Big Jim 4

by Marshall Grover

  “You’d have a hard time proving Dreisser paid Purdew to kill the Hale woman,” opined Tarrant.

  “I can’t offer proof yet,” said Jim. “But hunches? I’ve got dozens of them.”

  “And coincidences,” Tarrant grinned crookedly. “Go on, Rand. I want to hear it all.”

  “When it comes to guns—handguns, rifles, any kind of firearm,” Jim told him, “I’ve had a heap of experience. And I’m guessing you know a thing or two about—for instance—how to check on whether or not a weapon has been recently used.”

  “I know what you’re getting at,” said Tarrant. “There’s no doubt in my mind that it was Purdew who tried to kill Mrs. Hale.”

  “All right,” nodded Jim. “And how’s this for a coincidence? Somebody took a sneak-shot at me while I was bracing Purdew ...”

  “Ray Murch investigated …” Tarrant grinned another wry grin, “… and got nowhere.”

  “I investigated,” countered Jim. “I played a hunch and, when I took Dreisser to the hotel to make his bid for the diary, I managed to check his Colt. One of the shells in that gun was discharged. I could still catch the scent of the burned cordite.”

  He lit his cigarette, gave Tarrant a light and then took a stiff pull at his beer. There was an edge of excitement to the deputy’s voice now.

  “I wouldn’t put it past Dreisser,” he breathed. “If he found himself in a safe position—somewhere he couldn’t be sighted from the street—he’d do it. He’d try to cut you down for the sake of giving Purdew a chance to escape.” He dribbled smoke through his nostrils, studied Jim expectantly. “Don’t quit now, Rand. Every time you come up with a coincidence, I feel I’m that much closer to putting Dreisser on a gallows.”

  “You figure he belongs on a gallows?” challenged Jim.

  “I’ve felt that way for quite a time, Rand,” the deputy confided. “Dreisser’s a man who got too rich too fast, far as I’m concerned. Most of his hired hands are ten percent cowpokes and ninety percent gunslingers. His ramrod, a left-handed hombre name of Rawson, acts more like a boss-owlhoot than a ranch foreman. There isn’t a spread in this county as profitable as KD—yet KD isn’t much bigger than any other outfit. Dreisser’s beef is only average quality, and he doesn’t run so big a herd as to need a dozen men on his payroll. And, while we’re on the subject of coincidences, KD hands seem to have plenty of cash to spend—every time a stage is robbed by those masked bandidos.”

  “One last coincidence,” offered Jim, “and then we’ll deal with nothing but facts.”

  “Let’s hear it,” urged Tarrant.

  “A nervous galoot name of Leon Rodney stopped by Sarina’s room a little while ago,” Jim told him. “He didn’t make a bid for the diary, but it’s my hunch that’s exactly what he would have done—if he’d found Sarina alone.”

  “By thunder!” breathed Tarrant. “Do you know which bank Rodney works for?”

  “Southwest Security,” grunted Jim. “Bill Swann told me.”

  “The Southwest Security,” muttered Tarrant, “is the only local bank that ships cash to a headquarters outside of the county. And, every so often, it works the other way round. Cash transfers are shipped here from other branches of the company. We have three banks in Cadiz City, but the other two are smaller outfits. They aren’t part of a chain— like the Southwest Security.”

  “Dutton, the guard off the northbound,” said Jim, “had a hunch those thieves were either mighty lucky or very well informed—if you know what I mean.”

  “No bunch of thieves could be all that lucky,” growled Tarrant. “Every time those sidewinders raid a coach in this territory, there’s a fat passel of greenbacks aboard.”

  “So,” prodded Jim, “is it too far-fetched to suggest this Rodney jasper has been selling information? He acts like a man with a guilty conscience, amigo.”

  “I think the time has come,” frowned Tarrant, “for playin’ a few hunches.”

  “You know where to find Rodney—early in the morning?” asked Jim.

  “Rand, you get the damnedest notions,” Tarrant chuckled softly. “Waking a man early in the morning—scaring the innards out of him ...”

  “If Rodney hasn’t been selling information to Dreisser,” offered Jim, “I’ll apologize for waking him up.”

  “And just how do you aim to scare Rodney into talking?” demanded Tarrant. “I’ll be with you, Rand, which, means I can’t stand by and let you threaten him with a gun or use your fists on him—or anything like that.”

