Big Jim 4

by Marshall Grover

  Dreisser was enjoying the cool of the ranch house porch when the unsuccessful half-dozen returned. He lounged in a cane-backed chair, his highly polished, custom-made boots resting on the porch rail, an expensive Havana cigar jutting from under the flowing moustache that matched his long dark hair. A little under six feet tall was Karl Dreisser and, when strolling the boardwalks of Cadiz City, he liked to think of himself as an impressive figure, much to be admired. In actual fact, he wasn’t power-hungry. “Let others tote the burden of authority,” he was wont to remark to the slender man now seated beside him. “I’ll settle for the dinero—as much of it as I can get my hands on. Money talks, Rio. Money is all that matters.”

  Cold-blooded greed, then, was the emotion that compelled Dreisser to pay for inside information and to carefully plan these frequent attacks on the coaches of the Kiley & Ogden Line.

  The man seated beside him gestured toward the approaching sextet.

  “I think,” he offered, “Rawson and the boys didn’t do so good this time.”

  “So it would seem, Rio,” drawled Dreisser. “So it would seem.”

  “You don’t care?” challenged Rio Purdew.

  “I care,” shrugged Dreisser, “but I don’t aim to fret myself into an early grave, Rio. I aim to live long and rich. We’ve done all right so far. It’s a mite early for me to get all riled up.”

  Purdew grinned sardonically. He was slender, a coldly lethal gambler with long, tapering hands, a mane of auburn hair, a thin moustache and well-tended Van Dyke. His narrowed eyes were green and ever-observant. When he rose from his chair and tucked his thumbs into the armholes of his fancy vest, his coat tails inched back to reveal the shining, pearl-plated butts of two very low-slung Colts. The holsters were tied down, and there was a logical reason for Rio Purdew to wear his weapons so low, a reason immediately obvious when he stood up. His arms were very long—out of proportion to the rest of his lean frame.

  “Couple of the boys are all bloodied up,” Dreisser observed. “Looks like you’ll have to patch ’em.”

  “I’ll patch ’em,” grinned Purdew. “But I’m fresh out of anesthetic—got no chloroform at all.” His grin broadened. “So you’ll likely hear some loud groaning, Karl.”

  Purdew was unofficial surgeon to the KD gang and a man of warped mentality. He played poker with consummate skill and was deadly fast with the gleaming weapons slung so low on his lean thighs—deadly fast and deadly accurate, a man eyed askance by the citizens of Cadiz County. Maybe he had completed a full course in the study of medicine, or maybe he had never graduated at all; that part of his life was cloaked in secrecy. As to one of his most well developed characteristics, there could never be any doubt. He was a sadist. He doctored Dreisser’s hirelings when needs be, treated their injuries and, in the process, enjoyed their groans of pain, their agonized gasps.

  “All right, Shep,” Dreisser called to the ramrod. “Let’s hear it.”

  Having dismounted and turned their horses over to another of Dreisser’s employees, the six came trudging to the porch. Rawson came to a halt just below the steps and said his piece.

  “We never did get close enough to make a try for the cash-box, boss. The driver whipped up the team. We had to chase that damn-blasted coach and, when we reached the flats, a couple of strangers came ridin’ down off the ridge and got in our way.”

  “Only two strangers?” challenged Dreisser. He propped a shoulder against a porch-post, eyed Rawson intently. “And they fought off the whole six of you?”

  “They got between us and the coach,” Rawson explained, keeping a rein on his temper. “The only cover was a clump of rocks—and they reached it first. We were wide open. Wasn't anything we could do but quit.”

  He shrugged helplessly, mumbled an oath.

  “Well now,” said Dreisser, “we have to allow for a failure every once in a while, Shep. We’ve been doing fine. The way it sounds to me, this was just freak luck—these two jaspers showing up out of nowhere ...”

  “I never saw ’em before, but I swear I’ll know ’em if I see ’em again,” muttered Rawson. “A big hombre on a black stallion. A greaser on a burro.” His eyes gleamed, as he clenched his fists and declared, “I hope they’re bound for Cadiz City! When I catch up with that big son of a ...!”

