“You gotta admit, Rand …” Ringart leered up at him. “It was one helluva notion. Owen and Marcia—a couple real smart planners …”
His voice trailed off. Jim had managed to staunch his bleeding, but the loss of blood had weakened him. He closed his eyes and lost consciousness, and Jim grimly remarked to Welsh, “He’s in for a sad surprise—when he wakes up in a cell.”
“He won’t die?” challenged Jonah.
“From these wounds—no,” said Jim. “On a gallows—yes. His confession—repeated by you and I—will be more than enough to convict him. And Leith, of course.”
“No!” breathed Jonah. “I’ll handle Leith myself! I got a score to settle with that lousy, wife-stealin’ polecat!”
And, before Jim could stop him, the once placid owner of the Circle W had picked up Ringart’s Colt and was hustling back to where his horse awaited. In vain, Jim yelled to him to wait.
“Don’t go to L Bar alone! Give me a minute to hog-tie this hombre, and I’ll ride along with you!”
Despite the smarting of his own wound, he was obliged to work quickly. It took him valuable minutes to secure Ringart’s wrists and ankles, douse his wounds with raw whisky and then tote the unconscious killer into the shade of an overhang. Then, after reloading his Colt, he swung astride the black and heeled it to a hard run.
Jonah Welsh was riding like a man possessed. To close the gap separating them, Jim had no option but to give the charcoal full rein, racing it, trying to ignore the aching of that ugly gash at his left side. He had seen how loss of blood had weakened Ringart, and was reflecting that it would be a vicious irony if he too lost consciousness—right at the moment of Welsh’s confronting the treacherous Owen Leith.
It was close to noon when Leith, taking his ease on the ranch house porch, heard the drumming of hooves. He was conversing with the hulking Waco at this time. The other three hardcases were in the bunkhouse, but they emerged upon hearing the approaching horse, taking it for granted Ringart was returning to report the success of his mission.
Leith had descended from the porch and was moving into the yard, before the sharp-eyed Waco observed:
“It ain’t Ringart!”
“No, by thunder!” breathed Leith. “It’s Welsh himself!”
“Somethin’s gone wrong,” opined one of the men emerging from the bunkhouse.
“Well—what about Jonah Welsh?” demanded Waco, as he quit the porch.
“Maybe he got lucky,” scowled Leith. “It’s just possible he could have shot it out with Slim—and won. Well, to hell with him. He won’t be so lucky when he faces me!”
“Leith!” Jonah was calling to him, while still racing his mount down the nearside of the rise. “I’m here for a reckonin’, Leith! Tell your hardcase crew to stay back!”
On from the base of the rise he advanced, his mount raising dust. Some twenty yards from where Leith stood, he jerked the animal to a halt and began dismounting. “This is just between me and you, Leith!”
“Something worrying you, Jonah?” jibed Leith, dropping a hand to his holster.
“Don’t waste no time with smart talk—damn you!” fumed Jonah. “You know why I’m here! It’s all over! I know about you and that double-crossin’ bitch I was fool enough to marry!”
“Choose your words with care,” drawled Leith. “You’re speaking of the lady I intend marrying.”
“Like hell you’ll marry her!” snarled Jonah.
“Leith!” yelled Waco. “Another rider—comin’ on fast!”
The other men filled their hands. One dashed back into the bunkhouse, reappeared toting a rifle and began running towards the corral to take up a vantage point. At that moment, Jonah jerked his captured Colt from his waistband, and Leith emptied his holster with seconds to spare. His weapon boomed first. When Jonah’s discharged, the slug sped harmlessly to the sky, because the impact of Leith’s bullet had driven him backwards. Blood was welling from a shallow gash at his left shoulder, as he pitched to the ground.
A cruel grin contorted Leith’s face, as he hammered back and aimed at the sprawled rancher. He was intent on Jonah Welsh’s destruction, so much so that he had momentarily forgotten the shouted warning of the approach of a second rider. The rifle-slug triggered by the oncoming horseman acted as a harsh reminder. Leith felt the air-wind of that .44.40 bullet as it whined past his ear. He cursed, transferred his attention to the deployment of his forces.
“Spread out! Take cover!” he gasped.
