“It’ll be a shock for him,” Jim agreed, “but only if we move fast, only if I can really take him by surprise.”
“What d’you mean?” demanded Rockwell.
“I mean it’s now or never,” said Jim. “We move fast, or we don’t move at all. If I’m seen by anybody else—if the killer hears I’m still alive—he’ll have time to get a hold of himself. Then, when I face him, he’ll be cold calm. You see what I mean?”
“Yeah, sure,” grunted. Rock well. “He won’t give himself away.”
Jim finished shaving, toweled his face dry and began donning a clean shirt.
“I’ll need to visit each man, and as quickly as possible,” he pointed out. “No warnings—no preliminaries—no nothing. We just walk in on them. Now—can you be my guide? Do you know where they’d all be at this early hour?”
“Two of ’em live way out of town,” Rockwell reminded him.
“Welsh and Leith,” nodded Jim. “Yeah. I’m not forgetting they’re both in the cattle business.”
“Circle W is the biggest spread in the county—mighty easy to find,” said Rockwell.
“We’ll start with the towners,” said Jim. He tucked the tails of his shirt into his pants, strapped his gunbelt about his loins and thonged the holster down. “I want to move clear of Main Street. If we’re knocking on doors, they’ll need to be back doors—savvy?”
“Savvy,” nodded Rockwell. He fished out a watch, consulted it, did some figuring. “Well, none of ’em live far away from here—not the townsmen, anyway. It wouldn’t take us any more than an hour to check all five of ’em.”
“We mightn’t need the whole hour,” Jim grimly asserted, “because we mightn’t need to visit all five. The first or second man could be the one I’m after.”
Rockwell sighed heavily, mopped at his brow with a kerchief.
“Helluva situation,” he complained. “They’re all friends of mine, Mr. Rand.”
“For my money,” countered Jim, “this killer is nobody’s friend.”
“I just can’t imagine Kurt—or Linus—or Greg …” fretted Rockwell.
“You can’t imagine,” nodded Jim, “but that doesn’t change anything, amigo. We both know it has to be one of the other seven.”
“Yeah.” Rockwell heaved another sigh. “No way around that.”
“We’re wasting time,” said Jim. He donned his Stetson, eyed Rockwell impatiently. “Who’s first and nearest? Where do we start?”
“I guess the best way would be for us to sneak out by the window,” decided Rockwell. “Greg March’s house has a back door that opens into the side alley. After we check him, we could move into the rear alley and head a little ways uptown. Kurt’s forge and Mort’s barn both got back entrances that open into the rear alley.”
“They’ll do for a start,” said Jim. “Let’s go.”
He scanned the side alley a few moments before climbing through the window. Rockwell clambered out and dropped beside him.
“This way,” he frowned.
And Jim followed him some fifty yards along the side alley to a closed door. There was a window—half-open and obviously the kitchen window, if the appetizing aromas were any criteria.
“I smell bacon fryin’,” muttered Rockwell. “Would a man so guilty—uh—be able to eat?”
“We’ll soon find out,” said Jim.
Rockwell knocked. There was a brief pause before the door was opened by a rotund woman in checked gingham and knitted shawl. She offered Rockwell a smile of welcome, nodded to Jim and subjected him to an interested scrutiny. Quietly, Rockwell asked, “Is Greg inside, Mrs. March?”
“Where else at this hour?” she shrugged. “Come on in. Coffee’s about ready.”
Jim doffed his Stetson, followed March’s wife and Rockwell into the small kitchen and stared hard at March. From where he sat, his fork half-raised to his mouth, March returned his stare with interest. His eyebrows were raised in query, but it was all too apparent that this was the extent of his reaction to the unexpected visit—curiosity, not alarm.
“Morning, Jase—Mr. Rand,” he nodded. “Out early, eh? Something I can do for you?”
Rockwell glanced at the big man and said, “Mr. Rand, I don’t reckon there’s anything Greg can do for you.”
“That’s how I feel,” said Jim, nodding in agreement. “You gents don’t make sense,” frowned March.
In a wooden, expressionless way, Hannah March asked, “You want coffee?”
“I could sure use some,” said Rockwell.
“And me.” Jim showed the woman a friendly grin. “Much obliged, ma’am.”
“Hannah,” said March, “this is the feller I was telling you about—name of Rand.”
