Big Jim 4

by Marshall Grover

  “Come to think of it,” drawled Tarrant, “he wouldn’t care two hoots. He was a braggart, a real mean hombre and mighty proud of his sins.”

  “So,” suggested Jim, “maybe killing Sarina wasn’t all Purdew’s idea. Maybe somebody hired him for the job. Has that occurred to you?”

  “Not until now.” Tarrant’s mouth set in a hard line. “Well, now that the idea’s occurred to the both of us, let’s go pay Purdew a last visit.”

  “Amigo Jim—you are not too weak?” Benito solicitously enquired.

  “When I’m ready to flop,” growled Jim, “I’ll let you know.”

  They entered the cluttered room behind the undertaker’s office just as Ray Murch, with the mortician’s assistance, was finishing the chore of turning out the dead man’s pockets. Purdew’s body reposed on a long table. Jim focused all his attention on the smaller table to the left, where the sheriff was placing the personal effects of the deceased.

  “Wallet,” grunted Murch. “Kerchief. A half-dozen cigars—all Havanas and plenty expensive—his guns—a box of vestas ...”

  “How about the wallet?” demanded Jim.

  “Meanin’ what?” challenged Murch.

  “Meaning how much dinero was he toting?” asked Jim.

  “That could be important,” Tarrant patiently explained to the sheriff. “You have to remember that Rand braced Purdew because he was mighty sure Purdew had tried to kill the Hale woman—and that brings us to the question of why did Purdew try to kill her.”

  “If it’s a motive we’re lookin’ for,” muttered Murch, “all we have to do is read today’s Clarion. Seems to me there must be a couple of hundred men in these parts with a good reason for killin’ Jessie Kingston’s daughter. They hanker to get their paws on that damn-blasted diary, and ...”

  “I’m wondering if Sarina Hale’s death would make it any easier for those who want the diary,” frowned Jim. “Don’t forget Purdew took a shot at her from across the street. He certainly wasn’t close enough to steal the diary—as well as trying to kill her.”

  “But you think there’s a connection even so?” prodded Tarrant.

  “For Pete’s sakes, Fred,” chided Murch. “You act like Rand’s in charge of this case, instead of me.”

  “Somebody,” asserted Jim, “could’ve paid Purdew to kill Sarina.”

  Murch eyed him dubiously a moment, then investigated the dead man’s wallet and announced, “There’s near six hundred dollars in here.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything—unfortunately,” Tarrant told Jim. “Purdew was more of a gambler than a ranch-hand. Plenty of gamblers tote that much dinero—and more.”

  “I still say Purdew was probably acting for some other party,” insisted Jim. “He didn’t care a damn about the diary on his own account, but ...”

  “Whoever paid him,” finished Tarrant, “had plenty to hide. Well, I’ll allow that makes sense.”

  “It’s a possible motive,” drawled Karl Dreisser. He had arrived quietly and now stood in the doorway of the undertaker’s workshop. The inevitable Havana canted from the side of his mouth. His thumbs were hooked in the armholes of his vest and he appeared very much at his ease. “But I hope none of you get any wrong notions about me. I sure didn’t pay Rio to shoot any woman—or anybody else.”

  “Uh—howdy there, Mr. Dreisser.” The sheriff mumbled a respectful greeting.

  Tarrant said nothing but, to Jim, the deputy’s hostility was almost audible, something very much alive.

  “Afternoon, Ray,” smiled Dreisser. “And these I take it, are the two strangers I’ve been hearing about, the heroes who out-fought the stage-robbers?”

  He grinned genially at Jim and the Mex, while Murch performed introductions.

  “This here’s Mr. Karl Dreisser—a mighty important cattleman of this county. He owns the KD spread and—uh —Purdew used to work for him.”

  “That’s a fact,” Dreisser calmly assured Jim. “Purdew was one of my men.”

  Eight – Medico on the Prod

  Benito had not left Sarina Hale’s room until some three minutes after the arrival of Dr. Cliff Ashton, who had been summoned by Clyde Burbridge. And, from the moment of the physician’s arrival, Sarina had sensed an animosity. This grim-visaged healer despised her, even though he had never seen her before; of this she was certain.

