Big Jim 5 Read online

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  CONTENTS

  About One Man Jury

  One – Challenge the Big Man

  Two – The Hard-Hitter

  Three – Birth of the Laughing Ghost

  Four – Scare Tactics

  Five – Sociable Sanctuary

  Six – Four of a Kind

  Seven – The Eager Trigger

  Eight – Aftermath of an Outrage

  Nine – Hunters in the Afternoon

  Ten – Faster than the Foe

  About Marshall Grover

  The Big Jim Series

  Copyright

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  The Tall Avenger Becomes a One Man Jury!

  Big Jim Rand’s search for the murderer of his brother brought him to Alvarez County. At first it looked to be peaceful territory, but the big hunter and his sawn-off Mex sidekick were soon locking horns with three belligerent defenders of the peace.

  Here, in Alvarez, Big Jim was befriended by the beautiful and unpredictable Ruth Harnett and her father, the old hellion who had begun wreaking havoc with the Talbot Stage Line, fast earning notoriety as the Laughing Ghost.

  And, here, Big Jim had to appoint himself judge, prosecutor and jury to challenge and defeat a quartet of deadly desperadoes.

  BIG JIM 5: ONE MAN JURY

  By Marshall Grover

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

  Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  First Smashwords Edition: July 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  One – Challenge the Big Man

  Parsons Well, an isolated relay station of the Talbot Stage Line, looked mighty inviting to the two strangers that hot morning. Three hours ago, Big Jim Rand and Benito Espina had crossed the border between New Mexico and the northwest corner of the vast Lone Star State. Their provisions were in adequate supply, but their water-canteens were almost empty.

  “That’s a welcome sight,” the big man fervently declared.

  “Ah, si,” panted the Mex. “My belly cries for water.” He raised his swarthy face, squinted toward the cluster of shacks nestling in the mid-morning sun. “What is this place, amigo Jim? Maybe a rancho, eh?”

  “We can see a long way across the plain,” Jim pointed out, “and nary a sign of cattle. It’s not a ranch, and it certainly isn’t a farm. But we’re travelling a regular trail, so I figure it has to be a switch station. We’re on the stage route, it seems.”

  The big black stallion and the nondescript burro moved more briskly now, rousing from their lethargy. Obviously the scent of water had reached their sensitive nostrils. James Carey Rand heaved a sigh of relief. Big he was, tough, formidable and a veteran of many a bloody combat. But he didn’t relish the prospect of death from thirst.

  The runty Mex straddling the plodding burro was even more relieved, since he didn’t possess even a small fraction of Jim Rand’s courage. There wasn’t much of Benito Espina. He stood about five feet; his shoulders were bowed and his chest flat. He was uncommonly ugly, a leering little braggart with buckteeth and eyes set too close together. But, ironically, his fantastic conceit had convinced him that he was devastatingly handsome, irresistible to women, a Lothario, a caballero of immense charm. To his back was slung a battered guitar. At the drop of a sombrero and a flutter of a female eyelid, he would unsling this tuneless instrument, pick at the strings and warble a serenade, and Benito’s voice matched his appearance.

  Jebediah Parsons had operated this station for some four and a half years, with the assistance of his work-toughened spouse and his husky progeny. The coming of strange riders rarely caused him disquiet. He didn’t appear one half as apprehensive as the slim man standing beside him.

  To the slim man, who had ridden in just a short time before, Parsons placidly remarked,

  “You don’t often sight a couple drifters that look so different, eh Shelton? Look at these two. As different as chalk from cheese. Big American on a fine black saddler—little no-account Mex on a burro.”

  “Don’t worry,” muttered Shelton. He was hefting a Winchester, alertly following the progress of the two strangers. “I can handle ’em.”

  Parsons, sixty, scrawny and philosophical, grinned mildly at the youngish, over-suspicious Shelton.

  “Don’t worry?” he challenged. “Hell, Shelton, I ain’t worryin’. When you get to my age, you find you can sense if a stranger is gonna be friendly or dangerous—long before he reaches the front yard.”

