Big Jim 10 Page 4

  “Well, Captain, how come you’re out of uniform?” prodded Jim.

  “It’s ‘Major’ now,” said Borden, “but let’s skip the formalities. I’m wearing civilian rig because I’m no longer an officer of the artillery. They transferred me to Army Intelligence.”

  “How’s the pay?” grinned Jim. “I mean—how does it compare with selling haberdashery for Sears Roebuck?”

  “I needed some kind of disguise,” Borden cheerfully explained. “As a matter of fact, Sears Roebuck are cooperating to the hilt. I’m properly registered on their books as a salesman. What’s more, if you asked me to produce proof that I’m working undercover for the Department of Army, I couldn’t show you a thing. I can’t afford to carry credentials, Jim. My life wouldn’t be worth a hill of beans if the opposition learned my true identity. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

  “All right,” nodded Jim. “But what is the point of this parley?”

  “Look at me.” Borden grimaced in disgust. “That doctor said—and I have to believe him—that I won’t be fit to travel for another three weeks at least. During that time, a lot could happen—too much could happen. I have to hand over this assignment to somebody I can trust, and …”

  “Just a doggone minute,” protested Jim. “When a secret agent is laid up and can’t carry on, shouldn’t he advise his headquarters—so another agent can be assigned?”

  “That would be one answer to the problem,” Borden agreed. “But I think my idea is better. It would take time for the Omaha representative to Check with Washington and arrange for a substitute. That’s one point. Another point is that—well—the truth is this was my first assignment, Jim. I’d like to see it through. I’d like to plan the action and have you act on my behalf. You’d be representing me and, believe me, Jim, it’s all in a damn good cause.”

  Jim pondered a moment, squinting at the tip of his cigarette.

  “What’s your idea of a good cause?” he demanded.

  “The honor of the army,” Borden vehemently declared. “How about that? Are you still loyal to the army—or don’t you care a damn if the reputation of the army is dragged through the mud—mud that smells to high heaven?”

  “Old habits die hard,” frowned Jim. “So do old loyalties. I never did aim to stay out of the service for the rest of my life. I figure to re-enlist just as soon as I’ve found the back-shooting tinhorn who killed my brother.”

  “Well then,” said Borden, “I think you’ll go along with this idea—if the army means that much to you.”

  “You can count me in,” Jim assured him.

  “Una momento, por favor!” Benito hastened to interject.

  “I’m answering for myself, cucaracha,” growled Jim. “Nobody’s begging you to buy into this deal. If you want out, there’s the door. Get on the other side of it—muy pronto.”

  “There will be danger?” the Mex nervously enquired of Borden.

  Borden nodded slowly.

  “Uh huh. I’d say there’d be a ten to one chance against Jim completing this assignment without a fight.”

  “Let’s hear about the assignment,” urged Jim. He added, glowering at Benito: “After this reluctant bravado has skedaddled.”

  “If I let you go alone,” mumbled Benito, “who will take care of you—who will protect you?”

  “Who will pick my pockets,” jibed Jim, “every hour on the hour?”

  “This is an insult!” Benito struggled to his feet, drawing himself up to ‘his full height of five feet two inches. “Never will you see my face again!”

  “I’ll miss that face,” said Jim, “every time I crave to have a nightmare.”

  With a fine show of injured indignation, the Mex departed. The door was slammed behind him, after which Borden eyed Jim curiously and asked:

  “What was that all about? Can you rely on his discretion—and have I broken up a beautiful friendship?”

  “Benito doesn’t have friends,” sighed Jim. “Just a few people who never kick him in the pantalones. But friends? No.”

  “Will he go with you?” demanded Borden.

  “Probably,” nodded Jim. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain about Benito later. First let’s talk of your assignment.”

  “Today,” declared Borden, “you got close to it. Mighty close to it.”

  “Those stage-robbers?” frowned Jim.

  “Maybe you’ve already guessed they’re civilians,” said Borden, “wearing stolen uniforms.”

  “The uniforms don’t have to be stolen,” opined Jim. “They could’ve been made to order. All it takes is blue cloth and a tailor.”

