Big Jim 4

by Marshall Grover

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Table of Contents

  About the Book

  One – The Last Hour

  Two – Adios, Drywood—Farewell, Amarillo

  Three – Raiders of Cadiz County

  Four – Cold Welcome

  Five – Hire the Gun Sinister

  Six – The Highest Bidders

  Seven – Face Death in Anger

  Eight – Medico on the Prod

  Nine – Prelude to a Dead Reckoning

  Copyright

  The Big Jim Series

  About the Author

  A WOMAN DIED ... AND A HELL-HOUSE WAS BURNED TO THE GROUND!

  And for Big Jim Rand, another suspense-filled adventure had begun. His quest for the murderer of his brother brought him straight to Cadiz City, the town where violence smoldered and flared.

  Sarina Hale’s legacy, all that her mother had to bequeath her, was a powderkeg with a naked fuse—the sealed diary of the hard-boiled woman who once operated the town’s rowdiest house of entertainment.

  Many a man coveted that book, fearful that his past sins were recorded between its leather covers. To keep his guilt a secret, one was prepared to kill—and this was the man who would have to face the indomitable Big Jim in mortal combat.

  Big Jim again—tagged by Benito Espina!

  One – The Last Hour

  The big woman had less than sixty minutes to live when she ejected the sore loser from her premises in Cadiz City, New Mexico Territory. Big, flabby, and ageing fast, Jessie Kingston despised sore losers, and said as much.

  “The Joyhouse ain’t open to the likes of you,” she told the blond, shifty-eyed stranger. “If you’re gonna whine every time you lose a hand at poker, you’d best skedaddle.” She nodded to the batwings. “Go on. Vamoose.”

  In her fifties, the big woman seemed a great deal older, and despite the powder, rouge and hair-dye. Life had dealt harshly with her, but her sense of humor was still her most outstanding characteristic and she was much admired by many a citizen of Cadiz City. Unfortunately she was also the target for much criticism from the local Reform Committee, which regarded the Joyhouse as a threat to the morality of the community, a blot on the fair name of Cadiz County and little better than a bordello.

  “I demand a chance to get back what I’ve lost,” scowled the visiting gambler. He added, with a venomous glare at the other card-players, “What I’ve lost to your cheating dealer.”

  “Jessie ...” began the dealer, rising from his chair.

  “Siddown and hush up, Sam,” growled the big woman. “I’ll take care of this tinhorn.” To the stranger, she vehemently asserted, “Nobody gets cheated at the Joyhouse. That’s been my rule ever since I started this place. I don’t hire cardsharps.”

  The stranger licked his lips and averted his eyes. He was slim of build, a dandified hombre in a gray broadcloth suit, checkered vest and fancy cravat. A pearl ring gleamed on his left little finger. Another pearl adorned the stickpin in his cravat. His pale blue eyes were red-rimmed with anger. The dealer and the other players knew he was in an over-stimulated condition; they had watched him swigging raw brandy all through the game.

  “I demand ...” he began again.

  “Don’t make no more demands, tinhorn,” Jessie coldly advised. “Just get the heck out of here while you’re still in one piece.”

  And still the visiting gambler, the man who called himself Becker, stood his ground and refused to budge. He was clinging to the shreds of whatever dignity he possessed, bitterly conscious of the curious stares of Jessie’s customers.

  “I’ll go when I’m ready to go,” he defiantly informed Jessie.

  “Tinhorn, you’re ready to go,” she asserted, “like it or not!”

  Her movements were surprisingly quick and deft. Before Becker could raise a hand to protect himself, she struck him with her clenched fist. The blow spun him around and, to the accompaniment of much applause from her patrons, she got a grasp on his coat collar and marched resolutely toward the batwings. Becker just had to go with her; he half-staggered and was half-dragged. At the batwings, she swung a kick at him and missed, but he took the hint and kept going, hustling out into the night.

  Bill Swann, the barkeep, was an old and trusted friend of the Joyhouse’s owner—probably the best friend she had ever known. He was watching her intently and fearing the worst, when she walked from the entrance across to the stairs. The piano-player resumed his assault on his battered instrument. The percentage-girls continued to ply their trade. All games of chance resumed and the familiar hubbub of talk arose again.

