Big Jim 8 Page 5

  Something about the demeanor of the three lawmen caused Jim to change direction and hurry after them. They were approaching the mouth of a side alley, when he caught up with Lon Vurness and asked:

  “What is it? Trouble?”

  “The worst kind,” grunted Lon, as they turned into the alley. “A neighbor of the Garcias just brought us the word. If I’d known it’d happen so soon, I’d have tried to talk Rube Fiske into swearing in some extra deputies to sit guard on ’em.”

  “To sit guard on the Garcia family?”

  “Damn right. Bunch of hotheaded trouble-makers are trying to bust into the house, I don’t even know if Jose or Miguel managed to take the old lady inside. I don’t know if Reba is safe—or what.”

  “All right, kid, don’t lose your head. Stay angry, but …”

  “Don’t worry, Jim. I’m not so sore that I won’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Bueno. I’ll side you—if you aren’t objecting.”

  “Hell, no. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

  Jim and the lawmen finished their journey through the alleys to the south side of town and came in sight of the broad yard behind the adobe shack. Eight gun-toting men, shabby, rough-looking hombres, were assembled near the closed back door. A window had been broken. Jim could see Miguel Garcia’s face, or portion of it, behind the leveled barrel of a rifle. In his native tongue, the youth was angrily ordering the invaders to disperse. In their native tongue, and with a great deal of profanity, the roughnecks were mouthing threats.

  “The hell with all you thievin’ murderin’ greasers!”

  “We’re gonna’ run you out of Ortega—you and the old witch!”

  “Which one of you killed Harp Drayton?”

  “Come on out and take what’s comin’ to you!”

  Jim was intrigued at the reaction of the three lawmen. He could appreciate how Fiske felt at this moment—determined to protect every citizen under his jurisdiction, American or Mexican, yet reluctant to use his gun on men who, under other circumstances, might be considered harmless. But he could not appreciate the obvious trepidation of the lip-licking Clegg Robinson. The senior deputy was stiff-scared, and unable to conceal the fact.

  Of the three, Lon Vurness was measuring up the best. He appeared angry, alert, ready for anything. If any fears plagued him, he was hiding them behind a mask of belligerence.

  Fiske, glancing over his shoulder and observing Jim, said, “I don’t have time for swearin’ you in proper, Rand, but I could sure use your help.”

  “I’ll help,” offered Jim, “but only on my own terms.”

  “Anything short of murder,” said Fiske.

  “Right,” nodded Jim. “Let’s move off to the side a little. Then—if we have to use our guns—there’ll be less chance our bullets will hit the house.”

  He sidled away to the right, tagged by Lon and the sheriff, with the reluctant Robinson bringing up the rear. Miguel yelled abuse at the rioters, until he spotted Lon, one of the few Americanos he trusted. His yells ceased, but the rowdies were still bellowing threats, still brandishing rifles, shotguns and Colts. The ugly words: lynch, tar and feather and burn ’em out were repeated over and over.

  And then, suddenly, the rioters became aware of the arrival of Fiske and his deputies. The shouting subsided. A skinny man in overalls, edging closer to the house and hefting a shotgun, glowered at the sheriff and declared:

  “You’re too late to stop us, Rube! This has to be done, and you know it! There’s eight good men still alive. How long can they stay alive—with the trigger-happy sons of this old witch pickin’ ’em off one by one?”

  “Shuddup, Langtry!” scowled Fiske. “Quit talkin’ like a blame fool!”

  “One of her boys was over by the Cray house,” asserted Langtry, “about the same time poor Harp was choked to death!”

  “Meanin’ Jose?” challenged Fiske.

  “That’s the one,” nodded Langtry.

  “You can forget about Jose,” said Fiske. “He was no closer than the back yard of the Larsen house. I already checked. The boy was choppin’ wood, earnin’ himself a dollar. Oley Larsen was sittin’ right there in the yard, watchin’ Jose for a whole hour.” He gestured impatiently. “Get the hell out of here, Langtry, and take your hotheaded pards with you!”

  “Pay no mind to him, boys!” Langtry called to the other rioters. “Rube ain’t about to shoot at us!”

  “He’s yours,” Jim grunted to Lon.

