Big Jim 10 Page 5

  “Una momento.” Benito eyed him cautiously. “You have not yet explained what we will do in Colorado.”

  “Cucaracha—what you do doesn’t matter a damn,” growled Jim. “But I know what I aim to do and, if you tag along, you’ll have to follow my orders—as usual.”

  “There will be much danger,” Benito supposed.

  “Every minute we live is dangerous,” drawled Jim. “I once heard of a feller who died of heart failure—while laughing at a joke. There are all kinds of ways of dying, boy, but it’s something you can only do once.”

  “We hunt soldados,” mused Benito.

  “Bandidos,” Jim grimly corrected. “Bandidos who pretend to be soldados.”

  “Will be bad surprise for you, I think,” leered the Mex, “if we discover these bandidos are real troopers.” He chuckled, as he mounted the burro. “This I would enjoy to see.”

  “So you’ll tag along,” observed Jim.

  “Until there is danger,” said Benito.

  “That’s what I figured,” jibed Jim.

  In the first hour of the dawn, close to the towering mass of rock that marked the Kansas-Colorado border in this region, they came upon the tracks they sought. Aurora Butte, this landmark was called. On the soft ground to the south of it the prints of many horses showed clear. Here, Wagner’s posse had milled in a fury of indecision, spoiling to cross the border and continue their pursuit of the four desperadoes. Jim supposed that Wagner had to bully his volunteers into turning back. Only too well, Wagner understood the restrictions imposed on him. Despite his resentment of such restrictions, he had no option but to abide by them; he could not pursue a wanted man into territory beyond his jurisdiction.

  As for the quarry, their track was also clear. There were times during the morning when Benito could see nothing—no hoof prints, no scars on rock, no trampled grass—to indicate the direction taken by the four riders. Only a tracker of long experience, one who had learned. his craft from the redman, could trail the quarry under these conditions—and Big Jim Rand fitted into that category.

  “We’ll keep moving due west,” he muttered. “Same direction they’re headed.”

  “They go fast?” asked Benito.

  “Not too fast,” frowned Jim. “Well, that’s a good sign. It means they aren’t afraid they’ll be followed.” His frown gave way to a smile—a smile that lacked warmth or humor. “I don’t want them to be afraid. I’d as soon they felt safe.”

  “When you speak this way,” fretted Benito, shuddering, “I am cold inside. There is no mercy in you, Amigo Jim.”

  “How much mercy did they offer those passengers on the stage?” Jim grimly countered. “Remember the bullet-holes? A couple of those thieves emptied their guns at a woman and two kids—a harmless old man …”

  “Sí,” shrugged Benito. “These are depravado hombres.”

  “They’ll get what’s coming to them,” muttered Jim, “and they’ll learn it doesn’t pay to bring disgrace on the army.”

  Later that day, on the banks of a creek near the eastern boundary of Brigg County, the four desperadoes prepared to mount up and resume their homeward journey. They hadn’t far to go now and, had any of their victims sighted them at this moment, they would probably pass them by, not recognizing them as the four blue-uniformed gunmen who had so wantonly turned their weapons on the helpless passengers of the southbound stage. Jason Croll and his three sidekicks were now garbed as cowhands; their uniforms were secreted in their saddlebags.

  One of them, the pain-wracked, ashen-faced Blanton, had to be helped into his saddle. The bearded rider of the big black stallion had drawn blood; Blanton’s wound was similar to one of those inflicted on Arch Borden, a deep gash at his ribs; the bullet hadn’t lodged, but the wound was deep.

  “You’re a butcher, Croll!” he groaned, as the other two hauled him to his feet and walked him to his waiting horse. “You—should’ve doctored me earlier. You shouldn’t have waited—all that time …”

  “You’re loco,” jeered Croll, “if you think I’d haul up and patch you on the Kansas side of the line. A posse from Frankston would’ve been trompin’ all over us in no time.”

  “I hurt,” panted Blanton. “I hurt—awful bad …”

  “Quit whinin’,” scowled Croll. “You’ll get to rest up when we’re back at Rafter 7. Meantime we oughta keep movin’.” He nodded to the other men. “Murle—Durango—put him on his horse.”

  “Easy, fellers!” pleaded Blanton, as they began lifting him. “Eas-ee—for pity’s sakes!”