  “Well, the situation is rough—and getting rougher,” muttered Borden. “They robbed a bank right here in Frankston, killed the cashier, gun-whipped the manager …”

  “And an old man was killed today,” Jim pointed out. “People are still blaming the army,” fretted Borden. “That’s the hell of it. These trigger-happy killers have robbed banks and express offices all over this area.”

  “I wonder how far west,” mused Jim.

  “West is my strongest hunch,” declared Borden, “as to where they hide out. It stands to reason they’d have a headquarters of some kind, Jim. And why not west of the border? Colorado would be the ideal refuge for a passel of thieves working in Kansas.”

  “That’s for sure.” Jim nodded thoughtfully. “The local law took a posse out. I wouldn’t give ’em one chance in a thousand of catching up with those four sidewinders before they make the border, and I guess that’s the way they always work.”

  “Come to think of it,” said Borden, “this is the first time they’ve hit a stagecoach. They’ve specialized in banks up until now.”

  “You’ve, made a study of them?” challenged Jim.

  “Yes I have, and I’ve been checking every town raided by these thieves,” Borden told him. “Frankston was next on my list. Look, Jim, I’ve studied maps and I’ve drawn a circle around their area of operations, and that’s why I’m sure their headquarters is somewhere across the border.”

  “The westernmost part of your circle …” began Jim.

  “Takes in a hundred miles of Colorado,” nodded Borden.

  “And Wagner and his posse,” reflected Jim, “can travel no further than the border.”

  “So it’s up to you,” said Borden. “Unless, of course, you’d rather forget the Whole thing. I certainly couldn’t blame you. After all, it’s not your responsibility, and …”

  “Cut it out, Arch,” sighed Jim. “You know damn well I’ll do it.”

  Borden flashed him a grateful grin.

  “Fine. I didn’t really believe you’d refuse.”

  “All right,” frowned Jim. “What’s my contact? Who do I advise—when and if I find these renegades?”

  “Every army post has been alerted,” said Borden. “I think the nearest outfit in this area would be the Third Cavalry. They’re stationed at Fort Duprez, or maybe the garrison force at Camp Benedict.”

  “Just one thing,” said Jim, as he rose from his chair. “I don’t guarantee I’ll be any great shakes as an undercover agent. For instance some of those fake troopers might recognize me. You have to remember four of them traded lead with me today.” He was suddenly reminded, “I think I winged one of ’em.”

  “You weren’t exactly up close during that gunfight,” said Borden.

  Jim grinned wryly.

  “Nope. Not exactly up close.”

  “So they only saw you from a distance, and under hectic conditions,” said Borden. He studied the big man critically. “That beard, for instance ...”

  “It comes off,” nodded Jim, “just as soon as I can buy a razor.”

  “Without that beard, and rigged in different clothes,” opined Borden, “I think you could get amongst those same raiders without their recognizing you.”

  “I guess you’re right,” said Jim. “Well …” He picked up his. hat, raised a hand in farewell, “behave yourself, Major. Don’t take t
oo much exercise while I’m gone.”

  “Having to stay in bed is not exactly my idea of a good time,” sighed Borden. Then, as Jim turned towards the door, he reminded him, “You haven’t told me about the Mex.”

  “There isn’t all that much to tell,” shrugged Jim.

  “The hell with it,” scoffed Borden. “A man of your caliber—traveling with a guitar-toting ratero …?”

  “That guitar-toting ratero,” Jim good-humoredly confided, “once saved my hide.”

  “You wouldn’t try to fool an old army man, would you?” Borden frowned dubiously.

  “It’s the truth,” said Jim. “I was dying of snakebite. The rattler had caught me in a spot I couldn’t get at—the middle of my back. I was in lonely territory. There wasn’t another soul in sight—until Benito came along. A little while later, when I caught up with him, I was able to return the compliment. Uh huh. It was my turn to save his life.”

  “When you caught up with him? You mean he rode away and left you, after he’d treated you for snakebite?” blinked Borden.

  “He sure did,” grinned Jim. “Rode away with my bankroll, my watch, my hardware—everything except my horse.”

  “He robbed you?” gasped Borden.

  “He does it all the time,” said Jim, “or tries to. It comes as natural to Benito as breathing, eating and sleeping.”

