Meet Me in Moredo (A Big Jim Western Book 2)

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  TWELVE DESPERADOES POISED TO ATTACK.

  The northbound train carried a precious cargo. Wealthy Mexican ranchers and their womenfolk were headed for Moredo, and their family jewels were stored in the safe of the caboose. When the thieves attacked, there was violence and bloodshed.

  Big Jim Rand was aboard the train. The leather-tough ex-sergeant of the 11th Cavalry hoped to find his quarry in Moredo. Instead, the hunter saw his brother’s murderer taking an active part in the hold-up.

  And so, to reach his objective, the gun-fast manhunter had to declare war on all twelve of the raiders—and the consequences were violent.

  BIG JIM 2: MEET ME IN MOREDO

  By Marshall Grover

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

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

  First Smashwords Edition: January 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.

  CONTENTS

  One – Quest of a Tall Man

  Two – Fastest Route West

  Three – Luckless Lothario

  Four – The Bride is Unwilling

  Five – Dreamers and Schemers

  Six – Adios, Burnett Junction

  Seven – Crisis at Powderhorn Bend

  Eight – The Moredo Scene

  Nine – The Avenger

  Ten – Ride the Showdown Trail

  The Big Jim Series

  Copyright

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  About Marshall Grover

  One – Quest of a Tall Man

  “Ten o’clock tomorrow morning will be the best time,” said the man lounging in the open doorway of the line-shack. “I’ve checked the railroad route all the way from Hachita Flats to the high country, and timed every mile of it. The northbound reaches Powderhorn Bend at ten o’clock or thereabouts. By nine-thirty, we’ll be in position.”

  “All staked out?” demanded one of the three men seated at the table. “With maybe a log rolled onto the railroad tracks?”

  “Not a log.” The man in the doorway shook his head emphatically. “Rocks and earth would be better. I heard of an unsuccessful attempt at robbing a Colorado train last spring. A bunch of optimists stacked three logs across the tracks and waited for the train to stop. The engineer increased speed. Those logs were shoved off the tracks by the cowcatcher and the train kept moving. The Colorado lawmen are still laughing about it.”

  “So we pile rocks and stuff onto the tracks,” frowned another of the seated men, “and you reckon that’ll do it?”

  “That’ll do it,” nodded the man in the doorway. “If we follow my strategy, we’ll get away with the whole bundle. Bet your life on that.”

  The three shabbily garbed cattlemen pensively studied the map spread on the tabletop, paying special attention to the area indicated by their potential leader.

  “Powderhorn Bend ...” The taller of the seated men nodded his approval. “Yeah. I guess that’d be as good a place as any.”

  “So,” drawled the man in the doorway, “I can count on you and your four men?”

  “We’re in,” the tall one assured him.

  “Five of you,” smiled the boss-conspirator. “Seven in my group—including myself. That makes an even dozen, and I anticipate the twelve of us will be more than enough to intimidate the passengers and crew of the northbound.”

  “You still claim it’s gonna be worth the trouble?” challenged the tall man. “I dunno about all this fancy jewelry—diamonds and stuff. In my day, I’ve run off all kinds of merchandise, anything from cattle to gold shipments or payrolls. Cattle are easy to sell, and you can always trade gold for hard cash. But jewelry ...?”

  “Don’t worry,” grinned the man in the doorway. “When you collect your share of the loot, it’ll be mighty negotiable. Nothing but genuine American dollars.”

  “That’s how I want it,” the tall man asserted. “Cash—for sure. Don’t hand me no purty bangles or beads and tell me that’s my share. I wouldn’t appreciate that one little bit.”

  “I told you before,” said the man in the doorway. “I have a useful connection in San Francisco. He’ll pay high—and no questions asked—for every precious gem we take from those fat señoras.”

  “I reckon he knows what he’s talkin’ about,” drawled the third seated man. “I was in Moredo last Foundation Day—right there at city hall when the Mex cattlemen arrived for the big shindig ...”

  “The civic leaders of Moredo,” chuckled the man in the doorway, “would be horrified to hear the Foundation Day Ball described as a big shindig.”

  “Well, anyway, there was all these Mex women in their silk gowns—rings on their fingers—brooches and beads and stuff. I swear some of them females sparkled like they was on fire.”

  “Very expensive fire, my friend,” said the man in the doorway. “Gems worth thousands of dollars. And every year it happens. The rancheros bring their women to the grand ball—and the women wear the family jewels. It’s a tradition.”

  In Moredo County, there was a great deal of tradition. The settlement had been founded by two firm friends, an American named Simon Reavis, a Mexican named Luiz Moredo. Legends claimed that the trailblazers flipped a Spanish doubloon to decide from whom the new settlement should take its name. Moredo had called heads and had won, but had graciously insisted that the main thoroughfare be named after his American friend and, to this day, the county seat was part American part Mexican, with both races living in peace. The main stem retained its original name—Reavis Road. And the anniversary of that significant day was celebrated with great enthusiasm by county folk, the event of the year being the grand ball attended by the civic leaders, their friends and relatives and many distinguished guests from south of the border, aristocratic Mexican cattlemen, some of them direct descendants of the revered Luiz Moredo.

