Meet Me in Moredo (A Big Jim Western Book 2) Page 5

  “The lady is well-protected, it seems,” mused Jim. His cigarette was half-smoked when Croy came to him. They exchanged greetings. The barkeep confirmed that the tall gringo had spent the past two hours in plain sight of him, after which Croy lit a cigar and quietly confided:

  “This is gonna be one helluva case. This is one of those times when I wish I could trade my badge for a plow, or raise chickens or hogs.”

  “My friend the barkeep,” drawled Jim, “doesn’t believe the lady was kidnapped.”

  “Neither do I.” Croy dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “But don’t tell anybody I said so.”

  “What then?” prodded Jim.

  “It’s more likely little Maria ran away from her pappy—without no help from no kidnapper,” muttered Croy. “She’s a regular hell-cat, believe me. Had a hot-tempered Irish mother. As for old Don Diego, well, he’s got his pride—and four gun-hung vaqueros always walkin’ in his shadow. A mighty proud ranchero is Don Diego, and a mighty important man.”

  “With influence,” guessed Jim.

  “That’s the hell of it,” nodded Croy. “If I hope to keep my job, I have to treat the old man respectful, give him anything he asks for—includin’ a half-dozen search-parties to hunt for his sassy daughter. But don’t ...”

  “I heard you the first time,” grinned Jim, “and I won’t tell anybody you said so. Well, is it okay if I mosey along? I aim to be on that early train to Moredo.”

  “Got a lead on the man you’re lookin’ for?” demanded Croy.

  “He could be in Moredo,” said Jim.

  “Well, I sure wish you luck,” offered the sheriff. “Likewise,” said Jim. “I hope you find the señorita very soon.”

  “No such luck,” sighed Croy. “It’s my hunch she helped herself to some vaquero’s horse and skedaddled back to the Castaldez spread, just to cause her old man a heap of embarrassment. She’s just ornery enough to do that, but …”

  “I won’t tell anybody you said so,” chuckled Jim, and he nodded goodnight to the bartender and sauntered to the batwings.

  Five minutes later, he was entering his room at the boarding establishment on Calle Hernando, scratching a match to search for the lamp. He spotted it right away, on the small table between the two beds. His match burned down when he reached the table. He scratched another, got the lamp working.

  And then, as yellow light illuminated the room, he observed that he was not alone. The shade had been lowered on the window. A chair had been placed with its back to the rear wall. Benito was seated in it and looking acutely uncomfortable. His large, floppy sombrero was placed to the right side of the chair. On his left side stood the most beautiful young woman Jim had seen in many a long year—Mexican, obviously—and with a cocked pistol held firmly in her right hand, the muzzle pressed against Benito’s head.

  Jim didn’t lose his temper at once; he just stood there, gaping incredulously. Benito showed his protuberant teeth in a weak apology of a grin and mumbled:

  “Saludos, Amigo Jim.”

  “Go throw yourself in the Rio Grande,” breathed Jim, “and drown.”

  “This I would do,” Benito glumly assured him, “if the señorita was not poking my head with the pistola.”

  “Do not attempt to take advantage of this situation, Señor Rand,” cautioned the girl in the green silk gown. “I would not hesitate to shoot this miserable coyote and to scream for help.”

  “Always she threatens to scream,” Benito complained. “Is better we talk quiet, I think. If she screams ...”

  “The vaqueros of my padre will come—muy pronto,” Maria grimly assured Jim, “and there will be much trouble for you.”

  Jim half-closed his eyes, gave vent to a groan of exasperation and sank to the edge of a mattress. He was absolutely sure. He didn’t really need to enquire the identity of this haughty, flashing-eyed beauty, although he would probably do so as a matter of course. She just had to be the missing Señorita Maria Castaldez, and such a dire predicament could only be caused by a meddling, itchy-fingered little felon of the caliber of Benito Espina. He made the mighty effort to control his temper, as he removed his Stetson and tossed it onto the bed. He looked at Maria and enquired, in his best Spanish:

  “You are, of course, the missing daughter of Don Diego Castaldez?” She nodded. He shrugged resignedly and reverted to English. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “Your Spanish is good, Señor Rand,” she acknowledged. “You are a man of education.”

