Meet Me in Moredo (A Big Jim Western Book 2) Read online

  “You are a Castaldez,” her father sternly reminded her, “and you will follow the tradition of our house. The children obey the father.”

  “I am not a child!” she flared.

  “You are but nineteen years old, Maria. You are too young to be wise.”

  “Ah! But not too young to be given in marriage to this fat gringo?”

  “You will learn to love the son of my dear friend, Don Arturo Sharkey.”

  “This is foolishness, Padre. Can a woman learn to love a snake, an insect, a pig? Then how could I learn to love this—this clumsy, ugly son of a ...?”

  “It has been arranged,” Don Diego firmly repeated. Throughout history, many a maiden has married in strict accordance with the wishes of her parents and the parents of her bridegroom. The arranged marriage—the marriage of diplomatic convenience, especially among royalty. Don Diego Castaldez had good reasons—or so he believed—for giving his only daughter in marriage to the son of Art Sharkey, a wealthy rancher of Moredo County. Sharkey had made his fortune from cattle, and controlled much of the graze land north of the boundary separating the counties of Burnett and Moredo. Don Diego also had made a fortune from cattle. He controlled a great deal of the range just south of the county line—a great deal of it, but not enough for his purposes. His herds were increasing. He needed to run them onto 3 Circles range, and what better way of achieving this than to effect a merger of these two great families? The Sharkeys had but one son. Don Diego had but one daughter. What could be simpler? The Sharkeys eagerly approved the idea. So did their pudgy son. So did Don Diego. It seemed the only dissenter was the all-important bride. Maria had met Stewart Sharkey and had not been impressed—to put it mildly.

  “I will kill myself!” she stormed. “Never will I permit this lard-faced gringo to touch me!”

  “You would never commit suicide, my daughter,” he confidently assured her. “Suicide is disapproved in our family—our traditions oppose it. You are obstinate like your sainted mother, but there is much Castaldez blood in your veins.” He turned, strode to the bedroom door and locked it. Then, smiling triumphantly and followed by her angry eyes, he moved across to the window and shut it. He neglected to lower the shade, but made quite a ceremony of checking the catch. “There.” He nodded his satisfaction, “You cannot leave by this window. There is no balcony, and ...”

  “I could easily unlock that window,” she breathed.

  “Undoubtedly,” he agreed. “But would you have the courage to climb out? Climb out to what, Maria? No balcony. No way of reaching the ground—except to jump. We are high above the street. Even if such a fall did not kill you, it is certain you would suffer some injury. A broken limb—perhaps some damage to your beautiful face—and would this not be a tragedy?”

  “You make a prisoner of me!” she accused him.

  “You force me to do this,” he countered, as he returned to the bedroom door and unlocked it. “I have to be sure, my daughter, very sure that we will travel to Moredo together for the celebrations, and for the announcement of your betrothal to the son of Don Arturo. You will be awakened by Mama Perona in good time to have breakfast, before we go to the railroad deposito.” He opened the door, paused there for a parting thrust. “Many a daughter would thank her father for such consideration of her future, for choosing a fine husband for her.”

  “My future?” she challenged. “Better you should say the future of the Castaldez fortune. You need the grass and water controlled by these Sharkeys—and I am the price to be paid!”

  “I finish now this discussion,” frowned Don Diego.

  He moved out, closed the door behind him and relocked it, cutting off her only means of escape. She screamed at the locked door.

  “I finish this fat pig—this Stew—with a knife in his gizzard ...!”

  For a minute or so, she aimed that base threat and many others at the locked door separating her room from the suite occupied by her father and his entourage. It was futile. It could do naught but render her hoarse, but she needed to let off steam. Never had she known such frustration. It seemed there was no way out of her predicament. Early on the morrow, she would be shepherded to the railroad depot by her father, her duenna—old Mama Perona—and her father’s bodyguard of four alert, well-armed vaqueros without whom he never travelled. They would take their places in a passenger car of the northbound train and, by noon, would arrive at Moredo. She thought of the reception committee, and felt her gorge rise. Those Sharkeys—so uncouth, so rough-handed and so fat.