The big man had finished his descent of the rise and was now racing his mount across the flat stretch, rising in his stirrups to cut loose with his Winchester cavalry-style. Once, twice, thrice his rifle barked, and the men of L Bar were suddenly aware of being pitted against an expert marksman.
His first bullet struck the rifleman clambering into the corral. That one dropped his weapon and finished his climb doubled over the top rail, rendered unconscious by a slug that had creased his temple. His second accounted for the man dashing for the protection of a drinking trough, a brawny hardcase whose six-gun was belching fire—until the moment of the jarring impact of Jim’s bullet. He shuddered, reeled, flopped to the dust. And Jim’s third fast-triggered shot creased Waco’s right leg, knocking him off his feet.
Three were down, two of them well and truly out of action, but the thunder of gunfire had not yet diminished. Jonah had never lost his grip of his commandeered .45. Now, rolling over, he traded shots with the startled, infuriated Owen Leith.
The fourth of Leith’s hired guns, cutting loose from behind a heap of firewood, succeeded in scoring on the big man. Jolted by the impact, as the bullet lodged in his left shoulder, Jim keeled over sideways. He lost his grip on the Winchester, crashed to the dust with his attacker’s bullets whining about him like hornets. Rolling over, rising to one knee, he drew his Colt and returned fire. The man was taking aim again; his face was more than enough target for Jim’s deadly shooting-eye. The Colt boomed and the hardcase died without triggering another shot.
Welsh fired again. Waco, who had risen to his knees to draw a bead on Jim, gave vent to a yell of agony and fell flat, and then it was Jim’s turn to perform a similar service for Jonah. One of the older man’s bullets had knocked Leith off his feet, but that wound had been superficial. From his prone position, and with his gun-arm extended, Leith had Jonah in his sights. His trigger-finger was actually tightening, when Jim’s Colt roared again. The bullet entered Leith’s head just above his left ear, killing him instantly, but Jonah didn’t seem to realize that his arch-enemy had breathed his last; he kept on firing and recocking, firing and recocking, until his borrowed Colt was empty, the firing pin clicking on spent shells.
Abruptly, the gun-thunder had ceased. A heavy sigh shook Jim’s brawny, pain-wracked torso. Before trudging to the charcoal for the half-pint of rye in his saddlebag, he checked on all five of the defeated conspirators.
“Two of these hombres,” he informed Jonah, “will come to their senses in a little while. By then, I’d like to have all five roped to their horses, ready to be taken to Ortega. I reckon I can manage it—with your help.”
“My shoulder don’t feel so bad,” muttered Jonah. “I think it’s not a deep crease. I’ll hog-tie the two wounded jaspers, and then I better dig that slug out of you.”
It wasn’t the first time that Jim had submitted to rough surgery. As it happened, the rancher’s hand stayed steady; he made short and surprisingly neat work of removing the bullet from Jim’s shoulder, cleansing the wound and applying a dressing. In the L Bar ranch house they had found a medical kit, also a goodly supply of liquor. Taken internally, the raw whisky boosted their strength. Applied externally, it acted as a makeshift but fairly effective antiseptic.
At 1.30 p.m. they were still fully conscious and capable of sitting a saddle. Wisely, Jim had insisted on availing himself of the facilities of the L Bar mess-shack; he wasn’t about to attempt the journey to town without a substantial meal behind his belt.
But
he couldn’t persuade Jonah to eat. The Circle W boss, his wounds cleansed and bound, had remounted and was ready to move out. The two wounded hardcases were straddling their horses, their wrists secured to their saddlehorns. The dead were draped over the other animals.
“I won’t be stopping by the canyon to collect Ringart,” Jim told the rancher. “One of Fiske’s deputies can handle that chore. It’s better I head direct to town—and you ought to come along with me. Fiske will need statements from both of us.”
“Tell Fiske I’ll see him—all in good time,” mumbled Jonah. “I just ain’t ready to face them townsfolk. No fool like an old fool—that’s what they’ll be sayin’. I ought never have married a woman so young, so all-fired beautiful.”
“A real man,” declared Jim, “shakes off his grief as fast as he can.” He searched his mind for some other means of consoling the fat man, and all he could think of was, “Self-pity doesn’t help much.”
