Big Jim 9 Page 3

  ‘Think about him,’ urged Jim, as he resumed working on his beer. ‘Anything at all, Kell. Small details. Things that mightn’t seem important.’

  ‘I’ll say this about him,’ mused Kell. ‘I’d admire to own some of his jewelry. Of course it’s probably imitation. Even so, that pearl cravat-pin was a beauty. But …’

  ‘But …?’ prodded Jim.

  ‘When it comes to liquor,’ drawled Kell, ‘I’ll continue to respect the lining of my stomach and the fibers of my one and only brain. Raw brandy; Hell’s bells!’

  ‘He drank nothing but brandy, and he drank it raw,’ said Jim; it was a statement, not a question.

  ‘As though it were water,’ said Kell, shuddering.

  ‘Go on,’ begged Jim.

  ‘Listen, if you want to meet this fellow all you have to do is wait around here. He was after a high-staked poker game and I told him a couple of friendly rivals, Belbin and Keyes, would surely accommodate him. They’re on a cattle drive at the moment but will return at the end of the .month with saddlebags bulging.’

  ‘Hartwell seemed interested?’ Jim asked.

  ‘He’ll come—I’m certain of that. I haven’t forgotten the gleam in his eyes when I described how Belbin and Keyes play poker.’

  Jim was silent a few moments, while Kell eyed him curiously. He finished his cigar, started on his refill, stared pensively towards the batwings.

  ‘I noticed a hotel right opposite,’ he muttered.

  ‘The Calvert House,’ nodded Kell. ‘I’ve tasted better chow, but the rooms are clean enough. Thinking of staying, Jim?’

  ‘Long enough to meet Hartwell,’ said Jim, very quietly. ‘Yeah. I reckon I’ll check into the Calvert House.’

  ‘I’ve answered all your questions,’ Kell pointed out, ‘and now it’s your turn.’

  For the second time that day Jim recounted all the now familiar but still-saddening details of his brother’s death. He spoke quietly, unheatedly. At the end of it, he confided, ‘I’m calm about it now. When I first heard of Chris’ death, I guess I was a raging avenger—damn near ready to go trigger-happy. Well, I’ve never changed my mind. I’ll hunt Hartwell, or Jenner as I know him, till my dying day, if I don’t find him in the meantime. But …’

  ‘But now you’re calm,’ said Kell.

  ‘I’ll kill that back-shooting coyote,’ muttered Jim, ‘but only if he’s triggering at me, only if I have to defend myself. What matters is that he should pay, and I’d as soon he paid on a regular gallows.’

  After a long moment of silence, Kell Garrard remarked, ‘I wouldn’t care to be Jenner or Hartwell or whatever his real name is. No. I wouldn’t like that at all.’

  They talked on, while the three hard-faced, shabbily-garbed cowhands entered Main Street at its north end and idled their mounts towards the heart of town. Their names were Barlow, Doan and Underfield, and they enjoyed the dubious distinction of being L-Bar-W employees, „ hired hands of the partners who planned to rob the Midwest Bank. Barlow was hefty, blunt-featured and short on temper, a case-hardened brawler with a sadistic streak. Doan, more slender than Barlow, resembled him in every other respect. Underfield was a tow-haired, sharp-featured thirty year-old with shifty grey eyes and a habit of licking his lips a dozen times oftener than was necessary.

  Along Main they came, to rein up at the hitchrail outside the Harris & Byrd dry goods store, the building next to the Silver Queen. Having dismounted and tethered their animals, they steered a course for the saloon porch, but paused to stare at the black stallion hitched outside the saloon.

  Barlow’s eyes gleamed. Underfield whistled softly and observed, ‘Now there’s a cayuse. What I mean, boys, a real cayuse!’

  ‘A lot of horse,’ mumbled Doan.

  ‘I never saw better,’ breathed Barlow, stepping closer to the black. ‘In my whole life, I swear I never saw such a critter.’ He fancied himself as an expert on horses, as on many other subjects. ‘Look at that chest. Look at the legs. See how he stands. I’m tellin’ you that’s a thoroughbred.’

  Not yet aware that the big charcoal was leery of strangers, he strode forward, stood beside the gleaming right shoulder and raised a hand to touch the mane. Hank promptly demonstrated that he was allergic to the attentions of strangers. Passers-by paused-to watch, as the stallion wheeled sideways suddenly, pulling against its rein and causing the startled Barlow to back step in haste. To the accompaniment of much laughter from the locals, he lost his footing and fell on his outsized backside.

