“I know you’ll want that back. Guess you’ve been showing it all over, eh?”
“In a lot of towns,” nodded Jim, “and to a lot of people.”
“It could be your search is almost over,” frowned Trantor. He talked on unhurriedly, while they disposed of their food and began working on the beer. “The jasper I ran out of Durrance a little while back might just be the man you’re hunting. His hair is dark, but don’t let that fool you. The more I think about Jay Curtis, the more I suspect he was using dye. He’d be the same height as Jenner. He resembles him in every way—except for the hair.”
“I have to admit it never occurred to me that Jenner might dye his hair,” mused Jim.
“Does he know you’re hunting him?” asked Trantor.
“He knows,” Jim grimly assured him. “I almost caught up with him a couple of times.”
“In that case,” shrugged Trantor, “I’d say it’s only natural he’d try to change his looks. There have been fugitives who grew beards—or started shaving clean—depending on how they looked before they had to run. Jenner’s playing it smart. He probably thinks you’ll pass up every dark-haired man—including him.”
“He was thrown out of this saloon,” prodded Jim, “because he was a sore loser.”
“Had the stone cold nerve to accuse Lee Burch of sharping him,” scowled Trantor. “Nobody gets cheated in the Cimarron Saloon, believe me, and I don’t take kindly to such accusations. Sure—this jasper was a sore loser.”
“You happen to recall what he was drinking?” asked Jim.
“Checked with both my bartenders, after Gus Lundy told me the score,” said Trantor. “Any hombre that drinks nothing but raw brandy—well—they’re bound to remember him.”
“And Curtis was drinking raw brandy?” challenged Jim.
“Nothing but,” said Trantor.
Jim finished his beer, began building a cigarette.
“It’s too bad about the flooding of the river,” he frowned. “I’d like to head north to Lewisburg rightaway.”
“Curtis will still be there,” opined Trantor. “A friend of mine passed through Lewisburg a couple days back, came riding in here a few hours before the river busted its banks. He saw Curtis dealing poker in a saloon—but he couldn’t recall the name of it. My hunch is Curtis has found himself a niche in Lewisburg.” He folded his arms on the desktop, dropped his gaze to the ivory butt of Jim’s six shooter. “Rand—are you in the market for some good advice?”
“Always,” shrugged Jim.
He scratched a match for his cigarette, eyed the saloon keeper expectantly.
“If it comes to a fight—and it probably will,” said Trantor, “shoot to kill. Take no chances. If you only wing him you could still lose. I happen to know he’s just as fast with either hand—and tricky.”
“Are we both speaking of the same man?” asked Jim, and, for a moment, Trantor wondered if he had blundered. “The man I’m hunting shot my brother from behind, shot him in the back. He never had the nerve to call Chris out and challenge him to an open fight. Chris was a lieutenant and his gun was in a flapped holster. He could never have beaten Jenner’s draw, and still Jenner took no chances.”
“A man can change,” suggested Trantor. “Maybe desperation has boosted Curtis—I mean Jenner’s courage. He was plenty proddy when I ran him out of town, but we gave him no chance to use a gun on us.”
“No?” Jim blew a smoke ring and, as he watched it disintegrate, asked, “Then how do you know he’s gun-fast, and just as good with either hand?”
“Got it from a couple of drummers.” Trantor was ready with a convenient lie. “They were here that night, and they’d seen Jenner in action—in some other town.” He leaned back in his chair, raised his boot heels to the desktop. “How long has it been since Jenner killed your brother?”
“Getting close to a year,” muttered Jim.
“Like I say, a man can change a lot in a year,” drawled Trantor. “He can get proddier, tougher, more desperate, more cunning. For my money, Jenner and Curtis are one and the same.”
“Jay Curtis, he calls himself,” reflected Jim.
“In Lewisburg, he could be using another name,” Trantor pointed out. As Jim rose to his feet, he repeated his warning. “Take no chances with him, Rand. Shoot him on sight.”
“I will if I have to,” said Jim.
“You’ll have to,” asserted Trantor.
“Well—thanks for the advice,” Jim acknowledged, as he strode to the door.