  With the hacendados came their wives, their beautiful daughters, their handsome sons. On this one outstanding occasion of the year, local ladies and visitors vied with each other in displaying the status symbols of family wealth—not just the flowing, richly embroidered, silken ball-gowns, but the jewelry, the family heirlooms of diamonds, rubies and pearls set in gold and silver. The organizer of the proposed hold-up, the smiling man taking his ease in the doorway of this ramshackle cabin, was more than familiar with the opulence of those wealthy Mexicans.

  “By the time they arrive at city hall for the grand ball,” he muttered, “some of those women are wearing as much as five thousand dollars’ worth of precious stones.”

  “Well,” frowned the tall man, “I’ll allow that sounds like a mighty rich haul.”

  “Think about it,” offered the boss-thief. “Think of how many women come up from Mexico on that northbound train every Foundation Day. Even if all of them aren’t toting five thousand dollars worth of jewelry—supposing the average is a thousand dollars worth per head, or only eight hundred—it still adds up to a rich haul. We take it all. Not just the je
welry, but their folding money, anything of value.”

  “All right.” The tall man nodded slowly. “My bunch will go along with it. You can count us in.”

  “I was sure you’d be interested.”

  “It’s been a hard year—for you as much as for us.”

  “Exactly. So we have to make up for our losses, and I can’t think of a better way.” The boss-thief straightened up, clamped his cigar in the side of his mouth and adjusted his Stetson. “Ride over and visit with me tonight and we’ll plan all the final details.”

  “Sure, I’ll do that,” promised the tall man. “But there’s one little detail I’d admire to know about right here and now.”

  “Yes?”

  “After we’ve grabbed all this loot, how soon will you head for ’Frisco to turn it into cash?”

  “Not for several weeks. To leave immediately—or too soon after the robbery—would be to invite suspicion.”

  “So you mosey off to ’Frisco any time you please—and all by yourself. You trade the stuff for cash, and how do we know you’ll come back to New Mexico to divvy up with us? I’d like some kind of a guarantee.”

  One of the other men mumbled, “I reckon that’s only fair.”

  The boss-thief eyed the tall man intently and, after a few moments of deep thought, offered a suggestion.

  “Your men trust you, as mine trust me. Suppose we make the trip together? What better guarantee could you ask? I’ll never be out of your sight. We’ll negotiate with my contact, collect the money, then come home to Moredo County to pay each man his share.”

  “Well—sure,” grunted the tall man. “That’ll suit me fine.”

  “Until tonight then?” smiled the boss-thief, and he ambled out into the early morning sunlight to untether and mount his handsome chestnut gelding.

  ~*~

  At two-thirty of that afternoon, a couple of strangers dawdled their mounts into the west end of Burnett Junction, a cattle-town nudging the border. They casually studied the gleaming tracks, the depot office and platform and the departing train, then walked their animals further along Main Street, conscious of the curious stares of the locals, but undismayed.

  There was ample justification for such curiosity. It wasn’t often that one observed an Americano so impressive, so tall and so ruggedly handsome, accompanied by a Mexican so runty, so nondescript, so downright ugly. The riders contrasted as sharply as did their means of transportation; the Americano rode a black stallion of powerful build, flashing-eyed, high-stepping, obviously capable of a fine turn of speed and great endurance, while the little Mex straddled an undersized, weary-looking burro, a critter that paled into insignificance beside the magnificent charcoal.

  The Mex made to unsling the instrument toted on his back, a battered guitar. Without glancing at him, the tall American said:

  “It’s a mite early for you to sing a serenade in this town. You want to get us run out on a rail?”

  “I only move the guitarra,” grunted the Mex, “because my back is—how you call it—itchy?”

  “If you’d take a bath once in a while,” drawled the tall rider, “you wouldn’t itch so bad.”

  Benito Espina ignored this aspersion on his personal habits, squinted ahead and observed:

  “There is the office of the rurale. There is a sign—which says ...”

  While his squint deepened, his tall travelling companion read the printed inscription. The distance was considerable, but James Carey Rand’s eyesight was uncommonly keen.

  “It says ‘Sheriff’s Office and County Jail’,” he informed Benito. “It also says the sheriff’s, name is Nathan Croy.”

  “You know this lawman, Amigo Jim?” demanded Benito.

  “No,” said Jim, “but I soon will.” As they drew closer to the porch of the law office, he muttered instructions. “You wait right there at the hitch rack while I parley with the sheriff. Don’t get to wandering, cucaracha. I want you right where I can see you—because that’s as far as I trust you.”

  “Amigo Jim,” protested the Mex, “when will you learn to have faith in me—your true and close friend ...?”

  “When I find a fountain in a desert, a fountain that gives nothing but good rye whisky,” said Jim, “that’s when I’ll start trusting you.” They reached the law office hitch rack. As he dismounted, he exchanged nods with the florid, barrel-chested man on the office porch, then quietly repeated his order to the Mex. “You stay put—savvy?”

  “Savvy,” sighed Benito.

