“Rickard, check his ropes,” ordered Lucy Rose.
“We hog-tied these jaspers good and tight,” Rick assured her.
“Do like I tell you,” she insisted.
He shrugged, stepped into the shack and crouched beside Benito to inspect the ropes securing his wrists and ankles. Jim cursed inwardly, as Rick checked his own bonds.
“Hey!” Rick sounded deeply hurt; maybe these Gillerys were a sensitive lot after all. “He done almost got loose from his hand-ropes!”
“So rope his hands again,” frowned Lucy Rose, “and do a better job this time.”
As Jim submitted to the indignity of having his wrists tied for the second time, he eyed the girl grimly and asked, “How’d you know I was working on my ropes?”
“You wouldn’t be a natural, regular man,” she replied, “if you didn’t try and bust loose.”
She stood holding the tray, an impassive monument of patience, until Rick finished his chore.
“He’s big and strong,” Rick grudgingly conceded, as he got to his feet, “but I guarantee he won’t pull loose this time.”
“Take one of these bowls and a spoon,” said Lucy Rose, setting the tray on the floor. “Feed the little feller— while I feed Big Jim.”
“Muchas gracias, senorita,” Benito acknowledged.
“You hush up,” she chided.
“Something I do not understand, Amigo Jim.” Benito appealed to Jim. “Why—every time I speak—am I ordered to be silent?”
“Shuddup and eat,” growled Rick.
“You see what I mean?” challenged Benito.
“It’s as much as you can expect, Benito,” muttered Jim, “from these Gillerys.” The girl knelt in front of him now, lifting a spoonful of the beef stew. For a moment, their eyes met. “They just don’t know any better, I guess.”
It was intended as a barb; he was fighting mad, hoping for a violent reaction from her. Somehow, this would have pleased him. But her face remained calm. He opened his mouth. She inserted and withdrew the spoon. While chewing on the stewed meat, he reflected that beef hadn’t tasted so fine in many a long month. But he bitterly resented this added indignity. A man of his size—being spoon-fed.
Swallowing the first mouthful, he pointed out, “You could have untied us and let us eat like grown men. We aren’t apt to challenge a cocked scattergun.”
“Can’t afford to take no chances,” she murmured. “You’re a big one, a lot of man. You might bust free, and that’d be an awful shame, because I don’t see as how we got time to find another bridegroom for me. Time’s runnin’ out for the old Box G. The twenty-seventh is gettin’ closer ...”
“And closer ...” nodded Rick.
“... and closer,” frowned Waldo.
“You’re our last hope, big man,” opined Rick.
After several more mouthfuls, Jim began the effort to reason with Lucy Rose.
“Is this the most you want for yourself?” he challenged. “I don’t see why a good-looking girl, a fine housekeeper like you, should settle for a forced marriage. There must be hundreds of unwed men who’d give their eyetooth for a chance to …”
“Didn’t brother Dewey tell you,” she frowned, “’bout how him and the boys used to scare off every fellow that even looked at me?”
“Well, yes,” he nodded. “I was forgetting about that. But surely ...”
“We got us a reputation.” She smiled, shrugged philosophically. “You know what they say about us in Byrne City? ‘Tread wary of them crazy Gillerys—and make believe you don’t even see the Gillery girl—else them brothers of hers’ll take a gun-barrel to you.’ Quite a reputation, Big Jim. And now we’re stuck with it.”
“And desperate,” he jibed. “Desperate enough to break the law. Kidnapping and theft ...”
“Theft?” She jabbed another spoonful into his mouth and, as he began chewing on it, eyed him challengingly. “Us Gillerys ain’t thieves!”
He swallowed, showed her a scathing grin.
“No? What about my weapons, my horse, the few dollars I was carrying, my provisions ...?”
“Everything you and the Mex were totin’,” she warmly assured him, “is stashed snug in the house. You’ll get it all back after the weddin’.”
Jim’s appetite was satisfied for the time being. He drank coffee from the mug held to his mouth by Lucy Rose. Then, “While we’re on the subject of my personal property,” he frowned, “I could use a smoke—and I was toting plenty of Durham.”
