The Night McLennan Died (A Big Jim Western Book 1) Page 3

  “Luke, I reckon I’ve found the answer to our problem, the very man we need!” Deitch’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

  “That’s fine,” frowned Hillary, reaching for his hat. “But tell me about him later, Oscar. I’ve heard there’s a passel of hotheaded Mexicans about to stage a lynch-party, and I have to stop it. I’d be on my way already, if Doc hadn’t insisted on ...”

  “It’s for your own good,” muttered Doc Giddons. “By rights you should be using a sling. Well ...” He shrugged forlornly, “I can at least keep that arm under close observation.”

  “Mr. Deitch looks mighty excited,” observed Celie.

  “Well, by golly, why wouldn’t I be excited?” grinned Deitch. “It’s like the answer to a prayer!”

  “Just what in tarnation are you gabbin’ about?” demanded Hillary.

  “Talkin’ about a big jasper that just now went hustlin’ out of my store,” said Deitch. “He used to be an army man. Rand is his name. Seems he got bit by a rattlesnake yesterday, and this sassy little Mex saved his life—the same Mex they’re fixin’ to hang.”

  “If he suffered the bite of a rattler yesterday,” protested Giddons, “he’d be in no shape for breaking up a lynch-party today.”

  “You think not?” countered Deitch. “Wait till you see this hombre. He’s all of six feet five inches tall—and hefty! I swear I’ve never seen so much muscle!”

  “He sounds beautiful,” chuckled Celie.

  “You keep your nose out of this situation, young lady,” chided the sheriff. “All right, Doc, you want to ride with me?”

  “I think I should,” sighed the medico.

  “I’m coming, too,” announced Celie.

  “Like hell you are,” growled Hillary.

  But to discourage Celie Kilminster was no easy chore. She was, and always had been, the impulsive kind, apt to act on the spur of the moment, a moment such as now. When the sheriff quit the law office, swung astride his horse and began riding across town, he was tagged not only by Deitch and the medico riding double, but also by his eager and over-stimulated niece.

  The score or more representatives of the town’s Mexican community, now assembled in the grove to the north, could also be described as over-stimulated. They were in bad humor, and determined to dispose of the scruffy little hombre straddling the somnolent burro beneath the cottonwood limb. The noose had been fixed about the unwashed neck of Benito Espina. His wrists were tied behind his back, and he was resigned to what seemed inevitable. He sat and waited, while Emilio Navarro addressed the gathering in impassioned tones, pleading fervently, gesticulating melodramatically. In his capacity as mayor of Libertad’s Mexican sector, Navarro considered it his duty to dissuade—or to attempt to dissuade—his fellow-countrymen from lynching a fellow-countryman.

  Such was the tableau into which Big Jim intruded. His wild yell scattered some of the Mexicans. The black stallion effectively discouraged the others, because Jim urged him straight into the crowd and gave him free rein. There were shouted protests from the would-be lynchers, from the women who had come to watch, and from Alcalde Navarro himself, because he never liked to be interrupted in the middle of a speech.

  Reining up beside the burro, Jim glowered belligerently at the guest of honor. Benito offered him a brave but half-hearted leer, shrugged philosophically and continued to chew and puff on the butt of an expensive Havana; he remembered the social niceties, however.

  “Buenos dias, Amigo Jim,” he greeted.

  “I ought to let ’em go ahead and stretch your no-good neck,” scowled Jim. “But I crave the personal pleasure of breaking every bone in your body for what you did to me—robbing me—while I was helpless ...!”

  A jabbering peon came hustling up to the big charcoal, gesturing threateningly with a large punal. Jim bent, seized him by the front of his camisa and hauled him off his feet, wrested the knife from his grasp, then flung him clear. The startled lyncher fell back into the crowd. Caramba! What manner of hombre was this, that he could lift a hombre one-handed?

  There was a stunned silence, as Jim used the knife to sever the hang rope. Even the alcalde, that enthusiastic speechmaker, was momentarily at a loss for words, deeply impressed by the big gringo’s audacity. And then, in Spanish so fluent that their wonderment increased, Jim growled a challenge.

  “Why do you want to hang this Benito Espina? Has he committed a crime, been tried, found guilty and sentenced?”

