What followed took McGee by surprise. For that matter, it certainly caught Crane and his cronies off-guard. Jim dispensed with formalities, advancing directly to the table with Benito in tow. The Mex, his courage boosted by the presence of his formidable traveling companion, leered insolently at one of the hardcases, reached. across the table and nudged a mug of hot coffee into his lap.
“You spill something—I think,” he sniggered.
Livid. with rage, the man sprang to his feet. As his hand flew to his holster, Jim struck him from behind, a hard, slicing blow to the nape of the neck with the edge of his hand, and the man went down fast. The second man sat bug-eyed and momentarily frozen. The third, Crane, gave vent to a bull-like roar and began rising from his chair. While Benito rammed a platter of hash into the second man’s face, Jim unleashed an uppercut. His target was Crane’s jaw, and his aim was true. Crane went over backwards, taking his chair with him. The other man was on his feet now, spluttering and cursing, trying to see through the coating of hash adhering to his face. To clobber him with his own six-gun, Benito had to stand on a chair.
“All right.” Jim nodded his satisfaction. “Hash-face is yours. You bring him along.” He fished out a coin, dropped it on the table and informed the still-perplexed McGee. “That’s for the hash.” He then draped Crane over his shoulders, seized his first victim by his coat-collar and started for the rear door, followed by Benito dragging the third man—not to mention the startled gaze of the three old-timers seated at the counter. “Good night.” He nodded to McGee.
McGee propped his elbows on the counter, watched the strangers haul their victims out of sight, then blinked at the upset chair and the hash spilled on the table. He searched his mind for a suitable rejoinder to Jim’s last words, then shrugged and said:
“Good night.”
It was the best he could do.
By 1.50 a.m., eleven Rafter 7 employees were incarcerated in the Brigg County jail; according to the sheriff’s calculations, the only members of this band of thieves still to be accounted for were the four playing poker at the Lucky’ Chance. A good two miles north of Town, Benito was racing the sorrel towards Hollisburg; the army would be alerted before dawn.
Perched on a stool in the jail corridor, with a shotgun resting across his knees, Leam made the tally on his gnarled fingers, while Jim and the deputy listened patiently.
“Blanton’s a goner and the Mex cook is right here with the others. We got Murle and Durango and Crane and—uh—one, two, three, four others, as well as the two me and Hobie grabbed. That tallies up to eleven.”
“Sure, we’re doin’ fine," conceded Grisson. “But grabbin’ Ellinger himself ain’t gonna be easy. Didn’t Rand say he’s playin’ poker with Croll and the Kid—and Ransome?” He looked at Jim. “The three most dangerous men on Ellinger’s payroll—and that’s puttin’ it mild.”
“And they’ll likely stay at the Lucky Chance all night,” frowned Leam. “They ’most always do.” He glanced into the occupied cells and moodily reflected, “A saloon is one helluva place for a showdown.”
“Damn right,” agreed Grisson. “It’d be too easy for ’em to take cover and hold us off. All they have to do is overturn a table.”
“Or jump behind of the bar,” muttered Leam.
“Don’t worry,” drawled Jim. “I wasn’t planning on trying to arrest Ellinger at the Lucky Chance. It wouldn’t be fair to Cass Broderick—and I owe her a favor.”
“Funny, the way Ellinger keeps after her,” mused Grisson. “You’d think he’d have sense enough to stay away from where he ain’t wanted. The Broderick woman never did admire him. Any fool can see that.”
“And Ellinger’s a mighty smart hombre,” Leam pointed out. “Smart and cold-blooded. I read about that bank raid in Frankston—across the border. And the Kyle City shootin’.”
“Easy to guess who that officer was,” suggested Grisson. “The captain that gun-whipped the bank-manager in Frankston—”
Before he could finish, a sharp cry filled the air. “Help! Get word to Ellinger!”
These screams came from Gibb Strawn who had worked his gag loose by rubbing his face up and down the wall.
Grisson moved quickly, falling on the still tightly bound but struggling prisoner, straddling him, pinning him down and then grabbing for the gag. Strawn kept right on yelling until the gag had been knotted tight again. Mumbling curses, Grisson quit the cell and re-secured the door. And now Leam, frowning along the corridor, opined:
“Somebody probably heard Strawn.”
