Big Jim 3

by Marshall Grover

  “Who are you hombres and what the hell d’you want?” demanded Dewey. “Seems to me you know a helluva lot about our affairs.”

  “Hey, Pete!” breathed Weems. “Let me take care of the bridegroom—huh? In my own way—huh?”

  “Always wantin’ to play,” jeered Clayburn. “Just like a kid with toys ...”

  “Go ahead, Red,” grinned Holbrook.

  Crouched at the parlor window, hefting his cocked .45, Jim had been surveying the situation for the past minute. He was none too sure as to exactly what was happening here, but certain facts were all too apparent. The most compelling detail was the cocked six-gun held to the head of Rickard Gillery. He was in no doubt that, should he attempt to buy into this crisis right now, Rick would die at once. He had been the crack marksman of the 11th Cavalry and, at this range, figured he could hit just about anything he aimed at. He could, for instance, kill the boss-raider with his first shot. But the boss-raider’s index finger was crooked about the trigger of a cocked .45. That finger would undoubtedly jerk at the moment of death and Rick’s life wouldn’t be worth lamb chops in cattle country. No. He could not yet take a hand. He would have to wait.

  Probably with the idea of completely demoralizing the Gillerys, Holbrook was giving Weems permission to destroy the shack. Wide-eyed and apprehensive, Lucy Rose and her brothers watched the burly redhead swagger across to the shack, a lighted cigar jutting from the side of his mouth, his hand delving into his coat pocket to produce the two sticks of explosive with their short fuses.

  Weems savored every moment of that demonstration. He gruffly ordered Dewey to move clear. He stood some ten feet from the shack’s padlocked and barred door, checking, deciding how best to handle this wanton act of destruction and murder.

  “Figure I’ll roll ’em under the door,” he called to Holbrook.

  “There’s two of ’em in there,” muttered Dewey, and he stared aghast at Holbrook. “Are you gonna—stand there and let this jasper blow ’em sky-high? What kind of a man are you?”

  “You hear, boys?” Weems aimed that challenge toward the shack. “Get ready for a little present. And—if you know any prayers ...”

  “Dewey—don’t let ’em do it!” begged Rick.

  “I daren’t make a move, Rick,” fretted Dewey. “Not while ever they got a gun on you.”

  “A gun on the girl too,” growled Clayburn, with which he emptied his holster and drew a bead on Lucy Rose.

  “Oh, great!” Jim was thinking. “Now they have her covered—as if things aren’t already complicated.”

  Grinning broadly, Weems gripped both sticks in his right hand and raised the fuses to the glowing tip of his cigar. One fuse spluttered—then the other. In a quick, deft movement, he bent and tossed them. His aim was true. The sticks fell to the threshold and rolled out of sight under the door of the shack. Dewey edged further away and threw an anguished glance at his distraught sister and his helpless brother. Weems stepped back a few paces, his eager eyes fastened on the shack. He was laughing when the noise of the blast assailed the eardrums of his companions.

  The shack seemed to erupt, scattering in all directions. A sizeable chunk of timber missed Weems’ head by inches, but he didn’t budge; he went right on laughing. Dewey ducked and sidestepped to avoid being struck by a falling rafter. All about the yard and in the mesquite beyond dropped smoldering fragments of debris. Nothing remained of the harness-shack now—nothing but an ugly, gaping hole at which Lucy Rose couldn’t bring herself to look.

  In the tight silence that followed, Holbrook said:

  “All right, Red, you’ve had your fun—and now we’re leavin’.”

  “Butchers!” Dewey was berserk with rage and indignation, momentarily oblivious to his brother’s peril. “Dirty—lousy—butchers ...!”

  He whirled and leapt towards his fallen shotgun. Simultaneously, Rick struggled in Holbrook’s grasp and Billy Joe Hale drew and fired. Clayburn also triggered a slug at Dewey, and Dewey sprawled on face and hands, his face contorted in agony. The fast and slick Billy Joe had missed. Clayburn hadn’t. Clayburn’s bullet had creased Dewey at his left side; he was momentarily paralyzed, and was still a full five feet from where his shotgun lay, incapable of reaching it or of assisting his brother and sister. Cursing luridly; Holbrook uncocked his six-gun, raised it and brought it down hard on Rick’s head. Why he chose to knock Rick senseless rather than shoot him was a mystery that would never be solved.