  “I was thinking of an easier way,” said Jim. “Just one lie could do it.”

  “What’s the lie?” asked Tarrant.

  Jim briefly described the subterfuge by which he could attempt to jolt the bank cashier into a confession—always providing Rodney had anything to hide. The deputy nodded approvingly.

  “Yeah. Tell him that—and who knows what he’ll confess to? It’s what all of Jessie’s old customers fear most. And that reminds me—you’d better make sure the widow is well guarded.”

  “I’m not forgetting that Sarina needs protection,” Jim assured him. “Meanwhile, how do you like my plan?”

  “I’ll go along with it,” vowed Tarrant, “even if it costs me my star. Rodney lives at a boarding house not far from the law office. You meet me in the alley alongside of the office before six a.m. tomorrow morning—and then we’ll go see him together.”

  Jim was satisfied, and even more so an hour later, when Mary Jo Burbridge suffered a first-class case of hysteria. Somehow, the wife of the hotelkeeper had learned of his futile effort to purchase the diary. She had read the Clarion and had listened to the rumors.

  “If you’re so almighty anxious to buy that filthy book, Clyde Burbridge,” she ranted, “it can only mean one thing—you have something to hide!”

  Until sundown, Burbridge’s acid-tongued spouse plagued him for an explanation. And then, with his temper and his nerves in tatters, he turned on her and blurted out the truth, bitterly recounting his one abortive attempt at cardsharping.

  “And, if that story ever gets out,” he vehemently concluded, “my reputation won’t be worth a damn. You had to know, didn’t you? So now you do know, and I hope you’re satisfied!”

  There was only one thing Mary Jo could do, and she did it with gusto. She became hysterical, alternately laughing and crying, giving her harassed husband no option but to summon a doctor. For the second time that day, Cliff Ashton came to the Territorial Hotel on the double.

  Ten minutes after quietening the hotelkeeper’s wife with a sedative, Ashton paid Sarina a visit, and offered a suggestion to which she listened with interest and gratitude.

  “I can arrange everything,” he assured her. “Clyde Burbridge is a close man with a dollar and, when I offered to forget to send him a bill, he was only too willing to cooperate. He’ll spread the word around and, within the hour, most of Cadiz City will be under the impression that Mary Jo has been taken to my home—to be kept under observation.”

  “But it won’t be Mrs. Burbridge,” mused Sarina.

  “It will be you,” said Ashton. “And don’t worry about your reputation. I have a fearsome old housekeeper known as Big Betsy McGowan. Also, I could invite Bill Swann to stay the night—which means you’ll be well-chaperoned.”

  “Cliff,” she frowned, “I appreciate your concern for my welfare.”

  “Lightning can strike twice in the same place,” he soberly asserted. “There has been one attempt on your life. It could happen again, if you insist on staying in this room.”

  “I’ll need to tell Jim,” she murmured.

  “While you’re conferring with your bodyguard,” said the medico, “I’ll arrange to have you carried out of the hotel on a stretcher.”

  Thus, under the very noses of such interested parties as Karl Dreisser, the five heavily-armed KD riders now entering Cadiz City, the sheriff and sundry other inquisitive locals, Sarina Hale was removed from the Territorial Hotel to the home of Doc Ashton. The stretch
er was toted by Ashton and Burbridge. The blanket was drawn up so that most of Sarina’s face was obscured and, happily, her hair was of similar color to that of the hotelkeeper’s wife; nobody suspected the true identity of the patient being toted to the doctor’s house. Burbridge had told his staff and neighbors that Mary Jo was too ill to remain at the hotel, so everybody jumped to the same conclusion.

  Big Jim had fully approved the scheme. It was logical and uncomplicated, so he saw no reason to raise objections. With Sarina safely hidden away, he could concentrate all his attention on his ruse to unmask the ringleader of the hold-up gang, the bloodthirsty thieves who had butchered the hapless stage-driver and one passenger and might have slain the other passengers—three of whom were female—in their eagerness to reach a well-filled cashbox.

  Life was cheap to the leader of the owlhoot pack, Jim reflected. Had the coach been wrecked and all its occupants killed or seriously injured, that boss-thief would have felt no qualms. In many ways, he was as callous a killer as the elusive Jenner. And, therefore, “I’ll keep hunting Jenner,” he decided, “but after I’ve helped put Dreisser away.”

