“Don’t look at me that way,” she chided, “as if—as if I were a woman of low character.”
“The heck with your character,” he growled. “Let’s have some straight talk for a change. Exactly what are you trying to do?”
“What I have every right to do!” she stormed, clenching her fists. “I’m trying to sell that book—for as much money as I can get!”
“All the memories—all the tale-telling,” he breathed, “of a woman who used to run a saloon.”
“A woman who heard a lot of talk,” Sarina triumphantly retorted, “and had the good sense to write it all down. They know, Jim ...” She gestured toward the closed door. “They know my mother’s diary could cause many a Cadiz County woman to leave her unfaithful husband, could put many a local man behind bars, if this information were offered to the sheriff ...”
“Maybe not,” he sneered. “Maybe the sheriff has his secrets too. Is any man safe, when the owner of a hell-house decides to cook up a few thousand words of blackmail-material?”
“Call it blackmail!” she flared. “Call it what you will ...!”
“Blackmail,” he scowled, “is the right word.” He balled the newspaper and flung it to the floor. “Lady, you disappoint me. I’m genuinely surprised you’d lower yourself to this.”
“Am I supposed to be merciful?” she challenged. “For more than ten years, I played nurse to an alcoholic. Since then, because I refused to sell myself, I’ve had to suffer the insults of the scum of the Southwest, I’ve had to work my fingers to the bone—in cheap hash houses ...”
“You want to make all men pay for your misfortune?” he asked. “Damnitail, that’s not the answer. It’s still blackmail, and I want no part of it.” He turned and strode to the door. “I have other chores to take care of, lady. Go find yourself another bodyguard.”
For a long moment after Jim and the Mex had departed, she sat quiet, gripping the arms of her chair till her knuckles showed white.
Seven – Face Death in Anger
An hour had passed. Jim was sprawled on his bed, his arms folded across his broad chest, his eyes fixed on the flyspecked ceiling. There was a rapping at the door and Benito called to him. Some thirty minutes before, he had sent the little Mex downstairs to eat, with instructions to bring something back to the room for himself.
The little Mex strutted in, hefting a laden platter and a large china mug. Ten minutes passed before Jim raised his eyes.
He finished eating, shoved the empty platter aside and began drinking the coffee. The Mex was ambling across to the window and Jim was swallowing the last mouthful of coffee when, with infinite clarity, the sound of the gunshot reached their ears. It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp, indicating that the weapon had been discharged somewhere outside the hotel. And, simultaneous with the report, they heard the half-stifled scream from the next room, followed by a thudding sound. Benito whirled, blinking at Jim.
Jim’s leap carried him over Benito’s bed to the door. He opened it and hustled out into the corridor with the Mex tagging him. Into Sarina’s room they dashed, to find her crouched on the floor near the opened window. Her eyes were dilated. She was trembling in shock. Through the fingers of her left hand, which was clasped to her right shoulder, blood trickled.
In response to Jim’s muttered command, Benito dropped to all fours, crawled to Sarina and began helping her clear of the window.
“I was—raising the window higher ...” she mumbled to Jim, “… because it was—stuffy in here. And then I felt—something cutting at my shoulder …”
“The shot came from somewhere outside,” growled Jim. “My guess is you were sniped at from a window on the other side of the street—or maybe a rooftop.” He inched half of his face around the edge of the window and, one-eyed, scanned the building opposite. It was a general store, double-storied. He doubted if the shot had been triggered from either of the second-storey windows. But the roof? That roof would have made a perfect stakeout. Was his vision playing tricks on him? No. A figure—male—was just disappearing over the rear edge of the roof. Down below, people had paused on the boardwalks, gazing curiously to right and left, wondering about that one sharp report. “Don’t leave her,” he ordered Benito, as he retreated to the door. “Holler for the manager and have him send for a doctor—but you stick close to her, savvy? Don’t let her out of your sight.”
He barged along the corridor and descended the stairs at speed. Emerging from the hotel, he headed directly across the street to the alley separating the general store from the next building in line and—sure enough—a man was now quitting that alley.