Though his bankroll was comfortably thick at this time, Jim Rand was inclined to try and increase it this night. He was a skilled poker player, often playing for the sheer enjoyment of the game, as much as the chance of financial gain, and there were worse ways of spending an evening. He decided to spend most of the afternoon catching up on his rest, dozing on his bed at the Marris House. As for Benito …
Some five minutes before the Settlers’ Trust Bank closed its doors, the greedy-eyed Mex just happened to be loitering on the boardwalk outside. There lived in Durrance a thirty six-year-old widow whose name was Mercedes Cragg, a lady of high principles and queenly demeanor, and it just happened that she made her exit from the bank while the runty Benito was subjecting that establishment to an intent scrutiny. Mrs. Cragg had made a withdrawal, and the predatory eyes of Benito Espina just happened to fasten on the wad of banknotes while the widow was stuffing it into her reticule. ¡Ai caramba! Such a useful bundle of dinero, and was his need not greater than hers? She looked to be muy prospero, this wasp waisted, round bosomed Señora whose gown and bonnet were so austere—but so expensive.
The widow sauntered gracefully along Main with Benito tagging her at a respectful distance. His first impulse—to make a grab for the reticule and take to his heels—had been judiciously suppressed. The street was too crowded and, besides, had not Amigo Jim delivered a stern warning? On more than one occasion, the hefty ex-sergeant had signified his disapproval of Benito’s larcenous endeavors with the toe of his boot—a gesture calculated to cause the Mex considerable pain in a strategic region of his anatomy.
Better, he decided, to separate the lady from her wealth in less spectacular fashion. He would follow her to her home, ascertain whether or not she lived alone and, if all indications appeared favorable, gain entry through a window.
Tagging her along Main, around a corner and into one of Durrance’s better class residential streets, he became intrigued by her stately walk, her shapely shoulders, the rhythmic swaying of her hips. An alternative scheme suggested itself. Was he not a ladies’ man, the handsomest caballero in all Mexico? Smitten by his charms, overpowered by his personality, this Señora would be putty in his hands. How much more interesting to woo her dinero away from her than to furtively purloin it?
With this idea in mind, the scruffy Mex tagged Mercedes Cragg all the way to the neat, single storied home on Seymour Avenue. And, though he would not realize it immediately, he was a lamb en route to the slaughter, an orphan in the wilderness, a stranger well and truly out of his element. It just happened that the widow was not exactly what she appeared to be. Helpless? Shy? Easily frightened? Not Mercedes. Not by a long shot.
Towards sundown, while she was preparing supper in her neat kitchen, the unnerving sound smote her ears as jarringly as the notes of a cracked bell. She winced, as she quit the kitchen and walked the hall to the front door. A kindly soul in many respects, she had taken it for granted that the howling sounds originated from an animal in pain, probably an aged mongrel that had picked up a thorn in its paw. Little did she suspect, until she opened her front door, that the sounds were human and produced by the always resourceful Benito. The Mex could never be convinced that his voice was lacking in tonal quality and correct pitch; as a matter of fact all that Benito’s voice could really offer was volume. He was of the opinion that, by serenading this lady, he would swiftly win her heart—and her dinero. What easier way to fill one’s pockets?
He rose from the top step
of the porch, hugging his guitar to his sunken chest, doffing his floppy sombrero and showing her an eager leer, as she opened the front door.
“Buenas noches, señora!”
“Oh, my,” frowned Mercedes.
“Perdon?” asked Benito.
“No hablo espanol,” she apologized, shrugging helplessly. “Unless you can speak English, I’m afraid we’ll never understand each other.”
“But, señora—bello señora—I speak good English,” he hastened to assure her.
“In that case,” said Mercedes, folding her arms over her well rounded bosom, “perhaps you’ll explain why you are loitering on my front porch—making this terrible noise? I came out here expecting to find a hurt dog. Instead, I find you. What is the meaning of this act of trespass?”
“A dog? Me?”
He eyed her aggrievedly, so she endeavored to soften the blow to his pride.
“Please don’t misunderstand—Señor …?”
