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  BIG JIM 10:

  LEAGUE OF THE LAWLESS

  by

  Marshall Grover

  contents

  About the Book

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  The Big Jim Series

  One – The Angry Town

  Two – Treachery and Terror

  Three – The Formidable Substitute

  Four – Hoofprints Across the Border

  Five – Guns of Rafter 7

  Six – The Reverend Big Jim

  Seven – Friend or Enemy?

  Eight – Shadow of a Tall Marauder

  Nine – Prelude to a Showdown

  Ten – Reckoning of the Guns

  BIG JIM 10

  LEAGUE OF THE LAWLESS

  Big Jim used to be Sergeant Rand of the 11th Cavalry. Now, as a civilian, he was on the trail of his brother’s killer. When he rides into the town of Frankston in Northwestern Kansas, he soon finds himself on the trail of a gang of merciless desperadoes. For a disguise, those outlaws were using the uniform of the U.S. Army. The big man decided upon an equally unique disguise, and penetrated the lair of the lawless in a suit of sober black; he toted a Bible in one hand, a long-barreled Colt .45 in the other. And, as ever, aided (or hampered) by his Mexican sidekick, Benito Espina, they take on the duplicitous gang.

  BIG JIM 10: LEAGUE OF THE LAWLESS

  By Marshall Grover

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

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

  First Smashwords Edition: May 2018

  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 Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  ONE

  THE ANGRY TOWN

  The big man had said it many times, upon his arrival in many a town. Here on the main street of Frankston, in Northwestern Kansas, he said it again.

  “You wait at the hitch rack—and try and stay out of trouble—while I parley with the local law.”

  This order was leveled at the runty, buck-toothed Mex who had ridden in the shadow of Big Jim Rand for all of a year now. Hump-Shouldered, sunken-chested, he straddled his plodding burro and flashed the big man a lazy grin.

  “Sí, Amigo Jim. I wait.”

  At this hour, 2.15 p.m. of a clear day in early summer, Frankston’s main stem was fairly busy, and more than a few locals paused on the boardwalks to study the passing strangers and to remark on the contrast they presented—the hefty, handsome American in the well-worn range clothes forking as impressive an animal as had ever been seen in this territory, a high-stepping black stallion—the sawn-off, unprepossessing Mex astride the nondescript burro. In every way, Jim Rand and the Mex were opposites—including their mode, of transportation.

  Dismounting outside the log and clapboard office of the Mason County sheriff, Jim looped his rein over the rack and quietly repeated his command. Benito Espina shrugged, slid to the ground and lit a cigarillo. Jim then stepped onto the boardwalk to move through the open doorway of the law office and exchange greetings with two defenders of the peace.

  He assumed the grey-haired, blunt-featured man at the paper-littered desk to be the boss-lawman, and the lean man plying a mop along the jail-house corridor to be a deputy. The cell-block entrance was open. The deputy’s lantern-jawed visage was expressionless, but the sheriff’s was alive with interest; it wasn’t often that he met a man of Jim’s size and appearance. Jim was almost six feet three inches tall and still carried himself erect, with shoulders squared, and he confronted the sheriff in much the same way that Sergeant James Carey Rand used to confront officers of the 11th Cavalry—except that he did not salute.

  He offered his name. The sheriff gestured him to a chair, and told him, “I’m Pete Wagner, sheriff of Mason County. My friend with the mop is Deputy Shay. And just what’s your problem?”

  “I’ve been searching for this hombre ...” Jim produced the folded sheet of paper, the picture of his quarry, and passed it to the sheriff, “for better than a year. He called himself Jenner when he killed a man in San Marco, Arizona.”

  “Gunfight?” frowned Wagner, while studying the picture.

  “Murder,” said Jim. “My brother was playing poker in the Silver Dollar Saloon. He had warned Jenner out of the game, because Jenner was a sore loser—all the time trying to start an argument.”

  “I never could abide a sore loser,” mused Wagner. “Jenner just stepped up behind my brother,” said Jim, “and shot him in the back.”