  “You’ll stay out of town, Shep, all six of you,” drawled Dreisser, “until I give permission for you to ride in. That’s an order—and you know better than to buck my orders—don’t you?”

  “All right—all right,” growled Rawson. “Whatever you say.”

  “You hombres score on either of these strangers?” demanded Purdew.

  “No,” frowned the ramrod. “But I got a hunch we hit that driver hard. He’s likely quit breathin’ by now. There was some galoot shootin’ at us from inside the coach. We got him, too.”

  “Rio,” said Dreisser, “take the boys over to the bunkhouse and tend their wounds. Also have Vasquez saddle my horse.”

  “You riding to town?” asked Purdew, as he descended from the porch.

  “I’ll spend maybe a couple days in Cadiz City,” nodded Dreisser. “Our contact at the Southwest Security might get nervous. Well, he’s no use to us if he’s nervous. A man like Rodney needs to be reassured—you know? So I’ll talk to him and take a look around town.”

  “Give Rodney my regards,” growled Rawson, “and tell him I’ll be ready to ride again—just as soon as there’s a fat passel of dinero comin’ through.”

  “Come on,” grinned Purdew. “I sure crave to dig that slug out of Morrison.”

  Four – Cold Welcome

  It was just after eleven o’clock and, like some two score other locals, Bill Swann was loitering in the vicinity of the stage depot. His new employer, the owner of an uptown saloon, had agreed to his taking time off to meet the daughter of the late Jessie Kingston and to see her safely installed in a hotel. The burly barkeep, for the past forty-five minutes or so, had been wondering at the cause of the delay.

  He hadn’t forgotten any of the instructions given him by Jessie some weeks ago. He hadn’t completely approved of her plans for her daughter’s future; her methods were sometimes repugnant to him. Nevertheless he had given his word, so Jessie’s every command would be obeyed to the letter.

  Last night he had begun. While serving a beer to the owner of the Rest Easy Livery Stable, he had pensively remarked, “There’s many a man would tremble in his boots if he knew about old Jessie’s diary.” That was the bait guaranteed to arouse curiosity. “Did she keep a diary? You bet your life she did. And let me tell you the Joyhouse had thin walls. Jessie did a lot of spyin’—and listenin’—and writin’. What became of the diary? Well, I’ve already talked too much. You just wait and see, friend. Wait and see.”

  He had repeated these words this morning, while having his haircut at the Pooley Tonsorial Parlor, and Pooley had listened with great intensity.

  “You were a wise woman, Jessie,” he reflected now, while squinting toward the town’s southern outskirts, listening for the familiar jingle of harness and thudding of hooves. “You sure savvied the weakness, the dirty secrets and the guilt of all those blabbermouths that patronized the old Joyhouse. You knew just how to put the fear of hell into ’em—and I’m gonna help you do it, because I gave you my word on it.”

  The livery proprietor and the barber—Cadiz City’s two most dedicated gossipmongers. By mid-afternoon of this day, the rumors would be circulating all over town. Bill knew he could count on them—Pooley especially. The barber was a compulsive talker. By the time Sarina arranged for the advertisement, three quarters of the local population would be buzzing with conjecture; the other quarter would know what to expect. He was a little ashamed of what he’d done. He certainly wasn’t enjoying it. But, always, he thought of the dying Jessie, the undeniable fact of his having made her a promise.

  From somewhere downtown, a voice was raised in an excited yell, and that excitement was contagious. People paused on the boardwalks. The
crowd gathered by the stage depot caught the gist of the lookout’s news.

  “The stage is comin’ and there’s only one man on the seat!”

  “Must’ve been another hold-up!”

  “Damn right. High time Ray Murch give us some action. Them owlhoots is gettin’ away with murder!”

  A callous but strangely comforting thought occurred to Bill Swann now. What if Sarina had been injured—fatally —in a raid on the northbound? All her life, the daughter of Jessie Kingston had been hounded by misfortune and black luck. If she were dead, he would be released from his obligation, the promise he had given her mother.

