Big Jim 9 Page 2

  Jim shook his head. ‘I’m not a lawman, Sheriff. Until fourteen months ago, I was in the army.’

  ‘That so? What outfit?’

  ‘The Eleventh Cavalry. I was a sergeant.’

  ‘Last I heard of the Eleventh, they were stationed far down in South Arizona. San Marco, I think.’

  ‘That’s right. It was in a San Marco saloon that this hombre killed my brother …’ Jim Rand told it all briskly, dispassionately, understating the grief and fury that had assailed him at the time of his brother’s murder, emphasizing all the relevant facts concerning the drifting tinhorn who had so wantonly slain Lieutenant Christopher Rand. ‘He’s a tinhorn, a professional gambler, a cardsharp and a sore loser. He called himself Jenner at the time this happened.’

  The mild expression had gone from Max Garrard’s brown eyes. He looked sad, as he remarked:

  ‘I don’t much admire men that gamble for a living. A few hands of poker to while away the time—a little sociable game with friends—that’s okay. But, to do it all the time.’ He shook his head, heaved a sigh. ‘Go on, Rand. Let’s hear the rest of it. This Jenner looks to be a fair-haired hombre—am I right?’

  ‘Fair hair and moustache,’ nodded Jim. ‘Slim build. Height about five feet ten. His voice is kind of high-pitched for a man, if you know what I mean. He drinks brandy— and I don’t mean mixed.’

  ‘Brandy neat?’ Garrard pursed his lips. ‘Hummph. Bad for the brain.’

  ‘Also, he’s partial to pearl jewelry,’ said Jim. ‘He wore a pearl stickpin and a pearl ring at the time he shot Chris.’

  ‘With that good a description,’ remarked Garrard, ‘you should’ve caught up with him long before now. Well …’ He shrugged philosophically, ‘that’s easier said than done, eh, Rand? It’s a big country. When you’re hunting a man-—a man with guilt in him—you need more than skill. You need a lot of luck. I learned that in my first year as a lawman.’ The shrewd brown eyes became hazy again. ‘That was a long time ago, by thunder. So far back I can scarce remember.’

  ‘Could we go along to your office now?’ asked Jim.

  ‘You’re impatient,’ observed Garrard, ‘and I can’t say as I blame you.’ He studied the sketch moodily. ‘I guess if I’d had a brother that died that way—shot from behind by a cowardly cardsharp—I’d feel exactly as you feel.’ He got to his feet, reached for his hat. Jim stood up and they moved towards the entrance. ‘Vinny—put it on my tab.’

  ‘Sure,’ nodded the proprietor.

  ‘Too bad the army couldn’t run this killer down,’ Garrard remarked, as they moved out into the sunlight.

  ‘The army did its damnedest,’ said Jim. ‘So did the local law and the Pinkertons. I guess the luck was with Jenner at that time. Well—his luck can’t last forever.’

  ‘You on official leave, or A.W.O.L.—or what?’ prodded Garrard.

  ‘I mustered out,’ Jim told him, ‘so I’d have a free hand. There wasn’t any guessing how far—or for bow long —I’d have to search for Jenner. When I’ve found him, and after he’s been tried and executed, I’ll re-enlist.’

  ‘Seems to me,’ drawled Garrard, watching Jim untether the big black stallion, ‘you’ll likely be the executioner.’

  ‘That’ll be up to Jenner,’ said Jim. ‘If he surrenders without a fight, I’ll turn him in alive. If he tries to shoot it out with me, I’ll defend myself.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ grunted Garrard.

  They sauntered along Main Street with Jim leading the charcoal by its rein. The sheriff offered a compliment or two regarding the quality of that magnificent beast, and Jim responded with his warning—so often repeated—that Hank was a one-man horse.

  ‘It’s no problem,’ he added. ‘Hank never looks for trouble. It’s just that he won’t let anybody else straddle him. The Mex that rides along with me, for instance, he can saddle Hank if needs be, saddle him, feed and groom him, lead him anywhere—just so long as he doesn’t try to climb astride him.’

  ‘I call that right handy,’ Garrard smilingly commented. ‘Good insurance against horse thieves, eh?’ And then, noting the big man’s change of expression, he asked, ‘Something wrong? You look like you’ve lost something.’

  ‘Before I came on to the hash-house,’ frowned Jim, ‘the burro was hitched outside a saloon uptown—the Silver Queen. Now it’s gone, and I’m wondering what’s become of that fool sidekick of mine.’