“No wonder he whupped Herb Langtry,” she murmured. “A man his size—heavens to Betsy—he could whup a dozen Herb Langtrys.”
At Jim’s insistence, it was a brief visit. Less than ten minutes elapsed before they had sampled Hannah March’s coffee and quit the house by way of the back door. March was mystified at Jim’s request that he mention the visit to no one, but promised to comply.
Entering the forge by its rear entrance, they found the massive Kurt Richter already at work, stoking up his furnace. The blacksmith greeted them amiably and, if his had been the hand that threw the knife, he was something more than an expert knife-thrower; he was a brilliant actor with a rare talent for controlling his feelings.
Mort Brinkley was currying a mare in its stall, when they came striding through the back doorway of his barn. He still wore his haunted, apprehensive expression, and his greeting took the form of a complaint aimed not at Rockwell but at Jim.
“I hope you find that killer real soon because, by thunder, I scarce slept a wink last night, and I’m a man needs his sleep. A night without sleep is bad for my nerves.”
“Were you nervous enough to quit your bedroom and take a walk?” asked Jim, as he busied his hands with the building of a smoke.
“Me—go walkin’ at night?” The livery proprietor shook his head emphatically. “No siree. Not this child. I could be his next target. You think I’m invitin’ a bullet?”
“Ever thought of protecting yourself?” challenged Jim.
“Protection is what we’ve hired you for,” countered Brinkley. “And besides, I’m no use with a gun.”
“Handier with a knife—a throwing knife?” prodded Jim.
Brinkley’s puzzlement was genuine, of that he was certain. The third of the seven could now be crossed off the list of suspects.
“The next will be Linus Hungerford,” Rockwell informed him. “He always opens his store early.”
Eight – The Last Suspects
The Hungerford Emporium proved to be a small, musty-smelling general store, a poky, nondescript establishment at which any resident of this quiet corner of town could purchase anything from a sack of flour to a bottle of liniment.
Linus Hungerford, in shirtsleeves and with an apron tied about his middle, was weighing mounds of coffee beans and scooping them into paper sacks. His greeting to Rockwell was a preoccupied nod. Of Jim he enquired:
“You’ve already found that trigger-happy killer? Well, the money’s in my safe—and you’re welcome to it. A man should get what he’s earned.”
That was the sum total of the emotion behind Hungerford’s expression, Jim decided. Eager enquiry. No alarm. Certainly no shock. On the other hand a well-timed word might hit a nerve.
“Quite a stock you carry,” he remarked.
“I can sell a customer durn near anything he’d want to buy,” declared Hungerford.
“You keep a stock of throwing knives?” asked Jim.
“Of what knives?” The storekeeper appeared perplexed more than unnerved.
“Throwing knives,” Jim repeated.
“Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?” Hungerford asked Rockwell.
“It’s no joke, Linus,” sighed Rockwell. “And that’s puttin’ it mild. Well, Mr. Rand? Do I tell him?”
/>
“Tell him,” nodded Jim, and he shrugged resignedly. “If he’s the killer, he’s also a good enough actor to give lessons to Edwin Booth.”
“If I’m the—what …?” gasped Hungerford.
While Rockwell explained the situation to the storekeeper, Jim leaned against the apple barrel and helped himself. The fruit was dry and somewhat tart, but he chewed on it anyway, thinking, reconsidering his theory, asking himself if he had assumed too much. Did the killer have to be one of the eight? Maybe the guilty party had eavesdropped on last night’s meeting, or had spied on Jim earlier, ascertaining which of the beds he intended sleeping in. No, the hell with that. Throughout his discussion with his nocturnal visitors, hadn’t he perched on the window-ledge? Certainly. Had a marauder entered the side alley, Jim would have seen him for sure. It was still too early to abandon his original theory.
Hungerford was talking again, deeply affected.
“It’s a sorrowing thought—knowing that one of us is a madman, the worst kind of madman …”
“Madman?” blinked Rockwell. “Hold on now!”
“How could he be anything else but a madman?” challenged Hungerford.
“But …” began Rockwell.
“Let him talk,” muttered Jim. “A few new ideas might be handy.”
“Do you think all madmen run around raving and wild-eyed?” Hungerford demanded of Rockwell. “Guess again, Jase. It’s not always that easy to pick ’em. I’ve heard of madmen that were plenty sly, just cunning enough to act normal most of the time.” He propped his elbows on the counter, frowned pensively at Jim. “To plan on killing us off one by one—he’d have to be crazy. What can he gain?”