  “I wouldn’t rely too much on my instincts if I was you,” growled Shelton.

  “Son,” grinned Parsons, “I never yet been wrong.”

  “Just don’t get between them and me!” breathed Shelton, as the strangers ambled their animals into the yard.

  Parsons shrugged, stepped away from the relay corral and began sauntering toward the well. Both strangers waved to him. He returned their waves, while giving them a brief but thorough once-over.

  The Mex wasn’t impressive, but the rider of the charcoal warranted a second look—a lot of man, dark-haired, square-jawed, handsome. His bearing, his whole demeanor, contrasted with the lazy, nonchalant manner of veteran ranch-hands or saddle tramps. This man had a purpose in life, Parsons guessed. He was well-rigged and well-armed. The riding clothes were utilitarian, not flashy. The ivory butt of a Colt .45 jutted from the holster slung to his right hip from a well-stocked cartridge-belt. The stock of a Winchester protruded from his saddle-scabbard.

  Jim was first to dismount. As he did so, he grunted a greeting to the station-manager and added a query—how adequate was the water supply hereabouts?

  “You can use all you need,” offered Parsons. “I never yet had to refuse a stranger passin’ by.”

  “Mighty obliged to you,” Jim acknowledged. “This place was sure a welcome sight, believe me. We haven’t spotted water since long before we crossed the border. I was beginning to wonder if we’d ...”

  “Amigo Jim!” called the Mex.

  And Jim froze—not because of Benito’s too-slow warning, but out of respect for the hard circle of metal suddenly rammed into his spine. That ring of metal, he guessed, was the business-end of a gun-barrel. With great care, he raised his hands away from his sides.

  “One wrong move, and I’ll ...” began Shelton.

  “All right,” frowned Jim. “All right—but don’t get jumpy, boy ...”

  “Don’t call me ‘boy’!” snapped Shelton. “And you’d better pass the word to your Mex sidekick. If he tries to get a bead on me, I’ll blow you in half.”

  “The Mex won’t draw on you,” Jim quietly assured him.

  “Turn around slow,” ordered Shelton.

  “Hell, Shelton, if you ain’t the proddiest, sassiest …” began Parsons.

  “You butt out of this!” snarled Shelton. “I know what I’m doin’!”

  “I hope so,” sighed Parsons. “I sure as hell hope so.”

  “Turn around slow,” repeated Shelton, “and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

  Jim turned, very slowly. The slim man now confronted him, bran
dishing the Winchester and scowling belligerently. Looking him over, noting his slim build, boyish visage and bumptious demeanor, Jim saw nothing to arouse his respect—nothing except the rifle-barrel trained on his chest. Parsons had paused beside the well. Benito still straddled his burro. He was well out of Shelton’s reach, at a right angle to him.

  “Boy,” said Jim, “you’d better have a damn good reason for getting the drop on me.”

  “What d’you call yourself?” demanded Shelton. “I want your name—and the Mex’s. Also, I want to know where you’re from, and ...”

  “Who’s asking?” countered Jim.

  “Caramba,” grunted Benito. “He is muy curioso, eh amigo Jim?”

  “You button your lip till I’m ready to talk to you!” snapped Shelton.

  And, in voicing that reprimand, he automatically flicked a glance toward the Mex. His eyes were off Jim for only a fraction of a second, but that was time enough—more than time enough for the big stranger’s lightning-fast counteraction. His left hand flashed out, deflecting the rifle-barrel, then grasping it. His right, bunched, sped to Shelton’s face. It was a hard, fast, punishing blow aimed unerringly at Shelton’s left eye, and the impact caused Shelton to lose his grip of the rifle and stumble four paces backward, before tripping and sprawling.

  Parsons cursed softly, fluently. Grim-faced, Jim flung Shelton’s rifle clear.

  “Your turn now, boy,” he called to the prone and befuddled Shelton. “Your turn to answer questions. Here’s the first. What’s the idea of shoving a gun in my back and ...?”

