“The army assigned you to find these here uniforms?” asked Leam.
“In a way,” shrugged Jim.
“Well,” frowned Leam, “the army’ll be welcome to Ellinger and all his trigger-happy crew. I’m ready to make a try at arrestin’ ’em, but I don’t know if I could swear in enough special deputies to set guard on ’em.”
“You won’t have to hold them for long,” Jim assured him. “My orders are to wire the nearest army post as soon as these bandidos are nailed.”
“And then what?” demanded Grisson.
“If you asked me to make a guess,” said Jim, “I’d say the army will hand over the prisoners to the U.S. Marshal’s office in Denver.”
“Uh huh,” grunted Leam. “Well, that’ll be a sight smarter than keepin’ ’em in this here calaboose—eatin’ three squares a day at the expense of the county treasury.” He raised another point now. “We’ll need a courier. Only way you can contact the army is …”
“Is to send a rider to Hollisburg,” nodded Jim, “to wire Camp Benedict.”
“But, first,” Grisson reminded them, “we have to nail all them hotshot gunslicks that ride for Rafter 7—and that ain’t gonna be easy.”
“Do you want to deputize me?” Jim asked the sheriff. “Go ahead, if you want to stand on ceremony. It’ll make no difference. I’d be lending a hand anyway.”
“I’m wonderin’ if the three of us could handle it,” frowned Grisson. “Also, I’m wonderin’ about Ellinger.” He stared hard at his chief. “Elmer—what about these here blue britches? Rand found ’em in the Rafter 7 bunk-house—one uniform under every mattress—and that’s plenty of reason for nailin’ every gun on the payroll, but what of Ellinger himself? He could claim he didn’t know nothin’ about it. If his hired guns keep their mouths shut, how can we prove they took their orders from Ellinger?”
While the sheriff considered that question, Jim contributed a query.
“How about that fat Mex—the cook? Is he an old Rafter 7 hand?”
“I think Ellinger signed him on about the same time he hired the Cheyenne Kid,” said Grisson. “Why?”
“He scares easily,” said Jim.
“So?” challenged the deputy.
“So,” said Jim, “let’s go talk to him. Let me shoot a few questions at him. He might just fall apart and tell us all we need to know.”
Grisson opened the cell-block door. Leam roused from his reverie as Jim strode into the jail with the deputy following. The occupied cell was unlocked. Jim moved in, lifted Alvaredo off the floor and toted him to the bunk, dumped him there and removed the bandanna gag. Rightaway, the Mexican launched into an outburst of Spanish profanity. The lawmen hovered in the open doorway, rolling cigarettes. Then, when Alvaredo ran out of breath, Jim briskly put his question.
“All we want to know is why did you shoot Blanton? I didn’t know his name before, but the deputy has identified him. How about it? What was your grudge against Blanton?”
“You talk loco!” Alvaredo stared at him aghast. “Me? I do not shoot this Blanton. I do not shoot anybody!”
“The charge will be murder,” Jim warned. “Blanton died at Rafter 7.”
“Blanton—muerto?” breathed Alvaredo.
“Sí—muerto,” nodded Jim. “Now look—if you want to plead self-defense, okay, but you’ll need witnesses, and ...”
“I do not shoot Blanton!” sweated the Mex. “He was shot before they bring him home to the rancho.”
“You mean …?” began Grisson.
“You mean when he came back with the patrón, the Señor Ellinger?” prodded Jim.
“He was not with the patrón that time,” mumbled Alvaredo. “Only with Croll and Durango and the one called Murle. The patrón does not always ride with these pistoleros ...”
“These bandidos,” sneered Grisson.
“Todd Ellinger’s hired guns,” scowled Leam.
“I am cocinero,” the Mex hastened to point out. “All I do is cook. I never ride with them.” He eyed Jim dejectedly. “¡Ai, caramba! Why did you have to find these tunicas, these calzones?”
“Ellinger planned all those raids, those bank hold-ups across the border,” growled Grisson. “That’s true, eh, amigo?”
“I’m advisin’ you to help us any way you can,” muttered Leam. “You say you didn’t shoot Blanton. Well, maybe you didn’t, but ...”
“I swear it!” panted Alvaredo. “Por favor—I beg you to believe me!”
“What about Ellinger?”‘ demanded Jim.