  A hopeless situation. There could be no escape for her. The only means of exit left to her was the window. Unlocking it would be no problem at all—but how to reach the street? No. The situation was hopeless. She flung herself facedown on the bed—to think, to brood, but not to weep. No maidenly tears for Maria Castaldez; she was made of sterner stuff.

  She had not extinguished her lamp. The room was brightly lit so that certain details were clearly visible to the scruffy opportunist who had sought refuge on the roof of the building opposite this imposing hotel.

  The eyes of Benito Espina were uncommonly keen, especially when they fastened upon such enticing sights as a gaping pocket containing a roll of banknotes, a money belt, a wallet, a bottle of tequila, a discarded, half-finished drink, a well-turned ankle, a pretty face—or a mound of sparkling jewelry. On this occasion, it was the jewelry that commanded his attention; he wasn’t even aware that the room was occupied. Sprawled on the roof of the lowly boarding establishment, waiting for the fat woman to despair and return to her room, he had begun scanning the lighted front windows of the Osborne House.

  Only one window interested him now. To be more specific, his interest was focused on what he could see beyond. There was a dresser on which reposed various articles that suggested the room’s occupant was female. A hairbrush and comb, some discarded ribbons, small bottles of perfume, jars containing various cosmetics. And the most interesting item of all. A jewel-box—small, but well-filled. Overflowing, in fact. The lid was off and from the box protruded a gleaming necklace, pendants, brooches and the like.

  “Priceless,” he assured himself. “All of them priceless. Ah, Benito, this is your night! Your time has come.”

  When it came to the pursuit of grand larceny, the little Mex was capable of great patience. He waited a whole thirty minutes. At the end of that time, his bovine pursuer had abandoned the chase and returned to her room. While descending those fire-stairs, however, he went to pains to make as little noise as possible; he didn’t want to risk arousing her again. His guitar was slung to his back; he toted his boots and moved as silently as a cat.

  Re-donning his boots in the side alley, he ventured into Main Street and raised his eyes to that most interesting window. No light glowed from it now. So much the better. The occupant was probably asleep. How to force entry? By the window—por cierto. Was there a balcony? No. Well, perhaps this was for the best. He would be less conspicuous, there would be less danger of his attracting the attention of some passer-by, if he descended to that window by means of a rope lashed to some strong support atop the hotel roof. Ah, si! This was as much as he would need. A strong rope.

  Acquiring a lariat was no problem at all. He simply lifted one from the saddlehorn of a tethered horse, as he crossed the street and made for the alley beside the Osborne House. In that alley he found another flight of fire-stairs, so his ascent to the roof was accomplished with ease. He had memorized the position of the window; it was the second from the right-side corner of the building.

  He crawled across the roof and, very close to its front edge, came to a stout pole which supported an ornate weather vane. Grasping it, he tugged at it with all his might. It seemed more than strong enough to support his weight. Muy bien! He secured the end of the lariat to the pole, wound the line about it several times, then tossed the noose-end downward. One quick glance assured him that it was dangling directly outside the window. Caramba! This would be almost too easy!

  Swinging o
ff the edge of the roof, he descended hand over hand to the locked window, rested his feet on the ledge and hooked his left arm through the noose for support. He produced a jack-knife, and he was confident now—over-confident, in fact. Snapping the window catch was child’s play. He returned the knife to his pocket, wedged his fingertips between the bottom sash and the sill and tugged upward. The window opened.

  First his feet slid over the window-ledge, then his legs, until he was perched on the ledge and squinting toward the dresser. His luck was in. He could see the jewelry, still in its open box on the dresser. The room was in darkness—except for the enticing sparkle of diamonds, those rubies, those emeralds, the silver and gold.

  He tiptoed to the dresser and, with never a glance toward the bed, began transferring the contents of the box to his pockets. And then, when the box was almost empty, he froze to the feel of something hard, cold, round and metallic pressed against the side of his neck. A woman’s voice addressed him. The language was his own, but the patois was somewhat higher class.