Even had the circumstances been otherwise, Jim would have distrusted Rio Purdew on sight. The man was one of the breed Jim most despised, if appearances were any criterion. The fancy garb marked him as a tinhorn. As he led his mount by its rein, he unhurriedly returned a Winchester to the sheath affixed to his saddle.
“Pull it out again, mister,” growled Jim, upon reaching the boardwalk.
Purdew stopped dead, eyeing him unwinkingly.
“Was that command,” he demanded, “aimed at me?”
“It sure as hell was,” said Jim. “Tug that rifle out again. I aim to check it, and it just happens I’m kind of an expert with firearms. If that’s the rifle that almost killed the Hale woman, I’ll know it.”
“I get the impression you’re trying to accuse me of something,” grinned Purdew.
A crowd had begun gathering, but now there was a general retreat. Grim-faced men and frightened women made for the nearest cover. One of the men called a warning to Jim.
“Don’t brace him, stranger, if you hanker to stay alive! That’s Rio Purdew!”
Purdew chuckled softly and released his rein. The horse moved past him and out into the street.
“I said,” Jim sourly repeated, “I want to check your rifle. If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize. If I’m right—you’re in trouble.”
“You’re in trouble already, big man,” leered Purdew. “You’re about to learn—the hard way—that it doesn’t pay to hurl a challenge at Rio Purdew.” He began backing away front Jim, his eyes narrowing. “I invite you to prepare yourself, big man, because I demand satisfaction.”
“You’d save both of us a heap of time,” Jim called after him, “if you’d quit this rigmarole and admit that you tried to kill Sarina Hale.”
“Anything special you’d like?” enquired Purdew. “On your tombstone, I mean. I’ve always paid for the funeral and grave marker of every man I’ve killed.” He sniggered and, here and now, Jim realized what he was up against. The man was a professional gunman—probably with a twisted mentality. “What name, big man? And, if you’d care to compose a suitable inscription, I’ll memorize it.”
He came to a halt some fifteen yards from where Jim stood. It occurred to Jim, as he watched Purdew’s movements, that this was all part of a ritual, theatrical, melodramatic, and he had no patience for it. Purdew was hunching his shoulders, spreading his legs slightly, thrusting his head forward and baring his teeth in a smile obviously intended to freeze Jim’s blood—and still Jim felt naught but impatience.
“Prepare ...” breathed Purdew, “to make your play!”
Came now his final theatrical gesture, the last movement of the preliminary ritual. He whisked back his coattails to reveal the gleaming butts of his Colts. Jim, who had been standing with arms akimbo, shrugged and said, “The hell with all this fooling around,” and, to Purdew’s chagrin, deftly emptied his own holster. His long-barreled .45 was suddenly clear of leather and very much in evidence, cocked and pointed at the professional.
Purdew turned beetroot-red. Trembling with rage, he yelled, “I wasn’t ready!”
“How in blazes do you gunslingers fight?” Jim retorted. “Is it supposed to be some kind of drill—every movement done by number? Get wise to yourself, mister. Unstrap that gunbelt and let it drop. You try drawing on me and, so help me, I’ll blow your fool head off.”
The assassin�
�s jaw sagged. The sound of laughter, involuntary and half-subdued, reached his ears and added to his mounting fury, goading him. Of all the locals watching this tableau from safe vantage points, at least one had seen a certain grim humor in the situation. For the first, time, an intended victim of the notorious and much-feared Rio Purdew was daring to ridicule him.
“You deaf or something?” he called. “I said unstrap your side arms.”
From somewhere to his left—somewhere across the street—a gun roared. It took tremendous restraint and unshakable patience for Jim to keep his eyes on Purdew, because that sneak-shot had been fired at him, and the sneak-shooter had scored. The bullet dug a shallow crease across his back, just below the shoulder blades, and threw him off-balance. Maybe the sneak-shooter would try again —and still Jim kept watch on Purdew. Even flopping to the boardwalk, even in his half-sprawled posture, he was stiff ready to counter Purdew’s fast and violent action.