“Sí, sí.” Alvaredo nodded vehemently. “The patrón—he is one smart hombre …”
“He plans the raids,” prodded Jim. “Who leads ’em?”
“Sometimes the patrón,” frowned Alvaredo. “Sometimes the young pistolero—the one they call Kid.”
Leam exhaled noisily, turned away and remarked: “That just about sews it up.”
“Gag him again,” Jim advised Grisson, as he quit the cell.
Back in the office, the lawmen and their volunteer ally held a brief council of war. The sheriff was adamant on one point—saddened, but adamant.
“Hobie and me, we were both plenty salty in the old days. We could’ve licked our weight in gunslingers and hardcases. But that was long ago. We just ain’t as young as we used to be.” He sighed wistfully, as he confided, “What I want is to walk along to the Lucky Chance, brace those killers and whup ’em in a stand-up fight. That’s what I want, but ...”
“But there’s no use foolin’ ourselves, Elmer,” frowned Grisson.
“This is a mighty dirty outfit we have to bring in,” Jim calmly reminded them. “They make their own rules. They turn their guns on women and kids—just for the hell of it. In Frankston, they gun-whipped an old man, blinded him, beat a bank cashier so badly that he never recovered.”
“We read the papers, Mr. Rand,” shrugged Leam. “Go ahead. Make your point.”
“They don’t deserve any kind of chance,” declared Jim, bluntly, coldly. “No killer does:”
“Well—uh …” began Grisson.
“They’ll get the benefit of their day in court, sure,” said Jim. “They’ll be tried fair and square. But, when it comes to arresting them, why worry about the rules? Bring ’em in—that’s all that matters. If you can’t march ’em in here at gunpoint, carry ’em in.”
“Play it sneaky, eh?” mused Leam.
“The man’s right, Elmer,” opined Grisson. “It’s as much as they deserve.”
“Well,” frowned the sheriff, reaching for his hat, “what’re we waitin’ for?”
A few moments later, when Jim entered the Lucky Chance, he made straight for the roulette layout, Which was under supervision of the owner. Still adhering to his pretense of being a self-appointed minister, he solemnly begged a few moments conversation with her in private. Cass gestured for one of her tablemen to take over for her, then accompanied the burly stranger to an unoccupied table near the main entrance. As they seated themselves, she cheerfully remarked,:
“Another hour and it won’t be so easy to find a vacant table. Rafter 7 came to town. This joyhouse will be filled with Todd Ellinger’s hired hands, and …”
“Is Ellinger here?” he quietly demanded. “And how about a boy gunslick who calls himself the Cheyenne Kid?” She bowed her head, pretended to study her fingernails.
“You sound different, Jim. A whole lot different. It seems I had you pegged right from the start. You’re no preacher.”
“And you aren’t a woman who’d throw in with a man of Ellinger’s caliber. But if I’m wrong about that, I’ll be making a damn fool of myself. But I don’t believe I’m wrong, Cass.”
He eyed her intently. She offered him a faint smile and murmured, “In a roundabout way, you’ve paid me a compliment.”
“You’re welcome,” he grunted. “But I’m not here to pay compliments. I need information.”
She hesitated a moment. Then, “You don’t need to turn your head to see them,” she drawled.
“Just slant your eyes to the table in the nearest corner—it’s to your left. The four poker-players are, from left to right, Jase Croll, Todd Ellinger and Nick Farnley—the man they call the Cheyenne Kid. The one with his back to us is another Rafter 7 gunhawk. His name is Cliff Ransome.”
Having seen all he needed to see, Jim nodded his thanks.
“All right, Cass. I’m mighty obliged to you. Later, I’ll explain all about it. In the meantime, you could do me a big favor by identifying any other Ellinger men in the place.”
“The two talking to the barkeep,” she told him, without shifting her gaze from her fingernails. “The four at the dice table. Incidentally, you’ve met two of those dice-players before. Murle and Durango are the rowdies you cooled down this afternoon. They’re watching you, Jim, so don’t look their way.”
“Thanks,” he acknowledged.
“You need protection,” she opined. “If you could see their faces, you’d know what I mean. If looks could kill!”
“Don’t worry about it,” he muttered.
“I have a nose for danger,” she breathed.
“And a mighty pretty nose it is,” he observed.