“I thank you for that advice, Mr. Rand,” Jonah gravely acknowledged, “and for savin’ my life.” As he turned his horse, he nodded to the column of other animals and asked, “You’ll make it to town?”
“I’ll make it to town,” Jim predicted. “But, after I’ve delivered these hombres and told Fiske where to find Ringart, I swear I’ll sleep for twenty-four hours.”
An hour later, when the master of Circle W stiffly dismounted and surrendered his horse into the care of a Mexican servant, he completely ignored the questions aimed at him by his foreman. Stony-faced, he trudged into the house and along the carpeted hall to the stairs. His expression changed then, because the smiling Mex woman who had been his cook for many years was approaching from the kitchen, toting a cloth-covered tray. She too was headed for the stairs.
“What’s that?” he demanded.
Her polite reply took him by surprise. Lunch for himself and the señora? She had come back!
“Take it back to the kitchen,” he ordered the woman. “And keep it warm. The señora won’t be eatin’—but I sure will.”
The upstairs parlor was empty. Where was she awaiting him? He played a hunch and went along to the bedroom, entering quietly, closing the door behind him. She lay on the bed, smiling a greeting—a shy, wistful, pleading smile it was. She had changed to the flimsy nightgown in which, to his aging male eyes, she had always seemed so downright beautiful, so desirable. He realized, now, what she expected of him. His need of her would obliterate his memory of her infidelity, her treachery. She had a great deal of faith in her power to beguile and bedazzle him, it seemed.
“You’ll forgive me in time—Jonah my dearest,” she murmured. “It was all Owen Leith’s fault, all his idea, right from the start. He threatened to kill me if I ever told you the truth. He …”
“Marcia …” His tone was as mild, as placid as ever, “you always was one for runnin’ off at the mouth, and I’ll be doggoned if you ain’t the hardest-workin’ liar I ever heard in my whole life. Bein’ wed to you was really somethin’. Yes siree, by golly. Really somethin’.”
“Don’t say ‘was’,” she begged, breathlessly. As she rolled over on her side, she made sure that one of her shoulder-straps slipped down. “There are so many good years ahead of us. You’ll forget in time, my darling. Owen Leith didn’t mean anything to me. You’re the only one I ever …”
“You better get dressed,” he calmly advised.
“Wh-what …?” She blinked at him.
“You heard!” he grunted. And, brusquely, he jerked a thumb. “You’d look mighty foolish ridin’ out of here in a nightshirt. I’m givin’ you just a half-hour …”
“Jonah—you couldn’t!”
“Just a half-hour—exactly thirty minutes—to pack your duds, saddle a horse and get the hell off of Circle W.
“But, Jonah …!”
“It’s too late for pleadin’. You could maybe convince a jury that you weren’t in cahoots with Leith—but not me. I’m wise to you, Marcia. What’s more, you’ll be easy to get along without. You hear that? I ain’t gonna miss you one little bit.”
For Marcia to have continued her pleas would have been futile. He just wasn’t listening; he had left the room. There was nothing she could do—except pack and leave. When the half-hour was up, he emptied his pockets of such cash as he happened to be carrying—the coins as well as the banknotes—and gave it to her.
“About four hundred and fifty, I calculate,” he drawled. “That ought to be enough to pay for stage-fare East. You can sell the horse and saddle in Tulsa, if you want. Or you mightn’t ever reach Tulsa. Leith’s dead, but Ringart’s alive and talkin’ up a storm. The law will be lookin’ for you, Marcia. Some tin badge might head you off before you even hit the Oklahoma border.”
“You will miss me, Jonah Welsh!” she raged. “I’m not the kind of woman a man can easily forget!”
“Nope.” He shook his head emphatically. “Plain truth is I’ll be glad to get rid of you.”
And the harrowing truth plagued Marcia Welsh, as she rode off Circle W range for the last time. Never had she heard him speak with such conviction. He really meant it! She would not be missed!
