He was at the bar when Bowman barged in, working on a thick sandwich and a tall beer—a big man, brawny, very tall, dark-haired and ruggedly-handsome. The weapon slung to his right hip from a well-stocked cartridge belt was an ivory-butted Colt of .45 caliber with the seven-and-a-half inch barrel, a pistol often referred to as the Cavalry Model. It was appropriate that Jim Rand should pack such a six-gun. He was an ex-sergeant of a famous cavalry regiment, the Fighting 11th.
At the marshal’s approach, Jim nodded affably and drawled a greeting.
“Howdy, Marshal. If you got a thirst, I’m buying.”
“Rand,” said Bowman, who was perspiring freely, “I’m here to beg from you—if I have to.” He stood beside Jim, snapped his fingers to the proprietor. “Lacey—make mine a double shot of rye.”
Before taking another bite at his sandwich, Jim frowned at him and asked, “Beg from me about what?”
“Well, look now, Rand, you seem like a reasonable hombre,” muttered Bowman, “so let’s talk reasonably.” He grabbed for the glass passed to him by the proprietor, gulped a couple of mouthfuls. “I know why you came to Drywood, because you explained it all fair and square. You’re lookin’ for the skunk that back-shot your kid brother. You’ve given out a description and you’ve been showin’ a picture around—a picture of this killer, this feller Jenner.”
“So?” prodded Jim.
“So will you quit lookin’ for Jenner in this town?” begged Bowman. “He ain’t here anyway, Rand.”
“Well,” shrugged Jim, “if you’re sure about that—if you can give me any kind of a lead on Jenner—I’ll have no reason for hanging around in Drywood.”
“Will you take my word for this?” Bowman finished his drink wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve. He was a lean, mournful-looking individual, a born worrier. “Will you believe me when I tell you I’ve actually found a citizen that spotted Jenner here? If it wasn’t Jenner, it was his twin. I described him to Bud Nash that lives up the north end of town, also showed Bud this picture you loaned me.”
He produced a folded sheet of paper and placed it on the bar. “Bud swears the hombre he spotted a couple days ago is the same one you’re huntin’. The pearl jewelry, yeller hair and mustache—and him all rigged like a tinhorn.”
Jim Rand retrieved the folded sheet and carefully restored it to the inside pocket of his vest. Some short time ago, in bustling Burnett Junction, an artist named Tully had sketched his quarry from memory, and Jim figured that pen-portrait was as valuable to him as an actual photograph of the man who had called himself Jenner—at the time of his wantonly slaying Lieutenant Christopher Rand. He finished his beer, and asked the marshal, “Which way was Jenner headed when your friend Nash saw him?”
“Straight north,” said Bowman.
“Gracias,” Jim acknowledged, “and please thank Nash for me.”
“So now you’ll go?” Bowman eyed him anxiously.
“Now I’ll go,” nodded Jim, “naturally.” He dropped a coin on the counter, eyed Bowman curiously. “Hell, Marshal, you never needed to beg nor sweat. What in tarnation’s ailing you?”
“It’s just that I can’t abide trouble,” mumbled Bowman. “I guess you think that’s a foolish attitude for a lawman, but that’s the way I am, and I don’t change. Trouble’s brewin’ right now, Rand. I won’t quit sweatin’ till you’re on your way—takin’ that sassy little Mex with you.”
The Mex in question was a runty, ugly thief named Benito Espina. Jim had met him under dramatic circumstances soon after he had resigned from the 11th Cavalry to begin the hunt for his brother’s murderer. His life had been saved by the itchy-fingered Benito and, within hours of that never-to-be-forgotten incident, he had returned the compliment by rescuing Benito from a lynch-mob. Ever since, the buck-toothed, guitar-plucking Mex with the penchant for petty larceny had insisted on riding in Big Jim’s shadow. They were bound by their obligation to each other—despite the fact that they were complete opposites.
“If you can get that crazy little wet-back out of this town without anybody gettin’ killed,” declared Bowman, “I’ll be powerful grateful to you.”
“Why should anybody get killed?” asked Jim.