  Lon immediately stepped forward, his right hand hovering above his holstered Colt, his hard gaze riveted on the heavy weapon brandished by Langtry.

  “Are you just as sure,” he challenged Langtry, “about me? You ready to guarantee I won’t shoot?”

  “A hairless boy with a badge,” growled Langtry, “can’t make me back down!”

  “Drop the scattergun!” barked Lon.

  “Aw, hell!” gasped Robinson. “No shootin’, Lonny! They got us outnumbered!”

  “If you want to sweat,” muttered Jim, “go sweat someplace else.” Then, to Lon, “Go ahead if he forces your hand. I’ll be ready to cover you.”

  It was one of those pregnant, tension-filled moments that could end only two ways; an explosion of violence or a sudden cooling of tempers. Langtry, after snarling an oath, swung the muzzles of the shotgun towards the window. Lon promptly drew and fired, and Jim noted with fierce pride that the young deputy had little to learn about the skillful use of a .45. The slug burned the thumb of Langtry’s left hand. He loosed a howl of rage and pain, and the shotgun clattered to the ground. With a mumbled obscenity, one of Langtry’s pards whirled, hammered back and was drawing a bead on Lon, when Jim emptied his holster and cut loose. His long-barreled Colt roared twice. The first bullet slammed into the rioter’s right shoulder, starting him reeling, causing him to lose his grip on his pistol. Cursing, the man flopped to his knees, reached for the fallen weapon with his left hand. Jim’s second bullet struck the gleaming, pearl-plated butt, lifting the gun, spinning it away from the questing hand.

  At full volume, Jim could still use his voice in the way that had intimidated many a recalcitrant trooper; his parade-ground bellow assaulted the eardrums of the rioters almost as painfully as the thunder of those three shots.

  “Pick up those wounded heroes and tote ’em away—now!”

  The other six roughnecks eyed the big man warily. One of them spat in disgust snarled a jibe.

  “With guns, you and the kid-deputy are plenty proddy. Without guns, you’d be as yellow as Robinson.”

  “Don’t fall for that trap,” Fiske cautioned Lon.

  But it was too late. Lon had holstered his Colt and was stepping closer to the rioters. Jim felt another thrill, a sense of elation and pride, as he returned his Colt to leather and moved after Lon. He hadn’t dared hope for this experience, the curiously satisfying experience of fighting side by side with the man who so strongly resembled his dead brother.

  When Lon came to a halt, he stood less than four yards from the rioters, and Jim was right beside him.

  “You can have it any way you want,” Lon told the hardcases. “Come quiet and we’ll let you cool off in a cell. Make a fight of it—and I swear you’ll ache for twenty-four hours.”

  “You’re arresting the whole passel of ’em—is that the idea?” asked Jim.

  “They’ve got it coming,” scowled Lon. “And, if we throw this bunch into jail, it might discourage all the other Mex-haters of this town.”

  “Makes sense,” shrugged Jim. He flexed his muscles, stared hard at the grim-faced locals and told them, calmly, “It sounds like you’re all under arrest.”

  There was a sudden clattering as the other six rioters dropped their hardware, but this was no gesture of surrender. They were charging now, snarling threats, hungering to get to grips with their challengers. Fiske yelled a reprimand which was ignored by all and sundry.

  While defending himself, Jim caught fleeting glimpses of Deputy Vurness in action, and liked
what he saw. Where Jim relied on his brute strength, his ability to stand up under heavy attack and mete out painful punishment, Lon relied on his youthful agility, bobbing and weaving, ducking under wild swings that could have rendered him unconscious, then throwing hard blows to exposed midriffs and undefended chins. One brawler came to grief by charging head-long at the deputy, pitching clear over his bent back and striking ground head-first. Another swung a kick at Lon, missed and, while his leg was still upraised, took Lon’s well-timed left full in the face.

  Jim kept busy. Watched by the grim-faced Fiske, the apprehensive Robinson and the wide-eyed Garcias crowding the windows of the shack, he went down under the combined weight of three of the rioters, extricated himself from the struggling heap, lurched to his feet and hauled one with him. The man landed three hard blows on Jim. Jim struck him only the once, a swinging punch that lifted him off his feet and hurled him to the dust.