  Jessie was climbing the stairs with the obvious intention of retiring to her private quarters a while. Bill Swann, beefy, balding and self-effacing, kept his shrewd brown eyes on her all the time she climbed those stairs. When she reached the top, she stood panting heavily, grasping at the balustrade, her head bowed.

  “Take over for me, Nick!” he called sharply to a tableman, as he hustled from behind the bar and made for the stairs.

  Just as he reached her, the big woman was sagging in the open doorway to her bedroom. He gathered her into his arms and toted her to her bed, laid her down gently. “My—own fault ...” she panted.

  “Doc Ashton warned you about your heart, Jessie,” he chided her. “You’re supposed to take it easy. Throwin’ that sore loser out—damnitall—that was a fool thing to do. You should’ve let me handle him.”

  “No fool—like an old fool,” she mumbled. “Guess I was—still tryin’ to prove—I’m so almighty tough ...”

  Bill studied her worriedly for a brief moment, then retreated to the open doorway and bellowed a name. In a matter of seconds, one of the percentage-girls came up the stairs, frowning enquiringly.

  “Fetch Doc Ashton,” he gruffly ordered her. “And do it quiet, savvy?” Crouched beside the bed, he took one of the limp, flabby hands in his, “Stay quiet now, eh Jessie?”

  “Stayin’ quiet ain’t gonna change anything,” she murmured. “Three attacks inside a half-year …” She stared up at him beseechingly. “Bill—I’m countin’ on you ...”

  “Yeah, sure,” he grunted. “Well, I gave my word, and you know me. Once I’ve given my word ...”

  “But you’re wishin’ you’d never made me that promise, eh Bill?” she challenged.

  “I don’t know if it’ll be a good thing for your daughter,” he fretted. “I’ll do like you asked, but ...”

  “Do it exactly the way I asked,” she insisted, and some of the gleam returned to her lackluster eyes; her spirit was still strong. “Right after this old heart stops beatin’, I want you to take ’em both out of the safe—the book and the letter. You mail the letter to her—you keep the book for her.”

  “You could be doin’ her more harm than good,” he warned. “She could be wide open for a charge of blackmail.”

  “Not,” said Jessie, with a crafty smile, “if she follows her momma’s advice. Mark my words, Bill, if she does things my way, the law won’t be able to touch her.” She stopped smiling, heaved a forlorn sigh. “Not much of an inheritance, is it? I’m nothin’ for her to be proud of. If it comes to that, the Joyhouse sure ain’t nothin’ to be proud of. That last bunch of poker-playin’ cattlemen really cleaned us out, didn’t they?”

  “At a time like this,” he suggested, “you oughtn’t be frettin’ yourself over a few little debts.”

  “A few little debts?” she countered. “Who do you think you’re foolin’? When Jessie Kingston cashes in her chips, the Joyhouse’ll be finished. The creditors—and the Reform Committee—will be beatin’ on the front door before I’m cold in my grave.”

  “Don’t talk that way, Jessie,” he pleaded, but he couldn’t look her in the eye. “You’ll shake o
ff this sickness.”

  “Remember ...” she breathed, “about the book—and the letter—for Sarina ...”

  “It’s too bad about Sarina,” he muttered. “No. Don’t you try to talk any more, Jessie. I’m just tellin’ you how I feel about it all.” He smoothed hair away from her brow with his big but gentle hand. “I’m sayin’ it’s a tragedy, Jessie. That girl likely thinks you’re no good—and—if she only knew the truth ...”

  “I hold no grudge against her,” sighed Jessie, “and I reckon she’ll weep for me—maybe just a couple of tears—after I’m gone.”

  “You’ve had hard times.” He said that bitterly.

  “Sarina’s life,” Jessie pointed out, “hasn’t been no bed of roses. I reckon she’s learned humility.”

  “But not charity,” said the barkeep. “If she follows your orders—if she tries to use her inheritance in just the way you want her to—it’ll prove there’s no charity in her.”

