Meet Me in Moredo (A Big Jim Western Book 2) Page 3

“No.” And, again, Tully studied the painting. “Only that he looked to be typical of his breed. Well—perhaps not all the time ...”

  “Meaning?” challenged Jim.

  “Most professional gamblers expect to lose once in a while—isn’t that so?” Tully countered. “They become philosophical about it and, when they drop a hundred or two, they shrug it off and keep their temper. Well, not this fellow.”

  “Sore loser,” breathed Jim.

  “I watched him fly into a rage at the dice table,” nodded Tully. “Maybe that’s what first drew my attention to him.”

  “And you do recall the pearl jewelry?” demanded Jim.

  “Quite clearly,” said Tully.

  “Was he armed?” prodded Jim.

  “Not visibly.” The artist smiled mirthlessly. “That is, not visibly as far as the average observer is concerned. But it’s my opinion he carried a pistol in a shoulder-holster. Many gamblers do. But, of course, you don’t need to be told this.”

  Jim finished his drink, refused Tully’s offer of a refill and began building a smoke.

  “Anything else you can remember about this hombre?” he asked.

  “No,” said Tully. “I only saw him on that one occasion.”

  “Five nights ago,” mused Jim.

  “Monday,” nodded Tully. He took another pull at his drink, watched Jim light his cigarette. “You’ve been at a disadvantage, my friend. To travel from town to town repeating a description—this can be futile and frustrating. One picture is worth a thousand words.”

  “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking ...” began Jim.

  “One more kick from the large boot of Ike Gage,” said Tully, “could have made a cot-case of me. I’m beholden to you, Mr. Rand, and I welcome the opportunity to repay your kindness.”

  “As long as it won’t be any trouble ...” frowned Jim.

  “No trouble,” Tully assured him. “And not a lengthy task.” He finished his drink, rose to his feet. “I think a pen-sketch would be best for your purpose. A line drawing. Simple black and white. We don’t have a really efficient printery here at the Junction but, when you do find a newspaper office—or a good print-shop ...”

  “I could have copies made,” nodded Jim. “All right. I’ll be mighty obliged.”

  Being free of temperament, the artist had no objection to making the sketch with the eyes of his visitors following every stroke of the pen. Consulting the oil painting and his memory and working with quick, sure strokes, he executed a head and shoulders portrait of the man who, until now, had been naught but a description, something burned into Jim’s brain. On paper, the blond killer with the weakness for flashy clothing, pearl jewelry and raw brandy seemed to come alive, and Jim was fascinated—as well as repelled. Here, he felt sure, was the evil-tempered, itchy-fingered coward, who had so treacherously murdered Lieutenant Christopher Rand in a San Marco saloon on March 7.

  “The ink will dry in just a few moments.” Tully had finished and was discarding his pen. His eyes surveyed Jim sadly. “You mean to kill this man, of course. A life for a life ...”

  “He has to answer for what he did,” muttered Jim. “If he refuses to surrender when I catch up with him—there’ll be bloodshed. If he does surrender, I’ll deliver him to the San Marco law and see him tried for murder.”

  They waited for the ink to dry. When Tully passed the sketch to him, he folded it carefully, slid it into a pocket of his shirt and rose from his chair.

  “I’m much obliged. Tully.”

  “What will you do now?” asked Tully. “Show that sketch all over town—question every citizen?”

  “I already checked with the sheriff,” frowned Jim.

  “Nat Croy and his deputies are good men,” shrugged Tully, “but we can’t expect them to be in seven different places at once. Your man could have ridden into town, stayed a couple of nights and ridden out again—without coming under notice of the local law. Or he may have been here only the one night. Many visitors to the Junction arrive by train and stay for less than twenty-four hours.”

  “He might have arrived by train,” mused Jim. “Yeah. He just might have.”

  “So?” prodded Benito. “We go now?”

  “We go,” nodded Jim. “Thanks again, Tully.”

  “My pleasure,” the artist assured him, as he conducted them to the door.

  Along Main Street Jim strode, hurrying to the hitch-rack outside Bracken’s Casino, where the charcoal and the burro awaited. The runty Mex had to trot to keep up with him.

