The thought came to him as he scratched a match on his thumbnail; it was as though the flare of the match and the flash of realization coincided. A storekeeper. A man of humble demeanor, eager to be friendly, eager to converse with strangers. Where had it happened? Only recently, surely. Wait a minute! Ellistown. The humdrum little general store presided over by the man who so bitterly resented Ellistown’s isolation.
“He couldn’t be the same man.” He argued with himself, as he began sauntering along the rear laneway. “What was his name? Moore? Burrows? No. Morrow. Yes, his name was Morrow, and I recall he spoke of his wife and kids. What would he be doing so far from Ellistown—here in a burg like Durrance? No, he couldn’t be the same man.”
But Jim Rand resented uncertainty, preferred to be sure about everything whenever possible, so he continued to walk that rear laneway, staring ahead towards its outlet.
The lane opened into a side street, and it was here that the woman remarked, “You might’s well walk me all the way to where I live.”
“Why, sure,” agreed Clay.
She wore no shawl, but the crisp night air didn’t seem to bother her, and a droll thought crossed his mind. Were there goose pimples on those bare shoulders and arms? The silken gown seemed flimsy, somewhat less than adequate. She walked unhurriedly, one arm locked through his.
“Got to hand it to you, Cole,” she drawled. “You sure move fast in time of trouble. I scarce had time to draw a breath before you’d pulled me out of my chair and were hustlin’ me to that rear door.”
“I’m old fashioned,” he replied, striving to sound offhanded. “I just didn’t relish the idea of you getting hit by a flying spittoon, or a chair.”
“And you aren’t partial to saloon brawls,” she guessed.
“I didn’t start that hassle,” he shrugged, “so why should I mix into it? I’m a feller believes in looking out for himself.”
“Cole Morrison—honey,” she murmured, “you and me think alike.”
They walked past several houses and she continued to query him. He lied, and enjoyed the lying. His replies were curt and uncommunicative, and Joanna Gifford was more than ever convinced that this was a man who had lived hard and dangerously. His taciturnity impressed her where a long recitation describing hectic exploits might have failed to do so. It was his non-committal demeanor that moved her to assure him, “Your secrets would be safe with me.”
“Maybe,” he grunted. “But I never was one for talking too free.”'
“Suit yourself,” she smiled.
A few moments later they came to the rooming house that was home to Joanna and the other percenters employed at the Cimarron. The porch was illuminated by a hanging oil lamp. It was a grim, forbidding edifice of clapboard and adobe, but Clay’s spirits were still high. He was congratulating himself.
“I’m a different man. This saloon woman—so almighty smart and hardboiled—takes me for one of her own kind, thinks I’m some kind of hardcase. How about that? And to think that Nell once accused me of having no imagination! Huh! What would Nell know about imagination?”
As they climbed to the porch, Joanna softly murmured an invitation.
“Come on in and keep me company a while. I got a bottle stashed away.”
He was ready with a rebuff which he hoped would seem in character with the aura of mystery he had conjured up.
“I’ve had all the liquor I need for tonight. I’m a man that believes in keeping his wits sharp. Firewater is apt to slow me down.”
“Don’t you trust me?” she teased.
“Ask me that question again,” he countered, “a few days from now.”
He heard heavy footsteps along the boardwalk, but paid no attention until Joanna gave vent to her exasperation. Grim-faced, Burch came trudging up the steps to confront them.
“I warned you,” he reminded her, without preamble. “The trouble with you, Jo, is you don’t take me serious!”
“Go back to the saloon, Lee,” she coldly invited. “Leave me alone.”
“Now, look …” began Clay.
He had rarely, if ever, been involved in a heated argument, but felt obliged to act as intermediary in this case. Burch sourly invited him to, “Butt outa this!”
“Lee—for pity’s sakes—” protested the woman.
“Women like you ain’t worth a damn!” snarled Burch. “You’ll sell yourself for a couple of dollars to any stranger! The hell with you—you double-crossin’ tramp …!”