  She lay on the bed, the bodice of her gown unfastened, her right arm and her bloodied shoulder exposed. Without preamble, he began his chore, and she marveled that a man of such angry demeanor could be so gentle in his ministrations. She experienced very little pain, as he made his examination of the wound and began sterilizing it.

  “If you’re nauseated, say so,” he muttered, “and I’ll fix you a stimulant.”

  “No,” she breathed. “I feel no sickness—and hardly any pain.”

  “It’s an ugly wound,” he offered, “but not serious. You may consider yourself fortunate the bullet didn’t lodge.” As he applied an antiseptic, he glanced toward the closed door. “In case you’re interested, there’s where the bullet ended its flight. The hole is in the doorjamb.” He looked at her, and she saw no compassion in his eyes. “You haven’t asked if you’ll be permanently scarred. That’s usually the first question a woman asks.”

  “Any vanity in my character,” she murmured, “was shattered long before I came of age, Dr. ...?”

  “Ashton,” he grunted. “Clifford Ashton. You will be scarred, but not permanently. A bullet wreaks havoc with flesh, but flesh does heal—faster than damaged sinews or broken bones. Had your would-be assassin been a better marksman, I wouldn’t be here with you now. They’d have had to send for the undertaker instead.”

  “You have ...” She bit her lip, half-closed her eyes, as he resumed the all-important chore of sterilizing the wound. “You have—a harsh way with your patients—Dr. Ashton.”

  “Forgive me,” said Ashton, but he didn’t sound apologetic. “There are times when I find it difficult to show sympathy—and this is one of those times.”

  “Surely you …” She eyed him incredulously, “… a doctor—and obviously a gentleman—have nothing to fear ...?”

  “From your mother’s diary?” he challenged. “No, Mrs. Hale, I have nothing to fear in that regard—but others are not as fortunate.”

  “Please ...” she began.

  “Stay quiet,” he gruffly ordered. “Anything you wish to say to me—save it until I’ve finished binding your wound.”

  Some ten minutes’ later, having satisfied himself that infection had been staved off, he checked her heart and pulse.

  “I guess I’m—in what is called a state of shock,” she frowned. “But really—my mind is clear—and the physical pain isn’t as severe as I anticipated.”

  “The wound will ache considerably over the next twenty-four hours,” he warned, as he replaced his instruments in his bag. “I’ll call on you tomorrow morning to change that dressing. In the meantime, I suppose there’s no use my telling you to rest. You’ll continue your negotiations naturally.”

  He drew up the sheets to cover her bandaged shoulder, then rose to his feet.

  “I can’t believe,” she declared, “that your name would be mentioned anywhere in my mother’s diary.”

  “It’s hardly likely,” he stiffly assured her. “She was a patient of mine—but her place of business wasn’t one of my regular haunts.”

  “Why, then, do you hate me?” she challenged.

  He drew up a chair, seated himself and produced a straight-stemmed briar pipe and an oilskin tobacco-pouch. Instinctively, she watched his efficient and sensitive hands, the deft shifting of tobacco from the pouch to the bowl of the pipe, the tamping down with the right forefinger, the scratching of a match, the touching of the flame to the pipe-bowl—all the ritual followed so many times per day by the inveterate pipe-smoker.

  “Hate isn’t quite the word,” he grunted, narrowing his eyes, studying her through the blue haze of smoke. “Hate is a rare emotio
n and I don’t squander it. ‘Resent’ is a better word to describe my reaction to you, Mrs. Hale. Of course, if you can subdue your mercenary instincts and perform an act of charity—such as burning that book here and now, in my presence ...”

  “No!” she breathed.

  “Then others will suffer,” he grimly predicted. “As a doctor, I can testify to a certain inconsistency in the mentality of wrong-doers. I’ve known murderers who suffered never a twinge of conscience—and petty thieves who were forever haunted by guilt. It isn’t always the big sinners who suffer the most.”

  “You sit in judgment,” she accused. “You don’t really understand my situation—yet you’ve already judged me. I’m tried, convicted and sentenced in your eyes.”

  “Women of mercenary instincts,” he declared, “have never appealed to me.”

  For a fleeting moment, his handsome countenance was contorted by his memory of an old hurt and, woman-like, Sarina backed her intuition and voiced a jibe. She regretted it, almost as soon as the words had spilled out of her, and her urgent apology was voiced in the same breath as her taunt; it was all one sentence.