“Rand, your friend ain’t been here long,” sighed Bowman, “but I swear he’s tried to court every woman in town. I’ve seen a few skirt-chasers in my day, but he sure beats all. It don’t matter if they’re young or old, purty or ugly …”
“Benito figures himself for a real ladies’ man,” nodded Jim. “It’s kind of pathetic—when you think of how ugly he is.”
Before searching for the amorous Mex, he collected their saddle-rolls from a downtown hotel and their mounts from a downtown stable. With both animals readied for the trail he rode slowly up Main, leading Benito’s nondescript burro by a tie-rope.
Two – Adios, Drywood—Farewell, Amarillo
Big Jim nodded so-long to the marshal, as they rode past the saloon. Bowman returned the nod and, despite the thudding of the black’s hooves, Jim was sure he heard the lawman’s sigh of relief. They left Drywood’s outskirts behind them and began travelling the north trail.
“Where we go now?” Benito thought to ask.
“North,” said Jim.
“Always north,” mused Benito.
“Not always,” countered Jim. “Only for as long as Jenner is travelling north, or changes direction—or I catch up with him.”
“You got plenty food in saddlebag, amigo?” asked the Mex. “Already I am hungry.”
“I’m a mite low on rations, but we’ll make out,” muttered Jim. “Until we reach the next town, we won’t eat like kings, and that’s a fact. Not unless I can down a couple jackrabbits.”
Northward along a lonely trail rode the odd duo, the big Americano and the sawn-off Mex with nothing in common; absolutely nothing, except that each had saved the life of the other. Not until he had run his quarry to ground would Big Jim Rand cease to wander, and it was a big country, so who could say how long the search would last?
~*~
On this same day, in Amarillo, Texas, a widow named Sarina Hale received the communication that was to change the course of her humdrum existence, plunge her into hectic adventure and entangle her path with that of the formidable ex-Sergeant Rand. Now in her twenty-ninth year and working as a waitress at the Silver Bell Restaurant, Sarina was no outstanding beauty. Nevertheless, a life of hardship and anxiety and the loss of a hard-drinking husband had not completely destroyed her good looks; she could best be described as an in-between.
A lock of her brown hair fell over her brow. She couldn’t brush it away because she was toting dishes in both hands, moving past the occupied tables toward the kitchen entrance. It was lunchtime at the Silver Bell, the lowliest hash house on Amarillo’s seedy Ryker Street. She was perspiring and her oval-shaped face was devoid of make-up. The expression in her hazel eyes was dull, resigned, defeated. But she had not yet run to fat; she was trim-waisted and, about the bosom and hips, well-shaped, so it was inevitable that at least one of the customers would make a play for her. It happened all the time almost every day. As she drew abreast of the table occupied by a leering, double-chinned local named Crowe, he pawed at her. She flinched from him and wearily murmured a reprimand.
“I wish you—wouldn’t do that ...”
He chuckled and released his grasp of her skirt. Juggling the two piles of dishes, she moved on and into the kitchen. The cook called to her without raising his eyes from his stove.
“Steak for the window table gonna be ready in a minute.”
“I’ll wait,” she sighed, as she set the dishes down.
Framed in the kitchen entrance, the proprietor scowled at her and said, sarcastically, “Don’t strain yourself. Take it easy. After all, it ain’t as if you’re over-paid.”
Sarina’s employer was flabby, pig-eyed and a skinflint. She loathed him as she had loathed few men, but couldn’t afford to say as much, couldn’t afford to give vent to all her emotions. Jobs
for women were scarce in Amarillo, particularly if the women happened to be widows struggling to remain respectable. To Sarina, respectability was something of tremendous importance, something priceless, something to be protected and cherished, because the memories of childhood died hard.
Wearily, she informed the flabby Hyram Lee, “I’m waiting for the steak for the man at the window table.”
“I saw how you acted when Burt Crowe made a grab at you,” muttered Lee. “Damnitall, what d’you think you are? Royalty, maybe? Burt’s a good customer, and I don’t want him scared off. Any female works for me—she has to expect to get grabbed at. While ever my customers pay cash for their grub, they can play around all they want, far as I’m concerned. Besides, Burt don’t mean no harm.”
