Gruffly, he told Lon, “I owe you an apology—for staring at you.”
“No harm done,” shrugged Lon.
He nodded curtly to his superior and strode from the office. Fiske finally got around to lighting his cigar and, as the blue smoke wafted to the ceiling, began a short speech of complaint against the situation existing within his bailiwick.
“It wouldn’t be so bad if folks’d just keep their heads. Trouble with this territory is too many hot tempers. Poor old Widow Garcia is gettin’ ready to die and I bear her no grudge, but I wish she’d never opened her big mouth in court. I wish she’d never hollered that crazy curse …”
“You think the curse is working?”
Jim couldn’t disguise the note of derision in his voice, as he drawled that challenge. Fiske turned red, puffed on his cigar until sparks flew from its tip, and sourly declared, “I don’t know what to think.”
For some ten minutes or so, Jim remained with Fiske. Although he couldn’t recall ever seeing a man answering Jenner’s description, the boss-lawman felt obliged to check his ‘wanted’ file. He did so and, having drawn a blank, repeated his assertion that the back-shooting tinhorn had probably never been to Ortega. Jim thanked him, rose to his feet and sauntered out into the sunlight in time to see his runty sidekick running down the main stem as fast as his legs could carry him.
Rarely did the indolent Benito move so briskly. As near as Jim could judge, he was pursuing somebody, and the somebody looked to be a small boy in shabby camisa, ragged pantalones and bare feet. While Jim watched, the niño darted into a side alley with Benito still in hot pursuit.
Jim untethered his stallion and the burro, stepped up to leather and rode downtown to the alley mouth, leading the burro by its rein. To locate the Mex, he was obliged to travel that side alley and several others.
He now found himself approaching an untidy, littered yard behind as ramshackle an adobe dwelling as he had ever seen. Two Mexican girls labored at wooden tubs, washing clothes. One was of lumpy build but, if her shy smile was any indication, of amiable demeanor. The other was slightly younger, trim-figured and very pretty. The small boy pursued by Benito had scuttled into the house. The door was open and, wedged in a chair to the left of it, sat a massive Mexican woman in a gown of black broadcloth. Her swarthy countenance was devoid of expression. The dark eyes had a glazed look. Her pudgy brown fingers held a string of rosary beads.
“Come out, thief!” cried the irate Benito, in his native tongue. “Come out immediately and suffer the penalty of stealing from Benito Espina—and his Amigo Jim!”
“If you’re threatening that half-pint niño,” called Jim, “leave me out of it.”
He reined up a short distance from the washtubs. The two girls had ceased their labors and were eyeing him expectantly. Benito had skidded to a halt because from the doorway there now emerged an aggressive-looking youth armed with a rifle. The weapon was of obsolete design but, in Jim’s opinion, still plenty lethal. Obviously Benito thought so, too. He stood rigid, blinking uneasily. Jim hooked a leg over his saddlehorn, nodded to the youth and said:
“All right, boy, put the rifle away. Nobody’s about to hurt the little feller.”
He was mildly surprised when Deputy Vurness stepped out of the adobe shack. The young lawman accorded him a respectful nod, then put a hand on the barrel of the rifle held by the youth, and said:
“That’s good advice, Miguel. Put the gun away.”
“The ugly one chases Pablito,” growled Miguel.
“Why?” Jim demanded of Benito.
“He steals from us!” announced Benito, in righteous rage.
“Exactly what?” prodded Jim.
“The bread—from your saddlebag,” said Benito, pointing. “If you do not believe me, see for yourself.”
Only now did Jim note that the flap of his left side saddlebag was unbuckled. He lifted it and examined the contents. Only the one item was missing.
“All right,” he shrugged. “The young’un got away with a half loaf of corn bread. Theft is theft, I guess, but I don’t know if this case could be called grand larceny.” He eyed Benito scathingly. “For a thief, you sure complain loud.”
“Is not the bread,” Benito hastened to explain. “Is the insult—is the shame. For me—Benito Espina, the smartest thief of my whole family—”
“Your whole family of thieves,” nodded Jim.
“ … There is great shame,” finished Benito, “in being robbed by one so young—a niño.”
