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  Table of Contents

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  One – The Rescuer

  Two – The Widow’s Curse

  Three – “I’ll Stay In Ortega”

  Four – Fear for the Devil’s Legend

  Five – Advice from a Widow

  Six – A New Hat for Jonah

  Seven – One Very Active Corpse

  Eight – The Last Suspects

  Nine – Trail Of Treachery

  Ten – Fury of a Simple Man

  INTO ORTEGA VALLEY HE RODE ... TO BECOME A TARGET!

  Like a black cloud, the threat of sudden death hung over Ortega, implacable; malevolent; ominous. The distraught mother of an executed killer had put a curse on the jury that convicted him. All twelve would die, she vowed.

  Three had already died, when Big Jim Rand arrived, tagged by the insolent, itchy-fingered Benito Espina. Was the curse working? The tough ex-sergeant of the 11th Cavalry refused to believe in witchcraft. With no regard for the danger that threatened him, he stayed to challenge a cunning conspiracy to fight and win in a conflict of hard fists and blazing .45s.

  One – The Rescuer

  Until this moment, the vast Ortega Valley of Northwest Texas had seemed an appealing place, green, verdant, tranquil. The two strangers were viewing a large section of it from their vantage point atop a wind-swept rise, when the urgent drumming of hooves smote their ears. Right away, the runty Mexican on the somnolent burro gasped an exclamation in his native tongue.

  “¡Ai caramba!”

  “He’s being dragged,” observed the big man on the black stallion. “Looks like his horse bolted. If it isn’t headed off—he’ll die for sure.”

  “Others are chasing this runaway,” announced the Mex, pointing.

  “Sure,” nodded the big man. “But they’re far behind. I can reach him first.”

  James Carey Rand, late of the 11th Cavalry, wasted no time in further discussion of the emergency. Wise to the ways of horses, he well realized that the fast moving sorrel crossing the green plain below was not yet winded, probably wouldn’t stop running for at least another ten minutes, unless intercepted. And, by then, the man being dragged with one boot in the stirrup would surely be beyond aid.

  “He could be dead already.”

  That thought crossed Jim’s mind, as he put the charcoal to the slope. The slope was steep, yet neither man nor beast hesitated. Slithering, scrabbling for footing, the big black made for the base of the slope. More than once it seemed to the wide-eyed Mex, watching from the summit of the rise, that his brawny travelling companion would be thrown from his saddle, that the charcoal would flop on its forelegs and somersault. Neighing shrilly, dislodging rubble and raising dust, the big stallion continued the hazardous descent at speed.

  They reached flat ground unharmed and, from then on, the black seemed to take the initiative; it was as though the animal had guessed what was expected and was acting accordingly. At a right angle, it charged across the plain towards the bolting sorrel. Grim-faced, Jim studied the ground across which the runaway was moving. It was grassy; not too much rock. Maybe the rider still had a chance. Was he unconscious already? Probably. His arms weren’t flailing. His whole body looked to be limp. The Stetson was askew, but had not yet parted company from its owner; the chin-strap had not snapped. He heeled the black to its utmost effort and, in a matter of moments, was galloping level with the sorrel.

  Jim had only to lean over sideways to grasp the sorrel’s bridle. As he did so, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the gleaming red scar atop the runaway’s rump. This critter was in pain; there could be no doubt about that. Small wonder it had bolted. He jerked back on his rein, slowing the black and maintaining his grip of the sorrel’s bridle. Also he raised his voice in a bull-like parade ground bellow, cussing the sorrel, intimidating it.

  Approaching from the north at high speed, the five horsemen saw the runaway brought to a quivering standstill and the rider of the charcoal dismounting to check on the condition of their injured colleague. By the time they reached the charcoal and the sorrel some moments later, Benito Espina had finished an unhurried and cautious descent from the top of the rise and was approaching from the south, straddling his plodding burro. The injured man had been laid on a patch of soft grass. Jim was carefully examining his head, his limbs and his badly-scratched face, when the five riders brought their mounts to a halt.