  ‘Why?’ challenged the sheriff. ‘Is he a man who’s always in trouble?’

  ‘You could say that,’ sighed Big Jim. ‘Yeah, you could say that.’

  ‘Just what kind of trouble?’ Garrard persisted.

  ‘Law trouble,’ Jim declared it without hesitation. ‘His name is Benito Espina, and he’s a good-for-nothing, itchy-fingered, pocket-pickin’ thief.’ He stared in the general direction of Garrard’s office. ‘This time, if he got himself arrested, he can stay in jail!’

  They walked another fifteen yards. Garrard threw Jim a sidelong glance, grinned wryly.

  ‘I’m curious, Rand. Got to admit it.’

  ‘Curious about what?’ Jim demanded.

  ‘I’d say you’re a man of good reputation,’ drawled Garrard. ‘You were important in the army—I know how it is with sergeants. What’s more, I’d guess you’d be particular about the company you keep. Man on the drift can afford to choose his friends with care. So why in tarnation are you riding along with a pocket-pickin’ Mex?’

  ‘Everybody wonders about that,’ said Jim.

  ‘And …?’ prodded Garrard.

  ‘There’s a simple explanation,’ Jim told him. ‘We’re beholden to each other. He once saved my life. A little while later, I saved his.’

  ‘An honest man—with a sneak-thief for a saddle pard,’ mused Garrard. ‘I’d call that too heavy a load to carry—too much of a complication.’

  ‘The Mex is more trouble than he’s worth,’ admitted Jim. ‘Every so often we separate, but we always get back together again.’

  ‘Could be you’re soft-hearted,’ suggested Garrard.

  ‘Could be,’ shrugged Jim.

  They had reached the law office and county jail. Garrard led his brawny visitor up the steps and across the porch to the office entrance, introduced him to his deputies. He then offered them a brief explanation of Jim’s reason for being here. Hurst promptly took the sketch of Jenner and hustled over to the file cabinet to begin checking it against “Wanted” dodgers. Kittridge listened to his chief’s query regarding the possible arrest of a Mexican, and replied: ‘Yup. We got him all right.’

  ‘Well, there’s your answer, Rand,’ chuckled Garrard.

  ‘Pretty much what I expected,’ drawled Jim, as he helped himself to a chair. ‘And what’s the charge this time? Was he picking pockets—or trying to spark somebody’s wife?’

  Hurst turned from his chores, blinking incredulously.

  ‘Are you sayin’ that ugly little jasper is a ladies’ man?’ he challenged.

  ‘I know it’s hard to believe,’ sighed Jim.

  ‘We’re holdin’ him on a larceny charge, Mr. Rand,’ said Kittridge, frowning at the sheriff. ‘He tried to pick young Kell’s pocket—and Kell brought him in.’

  Two – Not a Private Ruckus

  The sheriff’s reaction to the news of his son’s arrest of a pick-pocket was almost imperceptible; there was no ejaculation, no sudden change of expression, and yet Jim sensed something, a tension edged with sadness, a sensation of bitterness. He eyed Garrard covertly and reflected that the boss-lawman of Marris County was an expert at masking his feelings.

  ‘Kell brought him in, you say?’ Garrard sounded bored.

  ‘Sure enough, Max,’ nodded Kittridge.

  ‘Kind of hard to guess what that young whipper-snapper’ll do next,’ shrugged Garrard.

  ‘This Espina jasper is in cell five, if you care a damn,’ offered Kittridge.

  ‘My son didn’t hang around long enough to swear out a complaint,’ Garrard supposed. Kittridge shook
his head. ‘Uh huh. It figures. He’d be in a hurry to get back to the Silver Queen.’ And now he did react. A grimace wrinkled his weather-beaten visage. ‘Fine place for a young feller to earn his daily bread—I don’t think.’

  By now, the big stranger was more than somewhat intrigued by Sheriff Max Garrard. Being a veteran of the cavalry, James Carey Rand was no amateur at the business of sizing up his fellowmen, and his quick analysis of the sheriff’s character was as accurate as his shooting eye. He realized that many strong qualities were masked by Garrard’s gentle demeanor. Here was a tough, hard-boiled old veteran who had tangled with more than his share of cutthroats, rustlers, thieves and rogues of every description, having dedicated himself to the honorable but thankless career of defending the rights of the law-abiding. Age may have slowed Max Garrard down, but only physically. His spirit was still strong. In any kind of crisis, his courage would came to the fore and he would not be found wanting.