  The blunt-featured countenance of Ike Barlow turned beetroot-red. As well as being a hardcase, a thief and, in an emergency, a killer, he was also afflicted with monumental conceit; he couldn’t bear to be derided. Wild-eyed, he rolled over and lurched to his feet. His venomous scowl caused his audience to stop laughing. The locals eyed him cautiously, as he flexed his muscles. He snarled a command.

  ‘Rope that black critter, Marty!’

  Underfield uncoiled his lariat, twirled it twice and sent the noose snaking towards Hank’s head. It settled cleanly and, as Underfield hauled back sharply, tightened about the neck. Underfield then hurried forward and secured the other end of his rope to the hitchrack.

  ‘Sam—lemme have my rope.’

  Barlow mumbled that order between clenched teeth, and Doan knew better than to argue. He retreated to the, horses, unhitched Barlow’s lariat and threw it to him. Bar low caught it and partially uncoiled it, then fashioned it into a four feet long lash—and the onlookers knew what to expect next. A townman called a protest.

  ‘No, Barlow! That’s no way to treat any animal.’

  ‘If the sight pains your eyes, mister,’ retorted Barlow, ‘look someplace else.’

  He darted at the prancing, over-stimulated charcoal, swung hard with the rope, then leapt back hastily. In pain, the big stallion jack-knifed and whinnied shrilly. Barlow struck again—and again. More people gathered and, unhappily, none of the onlookers were inclined to interfere; Barlow and his cronies had a reputation as hard hitters and savage brawlers. Verbal protests were heard, all of which Barlow ignored. The only physical protest came from a slim, angry-eyed young woman in gingham gown and poke bonnet. After bitterly chiding Barlow for his sadism, she dashed at him, only to be intercepted. Grinning broadly, Underfield grabbed her and hustled her back towards the boardwalk.

  Inside the saloon, Jim suddenly interrupted the reminiscing of Kell Garrard; the sheriff’s son had been amusing him with a brief history of Marris County.

  ‘That horse …’ he began, ‘it’s in trouble.’ Abruptly, he strode towards the batwings. Kell set his drink down and followed, ill-prepared for the sight that would meet his gaze when he passed through the saloon entrance. From the saloon porch, Jim surveyed the scene in black fury. Kell also experienced sudden anger, and, despite his antipathy for violence, realized he would have to take a hand. The girl struggling in Underfield’s grasp was Emma Kittridge, daughter of his father’s deputy; he had known her many years.

  Jim’s enraged parade ground roar caused many a nearby horse to flinch and made grim-faced statues of Barlow and his cronies. Barlow stood with his loose coiled lariat raised for another blow. Underfield was stooped and tense, his left hand still clamped about the slim waist of Emma Kittridge. Doan, the closest to the saloon porch, was sizing Jim up and making a furtive move towards his holstered .45. Without even glancing at him, Jim growled a warning.

  ‘Try it—and I’ll ram six inches of that Colt down your no good throat.’ To Barlow, he said, ‘You with the rope—drop it!’

  He was concentrating all his attention on the man with the coiled lariat, so he couldn’t observe nor assess the look that passed between Kell Garrard and the girl held by Underfield. Emma was staring hard at the young gambler; the expression in her fine blue eyes was more a challenge than an appeal. He was meeting her gaze with a rueful half-smile.

  Barlow, conscious of the intent scrutiny of the onlookers, decided to defy the big man.

  ‘Anybody
invite you to butt in?’ he demanded of Jim.

  ‘I don’t need an invite,’ retorted Jim, bleakly. ‘That’s my horse. If you crave to stay healthy, don’t try to hit him.’

  ‘Underfield!’ Kell couldn’t hope to match Jim’s beefy baritone, but he called out at the full strength of his lungs, and with vehemence. ‘I’ll thank you to take your hands off Miss Emma!’

  ‘Will you listen to the tinhorn?’ sniggered Underfield. ‘Hear how purty he talks?’

  Barlow hesitated for just a moment longer and then, abruptly, he turned and swung the lariat at the charcoal. As the animal reared with forelegs threshing, Jim leapt off the saloon porch and rushed Barlow, and Doan darted in from the side to intercept him. Simultaneously Kell ran towards Underfield and the girl.

