Big Jim 6 Page 6

  Since establishing himself in Tascosa County, Carrick had made several trips to the north and west, ostensibly to buy breed-stock or mining equipment. On such excursions, he was accompanied by most of his henchmen, and the counterfeit bills so carefully manufactured by Marvin Emhart were traded for the genuine article in many and varied ways. This recent notion of posing as a cattle agent, purchasing saleable herds with counterfeit and then re-selling them for genuine dollars, had been an inspiration, and very profitable. Equally profitable was the ruse of turning the tinhorn, the man they knew as Burch, loose in some better-class gambling establishment. Jenner’s betting stake was kept in one pocket; it was all counterfeit and therefore he didn’t have to limit himself when raising an ante. His winnings were kept in another pocket—for the fake bills to be mixed with the genuine article would have been calamitous. Sometimes by sharping, sometimes by luck, sometimes by skill, Jenner had contrived to maintain a winning streak. He was now an accepted member of the gang.

  Carrick finished shaving, toweled his face dry, then studied his reflection in a mirror.

  “How about that?” He chuckled complacently. “Whatever became of Mr. Baggot?”

  Williams traded grins with him, and remarked, “None of those cattlemen would recognize you now.”

  “Let us hope not,” muttered Emhart.

  “Come on, Mace,” grinned Williams. “Let’s head for home. If we move fast enough, we might make it before dark.”

  Later, viewing Carrick’s headquarters for the first time, Jenner conceded the boss-swindler had chosen a very handy site. The ranch-house, barn and corrals were typical of any New Mexico cattle spread. A few Longhorns grazed on the green plain south of a copse of cottonwood, consolidating the illusion that here was a well-established, fully operative ranch. A short distance to the north of the ranch-house, the ugly bulk of Powder Mountain reared to the graying sky. One tunnel mouth was clearly visible, even in the gathering gloom. The shaft in which Emhart’s equipment was stored was, as Williams had bragged, effectively camouflaged by a growth of brush. Smoke curling lazily from the bunkhouse chimney indicated Carrick’s other employees had resumed occupancy, and the shabbily-garbed man emerging from the main building to call a greeting was obviously well known to Carrick; all was as it should be.

  “Burch—say howdy to Jed Nixon,” offered Williams. “Jed always stays behind to keep an eye on things, while we’re away on business. The boss says Jed’s got a special talent for satisfyin’ any nosy galoot that happens by.”

  “If strangers ask questions,” drawled Nixon, while trading nods with Jenner, “I give ’em answers—the kind of answers that ain’t never gonna cause us no strife—right, Mace?”

  “Right, Jed,” grinned Carrick. He dismounted, handed his rein to the scrawny, unkempt Nixon. “Everything quiet this time?”

  “Sure enough,” nodded Nixon. “Plumb lonely. I stuck close to the spread and kept my eye on the mine—and that’s all I’ve seen. There hasn’t been a towner nor a county cowpoke ridden within a mile of our range.”

  “That’s the way I like it,” drawled Carrick. “No snoopers. No inquisitive trouble-makers.”

  “I’d like to take a look at my gear,” said Emhart. “I’ll be up to the second shaft, if you should need me.”

  “Wait till the morning,” suggested Carrick.

  “No,” frowned Emhart, “I have to satisfy myself that there’s been no dust penetration.”

  “That’s what I admire about old Marv,” Carrick told Jenner. “Always conscientious.” And then, as Emhart strode away and out of earshot, Carrick added, “Maybe a mite too conscientious?’

  “Well, I don’t know,” argued Nixon. “Seems to me a feller in his line of business needs to work careful.”

  “Certainly,” shrugged Carrick, “and I admire him for that. But it seems to me he needs to relax, to loosen up.”

  “He sure is high-strung, and that’s a fact,” agreed Williams.

  “Tomorrow,” decided Carrick, “I’ll insist that Marv comes to town with me. I’ll introduce him to Walt Rowenstock—right in Walt’s office. That’s the only way to conquer fear of the unknown. You have to face it, feel it, stay with it awhile.”