Both of Purdew’s Colts were out and roaring, when Jim squeezed the trigger. It was three shots to one, Jim having fired only the once, but that was the abrupt and bloody end of the battle. His bullet lifted Purdew and threw him backward so that he fell with arms and legs outspread, his smoking Colts still gripped in his fists, his eyes wide open, staring up to the blue sky in an expression of acute shock. One of his bullets had torn the material of Jim’s left shirtsleeve, but without scoring on the flesh of his arm. One of the others had come too high. The third had come too low, slamming into the boardwalk. So much for the deadly talent of the late Rio Purdew. Speed he had—but accuracy ...?
Jim rolled over and lurched to his feet. Like ants converging on a suddenly spilled patch of honey, locals came scuttling onto the scene, hustling out of alleys and doorways. Ignoring them all, Jim holstered his Colt and trudged to the horse led out of the alley by the gunman. He slid the Winchester from its sheath and checked it. When the sheriff and his deputy arrived, he forestalled Murch’s challenge with a curt query.
“Who was this galoot anyway? I heard somebody holler his name, but I wasn’t listening.”
“Rio Purdew!” gasped Murch. He gestured helplessly, as though the whole thing was beyond his comprehension. “You—killed Rio ...”
“In an open fight,” growled Jim. “I had the drop on him, but somebody creased me from the other side of the street ...” He glanced over there and decided that, what with the milling and fast-growing crowd, his chances of locating the other would-be assassin were about one in a hundred. “When I went down, Purdew drew his artillery and started in shooting.”
“Rand,” frowned Tarrant, “why’d you brace Purdew at all—and whose rifle is that?”
“The rifle was Purdew’s,” Jim explained, “and I braced him because I was pretty damn sure he’d just tried to kill Sarina Hale with it. Take a look at it, Deputy.” He passed the weapon to Tarrant. “Sniff at the barrel and the breech.”
“Somebody—uh—tried to kill that Hale woman, old Jessie’s daughter?” blinked Murch.
“That somebody,” said Jim, nodding to the sprawled figure now surrounded by gaping towners. “He took a shot at her from the store roof. She must’ve moved just as he squeezed trigger. The slug only creased her.”
“Well now—damnitall ...” blustered Murch, “that’s a helluva accusation you’re makin’ against a man that’s too dead to talk back at you.”
“Sheriff,” said Tarrant, “this rifle’s been fired just a little while ago, and ...”
“And,” scowled Jim, “why didn’t Purdew surrender his rifle for me to check it over—if he had nothing to hide?”
“We got laws in this town,” mumbled Murch, “against gun-fightin’.”
“Any law against a man defending himself?” Jim impatiently countered.
“The street’s crawling with witnesses, Sheriff,” drawled Tarrant. He had moved around behind Jim and was carefully cutting at the material of his shirt with the blade of a jack knife, the better to study the shallow wound at his back. “You want to interrogate a few witnesses, while I take Rand along to Gurney’s?” Without waiting for his chief’s reply, he took Jim’s arm and began ushering him along the boardwalk. “Let’s go, Rand. That bullet-gash on your back doesn’t look too deep, but there’s no sense in taking chances. An infection wouldn’t help you one little bit.”
“What is Gurney’s?” demanded Jim. “A saloon? A doctor’s house? A barbershop?”
“Gurney’s an apothecary,” muttered the deputy. “This won’t be the first gunshot wound I’ve patched. Between us, Al Gurney and me will do a real professional job on you.” He nodded toward the Territorial Hotel. “Little Mex at a window up there. Looks like he’s trying to catch your eye.”
Jim paused a moment, raised his eyes to the window of Sarina’s room. Benito had thrust his head and shoulders out and was cupping his hands about his mouth to call a message to him, yelling above the hubbub of the crowd.
“A doctor has come, Amigo Jim! The senora is not badly hurt!”
Jim nodded, gestured toward a shingle hung from an awning dead ahead. The inscription read: “A. S. GURNEY—APOTHECARY—PILLS AND POTIONS.” Benito nodded and withdrew his head. As they moved on, Tarrant asked, “He a friend of yours?”
He sounded a mite dubious, so Jim offered an explanation.
“We’re tied to each other, kind of. He once saved my hide. I did the same for him—and that’s it. Each of us figures he’s beholden to the other.”
When they entered the small store, they found the apothecary already arranging gauze and bandages on his counter, plus a pot of balm. He was short, of slight build and brisk demeanor.