  “This was lucky, no?” he grinned. “Quite by chance you find a hombre who has seen this killer—this Jenner ...”

  “It has to be the same man,” opined Jim. “Everything checks. The raw brandy and the pearl jewelry the fact that he turns mean when he loses a gamble. The hell with him—it just couldn’t be a coincidence!”

  At the railroad depot, his luck held. The ticket-clerk inspected the portrait with keen interest, then remarked on Tully’s uncanny talent for achieving a likeness and asked:

  “What color are his eyes? Would they be blue by any chance? Real pale blue?” Jim nodded slowly, struggling to maintain his patience. “Well, I reckon he’d be the same feller.”

  Jim fished out his wallet, extracted a five-dollar bill and shoved it under the grill.

  “Keep thinking,” he urged.

  And, after much rubbing of his jowls and scratching of his balding dome, the clerk recalled details of his transaction with the subject of the portrait—after which he promptly scooped up the banknote and pocketed it.

  “Tuesday morning it was. Early. Yeah—mighty early—because he bought a ticket for the northbound, and the northbound always rolls out at a quarter to six.”

  “How far would that ticket take him?” demanded Jim.

  “Moredo,” said the clerk. “It was just a one-way ticket, you know? Moredo is where he was headed, and that’s no surprise. Plenty of tinhorns head for Moredo this time of year. Well, you know how folks are when there’s celebratin’ to be done. They like to risk a few dollars gamblin’. It’s bonanza time for all the sharpers and tinhorns and bunko steerers.” He tapped at the portrait with a decisive forefinger. “He’ll be in Moredo tomorrow, nothin’ surer. It happens every year.”

  “What happens every year?” prodded Jim.

  “Foundation Day,” the clerk explained. “Anniversary of the foundation of Moredo. Big doin’s, you know? Like a county fair—and with a real high-class shindig at city hall tomorrow night.”

  “Moredo ...” Jim repeated the name thoughtfully. “A big town to the north, you say?”

  “A sight bigger than Burnett Junction,” the clerk grudgingly conceded.

  “If we leave rightaway ...” began Jim.

  “You wouldn’t reach Moredo as fast—or as easy,” said the clerk, “as if you went by train. Next northbound leaves this here depot at a quarter to six tomorrow mornin’, reaches Moredo at high noon—in plenty of time for the celebrations. That’s why you see so many Mex cattlemen in town today. They check in overnight at the Junction, take the mornin’ train for Moredo. Same damn thing every year.”

  “Have you sold every seat?” asked Jim.

  “Oh, sure,” nodded the clerk. “But there’d be plenty of room in the baggage car. The conductor is Toby Jethrow—kind of a miserable feller, but friendly enough. You’d want to take your horses along anyway, wouldn’t you?” Jim nodded. “All right. It’s the caboose for you, mister.”

  “Are there stalls in that caboose?” frowned Jim. “Sure enough,” said the clerk.

  “We’ll be here at five-thirty,” declared Jim, “to help put our animals into that caboose. It’ll be the first time my horse travelled that way. He’s a one-man animal and plenty wild.”

  Having purchased the tickets, he left the depot, tagged by his sawn-off shadow. The sketch of the man he believed to be his brother’s murderer was folded and returned to his shirt pocket. His expression was grim and, deep within him, he felt a stirri
ng of new excitement. This could be it—the end of his quest. Any time after high noon tomorrow, in a town called Moredo, he might at last confront his brother’s assassin.

  “Amigo Jim,” frowned Benito, “what of the meantime?”

  He roused from his reverie.

  “The meantime?”

  “Should we not eat and sleep?” shrugged the Mex. “Should not Capitan Cortez and your fine black caballo be accommodated at some suitable establishment?” He added, warmly, “Capitan Cortez should have nothing but the best.”

  “Capitan Cortez,” Jim retorted, “is a no-account, flea-bitten burro—damn near as lazy as the galoot that rides him.”

  “We find a livery stable, no?” persisted Benito.

  “Yeah, sure,” agreed Jim. “And a hotel for ourselves.”