  Rick collapsed in an untidy heap, after which Holbrook curtly ordered Lucy Rose to come off the porch. From the parlor window, Big Jim had a bead on Holbrook, but not for long enough; Lucy Rose was directly in his line of fire from the moment she stepped off the porch.

  “We’re takin’ you along with us, gal,” drawled the boss-outlaw.

  “You’re gonna keep us company a while,” sniggered Billy Joe. “And—believe you me—we’ll be right lively company for you.”

  He winked at her as, with head held high, she walked past him and on to where Holbrook stood.

  “Straddle my horse,” Holbrook ordered, as he unhitched his lariat. “Then grab a hold of the pommel. I’m ropin’ your purty hands to it, just so you won’t be able to do nothin’ foolish.”

  She was aware of his intent and alert gaze, as she swung astride his horse. And still she had the courage to make one last attempt at foiling him. How badly was poor Dewey hurt? If she could distract these men, would Dewey have a chance to reach his shotgun? Well—she could only try.

  No sooner was she settled into the saddle than she used her knees, causing the horse to rear. Holbrook, who had been standing close by with his lariat held in readiness, was forced to jump clear. She dug in her heels and started the horse barging directly at the ranch house porch. Holbrook cursed luridly and bellowed a command. Clayburn whirled and fired, but his bullet went high, slamming into the front wall of the house. Jim, about to raise himself above the window-ledge, ducked hastily as a slug triggered by Billy Joe came whining through to embed in the rear wall.

  “Get her!” raged Holbrook. “Drag her out by her hair!”

  She had wheeled the horse beside the porch, and her desperate leap carried her from its back, over the porch rail and almost to the threshold of the outer kitchen door. Falling on all fours, jolted and terrified, she struggled to her feet. Both Weems and Billy Joe were striding toward the porch and she was stumbling into the kitchen, when a strong hand grasped her arm and jerked her off her feet.

  She was spun around and propelled none too gently toward the connecting doorway, which gave entry to the parlor. Slumping there, she gaped incredulously at the tall and tough Jim Rand. How had he escaped the explosion?

  “Stay here,” he gruffly ordered her. “Keep your head down. I’m going out and ...”

  “You can’t!” she gasped. “They’ll kill you! Stay here! Take cover, and ...!”

  “That just isn’t good enough,” he calmly retorted. “There always was a strong streak of chivalry in the Rands. I don’t relish the notion of you getting hit by a ricochet bullet. Do as I say. Keep your head down.”

  Abruptly, he stepped to the outer kitchen door. The grinning Billy Joe was less than three feet from the threshold—almost in the act of leaping through the doorway—when Jim emerged. At point-blank range, Jim wasn’t about to wonder whether the young braggart might or might not use that smoking Colt. It was pointed directly at him, so he figured he had no option but to fire. His Colt roared and, as though struck by a battering ram, Billy Joe Hale hurtled backward, struck a porch-post and collapsed onto the steps. His gun discharged as he fell. The bullet embedded in the boards of the porch.

  “As for the rest of you!” called Jim, in the parade-ground bellow that had scared the innards out of many a sassy trooper. “Drop your guns—or try to use ’em!”

  He sidestepped to get clear of the open kitchen doorway, as the three outlaws cut loose at him. Weems was closest to the porch. Clayburn was retreating toward the barn with the idea of taki
ng cover. Holbrook was huddling behind the pump. A slug actually burned the brim of Jim’s Stetson. The others never came quite that close. One smashed a kitchen window. Another gouged a chunk out of a post some three feet from the still-moving Jim—and then the champion pistolero of the 11th Cavalry offered his would-be assassins a terrible lesson in marksmanship.

  Weems was the most immediate threat, so had to be disposed of next. The red-haired gunhawk was crouching, drawing a bead on him when, without seeming to take aim. Jim fired again. His bullet slammed into Weems’s chest, killing him instantly. The body lurched drunkenly and fell, as Jim cocked and fired again. That shot merged with Holbrook’s. The boss-outlaw was still crouched behind the pump, but hadn’t drawn a clear bead; his shot missed. Jim had aimed at Clayburn, who had almost reached the barn entrance. With a wild yell, Clayburn reeled and lost his grip on his gun. He couldn’t stay on his feet, because Jim’s bullet had lodged in his left leg. Awkwardly, he fell. He was still groaning from the agony of his wound, and beginning the futile attempt to reach his fallen weapon, when Jim transferred his attention to Holbrook.

