She was smiling as she opened her eyes. A sigh of contentment escaped her, as she spread her bare arms and stretched, arching her back. And then, as the pungent, familiar odor assailed her nostrils, she felt her pulse quicken. Disappointment and frustration took hold of her and she had to struggle against the impulse to scream abuse at the pudgy, untidy figure planted firmly in front of the dresser mirror.
Jonah was plying his razor—shaving while smoking—an accomplishment of which he was inordinately proud.
That bent-stemmed, well-blackened briar was a sizeable item, but the flabby cattleman slid his naked blade over his jowls with ease. Without turning his head, he grunted a good-morning to his ruffled spouse.
“Mornin’, Marcia honey. How’d you sleep?”
“Deeply, darling.” She daintily stifled a yawn. “I feel wonderfully refreshed.” And then, eyeing him intently, “And you? How did you sleep?”
“Just fine,” he frowned, “all things considered.”
“All things considered?” she repeated. “What does that mean?”
“Let me finish shavin’,” he begged. “Then I’ll tell you.”
A few moments later, looking somewhat less than attractive in undershirt, rumpled riding pants, bare feet and tousled hair, he came to the bed and squatted beside her. Another pungent cloud wafted up from the bowl of his briar. She coughed, studied him anxiously.
“Jonah—your face is so serious!”
“Yeah—uh—well, it’s thisaway, honey ...”
“What on earth’s the matter? Did you—lose too heavily—playing poker with Dr. Cray?”
“Shucks, no. Me and doc never play for high stakes. It’s just an excuse for us to get together and chew the fat. About last night, the truth is we didn’t play much poker at all. Somethin’ happened.”
“Something?”
“Damnedest thing.” He shook his head worriedly. “Guess I’m out of practice. It’s been many a long year since anybody took a shot at me. All of seven years ago, I reckon. When the old McStroud gang tried to run off a couple hundred head from our south pasture …”
“You were—shot at last night? Somebody tried to kill you?”
She eyed him aghast, as he ruefully nodded.
“Just goes to prove a man ought to listen to his own wife, don’t it? I didn’t reckon I had any cause to fret. But I was wrong.”
“Where …” She swallowed a lump in her throat, “where did it happen?”
“In town,” he frowned. “I was just ridin’ along Main when—blam, blam. First one slug bored clear through my new hat. Second burned the back of my jacket.”
“Jonah—how terrible!”
She made a moaning sound, grasped at his arm and pressed her face to his chest, began a convincing exhibition of shock and grief, sobbing and mumbling, while he mildly assured her, “It could’ve been a heap worse. After all, they did miss.”
“We can’t go on this way!” she gasped. “There’ll be no peace for us until all of those good for nothing Garcias have been run out of the valley. It—it was one of the Garcias, wasn’t it?”
“Nobody knows who it was,” he shrugged. “He got away too fast. As for the Garcias, I don’t know, honey.”
“If not the Garcias—who? Didn’t the sheriff investigate? Doesn’t he have any ideas?”
“Nary a notion. It’s just a doggone mystery.” He changed the subject, and was only too ready to do so, when she rolled away from him and rose to her feet on the other side of the bed. “You sure look purty in that nightshirt, honey.”
“Nightgown,” she impatiently corrected. From the end of the bed she took a robe of floral silk which she wrapped over her lacy sleeping garment. “Jonah—my dearest …” She spoke earnestly now, “you’ll have to be terribly careful!”
“I know it,” he nodded. “Don’t worry. I sure ain’t fixin’ to take no chances—already decided I’ll stick close to the house till I hear they’ve caught him. I reckon Rube Fiske will do his best. And, last night, we all chipped in and hired us an extra man.” He stood up, grinned his mild grin and rubbed at his generous paunch. “Sure hope Carmelita’s hustlin’ up a good breakfast. I got me a real appetite this mornin’.’
“I don’t know how you can eat at a time like this,” she fretted. “On your way downstairs, please tell Rosa I’m ready for my bath.”