“It’s likely,” agreed Grisson.
“And there’s many a boot-lickin’ skunk in this here town,” mused Leam, “Who’d be only too glad to pass the word to Ellinger.” He rose from the stool. “Hobie, you stay here and set guard. Keep that rear door locked and barred. I’d best stay in the office from now on.” He darted a glance at Jim, who had begun striding along the corridor. “Rand, where’re you headed? I thought you said you’d never brace Ellinger at the Lucky Chance.”
“That still goes,” muttered Jim. He paused at the end of the corridor long enough to explain, “Somebody might’ve heard Strawn and Ellinger could be tipped off. Well, if he heads this way, there ought to one of us outside.”
“Catch ’em in a crossfire?” frowned Leam. “All right, Rand. I’ll be ready.”
Jim hadn’t realized until now just how well-lit this section of Brigg Street was. Two street-lamps directly opposite and two more on this side of the street offered a clear view of the county jail and much of the area east and west of it. As he descended from the law office porch and heard Leam securing the door behind him, he glanced uptown. He couldn’t see all the way to the Lucky Chance but, if Ellinger and his men headed in this direction, they would be clear targets while still thirty yards away.
A few passers-by eyed him curiously, as he dawdled across to the opposite boardwalk and seated himself on a bench. He took his time over the rolling of a cigarette, the checking of his Colt. And he was well aware of Sheriff Leam positioned at a front Window of the law office, crouched behind the leveled barrels of his shotgun.
At the Lucky Chance, meanwhile, Cass Broderick was conscious of a sudden change in the demeanor of the four card-players of Rafter 7. From’ her seat near the faro layout, she had watched a shabby towner named Fitch hustle in and make for Ellinger’s table, and she was just close enough to overhear the gist of what was said. Fitch had heard a cry for help from the jailhouse and was sure the voice was that of Strawn, one of Ellinger’s riders. Croll contributed the opinion that neither of Brigg City’s lawmen would have the nerve to arrest a Rafter 7 man under any circumstances. Ransome muttered agreement. Farnley said nothing—and Ellinger began fretting. After paying for the information and sending his informant away, he glanced about the bar-room and remarked, loud enough for Cass to hear clearly:
“We seem to be the only Rafter 7 men here now.”
“So?” shrugged Farnley.
“I don’t like it,” frowned Ellinger. “What if Fitch is right? What if Strawn has been arrested?”
“The way Fitch told it,” grinned Ransome, “there’s more than one Rafter 7 gun stuck in Leam’s calaboose.”
“It isn’t funny, Cliff,” scowled Ellinger.
“I ain’t laughin’,” shrugged Ransome. “It’s just that I don’t believe Fitch. He’s a rumpot from way back.”
“I need to be sure about it.” Abruptly, Ellinger shoved back his chair and got to his feet. “That’s all, boys. The game’s over.”
“And just when I’m ahead,” muttered Croll.
The four pocketed their money. Without a glance in Cass’ direction, Ellinger led them out of the saloon and into the street. Along towards the jail they strode, moving briskly until, less than thirty yards from that austere edifice, they heard familiar voices raised in blistering profanity and angry protest. Not one but three of Leam’s prisoners had managed to work their gags loose and were giving vent to their fury and frustrat
ion. At best, a strip of cloth tied about the mouth is only a temporary silencer.
“That’s Durango!” gasped Croll, freezing in his tracks. “And I hear Vern Crane,” frowned Ransome. “He’s cussin’ up a storm.”
“Leam—Sheriff Leam!” Ellinger turned beetroot-red, as he quickened his step. The others fell in behind him, while he advanced to within seventeen yards of the law office porch, yelling a protest. “Do you hear me, Leam? This is Todd Ellinger! On what charge have you arrested my men? I demand to know!”
“Ellinger!”
The four men stopped dead, as Jim called the boss-thief’s name in his best parade-ground bellow. And, as though that loud challenge was all part of some pre-arranged signal, the entire area between the Lucky Chance and the county jail was suddenly deserted of all save Ellinger and his three henchmen—and the big man in the black clothes.
Ellinger frowned uncertainly, as Jim quit the opposite boardwalk and ambled into clear view. There was a ragged edge to his voice as he called his query.
“Who the devil are you?”