“Mr. Lee,” sighed Sarina, “I guess we both know what Burt means.”
“Smile once in a while, why don’t you?” growled Lee. “You might do yourself some good—maybe earn yourself a little extra.”
He went into no further details as to how he supposed she could earn that little extra. When he returned to his position behind the small counter near the street-entrance, she followed with the steak dinner, delivering it to the aged local occupying the window table. Two more locals came trudging in, calling their orders to her. As she made to return to the kitchen, a third man arrived and addressed her by name. He was from the Amarillo post office.
“Mrs. Hale—got a letter here for you.”
She paused, eyeing him uncertainly, as he offered her a thick, sealed envelope.
“I’m not expecting any mail. Are you sure it’s for me?”
“You’re the only Mrs. Sarina Hale I know of,” grinned the mailman. “And the address checks.”
“There’s customers waitin’,” Lee sharply reminded her.
She took the letter and headed for the kitchen. Again the grinning Crowe reached out for her, attempting to hook an arm about her waist. She sidestepped and hurried on. In the kitchen, after relaying the orders given her by the two new arrivals, she tore the flap of the envelope, extracted the letter and began reading. The cook mumbled, “One ham and eggs and one beef stew—ready in a minute.”
Her hands shook, because Jessie had begun that letter without preamble:
My Only Child,
By the time you read this letter I will be dead and buried …
She was almost half-way through the somewhat lengthy epistle, when the cook announced the two lunches were ready. Her apron had a sizeable pocket. She slipped the half-read letter into it, gathered up the laden dishes and toted them into the dining room and, as she steered a course for the new arrivals, Crowe made his third grab at her. On her way back to the kitchen, he jabbed a pudgy finger at her stomach. Like a woman in a trance, she moved on to the kitchen.
The remainder of the letter she read with increasing excitement. Her feelings were mixed, her brain in turmoil. While experiencing regret at the passing of her mother, a woman she had never understood, a woman who, in many ways, had been like a stranger to her, she was also conscious of a feeling of relief; it was as though a load had been lifted from her shoulders. Her mother was offering her new hope, one last chance for a fresh start. It seemed Jessie Kingston’s conscience had been pricked; in the last months of her life she had worried about the future welfare of her daughter. And this legacy, this inheritance that was to ensure Sarina’s financial security.
Bill Swann will give you the diary as soon as you reach Cadiz City, her mother had written. Trust him. You do not have to be ashamed of his friendship with me, because he is a decent man. Having Bill to help me was like having the help of a brother. Offer the diary for sale. Hold out for the highest bid. It could be worth a fortune to you …
Sarina wasted no time in pondering the possible significance of her mother’s diary. All that mattered at this very moment was that something of value was being held for her in New Mexico, in a town called Cadiz City. To capitalize on that legacy, she would have to quit Amarillo, travel to Cadiz City by the fastest route.
The cook raised his eyebrows, as she thrust the letter into the bodice of her gown, untied her apron and reached for her bonnet and bag.
“Hyram don’t like for the hired help to walk out at lunchtime,” he warned.
“What Hyram Lee likes or dislikes,” she warmly retorted, “no longer concerns me.”
She donned her bonnet, gathered up her purse and marched back into the dining room with head held high and shoulders squared. As she made to move past the table occupied by the leering Burt Crowe, he halted her by gripping a fistful of her skirt.
“Goin’ somewhere, girlie?” he enquired. “Wait till I’m through eatin’ and I’ll go along with you.”
“Hey!” called Lee from his position behind the counter. “Where d’you think you’re goin’ at this time of day?”
To Crowe, Sarina said, with her voice dripping ice-water, “Let go of my skirt.”
“C’mon now, girlie,” sniggered Crowe. “Me and you could get real friendly. You know what I mean? I mean real friendly.”
What followed won an outburst of laughter from the other diners, a shocked gasp from Hyram Lee and a startled oath from Burt Crowe. After assuring Crowe that she would as soon drown herself than consort with a man of his caliber, Sarina reached for a bowl of soup on a nearby table and emptied the contents over his head. He panted, spluttered, called her a name, so for good measure she saturated his head again—this time with a jug of hot coffee.