He stepped closer to her, swinging a vicious backhander that sent her reeling to the closed door of the rooming house. She slumped there, gasping, caressing her smarting face, while he continued to heap abuse on her. And, for Clay Morrow, this was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments. Here was where the would-be adventurer had to be separated from the humdrum small-towner. If he possessed a modicum of nerve and courage, that nerve and courage would have to manifest itself now—or never.
For the first time in his life, Clay actually struck a fellow man. Ironically there was nothing clumsy about it; he made the blow count. He simply made a half-turn, swinging his left arm, bunching his fist, and the fist caught Burch’s chin a glancing blow. Burch spun and flopped with his back to the porch rail.
“Cole!” breathed the woman. “Be careful—take no chances with him …!”
“It’s all right,” frowned Clay.
He was walking over to the doorway to comfort her, when she screamed a warning. When he turned again, something small and ugly and lethal gleamed in Burch’s right hand—a derringer.
“You’re gonna pay in blood,” panted the gambler, “for buttin’ into my business!”
The entire incident was witnessed by Jim, as well as by the few other locals in sight of and within earshot of that lamplit porch. Jim had quickened his step, though he sensed he could never reach the porch in time to prevent a shooting. The derringer gave out its angry, barking, coughing report, and a very alarmed Clay Morrow felt a tugging sensation at his left sleeve. The range was close and, had Burch not been trembling with fury, that slug could just as easily have struck him full in the chest. His alarm increased. Mindful that a Remington derringer is good for two shots, he did the instinctive thing, emptying his holster, thumbing back the hammer of his Colt. He squeezed trigger, not in anger, not with the bloodlust, but because he craved to stay alive—and this seemed the only way. As it happened, he was right. Burch was more than ready to send that second snub-nosed bullet slamming into his chest, would certainly have done so had Clay not reacted so speedily.
Joanna Gifford wasn’t the screaming kind. Her hand flew to her mouth and she made a moaning sound, but she did not scream, as Lee Burch back somersaulted over the porch rail with his shirtfront bloody. Clay stood frozen, the .45 still gripped in his right fist, a wisp of gunsmoke issuing from its muzzle. The onlookers drew closer, muttering. Burch lay sprawled on his back, the derringer gleaming on the boardwalk a few inches from his outstretched, lifeless hand. His eyes were wide open and glazed. Death had been instantaneous.
It suited Jim not to advance any closer. The sound of the two gunshots was drawing a larger crowd now, and the man hefting the sixgun would have more than enough witnesses to back his claim of self-defense; he needed nothing from Jim and Jim wanted no complications at this time, because he was eager to quit Durrance early in the morning. He paused beside the picket fence, smoking his cigarette, watching and listening.
Only a few minutes passed before the massive marshal lumbered onto the scene. By then, Clay had holstered his Colt. Lundy studied the dead man a few moments, then climbed to the porch and aimed a query at Joanna, while thoughtfully studying the stranger. Immediately, the onlookers began contributing their comments, a confused babble that caused Lundy to gesture impatiently.
“Hold it a while, for gosh sakes. Everybody’ll get their chance to say their piece!” He stared hard at the woman. “How about it, Jo?”
“Lee was beggin’ for it,” she shrugged. “When he started sl
appin’ me around, this gent butted in, and …”
“Name of who?” Lundy demanded.
“Morrison’s his name,” said Joanna, and Jim heard clearly. “Cole Morrison.”
“Morrison,” said Lundy, “what brings you to Durrance?”
“Nothing special,” frowned Clay. With a suggestion of bravado, he added, “You could say I’m on the drift.”
“Lee took a shot at Cole,” said Joanna. “You can see where the bullet tore his sleeve. What else could he do but defend himself? You wouldn’t expect him to just stand there and let Lee try again—would you?”
“Well …” Lundy rubbed at his flabby jowls, “if Burch got in the first shot …?”
“We all saw it,” offered a man in the crowd.