“Never mind the fancy compliments. You watch your step, Mr. Rand.” She leaned a few inches closer to him. “When you leave, those four hardcases will follow you and try to take you by surprise. And that’s not just an opinion, my friend. It’ll prove to be a cold hard fact.”
“Don’t worry,” said Jim. “It’s exactly what I’m expecting.”
“Todd Ellinger and those other three will probably play cards till dawn,” she murmured. “That’s how Todd lets off steam every time I refuse to run away with him. It soothes his injured pride to gamble with his toughest hirelings. When I’m ready to close, Todd will insist on the game continuing in one of my back rooms.”
“Anything else you can tell me?” he asked.
“It’s about time you did likewise,” she asserted. “How about you opening up?”
“My time’s running short.” He shrugged and grinned. “I’ll allow you one question, Cass, if you’ll give me your word to keep the answer under your beautiful hair.”
“You aren’t a parson and you claim you aren’t any kind of lawman,” she frowned. “Exactly what are you?”
“I’m what you might call on the drift,” he confided, as he pushed back his chair. “I used to be a sergeant of the Eleventh Cavalry, but I’ve mustered out so that I can look for a certain party. Tell you all about it before I leave Brigg City, Cass. That’s a promise.” He got to his feet. “Hasta la vista.”
“Walk with great care, big man,” she sighed. “With great care.”
“That I will,” he promised.
Unhurriedly, he strode to the batwings and moved out into the half-gloom of Brigg Street. He didn’t need to glance backwards to ascertain that, within moments of his quitting the saloon, Murle, Durango and their two sidekicks had done likewise. They were some twenty yards to his rear. He sensed rather than saw them.
As he approached the mouth of a dark alley, he heard their footsteps quickening and reflected that they weren’t exactly expert at masking their intentions. Simultaneously, he noted a small figure emerging from the shadows on the opposite boardwalk. He strode onward.
Drawing abreast of the alley mouth he nimbly sidestepped, and not a moment too soon. He felt the rush of air as Murle’s wild swing missed him by inches; the hardcase had attempted to club him with his six-gun. He sidestepped again, but this time towards the bent-over, off-balance Murle; not away from him. Durango and the others were coming on fast, but Murle had come faster; apparently he wanted to play hero.
Murle was straightening up, whirling towards Jim, When Jim’s rock-hard left made devastating contact with his jaw. The impact plunged him into oblivion, He collapsed in the path of Durango, who tripped over him and measured his length. Jim emptied his holster and, instead of waiting for the other two to attack, barged towards them with his Colt swinging. A Stetson crumpled under the down-swing of the 7 inch barrel. Its wearer dropped to the boardwalk like a pole-axed steer. The fourth man, well and truly alarmed, drew his six-gun, but was disposed of before he could thumb back the hammer. Jim’s knuckles and the cylinder of his Colt slammed hard above the man’s right ear, the target of Jim’s savage upswing. Like a drunk, the hardcase began lurching backwards. He was crumpling, when Durango regained his feet and hurled himself at the big man.
Fury and bitter resentment had spurred Durango to rash action, and now he paid for it. The two wild blows he aimed at Jim were blocked and parried, and then his head was thrust forward; he was wide open for Jim’s bunched left. It came fast, a powerful uppercut that lifted Durango off his feet. For a brief moment the gunman seemed to be suspended horizontal with the boardwalk. He was unconscious before he came to ground, and the small man who had scuttled across from the other boardwalk was, as usual, duly impressed.
“Saludos, Amigo Jim. Ah! To watch you in battle, this is as poetry of motion—as music!”
“Forget it," growled Jim. He was hauling his victims into the concealment of the alley. “Lend a hand with these bravados. I’m delivering them to the county jail, and we can reach it by way of the back alley. The sheriff loaned me a spare set of keys. There’s a rear door, and—”
“These hombres—they are too big, too heavy for me to carry, Amigo Jim. I am pequeno—how you say—small? Very handsome, but small.”
“The hell with it! You don’t carry trash. You drag it. Grab a fistful of hair, a bandanna or a boot—and let’s go.” Thus, unceremoniously, the first of Jim’s captives were hauled down to the back alley and along to the rear door of the jailhouse. And, on this occasion, Jim had no need of the keyring loaned him by Grisson. The back door was open, for the very good reason that Grisson and the sheriff had just arrived with a couple of prisoners of their own, two befuddled and groaning rogues who trudged dazedly into the jail corridor with the Colts of the lawmen prodding their backbones.