“All it proves,” jibed Jim, “is the kid was too fast for you. If he could sneak the bread out of a saddlebag—from right under your nose ...”
“Pablito!” called Lon. “Come on out here!”
The boy looked to be no more than eight years-old, as he obediently reappeared. He ignored Benito, devoting all his wide-eyed attention to the big man on the magnificent black stallion which, to one so young and tiny, must have seemed to be the largest horse in creation. Between his brother and the deputy he stood, excited, but not especially apprehensive.
“Of what use to frighten Pablito?” Miguel bitterly challenged the deputy. “If he steals, it is because he is hungry.”
“He won’t be hungry again for awhile,” muttered Lon. “You’ll find enough provisions inside to keep all of you eating for a couple more days. I left the sack in the kitchen alongside of the stove.”
Miguel lowered the rifle, shrugged forlornly.
“Muchas gracias, amigo.”
“The little feller doesn’t steal all the time,” Lon gravely assured Jim. “Only when he’s hungry.” The flicker of a grin lit his solemn visage for a mere second, as he opined, “You wouldn’t want to swear out charges against him?”
“I reckon not,” said Jim, poker-faced. “He looks like a rough hombre who’d give Fiske a bad time, and Fiske’s got trouble enough already.” Then, frowning at Benito, “We’ll be buying more provisions before we quit Ortega—so we won’t need what we’re toting right now. Empty your pack and stash all the chow beside the door, then fetch all the stuff out of my saddlebags.”
“Always you are too generous,” sighed Benito.
“You’re still alive,” quipped Jim. “If I haven’t put a bullet through your no-good carcass long before now, I guess I am too generous.”
He made sure that every edible item toted in their packs was unloaded and donated to the Garcias. It was an instinctive act, never intended as a patronizing gesture. The poverty of these underprivileged Mexicans was something to which he could never become hardened, and his reward was the eager grin of the tiny boy, the grateful smiles of his sisters, the respect with which Miguel Garcia offered thanks. He cut short Miguel’s brief speech by assuring him:
“You’re entirely welcome.”
“I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” said Lon.
“It’s none of my business,” said Jim.
“Maybe not,” nodded the deputy. “But I’m telling you anyway.” He stepped closer to the black horse. “When a man gets to courting a girl, he ought to be proud of her—proud enough to let everybody know. Isn’t that so?”
“That’s so,” agreed Jim.
“Well, I’m courting Reba—and darn proud of it,” said Lon.
He gestured to the girl with the trim figure and the comely face. She flashed him a smile, nodded shyly to Jim and resumed her scrubbing of a tattered camisa. Jim lifted a hand to the brim of his Stetson and remarked to the deputy, “You have mighty good taste.”
At that, Lon Vurness studied him with increased interest, as though seeing him for the first time.
“Thanks for saying that, Mr. Rand,” he muttered. “I’m thanking you for Reba and her family, as well as for myself.”
“You can skip the ‘mister’,” offered Jim. “My friends call me Jim.”
“Bueno,” grunted Lon. “From here on, I’d be obliged if you’d call me by my first name.”
“You through visiting, Lon?” Jim asked.
Lon nodded and told him, “I’ll walk along with you as far as the law office, if you’re headed that way.”
“I’m headed that way,” said Jim.
The deputy waved farewell to the smiling Reba Garcia, went back to where the big woman sat and dropped a comforting hand to her shoulder. She didn’t appear to have felt his touch; it was as though Lon, the strangers and her sons and daughters had ceased to exist and she had settled into a dream-world of which she was the only inhabitant. The saddest sight Big Jim had seen in many a long month was that massive mountain of stricken femininity sitting there by the shack door. And he said as much, as he made his way back to the main stem with Lon sauntering beside the walking charcoal.
“Sad? Yeah—that’s putting it mild,” nodded the deputy. “Doc Cray says she’ll never be the same. She could have another attack any time now.”
“You’re marrying into a family that has more than its share of misfortune,” Jim remarked.
“There’ll be no marriage,” said Lon, abruptly, bitterly. “Not unless I can figure some way of settling all this trouble. Reba would never turn her back on the Garcias at a time like this. Well, she’s loyal to ’em, and that’s the way it ought to be.”
“She isn’t really blood-kin?” asked Jim.