  “Why should a girl like Sarina be charitable?” asked Jessie. “She’s had a rough deal—all down the line. Huh! Did I say ‘girl’? She was seventeen when she ran away and married that good for nothin’ drummer, and that was all of twelve years ago—in St. Louis—when the war ended ...”

  “Stay quiet now,” he begged.

  “You be patient and kindly to Sarina,” ordered Jessie. “Even if she cusses me—I want you to be loyal to her—as loyal as you’ve been to me. That’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you, Bill. So—don’t let me down.”

  “You got my word on it,” he sadly assured her.

  Dr. Clifford Ashton came hustling into the room a few moments later. He was the younger of Cadiz City’s two resident medicos, a man of slender build and sensitive features. His dark hair was graying prematurely; he wasn’t as old as he appeared to be.

  “I’ll wait outside …” began the barkeep.

  “No reason why you shouldn’t stay,” muttered Ashton, as he began his examination. “I know you’re an old and trusted friend, Swann.”

  Swann squatted beside the safe in the far corner of the room, watching, while Cliff Ashton went through the routine adhered to by doctors the world over, engaging in the old battle with the Grim Reaper, doing his utmost to maintain life even while life was almost extinct. It seemed many hours passed; actually it was only fifty-seven minutes after the big woman had ejected the sore loser, when Ashton turned to the barkeep and quietly announced,

  “That’s it, Swann. I’m sorry.”

  “Just—now?” asked Bill, rising to his feet.

  “Just this minute,” nodded Ashton.

  “She went quiet,” Bill gloomily reflected. “Kind of—uh—different from the way she lived.”

  “Peacefully and without great pain,” shrugged Ashton. “Well—there are worse ways to go.” He restored his instruments to his bag and closed it, picked up his hat.

  “You want me to tell all those people downstairs? I’ll send for the undertaker and wait till he arrives, of course.”

  “Sure, Doc, you tell ’em,” muttered Bill. “I’ll be right down.”

  After the medico had left the room, the big barkeep stood by the bed a brief moment, staring down at the well-remembered face; in death Jessie’s expression was peaceful.

  “All right, Jessie,” he grunted. “I’m a man of my word.”

  He returned to the safe, unlocked it and took out a sealed envelope and an oblong-shaped package. The envelope he stuffed into his hip pocket. The package he toted along the gallery to his own room to be shoved under his mattress.

  By the time he descended to the barroom, all the customers had departed and so had most of the staff. In the corner to the right of the batwings sat two percentage-girls, one of them quietly weeping, being comforted by the other. The doctor was leaning against the bar, moodily studying his reflection in the long mirror.

  The undertaker and his assistants arrived unobtrusively and the mortal remains of Jessie Kingston were removed from the premises with little ceremony, but in a respectful way. Attitudes toward the owner of the town’s bawdiest house of entertainment had contrasted sharply. Bill Swann had remarked on many occasions, “There’s only two ways folks feel about Jessie. If they don’t hate her, they admire her. It’s one or the other.”

  The percenters retired. Bill secured the street door, came around behind the bar and poured two stiff shots of good bourbon, placing one close to the doctor’s hand. Ashton raised it and took a few mouthfuls. Bill drank slowly.

  “I suppose,” mused Ashton, “her heavy losses of a few weeks ago caused her a great deal of worry. Well, worry is no help to a heart case.”

  “It was always easy come easy go with Jessie,” Bill assured him. “She didn’t fret on her own account. It was her daughter she fretted for.”

  “Strange,” said Ashton, “to think of a tough old girl like Jessie being somebody’s wife—somebody’s mother.”

  “I don’t reckon Jessie’d mind if I tell you,” muttered the barkeep, staring morosely at his half-empty glass.

  Ashton listened intently as Swann repeated the story told him by luckless Jessie Kingston.

  “Jessie mightn’t appreciate my prying, but I’ll ask anyway,” said Ashton. “What did become of the daughter—and where is she now?”

  “Amarillo, Texas,” Bill told him. “That’s where she and the drummer settled after they got married. Marty Hale was his name. He bought a dry goods store. Sarina helped him run it at first. And then, after a while, she was the boss-lady, tendin’ the store all by herself—because Hale was drinkin’ up all the profits. By the time he died—that was about five months back …”

  “He died of alcoholism,” guessed Ashton.