“Espina, señora. Benito Espina—your devoted admirador.”
“Señor Espina, I did not mean to imply that you look like a dog …”
“Muchas gracias, señora.”
“I meant that you sound like a dog.”
“¡Caramba!”
She shook her head in vexation, wondering how best to cope with this pathetic little man. After a moment of hesitation, she resorted to that hardy standby—the direct question.
“What are you doing here?”
“Señora …” He eyed her incredulously. “Did you not hear? I have come to serenade you.”
“To sing to me?” blinked Mercedes. “Heavens to Betsy—why?”
“Why does any caballero sing the serenade to a woman?” He shrugged, heaved a sigh, rolled his eyes. “Is because I have love for you, señora. Mucho amor—much love.”
She didn’t swoon into his arms as he had so confidently anticipated. Instead, she eyed him very cautiously, sizing him up.
Four – Night of the Swinging Hatchets
It was all too apparent to Mercedes that her sawn-off visitor had been drinking—and something stronger than coffee. She jumped to a conclusion and, for Benito, the nightmare began. At first, of course, it didn’t seem like a nightmare; the full significance of his predicament would not become evident right away.
“He’s another of them,” Mercedes assured herself. “Another of the victims, this unfortunate little man is inebriated—hopelessly drunk. Why else would he imagine himself to be in love with me—an unattractive widow? But maybe it’s not too late to help him.”
“I’m so terribly sorry for you, Señor Espina,” she murmured.
“Gracias!” he grinned.
He had no idea as to why the lady felt sorry for him, but this would not be the first occasion upon which he had played on the sympathies of a member of the opposite sex.
“Come inside,” she invited, and his heart jumped. “You look so weak. I can’t imagine how long it has been since you had proper food.”
“Muchas gracias!”
He followed his hostess along the hall and into the kitchen, congratulating himself, assuring himself that to rob this foolish female would be a ridiculously easy chore. Was she not playing right into his hands? ¡Caramba! No need to break into the house. Why use force, when a well chosen song would achieve the same purpose? How satisfying, how much more satisfying to a thief of his artistry, than the mere picking of pockets.
“Sit right there,” ordered Mercedes, pointing to a kitchen chair.
“Si, Señora.” Obediently, he seated himself at the table, thinking, “One might as well be fed before one goes to work.”
“I neglected to introduce myself, Señor Espina,” said Mercedes, while busying herself at the stove. “My name is Mercedes Cragg, and I am a widow—my dear husband having passed to his reward some eight years ago.”
“This is sad, my querida,” he conceded, “but at least you are free—no? I will come to you many times—to sing to you—and …”
“You do need food,” she sighed. “And coffee—plenty of coffee—hot and black and strong.”
For the next ten minutes or so he was given little opportunity to make speeches of love; how can one speak of love—or any other subject—when one is being plied with coffee, bread, cold cuts and peach conserve? Having restored him with those appetizers, Mercedes prepared a supper double the size she normally required, served it on the kitchen table and seated herself opposite him. With his mouth half-full, he had the good grace to remark:
“You are too kind to me, my querida.”
“How—exactly how,” she demanded, “do you feel?”
“My heart is full of love for—” he began.
“How does your head feel?” Mercedes calculated that he should be approaching complete sobriety by now. Surely good food and black coffee should have worked the transformation.
“My head?” He gestured helplessly with a laden fork. “It reels, querida. I see you as the answer to all my dreams, the most beautiful woman I have ever loved—”
“He’s still drunk,” she reflected. “Well, he’s an advanced case, I suppose, so I must be patient. Talk may succeed where black coffee has failed.”
Aloud, she earnestly declared, “You must realize, Señor Espina, that the position is not hopeless. Your condition can be cured.”
“My condition?” He swallowed a mouthful, eyed her enquiringly. “Ah—you speak of my heart which aches for you.”
“You’re drunk,” said Mercedes, bluntly.
“Si,” he grinned. “Drunk from love of you, my little pigeon.”
“We aren’t children, Señor …” she began.
“Call me Benito,” he offered.
“Very well,” she frowned. “And you may call me Sister Mercedes—for I am a sister of all who suffer as you have suffered, my poor Benito.”