“I don’t say you’re wrong,” drawled Jim, “but I’m not ready to agree with you all the way. The killer could be driven by some need.”
“Meaning revenge?” asked Hungerford.
“Or plain old-fashioned hate,” said Jim, “or greed—or even fear. And a man doesn’t have to be crazy to know hate or greed or fear,”
He was still standing by the apple barrel and enjoying a clear view of the street doorway, when Erwin Dodd came waddling in. Portly, fresh-shaven and bright-eyed, Dodd made straight for the counter. He hadn’t glanced in Jim’s direction, was obviously unaware of Jim’s presence.
“Morning, Jase. Hello there, Linus. I’ll take a couple ounces of my usual.”
“You sure are a man of regular habits, Erwin,” remarked Hungerford. From under the counter he produced a two-pound humidor. “Every second day at this exact same time—I could set my watch by you.”
Grinning blandly, Dodd produced his oilskin tobacco pouch. Hungerford weighed the tobacco, filled the pouch for him, after which he dropped a silver dollar on the counter and began tamping tobacco into the bowl of his briar. Only then did he glance to his left and catch sight of Jim. His grin broadened.
“Well, howdy, Mr. Rand.”
The genial, happy-eyed grin of a man without guile, a man of clear conscience—so it appeared to Jim. Not by the wildest stretch of imagination could he envisage Erwin Dodd cutting loose at Jonah Welsh from the concealment of a dark alley, or sniping at Harp Drayton with a rifle from the heights of Hagen Ridge. As for Dodd climbing through a window of the Cray house, creeping to the bed where the helpless Drayton lay, choking him to death with his bare hands—no—it was unthinkable. Do killers always behave like killers? Hardly. If it came to that, how are murderers expected to behave when not involved in the grisly act of murder? The real killer would hardly be advertising; nevertheless Jim had unhesitatingly eliminated Rockwell, Richter, Brinkley, March, Hungerford—and now Dodd.
“Howdy yourself.” He nodded to the portly towner, as he strode towards the door. “Rockwell, after you’ve told them the score, meet me in the alley behind the MB Corral. I’ll be riding out now, and there are a few things I want to ask you.”
As yet, Main Street was fairly quiet; not many towners abroad. He was satisfied that nobody was especially interested in his movements, as he made his way back to the Brinkley barn. The proprietor had finished his chore on the mare. Now, as Jim strode in and made straight for the stall in which Hank was accommodated, he enquired somewhat unnecessarily, “You ridin’ someplace?”
“That’s the general idea,” grunted Jim.
He reached into the stall to pat the charcoal’s mane and mutter a greeting. The big stallion nickered at him, flicked its ears. Brinkley remarked:
“You own as fine a cayuse as I ever laid eyes on, but—by Godfrey—he sure is mean.”
“Not mean,” countered Jim. “Not if he’s left alone.”
“A one-man horse.” Brinkley made it a statement; not a question.
“Right from the start,” nodded Jim. “I broke him and trained him. I’m the only man he’ll take on his back.”
He fetched his saddle and harness, moved into the stall and began readying the black for the trail. Brinkley picked up his Bible, seated himself on a stool and then, after a moment of hesitation, stowed the book inside his shirt and resumed talking.
“You satisfied about Linus and Erwin?”
“Uh huh,” grunted Jim.
“Well …” The livery proprietor heaved a sigh, “I’m sure glad to hear that.”
Jim led Hank into the back alley. Rockwell awaited him there, frowning pensively, lounging against a rain-barrel and puffing on a cigar.
“Only two more, eh?” he challenged. “Well, I don’t know about Jonah or Owen Leith. You got to remember somebody tried to kill Jonah last night.”
“I’ll admit it sounds a bit far-fetched,” Jim said, “but we can’t laugh off the possibility that Jonah hired a man to shoot at him, for the sake of nudging suspicion away from himself. Before I ride out there you’d better tell me all you know about him.”
“He’s popular,” said Rockwell. “Always seemed a harmless kind of hombre, a real old-time cattleman that came up the hard way, fightin’ Indians and rustlers—and yet a real gentle hombre. Harmless. With everything goin’ his way—I mean all that dinero, the biggest spread in the county, a beautiful wife …” He paused to emit a long, low whistle. “By golly, if I was hitched to a woman as purty as Marcia Welsh, I sure wouldn’t be gettin’ mixed up in murder. I’d scarce ever move out of the house!”
