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

  It wasn’t an unusual scene, just a couple of undersized Mexicans tending a nondescript burro, until one of the Mexicans moved under a low-hanging branch of old Carlita’s berry bush. The branch was springy. It struck and lifted the large, floppy sombrero, leaving the Mexican temporarily hatless. Adam’s eyes widened incredulously. From the rear, he might have believed the little Mex to be male, but a profusion of lustrous black hair was tumbling about the shoulders of the hatless one. Maria turned hastily in response to Benito’s urgent warning, struggled to extricate her sombrero from the branch and then to ram it back onto her head—but forgetting to sweep her hair up. A grimace of apprehension showed on Benito’s swarthy countenance, as the badge-toting Americano vaulted the fence and strode toward the girl.

  Adam questioned her, while he intently studied the upturned, dirt-smeared face. Dirt-smeared or not, this was no ordinary Mexican girl. She was a rare beauty, and he said as much.

  “Señorita, there’s a posse waiting for me. I have to start a search for the bandidos that held up the train—I guess you heard about that?” she nodded and sighed, began another effort to pile hair atop her head and hold it in place under the sombrero. “Well, I got no time to waste, so I’d be obliged if you’d answer me plain and straight—and fast.”

  “It is nothing, Señor Rurale,” Benito hastened to assure him. “A jest. What you call—uh—the practical joke.”

  “Hogwash,” grunted Adam.

  “It is as he says, señor,” murmured Maria. “Just a harmless joke.”

  “Mexican girls never get rigged up as men—even for a joke.” he frowned. “Even a peon girl wouldn’t—and a fine lady never would.” He fished out a kerchief and, to her alarm, wiped some of the dirt from her cheeks. “Uh huh. I knew my eyes weren’t playing tricks. When a girl is as all-fired beautiful as you, it shows—no matter how she rigs herself.”

  “Por favor ...!” began Benito.

  But, before he could silence her, Maria was throwing herself on the young lawman’s mercy, relying on her own quick assessment of his character. Surely such a good-humored gringo would show sympathy with her predicament? Could such a man approve her enforced betrothal to—ugh!—the fat and slovenly Stew? And so, in a few breathless sentences, she confessed everything.

  Adam blinked incredulously.

  “Stew Sharkey—son of old Art Sharkey? That Sharkey?” She nodded. “Married to you? But, doggone it, señorita, that’d be a crime. Yes siree, a crime is what it is.” He gestured helplessly. “Look—I can’t hang around. They’re waiting for me, so I ...”

  “You will help to keep our secret, Señor Rurale?” frowned Benito.

  “On one condition.” And now it was Adam’s turn to say something impulsive. “Don’t let the señorita get betrothed to anybody—until I’ve had a chance to court her.”

  Benito clapped a hand to his brow and said, “Ai, caramba!” Maria fluttered her eyelids and showed her white teeth in a bedazzling smile and Adam retreated to the fence and vaulted over into the alley. There was nothing else he could do at this time. He simply couldn’t keep his posse waiting any longer—any more than he could forget that Maria Castaldez was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

  At the livery stable he swung lithely astride his bay colt. Mere seconds later, he was joining the eight horsemen awaiting him outside the jailhouse.

  “Young Adam,” chided a shotgun-toting saddler named Platt, “you sure took your time.”

  “We hanker to get started, Deputy,” called another of the volunteers. “There’s plenty of us were real friendly with poor Griff Bowes.”

  Platt relayed the message passed on by Toby Jethrow. “We have to hold our fire if we spot a tall stranger—a big black stallion! His head’s bandaged and his clothes are bloody!”

  “What tall stranger?” demanded Adam.

  “Name of Rand,” Platt told him. “The conductor says Rand tried to make a fight of it when them sidewinders raided the train. They wounded him, but he took off after ’em anyway.”

  “All right,” nodded Adam. “We’ll keep our eyes peeled for him as well—but let’s hope he doesn’t catch up with ’em. A one-man posse wouldn’t stand a chance against a whole passel of owlhoots.”

  But, had Deputy Matthews but guessed it, the “one-man posse’s” chances of defeating the opposition were improving minute by minute. Big Jim, while checking the east bank of the creek, had at last located tracks; three horses had quit the shallows to move away in a northeasterly direction.