  In the silence that followed, he frowned enquiringly at the mayor. Navarro shrugged, shook his head and told him: “There was no trial.”

  “Why then?” demanded Jim.

  “They wish to execute this miserable rogue,” Navarro explained, “for what he did to the Señorita Conchita, daughter of Jose Minoza.”

  “And just what did he do to the señorita?” prodded Jim.

  Another Mexican spoke up. He was fat and elderly and, obviously, the father of the lady in question. In the fast, jabbering Spanish of the excitable peon, he informed Jim that this most despicable and unsavory blackguard had trifled with the affections of his daughter, had vowed his undying love for her but, a few hours later, had refused to marry her.

  Proudly and with a fine flair for the theatrical, Señor Minoza flung out an arm, gesturing to indicate his beloved offspring. Jim looked at the bulky, bovine, hook-nosed, unattractive woman. He then looked at Benito, who sighed and mumbled:

  “Why did you cut the rope? Is better I should die, I think.”

  He had spoken in English. Hoping Minoza would not overhear or understand, Jim muttered a query to Benito in that same language.

  “How come you were sparking such a female? You been chewing loco-weed or something?”

  “I was drunk,” said Benito, “and the night was dark.” He stole a furtive glance at Conchita Minoza, shuddered and closed his eyes. “¡Ai caramba!”

  “Listen to me ...” Jim again resorted to Spanish, as he addressed the people. “I can see you have cause to be angry, but what Benito has done is not a hanging offence.”

  “That is what I tell them,” frowned Navarro. “I say this philanderer should be delivered to the gringo rurale, the Señor Hillary. If they hang him, they are all murderers!”

  The women screamed abuse and the men began converging on the hanging tree, and Jim got the impression they were all eager to become murderers. Eager? They were jostling one another for the privilege.

  “Stay back!” he ordered.

  But the men kept coming, so the big gringo abandoned all further thought of arbitration and began administering heavy physical discouragement. He slid from the saddle. Three cursing Mexicans charged him, just as Sheriff Hillary, Oscar Deitch, Doc Giddons and the sheriff’s niece arrived at the outer fringe of the grove.

  About to yell a stern reprimand, Hillary remained rooted to his saddle, mouth agape, eyes widened incredulously. Those first three belligerents had barely managed to aim a blow at Big Jim, let alone land one. Jim’s swinging left sent one of them reeling for a dozen yards, before he tripped and sprawled senseless on the grass. His pounding right drove another into the arms of the startled alcalde, and both men promptly collapsed. The third endeavored to kick Jim in the groin. Jim sidestepped, backhanded him three times, then lifted him by the collar of his camisa and the seat of his pantaloons and flung him. That yelling human missile scattered three other Mexicans like skittles struck by a ball, but the crisis was abruptly overcome.

  Three – Persuasion and Agreement

  Only now did the local Mexicans take notice of the sheriff. Somehow, Hillary managed to rally from his shock; throughout a checkered career, he had witnessed and participated in many a wild brawl, but rarely had he observed a fighter of Big Jim’s power and ferocity. When this brawny warrior administered a blow, the victim didn’t merely collapse. The victim took flight—and then collapsed. Hillary arranged his features in an expression of austere official disapproval and called to Navarro to interpret for him.

  “Emilio—tell ’
em to get the heck out of here. If the galoot on the burro is guilty of a crime, he’ll pay for it, but everything has to be handled legal—savvy?”

  Navarro relayed that order and the discouraged locals hastily vacated the grove, some of them toting Jim’s befuddled victims. Then, ignoring Deitch, the frowning medico and the beautiful young woman who eyed him so admiringly, Jim stared hard at the sheriff and growled a challenge.

  “What the hell kind of a lawman do you call yourself?”

  “Now wait a minute,” frowned Hillary. “Wait just a doggone minute ...!”

  “Those crazy wet-backs were about to lynch this little coyote,” scowled Jim, “and just because he made eyes at some husband-hungry señorita. Where were you when they started hollering ‘lynch’?”

  “I’d still have arrived in time to stop the lynchin’!” snapped Hillary. “I know these people and I know their mayor—old Alcalde Navarro. When he starts a speech ...”

