Big Jim 7

by Marshall Grover

  “So long, Morrison.”

  “So long,” said Clay.

  As he sauntered toward the Marris House with the expectation of a night of uninterrupted slumber, Jim Rand asked himself one last question.

  “I wonder what Clay Morrow is up to. He’s a clumsy liar, but it’s none of my business. I’m hunting a back shooting killer and can’t waste time on a wife deserter.”

  He found Benito hanging his sodden garments to an improvised clothesline, a blanket shrouding his runty frame.

  “I am still much afraid of these womans,” he assured the big man, by way of greeting. “How soon do we quit this town, eh, Amigo Jim?”

  “Tomorrow morning early,” frowned Jim. “We’ll be riding north to a town called Lewisburg—if the Cimarron River is running low enough for us to ford.”

  “Jenner is in Lewisburg?” asked Benito.

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” said Jim.

  Six – Penalty of Gun Glory

  At eight o’clock of the following morning, a full ninety minutes after Big Jim and Benito had begun their journey north, the owner of the Cimarron Saloon was in conference with his fellow conspirators—the fat marshal, the scar-faced Rollo Yuill and the disgruntled Ed Larkin.

  “The old Barnshaw sow and her friends had ’emselves quite a time.” Lundy grinned lazily. “Looks like they sank their hatchets into damn near every corner of your place, Ernie. Gonna cost you plenty to get your furniture fixed.”

  “I’ve hired a couple carpenters,” muttered Trantor. “They claim I’ll have enough chairs and tables fixed to open for business tonight.” He lowered his voice as he added, “It won’t matter a damn anyway—after the nineteenth of the month.”

  “We don’t dare try for that payroll,” asserted Larkin, “unless we’re sure Curtis can’t talk.”

  “Ernie thinks we can depend on that Rand feller,” drawled Yuill, “and that’s good enough for me.”

  “We don’t have to worry about Rand,” said Trantor. “He’s on his way. I saw him riding out with his Mex sidekick right after sunrise. Curtis is no longer a problem, but Lee is.”

  “Lee Burch is dead,” Larkin reminded him.

  “And his death raises another problem,” growled Trantor. “We’re one man short.”

  “You could handle it with just Rollo and Ed to side you,” opined Lundy.

  “There’ll be at least a half-dozen soldier boys,” said Trantor, “including the wagon driver. Six against three? I don’t like those odds, Gus. I was counting on Lee to handle at least two of the opposition. He was always good with a rifle—fast and accurate.”

  Yuill’s scarred visage creased in a mirthless grin, as he remarked, “With a sneak gun—at close up range—Lee couldn’t score on that Morrison hombre.”

  “It’s my hunch Lee was too wrought up to shoot straight last night,” countered Trantor. “He’d been mixed up in the riot and he was sore at Jo Gifford.”

  “I got no sympathy,” grimaced Larkin, “for any fool that gets involved with the likes of a saloon woman.”

  “Ernie,” said the marshal, “I can’t ride with you—not if you want me to give you an alibi.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of taking you along,” said Trantor. “You’re more valuable to us if you stay behind. There might be troopers or a law posse from Drago riding into Durrance—right on our heels.”

  “And they’ll believe whatever they’re told,” grinned Lundy. He winked as he added, “Whatever they’re told by the marshal of Durrance.”

  “So you have to stay behind,” said Trantor. “And besides, Gus, you’d be a mite too conspicuous, if you know what I mean.”

  “Just because I’m a mite bigger’n the rest of you?” chuckled Lundy.

  “Are we gonna sit here and make jokes, or do we get down to business?” scowled Larkin. “I agree with Ernie. I say three of us aren’t enough.”

  “We need a fourth man, just the way I planned it at the start,” opined Trantor. “Fast with a gun—a nervy jasper who won’t mind taking a few chances.” He gestured worriedly. “He’d have to be mighty reliable—the way Lee was reliable. And who can I get?”

  “For a fifth share of that payroll,” offered Yuill, “I can think of many a local hardcase who’d jump at the chance.”

  “So can I,” nodded Trantor. “But we need a very special kind of man, Rollo. He has to be able, as well as willing. Trigger happy thieves are a dime a dozen. Lee Burch was too valuable to lose, and …”

  “You’ve lost him anyway,” taunted Joanna Gifford, “so you have to replace him—like it or not.”