  “Sarina had just about enough dinero to pay for his funeral,” muttered Bill. “Then she had to sell the store so she could pay all his debts. As well as bein’ a drunk, he was a sucker-gambler. Trouble? I tell you, Doc, both Jessie and her daughter have had twice as much trouble as any female deserves. You want to know what Sarina’s doin’ right now?” He produced the envelope, showed Ashton the address; it had been written in Jessie’s bold scrawl. “That’s her business address. See what it says? Care of the Silver Bell Restaurant, Ryker Street, Amarillo, Texas. I know Amarillo, Doc, and I once saw the Silver Bell. A restaurant? That’s no restaurant. Just a cheap hash house. And she’s waitin’ on tables there.”

  “I’m sorry for her,” said Ashton.

  “Don’t be sorry for her—yet,” Bill advised.

  “What do you mean?” demanded Ashton.

  “I got a hunch Sarina will come to Cadiz City,” said Bill. “Save your sympathy till then.”

  “Well, I’d like to stay and talk,” frowned Ashton, “but I have other patients. Good night to you, Swann.”

  As soon as the medico had departed, Bill Swann removed his apron, donned his hat and coat and quit the saloon. It took him only a few minutes to walk to the local depot of the Kiley & Ogden Stage Line, where he had a few words with the manager.

  “Guess you already collected the eastbound mail from the post office, Steve. I’d be obliged if you’d include this here letter. It’s mighty important.”

  “Letter for where?”

  “Amarillo.”

  “Oh, sure. That’ll go with the other mail on the early stage eastbound. Don’t worry, Bill. We’ll take care of it.”

  And so, early the following morning, the letter addressed to Mrs. Sarina Hale of Amarillo, Texas, left Cadiz City on the eastbound stage.

  Punctually at a quarter of nine, Bill Swann was obliged to open the doors of the Joyhouse and admit a self-righteous group of local citizens led by the sanctimonious and not overly intelligent Sheriff Ray Murch. He was now acting as county bailiff and armed with a court order. Demanding that all monies found in the dead owner’s personal safe be seized for the settlement of outstanding debts, Murch, the representative of the Reform Committee and about a half-dozen of Jessie’s creditors hustled up the stairs to the room that had done double
duty as her bedroom and office. Swann obeyed Murch’s command and surrendered the key to the safe, watched the buzzards gathering to fatten, only to be disappointed that the pickings were so lean.

  “Don’t forget,” he dryly reminded all of them. “Jessie was hit hard by those cattlemen a little while back. Every one of ’em was a high-stake gambler, and every one of ’em hit a lucky streak?”

  “Any woman that dies in debt ...!” began a member of the Reform Committee.

  “I wouldn’t say anything at all, if I was you,” growled Bill. “Remember how you’re always braggin’ of bein’ a Christian? Well, Christians are supposed to be charitable. That’s one good reason why you oughtn’t speak ill of the dead, Mr. Rowley. Another good reason is—if you say one word against Jessie—I’ll kick you all the way down those stairs and out into Main Street.”

  Approximately two hours later, a person or persons unknown set fire to the Joyhouse, which burned to the ground in less than a half-hour. Many townsmen considered this a sorry sight, following so quickly upon the death of the saloon’s owner, but the town’s reformers rejoiced, loudly acclaiming the destruction of Cadiz City’s most notorious hell-house. From the opposite boardwalk, Bill Swann watched the conflagration with mixed feelings. The package entrusted to Bill’s care by his dead employer was tucked under his coat. This was the end, he reflected, of many things—of the life of Jessie Kingston and the bawdy, rowdy saloon so aptly named the Joyhouse.

  “Some trouble endin’,” he muttered under his breath, “and maybe bigger trouble just startin’.”

  ~*~

  At noon of the following day, in a town some distance to the south of Cadiz City, a lawman came hustling into a small saloon in search of a visiting stranger. The town was called Drywood. The lawman was the town marshal and his name was Luke Bowman. The man he sought had been in Drywood less than forty-eight hours, but was already known to many a local; they spoke of him simply as ‘Big Jim’. His full name was James Carey Rand.