Big Jim 12 Read online

  “So,” mused Jim, “nobody dares to back-talk the almighty Magnus.”

  “Not every San Rafael man is a coward,” declared Harriet. “But they have families to think of. To defy Magnus, Jim, is like—inviting every gunman on the XL payroll to start shooting at you.”

  Jim was silent now, his brain dealing with the problems confided by the doughty but almost-defeated Shadlows. Abruptly, Benito slid from Ms stool, paid Harriet a compliment about the quality of her cuisine, doffed his floppy sombrero and headed for the batwings. In an almost absent-minded way, Jim startled the Shadlows by drawing and cocking his Colt and turning to level it at the Mex.

  “Come back here, cucaracha,” he growled, and Benito froze in his tracks.

  “Amigo Jim...!”

  “Don’t Amigo Jim me,” chided Jim. “Come on back here and turn out your pockets.”

  “Holy smoke, Jim...!” began Willy.

  “Nothing to fret about,” drawled Jim, as the Mex rejoined them. “It happens all the time.” He rammed the muzzle of his Colt into Benito’s sunken Chest, began frisking him with Ms free hand. “Guess I forgot to mention—Benito is kind of itchy-fingered.”

  “Your sidekick is a thief?” blinked Willy.

  “All the time,” nodded Jim. “If he ever takes to walking in his sleep, I swear he’ll steal in his sleep. It’s kind of instinctive with Mm.”

  “Our friendship is at an end,” Benito pompously asserted. “If you will not trust me—me—your loyal amigo

  “Shuddup,” grunted Jim.

  From the capacious pockets of Benito’s camisa he retrieved several items purloined from within the barroom, a couple of brass ashtrays, a small framed portrait of the Jersey Lily, two decks of cards, a dozen poker chips, the comb from Harriet’s hair. From inside Benito’s sash he retrieved two watches. One he returned to the bug-eyed proprietor, the other he restored to his own pocket. From other sections of the Mex’s anatomy he unearthed his wallet and a St. Christopher medal. After checking the contents of the wallet, he calmly assured the Shadlows:

  “I reckon that’s all for now.” To Benito, he growled an order. “You go sit in that corner nearest the door, and keep your itchy paws on the table where I can see ’em.”

  “Not to be trusted by one’s close and dear friend,” lamented the Mex. “This is a tragedia!”

  He shuffled across to the corner, seated himself and began strumming his guitar. Incredulously, the Shadlows began interrogating the big man. He cut short their queries by volunteering a brief explanation.

  “The Mex once saved my life. Also, I saved his hide. He feels beholden to me—and vice versa.”

  “But he even steals from you!” breathed Harriet. “Does it all the time,” grinned Jim. “But don’t let it throw you, Harriet. It’s nothing personal. He just can’t help himself.”

  “I’ll be a three-legged sonofa-she-wolf,” was Willy’s profound comment.

  “And I’ll be on my way again within the hour,” said Jim. “I’m sure sorry for you San Rafael folk, and I guess it’s past time for somebody to lend a hand, but...”

  “But you likely got problems of your own, Jim,” opined Willy. “Anyway, there ain’t much that any one man could do. It’ll take a small army, a big posse of law-abidin’ citizens, to whip Magnus’ gun-toters.”

  Another half-hour passed in idle chatter, but Jim managed in that time to enquire about the elusive Jenner and showed the sketch to his hosts but as ever they did not recognize him.

  Then Jim produced his bankroll, dropped a bill on the bar, rose from the stool and doffed his Stetson. “Pleasure meeting you, ma’am, you too, Willy.”

  Willy offered his hand. “Pleasure meetin’ you too, Jim,” he said, as they shook.

  Jim turned and made for the entrance, crooking a finger at the Mex. Undismayed at having been exposed to the Shadlows, Benito sketched them an airy salute, as he followed Jim out into the street.

  The mail delivered by the noon stage had been distributed and a generous percentage of it had been addressed to the parents of Selma and Patricia Garfield, taking the form of letters of acceptance or apology. This coming Saturday, a wedding was scheduled. At the Community Chapel, Myron Garfield would give his elder daughter in matrimony to one Nathan Page, a man much respected by San Rafael’s law-abiding element.

