingle, “and now you aim to find this Jenner hombre.”
“If it takes the rest of my life,” muttered Jim. And now he repeated the description on the off chance his quarry may have passed this way. “Sandy hair and mustache. About five feet ten. Probably rigged like a professional gambler. He likes pearl jewelry and his favorite liquor is brandy—raw.”
“No such feller has passed this away,” drawled Hingle. “He drinks raw brandy, you say? Hell! I’ve heard many a barkeep say brandy goes straight to the brain.”
“Jenner may have been a little drunk when he killed Chris,” frowned Jim, “but that won’t help him—when I catch up with him.”
“You—uh—hanker to blow holes through him?” prodded the storekeeper.
“I’d as soon deliver him to the law—all in one piece,” shrugged Jim. “When you’ve soldiered for as long as I have, you get to be mighty respectful of authority. Anyway I’m no trigger-happy gunhawk. The important thing is to find Jenner and take him out of circulation—so that he can’t take a sneak-shot at any more men ...” His face clouded over, “… young men—with their whole lives ahead of them.”
Hingle added a slab of bacon and some hominy grits to the mound of supplies on the counter. Big Jim thanked the storekeeper and toted the supplies out to the black stallion.
Within a quarter-hour, they were out of sight of the tiny two-family community beside the waterholes, riding on eastward. Where next could Jim Rand enquire if his quarry had been seen? Almost anywhere—that was the hell of it. The trail was cold, but he was relentless; he would never quit until his brother’s murderer had paid for his cowardly crime.
It was almost eleven a.m., and they were crossing a vast, sunbaked llano. The only shade was provided by a cluster of grotesquely shaped rocks to the right and left of the trail, halfway across the big plain. They saw no sign of other riders, nor did they suspect the presence of ambushers— until it was too late.
They were ambling their animals between the rocks, when the noose of a lariat settled over Benito’s head and shoulders, pinning his upper arms. With a startled yelp, he felt himself hauled from the burro’s back. Simultaneously, three burly men dropped from the top of a high rock to fall upon the rider of the rangy black. Jim’s feet parted company with his stirrups. As he fell, one of his assailants clubbed him and he was plunged into oblivion.
Two – More Gillerys!
The aching could have been worse—this was Jim’s first reaction upon regaining consciousness. Just a dull throbbing in his head. Outside of that headache and the fact that his wrists were secured behind his back, his ankles tied, his pockets empty and his loins devoid of gunbelt, he had nothing to complain about.
A sibilant, tuneless whistling told him Benito was close at hand. He turned his aching head slightly to observe that the little Mex was squatting close by, bound hand and foot. Benito accorded him a fatalistic grin and his customary greeting.
“Saludos, Amigo Jim.”
“Never mind the greetings, cucaracha,” scowled Jim. “Where the hell are we?”
The shack was small and pokey and poorly ventilated. No window. Daylight shafted in below the door and through cracks in the plank walls. They were squatting with their backs to the rear wall. The floor was of soft earth, and it was patently obvious this small structure had never been erected for the purpose of storing perishable food or for the housing of animals—human or otherwise. He scanned the clutter of old harness in the corner to his left, then studied the stacked saddles and bridles in the corner to his right.
“A harness-shack,” he grunted. “We’re in a regular harness-shack. This must be a working ranch. Some ranchers let the hired help stow their gear in the barn, but some insist on a special shack that holds nothing else.”
“This is true—si,” nodded Benito.
“You don’t sound worried,” accused Jim.
“What is to be,” shrugged the little Mex, “is to be.”
“You’re looking mighty spry,” Jim observed, “so I take it they didn’t clobber you.”
“There was no need.” Benito sighed forlornly. “When I am outnumbered by four muy beligerante gringos, I do not fight.”
“Four?” frowned Jim. “It felt as though a half-dozen of them fell on me.”
“There were four,” said Benito. “The second two looked much like the first two.”
“You mean ...?”
“Si, Amigo Jim. These gringos you out-shoot at the watering place—these Gillerys.”
“Well—damn and blast ’em! They went and got reinforcements!”
“This rancho is called Box G.”
“That’s a mighty useful piece of information.” Jim felt entitled to become sarcastic. “It’s always handy to know the name of the place where you’re held captive. What are we? Hostages or something?”
“It would seem,” frowned Benito, “a wedding is to be planned.”
“What ...?” growled Jim, and he began struggling against his bonds.
“We have been brought to the home of these Gillerys,” said Benito. “A rancho of some size—but poor, I think. The cattle look hungry. There is not much grass. All is
arido—how you say—dry?”
“All right—my heart bleeds for the Gillerys,” panted Jim, “but I’m no damn-blasted stud-bull to be corralled with some heifer I never ever seen before. These Gillerys must be pain loco! Hell’s bells ...!”