“No,” frowned Lon. “She was an orphan when old Pedro took her in, gave her his name, made her one of the family.”
“As you say,” reflected Jim, “it’s only natural she’d want to stick close to the family in time of strife.”
“You’d think all the high-minded, righteous citizens of this town would leave well alone, wouldn’t you?” Lon grimaced in disgust. “Pepi always was the wild one, always too ready with a knife. Well, he paid for killing that barkeep—so why should his brothers and sisters have to keep on paying? Every damn thing that happens—old Clem Brady dying—Landell falling off a ladder—McDaniels shooting himself—the Garcia boys get blamed. Everybody figures that Jose or Miguel are making the curse pay off, but they’re wrong, Jim. Believe me, they’re wrong. Pepi was the only mean hombre in the family –the only killer.”
They had reached Main Street. Benito brought the burro to a halt some ten yards ahead. Jim reined up, hooked a leg over his saddlehorn and listened thoughtfully to Lon, who stood with a boot raised to a hitch rail. “Already I’ve heard a few loudmouths saying it must’ve been Jose or Miguel that took a shot at Harp Drayton.”
“Trouble on top of trouble, eh?” mused Jim.
“You see what I mean?” challenged Lon. “This would be a bad time for Reba and me to get married.”
“You couldn’t pick a worse time,” Jim agreed. “And what’s your answer to the problem, Lon?”
“I may be young …” Lon used that expression again, while the old sadness smote Jim, “and never as shrewd as Sheriff Fiske, but it seems to me there’s only one answer. I have to find proof.”
“You mean extra proof?” frowned Jim. “There were inquests into all three deaths, weren’t there? What further proof can people expect?”
“The law is satisfied,” growled Lon, “but the people aren’t. The law says heart failure, an accident and a suicide, but the people are still making war on the Garcias.” He shook his head worriedly. “Somehow, I have to make ’em understand. Old Margarita’s curse was only the jabbering of a scared woman—it didn’t mean a thing.”
“They’ll have to believe you,” Jim consoled him.
“When?” wondered Lon.
“When it finally occurs to them that the other nine jurors are still alive and healthy,” said Jim.
“They’d better stay alive and healthy,” muttered Lon, as he lifted his boot from the rail and nodded so-long.
“You’re right, boy,” Jim was thinking, as the deputy strode away. “They’d all better stay alive and healthy.”
Three – “I’ll Stay In Ortega”
The little Mex was philosophical, but inquisitive, when Jim confided his intention of remaining in Ortega.
“Because it will take many days for you to search this territory?” he demanded.
“Nope,” grunted Jim. “I have a hunch Jenner has never been here.”
“If you do not believe he was here,” challenged Benito, “why do we stay?”
“The young deputy has a man-sized problem on his hands,” said Jim. “I aim to help him settle that problem.”
Beyond that, he refused to elaborate on his sudden decision. Of what use to tell the little Mex of the uncanny resemblance between Deputy Vurness and the late Lieutenant Rand? It was something he would keep to himself, because others might not fully comprehend his motives and he was in no mood for explanations.
It was noon now. They had eaten an early lunch at a Mexican restaurant on a street angling off the main thoroughfare. The stallion and the burro were tethered at the hitch rack in the shade of an awning and, seated in boardwalk chairs nearby; Jim and Benito were finishing their after-lunch cigarettes. The proprietor of the hash-house was a gossip-monger, but Jim had not objected to his ceaseless chatter. Recent events in this tension-ridden community intrigued him more than somewhat; he was interested in anything that anybody had to say about the trial and execution of Pepi Garcia, the disquiet, the bravado or the indifference of the twelve good men and true, depending on their attitudes towards the grief-stricken Widow Garcia. At the Gay Lady, while conversing with Nadine Searle, he had learned the names of some of the other jurors—Brinkley, Welsh, Leith, Richter. The proprietor of the diner had added a couple more. Rockwell and March. Also, he had described Rockwell as the owner of a rooming house in the downtown area.
“We’ll need a place to stay,” Jim now remarked, “and I think Rockwell’s place would suit me fine. And we have to stable Hank and the burro, so I guess we could settle for the MB Corral—Brinkley’s place.”