  The deputy had discarded his mop and pail. He stood by the desk now, peering over his superior’s shoulder, eyeing the sketch.

  “He looks familiar,” he suggested to Wagner. “Trouble is so do a hundred and one other jaspers. It ain’t what I’d call an unusual face—you know?”

  “That’s true enough,” nodded Wagner. “Rand—how much else do you know about this killer?”

  Jim rolled and lit a cigarette, and talked. He had lost count of the lawmen to whom he had repeated the description of his quarry; it came out automatically nowadays.

  “Height about five-ten. Sandy hair and moustache. Pale blue eyes. Built kind of scrawny, although he could’ve put on some weight since then. He likes pearl jewelry and he’s a brandy-drinker—always takes his brandy raw. He’s a tinhorn and a sore loser. The gun he used on Chris was a thirty-eight, but that doesn’t mean a thing. He could’ve gotten rid of it long ago. He might tote a forty-five now, a derringer—any kind of iron.” He eyed the lawmen hopefully. “How about it?”

  “I don’t recollect ever seeing him,” said Wagner.

  “The face is kind of familiar,” Shay repeated, “but only because it’s so ordinary—you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Jim heaved a sigh, took back the sketch and returned it to his pocket. “Well, it looks to be a fair-sized town. I’ll maybe check the saloons and gambling houses while I’m here.”

  “You got some kind of authority for hunting this Jenner?” demanded Wagner. “I’m taking it for granted you’re a lawman.”

  “No,” said Jim. “I’m doing this on my own time. The San Marco law, the Pinkertons and even Army Intelligence tried to locate Jenner, but he got clear away. Well, that brand of skunk ought never get away.” His jaw tightened as he said it. “Jenner belongs on a scaffold—or behind bars for the rest of his life.”

  “You said Army Intelligence?” prodded Wagner. “Why would the army be interested in just another bar-room shooting?”

  “My brother was Lieutenant Christopher Rand of the Eleventh Cavalry,” Jim told him. “I was a sergeant in the same outfit. I mustered out, when it started to look like Jenner might never be found.” He reached into another pocket. “If you want to see the document of discharge …”

  “No thanks,” scowled Wagner. “I wouldn’t be interested.”

  The atmosphere had changed; the change was all too apparent, and Jim was nonplussed. Until this moment, the lawmen had been businesslike and reasonably friendly. Now there was a coldness, a hostility. Contempt showed in their eyes. Shay muttered a curse, turned on his heel and strode back into the cell-block.

  With his eyebrows raised in surprise, Jim asked: “What’s wrong here?”


  “I’m offering you some advice, soldier,” muttered Wagner, “the best advice you’re apt to get in Frankston. If you’re smart, you’ll heed it.” He jerked a thumb. “Get out of town—and fast. Look for your man someplace else.”

  “Hold on now …” began Jim, rising to his feet.

  “Your kind aren’t popular in Frankston, and that’s putting it mild,” growled Wagner.

  “You aren’t making sense,” Jim heatedly protested.

  “Just mount up and ride,” said Wagner, with the contempt, the bitterness edging his every word. “Quit Mason County as fast as your horse can carry you.” He gestured impatiently. “That’s all, Rand. I got nothing else to say to the likes of you.”

  Many years of service as a sergeant of cavalry had taught Jim Rand the value of self-discipline, the advantages of a tight rein on the temper. His leather-toughness was mental as well as physical; patience he had plenty of, so it was easy for him to resist the temptation to reach across that desk, seize the sheriff by his shirt-collar, shake him till his teeth rattled and demand an explanation. Unhurriedly, he turned and moved out into the sunlight.

  The Mex drawled a query. Jim shook his head, gestured uptown and muttered, “Let’s go for a drink.”

  “For me …” began Benito, with his dark eyes gleaming.

  “Yeah, I know,” grunted Jim. “For you, tequila.”

  He slipped the charcoal’s rein and started uptown, leading that magnificent beast by his bridle. Benito kept pace with him, but not bothering to lead the burro. That placid critter tagged after him like a hound-dog.