  Introductions were hastily exchanged. It transpired that the quintet’s leader, the elderly, hatchet-jawed Ethan Racklow, was foreman of Box 10, one of the largest of the Ortega Valley cattle outfits. The injured man was a veteran employee of Box 10. His name was Harper Drayton. All six, under Racklow’s supervision, had ridden out at sunrise to hunt strays.

  “It was no accident that Harp’s horse spooked and run,” growled one of the cowpokes. “Look at that bullet-sear on its rump, Mr. Racklow. I knew I heard a shot!”

  “I already noticed the bullet-scar,” drawled Jim, still examining the hapless Drayton. “Getting nicked that way, any horse would spook and bolt. They’d be near crazy with pain.”

  “Well, maybe that lousy sniper aimed to faze Harp’s horse,” muttered the cowpoke, “or maybe he aimed at Harp himself, missed Harp and creased the critter.”

  The ramrod had dismounted and was kneeling beside the injured man. Frowning across at the stranger, he reminded him, “You ain’t yet named yourself.”

  “Rand—Jim Rand.” Jim gestured in the general direction of the oncoming Benito. “The little Mex on the burro is Benito Espina.”

  “Maybe it was too late for helpin’ poor Harp,” said Racklow, “or maybe he’ll live. Either way, we sure appreciate what you did.”

  Benito arrived, nodded to the cowhands and enquired of Jim, “He still lives?”

  “Still alive,” nodded Jim, as he got to his feet. “I’m no doctor, but I’d say he has at least an even chance, if he can have proper treatment right away.” He fished out his makings and, as he rolled and lit a cigarette, made the foreman an offer. “We were headed for the nearest town. That’s Ortega? Well, if you can fetch a wagon in a hurry, I’ll be glad to deliver Drayton to a doctor.”

  “Thanks,” Racklow acknowledged. “But it’ll be just as fast if some of us take him in.” He muttered a command to one of the cowpokes. “You know what to do, Clyde. Head for home muy pronto. Have Barney hitch his team to the chuck wagon, and make sure there’s plenty blankets.” Then, as the courier spurred his mount and rode away across the plain, the foreman dropped his gaze to the unconscious Drayton and asked Jim, “How bad d’you figure he’s hurt?”

  “There’s a head injury,” said Jim, as he lit his cigarette. “His left leg is broken—also his right arm. I think he’d recover from those wounds and his scratches would heal in time, but I can’t guess at his internal injuries. He probably broke some ribs. If a lung has been punctured, he’s in bad trouble.” On his way to where the black awaited, he offered a word of caution, “You’ll need to handle him gently when you’re putting him in the wagon.”

  “We’ll take care,” Racklow assured him.

  Jim swung astride.

  “The county seat is that way?” He gestured eastward. “You’ll hit the regular town trail,” nodded Racklow, “right after you pass that big sugarloaf rock. If you move along steady you should make Ortega within the hour. Harp won’t make it so fast. We daren’t hustle—wouldn’t want for him to get hurt any worse than he is.”

  “Well,” said Jim, “if there’s nothing else I can do …”

  “Would you stop by Doc Cray’s house on Moss Road?�
� begged Racklow. “Doc’s a good friend of the boss. If he knows we’re bringin’ Harp in, he’ll stay put. Time could be mighty important to poor Harp.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Jim. “And I’ll be sure and tell Cray the score.”

  “And the sheriff,” frowned Racklow. “Somebody ought to get word to him. Not much hope he could find the skunk that fired on Harp, but it still has to be reported.”

  “I’ll be paying a call on your sheriff anyway,” said Jim. “I’ll certainly tell him what happened out here.”

  “You tell Rube Fiske,” said the cowpoke who had heard the shot, “that the sidewinder was likely staked out atop Hagen Ridge.”

  “Hagen Ridge.” Jim nodded slowly. “I’ll remember.”

  “Thanks again, Rand,” acknowledged the ramrod, as Jim and the Mex started their mounts moving again.

  “I’m only sorry I couldn’t reach Drayton any sooner,” was Jim’s parting remark.

  One of the men had folded his slicker to make a pillow for the bloodied head of Harp Drayton. Another was staring impatiently northward, although it was far too early to expect the wagon from Box 10. A third hunkered beside the sprawled figure and moodily studied the bruised and bloodied countenance. Racklow produced a corn-cob pipe and an oilskin tobacco pouch and prepared to smoke. His narrowed gaze was aimed to the east; he was watching the big man and the runty Mex moving on towards the horizon.