  A fist exploded against his ear. He lurched, spun around and was ready to parry his assailant’s second blow. Then, hard and fast, he slammed three blows to the middle. Clutching at his belly and emitting gasps and groans, the rowdy collapsed. Another man, bleeding from nose and mouth, reeled into Jim’s line of vision, retreating from the swinging fists of Lon Vurness. He tripped over the recipient of the belly-blows, sprawled on his back and made no attempt to rise again.

  Fiske was again bellowing reprimands and, under the circumstances, he might have saved his breath. Jim and Lon were still on their feet, battered and bruised and exhibiting skinned knuckles, but their would-be assailants were maintaining their horizontal positions—some voluntarily, as a means of escaping the rock-hard fists of Jim and the deputy—some involuntarily; being too unconscious to care.

  “All right—all right …” Fiske sounded dazed. “We—uh—better get Langtry and Boze up to doc’s house. Some of these other roughnecks, too. Hell, what a mess.”

  “It would’ve been a worse mess—for the Garcias,” panted Lon, “if these hardcases had their way!” He emptied his holster again, growled commands to the defeated rioters. “On your feet! Pick up Langtry and Schaeffer—and start walking!”

  Jim heard thudding sounds from within the house, an indication that a barricade was being removed from the doorway. The door opened and some of the Garcias emerged—Jose and Miguel, their swarthy faces grim—little Pablito, plainly scared—and Reba, obviously fearful for the welfare of Deputy Vurness. It was then that Fiske displayed a sentimental streak hitherto unsuspected by Jim.

  “Stay and get cleaned up,” he offered Lon. “Clegg and I will take care of this bunch. You’ve earned a rest—and then some.” He nodded to Jim. “Sure obliged to you, Rand.”

  “Any time,” said Jim.

  To the still-nervous Robinson, Fiske tartly remarked, “You ain’t exactly a hot-shot when the chips are down, are you?”

  “We were outnumbered!” began Robinson.

  “That didn’t seem to worry Lon,” jibed Fiske. “Come on, help me get these hombres to jail.”

  Reba had fetched a small basket from the house. It contained only a bottle of liniment, some cotton wool and a roll of adhesive plaster, but her demeanor was that of a qualified physician eager to rescue a patient from death’s door, as she begged Lon to accompany her to the pump.

  Lon hesitated a moment, staring after his colleagues and their prisoners. Then: “No,” he grunted. “Between here and the jailhouse, Langtry and his pards could give the sheriff a heap of trouble. They’ll need help.” He patted her shoulder comfortingly. “Don’t you fret about me. I feel fine.” As he threw another glance after the other lawmen, he thought to call a question to the two youths. “How about Ma Garcia?”

  “We take her inside, when we see these gringos,” muttered Jose.

  “Querida—your face!” fretted Reba.

  “I feel fine,” Lon calmly repeated. “If you want to play doctor, you work on my friend—Jim Rand.” He retrieved his hat, donned it, then eyed Jim curiously. ‘‘You didn’t have to buy into this ruckus, Jim. And I get the feeling it was only on my account.”

  “I could never resist a chance to show off my muscles,” said Jim.

  “That’s not true.” Lon was shrewd enough to see through Jim’s contrived flippancy. “It was only on my account that you took a hand, and I’m wondering why. What’s so special about me? You never saw me before you came to Ortega. And yet—every time you look at me …”

  “It’s nothing,” frowned Jim. “You—uh—remind me of a feller I used to know. That’s all.”

  Lon shrugged, raised a hand to the brim of his Stetson and bade Reba and her brothers farewell, then turned and hurried after his colleagues and the prisoners. Jim trudged to the pump, squatted beside it and worked the handle, filling a tin dish and then swabbing his face with a bandanna. The Garcia boys returned to the house. Shyly, Reba knelt beside the big man and offered to tend his cuts.

  “No need,” he assured her, with a companionable grin. “But go ahead, if it makes you feel easier.”

  “I thank you for all Garcias,” she murmured, as she dabbed at his bloodied ear with cotton wool.

  “This was not your quarrel—but you came to help us.”