TEN
RECKONING OF THE GUNS
The pudgy chuck-boss of Rafter 7 blinked in dismay, as the lawmen installed their prisoners in the adjoining cell. Leam and Grisson then turned to stare at Jim and the Mex, who came struggling along the corridor with scant regard for the comfort of their captives.
“Shut that door,” Jim ordered the Mex.
Benito relaxed his grip of Murle’s shirt-collar, letting the slumbering hardcase thud to the floor. As he scuttled back to the rear door, Jim continued to advance; Durango was draped over his shoulders, and he had tucked the heads of the other two gunmen under his arms. It was as impressive an exhibition of brute strength as Leam or Grisson had ever witnessed.
“Leave ’em drop,” offered Leam. “We’ll stow ’em away for you.”
“One thing you’d better remember,” warned Jim. He released his grip of the heads tucked under his arms. Face-first, the two rogues flopped to the floor. He bent forward to let the unconscious Durango slide over his back. Then, straightening up, “All these men have to be bound and gagged,” he pointed out. “The gags are important, because …”
“But these cells are escape-proof,” protested Grisson, “so where’s the sense to ropin’ and gaggin’ ’em? They ain’t goin’ no place.”
“I reckon I can guess what’s in Rand’s mind,” frowned the sheriff. “We’re doin’ fine, but we’ve only just started, and we have to work quiet and sneaky. When these coyotes wake up, they’ll be plenty sore. They’ll wail and holler, and the rest of the outfit’ll damn soon learn their pards are in jail.” He jerked a thumb. “Go on, Hobie. Go fetch all the rope you can find.” To Jim, he declared, “Six down—ten or more to go. And most of ’em’ll be uptown at the Lucky Chance.”
“I know,” nodded Jim. “I was at the Lucky Chance just a little while ago.” Benito rejoined them, and Jim thought to introduce him. “By the way, this is Benito Espina. He’ll be lending a hand.”
“Friend of yours?” asked Leam, eyeing the Mex dubiously
.
“Kind of,” said Jim.
“He looks a mite puny for these kind of chores,” said Leam.
“Also,” Benito calmly informed him, “I am a coward.”
“But he can ride,” drawled Jim. “He’ll do for a courier. As soon as we’ve got three quarters of Rafter 7 behind bars, I’ll draft a message to be telegraphed to Camp Benedict, and he’ll take it to the Western Union operator at Hollisburg.”
Grisson came hustling back to them hefting a coil of rope and a strip of cloth.
“Took a look out front,” he reported, as he unlocked another cell. “I’d calculate the whole Rafter 7 outfit’s in town now. I just saw Crane and his sidekicks sashayin’ into the Eldorado.”
“All three of ’em?” asked Leam, while turning out the pockets of Murle and Company.
“Yeah,” nodded Grisson. “All three of ’em.” He flashed Jim a grin. “You want to flip a coin, Rand, to see who tangles with ’em?”
“The Eldorado’s a saloon?” challenged Jim. “Hash-house,” said Grisson, gesturing. “Over thataway. Almost opposite the law office. If you aim to bring ’em in, you’ll easily recognize ’em. They’re built like you—big and hefty.”
“Guess they’ve had their fill of Alvaredo’s chow,” mused Leam, “so they’ve stopped by the Eldorado for some fancy cookin’.”
“I could almost feel sorry for ’em,” growled Jim, as he turned towards the back door.
“Why?” called Grisson.
“Their supper is gonna be interrupted,” muttered Jim. “And I don’t mean politely.”
The weary-eyed, porcine Otis McGee, proprietor of the Eldorado Diner, wasn’t accustomed to seeing clients entering his establishment by way of the rear door beyond the kitchen. He made the effort to lift his bushy eyebrows in surprise, therefore, when the black-garbed Jim and the runty Mex came hustling in from the kitchen. At this time, there were only a half-dozen customers present. Three were aged townsmen; they were perched on stools at the short counter, working on their beef stew and conversing in undertones. The other three were the muscular, arrogant Vern Crane and his two sidekicks. They occupied a table not far from the counter and demonstrated their hunger by forking up outsized mouthfuls of hash from the bowls placed before them.
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