  He thrust this thought from his mind, chiding himself. “You ought to be ashamed. Hasn’t the kid suffered enough already? The least you can do is hope she arrives safe—and then give her all the help you can. It’s long past time for her luck to change.”

  There were shouted enquiries from the crowd, as the stage rolled up Main toward the depot. Orin Dutton’s only reply, for the moment, was to indicate the two blanket covered bodies on the coach roof with a jerk of his thumb. The excitement of the locals increased, and now Cadiz County’s lawmen were approaching from the direction of the county jail. Tagging the flabby Murch was his deputy, the soberly garbed Fred Tarrant. Bill followed their approach and reflected that, if the citizens of Cadiz County were half as far-sighted as they fondly imagined themselves to be, Tarrant would be sheriff and Murch his deputy. Better still, Murch could be reduced to the status of county jailer—always provided he could handle that chore. At thirty-two, Tarrant was an impassive, unassertive man, the kind easily overlooked in a crowd, but there were some locals who realized his true worth. A shrewd mentality was masked by that impassive countenance, and that blocky, barrel-chested body was more powerful than most folks realized. Bill had once seen Tarrant whip two rowdies with naught but his bare fists, not one at a time, but simultaneously.

  “Everybody quiet down,” Murch was yelling. “Give Orin a chance to talk!”

  Bill transferred his gaze from the lawmen to the two strangers. Jim and Benito had nudged their animals through the milling throng to the hitch rack outside the stage depot. They made no attempt to dismount. Dutton had stalled his team. The passengers were alighting, with the assistance of several solicitous townsmen. The moment she descended to the ground, the barkeep identified her. There was little physical resemblance; it was the expression in her eyes as they scanned the sea of upraised faces. He stepped off the boardwalk and began shouldering his way toward her.

  “... and then Mr. Rand and his sidekick showed up,” Dutton was telling Murch and the crowd, “and that’s how we got away. But it was too late for old Barney and the drummer.”

  “They never got within grabbing distance of the strongbox?” demanded the manager of the Southwest Security Company.

  “No siree, Mr. Jannis,” said Dutton. “And you can thank Mr. Rand and his friend. They staked out and had ’emselves quite a fight with those lousy sidewinders.”

  “It didn’t last all that long,” Jim informed the sheriff and the bank manager, “and we had the edge anyway.”

  “Against six of ’em?” challenged Murch.

  “We had cover,” Jim patiently explained. “They were out in the open. In a gunfight, cover makes a heap of difference.”

  Neil Jannis, manager of the local branch of the Southwest Security, was portly, elderly and, like the sheriff, a mite too much on the pompous side. To Jim, he declared, “The company is deeply indebted to you. I’ll send a full report to our headquarters and—uh—raise the question of a reward of some kind. I’d say that’s the least we can do for you.”

  “Ah, si ...!” began Benito, with his eyes lighting up.

  “You butt out of this,’’ chided Jim. And then, frowning down at Jannis, “I’d as soon your company showed its appreciation by compensating the stage-driver’s family. Dutton tells me he had a wife and kids.”

  “Well—of course ...” Jannis seemed taken aback, but rallied quickly. “I’ll certainly bear that in mind.”

  “All right, all right!” boomed Murch. “It happened on the flats! And, by thunder, those bandidos can’t travel far without leavin’ tracks! I’m callin’ for volunteers for a posse ...!”

  What followed was pretty much what Jim had expected, the inevitable harangue by the sheriff, a dozen or so over-stimulated townsmen hustling away to fetch horses and guns, a gradual dispersing of the crowd. All very predictable—and futile. Somehow, he didn’t hold out much hope that Murch’s posse would cut sign of the stage-raiders.