  “They’re breaking up,” he deduced. “They were all together when they first hit the shallows. Now they’ll leave in twos and threes, or maybe one at a time.”

  He didn’t hesitate before taking off after those first three horses. To assume that one of these riders would be the murderer of his brother seemed pointless, too much to hope for. On the other hand, could he be sure Jenner was not included in this trio? Well, it seemed there was only one way he could find out.

  At three-forty p.m., a few yards to the west of a small box canyon, he reined up for a closer study of the tracks. The three horses had been stalled here a while, and there were footprints also. Two sets. Two men had moved back and forth between the spot where the horses had stood and the entrance to the small canyon. He dismounted, looped the black’s rein over a low-hanging cottonwood limb and walked briskly toward that separation in the clutter of granite. As he moved, he emptied his holster and thumbed back the hammer of his Colt; he had nothing to gain by taking chances.

  The small canyon proved to be deserted. He was the only human here. At least—he was the only live human. The boot-marks led him to what he immediately recognized as a shallow grave. Here was the explanation for the absence of a third set of prints. One member of that trio had travelled hung over his saddle. Dead men need burying, even during the getaway from a train robbery. It was obvious these bandidos hadn’t been carrying a spade. The grave would not be deep, because they’d been obliged to dig it with their bare hands.

  It took Jim only a few minutes to roll the rocks away and scoop out enough dirt to reveal the face of the dead man. That face, he decided at once, was not the face of his ultimate quarry. He had seen it before, nevertheless. It had been half-masked by a bandanna. With his Winchester he had triggered a slug that had driven this hombre out of his saddle. Hadn’t Benito reminded him that he had killed one and wounded another? A bandanna is a flimsy disguise at best. He was sure this was the same man.

  He recovered the face with earth, rolled the rocks back into position and rose to his feet. His wounds smarted—the gash at his forehead, the bullet-burn at his neck, his creased left side—all three injuries were causing him pain, but he knew no nausea. He was ready, willing and able to go on.

  Soon afterward, where the tracks of three horses showed clear on a strip of soft ground, he judged that one of the animals was riderless. There could be no doubting that he was following the right men—two of the guilty.

  While the daylight prevailed, he took shelter in a stand of cottonwood atop a rise overlooking Triangle range and the Triangle ranch house. Rick Leech and his three surviving cronies were headed home—and Jim was watching them.

  Nine – The Avenger

  The two men followed by Jim were trading waves with two now emerging from the mesquite away to the west. Squatting with his right shoulder resting against a tree-trunk, Jim noted the damning, telltale details, despite the considerable distance. The two closest the house were leading a riderless horse.

  One of these rode slumped forward and appeared to be wearing a makeshift sling. Jim noted the color of his shirt and the horse he straddled—a rangy sorrel. He had wounded one of the raiders, a man whose shirt had been of a loud checked pattern, and whose mount had been a rangy sorrel. Undoubtedly the trigger-happy, bloodthirsty buzzards were returning to their lair.

  In the last waning light of the sun, he carefully scanned the surroundings of the ranch house, memorizing the location of drinking-troughs, woodheap,
pump, corrals, etc. The four men were inside the ranch house, probably all in the same room. It was important that he should memorize the positioning of all obstacles, anything he might bump against, causing noise, betraying his presence to the men inside the house.

  He didn’t quit the rise until darkness had settled. Maybe, later, there would be moonlight. It was dark right now, and that suited his purpose. Like any cavalryman, he didn’t much appreciate a long walk. But it seemed wiser to leave Hank concealed atop this rise. A marauder makes less sound, is less apt to be heard, if he advances afoot.

  Light glowed from only one room, the kitchen. He would have to assume that the other rooms were unoccupied. Before creeping to that lighted window, he entered the barn and checked the horses. Five of them. No team-horses. No wagon in here—and he had seen very few steers on the range adjacent to this spread. This was a hard-luck outfit. Well, that figured. Many an act of larceny had been committed by cattlemen who had fallen upon hard times. That was the way of it. Some met the challenge of cattle-fever, drought and all the other setbacks by working harder, trying to build a new herd. And others—men like these—chose what they imagined to be the easiest means of acquiring a new stake.