In one day, the citizens of Ortega had been jarred from their mental lethargy, forced to admit that they had jumped to obvious conclusions concerning the hapless Garcia family. At 2.30 p.m., a short time before Jim Rand caused a major sensation by delivering two wounded and three dead men to the sheriff, Margarita Garcia succumbed to another heart attack. It was said that she died peacefully, lingering long enough for one of her sons to fetch a priest, experiencing little or no pain. The younger Garcias wept at her passing, but Reba and the two elder boys took the attitude that she had been relieved of an intolerable burden; her illness might have lasted many more months—or years.
When Deputy Vurness returned to the law office, after visiting the Garcia home to offer his sympathies, he saw Clegg Robinson leading five horses uptown. Three of those animals toted dead men, and the brand was familiar to Lon. There had been big trouble at L Bar. He noted that Jim Rand’s black stallion was hitched to the rack, as he climbed the stairs and hustled into the office.
Jim had finished his report, every word of which had been written down by a grim-faced Rube Fiske. He was seated on the office couch, stripped to the waist and submitting to the ministrations of Doc Cray. The young deputy arrived in time to hear the medico asserting:
“You’ll rest for a week at least—unless you’re an impulsive fool, eager to risk blood-poisoning and delay the healing of these wounds.”
“I’m not that much of a fool, Doc,” Jim wearily assured him.
“What the heck …?” began Lon.
“It’s all over, boy,” muttered Fiske. “The whole rotten mess has been cleaned up by the big feller—with a mite of help from Jonah Welsh. I want you to ride out to Pajaro Canyon and pick up Slim Ringart. He’s wounded and hog-tied, so he won’t give you any trouble. Take a spare horse in case you can’t find his.”
“What did Ringart do?” frowned Lon.
“It was Ringart who faked the McDaniels suicide, killed Harp Drayton and tried to kill Jonah Welsh,” drawled Jim. “Welsh was the main target. The others were killed for no other reason than to let people believe that the Garcia curse was working. But Ringart was only the instrument of his cousin—Owen Leith …”
“Holy smoke!” gasped Lon.
“… with encouragement from Marcia Welsh.” Jim grinned wryly. “They wanted Jonah dead, so that Marcia could inherit his fortune and then spend it with Leith. If that idea startles you, kid, just be grateful your future wife has no mean streak.”
“Women!” Fiske shook his head dazedly.
“What’s to become of her now?” asked Cray. “She’s as guilty as Leith, wouldn’t you say?”
“If she’s still at Circle W, when I ride out to get Jonah’s statement,” said Fiske, “I’ll arrest her and, by golly, it’ll be a pleasure.”
Jim had finished scanning his statement as written down by the sheriff. N
ow he appended his signature, which was witnessed by Fiske, Lon and the medico.
“Couple of Leith’s men are in the front cell,” Fiske told Lon. “Leith and the others are grave-bait but, the way Rand tells it, Ringart will live to stand trial. Now you hustle out to the canyon and fetch him.”
“I’ll go with you as far as the livery stable,” offered Jim.
He was on his feet now, re-donning his shirt, and Cray was warning him, “You’ll get to bed right away, if you know what’s good for you.”
As they walked towards the MB Corral, with Jim leading the charcoal, Lon told him of the widow’s demise. Jim nodded sympathetically and offered a few words of hope.
“That family won’t need quite as much help from you, from now on. Ortega folk will feel mighty embarrassed about the way they treated the Garcias—the accusations—the intimidation. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jose and Miguel are offered regular jobs, a chance to earn enough money to support their brother and sisters.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” nodded Lon.
“Which means,” said Jim, “you and Reba can go ahead with your marriage plans.”
“But only because you butted into our troubles,” countered Lon, “and found the real killer of Drayton and McDaniels. I sure owe you a lot, Jim. Right from the minute you hit this town, you’ve acted like I was kin to you, and the only thing you cared a damn about was getting me out of trouble, and I still don’t savvy why.”
“You remind me of a feller I once knew,” was as much as Jim would tell him.
He took Cray’s advice and rested, for the sake of aiding the swift healing of his wounds. During that period, most of which he spent in his bed at the rooming house, he was visited by quite a few locals and all of the surviving jurymen, Jonah Welsh included. These seven grateful men were adamant on one point, determined to abide by the proposition offered Jim by Leith on their behalf. As Kurt Richter put it, “You earned every dollar of that twenty-five hundred, and you’d be plumb foolish not to take it.”
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