  “I reckon that’s exactly what Marv needs,” nodded Williams.

  ~*~

  Right up until the setting of the sun, the tracks showed clear on the soft surface of the east trail. When Jim and his companions finally called a halt, they had reached the outlet of a rock-walled pass. Beyond were the sprawling prairie, the arroyos, draws and canyons of Tascosa County, but that sizeable piece of territory was only dimly visible from this lofty vantage point, because darkness had come quickly.

  For a camp-site, Jim chose the north side of a grotesquely-shaped formation of lava-rock. His reason was the increasing wind blowing up from the south, not just a cooling breeze but a high blow that promised to become a howling gale. Already, the exposed flesh of their faces and hands was being stung by flying grit.

  It was Pat McNear’s turn to tend the animals, and he was cursing in impotent rage.

  “This damn-blasted wind ...!” His voice carried distinctly to Jim from over by the improvised picket-line. “You know what’s gonna happen, Big Jim? The trail’s soft. Every hoofprint’ll be blown out. The ground’ll be smooth as a pool-table by midnight.”

  Benito broke out sufficient provisions for a modest supper, and his unprepossessing visage wrinkled in a scowl, when Jim flatly announced:

  “We’ll have to eat cold chow—like it or not.” He added, as Pat joined them, “No use fooling ourselves. We could never have a fire in this storm.”

  “I could sure use some hot coffee,” complained Pat. “Ain’t it always the way, Jim? When you want somethin’ in the worst way, that’s the very time you can’t have it.”

  “Sure,” Jim agreed. “And it’s just too bad—but at least we won’t starve. One hunk of dry beef each, plus a can of peaches. If that won’t keep us alive till sun-up, we’re too greedy for our own good.”

  They were obliged to huddle shoulder to shoulder under an out-jutting shelf of rock close to where the black stallion, the sorrel and the burro were tethered; this was probably the only substantial shelter available within a hundred feet of the pass. Their saddles and pack rolls were dumped against the rock-wall. Although their heads were close together, they had to raise their voices to make themselves heard, so loud was the howling of the gale.

  At intervals, Pat managed to subdue his personal indignation and show concern for Jim’s position.

  “I guess what you’re after,” he suggested, “seems a sight more important than what I’m after, eh, Jim?”

  “Let’s call it a fortunate coincidence,” Jim replied, “that we’ll both get what we want—if we can find the Baggot outfit.”

  “It’s gonna be tougher,” lamented Pat, “with no tracks to follow.”

  “Tougher,” nodded Jim, “but maybe not impossible. I’ve been searching for Jenner many a month, and I haven’t always had tracks to follow.”

  “I bet you’re gettin’ to be a real professional man-hunter,” Pat conceded.

  “Amigo Jim is one muy sabio hombre,” offered Benito. “He will find this coyote who shoot his brother—sooner or later.”

  “When there are no tracks,” Jim told Pat, “you just have to ask questions—ride from town to town—use a lot of patience.”

  Pat chewed and swallowed on his last mouthful of dry beef, dug his fork into the can of peaches and worriedly declared, “I don’t know how in tarnation I’m gonna pay Molly’s pa for all that stolen beef. What you said about Greer was right. No use tryin’ to take it out of his hide.”

  “Put your faith in the federal government of the old U.S.A.,” advised Jim, with an encouraging grin.

  “I make a blame fool of myself—so my country is gonna pull me out of trouble?” blinked Pat.

  “Well, figure it this way,” said Jim. “The circulation of counterfeit money is a mighty serious
crime, from a national point of view. About as serious as grand treason, you know? The government has to act pretty damn quick—or those fake hundred dollar bills will be spread all the way to the west coast and as far north as the Canadian border.”

  “So?” prodded Pat.

  “One thing that’s bound to happen,” opined Jim, “is the government will offer a reward for the apprehension of the counterfeiters—especially for the jasper who’s actually printing the stuff. And why shouldn’t we be the lucky ones? We have as much chance as anybody else.”