  “It was building up to something more serious than a quarrel,” he declared. “Is it always this bad, Reba?”

  “No,” she frowned. “Only since—since ...”

  “Since Pepi was hung?”

  “No, señor. In the time after the death of my brother, nobody made trouble for us. It was only after the old one died—the Señor Grady. And then—when the Señor Landell died ...”

  “That’s when all the heroes started throwing rocks, eh, Reba?”

  “These gringos are much afraid, señor. They think Mama Margarita has the power to cast a spell.”

  “Superstition can cause a heap of trouble.”

  “Si, señor. Much trouble.” She sighed heavily. “But Mama Margarita could not harm them. She is old and very tired and I think—I think she will soon die.”

  He encouraged her to unburden herself, while she cleansed his gashed ear and the cuts on his face. Suddenly, he was more than casually concerned with the personality, the hopes, fears and aspirations of Reba Garcia. Was she worthy of the love of a man who so resembled Chris? He soon decided she was more than worthy—a quick-witted, likeable young woman, typical of a better class Mexican environment, and he was reminded that no Garcia blood flowed in her veins. Lon Vurness could do far worse than marry such a girl—especially a girl so earnestly loyal to him.

  With a strip of plaster covering a cut on his brow, and his weather-beaten visage fairly clean, he considered himself ready to resume his interrupted journey to the McDaniels home and interview the new widow. Of course the condition of his clothing and the plaster showing stark on his brow might cause the widow some alarm; she might refuse to admit him. He would have to take that chance.

  As he donned his Stetson, it occurred to him to ask Reba, “Are people still blaming your brothers for the death of the Señor McDaniels?”

  “If Señor McDaniels had died many thousands of miles from Ortega,” she gloomily replied, “the people would still blame Jose or Miguel. The people are temeroso—and foolish. They do not stop to think. At the time of the death of Señor McDaniels, my brothers were at home. This is the truth …”

  “Sure,” he nodded. “You don’t have to convince me.”

  “And the Señora McDaniels—she understands,” murmured Reba. “Always she understands. Always she is kind to us.”

  “You’re acquainted with the lady?” he asked.

  She gestured to the washtubs, smiled wistfully.

  “My best customer, señor. But is not because her vestidura need so much washing. She is very kind and wishes to help me, but I would not let her give me money, so …”

  “So she sends all her laundry to you,” he guessed, “so you won’t feel you’re taking charity.”

  “She is a wise one,” said Reba. “People must keep their p
ride, she says.”

  “The lady’s right,” he grunted. “Well, I was on my way to visit with her, when I saw Lon headed this way.”

  “Is not far from here,” said Reba.

  She gestured towards the alley from which he had emerged in company with the lawmen a short time before, and described a few short-cuts. He thanked her, bade her farewell and strode away from the humble shack that housed the legatees of the Garcia tragedy—the underprivileged girls, the anti-social youths—and the fat, witless, dying Margarita, whose impulsive outburst had triggered a wave of panic.

  A few minutes later, he was standing on the front porch of the McDaniels home, rapping for admittance, listening to light, brisk footsteps in the hallway beyond.

  Five – Advice from a Widow

  He took an immediate and instinctive liking to Alice McDaniels, and hoped his battered exterior would not dismay her. She certainly didn’t appear dismayed, standing there in the open doorway with a mob-cap concealing most of her auburn hair, the shaft of a broom gripped in her small right hand and her passably pretty face upraised to inspect his, from her modest height of five feet one inch. There wasn’t a great deal of Alice McDaniels, but he was at once conscious of a vital and compelling personality. Her gown was black as befitted a woman so recently widowed, but her eyes were clear; he supposed she had ceased to weep for her dead husband.

  Doffing his Stetson, he offered his name. She responded in similar fashion, and asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Rand?” And, with a vague hint of a smile. “A little liniment, maybe? But no. I see you have already received treatment—of a sort.”

  “The best that Reba Garcia could manage,” he grinned.

  “Reba?” She studied him with increased interest. “Has there been—trouble—at the Garcia house?”

  “The trouble is over, for the time being,” he told her. “Reba and her people are safe. I mentioned I was on my way to see you, and she told me a few short-cuts.”