  For the second time within a few minutes, he checked himself in mid-sentence. His eyebrows shot up. Shelton had rolled over—a movement that caused his jacket to fall open, revealing his shirtfront. Just above the pocket of his checked shirt was affixed an item familiar to all frontier men, a gleaming, polished metal star, the badge of a lawman.

  “Great day in the morning!” he breathed.

  “You punch him hard, I think,” chuckled Benito. “Ai caramba—he goes to the dust like a shot pajaro.”

  “He had it comin’,” opined Parsons. “Damn proddy young jackass.”

  “But, damitall,” fumed Jim, “I didn’t know he was a lawman!”

  “He didn’t introduce himself proper, come to think of it,” recalled Parsons.

  “And I couldn’t see his damn-blasted badge,” scowled Jim, as he strode to the prone man. Roughly, he grasped Shelton’s coat-collar and hauled him upright. “Sorry, boy.” Considering the condition of Shelton’s eye, the apology seemed inadequate. “I wouldn’t have hit you so hard—wouldn’t have hit you at all—if I’d know you were a lawman.”

  “Don’t—call me ‘boy’ ...” groaned Shelton.

  “He’s a deputy from the county seat,” offered Parsons. “Name of Wayne Shelton.”

  “Now you tell me,” complained Jim.

  “Maybe I forgot on purpose,” grinned Parsons. “To introduce you, I mean. He might get to be a good lawman someday—when he ages some, when he ain’t so ornery.”

  “Assault and battery,” panted Shelton, “on an officer of the law

  “Could you make that charge stick?” challenged Jim. He strode to where the deputy’s rifle had fallen, picked it up, brought it back to him. “In court I’d claim you didn’t identify yourself. I’d tell the judge your badge was covered up. The Mex is a witness, and so is ...”

  He turned to the station-manager.

  “Parsons. Jeb Parsons. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” nodded Jim. “Rand is my name. Jim Rand. The Mex is called Benito Espina.”

  “Shelton,” said Parsons, still grinning. “I figure you got exactly what was comin’ to you.”

  The deputy groaned a curse, raised a hand to his left eye. It was closing; the bruise was turning a deep shade of blue. Sympathetically, if not diplomatically, Jim predicted, “You’ll have quite a shiner by the time you get home.”

  It took Shelton several minutes to regain control of himself. He was again brandishing the Winchester, but Jim knew that weapon would not be pointed at him again; Shelton had been taught a hard lesson.

  “All right,” he grunted. “It looks like Parsons is right. I can’t arrest you for assault and battery, but maybe I can think of another charge.”

  “Don’t you never learn?” jeered Parsons.

  “You’re in Alvarez County,” Shelton told Jim, “and that means you got to abide by our laws. We got an ordinance, for instance, that gives all lawmen the authority to arrest vagrants—or run ’em out of the territory.”

  “My idea of a vagrant,” retorted Jim, “is some drifter who’s broke, doesn’t hanker to work and ...”

  “And is apt to start trouble,” growled Shelton.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” said Jim. “We ain’t broke.”

  “Prove it,” ordered Shelton.

  Jim produced his wallet, permitted Shelton to look at his bankroll. Also, he produced two folded sheets of paper and insisted that the deputy inspect them.

  “One is a sketch of a man I’m looking for—a back-shooter who killed my brother. I’ll thank you to check it carefully and tell me if you’ve ever seen him. He’s a tinhorn, a sore loser who drinks raw brandy and wears pearl jewelry—a ring and a stickpin. The other paper is a document of discharge that was issued to me after I mustered out of the Eleventh Cavalry.”

  “I had you pegged for some kind of a boss-man,” declared Parsons. “What were you? A captain?”

  “Just a sergeant,” said Jim.

  “That so?” Parsons grinned and winked. “I hear tell sergeants can be plenty tough.”

  “How about it?” Jim demanded of Shelton.

  Shelton had finished studying the pen-sketch of the killer. He scanned the discharge document, folded both papers and returned them.

  “No. I never saw that jasper before. But Alvarez is a fair-sized town, so I guess you’ll want to go take a look.”