  He cried out in agony, slumping forward with both hands grasping at the saddle horn. His head throbbed. The pain from his side was unbearable and he couldn’t feel his feet in the stirrups. The florid-faced Murle shrugged callously, took. therein of the injured man’s horse and drawled, “Just keep hangin’ onta that saddle horn. If you fell, me and Durango might feel too weary to lift you up again.” They rode slowly away from the creek-bank, pointing the horses to the northwest.

  “At this rate,” complained the lynx-eyed, apprehensive Durango, “we won’t sight home-range before sun-up tomorrow—or maybe later.”

  “So?” shrugged Croll. “What’s your hurry?”

  “The longer we’re gone, the sorer he’ll be,” fretted Durango.

  “Meanin’ the boss?” challenged Croll.

  “Who else?” grimaced Durango.

  “Yeah,” frowned Murle. “He won’t take kindly to it. I figure it was a mistake, Jase. We ought never of listened to you.”

  “Don’t worry about Ellinger,” muttered Croll. “I can handle him.”

  “Ellinger’s mean and tricky,” said Durango. “Murle’s right. We ought never of let you talk us into it.”

  “Think of all this dinero in my saddlebags,” countered Croll. “You think Ellinger’s gonna complain—when I hand it over to him? No siree. I’m bettin’ he’ll divvy up a fat share to all four of us.”

  “Right from the start,” growled Murle, “Ellinger said he’d plan every raid. All we ever had to do was foller his orders, do everything his way. This is the first time I’ve gone against him—and now I wish I hadn’t.”

  “That’s how I feel,” scowled Durango.

  “Don’t anybody care a damn how I feel?” wailed Blanton.

  “Three real bravados I picked to ride along with me,” sneered Croll.

  “You wouldn’t talk so big,” flared Blanton, “with this big a hole in your carcass!”

  “And maybe you won’t talk so big tomorrow, Jase,” suggested Durango, “when you have to face up to Ellinger.”

  “You hombres talk of Ellinger as if he was somethin’ special,” complained Croll. “He’s only a man after all, just a rancher with a sick wife and a hankerin’ for big dinero. I can handle Ellinger. You’ll see.”

  “We’ll see you fall apart as soon as Ellinger starts cussin’ you,” predicted Murle. “’Specially if Farnley is with him.”

  “The hell with Farnley.”‘

  Croll said that defiantly, but his face had clouded over. For a while, the four rode in silence, moving into the gathering twilight. It was Murle who, with a wink and a snigger, broke the silence with a comment.

  “Ellinger’s. woman ain’t really sick at all. She’s a whisky-head—that’s her trouble. I’ve heard she puts it away like a man.”

  “If I was Ellinger,” mumbled Durango, “I’d get rid of her.”

  “Yeah, sure,” jeered Croll. “Gettin’ rid of a woman—that’s a chore you could handle, Durango.”

  “Go to hell,” retorted Durango.

  Brigg County was one of the largest sections of the territory between Denver and the border. Even had they traveled at speed, Croll and his companions couldn’t have reached the Rafter 7 headquarters before three o’clock of the next morning. With Blanton slowing them down, they were destined not to see home range before sunrise.

  It was 9.45 a.m., when the owner of Rafter 7 rode into Brigg City, the county seat. Todd Ellinger, a sl
ender, sallow-complexioned man with pomaded brown hair and a lovingly-tended moustache, had rigged himself as befitted a prosperous cattleman; the brown riding pants, finely-tooled boots and corduroy jacket were custom-made. The sugarloaf Stetson perched rakishly to the side of his head was brand-new. It pleased him to make an impressive entrance whenever he visited the Lucky Chance Saloon. At least he fondly believed that the owner and her small staff were impressed. Cass Broderick’s barkeeps and table hands were the taciturn kind. For that matter, Cass gave little away, usually masking her thoughts behind an inscrutable smile.

  Excitement coursed through him, as he idled his thoroughbred bay along Brigg Street, the main stem of the big town. This feeling always came to him whenever he planned a visit to that particular establishment. It was common knowledge that many a local was infatuated with the county’s best-looking saloonkeeper, and that the Rafter 7 boss was well to the fore at all times, her most devoted admirer.