  As the boss-outlaw’s Colt roared again, Jim felt the hot wind of the leaden messenger of death fanning his left cheek. He was impressed, but not demoralized; death had come that close before. Turning side-on and with his right arm extended, he took careful aim at the man behind the pump. Again, Holbrook raised his head and gun-hand. Jim squeezed trigger and something ugly happened to Holbrook’s face. It was as though the hat was whisked from his head and this action had pulled him off-balance. He lurched three paces backward, his gun-hand sagging, blood trickling from the red blotch in the center of his forehead, his eyes dilated in shock.

  “The—other one ...!” yelled Dewey.

  Lithely, Jim leapt over the porch-rail. The crawling Clayburn had almost reached his fallen Colt. His right hand was outstretched to grasp it, when Jim triggered his last shot. The bullet gashed the bandido’s forearm and, for the second time in less than a minute, Clayburn unleashed a wail of agony.

  “Give up on it,” Jim grimly advised. “How much does it take to convince you?”

  Flushed, breathless, apprehensive for the welfare of her brothers, Lucy Rose came bustling out of the kitchen. She ran first to where Clayburn lay and, as a precaution, took possession of his gun.

  “Don’t bother about the others,” muttered Jim. “They’re finished.”

  “And then some,” panted Dewey, as he lurched to his feet. “Hell’s bells, Big Jim! How in blazes did you—get outa—that shack?”

  Now that the danger had passed, a cheerful, leering Benito Espina came strutting out of the mesquite.

  “It’s no thanks to you Gillerys that we’re still alive,” frowned Jim. “Benito lifted Brother Archer’s jack knife. We cut ourselves loose and dug a hole under the rear wall. I was in the house when these heroes rode in.”

  With assistance from his sister, Dewey made it to the pump and flopped down beside his brother. Rick rolled over, struggled to a sitting posture, took one look at Jim and the Mex and lost consciousness again. A few minutes later, while Jim and Lucy Rose were rendering first aid to Dewey and the surviving raider, Waldo and Sam Beech came riding in with their prisoner, and many things were now made clearer to the Gillerys. Racked with pain and in deadly fear that the Gillerys would avenge themselves on him, Clayburn blurted out the whole sorry story of Truscott’s agreement with the gang.

  The reaction of Rick and Waldo was prompt and violent. They were all for lynching both Truscott and Clayburn right here and now. It was left to Jim to insist on adherence to the law.

  “You proddy Gillerys already caused trouble enough,” he pointed out. “You’re guilty of kidnapping, for instance. I could swear out a complaint against you and, believe me, you’d be jailbait. That’s bad enough—without adding lynching to your crimes.”

  “How do we say it?” wondered the chastened Lucy Rose. “How do we apologize for—all we’ve done to you? You were almost killed, and it was our fault.”

  “And then, doggone it,” breathed Dewey, “he ups and saves our lives.”

  “He didn’t save my life,” interjected Waldo. “It was Sam saved my life.”

  “Who’s Sam?” demanded Rick.

  “Him.” Waldo jerked a thumb. “The scrawny hombre that keeps starin’ at Lucy Rose.”

  “Staring” was too mild a word for it, and to describe Sam as being fascinated would have been an understatement. He stood beside his pinto, hat in hand, eyes following Lucy Rose’s every movement, jaw sagging, mouth agape. If ever Jim had seen love at first sight, here it was. As frightening a manifestation as he had ever witnessed. And the girl was more than conscious of Sam’s attention. She was blushing, trying not to look at him.

  “What’s more,” Waldo continued, “Sam saved brother Archer’s hide as well.”

  He went on to repeat the story told him by Sam regarding his finding of the wounded Arch and Arch’s subsequent journey to Double L. Big Jim had saved the lives of three Gillerys this day. On the other hand, Sam Beech had saved two—and that wasn’t a bad score. Dewey, Rick and Waldo viewed him with favor because, unlike Big Jim, he wasn’t itching to get away from Box G. He seemed eager to stay. More importantly, he was obviously smitten by Lucy Rose’s charms.

  Having helped clean and bind Dewey’s wound, and having examined the hard craniums of brothers Rick and Waldo, Lucy Rose finally got around to reprimanding the bug-eyed Sam.