  He glanced across the street and saw Sarina Hale again. She was in conversation with a burly man old enough to be her father, and the burly man was hefting her baggage. It was none of Jim’s business, but it occurred to him that it was rare for a woman to use so little baggage. Just a battered valise and a small carpetbag? Well, she was here for only a short stay perhaps. He forgot about Sarina Hale for the time being, because he was more concerned with his need to consult with the local law. The posse was moving out, led by the sheriff. The other lawman was staying behind, walking uptown now headed to the law office. “We eat now, no?” suggested Benito.

  “It’s a mite too early for lunch,” said Jim. “There’s time for me to visit with the deputy. We’ll worry about eating later. Let’s go.”

  They nudged their mounts to movement, walking them uptown in search of Cadiz County’s center of law enforcement. Sarina Hale and her escort were no longer visible; they had entered the lobby of the Territorial Hotel. Never as impressive as the Imperial, the Territorial could best be described as aggressively middle-class. Its owner-manager, Clyde Burbridge, had become an active member of the Reform Committee of recent years and, from Burbridge’s point of view, this had proved to be a wise move. It was good for business—if one wished to attract a more respectable clientele. Also, it increased his status as a responsible citizen.

  He was behind the reception desk when Bill escorted Sarina into the lobby. Sarina’s female intuition had been working overtime from the moment the stage had stalled outside the Cadiz City depot and, for some reason that she couldn’t define, she took an immediate dislike to the balding, corpulent Burbridge. Bill, usually a tactful man, made the mistake of introducing her as the daughter of Jessie Kingston.

  “Something small and comfortable for Mrs. Hale, eh, Mr. Burbridge?” he politely suggested.

  “The daughter of that Kingston woman, you say?”

  “Easy,” frowned Bill. “Speak of her as the late owner of the Joyhouse if you want, or call her by her full name, but don’t say ‘that Kingston woman’, Mr. Burbridge.”

  “So that’s how it is, Swann?” challenged Burbridge. “Nobody is to be allowed forget that Jessie Kingston was once your boss? You intend quarrelling with every citizen who disapproved of her? Well, if that be your intention, you may have many a quarrel in store.” He looked at Sarina again. She wasn’t blushing. She had forgotten how to blush, many a long year ago. “Madam, you can’t expect a warm welcome in Cadiz City.”

  “I don’t imagine I’ll be staying long,” she murmured. “I’d say two weeks at most. As for the warm welcome, I don’t need any kind of welcome. This is a brief business visit—and that’s all.”

  “I’m a man who believes in coming right out and saying what’s in his mind,” rasped Burbridge. “Plain truth is I never approved of your mother—or any of her kind.”

  And still Sarina held her ground, refusing to waver. “Can you or can’t you accommodate me here?” she wearily enquired.

  “I’ll insist on a week’s rent in advance,” muttered Burbridge.

  “You got it,” grunted Bill. He produced his wallet, extracted a couple of bills and dropped them on the counter, while Sarina signed the register. “All right now, Mr. Burbridge, let’s have the key. And you don’t have to holler for the porter. I’ll take the lady to her room. We got plenty to talk about, Mrs. Hale and me.”

  Still wearing his frown of disapproval, Burbr
idge surrendered a key. Sarina and her escort then climbed the stairs, walked a corridor and, after Bill had matched up a door-number with the number affixed to the key, entered a second-floor front. It was small and the furniture left much to be desired, but Sarina wasn’t about to complain. Bill set her bags down and secured the door, while she walked across to the open window. She then removed her bonnet and seated herself in an upholstered chair.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” she frowned, “in case I didn’t mention it before.”

  “You didn’t,” said Bill, “but it don’t matter, and you’re welcome anyway.” Eyeing her shrewdly, he opined, “It rubs your fur the wrong way, eh Mrs. Hale? I mean, bein’ met by a barkeep. After all you’ve been through, I guess you just ain’t partial to barkeeps.”

  “I have no intention of quarrelling with you,” she countered. “And—let’s get something straight, right from the start. I resented my mother only because of her insistence on working in saloons. That was the only thing I resented. I never really hated her. Now, if you’ll believe that I think you and I could be friends. Heaven knows I need a friend, and, judging from everything my mother has written about you, you’re a man to be trusted.”