  He moved as silently as a marauding Apache, as he made his way to the kitchen window. Crouching below it, he listened with interest to the conversation of the men inside. There was profanity aplenty from the injured man. He heard an anguished groan muffled and nasal, followed by a statement in a different voice.

  “You fainted, McDade—d’you know that?” This voice was jeering. “Fainted dead away when Burt was diggin’ that slug outa you.”

  “Shuddup, Rick!” That first voice sounded bitterly indignant now. “Trouble with you—you got no heart. You laugh at the pain of others. I wonder how you’d feel if your shoulder hurt like mine.”

  “I got no complaints,” chuckled the man called Rick. “How about this Winchester, boys? Now, I ask you, did you ever see a finer rifle?”

  And now the third voice:

  “Rick, I wish to hell you’d quit admirin’ that rifle and rustle up some chow. I’ll be hungry by the time I get through tendin’ Farrier.”

  McDade spoke up again.

  “I didn’t know there’d be killin’.”

  “You still whinin’ because I gunned that fireman?” chuckled Rick Leech.

  “That was bad enough,” mumbled McDade. “Hell, Rick, you could just as easy have winged him. And Farnsworth—the way Farnsworth emptied his six-gun at that old Mex ...”

  “That old Mex,” retorted Leech, “was beggin’ for a bullet. He ought never have cut loose at us.”

  “Mmmmn—uh ...!” groaned the fourth man.

  “Hold still, Farrier,” growled Burt. “Be grateful we didn’t have to bury you—the way we had to bury Clinton.” In those last few moments before he kicked the door open and strode into the kitchen, Jim Rand took time to reflect that eavesdropping has its advantages. During that brief exchange, he had heard all he needed to hear—more than enough to incriminate the room’s occupants. But, of course, there was a great deal more they could tell him; these men were only part of a twelve-strong outfit.

  His hard kick sent the door swinging inward and he moved in fast, his Colt at the ready, his hefty body bent slightly, his alert eyes switching from face to face. Just beyond the doorway, he growled his warning—not loudly, but quietly and with the promise of violence in his every word.

  “Everybody stay quiet! I’ll show no mercy to any man that acts rash!”

  The four desperadoes had momentarily frozen. From three of them he need fear no impulsive counter-action, no covert move to a holster. The one seated man had hung up his gunbelt. He sat slumped, his face pallid, eyes wide with alarm. Blood showed through the makeshift sling that supported his left arm, and Jim remembered him. He had scored on two of the raiders at Powderhorn Bend; this man had been the second.

  If there was to be trouble, it would come from the standing three men, who had obviously emerged from the raid unscathed. Burt—in the blue levis—wore crossed gunbelts, a Colt at either hip. He was eyeing the intruder impassively.

  Keeping the two-gunner in mind, Jim spent a fraction of a second in noting the weapon held by the unprepossessing Rick Leech. It was his own Winchester, one of the weapons presented to him by his old friends of the 11th Cavalry. Leech’s right index finger was hooked about the trigger. The barrel was dipped but, studying Leech’s face, Jim thought it more than likely he would take the chance. The muzzle would rise to cover him, and Leech’s finger would tighten on the trigger.

  “That’s my Winchester, mister,” he coldly informed Leech. “Ease your finger off the trigger and let it drop. I wouldn’t appreciate to be shot at with my own gun.”

  “I’ll be damned!” gasped McDade, the man with the shoulder-wound. “It couldn't be him—but—it—is!”

  “Damn right,” nodded Jim. “You’ve seen me before—on the roof of the caboose of the northbound train—at Powderhorn Bend.”

  “I’ll swear we scored on you, big man,” breathed Burt. “You scored,” Jim assured him. “Head, neck and left side. But it wasn’t enough. I’m here to collect my rifle—and to arrest you heroes. I don’t tote a law-badge, but I don’t reckon the authorities of Moredo County would object. They’d call it a citizen’s arrest.”