  While Jim Rand and Benito Espina sought the forge of Jebediah Quaine, the Garfields were opening their mail. There were no customers in the store at this time. Trish was perched on a box over by the cracker barrel, energetically tearing the flaps of envelopes, hastily scanning the contents. Her parents, the bald and placid Myron and the bland-smiling Rose, were similarly occupied behind the counter. In the rocker near the street doorway sat the bride-to-be, relaxed, serene, very beautiful. Three years Trish’s senior, Selma was a rare combination of beauty of face and form. She walked with queenly demeanor and was followed by every male eye whenever she ventured away from the emporium. Her lustrous hair was darker than Trish’s. Her eyes were deep violet, her features perfectly formed, her complexion flawless. A local of formidable vocabulary had once described the elder Garfield girl as ethereal, but even her devoted fiancé was wont to remark that ‘vague’ might have been a more fitting word. Her mentality was never as alert as Trish’s; she was therefore a calmer personality.

  “Cousin Wilma and Uncle Jethro will be coming,” announced Rose.

  “Yeah—well...” grunted her spouse. “That’s fine. And Lester, too. And Corey Hingle.”

  Impatiently, Trish called out the names of the relatives and friends Whose letters she had opened. She then rose up and took the letters across to the counter. From where she sat, still dreamily surveying Main Street, Selma murmured, “It’ll be a pure shame if none of dear Nathan’s kin can come for the wedding.”

  “There was a letter for Nathan came in,” frowned Trish. “Little Dudley took it over to Nathan’s place, so I guess Nathan has opened it by now.”

  “I surely hope it’s from dear Nathan’s brother in Sedalia,” said Selma. “It was just too sad that none of his other brothers—ail those fine, famous gentlemen—could get here to see us wed.” She pouted in discontent. “Too busy to come see their dear brother wed.”

  “Selma Garfield, you have the poorest memory of anybody I ever knew!” fumed the suddenly exasperated Trish. “You’re forgetting Hub and Davey are the sheriff and deputy of a county that’s about to have a range war. How could they get away at a time like this? And brother Marcus, up in Winslow, Nebraska, is laid up with a gunshot wound. It’s too early for him to be up and about.”

  “That leaves just Nathan’s eldest brother,” mused Selma. “Brother Lee in Missouri.”

  “Well,” frowned Trish, “that letter Nathan just got, it could’ve come from Missouri.” She turned towards the entrance. “I’m too curious to sit and wait, so I’m going over and ask Nathan.”

  “I’ll come, too,” decided Selma.

  “You girls oughtn’t be worryin’ Nathan at his workshop.” Their father mumbled that reproach in a mild, absent way, just as he voiced all reprimands. “He’ll be busy, I reckon.” He added, as the girls moved through the doorway. “Tell him howdy from us.”

  “Cousin Prudence Wilkie is coming—I’m so glad...” Rose was saying, when Trish disappeared through the doorway.

  As they walked the Main Street boardwalk, Trish bitterly asserted, “It sticks in my craw...!”

  “That’s not a ladylike expression, Trish dear,” mused Selma. “Not ladylike at all.” She gazed skyward. “Isn’t it just the purtiest day?”

  “All hell’s apt to bust loose on your wedding day!” fumed Trish. “Nathan’s apt to be in danger! And all ma cares about is whether Aunt Betsy Lucas is gonna be here; all pa cares about is checking our stock of canned goods—and all you care about is—is it’s just the purtiest day!” She gestured in agitation. “I declare we could have an earth

  quake in San Rafael, and you wouldn’t know a thing about it—until you fel
l into a crack in the ground!”

  “You really oughtn’t shout, Trish,” chided Selma. “Ladies never shout.”

  “Kane Magnus is bad medicine!” declared Trish. “He’ll do anything to stop the wedding! He already threatened Nathan!”

  “Well, no.” Selma calmly shook her beautiful head. “No, Trish dear. I just can’t imagine Mr. Magnus could be so purely unkind.”

  “For gosh sakes, sis...!” gasped Trish.

  “That’s another unladylike expression,” frowned Selma.

  “Kane Magnus is as dangerous as a rattlesnake or—or a cougar with the bloodlust!” panted Trish.

  “Can’t you savvy that?”

  “People never make trouble for people,” Selma doggedly insisted, “on their wedding day.”

  “Oh, for gosh sakes!” groaned Trish. “Nathan Page is gonna marry a knucklehead!”