  “I’ve seen some strange partners in my day,” he muttered, “but them two sure beat all. Rand rides like a soldier, and he’s big and tough and plenty smart. I reckon I could trust him …”

  “But not the Mex?” challenged the man hunkered beside Drayton. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  “Squint-eyed and buck-toothed.” Racklow grimaced. “I wouldn’t trust him no further’n I could throw a steer—and I wonder why a man like Rand travels with the likes of him.”

  “Maybe Rand just ain’t particular,” shrugged the man staring north.

  “I’d say Rand is plenty particular,” countered Racklow. “Well, I guess there’s more to the both of ’em than meets the eye.”

  The men of Box 10 waited impatiently for the wagon that would transport their injured colleague to the county seat, and Ethan Racklow continued to ponder the enigma of such an impressive Americano riding in company of such a nondescript Mexican. Others had wondered about the strange bond that welded these two together, and not without cause; the contrast was startling.

  Riding the town trail at a steady clip with the Mex on the burro plodding behind, Jim Rand appeared formidable, rock-hard, intelligent and, in a weather-beaten way, handsome. He was well over six feet tall, a generous height in a period when any six-footer was considered uncommonly tall. The chest and shoulders were broad. He rode with his back ramrod-straight—cavalry-style—and any man straddling that magnificent black stallion would appear conspicuous even when rigged in clothing as utilitarian as Jim’s black Stetson and well-worn range garb. The ivory butt of a Colt .45 jutted from the holster at his right hip and the stock of a Winchester from the scabbard affixed to his saddle.

  Understandably, the plodding burro that answered to the title ‘Capitan Cortez’ was somewhat less impressive than the high-stepping stallion, and the same could be said of its rider. Benito Espina was a novelty, inasmuch as he was every inch as dishonest as his shifty eyes and predatory leer suggested—so much for the claim that a book cannot be judged by its cover. He was less than five feet two inches tall, stoop-shouldered, shabby and unwashed, with lank hair badly in need of a barber’s attention. To his back was slung a guitar, an instrument as badly tuned as the morals of its owner. He liked to sing serenades for preference and especially if a member of the opposite sex happened to be in earshot. Possessed of seven times more conceit than is good for any mere mortal, Benito fondly imagined himself to be a dashing caballero, a ladies’ man, a troubadour whose lilting voice could charm the birds from the trees. Actually the voice did not lilt at all, and was more apt to put the birds to flight.

  The home of Dr. Mathew Cray on Moss Road was a well-known landmark and easily located. Cray, an elderly man of slight physique, seemed deeply disturbed at the news brought him by Jim, more so than might seem natural for a frontier medico, a man accustomed to the broken bones, hernias and other ailments common to the working cowpoke.

  “I’ll wait for them,” he promised Jim. “You may be sure I’ll be ready to take care of Harp just as soon as they bring him in.”

  “And the sheriff’s office?” asked Jim.

  “Head straight to the center of town,” said Cray. “You can’t miss it.”

  But Jim’s visit to the sheriff’s office was destined to be delayed. No sooner had he reached the intersection of Moss Road and Main Street than he sighted a gleaming tin star on the shirtfront of a man entering a saloon. The saloon boasted a painted shingle which proclaimed it to be The Gay Lady, and Jim and the Mex were suddenly reminded of the hot, dry journey to Ortega. They were thirsty, and then some.

  “I call that mighty handy,” Jim remarked, as they idled their mounts towards the saloon hitch rack. “We report to the local law and settle our thirst, both at the same time.”

  “This one I would not trust,” mumbled Benito.

  Jim eyed him curiously, while they dismounted and looped their reins over the rail.

  “You only caught a quick glimpse of him, and you probably never saw him before,” he frowned.

  “Si,” shrugged the Mex, “but I have a feeling about him—what you call a hunch, no? I think he pretends to be a bravado—hoping nobody will suspect he is a coward.”

  “Benito Espina—a psychologist all of a sudden,” jeered Jim, climbing to the saloon porch.