  She had entered the saloon by the rear door a short time before. Now she emerged from the kitchen entrance, which was located close by the table where the conspirators sat. Larkin cursed softly. Yuill grinned and shrugged. The saloonkeeper eyed the woman intently. This morning she was rigged in a flowered street gown and a large hat festooned with artificial fruit. She appeared poised, very sure of herself, as she sketched Trantor an airy salute. Larkin said, vehemently:

  “I don’t trust spies—’specially if they’re female.”

  “Shut up, Ed,” chided Trantor, still looking at Joanna. “If you have to talk, keep your voice down.”

  “Jo’s no fool,” opined Yuill.

  “I reckon—uh—she’d never be fool enough to open her purty mouth,” mumbled Lundy, “at the wrong time, or in the wrong place.”

  “I’m wondering how much Lee told her,” frowned Trantor.

  “Lee told me plenty,” she assured him, moving closer to the table, “but you don’t have to worry on my account. Why should I spoil my chances?”

  “Your chances of what?” demanded Trantor.

  “Why …” Her smile broadened, “of collecting a little piece of that payroll loot—the army payroll bound for Fort Gearey from Brent City—on the nineteenth. Time’s gettin’ close, eh, Ernie?”

  “Burch told her everything!” fumed Larkin.

  “I told you to shut up,” growled Trantor. “Don’t make me tell you again, Ed. I’m getting weary of your bellyaching.”

  “Take it easy, fellers,” advised Lundy. “We got nothin’ to gain from losin’ our tempers. We need Ed, because he’s gonna supply the horses—good horses—fast horses. We all need one another. Like Ernie said at the start, we got to work as a tight bound crew.”

  “I’m gonna get good and mad,” the woman good humoredly threatened, “if one of you fine gentlemen doesn’t offer me a chair and a cup of that coffee.”

  Grinning, Yuill surrendered his chair, helped her seat herself. Trantor reached for a spare cup, filled it with coffee. As she sipped at it, he muttered a warning.

  “I shouldn’t have to spell it out to an old hand like you, Jo. You know better than to run off at the mouth.”

  ”I never did mean to talk about it,” she assured him.

  “Fine,” said Trantor. “So we understand each other.”

  “And you still got a problem,” she pointed out. “With Lee dead, you need to hire another man.”

  “Got any ideas, Jo?” prodded Yuill.

  “A smart man would hire Cole Morrison,” she opined, “while he’s still available.”

  Larkin swore luridly. Yuill’s grin faded. Lundy’s flabby visage became blank and Trantor eyed the woman perplexedly.

  “Hire the gun that killed Lee? What the hell …?”

  “Why not?” she challenged. “Were you all that fond of Lee? I sure wasn’t.”

  “She’s talkin’ crazy,” muttered Larkin. “Morrison killed one of your own hired hands, and now …”

  “And now we’re a man short,” frowned Lundy.

  “Morrison doesn’t know a thing—yet,” the woman assured them. “If you don’t want him …” She shrugged nonchalantly, “forget what I said. Hire some other feller— if you can find one.”

  “How much do you know about Morrison?” demanded Trantor.

  “He’s the kind that doesn’t lose his head when the chips are down,” s
he drawled. “He’s close mouthed and nervy and fast with a gun. I don’t think he’s on the run, because he didn’t turn leery when he saw the marshal’s badge last night, but he has been on the run—I’m sure of that. He’s one of your kind, Ernie.”

  “When it comes to sizin’ a man up,” Yuill remarked to Trantor, “Jo’s an expert.”

  “Any man that stands up against Lee Burch,” mused Lundy, “at close range …”

  “But, like I said before,” smiled Joanna, “you forget about Cole Morrison—if good gunhands are all that plentiful.”

  “He only got here last night,” Trantor reflected. “You scarce know him.”

  “I know enough about him,” she declared.

  ‘‘Have you taken a shine to Morrison?” prodded Trantor.

  “Maybe.” She winked, chuckled softly.

  “Only reason I’m asking,” said Trantor, “is we just might have to put him away.”

  “You mean …?” she began.