  “Hell’s bells.” Borden shook his head incredulously.

  “Nothing personal,” drawled Jim. “It’s all done without malice, you know what I mean? Kind of a reflex action.” He opened the door. “Don’t worry about him, Arch. Just take it easy, wait for those wounds to heal and—uh—be ready to buy me a drink when I come back to Frankston.”

  “I said it before, but let me say it one more time,” begged Borden. “If I didn’t consider you capable of handling such a chore, I’d never have wished it onto you.”

  “Sure,” grunted Jim. “Well—I’ll be seeing you.”

  He strode the corridor to the lobby, moved out onto the hotel porch to observe that Benito had made himself useful; the big black stallion and the nondescript burro were now hitched to the rack outside the Frankston House. The Mex was perched on the porch rail, strumming his guitar and crooning tunelessly. And four men were approaching the hotel, men with whom Jim was familiar, men whose faces showed bruises and abrasions and strips of adhesive plaster, legacies of yesterday’s hassle at the Occidental Saloon.

  Moving well ahead of the others was the brawny man in the dusty overalls, Arnie Flagg, the hard-hitter who had led that wild attack in the bar-room. He had sighted Jim and was quickening his step. Jim grimaced impatiently, walked to the top of the steps.

  FOUR

  HOOFPRINTS ACROSS THE BORDER

  It was obvious that Flagg and his cronies had undergone a change. They advanced no further than the bottom of the steps and, frowning up at Jim, took turns to say their piece.

  “Seems like we had you wrong yesterday, mister,” one of them opined, “so we’re here to say we’re sorry.”

  “How’s the drummer?” asked another.

  “He’ll live,” frowned Jim.

  “Too bad we can’t say the same for old Linus,” sighed the third man.

  And now Flagg spoke up.

  “We’ve been talkin’ to Dan Gilworthy’s wife,” he explained. “She told us what happened out on the trail, how you come along and drove off them soldiers ...”

  “Bandits, Flagg,” growled Jim. “Outlaws—desperadoes—call them what you will, but don’t call ’em soldiers till you’re dead certain.”

  “Well …” began Flagg.

  “They could’ve been rigged in stolen uniforms—didn’t that ever occur to you?” challenged Jim. “And the same goes for the men who robbed your bank and gun-whipped the cashier.”

  The four locals traded frowning glances. Flagg shrugged and said, “Well, anyway, we figure you’re a man to be trusted, even if you used to be an army man. And—us—we’re apologizin’ for what we did to you yesterday.”

  “All right,” sighed Jim. “I accept your apology.”

  “And—if there’s ever anything I can do,” offered Flagg, “all you have to do is ask. I run the livery stable in the next block, do a little horse-tradin’ on the side.” He took a moment to study the black. “Not that you’d be interested in a trade.”

  “Hell, no,” commented one of the others. “Any man lucky enough to own such a horse, he sure wouldn’t want to trade.”

  “Come to think of it,” frowned Jim, “I’ll need a stall for the black, a safe place for him to stay.”

  “That so?” prodded Flagg. “You figure to hang around Frankston awhile? All right then. I can find an empty stall for your black.”

  He made a step closer to the tethered charcoal. The big animal flinched, snorted, eyed him warily. Wise to the ways of horses, Flagg stopped dead.

  “Careful,” warned Jim.

  “As if you need to tell me,” muttered Flagg. “Broke him yourself, eh? Was that your trade in the army?”

  “I was a cavalry sergeant,” said Jim. “Hank was wild when I bought him. I broke him to saddle. You’ll have to handle him with great care, Flagg. He’s a one-man horse.”

  “Don’t worry,” grunted Flagg. “I’ve tended wild critters before, and you can bet I’ll take no chances.”

  Jim descended the steps and untethered the black. Benito followed. Strolling towards the next block in company with Flagg, leading their animals by their reins, they conversed in muttered undertones. Like every other citizen of Frankston, the livery proprietor was still preoccupied with thoughts of the recent bank robbery; this latest outrage had raised temperatures to fever pitch.