“That’s a good question—thief,” jibed Jim. He came to a halt some fifteen yards from the four men. At this angle, Leam could easily wreak havoc with his scattergun, and without the risk of injury to his burly ally. “The name is Rand. My friends call me Jim. My enemies call be Trouble. You can call me Trouble, Ellinger.”
“A big man,” observed the Cheyenne Kid, with a bleak smile. “A big target.”
“Don’t get over-confident, Kid,” warned Jim.
“You called me thief!” fumed Ellinger. “Damn you, Rand, no man talks to me—that way—and gets away with it!”
“A thief is what you are—and you’re gonna hang for it,” Jim grimly promised, “because your trigger-happy crew don’t care how many innocent people they kill—while they’re rigged in those stolen army uniforms. Where’d you get those outfits, thief? Were they stolen from some quartermaster’s store? Well, no matter. We’ll get all the answers—when you’re stuck in a cell with the rest of your mangy crew.”
“Boss!” began Croll.
“Those stolen uniforms are gonna hang you,” declared Jim. “They’re stashed safe in the sheriff’s office—till he turns them over to the army to be used in evidence. You ever see an army trial? You won’t enjoy it—I promise you.”
“Unstrap your gun, Ellinger’ called Leam. “Tell your three sidekicks to surrender along with you! I’d as soon take you alive!”
“That’ll be the day!” Croll said it very softly, but his every word carried to Jim’s ears. “I’m gettin’—while I can.”
As Croll began turning, his hand dropped to his holster. Simultaneously Nick Farnley emptied his right-side holster and Ransome made his move, Ellinger turned to make a run for it and Leam discharged one barrel of his shotgun.
In one swift movement, Jim drew, turned side-on to the quartet and got off his first shot. His Colt boomed in unison with the thunder of Leam’s shotgun and the challenging roar of the .45s of the lawless. Croll was sent hurtling backwards by the charge of buckshot; he never cried out, but was dead before he hit the ground. Nick Farnley, the supremely confident Cheyenne Kid, did cry out. His voice rose in a howl of pain and his right-hand Colt dropped to the dust; Jim’s first bullet had struck his right arm in the region of the elbow. Snarling defiance, Ransome triggered a shot towards the office window, another at Jim. The big man winced but stood his ground, as one of those fast-triggered slugs dug a shallow crease at his left leg. He went to ground, rolled over, half rose to his feet and fired at Ransome without aiming, thrusting his right arm out and squeezing the trigger. Ransome shuddered and reeled, groaning.
Farnley was still on his feet, oblivious to the fact that Ellinger had turned and was making a desperate dash for freedom. He had drawn his left-hand gun and, with his youthful face contorted in pain and fury was taking aim at his black-clad Nemesis. As quickly as he had put Ransome out of action, Jim dealt with the Kid. His Colt roared. The bullet ploughed into Farnley’s left forearm, damaging sinew, tissue and bone. Farnley howled again. His second Colt dropped to the dust and he followed it, groveling, groaning in anguish.
“I got a bead on Ellinger, Rand!” yelled Leam.
“He’s mine!” growled Jim. “That cannon of yours could kill him. I want that sidewinder alive. He has to stand trial—so the whole country will hear the truth about those fake soldiers.” He struggled to his feet, drew a bead on the fleeing Ellinger. “That’s far enough, Ellinger!”
He saw Ellinger skid to a halt, whirl and fire. The boss-thief hadn’t taken time to aim, yet his bullet came within inches of ending Jim’s life; it missed his head by inches. He crouched, squinted along the barrel of his .45 and returned fire. Ellinger jumped convulsively, dropped his gun and came stumbling back towards the law office with his arms raised, blood trickled from the shallow wound at his right shoulder.
“A doctor!” he gasped. “Get me a doctor—immediately!”
“Yeah—we’ll do that.” Jim nodded scathingly. “You’ll get better treatment than you gave Blanton. Remember Blanton?”
“I’m in pain!” raged Ellinger. “I have to see a doctor! I need him right now!”
Jim had seen it happen before. Maybe he should have become accustomed to it by now, but it still caused him wonderment—how many boss-outlaws had he known who, in the moment of defeat, became abject cowards, their roar of defiance subsiding to a whine?