“Perdon?” he blinked.
“We aren’t children, Benito,” she pointed out. “We both know why you are here.”
He tensed, darted a nervous glance toward the back door and wondered how such a foolish female could so accurately read his mind.
“We know why you are here,” she sadly repeated. “A man in your condition is simply not responsible for his actions. You drank too much. You couldn’t think clearly. You saw a woman, so you followed her home and began serenading her. The woman happened to be me. It could just as easily have been a child, or poor old Mrs. Roach who lives next door—she’s all of eighty-five.”
“My querida …” he began.
“I am only one of many,” she explained. “There are ten of us—ten good women whose only desire is to help men such as yourself. Won’t you please let us help you, Benito?”
He struggled to maintain an uncomprehending exterior while, inwardly, he wallowed in self-congratulation. ¡Caramba! This situation had endless possibilities. Not one gullible female—but ten of them—and all wanting to help him! Ten purses for the looting. Surely this would add up to a very useful sum. This was indeed a lucky night for Benito Espina, the greatest thief of all the Espina family.
Assuming a woebegone expression, he mumbled, “You are right, I think my querida. Is best I let you help me, eh?”
“Then you’ll do it?” she asked.
His eyes gleamed, as he assured her, “I will do anything.”
“I’m so glad, so grateful!” she sighed. “We’ve waited so long. And now—at last—we have our first male member.” Noting his puzzled expression, she explained, “I am referring to the league. I took it for granted you’d heard of us, and that you wished to join us.”
“I will join you in anything,” he offered. “Anything you wish, my querida.”
“What does that word mean?” she enquired.
“Which word?” he asked.
“Querida,” said Mercedes.
“This means beloved,” declared Benito, with feeling.
“Heavens to Betsy!” She shook her head worriedly. “You’d best call me Sister Cragg, when my collea
gues arrive. I can’t imagine what they’d think of me, if they heard you call me querida.”
“They come?” he eagerly enquired. “These other women that would help poor Benito?”
“They should be here very soon,” she nodded. “Yes. After a short meeting, we will march forth to find others in need of our help—men just as unfortunate as yourself.”
Studying him intently, she decided he was now sufficiently sober to comprehend the aims and aspirations of the organization to which she had pledged allegiance. “That is why the league was formed, Benito. Our great cause is the salvation of man.”
“But for this we have priests and parracos,” he protested.
“I did not mean the salvation of immortal souls,” said Mercedes. “I refer to the salvaging of those human derelicts, those drink sodden men who have forfeited their health and the happiness of their wives and children—and all for the sake of the Demon Drink. Our cause is clearly explained by the name of our organization.” She squared her shoulders and told him, proudly, “We are the League of Loyal Abstainers, and we are opposed to alcoholic beverages in any form.”
Even now, Benito wasn’t especially alarmed. On the contrary, he thought it somewhat comical that the Widow Cragg was an enthusiastic member of a temperance organization—and assuming him to be a willing recruit to the cause. Why disillusion her? She might as well enjoy herself while she could. All he needed was a little time, just time enough to locate her reticule, a cashbox, a bag stowed away somewhere in the house, a canister maybe—wherever her dinero was hidden, he would surely find it.
But it wasn’t to be that easy. As a matter of fact, his whole plan was to prove downright impossible. No sooner had Mercedes cleared away the supper dishes—during which operation he furtively searched the kitchen—than there was a pounding at the front door.
“They’re here!” she joyfully informed him, as she hurried into the hall.
He ignored the sounds issuing from the region of the front door, taking advantage of her temporary absence to check the last few hiding places in the kitchen. In the bread bin, the canisters and the fuel box, he found no secreted wealth. He was standing in the archway connecting the kitchen to the hall, feeling at the wallboards to ascertain if any were removable, when a strong hand descended upon his shoulder. He trembled, turned to face an elderly lady who appeared twice as large as Mercedes. She was tall, triple chinned and tightly corseted, a large bovine biddy in black bombazine gown and beribboned bonnet. She was smiling, and that smile was more demoralizing to Benito than any scowl.
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