“Jonah’s wife is something special?” asked Jim.
“Many a year younger than him,” said Rockwell, “and a real looker—you know what I mean? Pretty as paint.” He stared wistfully along the alley. “I should be so lucky.”
“We can’t all marry women who are young and beautiful,” shrugged Jim.
“It wouldn’t matter how old a man got to be,” reflected
Rockwell, “he’d always feel young—with that kind of a woman by his side. Yes siree—I’d call Jonah Welsh the luckiest man in this whole valley.”
“When and if I can scratch Jonah off the list,” said Jim, “there’ll be only one man left.”
“What could a feller like Leith gain from it all?” wondered Rockwell.
“I mean—why would he want to kill Harp Drayton, a man he hardly knew?” He grimaced uneasily. “It’s a lousy situation, Mr. Rand, and it’s gettin’ too damn spooky for my likin’. You keep lookin’ for reasons and explanations, and yet …”
“There’s an explanation for everything,” Jim assured him. “Make no mistake about that.”
“I’ve always had Leith figured for a square-shooter,” muttered Rockwell. “Played poker with him a few times, and I can tell you he plays fair and clean, never whines when he loses. Also, he’s a good judge of horses. My pappy used to say ‘Show me a man that savvies horses, and I’ll show you a man I can trust’.”
“With all due respects to your pappy,” said Jim, “it’s not necessarily so. I’ve known many a good judge of horses who couldn’t be trusted.” He grinned wryly, as he added, “Most of ’em were horse-traders—or horse-thieves.”
“I keep thinkin’ of how handsome he sits a saddle, and I just can’t im
agine him bein’ a crazy killer,” declared Rockwell. “Sure is a fine piece of horseflesh, that black of his. A stallion—just like yours.”
“I wouldn’t know,” shrugged Jim. “I’ve never seen Leith riding.” He swung astride the black, slid his Colt from its holster and, in an automatic way, checked its loading. As he reholstered the weapon, he asked, “Is there anything else you can tell me about Leith?”
“He ain’t in debt, or anything like that,” said Rockwell. “At least I don’t think so. L Bar seems to pay off. He runs a good herd. Not real big, but prime stock. No, if you asked me, I’d say the only thing about Owen Leith that I don’t admire is his ramrod.”
“Any special reason?” asked Jim.
“Well …” Rockwell scratched at his graying hair, “you wouldn’t find many townfolks that cotton to Slim Ringart. He’s ornery—-got a temper as mean as a rogue wolf.”
“Ringart.” Jim nodded thoughtfully. “I know the hombre you’re speaking of. Almost had a run-in with him at the Gay Lady.”
“He’s kin to Leith,” offered Rockwell, “else Leith would never have made him ramrod. Well, I guess a man has to look out for his own kin.”
“And Leith’s four hired hands,” prodded Jim, “what kind of men are they?”
“Regular cowpokes—far as I know,” said Rockwell. “Maybe a mite rougher than most. Well …” He shrugged philosophically, “what are ranch-hands after all? Choir-boys? It’s no trade for weaklings.”
“Which way to Circle W?” frowned Jim.
“Take the northeast trail after the crossroads,” Rockwell instructed him. “After you pass the big round rock at Venado Bend, every mile of range you can see belongs to Jonah Welsh. L Bar is due east, beyond the creek.” As Jim nodded his thanks and nudged the charcoal to movement, he called after him: “Luck to you, Mr. Rand.”
“Gracias,” grunted the big man, and his ride to Circle W began.
By coincidence, Marcia Welsh had come awake, in the big bedroom of the Circle W ranch house, at about the same time that Jim Rand had been examining the knife jutting from the makeshift dummy in his room at Rockwell’s. It was typical of the rancher’s faithless wife that she had slept soundly the night before, her slumber undisturbed by fear or doubt. She had absolute confidence in her lover, and fully expected to awaken to news of the assassination of her husband. One of the Mexican servants would rap hesitantly at the bedroom door. Upon being ordered to enter, the woman would come in wailing and weeping, announcing with anguish that the so generoso patron, the beloved Señor Welsh, had been shot down by an unknown gunman. From that moment on, all that would be expected of her would be a realistic portrayal of grief and heartbreak, and she was well fitted for such melodramatics.
Big Jim 8 Page 9