  “What you feel, little man, is the muzzle of a pistol. The weapon is small, but deadly. If you wish proof, you need only to disobey my instructions.”

  “Do not shoot!” he gasped. “I beg you, Señora ...!”

  “Señorita,” corrected Maria Castaldez.

  “One million pardons,” he mumbled.

  He trembled, as her questing left hand established that he wore no gunbelt, no sidearm.

  “Turn slightly to your left, then walk three paces,” she ordered. “There is a lamp in the corner. You will light it. If you are clumsy—if the lamp breaks—my father’s bodyguards will hear. They will come and they will tear you limb from limb.”

  Slowly, and in an agony of apprehension, he turned and crept to the corner. He located the lamp, raised the funnel, scratched a match and held it to the wick, then re-settled the funnel and turned to stare at her. He was disappointed at his own impulsiveness; his pride was severely injured. To think that this so beautiful muchacha had managed to awaken and don robe and slippers before challenging him—also to arm herself with that small pistola now aimed at his belly—this was too much. As a thief, he was a miserable failure. It would take him many months—in prison, probably—to recover from the shame of it.

  She retreated to the bed and seated herself. The muzzle of her pistol never wavered.

  “Return my jewelry to the box. Show me each piece before you drop it.”

  He sighed resignedly, trudged back to the dresser and, one by one, restored every precious bauble to the box. “Now stand to one side.”

  He did that.

  “Señorita—I was driven to this dishonest act by desperation. Never before have I stolen. My wife and nine children are starving ...”

  “Not only a clumsy thief,” jeered Maria. “A clumsy liar, also.”

  “But, Señorita ...!” he protested.

  “You have always been a thief,” she opined. “As for your wife and children—hah! No woman would marry a man so ugly.” She studied him pensively, then glanced briefly toward the open window. “How could you reach that window? You could never have climbed up from the street.”

  “It was a mistake, señorita. I was looking for the bathroom ...”

  “One more stupid lie,” she vowed, “and I shoot.”

  “The roof,” he shrugged. “A lariat hanging from the roof.”

  She raised her eyebrows, eyed him dubiously a moment, then hurried to the window and glanced out. The dangling noose was clearly visible. She studied the street. The regular nighttime crowd passed back and forth along Main, nobody glancing upward. This could be it, she reflected, as she turned to confront her prisoner again. Her one and only means of escape. Risky, of course, but then she wasn’t lacking in courage, as her father had learned on many occasions.

  “Listen carefully now,” she murmured. “I am the daughter of Don Diego Castaldez.”

  “Ai, caramba!” He groaned and clapped a hand to his brow.

  “You have heard of my father?”

  “Por cierto, señorita.”

  “Then you are aware that he always travels with a bodyguard of four vaqueros.”

  “This I have heard.”

  “If I scream ...”

  “No, señorita, I beg you! Do not scream!”

  Cold-eyed, she took aim at his chest. He trembled, as she grimly assured him:

  “Your life is in my hands, worthless one. Your life—your future. I could shoot you here and now, or I could summon the ferocious vaqueros of Don Diego ...”

  “No—por favor ...” he begged.

  “Then you will answer my questions and truthfully,” she insisted. “No more stupid lies.”

  “Anything.” He nodded eagerly. “Ask anything of me, señorita.”

  “Your name? Why do you come to Burnett Junction?”

  “Benito Espina, señorita. I come to this town—to any town—with my close and dear friend—the Señor Jim Rand ...”

  Her eyes flashed. His voice choked off because, for a tense moment, he was certain she would squeeze the trigger.

  “Did you think you could deceive me with such a lie?” she challenged. “I have heard of this so tall Americano, this Señor Rand. There was much talk at supper tonight. Many people tell of how Señor Rand fought and defeated three gringo vaqueros in the Casino Bracken.”

  “This is all true,” he hastened to assure her. “I do not lie!”

  “You ask me to believe,” she taunted, “that such a man could be the close and dear friend of a thief, a miserable villano such as you?”