  Dreisser was the guilty party, of that he was certain. But, of course, his certainty wasn’t worth a pail of water to a drowning man until it could be backed up by proof. Tomorrow morning, if all went well, they would get the proof.

  In his suite at the Imperial, the KD boss was in conference with his henchmen—Rawson, the left-handed ramrod, and four of the roughest men on the KD payroll. Patiently, he explained the significance of the diary of the late Jessie Kingston, and told them, “I want to be sure nobody else gets their paws on that book. It was at the Joyhouse that I always met Rodney, and now I realize old Jessie must have eavesdropped on us.”

  “Whole town’s talkin’ about it,” muttered Rawson. “Hell, Boss, if anybody else reads what Jessie wrote ...!”

  “Nobody will—I promise you that,” growled Dreisser. “From now until the book is in my hands, we’re gonna keep a tight watch on old Jessie’s daughter.”

  Ten – Suddenly a Showdown

  The unscrupulous Karl Dreisser might have paid many thousands of dollars for information as to the behind-the-scenes activity of that night. For instance, it would have been worth at least six thousand dollars to him to know that the woman toted to the Ashton house on a stretcher was Sarina Hale; not Mary Jo Burbridge. And he might have added another thousand dollars as a bonus, were his informant to confide that the diary was also under the blanket, clasped firmly to Sarina’s bosom.

  There were other details that might have intrigued him. Room Seven on the second floor of the Territorial was still occupied, but not by Sarina. A runty, scruffy, buck-toothed Mexican remained there in response to Big Jim’s instructions, nursing Big Jim’s Winchester and hoping against hope that he would not be required to use it.

  But, most of all, Dreisser would have been interested in the plan agreed to by Big Jim and Deputy Tarrant—interested enough to get out of town, out of the entire territory, because that audacious ruse was destined to succeed.

  When he awoke in the hour before dawn, Jim’s sixth sense compelled him to creep to his window and scan the main stem—and to refrain from lighting his lamp. Two rough-looking hombres were lounging on the opposite boardwalk, staring upward. Staring at this window? Not quite. At the next window? Damn right. The opposition had begun fretting. It was providential that the astute Doc Ashton had contrived to arrange Sarina’s removal from the hotel.

  He dressed in the darkness, after splashing cold water into his face. With his Colt strapped about his waist and the holster thonged down, he donned his Stetson and quietly opened his door. The corridor was deserted. Instead of heading for the main stairway, he followed the corridor to the rear. There was a window opening onto a small balcony. From there, he could descend a flight of fire-stairs into the yard behind the hotel.

  He made it to the yard, climbed a fence and dropped into a rear lane way which he followed uptown for three blocks. It was still some twenty minutes before sunrise when he crossed Main Street and secreted himself in the alley beside the law office.

  Later, when Tarrant joined him, there was no exchange of greetings; the deputy merely jerked a thumb. They quit the alley and moved uptown quietly, to enter the side street on which a certain boarding house was located. Tarrant led Jim around to the rear of this establishment and then calmly informed him, “Reaching Rodney is gonna be dead easy. If shock is gonna help, shock is what he’ll get. More shock than he can stand.”

  “Bueno,” grunted Jim. “But let’s hope he doesn’t die of heart-failure before he says his piece.”

  “I did some checking,” Tarrant confided. “Found out Rodney has a ground-floor room—and always sleeps with his window open, this time of year.”

  “Which window?” demanded Jim.

  “That one.” Tarrant pointed. “Now—is it all clear in your mind? You know exactly what you’re gonna say?”

  “And how to say it,” nodded Jim.

  “All right,” said the deputy, and he grinned in anticipation. “Do your damnedest—and I’ll back you up.”

  They strode to the window, shoved it up as far as it would go and climbed into the darkened room. Jim scratched a match and, by its light, Tarrant located and lit the lamp. They did this while the startled cashier came awake and sat up in bed, mumbling a half-hearted challenge.

  “Who—what—what is the meaning of ...?”

  “You can guess, can’t you?” growled Tarrant. He helped himself to a chair. The lamplight reflected off his well-polished badge of office. “You’re no fool, Rodney. You must’ve known you couldn’t hold out forever.”