  “I’m self-educated,” frowned Jim. “And now, señorita, do you mind explaining what in blazes you’re doing in my room—while half of Burnett Junction is out searching for you?”

  She was studying him with keen interest, not really listening to his question.

  “How could such a handsome and intelligent Americano become the friend of this worthless, unwashed thief?” she demanded. “This I do not understand, señor.”

  “How about answering my question first?” he challenged.

  “Is very simple ...” she began.

  “Por favor,” Benito interrupted. “Please stop poking at my worthless head with the pistola, señorita? You have nothing to fear from my Amigo Jim. He is one fine caballero—a gentleman.”

  She hesitated a moment, then uncocked the tiny pistol and slid it into the sash of her gown. Jim arranged his ruggedly handsome visage in the frown that had struck fear into the hearts of many a hell-raising trooper of the 11th Cavalry.

  “And now,” he growled, “exactly what the heck is going on here?”

  “I am a victim of circumstances, Amigo Jim,” asserted Benito. “I am misunderstood—unjustly accused ...”

  “Be silent, you cringing coyote!” stormed Maria.

  “All right, señorita, take it easy,” chided Jim. “Say your piece, but say it quiet. And you ...” He glowered at the little Mex. “Button your lip, savvy?”

  Benito nodded and shrugged. At Jim’s invitation, the girl moved majestically to the room’s other chair and seated herself. Her description of the manner of Benito’s invading her privacy was somewhat briefer than Jim had anticipated. Most women, he reflected, would have made quite a performance of it, but Maria Castaldez reduced all the basic facts to a series of terse and explicit sentences. His eyebrows shot up, as she produced the sparkling wealth that had been Benito’s original target. She had left the jewel-box in her room, but had brought its contents along, distributed about her person.

  “I show you my valuable jewelry, Señor Rand,” she murmured, “because I do not believe you are a thief—like this unclean picaro—and because I want you to see that I can pay for your help.”

  “You ask my help?” he frowned.

  “I do not ask,” she retorted. “I demand. Remember, Señor Rand, if I scream ...”

  “You threaten me just one more time, young lady,” said Jim, “and I’ll give you a reason to scream.”

  “You dare not refuse to help me,” she asserted. “Is this villano not your friend? Do you wish for him to be thrown into prison? Or maybe he will not be so fortunate. If my father’s vaqueros reach him first ...”

  “Make your point,” challenged Jim.

  “Maybe I will accuse him of kidnapping—as well as stealing from me,” she warned.

  “Is no use to argue with her, amigo,” sighed Benito. “Who can say what such a one as she might do? Already I have seen her risk her life—climbing from the window, a third-storey window to the roof of the hotel. If she had fallen—ai caramba!”

  “Why didn’t you leave by the door?” Jim wanted to know.

  This blunt question was Maria’s cue to launch into a bitter, breathless tirade against her father, his old-fashioned ideas, his determination to use her as the bait for a land merger. She followed this with a scathing, albeit accurate, description of the slovenly Americano whom Don Diego wished her to marry—Stewart Sharkey, plus his parents. And finally, with a note of pleading in her voice, she asked:

  “Is this just, Señor
Rand? Is this the proper way for a father to prepare the future of his daughter? To select a husband for her—thinking never of her own wishes?”

  “All over the world,” Jim thoughtfully reflected, “there are places where arranged marriages are still the rule—in a certain level of society.”

  “I know it happens,” she frowned, “but I ask you, Señor Rand, should such things be permitted?”

  “Well,” he shrugged, “I have to admit I’m not partial to the idea. To me, it always seemed a mite too cold blooded.”

  “You do not approve?” she prodded.

  “Marriage is a darn wonderful thing,” he mused, “specially between a man and woman who are devoted to each other. But it should never be forced onto anybody.”

  “If that is how you feel,” said Maria, “how can you refuse to help me?”

  “Help you to do what?” he countered.