He stopped talking abruptly as the rattling sounds smote his ears. Four large, unshaven, rough-looking hombres jammed the doorway. Two of them Jim had seen before. With Dewey and Rickard Gillery were a couple obviously cast from the same mould—heavy-chested, tousle-haired, broad-faced. Dewey offered Jim a triumphant grin, jerked a thumb and drawled.
“Say howdy-do to my other brothers—Arch and Waldo.”
“I’m in no mood for saying howdy-do, Gillery,” growled Jim. “Arch and Waldo can go shoot themselves as far as I’m concerned—and that goes double for you and Rick.”
“I reckon he’ll do,” opined Waldo, who looked to be the youngest of the brothers. “He’s passable handsome. Lucy Rose’ll likely be satisfied.”
“It ain’t up to Lucy Rose anyway,” muttered Dewey. He patted his broad chest. “Who’s head of this here family? What’d the old man say—’fore him and Ma got took? ‘Look out for the young ’uns,’ he said. And that’s exactly what I been doin’ ever since.”
“Big and ornery he is,” mumbled Archer Gillery, after giving Jim a once-over, “but we’ll soon whup him into shape.”
“Untie me,” Jim grimly challenged. “Come at me one at a time or all together—and we’ll damn soon see who gets whupped into shape!” He fixed a bleak stare on the eldest Gillery. “In the name of common sense, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you seriously suppose you can get away with a shotgun wedding?”
“Mister,” grinned Dewey, “we sure aim to try.”
“We just gotta—that’s all,” shrugged Waldo. “Ain’t no other way.”
“When the preacher—or the J.P.—says the word,” predicted Dewey, “you’ll answer up proper. There’ll be a couple of us in back of you, proddin’ you with them old double gauges.”
“We’re plumb desperate, mister,” drawled Rick, “and that’s the gospel truth.”
“Desperate,” scowled Archer, “is puttin’ it mild. It’s this feller—or it’s no feller. We done tried every place else.”
“You got a name?” Waldo enquired of Jim.
“Por cierto!” grinned Benito. “He is ...”
“We wasn’t askin’ you, Mex,” growled Dewey. “You button your doggone lip.”
“Rand is my name,” said Jim. “James Rand.”
“And I bet they call you Big Jim,” grinned Archer.
“Si,” nodded Benito.
“Shuddup,” scowled Waldo.
“I said it before and I’ll say it again,” frowned Jim. “You can’t get away with this.”
“Well now, Big Jim,” muttered Dewey, “there’s only one way we’ll ever find out if we’re gonna get away with it. We gotta take a whirl at it, don’t we?”
“That’s it,” Waldo solemnly agreed. “We just gotta.”
“Do you four halfwits realize,” demanded Jim, “that the law imposes severe penalties for kidnapping?”
“That’s another chance we gotta take,” shrugged Dewey.
“Now look …” Jim was prepared to reason with them. Logic seemed an alien quality in this argument, but he was willing to try. “Doesn’t the lady have any rights? She’s your sister. Doesn’t it occur to you that she mightn’t take a shine to me?”
“That’s no problem, Big Jim,” countered Rick. “Lucy Rose come and peeked at you ’fore you woke up.”
“She says you’ll do,” grunted Archer.
“You’d let her marry a man she doesn’t know?” blinked Jim.
“Just as soon as we can get it set up,” Dewey bluntly assured him. “First off, we’re gonna send brother Archer to fetch a preacher or a J.P. from Byrne City. That’s near a two-day ride, so it looks like we’ll just have to keep you and the Mex hog-tied while we’re waitin’. Then, when they get back, we’ll have the preacher say the words over you and Lucy Rose—and that’ll be that.”
“I warn you, Gillery,” fumed Jim, “it won’t be that simple!”
“I tell you what you oughta do, Dewey,” frowned Rick.
“What ought I do?” challenged Dewey.
“You oughta tell him the whole blame sitchayshun,” opined Rick. “And then maybe he won’t feel so bad.”
“Why, sure,” agreed Archer. “Best tell him the score. Ain’t no reason we can’t act friendly—tell him our troubles and all.”
“Waldo, you set guard outside,” ordered Dewey, “and keep your scattergun close handy. Rick and Arch—you go tell Lucy Rose to hustle with them vittles. We all gotta eat.”
“Durn right,” asserted Waldo. “We just gotta.”
He positioned himself outside the shack while Rickard and Archer trudged across the untidy front yard, past the untidy pole corrals of Box G and on to the untidy ranch-house. Dewey hunkered down in the open doorway of the harness-shack, filled and lit a corncob pipe and thoughtfully studied the burn-mark on the back of his left hand. Then, pensively, he traded stares with the larger of his prisoners.