  Hurst turned away from the file cabinet, came to Jim to return the picture of Jenner.

  ‘We don’t have him on record here,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry, friend.’

  ‘Face looked a mite familiar to me, Leo,’ said Garrard.

  ‘And me,’ nodded Hurst. ‘I’m only sayin’ we don’t have a file on him. That doesn’t mean Jenner was never here.’

  ‘Let me see that,’ frowned Kittridge. He examined the sketch, returned it to Jim, then slumped lower in his chair and began tugging at his droopy moustache. ‘Durned if he don’t look familiar at that.’

  ‘Well, that’s better than nothing,’ muttered Jim, as he pocketed the picture. ‘I’ll check around the saloons. And now …’ He eyed Garrard expectantly, ‘what about the Mex?’

  ‘You’re asking me to turn him loose?’ grinned Garrard.

  ‘In your jail he’ll be nothing but a headache for you,’ Jim warned. ‘And jail doesn’t cure him, anyway. He goes right on stealing.’ He glanced at the deputies. ‘Which of you put him in a cell?’

  ‘I did,’ said Hurst. ‘Why?’

  ‘You got a cigar?’ asked Jim.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Hurst felt at his vest pocket. His eyebrows shot up. ‘Hey! I had four cigars when I took Espina into the jailhouse!’

  ‘What time is it?’ Jim patiently enquired.

  Hurst’s trembling hands investigated another pocket.

  ‘My watch is gone! I’ve been robbed!’

  ‘You don’t have to be ashamed, Deputy,’ Jim soberly assured him. ‘Benito was born with itchy fingers, and he’s kind of an artist at picking pockets. I have a theory that he robbed the midwife who delivered him.’

  ‘I’m goin’ back in there and …!’ began Hurst, advancing to the cell block entrance.

  ‘Do it the easy way,’ advised Jim. ‘Just show him the business-end of your Colt and make him hand everything back to you. If you went into the cell to search him, you could end up minus the buttons off your clothes.’

  After Hurst had barged into the cell-block, Garrard mildly remarked, ‘That kind of jailbird I could do without.’

  ‘Believe me,’ said Jim, fervently.

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Garrard. ‘But I can’t turn him loose …’ He snapped his fingers, ‘just like that.’

  ‘I guess not,’ frowned Jim.

  ‘Couple of conditions I’d have to insist on,’ said Garrard.

  ‘Name them,’ said Jim.

  ‘You’d need to parley with my son,’ said Garrard. ‘I don’t know that I’d want to unlock the door for Espina, unless Kell withdrew the charge. That’s one condition. The other condition is I’d expect you to take the Mex clear out of Marris County within a couple hours of our turning him loose. I reckon that’s a fair offer, Rand. I don’t say a pickpocket is a big crime problem, but he’s apt to get to be a blame nuisance.’

  ‘When you say blame nuisance,’ declared Jim, ‘you’re putting it mild.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll be stopping by the Silver Queen anyway, because I aim to show Jenner’s picture in every saloon in town.’

  ‘Give Kell my regards,’ Garrard drawled. ‘I don’t see much of him since Steve Erikson rented him a bedroom on his second floor.’

  Still indignant, Deputy Hurst returned from the cell-block. He was holstering his .45, replacing his watch and cigars in his pockets.

  ‘Claimed he didn’t know what I was talkin’ about,’ he mumbled, ‘till I cocked my six-shooter and pointed it at his gizzard.’

  ‘That usually gets results,’ nodded Jim.

  ‘Thanks for the advice, Rand,’ said Hurst. He held out one of the cigars. ‘Have one of these?’

  ‘All right. Thanks.’ Jim accepted the cigar, raised a hand in farewell. ‘So long for now. I might see you gents again.’

  What kind of a man would young Kell Garrard prove to be? He was intrigued, despite his permanent preoccupation with his great quest, his need to seek out and punish the murderer of his brother. Would Garrard Junior be flippant, arrogant, unlikeable, the absolute opposite of his sire?

  Jim was certain that Max Garrard would have become his friend, were it possible for him to settle in Delandro. Of course, that was impossible. Man-hunters can’t settle. While ever Jenner remained at large, he would hunt Jenner. Not until Jenner had paid for his treachery would he relax. And, when that day came, he would turn the black stallion’s head towards whatever territory the 11th Cavalry now served, and re-enlist.

  There was ample space for the charcoal at the long rail outside the Silver Queen. He looped his reins over the rail, and stepped up to the saloon porch. Nudging the batwings open, he ambled into the convivial atmosphere of the bar-room.