“Hello there, Fred,” he greeted the deputy. “Knew you’d bring at least one of them along. Got everything ready for you.”
“I don’t see a bowl of hot water or a bottle of antiseptic,” said Tarrant.
“Coming up,” grinned Gurney. “Take a chair, stranger. Be right with you.” He hustled out to his dispensary to fetch the necessities requested by the deputy, but without interrupting his flow of observations. “Knew you’d need patching, stranger. Watched the whole thing from my front door. Thought sure you’d be a customer for the undertaker when you called Purdew out.”
“You didn’t happen to spot the jasper that fired the first shot at me, did you?” asked Jim. “I figure he was hidden in an alley off the other side of the street.”
“Sorry. Can’t help you,” called Gurney. “Heard the shot, but didn’t even see the gun flash. Hey, Fred, how’s Purdew making out?”
“Purdew’s a goner,” drawled Tarrant. “He’ll never again swagger the streets of this town and brag of how many men he killed.” To Jim, he pensively confided, “I always did figure Purdew was weak up here.” He tapped at his temple. “A fast gun, and mighty dangerous, but with a twisted brain.”
“I’m wondering about his reason for trying to kill Sarina Hale,” muttered Jim. “Or maybe I shouldn’t wonder at all, now that I know about that book she’s about to sell.”
“So you’ve read the latest edition of our newspaper?” prodded Tarrant.
“More than that,” said Jim bitterly. “I’ve talked to the lady. She wanted me for a bodyguard.”
“Take off your shirt,” ordered Tarrant. Stripped to the waist, Jim perched on a stool. Tarrant sat behind him, accepted the towel and basin passed him by Gurney and began cleansing the slash across Jim’s back with hot water. Gurney had added a generous dash of some pungent-smelling antiseptic so that, at the touch of the soaked towel, Jim winced. “So the lady hired you for a bodyguard? Well, if, she’s smart, she’ll keep you on her payroll till the diary is out of her hands. That book is an invitation to murder, Rand.”
“I reckon I savvy what you mean,” frowned Jim.
Benito came loafing in, flashed the patient a broad grin.
“Saludos, Amigo Jim.”
“Saludos yourself,” grunted Jim. “How about the senora?”
“Is only a flesh wound,” Benito reported. “One
angry medico is taking care of her.”
“What makes the doc so angry?” demanded Jim.
“He was so angry,” shrugged Benito, “that I did not have the courage to ask.” To Tarrant and the apothecary, he calmly explained, “I am a coward.”
“This is Benito Espina,” offered Jim.
“Espina,” frowned the deputy, “did you see anybody take a shot at Rand from your side of the street?” Benito shook his head. Tarrant grimaced impatiently, finished securing the bandage and told Jim he could re-don his shirt. “You’ll only need the bandage a few days. I figure that gash will heal fast.”
“Nobody asked my opinion,” smiled Gurney, “but I agree with Fred. You’re a lucky man, Mr. Rand. The bullet didn’t dig deep enough to cause serious injury, nor hit high enough to strike a shoulder-blade.”
“Don’t let Al charge you more than fifty cents,” Tarrant advised, as he rose to his feet. “That’s as much as the balm and bandage are worth.”
“I’m always generous,” quipped Jim, ‘'right after I’ve damn near been killed.”
He wanted to pay Gurney with a five-dollar bill, but Gurney pretested vigorously so, to save time, he pocketed the bill and tossed a silver dollar onto the counter. In company with Benito and the deputy, he quit the apothecary’s store. The crowd wasn’t quite as thick now. On both sides of the street people were grouped, discussing the shooting affray. The body of Rio Purdew had been taken away, probably draped across the horse upon which he had ridden into Cadiz City this day. His Winchester had been retained by Tarrant and was now toted under the deputy’s arm.
“Where will they take him?” Jim asked. “I mean, which funeral parlor?”
“We only have the one,” said Tarrant. “Laird Howard’s place on Carrizo Road. Why? Do you hanker to look him over—one more time?”
“I’m curious, Tarrant,” declared Jim. “Why should a hombre like Purdew want to kill Sarina Hale? Let’s suppose he was mentioned in Jessie Kingston’s diary. Would he care a damn?”
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