  “You dare to judge me, because you’ve been hurt by a woman you considered mercenary—I’m sorry, Doctor …” She colored to the roots of her hair. “Truly sorry.”

  Ashton became very quiet. His face seemed calmer now, and she wondered about that. If she had opened an old wound, surely he had every right to reproach her and then to storm out of the room. But his face remained serene and he made no attempt to rise from his chair. He crossed his legs, puffed a blue cloud from his pipe, watched it wafting lazily toward the open window.

  “Don’t apologize,” he drawled. “Your remark was well-timed. I was judging you, so you had every right to retaliate.” He eyed her keenly; there was no animosity in his expression now. “Sarina—I may call you Sarina ...?”

  “Certainly. If you wish.”

  “Sarina—why don’t you abandon the whole shabby scheme? No, I’m not begging for compassion for all the petty sinners of Cadiz City. I’m thinking of you. Your own state of mind. Your self-respect. These are important, Sarina. Vitally important.”

  “Self-respect won’t buy food and clothing, Doctor ...”

  “Cliff.”

  “All right, Cliff, try to look at it from my point of view. I’m practically penniless. All throughout my marriage to poor Marty, I was loyal to him. Since his death, I’ve refused to—to sell myself. Respectability is terribly important to a woman of my instincts. I saw so much of the—the tawdry and the sordid—just before I ran away from mother in Saint Louis ...” She broke off, her voice faltering, her bottom lip trembling. “I will burn the diary, Cliff. But—somebody has to pay—and pay heavily—for the privilege of setting fire to it!”

  “You should try to rest now,” he muttered.

  Just as he reached the door, there was a rapping on the panels. He stood with his hand on the knob, eyeing her enquiringly.

  “It’s all right,” she assured him. “I feel strong enough to cope with visitors.”

  “I’ll be back in the morning,” he muttered, as he opened the door. “Hello, Elroy.” He greeted the editor of the Clarion as that smiling individual ambled past him, hat in hand. “Mrs. Sarina Hale—may I present Mister Elroy Haggerty, owner and editor of the Clarion.”

  As he moved out, closing the door behind him, he overheard the newspaperman’s preamble.

  “Welcome to Cadiz City, ma’am. Well, you sure arrived with a bang, eh? Guess you’ll be interested to hear that Rio Purdew—the gunhawk that took a shot at you—has been put away mighty slick by your bodyguard ...”

  ~*~

  At the undertaker’s premises, Jim, Benito and Karl Dreisser had left the lawmen in the room where the dead gunman was being laid out, and had retired to the front office. There, Dreisser offered expensive cigars which Jim and the Mex accepted. They lit up, and Jim was outwardly calm, inwardly excited. It was entirely possible, he mentally conceded, that a rancher could be unaware of the true nature of one of his employees. Maybe Dreisser had not known that Purdew was little better than a homicidal sadist.

  “On the other hand,” Jim was reflecting, “maybe you deliberately turned that killer loose to butcher Sarina—the way a nester would set a ferret to kill a rat. If that’s what really happened, Dreisser, you’ll answer for it.”

  “Unpredictable joker, that Purdew,” Dreisser was saying. “Of course I knew he was handy with a gun, but I certainly didn’t guess he was trigger-happy, or that he’d try to shoot a woman. And that reminds me—how is the lady? She wasn’t seriously injured, I hope?”

  “A flesh wound,” said Jim.

  “I had the idea of paying a sociable call on her,” drawled Dreisser, “right after I heard she was offering her mother’s diary for sale.”

  “Caramba!” grunted Benito. “Every hombre wants this book!”

  “Well, my motives need cause the lady no alarm,” chuckled Dreisser. “I have nothing to hide.”

  “But you aim to make a bid for the diary?” challenged Jim.

  “If it’s the book I have in mind,” nodded Dreisser. “Yes. I once saw Jessie writing in it, and I recall I was impressed by ...”

  “You did not believe the senora could write?” asked Benito.

  Dreisser frowned at him. Jim said, quietly but firmly: “Button the lip, cucaracha. Let the man talk.”

  “One million apologies,” shrugged Benito.