  “Emilio is kind of long-winded, Mr. Rand,” offered Deitch, “and the Mexicans wouldn’t have lynched Espina until Emilio got through talkin’—which would’ve been around twenty minutes—maybe longer.” To the sheriff, he offered a brief explanation. “This is the gent I was tellin’ you about, Luke. The little Mex robbed him, and—”

  “I’d as soon talk about it back in my office,” said Hillary. And only now did he think to inform Benito, “You’re under arrest—if Mr. Rand swears out a complaint against you.”

  “I don’t have any time to waste,” declared Jim.

  “Please, Mr. Rand ...” began Celie.

  “You butt out of this!” chided her uncle.

  Jim subjected the girl to a blank stare and asked: “Please what?”

  “Come back to Uncle Luke’s office,” she urged. Deitch contributed an inducement.

  “While you’re filin’ charges against the Mex,” he told Jim, “I’ll be takin’ your personal stuff out of stock. You know? The slicker, the blankets, the shirt and ...”

  “You paid money for my gear, without knowing it was stolen,” Jim reminded him. “Why would you want to give it all back?”

  “We’ll—uh—make some kind of deal,” was Deitch’s obscure rejoinder.

  Ten minutes later, the black stallion was hitched to the rack outside the law office, along with the horses owned by the sheriff, his niece and the doctor. Benito’s burro was now quartered at an uptown livery stable. As for the burro’s owner, that scruffy, inept little Lothario, he now took his ease in a cell of the county jail, plunking at his guitar, singing off-key. A little while ago, he had been close to death—too close for comfort. Now that danger had passed. He could sing again. Quite the fatalist was Benito Espina.

  In Hillary’s office, Jim sat on the couch and submitted to Doc Giddons’ examination. The medico had removed the makeshift bandage and poultice and was intently examining the snakebite. Stripped to the waist, acutely uncomfortable at being studied so admiringly by the laughing-eyed Celie, Jim sourly assured the sheriff:

  “I haven’t decided for sure if I’ll swear charges against the Mex. He did rob me, but ...”

  “But that was after he’d treated this wound?” interjected Giddons.

  “While I was still groggy,” nodded Jim.

  Deitch had gone across to his store. Hillary was seated in a chair propped against the closed street-door.

  “Oscar tells me you used to be army.” He eyed Jim enquiringly.

  “Sergeant James Rand,” growled Jim. “Eleventh Cavalry, Camp Allison. An honorable discharge—but you don’t have to take my word for that. You could wire the adjutant or the commanding officer.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” frowned Hillary. “Also, I’ll tell you the score about what happened to your bankroll. That sassy little Mex had himself quite a party last night.”

  “The tequila flowed like water,” grunted Giddons, who was now applying a clean dressing to Jim’s back. “Your skirt-chasing little friend spent money like he had it to burn. Big party in the Mexican sector. Fiesta. Mucho chanza. Dancing in the street, and ...”

  “Don’t call him my friend,” scowled Jim. “He’s no friend of mine.”

  “That’s right,” Giddons chuckled, winking at Hillary. “All he did was to save your life.”

  “I’m not apt to forget that he saved my life,” shrugged Jim. But he added, bitterly, “Nor that he robbed me.”

  “It seems Espina sold your personal effects to Oscar,” said Hillary, “added that dinero to what he found in your wallet, then started in to whoop it up, but the party got out of hand.”

  “What you mean,” grinned Giddons, “is the host got out of hand. I hear tell Espina proposed to seven women in all—including the expectant Señora Gomez and the aged grandmother of Pancho Monteredo.” As Celie giggled, the medico’s grin broadened. “When that little feller’s in a courting mood, there’s just no stopping him.”

  “By sun-up,” Hillary told Jim, “little Benito’s guests were plenty sore. Benito had spent all your dinero and, according to Conchita Minoza, had refused to honor a promise of marriage. All that tequila and all those headaches—a bad combination. No wonder they wanted to hang him.”

  “Nice peaceable town you got here,” was Jim’s dry comment.

  Hillary’s face clouded over. Celie’s mirth subsided and she bowed her head. In the short silence that followed, Giddons cleared his throat and muttered:

  “You can put your shirt on now, Mr. Rand.”

  “Any sign of infection?” Jim asked.