“These hombres …” Benito fidgeted uneasily, “are of the twelve cursed by la viuda loco …”
“Isn’t there one scrap of charity in your good for nothing carcass?” scowled Jim. “Why in hell do you have to call her a crazy widow?”
“Is she not a widow?” blinked Benito.
“Well, sure,” nodded Jim.
“Is she not loco?” frowned Benito.
“She’s old and sick,” muttered Jim. “There’s a difference.”
“I would be muy nervioso,” said Benito, “to live in the house of this Rockwell.”
“You don’t have to stay,” Jim sourly assured him. “You can straddle that flea-bit burro of yours and get the hell out of Ortega this very minute.”
“If I go, you will be one sad hombre,” opined Benito.
“Like hell I will,” scoffed Jim.
“I think I stay,” shrugged the Mex.
Jim flicked the butt of his cigarette away and got to his feet.
“All right. First we’ll find Brinkley’s stable, and then we’ll check into the room and board.”
They were leading their mounts out of the side street when Jim sighted a familiar figure. This morning, in the few moments during which they’d conversed at his home, Dr. Mathew Cray had seemed more than professionally concerned for the welfare of the unfortunate Harp Drayton. Now, as he hurried out of Moss Road and made for the law office, he appeared downright agitated. He was bare-headed and in his shirtsleeves, and his demeanor won an instinctive reaction from Jim, the same reaction felt by Deputy Vurness and several other locals in the vicinity, all of whom called to the medico, querying him. Cray gestured impatiently and quickened his step. Fiske had emerged from the law office and was standing on the porch, his brows raised enquiringly.
On an impulse, Jim headed straight for the law office hitch rack, leading the black and with Benito scuttling after him. They arrived just in time to hear the shocked reaction of Fiske and Lon.
“Dead?” The sheriff eyed Cray incredulously. “But—I thought Harp’s injuries weren’t gonna be fatal. You said “I told Ethan Racklow that Harp had a better than even chance,” growled Cray. “His injuries w
ere serious, but not critical. In time, he’d have recovered.”
“Well then …” began Fiske.
“Harp didn’t die of the injuries he suffered this morning,” said Cray. “He was strangled.”
“He was—what?” gasped Fiske.
“It must’ve happened in the past half-hour,” said Cray, and now his voice shook with emotion. “Harp was under sedation, sleeping in my spare bedroom. I looked in on him about thirty minutes ago, and he was resting easily.” He traded grim stares with his fellow-citizens. The group had swelled to thirty, including Jim and Benito, but there was no muttering; every ear was cocked to the medico’s startling report. “I’d left the window open—so I guess I made it easy for the—the coyote that climbed in and—choked poor Harp to death with his bare hands. The bruises are unmistakable. Finger marks!”
“Lon!” breathed Fiske. “You visit every house in sight of doc’s place right away. Somebody must’ve seen the killer. Damn and blast—he couldn’t just climb through that window—and out again—and not be seen!”
As the youthful deputy hurried away, Cray shook his head dejectedly and assured Fiske, “It is possible, and you just have to face it. The killer could get through that side window and out again without anybody noticing. There’s nothing facing that side of the house. Only a vacant lot—and a strip of brush beyond.”
“Don’t anybody else start trompin’ outside of doc’s house!” Fiske loudly ordered the locals. “I want to check for track of this killer!”
“Well, get on with it, Rube, for pity’s sakes,” urged one of the townsmen. “At this rate, we could all be wiped out—all of us that served on the jury.”
The investigation into the brutal slaying of Harper Drayton proceeded at speed and fairly smoothly, but all to no avail. Lon Vurness made short but thorough work of his interrogation of all residents in the area, and none could claim to having seen anybody lurking about the south side of the Cray house. Checking the ground below the open window, Fiske did find clear boot-prints—clear, but common. In no way did they differ from the prints left by any other passing citizen; they were neither unusually large nor unusually small. Like a bird-dog, Fiske followed those prints into the mesquite south of the house. Here a horse had awaited the killer, but the hoofprints told Fiske exactly nothing. Again no special characteristics. And, with infinite cunning, the killer had headed straight for the much-used back alley running parallel with Main Street, so that track of his mount had mingled with those of a score or more others.
Big Jim 8 Page 3