  “A magnificent example of the bookbinder’s art,” Dreisser assured Jim. “Genuine morocco covers—a thing of beauty, believe me. I don’t much care what Jessie wrote in it—being a man of clear conscience. What interests me is the book itself.” He blew a smoke-ring, glanced toward the street doorway. “I take it the lady’s had proper medical attention by now. Do you suppose it’s too early for me to pay my respects, Rand?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Jim replied. “We’ll walk up to the Territorial and I’ll introduce you.”

  “I’d certainly appreciate that,” declared Dreisser.

  “If she feels strong enough to parlay—okay,” said Jim. “If she needs to rest, you could come back some other time.”

  “By all means,” smiled Dreisser.

  Jim’s feelings were mixed, as he strode back toward the hotel with Dreisser at his right side and the little Mex at his left. He presented a startling sight right now, with the greater part of the back of his shirt cut away, much of it bloodstained and a fair portion of bandaging clearly visible. The wound smarted, but caused him no great discomfort. A new excitement stirred within him. He was still preoccupied with his need to apprehend his brother’s murderer, but had decided that he could make time to nail the unknown schemer who had paid for the bullet that had almost killed Sarina Hale. There were many aspects of Sarina’s personality that irked him more than somewhat. He couldn’t— never would—agree with all her attitudes, but she was a woman after all. He had naught but loathing for a woman-killer—or for a man who would order the killing of a woman.

  More than one man had tried to kill him this day. He was convinced that the first shot had been triggered not merely as a diversion to give Purdew a chance to go into action; his unknown assailant had aimed to kill. Not a great deal of time had passed since the shootout, and ex-Sergeant Rand was a firearms expert. For some time after the discharging of a bullet, it could be established whether or not any particular weapon had been in use. There were signs, indications all too familiar to any gunsmith, or to an old hand of Big Jim’s caliber. He was now seized with an overpowering urge to examine the ebony-butted .45 holstered at Karl Dreisser’s right hip. Maybe Dreisser hadn’t known of Purdew’s homicidal instincts but, to Jim’s way of thinking, that was too big a “maybe.” He was dubious, and then some.

  They entered the Territorial and climbed the stairs to the second floor. As they walked the corridor toward the door of Sarina’s room, it opened and Elroy Haggerty emerged. Leaving the door open, the newspaperman greeted Jim
with a broad grin and began firing questions at him. How did it feel to be the first man to survive a gunfight with the notorious Rio Purdew? Did he intend cutting a notch in his gun-butt to commemorate the occasion? How many other gunmen had he defeated?

  Somehow, Jim managed to maintain control of his temper. He didn’t abuse Haggerty. He merely said, “Forget it.”

  Haggerty shrugged philosophically and hustled away along the corridor. Glancing into the room, Jim asked, “Do you feel up to receiving a visitor, ma’am?”

  “Somebody who wants to bid for the diary?” came Sarina’s quick query.

  “That,” said Jim, “is the general idea.”

  “Bring the gentleman in,” she called, “by all means.”

  “Coming,” frowned Jim. For a brief moment, he barred Dreisser’s way. His voice was soft and persuasive, as he offered his carefully worded lie. “After what happened, she’s gun-shy. If we go in armed, it’s apt to make her nervous. Might be better if we unbuckled the hardware and stashed it where she couldn’t see it.”

  He was already unstrapping his own gunbelt. Dreisser hesitated, but only for a moment. It seemed he had no option but to fall in with the big man’s suggestion. He unstrapped his gunbelt, coiled it about his holster and handed it to Jim, who said:

  “Bueno—now go in and sit down.”

  He followed Dreisser into the doom. Benito sauntered in after him and shut the door, while the KD boss courteously doffed his hat to Sarina and offered his name. During this, Jim toted the hardware to the corner furthest from the bed and made a point of upending Dreisser’s holster. The black-butted .45 thudded to the floor and, in the middle of his smooth preamble, Dreisser paused and frowned over his shoulder.

  “Sorry,” grunted Jim. “I dropped your sidearm, Mr. Dreisser.”

  He didn’t appear to be paying any special attention to the weapon, as he picked it up and slid it back into its holster. Dreisser again addressed Sarina.

  “I was mighty pleased to hear, ma’am, that your injury wasn’t serious. As Mister Rand will tell you, the guilty man was an employee of mine. Well, by glory, if I’d suspected that he’d ever ...”