“It ain’t all as loco as you think, Big Jim,” he muttered. “Box G range needs water. If our herd don’t get it, we’ll have dead beef everyplace. Only thing we can do is hire some of them irrigation experts to drill for new waterholes. That’s what the country cattlemen been doin’, and it seems to work. Only it costs plenty dinero—and dinero is what we ain’t got. No siree, Big Jim, us Gillerys is near broke.”
“This is a touching story, Gillery,” growled Jim, “but it still doesn’t explain why ...”
“Let me get to it,” frowned Dewey.
“All right,” sighed Jim.
“There was this old feller used to own Seven Bar—big spread a ways east of here. Fullerton was his handle. Well, he was a widower that had no kids and, when Lucy Rose heard tell he was feelin’ poorly, why, she rid over there and nursed him.” Again, Dewey moodily studied the burn-mark on the back of his left hand. “She didn’t do nothing special, you understand? Just actin’ neighborly.”
“My compliments to Miss Lucy Rose,” shrugged Jim.
“He wasn’t real sick that first time,” Dewey recalled. “After he was back on his feet, Lucy Rose come on home and we all done forgot about the old feller. Then, seven—maybe eight months later—he got sick again. Up and died.”
“Get to the point,” urged Jim.
“We heard tell he fixed it so his spread would be sold—for hard cash,” said Dewey. “But we didn’t think much about it—figured it wasn’t no business of ours. Well, by golly, the old Seven Bar was sold sure enough and, next thing we knew, this lawyer-feller travelled all the way from Byrne City to talk to Lucy Rose. Seems as how old Brigg left half of his dinero to some nephew—jasper name of Truscott—and the other to Lucy Rose. Only she don’t get to collect it rightaway.” Dewey grimaced impatiently. “She won’t collect it at all—unless she gets hitched ’fore the twenty-seventh of this here same month.”
“Why?” Jim was suddenly curious. “Why in blazes did the old man make such a proviso?”
“Such a what?”
“A condition.”
“Meanin’ ...?”
“Meaning this fool notion that she can’t collect her inheritance unless she marries.”
“Big Jim, there’s more to it than that. She has to marry fast—before the twenty-seventh—which happens to be the day she’ll be twenty years old. You see it’s thisaway. Old Brigg believed everybody oughta get hitched while they’re young. The lawyer-feller told us Brigg was wed when he was around nineteen, and his wife was only sixteen. All the time Lucy Rose was nursin’ him, he kept on at her about how she oughta be well and truly wed by now.”
“He sure had strong feelings about it,” reflected Jim, “if he dangled such a bait before her eyes—and made it legal. She marries while she’s still in her teen-years, or she doesn’t collect a cent?”
“That’s about the size of it,” nodded Dewey. “If she’s still a spinster-woman on the twenty-seventh—or if she dies ’tween now and then—that other half of old Brigg’s fortune goes to Truscott.”
“How much does she stand to inherit,” Jim demanded, “if she complies with the terms of the Will?”
Dewey’s broad visage creased in a knowing grin.
“I figured you’d get around to askin’ that. Ten thousand dollars, boy. How about that? Ten thousand green men; enough to get this old spread outa trouble, and then some. Why, we can pay them experts to drill for water, buy us some new breed-stock, maybe hire a few hands to help tend the herd, and ...” He paused, winked at Jim. “You take kindly to the idea now, huh? Ain’t many drifters gets a chance to wed a purty gal that’s gonna be rich.”
Somehow, Jim managed to keep a rein on his temper. Of what use to lose one’s temper when one’s hands were tied? He eyed Dewey coldly and assured him:
“I don’t care a hoot in hell if Lucy Rose is about to inherit fifty thousand! It makes no damn difference to me, Gillery, because I’m not about to marry her—or any other woman—under these conditions.”
“You’ll marry her,” Dewey retorted. “Bet your life you will.”
“If I ever marry,” said Jim, “it’ll be because the lady and I have made up our own minds about it.”
“Nothin’ like a shotgun,” grinned Dewey, “to help a man make up his mind.”
“Just as a matter of interest,” challenged Jim, “are you sure your sister approves of your methods?”
“Lucy Rose,” declared Dewey, “is a loyal Gillery. She’ll do what’s best for the whole outfit and, right now, the whole outfit needs water, new breed-stock and enough hard cash to pay off a few heavy debts. She knows there’s only one way we could get that kinda dinero, so you bet your life she’ll wed you.”
“I’m warning you,” breathed Jim, as Dewey rose to his feet. “It won’t be as easy as you seem to think. No clergyman would perform a marriage ceremony at gunpoint, and ...”
“I surely thank you for that little piece of advice,” Dewey acknowledged. “Yes siree, I surely do. A regular preacher might turn leery, and we’d have to blow his fool head off. Guess a Justice of the Peace would be better, huh Big Jim? Thanks for the advice.”
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