  With all the vehemence of which he was capable, he declared his deep and abiding loyalty for the tall gringo who had once saved his life. He talked softly, urgently, and her excitement increased, though her face remained cold and impassive. This could be the solution to her great predicament, she was thinking. Not only must she escape from this room, from this hotel. She would have to get out of Burnett Junction, flee to some other town and assume another identity.

  San Francisco or Los Angeles, these were the cities she yearned to see. Much as she admired her illustrious father, she had long wearied of his attempts to force her obedience to the restricting code of the Mexican aristocracy. Her Irish blood was up; she wanted out, but she couldn’t hope to make it alone. She would need help, the kind of help that only a casehardened adventurer could offer—a man such as the Señor Rand. There must be some element of fact in all the stories now being recounted by her quaking prisoner. And these men were bound to each other by a bond of obligation, each having saved the life of the other. She was, she assured herself, in a position to demand Big Jim’s co-operation, rather than humbly beg for it.

  “Silence,” she frowned. He stopped talking abruptly. “I will test you, little man. I will soon learn whether you lie or speak the truth.”

  “What—how ...?” he began.

  “You will take me to your great amigo, the Señor Rand,” she told him, “but quietly. For my own reasons, I would not want it known that a thief had been apprehended in my bedroom. So—we will go as you came.”

  “We will ...?” He blinked uncertainly.

  “You will turn your back—face the wall,” she announced, “while I dress. One impulsive move and, believe me, you will be food for the buzzards. I may shoot, which means you die fast. I may scream, which means my father’s vaqueros will break into this room—and you will die slow.”

  “But, señorita,” he protested, as he turned his back, “you could not climb up the lariat to the roof!”

  “I will go first,” she declared. “You will follow. I know you will follow, because there is no other way you could leave this room—alive. You could maybe pick the lock of the door, but you would find yourself in the bedroom of my duenna, Mama Perona, and she screams even louder than I.”

  Four – The Bride Is Unwilling

  By nine o’clock that night, Jim Rand was more than satisfied with his efforts and ready to quit. After one last drink, he wou
ld retire to the dingy boarding establishment on Calle Hernando and sleep until sunrise. The northbound train made an early departure, so he would need a full night’s sleep. His bankroll now stood at two hundred-seventy dollars and he figured he had nothing to gain by being greedy, and maybe plenty to lose.

  He had cashed in his chips and was nursing a short shot of rye, quietly conversing with the Mexican bartender, when Sheriff Croy came barging into the Sandalia Rojo to make a startling announcement. Croy was backed by a half-dozen or so grim-visaged locals, some Mexican, some American. All of them brandished guns.

  “Every man in this saloon,” Croy loudly announced, “is gonna have to account for his actions over the past two hours!” He gestured impatiently to quell the uproar of excited queries, then dropped his bombshell. “Señorita Maria—the daughter of Señor Castaldez—has been kidnapped!”

  There followed a shocked silence. The proprietor, a half-Mexican, half-American named Horton, broke that silence by bluntly asserting:

  “Nobody would dare.”

  “I’d have agreed with you,” growled Croy, “if Don Diego hadn’t told me personal.” He nodded to Horton’s customers. “Just stay right where you are, gents. You can leave after I’m through askin’ questions, if you want. It won’t take long.”

  While his volunteers guarded every exit, Croy and one of his deputies moved from customer to customer, interrogating, establishing the all-important question of time. At what time had they arrived at the saloon? Had they remained here ever since? And so on.

  Jim finished his drink, rolled and lit a cigarette and cocked an ear to the muttering of the barkeep.

  “Plenty hard to believe, amigo, I tell you that.”

  “You don’t think the lady was kidnapped?” challenged Jim.

  “She’s missing, I bet,” shrugged the barkeep. “But kidnapped? Who would have the nerve? You hear what the patron say? Nobody would dare. Don Diego is one mighty rich ranchero in this territory. Rich—powerful. Much influence. His vaqueros are very loyal—and plenty fierce: If some fool as much as look dirty at the Señorita Maria, Don Diego’s men shoot holes through him, or tear him apart with their bare hands.”