  A few moments later, the sisters were entering the cluttered carpenter’s shop on South Main Street wherein the community’s most popular Jack-of-all-trades labored with his beloved lumber, nails, hammer and saw. Since settling in San Rafael, the unobtrusive Nathan Page had proved himself adept at any and all chores; he had a natural gift for his trade. He could build or repair furniture, flooring, walls or roofs, construct a stool, a cradle, a picket fence, build a whole house if needs be. As a matter of fact he had built the stout clapboard home he hoped to share with Selma—if he survived to become her husband. It was located at the west end of one of the town’s quieter residential thoroughfares.

  He had just finished reading his mail when the girls arrived. Lean and rangy, with a shock of dark brown hair crowning his sensitive-featured visage, he perched beside his work bench and blinked worriedly at the letter. Selma went to him, called him “Nathan dear” and kissed his cheek. He absent-mindedly slid an arm about her waist, nodded to Trish and said, “Well—Lee can’t make it either.”

  “Oh, Nathan!” Trish shook her head. “That’s the darnedest shame. You’ll have nobody—none of your own...”

  “I could sure have used some help from Lee,” muttered Nathan. He discarded the letter, shrugged forlornly. “He picked a fine time to get thrown by his horse and break a leg.”

  “Well, now...” Selma made calculations with the aid of her fingers and thumbs. “With none of your brothers coming, there will be room for four more guests. We could invite the McCords and maybe Doctor Hayward and his wife.”

  A rueful glance passed between the potential bridegroom and his potential sister-in-law. It was eloquent. Nathan might as well have said it aloud. “I know, Trish. She’s so damn gentle—she just doesn’t realize the danger. Well, maybe she’s better off that way.”

  Trish turned in the doorway and stared out into the harsh sunlight. The big man was advancing towards the Quaine forge, tagged by the scruffy little Mexican on the nondescript burro. Seeing them again reminded her of the mistake she had made that morning.

  “I thought one of your brothers had made it after all,” she told Nathan now. “There was this big man riding in. He got into a fight with three XL gunhawks and—the way he handled ’em—I thought sure he’d be one of the famous fighting Page brothers.”

  “Another gunslinger here to join Magnus; I guess,” said Nathan. “They fight among themselves—that kind of hardcase.”

  “I don’t think he came to join XL,” she murmured. “There he goes now. Looks like he’s headed for Mr. Quaine’s place. My! He’s a big one, that Mr. Rand.”

  “Who?” frowned Nathan, as he rose to his feet. “Rand,” said Trish. “Jim Rand.”

  Selma’s eyebrows were elevated in surprise, as her fiancé bounded across to join her sister in the doorway. Staring uptown, Nathan grinned broadly, pounded a fist into his palm and declared:

  “By glory—it’s Big Jim himself!”

  Chapter Three – To Kill a Big Man

  If not quite as tall as Big Jim, the blacksmith was slightly broader. That width of shoulders and chest made Jebediah Quaine appear squat of physique, as he stood beside his furnace, hefting his hammer, frowning challengingly at the strangers. With his mane of iron-gray hair, flowing moustache and beard, he had the look of a patriarch—a patriarch in denim pants, soiled undershirt and leather apron.

  “I give no service to the emissaries of Satan,” he growled, “the ungodly who live by the gun, who come to our town to lend aid to the evil Magnus.”

  His smoldering gray eyes glowered at the ivory-butted death slung to Jim’s right hip, and the gleaming stock of the Winchester jutting from the charcoal’s saddle-scabbard. Jim nodded placidly, paused in the entrance of the forge and replied, “I can’t say as I blame you, Mr. Quaine. I’m not much partial to gunslingers myself.”

  “You too, are a gunman,” accused Quaine.

  “I pack a Colt for protection,” drawled Jim. “I don’t look for a chance to use it. As for Magnus, I don’t know him, never heard his name before this day, and sure didn’t come here to join him. Matter of fact I wasn’t planning on staying.” He indicated his mount. “The black has a loose shoe. When you’re through fixing it, I’ll be on my way.”

  “You called me by name,” said Quaine.

  “I visited with the Shadlows just now,” said Jim.

  That seemed to satisfy the ‘smith. He gestured for Jim to lead the black in, and it was then that Nathan Page arrived, his lean face wreathed in smiles.