  “The hell of it is,” he sourly opined to Jim, “Wagner’s posse is never gonna head ’em off. Everybody knows it. Even if their horses sprouted wings, those volunteers couldn’t reach the border any faster than these lousy renegades.” He nodded towards a swinging shingle. “That’s my barn dead ahead.” Then, with-a sidelong glance at Jim, “Did you mean what you said before? You think these killers ain’t soldiers at all—but just a pack of owlhoots in blue britches?”

  “That’s my belief.” Jim nodded vehemently. “I don’t claim soldiers are angels, Flagg, but I never yet heard of an army troop getting organized to rob banks.”

  “Too bad we can’t find out for sure,” muttered Flagg.

  “I aim to try,” said Jim.

  They entered the barn. Flagg led Jim to an empty stall, stood watching as Jim off-saddled the black.

  “You’ll try what?” he prodded.

  “No Kansas law posse can chase an outlaw across the border,” drawled Jim, “but I’m no lawman, Flagg, nor am I a sworn-in member of any posse. I can go anyplace I want.”

  “And—right now—you want to head into Colorado?” challenged Flagg.

  “Before sundown,” nodded Jim.

  “To track those killers.” Flagg made it a thoughtful statement rather than a question. “Well, I reckon I can understand why, Rand. You’re frettin’ about the army’s reputation?”

  “Something like that,” Jim admitted. “But I’m going to need a disguise. Reckon those four owlhoots saw enough to recognize me or my horse, so I’d like to hire me a horse and your Sunday suit, seeing as you’re around my height, that’s if you’ve no objections.”

  “None whatsoever,” Flagg asserted. “As a matter of fact I’d be delighted to lend everything to yuh, free of charge.”

  “You own a Bible, Flagg?” inquired Jim.

  “Doesn’t everybody?” blinked Flagg.

  “I’d like to borrow it, too,” Jim told him.

  Flagg was momentarily taken aback and, during this pause, a frowning Benito interjected a comment.

  “My Amigo Jim ‘has become a man of great piety.”

  “Well, damnitall ….” Jim gestured impatiently, “I couldn’t pass for a drummer, or a cattle-buyer, but maybe I can get by as a preacher.”

  “It might work,” agreed Fl
agg. “But—holy smoke …”

  “Time’s a’wasting,” said Jim.

  “How about the Mex?” challenged Flagg. “What can he pretend to be?”

  “They didn’t sight Benito,” recalled Jim. “They were almost on the horizon by the time he reached the coach. That burro isn’t exactly built for speed.”

  Flagg thought it over, but only for a few moments. There was real warmth in ‘his grin now; Jim had won a new ally.

  “It better be a secret,” he suggested. “You wouldn’t want it talked around.”

  “That’s right,” nodded Jim. “I’d as soon you kept it to yourself.”

  “I’ll go fetch the suit,” grinned Flagg, turning towards the barn entrance. “You’ll find the sorrel in the end stall.”

  On their way west to the border, Jim and the Mex sighted the homebound posse. Wagner, Shay and their volunteers had been obliged to abandon the hunt, just as Flagg and many other Frankston citizens had predicted. The big man and his sawn-off shadow were ambling their mounts into a cottonwood copse at this time; the posse was visible away to their north.

  In a clearing within the copse, Jim got to work with a razor and a pair of scissors purchased in Frankston. Soon, his well-chiseled, weather-beaten, square-jawed face was clean-shaven again. He stripped himself of his outer garments, folded them and packed them in his saddle roll, then donned a white cotton shirt, black string necktie and the black coat and pants he had borrowed from the livery proprietor. He set his black Stetson squarely on his head, not slanting it. He then held the Bible in his left hand, eyed the Mex steadily and asked:

  “How do I look?”

  “Saludos, Reverend,” leered Benito.

  “I could pass?” demanded Jim.

  “This depends,” said Benito.

  “On what?” challenged Jim.

  “On how good a sermon you can preach,” chuckled Benito.

  “Well,” shrugged Jim, “I won’t know about that until the time comes.” He buttoned the black coat so that his holstered .45 made an awkward but comforting bulk at his right hip. Then, after rolling and lighting a cigarette, he swung back into his saddle and gestured for the Mex to remount the burro. “Let’s get started.”