Big Jim 11 Page 4

  “You’re dead right,” he conceded. “It’s a mighty strange relationship. Time and time again I promise myself I’ll ride off and leave him to rot in some cow-town jail, but I always end up bringing him along. He once saved my life, Nora. A little while afterward, I saved his. We never think of it as even-steven and all debts paid. He feels obligated to me, and I—well—I guess I just can’t forget how it felt to be lying flat on my face, helpless, waiting to die. That was about a year and a half ago. I’d have died for sure, Nora, if that thieving little no-account hadn’t happened along.”

  “A gunshot wound,” she supposed. “You were bleeding to death. Dad did remark that you’re very…” She smiled and blushed, much to his secret amusement, “very battle-scarred.”

  “Cavalry sergeants pick up a few scratches,” he pointed out, “over the years.”

  “You were a soldier when Benito saved your life?”

  “No. I’d mustered out a little while before he found one. And it wasn’t a gunshot wound, Nora. It was the bite of a rattler—in a part of my carcass that I couldn’t reach. The middle of my back.”

  “Oh, my!”

  “Yeah. It was close—too close for comfort.”

  “I certainly understand your feeling of obligation,” she murmured. And then, hesitantly, she voiced the thought that had been in her mind from her first sight of him. “It’s too bad you quit the Army, Jim. You’re a man who ought never to be out of uniform. You ride like a soldier, move like a soldier.”

  “I mustered out because I have a score to settle,” he moodily confided. “My brother was a lieutenant in the same outfit, the 11th Cavalry. He was killed—murdered in San Marco. And the man who killed Chris, a gambler who called himself Jenner, made a clean getaway. As a cavalry sergeant, I couldn’t chase Jenner all the way to Colorado. The only thing to do was muster out. But, after I’ve found Jenner and it’s all over, I aim to re-enlist.”

  “You were headed for Pringle today,” she frowned. “Surely you didn’t think you’d find your man in Pringle?”

  “He’s apt to show up anyplace,” said Jim. “People in Coyote Spring recognized him from a picture I carry. They said he rode south.”

  “So you’ll check every town south of Coyote Spring?” she mused.

  “Every town,” he nodded. Abruptly he changed the subject. Feeling the corset of plaster, he grimaced and asked, “How long do I have to stay hogtied?”

  “You’ll have to discuss that with Dad,” she smiled, as she rose to her feet. “Well, I’m deeply grateful your injuries aren’t critical. You have quite a bump on your head, but you seem none the worse for it.” In the doorway, she paused to add, “We’re all indebted to you for what you did for little Leroy. He’s a mischief-maker, but a very popular boy.”

  “You’re entirely welcome,” he assured her. “When your father gets back, I’d like to see him right away. And Benito. Especially Benito.”

  At 2.15 that afternoon, the medico came ambling into the small bedroom, smiling affably, studying his large patient with keen interest—some of it professional, some of it personal. He was a small man, brisk of movement despite his advanced years. His Prince Albert coat and striped pants were well brushed, his linen and cravat spotless. He was ruddy-complexioned, with ash-grey hair and a moustache to match.

  Behind the doctor came the leering Benito, sketching the big man an airy salute and drawling a greeting. “Saludos, Amigo Jim. ¿Como esta usted?”

  “Muy bien, gracias,” Jim acknowledged. But he discounted that polite exchange by lifting his six-gun from under the sheet and drawing a bead on Benito’s chest. “All right, cucaracha. Turn out your pockets!”

  “¿Perdon?” blinked the Mex.

  “What the devil?” began Dr. Fenton.

  “Don’t let that buck-toothed smile fool you, Doc,” growled Jim. “This little ladrón would steal the last peso from his white-haired madre.”

  “But—good grief!” protested Doc.

  “Speaking of grief,” interrupted Jim. “How many homes did you visit—I mean with Benito tagging along?”

  “Four,” frowned Doc. “Why?”

  “Four’s not so bad,” Jim reflected. “Easier to return the stolen property of four patients than—for instance—a dozen.” He gestured impatiently with the Colt, as Nora and her mother entered, both wide-eyed. “Let’s have it, cucaracha, and I mean everything.”