  “Afternoon, Jeb!”

  “Nathan,” nodded Quaine.

  “Big Jim!” grinned Nathan. “By glory, you haven’t changed.” He seized Jim’s hand and began pumping it. “I won’t say you look any younger, but you sure don’t look any older—you old war-horse you! Well, don’t give me that puzzled look. I’m Nathan Page!”

  Jim nudged his Stetson back off his brow, rubbed at his sun-browned jowls.

  “The name certainly is familiar,” he frowned, “but

  “You’d rarely have heard my first name,” shrugged the carpenter. “To you, I was always Corporal Page. To me, you were always Sarge.” He pounded Jim’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you. I really mean it because, by glory, I need a friend—a man I can rely on—a man I trust...”

  “You’re getting way ahead of me, Corporal,” Jim good-humoredly protested. “Sure, I remember you now, but it isn’t easy.”

  “I’ve changed,” Nathan conceded.

  “Changed?” challenged Jim. “Why, three years ago, I never expected to see you alive again. When they discharged you...”

  The ‘smith, never a man to pry, could not resist the urge to interject.

  “Until this moment, Nathan,” he muttered, “I had no notion you’d been a soldier.”

  “I’m always telling folks that I’m older than I look,” Chuckled Nathan, “but they just don’t believe me. Jeb, I want you to meet Sergeant Jim Rand. Jim, say howdy to Jeb Quaine, the best blacksmith north of the Mexico line.” Jim shook hands with the ‘smith, introduced the grinning Benito and then remembered to explain to Nathan, “It isn’t Sergeant Rand, Nate. Not anymore.”

  “You mean...?” frowned Nathan.

  “I mustered out seventeen months back,” Jim told him. He went on to offer the ex-corporal a brief account of his brother’s murder and his own subsequent search for the killer. “So now,” he concluded, “it’s just Jim Rand—civilian.”

  “I’m sorry about the lieutenant,” said Nathan. “Sorry I never knew him.”

  “He graduated from West Point about ten months after your discharge,” said Jim. “They posted him to the Eleventh and...” His expression became wistful, “we soldiered together—until that lousy tinhorn butchered him.”

  “Rough,” was Nathan’s terse but sympathetic comment.

  “Rough enough,” nodded Jim. He watched Jeb Quaine as the burly ‘smith examined Hank’s loose shoe. All ‘smiths had a way with horses, he reflected. For Jeb, the high-strung stallion was behaving; a lesser man might have been under attack from those flashing hooves by now. “It’s a long search, Nate. I never s
tay long in any one place.”

  “We leave this San Rafael en seguida,” Benito told the carpenter.

  “Right away?” asked Nathan, eyeing Jim anxiously. “Well—do you have to? What I mean is—I’m getting married Saturday, and...”

  “Congratulations,” said Jim.

  “Save the congratulations,” countered Nathan, and he grimaced.

  “That’s not very complimentary, Nate,” chided Jim, “far as the lady’s concerned.”

  “I’m expecting interference,” muttered Nathan. “And I don’t mean practical jokes, Jim. There’s a strong chance they’ll try to kill me.”

  “They?” prodded Jim, while Benito began retreating into the background.

  “Spare me some time,” begged Nathan. “Give me a chance to tell you about it.”

  “There couldn’t be a better time than right now,” decided Jim. He called to the blacksmith. “Jeb—can we talk out back?”

  “In there,” The ‘smith pointed to a doorway. “You’ll not be disturbed. Stay as long as you need.”

  “Cucaracha!” said Jim, sharply.

  Benito had been in the act of remounting Capitan Cortez in the forge entrance. Now he paused, blinking uneasily.

  “Adios,” he grunted. “Nos veremos mas tarde.”

  “Like hell you will,” growled Jim. “You’ll stay right Where you are, so I’ll know where to find you.” He put a hand on Nathan’s shoulder. “I have to parley with the Señor Page—comprender? And, when I’m through talking to him, I don’t want to have to pull you out of some mess.”

  “I am as innocent as the angels!” protested Benito. “There will be no trouble.”

  “There will be no trouble,” agreed Jim, “because you’re staying right here in the forge.” He snapped his fingers, and the Mex reluctantly trudged back through the doorway. Jim then drawled a warning to Quaine. “He’s itchy-fingered, Jeb, so keep an eye on him.”