  By four p.m. they had found accommodation at an uptown barn for the magnificent stallion and for the nondescript burro so grandiloquently named Capitan Cortez by his raffish master. But, when it came to renting a room for their overnight stay, they found every hotel filled; they had to settle for a double bedroom in a dingy boarding establishment on Calle Hernando, a narrow thoroughfare angling off West Main Street. Jim would have preferred a couple of singles, but figured he could bear to share a room with his grubby shadow for just this one night.

  It was sundown, when Jim decided that the early hours of this Friday night could be spent gainfully at a midtown saloon called the Sandalia Rojo. The proprietor was half-American, half-Mexican and too shrewd to hire sharpers to cheat his clients. Local cowhands, it seemed, were apt to administer the tar and feathers treatment to any dealer caught in the act of secreting a high card, sliding one from under the deck or using loaded dice. This much could be said for the gambling houses of Burnett Junction: a visitor could only go broke through bad luck or lack of familiarity with the game of his choice.

  At the Sandalia Rojo, Jim found everything he needed to keep himself occupied for several hours; food, liquor and games of chance were plentiful. Having satisfied his appetite, he sat in on a poker game that looked good for at least a couple more hours. He had purchased a substantial supper for Benito and had warned him to stay out of trouble.

  “Pick no pockets while we’re in this town,” he cautioned. “If you get yourself in a jam, I swear I won’t hang around to pull you out of it. I aim to be on that early morning train for Moredo—no matter what happens to you.”

  “It grieves me,” sighed the little Mex, “that you can never trust me. You—my dear and close friend.”

  By seven p.m., he had wearied of watching play at the poker table, even though Jim was steadily winning, out-bluffing the other players. Other possibilities for entertainment now occurred to the ugliest thief ever to ride out of Mexico. He was devoting his attention to a raven-haired, shapely young woman of his own race, a percentage-girl who pleaded a raging headache and won her employer’s permission to go home and sleep. When she left the saloon, Benito followed.

  Three – Luckless Lothario

  The triple-storied establishment at which the percenter resided didn’t even have a name. It was located directly opposite the triple-storied and imposing Osborne House, which catered only to the wealthiest of transients and boasted carpeted staircases, white-jacketed stewards, chefs imported all the way from Los Angeles and a menu calculated to satisfy the most discerning gourmet, be he American or Mexican.

  Benito ignored the Osborne House and concentrated on the building into which the percenter disappeared. A few moments later, a lamp was lit in a top-floor room. That, he assured himself, was the room occupied by his beloved. The window overlooked a side alley. Very convenient. There was a flight of fire-stairs leading all the way to her balcony. Caramba! This was even more convenient! He would take up a position on the second floor balcony and, until she weakened, he would sing to her of amour—the subject closest to his heart at this moment.

  The best-laid plans of mice, men and amorous Caballeros often become as tangled as did Benito’s on this epic occasion. He climbed to the second floor balcony, unslung his guitar, strummed an introduction and began singing. Into that popular Mexican love song he injected all the sincerity, all the expression of which he was capable. It was, he assured himself, a performance of great artistry, warranting much applause and calculated to soften the hearts of any and all women, and the percenter from the Sandalia Rojo was deeply touched—but not in the way Benito had hoped for.

  She opened her window, thrust out her head and shoulders. In their native tongue they exchanged questions and answers.

  “Who is down there?”

  “Me—my beautiful one. I am Benito Espina, and I—”

  “You have come to the wrong place. The good Doctor Guantero lives further downtown—the last house on San José Road.”

  “But I do not seek a doctor!”

  “Poor man—you must be looking for the doctor. Are you not in pain?”

  “In pain? Me? No.”

  “No? Then I do not understand. If you are not in pain, why do you groan? Why do you cry out with the agony?”

  Benito was abashed, but only momentarily.

  “I do not cry out, beloved. I sing—to you. If there is any agony I feel, it is the agony of unrequited love.” She was silent a long moment, and he congratulated himself on having deeply impressed her. He cleared his throat, sang two more lines of the love song, then called an eager query to her. “I will come to you now, no? You will leave your window open for me?”

  She leaned further out of the window, peering down at the huddled figure only dimly visible on the lower balcony of the fire-stairs.