Soon afterwards, when she joined her husband in the handsomely-furnished dining room, he was surprised to note that she had donned her riding clothes.
“You ridin’ again today?”
“Right after breakfast,” she murmured, as she seated herself. “It’s the kind of exercise I need, Jonah dear. I just can’t stay quiet when I’m agitated. Riding helps to soothe my nerves.”
“You sure you want to ride all by yourself?” he asked.
“Yes.” She nodded emphatically. “I prefer to ride alone.”
She was quitting the ranch buildings within a quarter-hour of having finished breakfast and, as was his habit, Jonah viewed her departure from the shaded porch, enjoying the attractive picture she presented, seated firmly in the saddle of the high-stepping bay filly, riding away at speed.
And now, out of sight of Circle W, she was relieved of the need to conceal her disappointment, her fury, her concern for the welfare of the man she loved. Her mind was in turmoil, as she spurred the bay to greater speed, taking needless risks, cutting away from the regular trail and racing across open prairie.
That short-cut saved her some twenty minutes. When she again rode onto the trail, the filly was lathered and panting, but still moving fast, and the only thought in Marcia Welsh’s mind was her need to feel the reassuring embrace of her lover.
Some short distance to the south, beyond a mesquite^ fringed bend of the trail, Jim Rand had reined up to relieve his mount of a stone that had lodged in the left fore hoof. His back was turned and he was bent over, gripping the hoof and carefully prizing with the blade of his jack-knife, when the woman raced the bay around the bend. In the rising dust, she noted the handsome charcoal and the bent figure of its rider. There wasn’t time—or she was too eager to take time—for positive identification. The black stallion was almost a replica of the favorite horse of the man she loved—at least at this distance. Shrilly she called to the man.
“Owen—darling!”
As she brought the bay to a slithering halt, raising an even thicker cloud of dust, Jim flicked the offending stone away, lowered the black’s hoof and returned his jack-knife to a pocket of his vest. Rising to his full height, he turned to study the beautiful woman on the quivering bay, the woman whose eyes were dilating, whose face had lost its color.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am.” he courteously apologized, raising a hand to his Stetson. “I reckon you mistook me for somebody else—and I sure envy him.”
“I thought—I mean …” Her left hand flew to her mouth. “Excuse me. Yes—I was mistaken.” She studied him intently while struggling to regain control of herself. “You’re new in this territory. Are you—just passing through?”
Voiced so breathlessly, it seemed more a plea than a polite query. Instinctively, he replied, “Yes, ma’am. Just passing through.” And then, noting the condition of the bay, “It’s none of my business but, if I was you, I’d spell that critter awhile.”
“If you’ll move clear,” she frowned, “I’ll be on my way.”
He shrugged, led the charcoal to the right side of the trail. The bay was panting again, as Marcia Welsh rode past him. He watched her riding eastward and, though he didn’t believe in jumping to conclusions, a suspicion was stirring in his mind. His fine observant eye had noted two interesting details. The woman wore no riding gauntlets on this occasion, having made a hasty departure from Circle W. Jim had noted the gold band on the third finger of her left hand, and the brand on the withers of the bay filly.
Nine – Trail Of Treachery
The big man on the black stallion had changed direction. Instead of continuing his journey to th
e Circle W headquarters, he took off after the woman, intending to track her to her destination, but at a discreet distance. In his agile mind, the suspicion grew and took shape.
“You could be the hired girl of Circle W—helping out with the house-cleaning and the cooking—but I don’t think so, lady. Not with those soft white hands, and a wedding ring to boot. Not with you riding a thoroughbred, and rigged in such expensive duds. You might just be Welsh’s wife—and Welsh’s first name sure isn’t Owen. Well, well, well. It goes to prove you never know what you’re apt to find, when you take a little ride.”
Much of the time, Marcia Welsh was out of sight of her pursuer. It mattered not to Jim. Everything he knew about following sign had been learned from the experts—the Apache, the Comanche. He had perfected that rare talent for dogging the quarry in an unobtrusive way, with the quarry never aware of being followed.