  “I mean shut his mouth—permanently,” he growled. “Figure it out for yourself, Jo. We put the proposition to Morrison. If he wants in, that’s fine. He rides along with us, handles his share of the chores, collects his share of the loot. But if he doesn't want in, if his answer is ‘no’, then what? Do you think I could let him ride free—knowing our whole plan? He could be another Jay Curtis and start blackmailing us. It would be like handing him a cocked sixgun and inviting him to hold it to my head.”

  “You better heed what Ernie’s tellin’ you,” muttered Lundy.

  “I’m heedin’ him,” she frowned.

  “So?” challenged Trantor. “You still want me to proposition Morrison? Remember—it could mean his life.”

  “Morrison’s the man for you,” she confidently assured him. “It’s my hunch he’ll jump at the chance to join you.” She rose from her chair. “You want I should go find him? I scarce ever go lookin’ for a man, but Cole’s an exceptional feller.”

  “Tell him nothing,” ordered Trantor. “Just say that I want to talk a deal with him.”

  As the woman picked her way through the debris towards the batwings, Larkin quietly told the saloonkeeper, “I hope you aren’t makin’ a mistake.”

  “We need that extra man,” Trantor reminded him, “and our time is running out.”

  ~*~

  Upon rising that morning, Clay Morrow’s feelings were mixed. He felt elation, shame and apprehension all at the same time. To have faced a man in mortal combat was a harrowing experience from which he had emerged triumphant and elated, not because of any bloodthirsty instincts but because he was grateful to be alive. The proprietor of this humble establishment had fetched him a bowl of hot water for his shave and morning ablutions, and had viewed him with awe. And why not? Throughout Durrance, he was being discussed as the mysterious stranger who killed Lee Burch. The gambler, it seemed, had been regarded locally as a pistolero of considerable skill.

  He shaved cheeks, jowls and chin, leaving the growth on his upper lip. All his adult life he had yearned to grow a mustache; always there had been somebody who objected. After finishing his ablutions and donning clean clothes, he viewed his reflection and decided that the mustache gave him maturity and a look of belligerence.

  He strapped the gunbelt about his loins, thonged the holster down. Donning his Stetson, he set it at a rakish angle. The whisky bottle, half-empty, stood on the table beside his bed. He stowed it in his saddlebag, feeling no temptation to take a drink. What he needed right now was food, a hearty breakfast to fill the void in his innards.

  Ambling the Main Street boardwalk in search of a hash house, he was conscious of the curious stares of passersby. Some threw him covert sidelong glances. Some studied him from behind window shades. So this was notoriety, this was how it felt to be a celebrity? Well, it beat being a nondescript citizen of isolated Ellistown.

  The diner he chose was a small establishment boasting six tables and eight stools drawn up to a narrow counter. When he appeared in the entrance, the place was half-full. He turned towards a table by a front window, the two occupants of which promptly gathered their cutlery and their dishes and transferred themselves to stools at the counter. Shrugging, he moved to that table and seated himself. The proprietor then emerged from his kitchen, hurrying across to take his order.

  “Hot biscuits and ham and eggs—the eggs sunny side up,” he muttered, “and plenty of coffee.”

  “Be right with you, Mr. Morrison,” promised the proprietor. And, as he turned to hustle back to his kitchen, “Allerdice is my name, Mr. Morrison. Barney Allerdice. Any time you get to feelin’ hungry, we’ll be glad to …”

  “I’m hungry right now,” growled Clay. “I crave breakfast.”

  “Comin’ up!” panted Allerdice.

  The new celebrity had been sighted by Joanna Gifford a few moments before his entering the diner. She was approaching from the direction of the Cimarron Saloon and arrived just as his breakfast was delivered. From the open doorway, she flashed him a smile. He rose, muttered a greeting and an invitation.

  “Just coffee,” she told Allerdice, as Clay held a chair out for her. “Well, Cole, how’re you feelin’?”

  “Nothing wrong with me that a good breakfast can’t cure,” he assured her, while re-seating himself. “You mind if I go ahead and eat?”

  “Do that,” she urged. “You eat. I’ll talk.”

  “Pour yourself a cup of coffee,” he offered.

  For the first few minutes of this conversation, she confined herself to casual queries as to his general condition—had he slept well—did he have any qualms about his run-in with Burch—did he still intend remaining in Durrance a while? He answered only the last question, and with a wry grin.