He wasn’t really surprised when she produced his tobacco-sack, papers and matches from a pocket of her shabby gown, but he was somewhat taken aback when, as deftly as a veteran Texas cowpoke, she built a cigarette—one-handed. Recovering from his shock, he reflected that nobody should be surprised at anything when dealing with the unpredictable Gillerys. She fitted the cigarette between his lips and gave him a light. He puffed gratefully, tried to stretch his long legs and grimaced at the sensation of cramp. As though reading his mind, Lucy Rose said,
“It won’t be for too long. If brother Archer gets a hustle on, he might get back with the J.P. around midnight, day after tomorrow.”
He worked the cigarette to the right side of his mouth and talked around it, quietly and, he hoped, compellingly.
“This is all wrong, Lucy Rose. This is no way for a decent girl to take a husband. A hasty marriage is a poor substitute for a regular courtship—a pleasant ceremony in a chapel—with a parson saying the words …”
“I guess you weren’t listenin’ good,” she accused, “when brother Dewey told you the score. You think I’m marryin’ you for my own sake? No siree, Big Jim. I’m doin’ it for Box G—for all of us. The herd and the land ...”
“Ten thousand dollars,” sighed Rick, “is gonna make a heap of difference to the old spread. First we get ’em drillin’ new waterholes. Then we buy new breed-stock and ...”
“Doesn’t it occur to you,” Jim demanded of the girl, “that you could be making a bad mistake—sacrificing yourself this way? I’m a sight older than you, and what kind of a man am I? How would you know? I might prove to be a mean hombre—shiftless—a wife-beater ...”
“That wouldn’t fret me one little bit, Big Jim,” she calmly replied. “One word of complaint from me and you’d be finished. My brothers’d make me a widow—purty durn quick.”
Jim turned red but, somehow, managed to fight back the urge to curse aloud.
“Lucy Rose,” he breathed, “no marriage would be legal unless I gave the right answers during the ceremony—and I’m warning you I’ll never say ‘I do’.”
“We figure you will, Big Jim,” grinned Rick. “When a man can feel the cold end of a scattergun nudgin’ his head, there ain’t nothin’ he won’t say for the sake of stayin’ alive. Anyway, that’s how Dewey figures it, and whatever he says is okay by us—him bein’ the head of this here family.”
In desperation, Jim resorted to scare tactics.
“What about the children?” he challenged Lucy Rose. “There’s bad blood in my family. I’ve been an outlaw these past ten years. You crave to mother a string of bandidos?”
“Caramba!” chuckled Benito.
“Button your doggone lip,” growled Jim.
“It’s no use big man,” drawled Rick. “Lucy Rose reads real smart. She took a peek at them papers you’re totin’, so we know you were a sure enough army man, a genuine soldier, up till a little while back. Sergeant James Carey Rand—with an honorable discharge and all.”
“Army don’t hand out honorable discharges to bandidos,” grunted Waldo. “Us Gillerys dunno everything—but we know that much.”
“Rendir, Amigo Jim,” sighed Benito. “Surrender with dignity. Resign yourself to ...”
“How would you like a two-footed kick in the face?” scowled Jim.
The cigarette was down to a half-inch butt when Lucy Rose extracted it from his mouth, extinguished it and kicked it away. She gathered up the used dishes and mugs, replaced them on the tray. Ric
k unhurriedly moved out into the sunlight and, as his sister made to follow him, Jim halted her with one last challenge, hoping to appeal to her better nature..
“Maybe l’m engaged to marry another woman, Lucy Rose. Doesn’t she deserve any consideration?”
She studied him searchingly.
“Big Jim—I kind of like you. You’re a straight-talkin’ man, and that’s why it’s easy for me to guess when you’re lyin’. You’re too good a man to lie easy. There’s no other woman. If there was, I think I could feel it,” She held a hand to her well-rounded bosom a moment. “In here, I could feel it.”
“I could be married already,” he pointed out. “With kids. Six, seven—eight kids.”
“If you had a wife and kids,” she countered, “you’d have been hollerin’ about ’em long before now.”
“Give up, Big Jim,” chuckled Waldo. “You’re gonna have a bride and four brother-in-laws inside three-four days—and that’s for doggone sure.”