  “Let me see your face,” she demanded.

  He scratched a match, held it just below his upturned face to permit her to study his dilated eyes, drooping moustache and protruding teeth. Her reaction was immediate and eloquent.

  “Ai, caramba!” she gasped, after which she withdrew her head and closed and locked her window.

  Undeterred, Benito continued his song. So the little pigeon was playing hard to get? It mattered not. She would soon weaken. Who could resist a serenade sung by such an irresistible adventurero?

  He sang with great fervor, and still her window remained shut; also she had extinguished her lamp. But his efforts did not go unappreciated. From somewhere below, he heard a door open. A voice called to him and the voice was feminine and eager—breathlessly, frantically eager.

  “I am here. I have heard you singing to me—and now I am ready. Come—my sweetheart!”

  Benito squinted downward and, but for his long and checkered experience as a philanderer, might have fainted from horror. One of the largest females he had ever seen had emerged from a ground-floor doorway and was calling to him, beginning to climb the fire-stairs—which threatened to give way under her considerable weight. She was a massive Mexican woman of indeterminate vintage, and maybe much of that bulk wasn’t fat at all; maybe it was muscle.

  “Señora ...” he began.

  “Señorita,” she corrected, with a coquettish giggle. “But not for long, my handsome one, not for long.”

  “I did not sing to you!” he protested.

  “Is all right,” she assured him. “You do not have to be shy with me. See? I come for you ...”

  She began climbing the stairs. Stiff-scared, Benito fled, and there was only one direction he could run—upward.

  He climbed to the balcony-rail, perched there precariously while the big woman came lumbering up the steps. Bending at the knees and summoning all his strength, he leapt upward, clutching for the edge of the roof. For what seemed an eternity, he dangled, and then, laboriously, he hauled himself over and dropped flat. From the top floor balcony, the big woman began the futile effort to lure him down. She wheedled. She cajoled and finally resorted to threats, and he reflected that her wheedling was more frightening than her threats.

  He stayed put. Sooner or later, she would abandon the chase. Then—and only then—he would climb down from this roof.

&n
bsp; ~*~

  At about this same time, one of the wealthiest of the Mexican cattlemen from south of the border was engaged in a heated argument with his daughter. The ranchero’s name was Don Diego Castaldez. He was slender, silver-haired and handsome, a distinguished-looking aristocrat of pure Castilian ancestry. His daughter, Maria, was tiny but formidable, five feet one inch of shapely femininity. Her raven hair cascaded about her shoulders as she paced back and forth and traded vehement recriminations with her sire.

  Her beauty was of the breath-catching variety. Her personality was unpredictable and her temper just didn’t bear discussion. A white robe had been wrapped about her nightgown—this argument was taking place in her bedroom, her father having engaged the most luxurious suite available at the Osborne House—and the sash of the robe was tightly-knotted, thus accentuating her uncommonly trim waistline and her well-rounded bosom.

  “Stew ...?” She repeated the name scathingly, as she paused with arms akimbo and glared at her father. “Stew? This is a name for a man? Hah! Is this not how the gringos name a dish—chopped beef boiled in water?”

  “It is—how they say it—short for Stewart,” her father retorted. “Stewart Sharkey—one fine caballero—the son of my dear friend ...”

  “One fine caballero—hah!” she jeered. “He is a fat pig!”

  “You will show respect,” he chided, “when you speak of the man who is to become your husband.”

  “Never will I become the wife of this Stewart Sharkey!” she retorted.

  “It has been arranged,” Don Diego loftily pointed out.

  “By you,” she fumed. “By the father of this calf faced Americano. By his mother—a fat sow ...!”

  “May the saints forgive you, daughter!” he gasped. “Such language—to be used by a Castaldez of Chihuahua!”

  “Ah, but you forget,” she taunted. “I am not a pure blood Castaldez.” Proudly, she squared her shoulders and clasped a hand to her heart. “I am partly of the Irish—thanks to my mother.”

  “May she rest in peace,” he sighed.

  “There will be no peace for you, Padre, if you try to force this marriage,” vowed Maria. “I will make your life unbearably miserable—this I promise you.”