  “I must escape from this town,” she murmured. “I wish to travel to San Francisco.”

  “You want to be escorted from here to the railroad depot?” he demanded.

  “It is not possible to take a train bound northwest from this town,” she told him: “even if I could reach the depot without being apprehended by my father’s vaqueros. I must go to Redstone—a town forty miles to the west. Only from Redstone can one buy passage for San Francisco. I am getting desperate,” she insisted.

  “I believe you,” he nodded, as he began building another smoke. “But I’m desperate, too, señorita. There is something I have to do. You mightn’t say my problem is as tough as yours, but, to me, it’s the most important thing in my life.”

  “Whatever you have to do,” she urged, “let it wait until you have taken me to Redstone.”

  “The man who murdered my kid brother,” drawled Jim, “might not wait.”

  “The man who ...?” She eyed him uncertainly.

  “My brother’s murderer,” he muttered, “could be in Moredo at this very moment. I know for a fact that he travelled there on a one-way ticket, so there’s an even chance that’s where I’ll find him. There’ll be no real peace for me until I find him, Señorita Maria.” His expression hardened, as he added, “And I don’t aim to let any hot-headed female slow me down.”

  He lit his cigarette, scowled at the none too clean floor and lapsed into a moody silence while, in sibilant whispers, Benito enlarged on the circumstances that had triggered Big Jim’s quest. Maria hung on his every word, nodding sympathetically. But, at the end of Benito’s speech, she doggedly informed Jim:

  “I will hold to my threat, señor. I am sorry it must be this way, but there is nobody else who could help me. I am known all over this territory. No Mexican or Americano would dare accept a bribe from me or defy Don Diego—so I am obliged to use threats against strangers. But, believe me, I will hold to my threat. And I demand you answer now.”

  Again, her eyes locked with Jim’s. He dribbled smoke through his nostrils, did some deep thinking and abruptly decided there was only one solution to this situation. He didn’t intend being diverted from his resolve to visit Moredo as quickly as possible. On the other hand it was obvious this girl was equally as determined as he; two strong personalities were clashing here. The only answer was a compromise, he said as much. She studied him intently.

  “A compromise?”

  “You meet me halfway,” he promised, “and I’ll do the same for you. That means we each have to give a little.”

  “You will help me escape from this town?” she demanded.

  “I reckon it can be done,” he told her, “and I’m willing to take a whirl at it, not just to help this fool thief out of a jam, but because I don’t cotton to the idea of a girl being made to marry against her will. I’ll help you get out of town—but in my own way.”

  “What does that mean—in your own way?” she prodded.

  “It means I aim to take you to Moredo with Benito and me,” he declared.

  She grasped at the arms of her chair, her eyes dilating. “You would take me to Moredo? Are you loco ...?”

  “Keep your voice down,” he cautioned. “We don’t know how thin these walls might be. Let’s talk soft, señorita.”

  “Moredo,” she breathed, “is the last place to which I would go! Did I not tell you clearly before? They wait for us in Moredo—these—these ...” She grimaced in acute disgust, “these gordo, puerco Sharkeys? You would deliver me to them?”

  “Moredo,” Jim patiently explained, “is the last place your father would be looking for you. He’ll send search-parties east, west and south, but not north, not to Moredo, because that’s the one place you didn’t want to go. As for the Sharkeys, they probably won’t see you when we get off that train. Even if they do see you, they won’t know you.”

  “No comprendo!” she groaned.

  “You’ll savvy a darn sight faster,” he growled, “if you’ll just sit quiet and listen.”

  “Bueno ...” She gestured helplessly. “I will listen.”

  “It won’t be dignified or ladylike,” muttered Jim, “but it’ll be mighty simple—dead easy. All you have to do is keep your head down and your mouth shut.” He jerked a thumb toward Benito, who sat bolt upright and listened intently. “Maria Castaldez, you are about to become the cousin of this no-good little sneak-thief. Por cierto ...!” He raised a hand as she opened her mouth to protest. “You will be his cousin José from Sonora.”

  “José ...?” she gasped. “You mean ...?”