The door was closed, the padlock secured and the bar lowered into position. Left alone, Jim and the Mex traded glances. To Jim’s disgust, Benito solemnly made him an offer.
“I will be proud to sing at your wedding, my close and dear amigo.”
“One more funny remark from you ...!” snarled Jim.
“Be a fatalista—like me,” grinned Benito. “What is to be is to be. Resign yourself.”
“Like hell I’ll resign myself,” retorted Jim. “I don’t quit that easily.”
“There is nothing for you to do,” opined Benito, “except to make marriage with the senorita. Why do you complain, Amigo Jim? Many hombres would envy you. She will inherit mucho dinero. Ten thousand American dollars? Caramba! This is a fortune!”
“Stop thinking like a pickpocket—just for once in your no-good life,” countered Jim. “There are some things more important than money.”
“Name one,” leered Benito.
“Freedom,” said Jim. “The right to travel where I please, when I please. No ties. No restrictions. I’ve made a promise, Benito, and that’s a promise I aim to honor.”
“Ah, si.”
The ugly little Mexican nodded knowingly and heaved a sigh. Only too well, he knew and understood the mission, the goal, the obsession of Big Jim Rand. The burly ex-sergeant would never really relax until he had tracked down the murderer of his brother, the late Lieutenant Christopher Rand. All the way from the settlement of Libertad, Benito had tagged Big Jim. He had saved the big man’s life, and, soon afterward, Jim had reciprocated by saving his, and this was the unique bond that held them together. They were saddlepards, despite Jim’s oft-repeated assertion that he wanted no part of any itchy-fingered, bucktoothed, unwashed, pocket-picking thief. Where the hefty, high-stepping charcoal stallion toted Big Jim, a runty burro plodded behind, toting the guitar-plunking Benito.
“Is muy triste,” the little man reflected.
“A lot of things are mighty sad,” growled Jim. “What in particular do you mean?”
“I think especially of these brothers and the senorita,” mumbled Benito. “They are rough ones—por cierto—but children of misfortune, no? They are people you might admire, people you might wish to assist, if only ...”
“If only they hadn’t kidnapped us,” nodded Jim, “and were trying to prod me into a shotgun wedding.”
“The senorita is muy bello.” Benito rolled his eyes. “Ai, caramba! To be married to such a muchacha ...”
“It’s hard to realize she is just a muchacha—only nineteen years old,” mused Jim. “She thinks and acts like a veteran ranch-wife, a saloon-woman who’s been around a long time and learned everything the hard way, or the wife of an army officer, the kind who knows how to handle men. It’s as though she were the mother of these hardcase brothers—instead of their kid sister.”
They were silent a while. Presently, Benito began singing. As well as being a dedicated thief, the little Mex fancied himself as a ladies’ man and a troubadour of great merit. The sorry truth, as Jim’s keen ear testified, was that Benito couldn’t sing in tune to save his life. Jim winced and interrupted the performance.
“Just what the hell is that supposed to be?”
“I rehearse,” grinned Benito. “I practice the song which I will sing at your wedding. Is called ‘Oh, Promise Me’. Mucho popular at gringo wedding, I think.” He ceased to bait the big man. His expression became serious, as Jim began working his way clear of the rear wall. “Amigo Jim—what do you do now?”
“I have to do something—that’s for sure,” muttered Jim. “It took me quite a time to loosen these damn-blasted ropes. What I crave now is something to cut through ’em. Cutting is faster.”
“They would not be so foolish,” opined Benito, “as to leave a cuchillo in here.”
“It doesn’t have to be a knife,” frowned Jim. “Maybe I can improvise.”
His immediate destination was the clutter of disused harness in the left-side corner of the shack, pieces of timeworn bridle beyond repair, wagon-harness with the metal parts rusted, old cinch-straps. Where else could he search? The shack contained nothing except the mound of old leather—and its two human occupants.