Four days later, seated beside Arch Borden’s bed at the Frankston House, the big man described the events that had followed the apprehension of Todd Ellinger and his henchmen. Benito was perched on the window-sill, strumming his tuneless guitar, exercising his equally tuneless voice in the rendition of a plaintive Mexican ballad. The Bible and the sorrel had been returned to Arnie Flagg. The black stallion and the nondescript burro were tethered and waiting at the hotel hitch rack, because, very soon, the big hunter and his sawn-off shadow would be on their way again, continuing their search for the murderer of Lieutenant Christopher Rand.
“The blast from the sheriff’s shotgun killed Croll outright,” Jim told the frowning Borden, “well, Croll certainly got what he deserved. A couple of Ellinger’s hired guns ran off at the mouth. That’s how we learned it was Croll who took a gun-barrel to that bank cashier, and triggered the bullets that killed the old man in the southbound coach. There was another, name of Ransome. I put him down.”
“And Ellinger—and the notorious Cheyenne Kid?” prodded Borden.
“They won’t have to tie the Kid’s hands on the gallows,” muttered Jim, “and somebody’ll have to feed him with a spoon—right up till the time they hang him—because I put both his hands out of action. Had to. You never know for sure about these hot-shot young hellers who wear two guns. Always a chance they’re as ‘good with either hand. Incidentally, it turns out the Kid was the killer in the captain’s uniform, the one who gun-whipped old Hugo Florent.”
“Scum,” breathed Borden. “Damn-blasted scum.”
“Go ahead and cuss, Arch,” offered Jim. “You can afford to. It’s all over now.”
“Just so long as the whole country knows the truth,” frowned Borden.
“The whole country will know soon enough,” Jim assured him. “When a detachment from Camp Benedict arrived to take delivery of the Ellinger gang, they brought a journalist along. It seems he’s employed by the Denver Herald-Times and is related to the officer in command.”
“You’re speaking of Nathan Ball?” challenged Borden.
“Ball—yeah.” Jim nodded slowly. “I believe that was his name.”
“Well …” Borden breathed a sigh of relief, “if you gave the whole story to Ball—”
“Answered all his questions,” said Jim. “And that was quite a chore because—by thunder—I never knew a man could ask so many questions.”
“And now they’re on their way to Denver to stand trial,” mused Borden.
“All of ’em.” Jim yawned, hunched forward in his
chair and began rolling a cigarette. “The entire good-for-nothing bunch. Leam and the mayor rode out to Rafter 7 to impound every last thin dime, every greenback they could find,. I guess there’ll be a lot of negotiation and delay before a percentage of their losses is returned to all the banks robbed by Ellinger’s men. I say a percentage because, as you can imagine, those bandidos weren’t the kind to save their loot for a rainy day. They were big spenders.”
“How about this unfortunate wife of Ellinger’s?” demanded Borden.
“She doesn’t feel quite so unfortunate anymore,” drawled Jim, with a wry grin. “Enforced sobriety is no fun to a woman who used to be a hard drinker, but I swear she’ll make it. The wife of Doc Wesley is an old friend of hers. She’ll stay with the Wesleys until she’s strong enough to stand on her own two feet. I talked to her, Arch.”
“She’s—uh—still loyal to Ellinger?” asked Borden.
“Hell, no,” said Jim. “She’s wide awake now, realizes just what brand of skunk Ellinger was. If you asked me to make a guess, I’d say Wilma is gonna sell Rafter 7 and go live in Denver. She has relatives there.” He lit his cigarette, got to his feet, offered Borden his hand. As they shook, he grinned encouragingly. “Luck to you, Arch. Get plenty of rest. Be a good patient and, pretty soon, you’ll be as good as new.”
“I sure made a big success of this assignment, eh?” Borden grimaced ruefully. “Handled the whole thing like an old professional—from the comfort of this damn-blasted bed—while you did all the dirty work.”
“My pleasure,” Jim solemnly assured him. “Couldn’t sit by and watch the army’s good name dragged through the slush, could we now?”
“Señor Espina,” said Borden, “I’m mighty grateful to you.”
“¡No hay de que!” beamed Benito, as he slid to the floor and donned his sombrero. “It was not for me a difficulty, señor. And my fine and loyal Amigo Jim—he was a big help.” He eyed Jim eagerly. “We go now—no?”
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