  “From these Rurales you have learn something, no?” enquired the Mex.

  “From these Rurales I have learned nothing,” growled Jim. “Nothing except they’re a couple of mighty peculiar jaspers. You never know how they’re gonna behave—or why.” He shrugged resignedly and stared ahead, ignoring the locals eyeing him curiously from the boardwalks. “The world would sure be an easier place to live in, if everybody acted natural.”

  They came in sight of a sizeable saloon now, the Occidental. Advancing to the hitch rack, they again tethered their animals. Into the cool atmosphere of the bar-room they trudged, savoring the familiar odors of liquor and cigar-smoke. The barkeep, a freckled, quick-grinning individual raised a hand in greeting, as they leaned on his counter and gave their orders. A brimming tankard of beer was placed before Jim, a short shot of tequila, a tumbler of water and a wedge of lemon presented to the Mex. Jim dropped a coin on the bar, raised his tankard in a toast to the barkeep and swigged a few mouthfuls. The other customers, a dozen or so locals, finished their scrutiny of the strangers and returned to their cards, liquor and conversation. Still grinning, the barkeep confided to the big man:

  “I always make a bet with myself when a stranger comes in here. Figure I’m an expert at guessin’ a man’s trade—just from lookin’ at him.”

  “Quite a talent,” nodded Jim.

  “Well, I don’t claim I’m always right,” shrugged the barkeep, “but I don’t make many mistakes. Take you, for instance. You move like a man that’s done a heap of travelin’. Also you act like you know how to give orders—so I’m guessin’ you’re a lawman. You ain’t from around these parts, and that’s why you tote your badge in a pocket.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” Jim took another pull at his beer. “There’s no badge.”

  The barkeep propped an elbow on the bar, rubbed at his jowls, studied him pensively. “Cattleman just passin’ through?”

  “Nope,” grunted Jim.

  “Well,” frowned the barkeep, “it’s for sure you’re no ribbon salesman.”

  “Not so you’d notice,” grinned Jim.

  “Trouble-shooter for the Trans-Continental?” prodded the barkeep. “Railroad detective?”

  Again, Jim shook his head. The barkeep spread his hands in a gesture of defeat.

  “All right, you’ll just have to tell me—unless it’s none of my business.”

  “I don’t have a regular trade right now,” Jim explained. He was reaching into his pocket for the picture of Jenner, beginning his oft-repeated preamble. “I was a cavalry sergeant awhile back, and now I’m looking for …”

  He stopped talking abruptly; the change in the bar-keep’s demeanor was so sudden as to take him aback. The friendly grin had given way to an expression of truculence. “Army?” he demanded.

  “Army—sure!’ nodded Jim, impatiently. “The navy has no cavalry, in case you didn’t know.”

  “And you—you got the nerve, the stone-cold nerve,” breathed the barkeep, “to swagger in here and drink with decent men—law-abidin’ citizens!”

  “Now you listen to me, bartender,” growled Jim. He set his drink down, while Benito blinked nervously and began edging away from him. “I made myself a promise a little while ago. The next fool that gets sore at me better have a damn good reason! When a man starts cussing me, I have to know why!”

  “Another of ’em.” The barkeep called to the other drinkers. “Another of those lousy, yeller-bellied butchers. He don’t wear the blue britches, but he brags of how he used to be a soldier!”

  Jim looked at the suddenly tense locals. They were glowering at him, clenching their fists. One of them, a brawny forty-year-old in work-stained overalls, took a step closer to the strangers and subjected them to a scathing appraisal. The Mex he dismissed as being of little consequence. The big man he inspected with intensity, and he should have been warned, he should have thought twice about launching an attack on a man of Jim Rand’s caliber. While fording a river a week ago, he had lost some gear, including his razor, so he now wore a beard as black as his thick hair.

  “I don’t brag,” he curtly informed the locals. “But I don’t cringe either. To have been a sergeant of cavalry is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Big man,” scowled the man in overalls, “what d’you call yourself?”