The rummaging was a lengthy, awkward and painful chore. As his wrists were tied behind his back, he had to squat side-on to the heap and twist his neck to squint over his shoulder. Benito sat quiet, his swarthy countenance impassive, but his bright brown eyes alive with interest; it was as though Jim were performing for an appreciative one-man audience. Deep into the pile Jim’s fingers quested until, by feel, he identified an item of possible use. His pulse quickened. To be doubly certain, he tugged it free of the heap, dropped it to the dirt floor, then turned round to stare at it. Yes—an old spur! Mexican-style. A large, many-pointed rowel. Too bad about the rust. Had the metal softened? Well, only one way to find out.
He struggled back to his original position, squatting beside Benito with the main section of the spur gripped between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. By curving the hand, he could reach his bonds with the rusted rowel. He worked it back and forth against the taut strands and, right from the start, realized he would have to be patient. This would take time. He was unable to exert full pressure because of his need to keep his hand bent. The going would be slow and awkward. Rust was thickly coated on the spur; the rowel wasn’t exactly razor-sharp.
“Is hopeless, I think,” drawled Benito.
“Better than nothing,” muttered Jim. “I’m damned if I’ll just sit and wait.”
He put a great deal of strength and patience into that seemingly impossible chore. The afternoon wore on and his temper frayed. Perspiration caused his clothes to cling to him, and the serenity displayed by Benito Espina did naught to cool his ire. That ugly little Mex seemed cheerfully indifferent to their predicament. He even lapsed into sleep a few times, might have slept the whole afternoon through, had not Jim used his boots to rouse him.
It was long past three in the afternoon before he felt a slight lessening of the tight sensation about his wrists. He twisted slightly and grunted a command to Benito.
“Use your eyes. Take a look at the rope around my wrists and tell me if I’ve cut through a strand.”
Benito squinted intently.
“Si.”
“You sure?”
“Por cierto, Amigo Jim.”
“Bueno!”
He resumed his assault on the tight strands with renewed vigor. By three-thirty, another had severed. His suntanned visage shone with perspiration and, now, his patience was leaving him fast.
“It takes ...” he panted, “so damn long ...!”
“Perseverar,” Benito eagerly urged him.
“Oh, sure,” scowled Jim. “I’ll persevere—but what about you? I could use some help—you lazy, good-for-nothing son of a ...!”
“One million apologies, amigo,” shrugged the little Mex. “I beg you to remember that I am not as strong—not one fraction as strong—as your handsome self. You have such muscu
lo—such robustez ...”
“All right ...” panted Jim. “All right ...”
By five-fifteen, he had frayed the ropes to a substantial degree. Now, at last, he was ready to exert all his muscle-power in an effort to sever the few remaining strands. This was strong hemp, but there was muscle to spare in the brawny physique of the ex-sergeant.
His chest heaved and swelled. He gritted his teeth and half-closed his eyes and the little Mex watched fascinated. One by one, the remaining strands parted. Jim gasped, muttered an oath and rid his wrists of the coils. And then, just as he leaned forward to begin untying the ropes securing his ankles, he heard their guard calling to the girl.
“Supper for them—already?’
Lucy Rose’s reply was equally audible.
“Figured to get ’em fed early—so I don’t have to fret about ’em again, not till the mornin’. Open up, Waldo.”
“Pronto—pronto ...!” breathed Benito.
“Only one chance!” whispered Jim, as he gathered the severed rope and thrust his hands behind his back. “I wait for Waldo to open up. Then—if I can knock him out and—rope and gag the girl before the others hear ...”
“Your feet are still tied!” fretted Benito.
“As if I need to be reminded,” scowled Jim.
Where were Dewey and Rickard? He hoped against hope that they were away from the Box G headquarters, occupied with chores somewhere far out on the range. Even with his feet tied, he was sure he could get the better of young Waldo. Just one punch would do it. Of course he would first have to rid Waldo of that infernal shotgun—which the youth probably toted cocked. As for the girl, he didn’t want to hurt her but, by golly, she would have to be gagged and bound. Time was what he needed. Time to search the ranch house for his prized weapons, his provisions, his gold watch. Time to locate his saddle and ready Hank for travelling. Then, with his Colt and his Winchester at hand, he would be more than ready to cope with the elder brothers.
As the padlock rattled, he tensed with his hands pressed flat against the earth behind him, bracing himself. He heard the bar lifted—and then the door swung inward.
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