  Leaning on the porch-rail, the lawman eyed the strangers thoughtfully and tried to guess how two such oddly contrasting wanderers could have become saddle-pards. How much could such men have in common? Very little, surely. Jim Rand looked to be all of six feet five inches tall, a muscular, well-proportioned giant, hefty about the shoulders and chest, flat-bellied and long-legged, a lot of man, a lot of hard, durable, formidable man. He wore range-clothes, but the lawman guessed that he was no cattleman; there had been a suggestion of the military in the way the big man sat his saddle.

  As for that ugly, scruffy, buck-toothed Mex—hell’s bells—he couldn’t have been more than five feet and a couple inches, a nondescript with shifty eyes and a receding chin. Being a normal peace officer and a veteran of his trade, Sheriff Croy distrusted Benito at first sight.

  Jim came up the steps to the porch and offered his name and his hand. As they shook, the lawman identified himself.

  “Nat Croy—county sheriff.” And then eyeing Jim expectantly, “You a lawman from somewhere west of the Junction?”

  “Well, no ...” began Jim.

  “I thought sure you’d be a lawman—and the Mex’d be your prisoner.” Croy darted another alert glance at the Mex. “He looks like he ought to be somebody’s prisoner.”

  “Benito’s looks,” Jim conceded, “aren’t in his favor.”

  “That’s puttin’ it mild,” growled Croy. “Well, you wanted to see me?”

  “I’m looking for a man,” said Jim. “Been looking for him since March seventh.”

  “Rand,” frowned the sheriff. “I’m gonna be mighty disappointed if you turn out to be a bounty hunter. I had you pegged for a gentleman.”

  “Thanks for the compliment,” Jim acknowledged, “and I’m no bounty hunter.”

  “Bueno,” grunted Croy. “Come on in and sit a while.” He ushered Jim into the stuffy office with its rusting Justin stove, its knife-scarred furniture positioned haphazardly within the four adobe walls from which peeled many a yellowing “Wanted” dodger. A heavy door was set into the rear wall, giving entry to the cellblock. While the sheriff seated himself at his desk and took a thick folder from a drawer, Jim straddled a chair near the street doorway; from here, he could keep an eye on his unprepossessing travelling companion. “You gonna tell me the whole score, Rand?” the sheriff demanded.

  “There isn’t a great deal to tell,” muttered Jim. He rolled and lit a cigarette, re-told the story and, for a while, re-lived all the old pain. “When this killer shot my brother in the back, he was calling himself Jenner. My brother was a second lieutenant in the Eleventh Cavalry—which was also my old outfit.”

  “You’re on leave from your regiment?” prodded Croy.

  “No.” Jim shook his head, “The Army, the Pinkertons and the local law all failed to get a lead on this Jenner hombre, so I resigned to start looking for him by myself.”

  “You were an officer, too?”

  “No. Top sergeant.”

  “Where’d all this happen, Rand?”

  “San Marco—that’s in the Arizona Territory. My brother was off-duty, playing poker with friends. He’d ordered this stranger out of the game. Incidentally, Jenner is a tinhorn—and a sore loser.”

  “Sore enough to turn poisonous, eh, Rand?”

  “Well—any man who’d kill like that—with his victim seated and looking the other way ...”

  “Sure. That’s how Jack McCall got Hickok—did you know?”

  “I heard.”

/>   “So now you aim to find Jenner and pay off for what he did to your brother?”

  “Not in the way you think. I’m no kill-crazy gunslinger, Sheriff ...”

  “I didn’t figure you were.”

  “I’d as soon take him back alive, take him back to San Marco and see him tried and convicted.”

  “All right. How about a description of Jenner? Were there witnesses?”

  “Plenty. He’s about five feet ten inches tall, has sandy hair and moustache, pale blue eyes and kind of a thin, high-pitched voice. Slim build. He rigs himself like any dude tinhorn and he has a special fondness for raw brandy and flashy jewelry. When he gunned my brother—with a thirty-eight from a shoulder-holster—he was wearing a pearl ring and a pearl stickpin.”

  Croy raised his head, blinked at his visitor and remarked:

  “That’s as thorough a description as I’ve ever heard.”

  “I’ve repeated it often enough,” Jim grimly assured him.

  “You ever see this Jenner coyote?” asked Croy.

  “No,” frowned Jim. “I was a long way from San Marco when it happened. But those other card-players had a clear picture of Jenner in their minds. They described him very carefully at the inquest.”

  “Give me just a few minutes,” muttered Croy.

  He checked all his files, filled and lit a bent-stemmed briar pipe and searched his memory with great care, while Jim sat quiet, moodily studying Burnett Junction’s dusty main street and the cross-section of humanity on the boardwalks. It appeared there were many wealthy Mexicans in town, maybe permanent residents, maybe transients. The women were richly gowned. The men wore the distinctive garb of the aristocratic rancheros, highborn Mexicans who were amassing fortunes from the breeding of cattle south of the border, counterparts of the powerful cattle barons of Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.

  Abruptly, he stopped thinking about the wealthy Mexicans; Croy was talking again.

  “No record of such a man at this office, Rand.”

  “So,” mused Jim, “it isn’t likely he ever visited Burnett Junction.”