  “That’s for sure,” nodded Jim. He restored the papers to his wallet, and the wallet to his pocket. “He was headed in this general direction.”

  “Friend, when you say ‘this general direction’,” drawled Parsons, “you’re speakin’ of a mighty big hunk of country.”

  “I know,” said Jim. “I’ve already covered quite a piece of it.” And now he thought to ask Shelton, “What makes you so proddy, anyway?”

  “He’s on patrol,” said Parsons.

  “I’ll do my own explainin’, Parsons,” muttered the deputy.

  “Suit yourself,” shrugged Parsons. “Rand, you’re welcome to all the water you can tote. And, if you crave home-cookin’, I reckon my woman’d be glad to have a couple of guests for lunch.”

  “We wouldn’t want to make extra chores for her,” said Jim.

  “She’ll take it kindly,” Parsons assured him. “Eastbound’ll be comin’ by pretty soon, but it only stays long enough for a team-switch.” He began walking toward the house. “I’ll tell her two extra for lunch.”

  “Muchas gracias,” grinned Benito.

  He dismounted and led the burro and the stallion to the trough beyond the relay-corral, while Jim repeated his question to Shelton. Tersely, the deputy replied,

  “It wouldn’t be the first time outlaws thought of jumpin’ a stage coach at a switch-station, instead of along the route. Sheriff Carmody’s a hombre that don’t like to overlook anything. Every so often, we check Parsons’ place and the other one.”

  “If there are two switch-stations in Alvarez County,” frowned Jim, “it must be quite a hunk of territory.”

  “It’s big,” Shelton assured him. “The other station is at White Rock, far over to the east.”

  “You wait for the stage,” prodded Jim, “make sure there aren’t any wanted men among the passengers—and then what?”

  “Then I head back to Alvarez,” said Shelton. “I know a mess of short-cuts and, five or six times, I’ll sight the coach and make sure they haven’t run into trouble.” He grimaced,
raised a hand to his eye. “Consarn you, Rand. You and your big fists.”

  “Go see Parsons’ wife,” Jim advised. “Maybe she can let you have a piece of raw steak.”

  In the nature of Deputy Wayne Shelton there was a strong streak of vanity; this was proved when, some ten minutes later, the eastbound stage came rolling in. Instead of coming out to scrutinize and perhaps question the male passengers, Shelton remained inside the house, keeping out of sight. His black eye was an embarrassment.

  Having accepted the Parsons’ invitation to stay for lunch, Jim and Benito had off-saddled their animals and were giving them the comfort of a feed and rubdown.

  Close by the passengers alighted and, flexing their cramped muscles, headed for the outhouses to “freshen-up.” Grinning broadly, and in tones that might have carried clear to the New Mexico border, the shotgun guard bellowed directions.

  “Ladies to the right—gents to the left! Ten minutes is all you get, folks! Ten minutes to grab a cup o’ coffee and hustle back to the stage, and then we’ll be on our way again! Step lively there, Reverend Cully! The heat plaguin’ you, Mrs. Hopper? Well, by golly, this hot sun is never gonna hit your face—long as you’re wearin’ that purty hat with all the feathers! Get a hustle on, Miss Winslow! Hey, Mr. Grindell dumed if you ain’t gettin’ fatter ...!”

  Some of the passengers acknowledged the guard’s remarks with good-humored grins, but, to Jim, it was obvious that some didn’t appreciate such clumsy jesting. The women flushed angrily. The preacher’s face was creased in a frown of disapproval.

  If only because of his apparent inability to keep his mouth shut, that guard interested Jim. He seemed to be talking constantly, and always loudly. Jim judged him to be in his advanced fifties. Asa Harnett’s straggly hair was ash-gray, his hatchet-jawed face liberally crisscrossed with the lines of age, his laughing eyes hazy-gray. Shabby were his clothes. The sweat-stained wreck of a Stetson was clamped to the back of his head. He was a little less than six feet tall, stoop-shouldered, loose-limbed.