  “No infection,” frowned Gibbons. “You’ll heal fast—but I still say it was quite a performance. I mean, the way you tore into those Mexicans—only twenty-four hours after suffering the bite of a rattlesnake. You must have an iron constitution.”

  “And that’s what interests us,” said Hillary, quietly. “The fact that you’re so husky, so almighty strong. You, Rand, are exactly the kind of hombre we hoped would show up. Libertad needs you.”

  “Badly,” said Celie.

  “And that’s putting it mild,” muttered Giddons.

  Jim rose to his feet and eyed Celie pointedly. She took the hint and turned her back, while he tucked the tails of his shirt into his pants. Gruffly, he announced:

  “I don’t plan on staying in Libertad. So, if anybody had a notion to offer me a job, they can forget it.”

  “You don’t look like just another drifter,” remarked the sheriff.

  “I’m no saddle tramp—bet your life on that,” said Jim.

  “You mind tellin’ me where you’re headed?” frowned Hillary.

  “Any place,” said Jim. “Any place I’m apt to find a man name of Jenner.”

  “Jenner.” Hillary rubbed at his jowls. “Nope. I don’t believe I’ve heard the name before.”

  There was a rapping at the door. For the second time that morning, Deitch identified himself and was admitted. He flashed Jim an amiable grin and toted his burden to the couch, his burden being Jim’s rifle, slicker, blankets and two boxes of cartridges, plus Jim’s change of clothing and his calfskin wallet.

  “Here it is,” he cheerfully announced. “All of it. And I’ll take the loss, Mr. Rand. You don’t owe me a cent.” He drew his gaze from Jim’s puzzled countenance and eyed the sheriff expectantly. “How about it, Luke? Is he ready to get sworn in?”

  “Not by a long shot,” sighed Hillary. “It seems Mr. Rand is all tied up in his own private manhunt.”

  “I have good reasons,” Jim pointed out.

  “I don’t doubt that,” shrugged Hillary. “It’s just ...”

  “It’s just we have good reasons,” said the storekeeper, “for askin’ you to stay on—as Luke’s deputy.”

  “I’m not in the market for a deputy’s badge,” growled Jim.

  “What you saw just now—the attempted lynching of Benito Espina,” drawled Giddons, “was no problem at all. Luke could have handled it, even in his present condition. He can keep the local Mexicans under control.”

  �
�Block B is the big problem hereabouts,” muttered Hillary. “Old Man Burdette, his two trigger-happy sons and seven of the toughest hellions that ever sat a saddle. It’s a real hardcase outfit, believe me.”

  “Only one thing stops the Burdettes from running roughshod over the honest citizens of this territory,” Celie told Jim. She gestured to the holstered Colt at her uncle’s right thigh. “The famous fast gun of Luke Hillary.”

  “Sure.” Jim nodded understanding. “I already figured the sheriff for a gun-wise lawman. The tied-down holster and all. Well, as long as he has this Block B outfit buffaloed, I don’t see that you need any help from me.”

  “I need a deputy,” declared Hillary.

  “Uncle Luke’s last deputy quit six weeks ago,” said Celie.

  “And for a mighty old-fashioned reason,” sighed Deitch.

  “He was stiff-scared of the Burdettes,” said Giddons.

  “Jim ...” began the sheriff. “Uh—you don’t mind if I call you Jim ...?”

  “Help yourself, Luke,” grinned Jim. “But I’m warning you it’ll make no difference. I aim to quit Libertad before sundown.”

  “About those Burdettes,” said Hillary. “Nobody ever proved it, but it’s my hunch they’ve been raidin’ stagecoaches, bank-messengers and express offices all along the border. Block B is a ten-man outfit, but the old man’s runnin’ less than a hundred and fifty head of stock. You ever hear of a herd so small—with ten riders to take care of it? Also, Burdette’s men can afford to buy the best liquor and gamble for high stakes every time they hit this town. Their pockets are always full. Do they earn that kind of dinero just from tendin’ Old Man Burdette’s lousy herd?”

  “They’re bad medicine—every last one of ’em,” Deitch grimly assured Jim. “The only people that know about Luke’s condition are right here in this office. We managed to keep it a secret—so far. The trouble is Burdette’s men are bound to find out sooner or later, and ...”