Meanwhile, on the porch of the L Bar ranch house, Owen Leith held council with his ramrod and his four hired hands. These latter were an unprepossessing quartet, big men, heavy-set, hard-eyed. Their side arms were worn in holsters thonged to their thighs—the professional gunman’s traditional device for assisting the all-important fast draw. Along the edge of the porch they lounged, while the seated rancher quietly conversed with the scrawny rogue perched on the verandah rail.
“I just hope you’re sure, Slim,” he was saying, “mighty sure.”
“If I say that job’s finished,” growled Ringart, “that’s all the assurance you need. What the hell more can you ask? You want Rand’s head on a platter?”
“I couldn’t have made it any easier for you,” drawled Leith.
“It was easy enough,” shrugged Ringart. “He was sleepin’ right where you said I’d find him. Well—he’s sleepin’ even deeper now.”
“Success with Rand,” mused Leith. “Failure with Welsh.”
“I won’t fail next time,” Ringart grimly promised.
One of the other men chuckled derisively and suggested, “Maybe Slim’s losin’ his touch.”
“Any time you want to find out, Waco!” snarled Ringart, baring his teeth. “Any time at all!”
“Cut it out!” admonished Leith, quietly, but compellingly. “There’s no place in this enterprise for a fool who can’t control his temper. You cool down, Slim. And you, Waco, stop prodding him.”
“An ‘enterprise’, he calls it,” grinned a sallow-complexioned hardcase named Dalby. “One thing I’ll say for you, Owen. You can make anything sound fancy—even a killing.”
“Rider comin’,” grunted Ringart.
This portion of the L Bar ranch house faced west. From here, Leith and his men could view the flatlands beyond the work-corrals with the three hills in the background. Two of those hills were well-grassed, providing feed for the herd. The third was and, rock-littered. Down from the summit of that hill came the rider of the bay filly, approaching at speed. And, a few moments before Marcia Welsh was recognized by her lover, Jim Rand was sprawled on his belly at the summit of the rise, taking cover behind a cluster of rocks and viewing the scene below with more than casual interest.
A startled oath erupted from Leith.
“It’s her! Damn and blast!”
“What’s the matter with that fool female?” wondered Ringart. “Is she suddenly loco?”
“If I’ve told her once, I’ve told her a hundred times,” scowled Leith, “never to ride within two miles of L Bar!”
“Maybe there’s trouble—bad trouble,” fretted Ringart, “and there was no other way she could pass you the word.”
Grim-faced, Leith stepped off the porch and strode towards the oncoming rider. Jim wasn’t even mildly surprised to observe that, when the woman swung down from the bay, she ran to Leith and wrapped her arms about him.
He had one regret: it was impossible for him to move close enough to eavesdrop without being seen. However, he had won an advantage, and would play that advantage for all it was worth.
Roughly. Leith cut short her impassioned speech. Grasping her trembling shoulders, staring into her face, he demanded to be told, “Why in blazes did you come here—here, of all places?”
“I had to see you my dearest!”
“But couldn’t it wait, damn-it-all?”
“He’s still alive, Owen!”
“As if I don’t know it! Hell—is that why you rode out here?”
“I can’t stand it anymore, Owen! The waiting—it’s too much for my nerves!” She stared up at him pleadingly. “This morning—when I woke up and realized he was still with me”
“Steady now,” he frowned. “Steady.”
“I had to choke back the urge to scream at him!” she panted. “Please—try to understand, Owen. It hasn’t been easy for me—but—these past weeks—it’s gotten worse! He’s so—so infernally calm about it all!”
Then and there, Owen Leith was forced to accept the hard, unavoidable fact. They could wait no longer. Within another twenty-four hours, this impulsive female could easily ruin their chances, could lose her head, scream abuse at the wealthy and unsuspecting Jonah Welsh—and their scheme would have to be abandoned.
“After all the planning and waiting,” he muttered, “I won’t let anything stop us now.”
“But I can’t wait!” she began.