  “Sooner or later,” he promised himself, as he came in sight of the Lucky Chance, “she’ll get tired of being a manless widow. And, when that happens, I’ll be right on hand.”

  In this assumption he was underestimating the shrewd, world-weary Cass. Few men could claim that they understood her; on the other hand she could claim a deep understanding, a keen knowledge of the male animal, his likes, dislikes, strengths, weaknesses. She had continued to operate the Lucky Chance after the death of her husband some five years ago. The saloon functioned as efficiently and as profitably as when Duke Broderick had been in charge. A savage winter and a sudden attack of pneumonia had abruptly removed the genial Duke from the Brigg County scene. There were some who claimed his widow was morbidly preoccupied with the fact of his passing, still mourning him five years after his demise. This was an exaggeration. Cass mourned her man, but was resigned to widowhood. She wasn’t especially preoccupied and she certainly wasn’t morbid; her sense of humor would not permit it.

  Proud of her natural good looks, too jealous of her fine complexion to mask it under a layer of rice-powder, she looked less like a saloon-woman than the wife of a well-to-do merchant, a banker maybe, as she took a late breakfast at a table near the bar. Her gown was of fine quality, but not showy. The deep auburn hair was piled high atop the shapely head, and the oval-shaped face was almost devoid of cosmetics.

  As Todd Ellinger came striding in, she accorded him a smile. Given a choice, she might have ignored him, and with pleasure. But Rafter 7 hands were among her most regular customers. It seemed advisable to at least pretend to enjoy the attentions wished upon her by Ellinger, his constant Compliments, the gleam in his pale blue eyes as he. whispered endearments.

  He came to her table and, without waiting for an invitation, seated himself. As she forked up another mouthful of bacon, she politely asked:

  “Care for some coffee, Todd?”

  “Coffee wouldn’t be adequate,” he gallantly asserted, as he beckoned one of her bartenders, ‘it ought to be something stronger, something in keeping with the mood, eh, Cass? Barkeep, a double shot of bourbon.”

  “Comin’ up,” grunted the bartender.

  “So early in the day?” Cass winced, as she resumed eating.

  “You’re beautiful this morning, my dear,” he grinned, patting her free hand. “Beautiful always, of course but particularly this morning.”

  She chewed and swallowed, smiled a mild smile and politely enquired, “How is your wife today, Todd? Still ailing? It seems a long time since she came to town.”

  “Damnitall, Cass!” he began, reddening.

  “Language,” she chided.

  “Do you have to mention Wilma?” he scowled. “This saloon is like a haven to me, Cass. I come here to forget, to enjoy the experience of—of good conversation with an attractive woman ...”

  “Thanks for the compliment, and you’re entirely welcome,” she murmured.

  “The trouble with Wilma is she doesn’t understand me,” he complained. The barkeep set his drink before him. He leaned back in his chair, nudged his hat to the back of his head and raised the glass in a toast to her. “First thing in the morning or late at night, I can handle this stuff any time. You know that, Cass. But Wilma? A woman like Wilma should never drink.” He gulped a mouthful, grimaced. “I can’t admire a woman who loses her self-respect.”

  “It could be that Wilma has an illness,” Cass suggested, “and needs proper treatment.”

  “No,” growled Ellinger. “She’s nothing but a whining drunk. There’s no humor in her, no capacity, for affection …” He was a man of good education and a vocabulary somewhat more imaginative than that of most of her customers. And yet, to the man-wise Cass, he sounded no better than the worst of them, sitting there with his hand wrapped about a whisky-glass, criticizing his wife, complaining of being misunderstood. She decided, then and there, that the owner of Rafter 7 was not exactly one of her favorite people. “A woman who neglects her appearance, becomes slovenly …”

  He talked on, with Cass pretending to be sympathetic, until he happened to glance at the mirror behind the bar and saw the reflection of the man who had just entered. Nick Farnley was still in his twenties, slender and lithe, a boyish type often referred to as The Cheyenne Kid. He was sandy-haired with grey, expressionless eyes and a thick-lipped mouth, and it pleased his conceit to garb his lean frame in black, the better to show off his blond handsomeness and the pearl butts of the Colts slung low at his hips. Pausing just inside the entrance, he nodded to his employer and gestured towards the street.

  “You’re wanted,” Cass dryly observed.