  This saloon looked the same as any other he’d been in. The same cigar-burned, smooth-polished, liquor-stained counter on which he leaned. The gilt-framed reclining nude hung on the near side wall looked to be an identical sister of all the bosomy, pink-skinned wantons displayed in all the other houses of entertainment. The bartenders and the clientele were pretty much the same as might be found in any frontier saloon. As for the owner of this establishment and the lynx-eyed, sardonic hombres who supervised the games of chance, they were typical of their trade—all but one.

  A youngish, good-looking man was rising from a poker table, lighting a cigar and farewelling the men with whom he’d been playing. They were saying their ‘so-longs’ amiably, so Jim assumed the game had stayed sociable. He was struck by a vague resemblance to the sheriff. This man, besides being many years younger, was of slimmer physique. The eyes were blue; the features more regular, yet there was that vague similarity.

  Jim reached the youthful gambler just as he reached the bar, just as Kell was ordering a short beer.

  ‘You’ll be Kell Garrard?’

  ‘The same.’ Kell turned to inspect him. His eyebrows shot up and a broad grin lit his face. ‘Hell’s bells! Remind me not to lock horns with you, big man.’

  ‘I’m not all that big—’ began Jim.

  ‘Let me put it another way,’ countered Kell. ‘You ain’t no midget, pardner.’ He propped an elbow on the bar, as the barkeep delivered his beer. ‘Buy you one?’

  ‘I could use a tall one—thanks,’ nodded Jim. He clamped the cigar given him by Deputy Hurst between his teeth. ‘And a match—and a favor.’

  ‘The match is easy enough,’ shrugged Kell, as he scratched one and held it to the Long 9. ‘As for the favor …?’

  ‘As for the favor,’ said Jim, puffing smoke. ‘How’d you like to drop your charge against Benito Espina?’

  ‘That was funny,’ chuckled Kell. He took a pull at his beer, winked at the barkeep. The barkeep grinned, as he placed a froth-topped tankard before Jim. ‘Damn comical. You should’ve seen it, Mr …?’

  ‘Rand. Jim to my friends. Make it Jim.’

  ‘Fine. Call me Kell. You should’ve seen it. Now I’m no expert at the technique of the pick-pocket, can’t claim to have seen a professional in action. But, believe me, this little peon was so damn clumsy—it was laughable!’

  ‘Once in a
while he gets clumsy,’ Jim conceded. ‘Nine times out of ten he works so smoothly …’

  ‘Smoothly—the same Espina?’ blinked Kell.

  ‘The same Espina works so smoothly,’ nodded Jim, ‘you’d never guess you were being robbed. It’s an art with him. A way of life. A profession. A pastime.’

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ frowned Kell. ‘And you’re asking me to drop the charge?’

  ‘I’ve got kind of an arrangement with the sheriff,’ said Jim. ‘If I guarantee to take Benito out of the county —and if you agree to hold off from swearing a complaint —he’ll set the Mex free.’

  ‘I guess that makes sense, come to think of it,’ reflected Kell. ‘The easiest way of getting rid of a troublemaker—in the long run.’

  ‘So …?’ prodded Jim.

  ‘So,’ said Kell, ‘there’s no point in my swearing the charge. Besides, I was more amused than sore.’

  ‘I’m obliged,’ said Jim.

  ‘My pleasure,’ drawled Kell.

  Jim took a pull at his beer, lounged against the bar and scanned the other customers, paying special attention to the table-hands. None of them remotely resembled his quarry. Automatically, he produced the sketch of Jenner and offered it for Kell’s inspection.

  ‘This hombre is the reason I’m visiting Delandro— the reason I’ve visited a lot of towns. Is his face familiar to you, Kell?’

  For once, he won a prompt and positive response. Kell Garrard nodded and said, ‘Oh, sure. I’ve seen him before. Couldn’t forget that face.’

  ‘Same hombre?’ Jim eagerly inquired.

  ‘Same hombre,’ Kell assured him. ‘What’s it all about?’

  ‘I’d rather hear all you know about him,’ said Jim, ‘before I tell you the score.’

  ‘I don’t know that much about him,’ shrugged Kell. ‘He was here a week ago and we talked awhile. What was his name again?’ He wrinkled his brow—an expression slightly reminiscent of his father. ‘Hart. Hartley? No, not Hartley. Hartwell. Yes, that’s it. Hartwell is his name.’