“All right,” shrugged Lundy. “Couple of you tote Burch along to the funeral parlor. And you …” He looked at Clay again, “I’d keep right on driftin’, if I was you. Quit town rightaway. Burch had friends that might hanker to get even.”
And Clay could not restrain himself from saying, “I’ll quit this burg when I’m good and ready.”
It was what they expected of him, he assured himself. The tough, defiant retort of a tough, defiant gunman. He had made an impression. Why weaken that impression by surrendering to the fear, the shock and uncertainty now plaguing his innards? He had killed a man. The memory of it would stay with him the rest of his days. He despised himself at this moment, but was determined to consolidate his position, to make capital of this rare opportunity, to appear as formidable as all the denizens of the hell towns he had heard about.
Lundy gave no indication of wishing to pursue the point, but turned and descended from the porch. The body was being carried away. The door of the rooming house was open now. Joanna stood there, dabbing at her brow with a kerchief. Some of her color was returning.
“That was really somethin’,” she breathed. “For a while there, I wasn’t sure who’d come out alive. He was too close for comfort. If he’d gotten off his second shot …”
“His second shot could’ve put me down,” growled Clay, “That was a risk I didn’t aim to take.”
“He got what was comin’ to him,” she declared.
“If he was a special friend of yours, I’m sorry,” drawled Clay. “It’s just that I never could abide to see a woman treated that way.”
“You’re quite a man, Cole Morrison,” she whispered, as she leaned against him, “quite a man.” She pressed her mouth to his and, while her face was still upraised, suggested, “You ought to come in and visit with me.”
“I reckon not,” he said. “Thanks anyway.”
“Well—what’ll you do now?” she demanded.
“Find a place to stay,” he told her. “Some room and board place.” He frowned at the open doorway. “But not this one.”
“I’m glad you’re gonna be around for a while,” she murmured. “If you’re lookin’ for me, you know where to find me.”
“Sure,” he grunted.
As he strode along the boardwalk towards Main Street, he failed to notice the tall man idling by the picket fence. Past Jim he walked and on towards the corner, and Jim was still uncertain.
“That storekeeper in Ellistown was strictly a family man,” he reminded himself. “A wife. A couple of kids. Could he change so fast? I don’t know, and maybe it’s none of my business.”
On the other hand, he needed to sleep this night so as to embark on tomorrow’s northern journey fully refreshed, and who can sleep with an unanswered question plaguing his brain? Better to have it out with this Morrison hombre. A few minutes of straight talk should clear the air. He began following the man who had just killed Lee Burch.
Drawing abreast of the entrance to the rear alley, Clay suddenly turned. To the watching Jim, it seemed he was stumbling. He moved on to the corner, glanced along the laneway and, some thirty yards away, saw Clay again. Clay was leaning against a wall and being violently ill. The reaction had hit him with all the devastating impact of a hard punch to the belly.
He was panting heavily when he returned to the side street. By then, Jim had discreetly withdrawn into the background. He tagged his quarry at a greater distance now, following him into Main Street, watching him retrieve his mount from the rack outside the Cimarron and begin leading it downtown. The saloon was quieter now, but the League of Loyal Abstainers weren’t through for the night, not by a long shot. Hefting their hatchets and chanting “Onward Christian Soldiers”, they were now marching uptown, advancing on a joy house that rejoiced in the title of Queen of Diamonds. The Queen of Diamonds, Jim reflected, was about to lose some of its luster.
They were a unique body of women, these belligerent ladies of Durrance, but he had lost interest in them. His immediate concern was the man now leading a bay colt downtown. He followed, saw Clay check the bay into a livery stable and move on to a dingy-looking hostelry called the Hotel Augusta. For some ten minutes he waited outside this establishment, giving his man ample time to settle in. He then entered the lobby and queried the desk clerk, a bespectacled individual who seemed more intent on his reading of a Sears Roebuck catalogue than anything else; he didn’t even raise his face when Jim enquired for the man who had just registered.
“Room Three, up the stairs,” was all he said.
Jim climbed the stairs to rap at the door marked ‘3’, “Who is it?” Clay called to him.