  Doan did manage to collide with the big man, did manage to wrap his arms about Jim’s brawny torso, but did not succeed in pinning Jim’s arms. They were free and he used them—much to the disadvantage of the startled Ike Barlow. His swinging left glanced off the side of Barlow’s head and sent him reeling^ Barlow regained his balance, whirled and charged at the big man to whose back Doan was now clinging, charged cleanly into a pounding right that stopped his rush as effectively as if he had made sudden contact with a brick wall. He stood rigid a moment with his eyes glazing over. Then, in an untidy, shapeless way, he crumpled to the dust.

  An excited crowd was dividing its attention between the big man and his adversaries and the young gambler, fighting with the leering Underfield. Emma had been thrust aside and, in some anxiety, was watching Kell trade blows with the hardcase. There could be no denying that Kell was getting the worst of it, or that Underfield was striking where it would hurt most.

  Jim got rid of Doan, shaking him off his back as easily as if he were a ragged garment to be discarded. Doan went down, sprang to his feet again and swung a punch that missed Jim’s chin by almost eighteen inches. While he was off-balance from that swing, Jim administered a short but devastating jab to the face, a blow that jarred Doan to the core, plunged him into oblivion and dropped him to the dust.

  He started towards the other fighters then, because Underfield had knocked Kell Garrard down. Not content with that, he was aiming a kick at Kell’s ribs.

  ‘That’s all, boy!’ chided Jim.

  And now Underfield rashly turned to face the big man and began drawing the Colt lashed to his right leg.

  Three – Talk About A Tinhorn

  The locals crowded to the right of the big stranger were in a position to observe the dazzling speed of his draw, the seeming ease with which the long-barreled .45 left its sheath and was levelled at the bug-eyed Underfield, cocked, unwavering, lethal. Underfield froze with his awn weapon only half-drawn.

  ‘Take your paw away from it,’ he sourly advised Underfield. ‘Try to finish that draw—and you’re grave-bait.’

  The warning was superfluous; Underfield was already releasing his grip of his gun butt. The weapon settled back in its holster. With his eyes still dilated, he spread his arms away from his sides. He licked his lips, as he assured Jim: ‘I ain’t drawin’ on you! You can’t shoot me, big feller! Everybody can see I ain’t drawin’!’

  Kell rolled over, lurched to his feet and began slapping the dust from his clothes with his hat. A large proportion of the crowd lost interest now and began drifting away. The law arrived in the person of a frowning, alert eyed Sheriff Garrard. Noting the gleaming death gripped in the big man’s right fist, he came to a halt beside the horizontal Barlow and Doan.

  ‘All right,’ he grunted. ‘Let’s hear it.’ He raised a hand to quell the excited and disjointed babble of his would-be informants, singled out one man from the crowd. ‘Oley Danslow, I’d as soon have it from you.’

  A snowy-haired local, far too aged to be concerned with exaggeration or prejudice, offered Garrard a terse description of the fracas, a masterpiece of brevity.

  ‘L-Bar-W boys come in. One of ’em got too close to the black cayuse. It spooked, knocked him down. He got mad. His pards tied the black and then he started in whuppin’ that critter with his lariat. Big stranger came out and beat the tar outa him. Your boy got mixed up in it, too.’ Garrard eyed his disheveled son. His expression was somewhat incredulous. He shifted his gaze to the townsfolk and said, ‘I work by the book. If anybody claims this hassle was Kell’s fault, speak up right here and now—and I’ll listen. You all know I play no favorites.’

  ‘That’s okay, Max,’ muttered another aged local. ‘You don’t have to prove it by us.’

  ‘Sheriff Garrard …’ began Emma.

  ‘Morning, Emma honey,’ said the sheriff, raising a hand to his Stetson.

  ‘Good morning,’ she frowned. ‘And you don’t have to worry about Kell. Neither he nor this gentleman …’ She indicated the big stranger, ‘were to blame.’

  The residue of the crowd began dispersing. Jim uncocked and reholstered his Colt, turned and walked back to the charcoal. While he carefully examined the few weals on the gleaming black withers, Garrard frowned dubiously at his son, at the still-frozen Underfield and at the still-prone Barlow and Doan.

  ‘You must’ve hit these jaspers mighty hard,’ he remarked to Jim.

  ‘One of ’em took a lariat to the charcoal,’ muttered Jim. ‘Cruelty to any animal is something I’ve never appreciated.’

  ‘Emma—you all right?’ asked Garrard.