  “What is this psycho … psycho?” Benito was always eager to learn.

  “Leave it at that,” growled Jim.

  Not surprisingly, they became the focus of all eyes the moment they entered the barroom. It wasn’t often that the citizens of Ortega County observed a stranger as tall and as impressive as Jim Rand accompanied by one as runty and as unprepossessing as Benito Espina. To the bar they moved, watched by the heavy-set barkeep with the cloudy grey eyes, the motley collection of customers, the bulky and somewhat flashily-garbed lawman, the blonde woman seated at the table by the side wall. Jim’s only preliminary was to offer the lawman his name. The lawman responded with a bland grin and his own name.

  “Clegg Robinson—deputy sheriff. Welcome to Ortega, Rand. The gent on my left is Owen Leith of the L Bar spread, the barkeep’s name is Gus and that mighty purty lady over by the wall—last but never least—is Miss Nadine Searle—and she owns this here joyhouse.”

  Jim would observe the social niceties later. At this moment he was more concerned with reporting the attempt on Harper Drayton’s life. He told Robinson as much as he knew, quickly, comprehensively. In conclusion:

  “A Box 10 rider identified the sniper’s stake-out as Hagen Ridge,” he told Robinson. “It seems Drayton was riding to the south of the ridge when the bullet nicked his horse. Well, I promised the foreman—Racklow—that I’d pass the word to the law. I’ve already told Doc Cray, and now you know, so …”

  “So I’ll go tell the sheriff right away,” Robinson assured him. Then, as he turned towards the door, he paused long enough to grin at the other men. “Quite a coincidence, eh, fellers?”

  “You’re a cold one, Clegg,” scowled the barkeep. “I swear you enjoy to see men sweat.”

  “Easy for you to laugh about it, Deputy,” mumbled one of the drinkers. “You weren’t on that jury.”

  Chuckling, Robinson strode to the entrance and hustled out into the street. Jim ordered a tall beer for himself, a shot of tequila for Benito. While serving him, the barkeep bitterly asserted:

  “Clegg Robinson’s got a mean streak a yard wide.”

  “Por cierto,” interjected Benito.

  Owen Leith now addressed Jim. The L Bar owner was a handsome six-footer, sandy-haired, with well-chiseled featur
es, probing blue eyes and a carefully-tended mustache. His range clothes were of modest quality but well-fitting.

  “It’s a sad duty that brings you to Ortega,” he frowned. “To be dragged is a hell of a thing, and you can bet we’re all hoping old Harp will survive. Harp’s a popular man hereabouts.”

  Having taken a generous pull at his beer, Jim set his tankard down and, from his hip pocket, produced the folded sheet of paper, the pen-sketch of his elusive quarry. As he unfolded it and offered it for the inspection of the barkeep and his customers, he explained:

  “Reporting the attack on Drayton wasn’t my only reason for coming to Ortega. I’m looking for a man—this man. It’s a fair likeness—as good as a photograph—because the man who made the sketch was a regular artist. Well, how about it?”

  “That face just ain’t familiar to me,” said the barkeep.

  The others shook their heads; then, as Jim returned the paper to his pocket, Leith again referred to the attack on the hapless Harp Drayton.

  “The curse is working,” he gloomily remarked to his companions. “I was never superstitious before—but this is too much.”

  “It’s the curse,” another drinker grimly agreed. “Nothin’ surer.”

  Jim and the Mex exchanged puzzled glances. About to press the rancher to clarify his statement, Jim heard the voice of Nadine Searle, soft but compelling.

  “You ought to be ashamed, Mr. Leith. Superstition is for children—and fools.”

  Leith flashed the saloon owner a rueful grin.

  “Nadine, I’m a proud man,” he drawled. “You’re the only citizen of Ortega who could call me a fool and get away with it.” He finished his drink, adjusted his Stetson. “Well, I’d best be getting back to L Bar.”

  He made an unhurried exit, lifting a hand in friendly farewell to the woman as an indication that he took no offence from her reprimand. She spoke again, this time addressing Jim. She smiled and, even if the voice had not already intrigued Jim, the smile would certainly have done so.