“The name is Rand,” Jim replied. “I’m a mite curious about you, and—”
“I’m in no mood for satisfying anybody’s curiosity,” came the truculent retort.
Clay was squatting on the room’s only chair, leaning on a small table and staring apprehensively at the closed door, while his hands trembled over the chore of pouring a much needed bracer from a pint bottle of rye. He couldn’t seem to hold the glass steady. Rand? He remembered that name only too well. The big man who had impressed him so. Rand had spotted him! So much for his masquerade. All it took was one man who had seen him before. Recognition had been immediate, he supposed. And to think he had considered himself a changed man, a new identity! Did he have any hope of brazening it out with Rand? He rose up, trudged to the washbasin and studied his reflection in the cracked mirror hanging above it. By glory, maybe he could deceive Rand! Well, he could at least make the attempt. “This won’t take but a minute,” Jim called to him.
On his way back to his chair, he growled a reply.
“All right. The door’s not locked.”
Jim came in quietly, closing the door behind him, then standing with his back to it, his arms folded. Clay traded stares with him and asked, gruffly, “What’s it all about?”
“Just a little matter of identity,” Jim explained, still studying that unshaven countenance. “I was puzzled when I first saw you—could’ve sworn I’d met you only a little while back.”
“You never saw me before, mister,” muttered Clay. “I’d remember, wouldn’t I? Hell, a hombre your size can’t be forgotten.” He raised his glass. “You want a drink?” Jim shook his head. Clay took a stiff pull at the raw liquor and felt a little better. “Just had me a run-in with some proddy gambler. Thing like that is apt to shake a man up—no matter how many times it’s happened before.”
“I know about the shooting,” nodded Jim. “And it has happened before?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?” frowned Clay.
“My name is Jim Rand,” said Jim, quietly. “A few days ago, I passed through a place called Ellistown, a very quiet place where a man named Clay Morrow runs a small emporium.”
“So?” challenged Clay.
“There’s quite a similarity,” Jim declared, “between Clay Morrow and Cole Morrison.”
“There ought to be,” said Clay. He took another pull at his drink, showed Jim a sly grin. “Look, Rand, I wouldn’t tell this to anybody else, but you’re curious, and I know better than to try and fool a curious man. If I let you in on a secret, will you keep, your mouth shut?”
“I’m no blabbermo
uth,” said Jim.
“He’s my brother,” said Clay. “The storekeeper you saw in Ellistown. Just one of those things, Rand.”
“Twins?” challenged Jim.
“No.” Clay decided that such a claim might put too great a strain on his visitor’s credulity. “I’m a year and a half older than Clay. He was always the steady one, and I was always too wild for my own good. A few years ago— when I started making a reputation down south …” He nodded significantly, as he patted the butt of his six-shooter, “I decided I ought to change my name. There were too many men with too many reasons for trying to hurt me. Mostly they wanted revenge. If they knew about Clay, they might take it out on him—or Nell or the kids.”
“So you changed your name,” mused Jim, “and you stay away from Ellistown.”
“This is as close as I’ve been to Ellistown in many a long year,” lied Clay. He finished his drink, dug out Durham sack and papers and began building a smoke. “Well Rand? Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
“I’m satisfied,” Jim assured him. Poker faced, he added, “And I’m glad you aren’t Clay.”
“My real name is Will Morrow,” said Clay. “Glad? Why would you be glad or sorry—or anything? It’s no skin off your nose.”
“I mean I’m glad Clay Morrow hasn’t deserted his family and ridden out on some kind of a crazy spree,” drawled Jim. “When a man has responsibilities, he ought to stay put and tend those responsibilities. You agree, Morrison?”
“Uh—well, sure,” nodded Clay, momentarily taken aback.
“In country as wild as this,” said Jim, “a man can think himself lucky to have a wife and kid. Responsibility gives a man a reason to settle—a purpose in life.”
“I guess that’s true enough,” shrugged Clay.
Jim reached behind him, turned the doorknob.
Big Jim 7 Page 6