  “It ain’t polite to stare at me that way.”

  Sam found his voice. His words were simple, but there could be no mistaking his sincerity.

  “Can’t help starin’. I never in my whole life seen a lady so all-fired purty.”

  “Well …!” she began.

  “Don’t discourage him, Sis,” frowned Rick. “For gosh sakes—don’t discourage him.”

  “I wasn’t gonna discourage him,” Lucy Rose warmly declared. “I was only gonna say he’s welcome to stare all he wants.”

  “I don’t never want to budge from this spread,” mumbled Sam. “Let me stay here, huh? I’ll work for no pay at all. You don’t even have to feed me. All I ask is ...” He stared at her again, “… just let me look at her.”

  “Ah, si!” Benito nodded knowingly, rolled his eyes. “This is amor—por cierto!”

  When, some two hours later, the J.P: from Byrne City arrived at Box G, he was persuaded to become the guest of the Gillerys for as long as it took Lucy Rose to swap questions and answers with one Samuel Horatio Beech, to check on Sam’s background and to decide whether or not he would make a satisfactory husband. The dead gunmen had been buried and the wounded and helpless Clayburn and Truscott were being kept in the barn, pending the arrival of Sheriff March. Of course the Gillerys were unaware that March was already on his way to Box G.

  It had been decided that Rick, whose head ached somewhat less than Waldo’s, should begin the journey to Byrne City around sundown. As for Big Jim and Benito, they could quit Box G any time they pleased—or could remain as honored guests, whichever suited them.

  By four-thirty, when Sheriff March and his party halted lathered mounts in Box G’s front yard, the Justice of the Peace was willing to remain at Box G indefinitely, because Dewey had been plying him with his own potent blend of moonshine. Big Jim and Benito were in the ranch kitchen fixing themselves a substantial meal. Waldo was squatting in the barn entrance, keeping a wary eye on the two prisoners. And Dewey and Rick were talking earnestly to a delighted Sam Beech, impressing on him the obvious advantages of becoming Lucy Rose’s husband—as if he needed any convincing.

  A grim-visaged Eli March listened to the report offered him by the Gillerys. He was incredulous until Big Jim emerged from the kitchen and, as briskly as if he’d been submitting a verbal report to his old C.O., verified all that the Gillerys had said. The Gillerys had made no mention of having kidnapped Jim and the Mex. There were times when Jim Rand could be very compassionate; this was one of those times—he hadn’t the he
art to indict Lucy Rose’s roughneck kinsmen.

  Clayburn’s signed confession sealed Truscott’s fate. He would never spend another cent of the money left by the late Brigg Fullerton, and he could now look forward to a long term of imprisonment, because the law viewed the hirers of professional assassins with a somewhat jaundiced eye. As an opportunist, a bon vivant, a gambler, Calvin Truscott was finished. When the lawmen left Box G, so did Truscott and Clayburn, their wrists secured to the pommels of their saddles.

  ~*~

  It was a small ceremony, but it served the purpose. With less than five hours to spare in order to comply with the terms of Brigg Fullerton’s will, Lucy Rose Gillery became the wife of Samuel Horatio Beech, garbed in her Sunday-best gown and standing beside the broad-grinning Sam in the ranch house parlor which, in honor of the occasion, had been swept out by Brother Waldo.

  Ed Clifford, the J.P., was severely hung over, but still managed to conduct the ceremony in the manner required by law. Big Jim acted as Sam’s best man and, as soon as the knot was tied, insisted on the privilege of kissing the bride. “Oh, Promise Me” was sung during the ceremony—five times in all—by Benito Espina, who accompanied himself on his battered guitar. For Benito, this was something of a record. Five choruses, and not one note in the correct key.

  Thus ended Box G’s period of crisis. At sundown of the wedding day, after the J.P. had left on his return journey to Byrne City, Big Jim and Benito prepared to bid this isolated spread a final farewell. Jim’s hefty charcoal was saddled and ready to go. His pack was rolled, his Winchester secure in its scabbard, his provisions stowed in his saddlebags, his precious gold watch restored to his vest pocket. Benito was already straddling his burro, when the Gillerys emerged from the house to say so-long.

  “You’ve treated us mighty generous,” sighed Lucy Rose, “and we don’t deserve it. You could’ve told Sheriff March the truth about what we did to you.”