  “After all we have mean to each other,” Benito complained to the ladies, “he never trusts me.”

  “Show ’em why,” urged Jim.

  Benito shrugged resignedly, shuffled across to the table beside the bed and, before the astonished gaze of the Fentons, began emptying his pockets. As well as Jim’s wallet and watch and the St. Christopher medal, he had purloined a great many other items, most of them useless to anybody save the original owners.

  “That tintype is off the McEllerys’ mantel!” gasped Doc. “Their wedding picture!”

  “It is so beautiful—muy bello,” shrugged Benito. “I wanted something to remember them by.”

  With a great show of injured pride, he deposited all the other articles on the table—knickknacks, useless baubles, a child’s spinning top, a buckle, a small plaster bust of Abraham Lincoln, a wooden spoon with dried batter still adhering to it, a pair of spectacles, etc. etc. etc. He seemed to have shrunk somewhat by the time he finished surrendering those items.

  “A big day for Benito,” Jim sadly remarked to the dazed medico. “It’s not often that anybody takes him for a buggy ride and gets him invited into four homes. To a man as itchy-fingered as Benito, this was a bonanza.”

  “But—of what possible use...?” wondered Doc.

  “It’s not that he needs any of this stuff,” said Jim. “It’s just that he can’t stop himself. Look it up in your medical dictionary, Doc. I think it’s called kleptomania.”

  “Thunderation!” breathed Doc.

  “Were you planning on having him stay here?” Jim asked the women.

  Noting their crestfallen expressions, he nodded knowingly. “Well, we’re mighty obliged, ladies, but we can’t impose on your hospitality.” To Doc he drawled another query. “Can you get all this stuff returned to the folks it came from?”

  “Yes, I’ll take care of that,” frowned Doc. “But see here, Mr. Rand, you’re supposed to be a bed patient.”

  “With two cracked ribs a man can still move around, can’t he?” challenged Jim.

  “You can walk,” Doc conceded, “but slowly and carefully. To attempt to ride would be a bad mistake. No lifting. No climbing.”

  “I could make it to the nearest hotel,” opined Jim.

  “That you could,” agreed Doc.

  “This is a big disappointment for me,” declared Nora. She said it with feeling. She meant it. “I was looking forward to our having a guest—somebody interesting to talk to.”

  “Nora, I reckon Mr. Rand knows best,” said Doc, after another bemused glance at the loot loaded on the table. “You and your mother better make yourselves scarce while I help him to dress.”

  “I’ll fetch his clothes,” offered Nora.

  Soon afterward, with assistance from Benito and the physician, Jim slowly and laboriously donned his clothes. Doc Fenton proved himself a man of even disposition by speedily recovering from his shock. Philosophically, he remarked to both Jim and the Mex,

  “I’ve known all kinds in my day—but never ran into a genuine kleptomaniac before.”

  Mistaking this remark for praise, Benito smugly informed him, “My father was a thief, and his father before him. All the Espina men are thieves and cowards. Is how you say—uh—the family tradition, no?”

  “I’m impressed,” said Doc, poker-faced. “And now, Mr. Rand...”

  “Jim,” insisted Jim.

  “All right now, Jim,” said Doc. “I guess I don’t need to repeat all my warnings. You have to take it easy, like it or not. Every broken or cracked bone needs time to knit.”

  “You’re the doc
tor,” said Jim.

  “You have no choice but to postpone your journey and stay right here in Pringle—for ten days at least,” Doc said. “At the end of that time, we’ll remove the plaster and I’ll make another examination. You may then be fit to sit a saddle—or you may not. I can make no positive prediction at this stage. Well? Do we understand each other?”

  “I’ve never been a very patient man,” Jim confessed, “but, as you say, I have no choice.”

  “You’ll need a place to stay,” Doc went on. “I’d recommend the Pringle Hotel on Main Street.”

  “Plenty of accommodation at the hotel?” asked Jim.

  “Right now, yes,” nodded Doc. “We’re just a small community here, Jim. There are a few ranches and farms hereabouts but, if it wasn’t for our water supply, we’d be completely isolated. This time of year, we hardly ever see travelers. A trail-herd sometimes. I heard the other day there’s a trail-herd on its way to this area. Most of the time, Pringle is a mighty quiet place.”