  “Your mistake—and Dreisser’s,” drawled Jim, “was in being too greedy. There’s an old saying, Rodney. ‘Quit while you’re ahead.’ That’s good advice.” He came over and perched on the edge of the bed, drew his Colt and calmly checked its loading. He wasn’t pointing the weapon directly at the trembling Rodney, but his expression was ugly. “Well, it’s all over now.”

  “I—haven’t the—faintest idea ...!” began Rodney.

  “Go ahead, Rand. Tell him.” The deputy sounded impatient—and somewhat bored. “We’ll save a lot of time if, right from the start, this sneaking little polecat savvies what he’s up against.”

  “The diary, Rodney,” frowned Jim.

  “D-d-diary …?” faltered Rodney.

  “She got to thinking about it—Mrs. Hale, I mean,” said Jim. “No woman appreciates getting shot at. Now, that’s reasonable, isn’t it? Anyway that diary is no longer sealed—”

  “No!” groaned Rodney, covering his face with his hands.

  “And everything Jessie wrote,” said Jim. “It just isn’t a secret any more. All over this county there’ll be hombres trying to make peace with their wives—or maybe saddling up and heading for the nearest border.”

  “Muy pronto,” grinned Tarrant. “Yeah—I’d hate to be in their boots.” Abruptly, he ceased grinning and told Rodney, “Or in your boots!”

  “Or Dreisser’s,” scowled Jim.

  This was the full extent to which he could push his bluff tactics. Rodney would crack now—or never. He re-holstered his Colt, produced his makings and began building a cigarette, as he remarked to Tarrant, “It sticks in my craw—to think of Dreisser getting his information so damn easily. Every time that stage toted a cash-transfer, this skunk passed him the word. It was as easy as that.”

  “Just a minute!” panted Rodney. “Please ...!”

  “Were there any other killings?” Jim moodily enquired of Tarrant.

  “Not until old Barney and the drummer were butchered by Dreisser’s gunhawks,” muttered Tarrant. “Those other times, maybe a guard got wounded—but there was no killing.”

  “Well, Dreisser’s men threw a helluva lot of lead the other day,” said Jim. “Two good men died ...” he stared hard at Rodney, “… and I can name at least two men who’ll swing for those killings.”

  �
�But ...!” began Rodney.

  “You ever hear of an accessory after the fact?” challenged Tarrant.

  “It means equal guilt,” Jim told the cashier. “Dreisser wasn’t even there when it happened, but he gave the orders, so he’s as guilty as the men who fired the shots—and so are you. Without the information he got from you, Dreisser couldn’t have planned those raids.”

  “I swear to you ...!” groaned Rodney. “I—never believed it would come to this! I remember old Barney so well. Do you suppose I’d—want him killed? I just never believed ...”

  “You’re a fool, Rodney,” jibed Jim. “When a bunch of owlhoots raid a stagecoach, somebody’s bound to get hurt.”

  He scratched a match and lit his cigarette. With quick, impatient movements, Tarrant got to his feet and began searching the room.

  “Rodney—where do you keep your writing materials?” he demanded. “I’d as soon take your statement here and now, as wait till we get to the law office.”

  “The—top bureau drawer,” sighed Rodney.

  “The hell with him.” Jim grimaced in disgust. “How can he write—the way he’s shaking? I say throw him in a cell with the rest of ’em—and let him take his chances.”

  “No—for pity’s sake—no!” breathed Rodney. “They’d tear me to pieces!”

  “You asking for special privileges?” sneered Tarrant. He took a pad of paper, an inkbottle and a pen from the drawer. “That’s funny—damn funny.”

  “Surely I’m entitled to—uh ...” began Rodney.

  “Protection?” challenged Jim. “Well—I don’t know. What do you think, Deputy?”

  “I’ll make no promises till I’ve read his confession,” said Tarrant. He grasped at the front of Rodney’s nightshirt and hauled him from the bed. Jim placed a boot against the edge of a chair and shoved. The chair slid across the floor; its front edge struck hard at the back of Rodney’s knees and Rodney flopped into it. Tarrant dragged a small table away from the wall, positioned it in front of Rodney and placed the writing materials on it. “If he names all the guilty parties—times and places—everything—I’ll maybe put in a good word for him with the county prosecutor. But, by Godfrey, if he tries to wriggle out of it ...!”