  “I’ll hang around in Durrance—but only because that fat badge toter tried to order me out.”

  “You aren’t partial to lawmen, eh, Cole?” she prodded.

  “I can take ’em or leave ’em,” he muttered.

  She chuckled softly, and declared, “I knew I had you pegged right. You’re a man who knows his way around. You have the look of a freebooter who’s been everywhere—and done everything.”

  “That’s been said about me before,” he drawled.

  And the lie came easily, as easily as his acceptance of notoriety. He was enjoying it, would cling to it for as long as possible. What was she saying now? He was only half listening, while working his way through his breakfast and savoring the apprehensive glances aimed at him by the other diners.

  “… just about the most interesting proposition you ever listened to, I promise you that. And you’ll remember my warnin’, won’t you, Cole?”

  “What warning was that?” he frowned.

  “If you refuse his offer,” said Joanna, “you’ll need to tread wary from that moment on. You savvy why, don’t you?”

  “Well …” he began.

  “To proposition you,” she stressed, “he has to let you in on the whole plan.”

  “I know how to keep my mouth shut,” he assured her.

  “And I believe you,” she nodded. “But now we have to convince Ernie.” She flashed him another smile. “Finish your breakfast. Cole. Then go talk to him.”

  A short time later, having disposed of his second cup of coffee, he rolled and lit a cigarette. What kind of a proposition did Ernie have in mind? And, if it came to that, who in tarnation was Ernie? He should have paid closer attention to what this woman had been telling him. Well, no matter. He was a free agent now and a man of reputation. He could accept or reject offers of employment here in Durrance and, judging from the attitude of Allerdice and his customers, no man would dare dispute his decisions.

  He swaggered a little, while quitting the diner with the redhead. Along Main they strolled arm in arm, headed for the Cimarron Saloon, and not until they were almost at the entrance did she repeat her warning.

  “If you have to refuse, watch your step from that moment on. These boys play rough—and for keeps.”

  He fe
lt a chill gnawing at the pit of his belly. Was he getting in over his head? They were moving into the barroom now. Most of the debris had been cleared away. The few men present eyed him askance. Again that feeling of conquest, of power. Was this not what he had craved for so long, to be admired, respected, feared? Well, by glory, he wasn’t about to turn back. He would listen to the proposition offered by Ernie—whoever Ernie was—and would throw it back in his face, adding a sharp warning that he, the man who shot Lee Burch, preferred to be left well alone.

  Rollo Yuill was seated at a table near the bottom of the stairs, dealing solitaire. In response to his mute query, a raising of his eyebrows, Joanna announced:

  “My friend here is ready to talk business.”

  “Fine,” grunted the scar-faced gambler. He abandoned the cards, got to his feet and jerked a thumb. “Let’s go. He’s waitin’ for you upstairs.”

  “Be seein’ you, Cole,” murmured the woman.

  “Yeah, sure,” nodded Clay, as he fell in behind the gambler.

  They climbed the stairs, walked a few yards along the gallery to the door of the office. Larkin opened it in answer to Yuill’s knock.

  ‘‘He’s here,” Yuill announced. Then, standing to one side and nodding to Clay, “Go on in.”

  Clay had recognized Yuill as one of the saloon’s table hands. Now, entering the office, he recognized two others, the large and rotund Lundy, the tall, sharply-tailored Ernie Trantor. So the man in the fancy clothes was the owner of the Cimarron Saloon, and obviously in cahoots with the sleepy-eyed marshal. This was his first experience of a rogue lawman, and he wasn’t enjoying it one little bit. He didn’t like the looks of the other man, the frowning Ed Larkin.

  “You drinkin’, Morrison?” asked Lundy, who was pouring himself a shot at Trantor’s liquor cabinet.

  “Too early in the day for me,” said Clay.

  “Sit down,” offered Trantor. Clay helped himself to the only vacant chair, leaving Yuill to lounge by the door. “You know everybody? No? Well, you’ve already met Gus Lundy, and the jasper by the door is Rollo Yuill. This other gent is Ed Larkin—and I’m Ernie Trantor.” He leaned back in his chair, tucked a thumb in the armhole of the vest. “You’re making quite a reputation for yourself here in Durrance.”