  “The name is Rand,” said Jim, “and who the hell is asking?”

  “I’m Arnie Flagg,” came the belligerent reply, “and I hate the innards of anything that looks or smells like a soldier—and that’s how we all feel!”

  “What’re we waitin’ for?” challenged another townsman. “They’re all the same—in or out of uniform!”

  “Big man,” growled Flagg, “you’ll regret the day you had the gall to show your face in Frankston!”

  They closed in on him from all sides, grasping at him, jabbing punches, kicking. He struck out wildly, exerting all of his considerable muscle power, taking punishment, but delivering it with interest. One of his victims reeled and tripped over a chair. Another fell backwards across a table. The barkeep leapt his counter, landed on Jim’s back and attempted to smash a bottle over his head. They went down in a threshing melee of flailing arms and kicking legs, and the bottle shattered on the floor.

  The fracas had spilled out into the street when Wagner and the deputy arrived. No fewer than seven burly locals had encircled the big stranger and were crowding him, hemming him in, landing many a hurting blow on him, but paying a penalty. Some of them wore black eyes and bled from the mouth. At least one had suffered a broken nose. A badly scared Benito filled the air with loud wails, as the barkeep kicked him off the saloon porch and into the dust. The ugly word “lynch” was heard, when the two lawmen arrived on the scene. Grim-faced, Wagner emptied his holster and discharged his .45 to the sky.

  “Let up!” he bellowed.

  “Let up, be damned!” The hefty Arnie Flagg picked himself up, spat blood and gingerly caressed his jaw. “Leave him to us, Pete! We’ know how to handle his kind!”

  “I’ll hear no talk of lynching!” snapped Wagner. “It’s bad enough when scum like Rand and the Mex can show their faces in broad daylight. Do we have to make it worse—by lowering ourselves to their level?”

  “Make them move back, Sheriff! For pity’s sake, make them stop!” This was a new voice, the voice of one no longer young, and every shouted word seemed like part of some desperate pra
yer. Through a red haze of pain, Jim blinked towards the opposite boardwalk. The speaker clambered awkwardly to the seat of a stalled buckboard, arid now Jim could see him clearly, an elderly man of slight build, soberly garbed, with the empty left sleeve of his coat tucked into a pocket. “I beg you, Sheriff! This is insanity. If you can’t control them!”

  “Doing my best, Mr. Mayor,” frowned Wagner. And now he held his Colt out in front of him, the muzzle weaving to cover all the disheveled figures. “I’ll say it just one more time. Let up. Step away from Rand and the Mex.” Jim didn’t wait for his assailants to move clear of him.

  Using his elbows and shoulders, he forced his way through the knot of men and, with the Mex in tow, trudged, to a drinking trough. Scooping up water in his cupped hands, he cleansed the blood and grime from his visage. Benito crouched nearby, his dark eyes still dilated in fear. In all of Jim’s experience, he had known few men with as deep a regard for their own welfare as the cowardly, itchy-fingered but oddly-appealing Benito Espina.

  Wagner continued to berate the local hotheads until, at last, they turned and filed back into the Occidental. The deputy heaved a sigh of relief and holstered his Colt. Loud enough for Jim to hear, he fervently remarked to his chief: I’d sure hate to have to hurt any of my own friends—for the sake of scum like them.”

  With water dripping from his brow, Jim turned and glowered at Shay.

  “The next hombre that calls me scum,” he breathed, “be he badge-toter, bartender or just some dim-witted citizen …”

  “Take it easy, Rand,” cautioned Wagner.

  “… the next one,” Jim finished, “will lose a helluva lot of teeth—so help me!”

  “Do we all have to behave as animals?” fretted the one-armed man on the buckboard seat. “Will there never come a time when men will listen to reason—without resorting to senseless violence?”

  “I don’t know if you can blame the boys for turning mean, Mr. Mayor,” muttered Wagner. “Are you forgetting what happened to Mitch Darrell and old Mr. Florent?”