  “Be grateful,” Jim soberly advised, as he donned his hat. “I’ve passed through many a town these past eighteen months and most of ’em were a mite too lively for their own good.”

  “Walt Pringle, over at the hotel, is my brother-in-law,” said Doc. “My brother Abe is the town marshal. My other brother-in-law, Nathan, is our preacher. That’s how it goes in Pringle. Most of us are blood kin one way or another, and you’d ride many a long mile before you’d find a friendlier place to settle.”

  “You too, Doc?” Jim good-humoredly accused. “Trying to cure me of my wanderlust? I think Miss Nora has the same idea.”

  “Nora is a fine girl,” frowned Doc. “Got a keen brain in her head, as well as good looks. She’s lonely. She’d like to get herself a husband. Well, that’s only natural.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Jim. “And, if I had the time to stay and pay her the attention she deserves, I’d be mighty glad. But it isn’t really wanderlust with me, Doc. I have unfinished business. Until it’s really finished, I can’t settle anyplace.”

  “Sure,” shrugged the medico. “Well, if you’re ready, I’ll walk you over to the hotel and introduce you to Walt.”

  By 3.15 p.m., Jim and the Mex were installed in a second story room of the Pringle Hotel, a double just large enough for their purpose. The big man-hunter rested for the remainder of that day, resigning himself to the necessity of immobility and never suspecting that, on this occasion, he had come very dose to his quarry, very close indeed.

  Another possibility that never crossed his mind was the danger personified by the two riders moving up from the south, both traveling separately. Bissell and Keane were well on their way to peaceful Pringle.

  Chapter Four – Wind of a Winchester Slug

  Lynn Bissell had traveled all through the night, rarely spelling his mount. The animal was panting a protest when, around sun-up Sunday, the gunman scouted Pringle’s southern approaches.

  By 7.45, Jim Rand was out of bed, bathed, shaved and rigged in clean clothing. He had slept better than nine hours and, to a man of his temperament, the prospect of remaining in bed the entire morning offered no attraction at all. Tagged by his scruffy shadow, he descended to the hotel dining room and disposed of a substantial breakfast, savoring every morsel. The status of convalescent irked him, and he supposed it would take him some little time to get used to this restriction of movement, this slow and careful walk, avoiding bending and quick turning, all the time favoring that section of his torso grazed by harsh contact with a tree-branch.

  After breakfast, while they lounged on the hotel porch, a buggy drawn by a high-stepping filly came rolling toward them. They stopped lounging and sat up to take notice, because the rig’s only occupant warranted such attention. In her Sunday-best gown and with a flowered chapeau perched jauntily atop her raven tresses, Nora Fenton presented a fetching picture.

  She stalled the buggy at the hotel hitch-rack, waved cheerfully to the elderly couple emerging from the main entrance. Walter and Corinne Pringle returned her wave, nodded affably to Jim and the Mex and began descending the steps.

  “You came by to collect us?” Pringle enquired of his niece.

  “Not this time, Uncle Walt,” she smiled. “I was hoping to persuade Mr. Rand to take me to chapel.”

  “Mamie and Matt already on their way?” asked Corinne Pringle.

  “In Dad’s rig,” nodded Nora.

  “That’s all right,” said Pringle. “Won’t take me but a minute to get our surrey ready.” From the bottom step, austere and righteous in his rusty black broadcloth, he glanced up at the big ex-sergeant and the unwashed Mex. “You gents church-going?”

  “¡Por cierto!” Benito hastened to assure him.

  “When there’s a church handy,” was Jim’s guarded reply.

  “There’s a church handy,” the hotelkeeper’s wife firmly informed him, “right here in Pringle.”

  Smiling faintly, Pringle told them,

  “My brother Nathan’s sermons are guaranteed to scare you away from sin and keep you stepping steady along the paths of righteousness.”

  The Pringles sauntered along to the next corner and turned into the side alley. Jim cleared his throat, fumbled with the brim of his Stetson and wondered what kind of a fire-and-brimstone sermon might be expected from her Uncle Nathan, while Nora repeated her request, adding,

  “Dad says you’re fit to ride in a buggy, as long as somebody else handles the reins. Also the route from here to the chapel is very easy. No bumps, no potholes.”