“Don’t worry,” he soothed her. “The time of waiting is past.” He frowned over her shoulder; his eyes narrowing as he stared off in the general direction of Circle W. “There’s no reason why we can’t go ahead get it all settled this very day.”
“That’s what I want—that’s what I need!” she breathed. “To be rid of him forever and then to be with you my darling!”
“It’s all clear in my mind,” he declared, with a mirthless smile. “By noon, you’ll be a widow—I promise you. But I’ll need your co-operation.”
“Anything,” she offered. “I’ll do anything!”
He turned, beckoned his kinsman. Ringart slid from the porch-rail and loafed across to join them.
“Now what?” he demanded.
“You bungled your big chance last night,” drawled Leith. “Here’s where you make up for it.”
“I’m as good with a gun as the next man,” Ringart sourly pointed out, “but it was dark. I told you before—”
“I heard what you said before,” nodded Leith. “Well, this time it’s gonna be easier. A sure thing.” He patted the woman’s shoulder. “You’ll have a decoy.”
“Some decoy,” leered Ringart.
“You know what I’m talking about,” said Leith. “All you have to do is choose the place. Marcia will handle her end of the deal.”
Ringart nodded slowly, did some thinking and named a location.
“Pajaro Canyon.” He eyed the woman expectantly. “You know it?” She nodded eagerly. “Bueno. I’ll head for the canyon right away.”
“And you,” Leith told her, “head back to Circle W. I’ll tell you exactly what you have to say to him. Say it right, and I guarantee you’ll fool him he’ll play right into our hands.” He slid an arm about her shoulders, muttered a warning to his kinsman. “Use your rifle and be very sure. Give her time to move clear of him before you fire.”
“I’ll be real careful—why wouldn’t I?” Ringart grinned at the woman. “She’s worth a fortune to us.”
Before changing position, Jim observed that a man had hurried to the corrals to saddle a horse, and that the woman was remounting the bay filly with assistance from Leith. He had only a few moments in which to debate his next move, because Marcia was soon riding directly towards the rock-littered rise. Should he tag her or wait for the other rider? Well, the first and most urgent thing to be accomplished was the speedy concealment of the black stallion.
He had transferred the charcoal to the east side of a mound of lava-rock, when the woman rode past. She was less than twelve yards from him at that point, and he was able to note her expression; she appeared more elated than apprehensive.
About to emerge from hiding, he h
eard the urgent drumming of hooves heralding the approach of the other rider. Straddling a rangy pinto, Ringart came riding past the rock-mound. He was moving at speed, but Jim had time enough to identify him as the man who had tried to warn him off, while he conversed with Nadine Searle the night previously.
At first, it seemed Ringart was trailing the woman. Then, some fifteen minutes after quitting L Bar range, the scrawny man veered off the trail and headed in a northwesterly direction. It was time for Jim to make his decision, and he made it without hesitation. Instead of following the woman, he followed Ringart.
Jonah Welsh was engaged in amiable conversation with his foreman and a couple of his hired hands, when his wife came pounding into view. It was 10 o’clock now; the morning was becoming hotter. They straddled a top rail of the corral farthest from the main building, Jonah puffing on his pipe, enjoying this get-together with some of his older employees. It was the foreman who observed:
“That wife of yours, Jonah, she got a grudge against the bay filly?”
“Why d’you say that?” wondered the rancher.
“Ridin’ that critter into the ground she is,” said the ramrod. “They both look ready to drop.”
And now, noting the condition of the bay, Jonah muttered agreement.
“Damned if you ain’t right, Mitch.”
He clamped the mouthpiece of his briar firmly between his teeth and climbed down from the top rail fairly nimbly, if not quite as nimbly as in other years. Marcia had dismounted and was walking towards him, her eyes too bright, her face too pale. For once his easy-going calm deserted him. In response to her urgent gesture, he followed her across the yard to the porch of the ranch house. They met at the steps, where he took her hand in his and asked: “What is it, honey? What’s ailin’ you?”
Big Jim 8 Page 10