Lee hustled out from behind his counter. Like a virago, she whirled on him, spitting out a warning that froze him in his tracks.
“Don’t speak to me, Hyram Lee! Don’t—say—one—word! You can’t fire me, because I’ve just quit. As for your favorite customer ...” She gestured contemptuously at the cursing Burt Crowe, “… if he cares to swear out charges against me, I’ll take my chances at answering those charges in court—and let’s not forget that Judge Regan always deals harshly with woman-chasers!”
Triumphantly, she hurried out into the hot sunshine of Ryker Street. It took her less than twenty minutes to return to her humble room at a downtown boarding establishment and to tally her meager savings, then to check at the Kiley & Ogden depot regarding the cost of one-way passage to Cadiz City, New Mexico. She had enough, just enough, with a little left over. Moreover, she would not have to wait long for the next westbound stage; it was scheduled to depart at two-fifteen of that same day. She purchased her ticket, hurried back to the boarding house to pay her room-rent and pack her bags, then toted them to the Western Union office where she dictated a brief message to be sent to W. Swann, Esquire, of Cadiz City.
A hard-hearted woman left Amarillo that afternoon. Misfortune, it has been said, brings out the best and the worst in all men. The same no doubt applies to womankind. She had developed certain qualities while watching her mother working for percentages in the hell-houses of St. Louis, and later, during her harrowing married life with the already-doomed Marty Hale. She had married him in haste and in desperation and, within a few months, had realized the grim truth about him. He didn’t drink for preference. He drank because he couldn’t stop himself from drinking, couldn’t endure a half-day without liquor of some kind. His craving was, as a doctor sadly informed her, a malady; Marty Hale had to be treated not just as another drunkard, but as a man afflicted with a fatal illness.
During those difficult times, Sarina had been helped by only a few people. She had learned something about the selfishness of the majority, and this had embittered her. After her husband’s death, when she was reduced to penury, she became aggressively independent, tenaciously guarding her right to live decently. It hadn’t been easy—and that was an understatement.
By the second day of travel, she had become fairly well acquainted with her fellow-passengers—the plump young matron with the always fretful child, the snowy-haired old man bound for South Nevada the hard way, the hatchet-jawed leather goods salesman who hoped to take orders for “a few new lines of boo
ts all through the Arizona Territory.”
Early on the third day, after fording the northern reaches of the Pecos, the stage sped on to a crossroads and turned right onto the well-worn trail leading to Cadiz City. The passengers, not having slept well at the overnight stop, were drowsy and in ill humor, and Sarina thought it fortunate that nobody attempted to begin a conversation. She sat with her eyes half-closed and thought of her mother’s letter, mentally re-reading every line of it. Ironically, she was reminded now of some advice added by Jessie as a postscript.
You’ll likely need a bodyguard, after Bill Swann arranges for the notice in the newspaper. Bill is a handy man with his fists, but not as young as he used to be, so you hire a man who is good with a gun—and make sure he is not a Cadiz City man. In Cadiz County, you will never know who you can trust, outside of Bill Swann.
A bodyguard—why should she now be reminded of her mother’s advice in that regard? Probably because of the rugged nature of the terrain through which the stage was moving. This was hard country, harsh, forbidding.
The irony was that Big Jim Rand and Benito Espina were also travelling this area. At the time of hearing the ominous booming of six-guns, they were idling their mounts through the timber atop a hogback ridge. To get a clear view of the stage-route, they had only to nudge the animals to the east edge of the hogback. They did just that, and Jim didn’t appreciate what he saw.
That six-horse team had been urged to its utmost speed by a driver who appeared to be having difficulty in staying on his seat. He was slumped with his head lolling. The guard, having already discharged both barrels of his shotgun, was sitting twisted, one arm holding his wounded sidekick on the seat, the other extended towards the half-dozen masked riders hotly pursuing the coach; he was cutting loose with a six-shooter. At least one passenger was joining the running fight, shooting from the nearside window of the speeding vehicle. A fair distance separated the raiders from their objective, but Jim supposed it would be only a matter of moments before they closed the gap.
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