  “They’re looking for a missing girl,” Jim calmly reminded her, “not a missing boy. It just happens Benito and I will be travelling in the baggage car tomorrow, along with our animals. One extra won’t make any difference to the conductor. And, if you do exactly as I tell you, nobody’ll guess you’re female.”

  “But this is impossible!” protested Maria.

  “She is,” offered Benito, as tactfully as he knew how, “very much a female.”

  Jim produced his wallet, extracted a couple of bills and passed them to the little Mex.

  “Now you heed what I’m telling you,” he frowned. “I want you to snoop around and find a Mexican emporio—one that sells clothes, savvy? You’re gonna buy some new duds for the señorita—but just as though she were a boy.”

  “Ah, si.” Benito nodded understanding.

  “And I don’t mean fancy stuff,” stressed Jim. “Buy her the same kind of duds the peons wear. Straw sombrero ...”

  “Si!”

  “Camisa and pantalones ...”

  “Por cierto, Amigo Jim!”

  “Sandalia’s too, and try to pick up a clean gunny-sack. She’ll need something to tote her other clothes in. Also ...” Suddenly conscious of the girl’s ample and shapely bosom, Jim thought to add, “A blanket—one of those striped rugs ...”

  “Ah—the serape?” grinned Benito.

  “That’s it,” nodded Jim. “One just like yours. Get going now, cucaracha.”

  He rose from the bed and unlocked the door. After the little Mex had scuttled out, he re-secured the door and told the frowning girl:

  “You drive a hard bargain, señorita.”

  “And you are full of tricks, I think,” she murmured. “I understand how you will take me to Moredo—but what of Redstone? I wish to take a train from Redstone to San Francisco.”

  His mind was turning over fast. In the short time of their acquaintance—less than half an hour—he had formed a few opinions. This wildcat was not yet of age, of that he was certain. Eighteen—maybe nineteen. Twenty at most. Could he escort her to Redstone after the conclusion of his business in Moredo, install her in a first-class seat on a ’Frisco-bound train and then forget about her? He could—but he wouldn’t. It would be tantamount to throwing a babe to the wolves.

  But he would have to overcome each obstacle as he came to it. For the time being, the predicament of Maria Gastaldez must be regarded as secondary to his own mission of vengeance. He didn’t want to lie to her, but it seemed he had no choice.

  “We both have ou
r problems, señorita,” he muttered. “I’d like to say ‘ladies first’, but I’m afraid that doesn’t apply in this case.”

  “You will help me ...!” she demanded.

  “After I’ve finished my chore in Moredo, I’ll see you safely to Redstone,” said Jim, “if you’re still determined to travel to San Francisco.”

  “Nothing could change my mind,” she warmly assured him. Then, glancing about the room, she asked: “Where will I hide in the meantime?”

  “Right here,” he shrugged. “It’ll get a mite crowded but everything’s gonna be respectable, I promise you that. You just leave all the details to me.”

  A short time later, when Benito rejoined them, he noted some changes had been made. Jim had strung a line from the front to the rear walls. Two blankets had been hung full length from that line so that the bed shoved into the left-hand corner was effectively screened from view. The second bed had been moved to the right-side corner. Maria was out of sight behind the makeshift screen. Jim was standing by the window, nudging the shade aside with a finger, scanning the little he could see of the back alley.

  “How does it look out there?” he gruffly enquired.

  “There is much searching,” Benito reported. “It seems Don Diego has offered a reward to anybody who can find the muchacha.”

  “Yeah—I know,” grunted Jim. “A special deputy came traipsing in here while you were gone.”

  “Por Dios!” frowned Benito. “Why did he not find her?”

  “Because he wasn’t very bright,” drawled Jim. “Before I opened the door, I told her to climb out the window. She hid in the alley. I let him in. He snooped around—even looked out into the alley—then hustled away again. She was squatting behind a rain-barrel. He never saw her but, like I already said, he wasn’t very bright anyway.”

  “Where is she now?” demanded Benito.

  Jim jerked a thumb.

  “On her side of the partition, amigo. Getting undressed.”