  “Tall man,” leered Leech, “you’re as good as dead. You got the drop, but Burt’s double gun-hung and powerful fast with either hand, and I’m holdin’ your Winchester. All I have to do is raise it and squeeze trigger.”

  “That’s all you have to do,” Jim agreed, “if you crave to get yourself killed.”

  There followed another moment of nerve-wracking tension—nerve-wracking to all except Big Jim. He had confidence in the weapon gripped in his right fist, and in his own ability. The one-time champion marksman of the 11th Cavalry figured himself more than a match for these lynx-eyed hardcases.

  Burt, who was standing some five feet to the left of Leech, and closer to the intruder, began an urgent query. “Rick—what do we ...?”

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” chuckled Leech. “We’ll bury this galoot before midnight.” And then, loudly, he yelled, “Go!”

  That was a signal for Burt to draw, as Jim well realized. But he made Leech his first target. As the muzzle of the Winchester came up, he sidestepped and fired. Jim was now dropping to one knee just in time to save his life, as Burt cut loose with the Colt whisked from his right side holster. The bullet whined over his head and embedded in the jamb of the parlor doorway. He re-cocked and returned fire, giving Burt no time for a second shot, and something ugly happened to Burt’s face. He died instantly, flopping forward on face and hands.

  Leech’s bullet missed. Jim’s didn’t. It slammed into Leech’s chest dead center. Leech, with his waning strength, gasped curses at him. The Winchester was still gripped in his fist when he crashed to the floor.

  Caution, as much as his rare talent for mayhem, had kept Big Jim alive through several campaigns of the Civil War and many a bloody clash with the rampaging redmen of the Southwest. He didn’t holster his Colt until he had gathered all the weapons of his dead or wounded enemies. With scant ceremony, he hauled the bodies of Leech and Burt from the kitchen and dumped them near the barn entrance. Then, returning to the shattered and apprehensive Farrier and McDade, he told them:

  “You two are a couple of gone coons—as if you need to be convinced. I was listening out there ...” he jerked a thumb towards the window and stared hard at McDade, “when you talked of how the fireman died, and the old Mex rancher.”

  “Well—the hell with it.” McDade bowed his head. “Rick Leech always was trigger-happy—and always had a mean streak. Why should I defend him?”

  “He’s dead,” Jim bluntly pointed out. “You got nothing to gain—but plenty to lose—if you refuse to cooperate.”

  “What’s that mean?” frowned McDade. “Just—how much—do you want from me?”

  “I
want it told again,” muttered Jim, “but on paper this time.”

  “You’re askin’ me to write a confession?” blinked McDade.

  “You confessed anyway,” said Jim. “You didn’t know I was eavesdropping out there, but a confession is exactly what it amounts to. I’ll be repeating it to the law, so what do you win by giving me an argument? You co-operate and maybe the law will go easier on you. I can’t make any promises, but ...”

  “I’ve always been a hardcase,” drawled McDade, with a wry grin. “I’ve changed many a brand in my day, stole many a dollar and stacked many a deck. If I go to jail, it’ll have to be for that, but not for murder. I never yet killed a man.”

  “Put it all on paper, boy,” said Jim, “while you’re answering my other questions.”

  He found pencil and paper, rolled and lit a couple of cigarettes and inserted one between McDade’s lips.

  “I’ve got it figured out,” he told McDade, “that none of you jaspers planned the attack on the northbound.”

  “And you figure right,” sighed McDade. “Rick Leech—he was the boss of this outfit—never had no talent for plannin’.” He laid the pencil down, winced, held his hand to his left shoulder. “Hell! What I wouldn’t give for a shot of rye. Look—uh—there’s a bottle in the parlor ...”

  “I’ll fetch it and you’ll get to drink,” Jim assured him, “but not till you’re through writing that confession and answering my questions.”

  “You’re a hard one,” mumbled McDade, as he picked up the pencil again. “Hard through and through.”

  “You talked of a hombre name of Farnsworth shooting the old Mex rancher,” said Jim. “Just who is Farnsworth?”

  “Box Five boss,” grunted McDade. He nodded in the general direction of the northwest. “Over thataway. He planned the whole deal.”

  “All the others were Box Five men?” demanded Jim. “Yeah. All of ’em.”