  “Amigo Jim,” leered Benito, “I think you must not disappoint the señorita, no?”

  “Besides, I did want to show you off to some of my friends,” Nora admitted.

  “If I could be sure this pocket-picking peon would stay out of trouble while I’m gone...” began Jim.

  “Can you hope to be his keeper,” challenged Nora, “every hour of the day?”

  “I guess not,” frowned Jim. He turned to confront the little Mex a moment, patting the butt of his holstered Colt, prodding at Benito’s sunken chest with his left forefinger. “All right now, you mind what I’m telling you. No stealing, savvy?”

  “Si, Amigo Jim.” Benito nodded emphatically.

  “You keep those itchy paws in your own pockets,” warned Jim.

  “You may trust me,” Benito earnestly asserted.

  “If I can trust you,” scowled Jim, “it’ll be the first time since the day we met.” ‘

  He made a slow descent to the buggy and took his time over the simple chore of climbing up to sit beside Nora. For the veteran warrior, this was a new experience. He had been wounded many times and was no stranger to pain, but there was something curiously intimidating about the restriction of an adhesive plaster corset.

  As Nora flicked the filly with her reins and began turning the rig, he confided to her,

  “I’ll be thankful when I can get rid of this plaster and be on my way. No reflection on Pringle, Nora. It looks to be a right friendly town. But I don’t enjoy having to hang around here while the man I’m after gets further away.”

  “I’m glad you’ve decided he isn’t hiding in Pringle,” said Nora.

  “It didn’t take long,” he shrugged. “All I had to do was show my picture of Jenner to your Uncle Walt. He knows everybody in town and remembers every transient.”

  “I suppose you’ve guessed our town was named after a Pringle,” offered Nora.

  “Safe guess,” he nodded.

  “They came here together,” she told him. “Old Barnaby Pringle and Grandfather Fenton. When they found the spring, they decided this would be a perfect site for a settlement, and, when it came to deciding a name for it, they tossed a coin—and Granduncle Barnaby won.”

  Along the quiet main stem they traveled, turning left into a tree-lined thoroughfare that brought them to the hillside dotted with the grave-markers of departed locals, with the clapboard and adobe chapel standing firm at the summit. Nora stalled the buggy beside the othe
r vehicles lined up to the south of the chapel. Jim climbed down, helped her to alight and, before escorting her inside, was introduced to almost a dozen locals, all of whom accorded him a smiling welcome to Pringle. The parents of the adventurous Leroy offered their fervent thanks for his rescue of their offspring, and their energetic shaking of his hand caused his plaster to smart, reminding him that he couldn’t hope to be free of this restriction any earlier than Doc had predicted.

  In a lifetime, most men attend many church services. Jim was no exception but, in years to come, he would certainly remember this particular occasion. The voice of the bug-eyed, shaggy-haired Reverend Nathan Pringle was penetrating and trumpet-like. He shouted, he raved and he ranted. Once, when he pounded the ledge of his pulpit, Jim distinctly heard the wood creaking in protest.

  He shared a hymn book with Nora, added his baritone to her sweet soprano during the singing of the old, familiar hymns and, for most of the time, felt like the lumbering bull in the fragile china shop. The chapel seemed uncommonly small, its pews downright flimsy, or was this only his imagination?

  His discomfort increased a hundredfold when, during the singing of the third hymn, the collection plate was passed from pew to pew and from worshipper to worshipper. The sight of a collection plate caused him no disquiet, and he was only too willing to contribute. What did disquiet him was the fact that the man in charge of the plate was—of all people—Benito! Impassive and self-effacing, the most dedicated felon north of the Rio Grande was going to pains to ensure that the coin-laden plate was not tipped or bumped; it was as though he had a deep personal concern for every gleaming coin on the platter—a fact that surprised Jim not at all.

  Benito reached the pew occupied by the Pringles, the Fentons, Nora and Jim. As the plate arrived in front of him, Jim contributed, but working by touch, keeping his eyes fixed on the swarthy visage of the little ladrón. Benito met his intent gaze unflinchingly, accepted the returned plate and moved on to the next pew.