  ‘I suppose I can’t really claim to have been molested,’ she murmured, ‘as this gallant gentleman did no more than grip my arm.’ She stared scathingly at Underfield. ‘In any case, it seems these cowhand; have been punished enough.’

  Underfield flushed to the roots of his hair, made to hurl a retort at her, then thought better of it. Barlow made a moaning sound and began the effort to get back onto his feet. So did Doan. They both spat blood and cursed luridly, until they became aware of Garrard’s presence. Jim was treated to a small demonstration, compelling proof of the sheriff’s influence on the hardcase element of Marris County.

  ‘The way I hear it,’ growled Garrard, ‘you three got a mite out of hand—and paid for it.’

  ‘Damn and blast …’ spluttered Doan.

  ‘That’s enough cussing, Doan. More than enough,’ chided Garrard. He jerked a thumb. ‘The three of you mount up and head back to L-Bar-W, and stay out of Delandro for the next five days.’

  Jim patted the charcoal’s mane, turned to stare at Barlow. He spoke quietly, but every softly-worded syllable assailed Barlow’s ears with the impact of a thunderclap.

  ‘If I ever again see you within twenty-five yards of this horse, I’ll break every bone in your good-for-nothing carcass.’

  Their eyes locked. Barlow glowered at him for a long moment, then mumbled something unintelligible and averted his eyes. One by one, the three hardcases trudged to their horses, untethered them and swung astride. Jim untied the lariat that had been used to secure Hank to the hitchrail. Without recoiling it, he flung it into the street; Underfield was obliged to dismount to retrieve it. He was red with rage and humiliation, but nary another word was said. Garrard stood watching until Barlow and his cronies had ridden out of sight. Then and only then did he address a query to his son. It was curt, but solicitous.

  ‘You all right, boy?’

  And Jim Rand, a man with a keen appreciation of such things was pleased to note that the flippant young gambler replied respectfully.

  ‘None the worse. Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘Kind of a rare experience for you, eh?’ suggested his father, with the vaguest suggestion of a grin.

  ‘The first worthwhile thing he has done,’ said Emma, ‘in many a long month.’

  Garrard’s grin faded. His weather-beaten visage seemed to cloud over, as he doffed his Stetson to the girl, turned and began retracing his steps to the law office. Half-jokingly, Kell remarked to Jim, ‘You will note that Emma doesn’t exactly approve of me.’

  She ignored Kell, frowned at Jim and asked, ‘Did they badly hurt that beautiful charcoal
of yours? I’m sorry there was nothing I could do to stop them—but I did try.’

  ‘Hank will be fine,’ Jim assured her. ‘If he could talk, I reckon he’d say he appreciates your concern.’

  ‘If you’re staying in Delandro awhile …’ she began. ‘Awhile,’ he nodded.

  ‘Then let me recommend the McDade stable,’ she offered, gesturing towards a livery stable some short distance along the street. ‘Old Mr. McDade is very fond of horses and would probably get a lot of pleasure from tending such a fine animal.’

  ‘Those weals could use some balm,’ opined Kell.

  ‘I’ll take Hank to McDade’s,’ Jim assured them. ‘But I’m the one who’ll rub on the balm. This is a one-man horse—as those hardcases learned.’

  ‘I’m forgetting my manners,’ said Kell. He had abandoned his futile efforts to remove all the dust from his clothes. Nodding courteously to Emma of the dark-brown hair, he performed introductions. ‘Miss Emma Kittridge, permit me to present Mr. James Rand.’

  ‘Mr. Rand.’ She acknowledged the introduction with a brief smile. ‘Welcome to Delandro.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Emma,’ said Jim. ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘And I guess I should apologise,’ Kell good-humoredly suggested to her, ‘for my inability to rescue you in the grand manner. You deserve the more spectacular touch, my dear Emma. I should have knocked Underfield senseless —or forced him to beg your forgiveness.’

  ‘Well, you made some effort,’ said Emma, without warmth. ‘I guess I should be grateful for that much.’ She nodded to Jim again. ‘Good afternoon to you, Mr. Rand.’

  ‘Miss Emma,’ he nodded.

  She began walking downtown. As soon as she was out of earshot, Kell sadly informed the big man, ‘I admit I’m no scrapper.’

  ‘As the lady said,’ drawled Jim, ‘you at least made the effort.’ He untethered the black, turned him towards the livery stable. ‘And now I’d best take Hank to McDade’s, get myself settled at the hotel.’

  ‘Later—if you fancy a few hands of poker …’ began Kell.