  “The Kid wouldn’t butt in unless he had a good reason,” frowned Ellinger. He gulped the rest of his drink, rose to his feet. “My apologies, Cass. I’ll see you later.”

  FIVE

  GUNS OF RAFTER 7

  Unhurriedly, the black-garbed gunslinger descended to the hitch rack outside the saloon. His pinto stood there beside Ellinger’s bay. The rancher joined him, muttering a reproach.

  “I don’t appreciate these interruptions. Kid.”

  “Well, all right then, boss-man.” Farnley eyed him impassively. “If you don’t care a damn what I’m here to say, you just mosey right back inside to the fine-framed widow.”

  “There are times, Kid,” frowned Ellinger, “when you go too far.”

  “So fire me,” challenged Farnley.

  “I’m not apt to do that,” Ellinger assured him. “You’re too valuable a man, Kid. You have plenty of nerve and you’re smart enough to follow orders.”

  “That’s a fact,” Farnley mildly agreed. “I’m so damn useful, boss-man, that I don’t savvy why you can’t make me ramrod of Rafter 7. Seems to me you could use a new foreman.”

  “Croll is foreman,” said Ellinger.

  Farnley smiled bleakly.

  “You’re mad at Croll, remember?”

  “When Croll gets back,” scowled Ellinger, “I’ll teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.”

  “Croll’s on his way,” drawled Farnley. “Him and Blanton and Murle and Durango. That’s what I come to tell you. They were sighted comin’ through Tizoc Canyon a little while after sun-up—which means they’d be right close to your north quarter by now.”

  “All right, damnitall,” breathed Ellinger. “You round up the whole outfit. I want every man on the Rafter 7 payroll to meet me at the north waterhole, and ...”

  “The boys’ll be there when we arrive,” Farnley coolly informed him. “I already gave ’em the word. Figured that’s what you’d want.”

  “Still pushing, eh, Kid?” frowned Ellinger.

  “You could use a new ramrod,” countered Farnley.

  “Killing Jase Croll would be a bad mistake,” muttered Ellinger. “I can still use him.”

  “You’re the boss,” shrugged Farnley.

  “But, by Godfrey,” breathed Ellinger, “he’s got a lesson coming. Discipline is essential in an enterprise of this kind. Discipline—planning—strict adherence to orders.”

 
; “Well—what’re we waitin’ for?” grinned Farnley.

  The pensive, albeit short-sighted eyes of the Brigg County law followed Ellinger and the youthful gunhawk, as they rode along Brigg Street towards the outskirts of town. The porch of the sheriff’s office was large enough to accommodate a small table as well as the usual clutter of benches, stools and cane-backed chairs. Seated at the table, puffing on Long 9’s, temporarily abandoning a checkers tournament that had begun in their middle-age, the sheriff and his deputy stared after the rancher and the hired gun, and traded comments.

  “Ellinger steps high and fancy nowadays,” observed the sheriff. “I swear I never realized Rafter 7 was so all-fired prosperous.”

  His name was Elmer Leam. He was bald, paunchy, slow-moving and all of sixty-four years old. A little while back, when the mayor and his councilmen had offered to retire him on a pension, Elmer had humbly thanked them, but had firmly insisted on staying in harness a few more years. Simultaneously, the same offer had been made to his deputy, the scrawny, grey-haired Hobie Grisson. Like his chief, Grisson had decided against surrendering his star.

  The reason for this mutual aversion to retirement was Todd Ellinger. Leam and Grisson rarely discussed the Rafter 7 boss publicly, but had swapped many a pertinent comment in private. They had watched Ellinger prosper, and didn’t like what they saw. A lot of things were happening too quickly for their liking. Too quickly, and inexplicably.

  “Real purty—that bay thoroughbred he rides,” grunted the deputy. “I heard a rumor he paid better’n three hunnerd and fifty dollars for it, bought it off of a Laramie dealer.”

  “A lot of dinero,” mused Leam, “for a Brigg County cattleman to pay for a saddle-horse.”

  “Rafter 7 ain’t runnin’ so big a herd,” mumbled Grisson. “Their beef ain’t any better’n you’d find on any other spread. So why should Rafter 7 get so prosperous? How come young Farnley and all them other gun-hawks got so much dinero to spend?”