  “By golly,” breathed Pat.

  “Such a reward would be very useful,” interjected Benito, “to hombres as poor as you and me, eh, Amigo Jim?”

  “You forget about the dinero, cucaracha,” Jim gruffly chided him. “I’m after Jenner, and nothing else. We already have enough folding money to keep us eating regular for quite a spell. If we find these counterfeiters, settle their hash and collect any bounty, it goes to Pat. His need is greater than ours.”

  “But ...!” Benito began an anguished protest.

  “Just for once in your no-good pocket-pickin’ life,” growled Jim, “why don’t you forget your doggone greed? Think of Pat’s problem. He’ll never get to marry his girl unless he can square accounts with her old man, and the only way he can do that is to compensate Gardner for his stolen pay-herd. Money talks loud to a rancher in debt. That’s the only talk Gardner will listen to—right, Pat?”

  “Right.” Pat nodded vehemently. “You never spoke a truer word, Jim. I daren’t show my face back in Quinn County unless I can shove a wad of genuine greenbacks in old Clem Gardner’s face and say, ‘Here you are, Mr. Gardner sir. This’ll keep the wolf from your door and the bailiffs off CG land.’ And then, if I’m lucky, he’ll let Molly and me get wed.”

  Benito shrugged and enquired, “How much farther must we travel before we find these counterfeiters? I would like it if some wise hombre will tell me this.”

  “How the hell do I know how far we’ll have to travel?” challenged Jim. “If you’re weary of it, climb on that flea-bit burro and skedaddle.”

  The little Mex cocked an ear to the howling of the wind, shrugged again.

  “Is better I stay,” he decided.

  “And now I’m wonderin’ how soon this blame storm’ll blow out,” frowned Pat.

  “Not before sun-up is my guess,” said Jim. “Meantime, we’d best try to sleep.”

  “We’ll be followin’ a cold trail tomorrow,” opined Pat.

  “Keep your fingers crossed,” advised Jim. “Start hoping we’ll find a town.”

  “You think those skunks would be printin’ loco dinero smack dab in the middle of a town?” challenged Pat.

  “No,” said Jim. “But a town is a fine place for buying provisions—and our grub is low again.”

  A quarter-hour after dawn they awoke to the feel of the sun on their faces, grit between their teeth and perspiration beading on their brows. They lurched to their feet, and now the wind was subdued, but no cooler. When they shook their blankets, clouds of alkali were carried away on the morning breeze. Already, the temperature was rising; this would be another hot and enervating day, but at least they could begin it with a more or less substantial breakfast washed down by hot coffee. Pat rustled up a cook fire while Benito watered the horses and Jim broke out the remains of their rations. Russ Greer’s chuck-boss had been unable to spare more than a token quantity of the bare necessities.

  After they had eaten, Jim strode to the extreme east end of the pass and scanned the terrain beyond. Smoke was visible on the horizon, and he surmised it to be the smoke of a sizeable township. He voiced this guess to his companions a short time later, as they descended from the high country by means of the serpentine trail, a trail now swept clean of all horse-tracks.

  They were riding the base of a tall butte when they encountered a quartet of ranch-hands who had been assigned to hunt steers stampeded in the storm. From these locals they learned that Tascosa, the county seat, was now some four hours’ steady ride to the northeast.

  At this same time, Mace Carrick was climbing a narrow track leading up the side of the mountain adjacent to his headquarters. He had ordered Nixon to saddle a couple of horses. Now, he was intent on offering Marvin Emhart what he believed would be a sure cure for his nervous condition.

  The boss-thief trudged past the entrance to the first shaft and climbed some twenty feet higher, past a small shack containing digging tools and explosives and on to a thick screen of brush which masked the entrance to the second and more vital shaft. The sound of his footsteps alerted Emhart, who was hard at work at the rear of the shaft. In the yellow lamplight, the master-forger’s face showed sallow and haggard. He was perspiring freely, operating the press and carefully examining his handiwork.

  “How’re they coming, Marv?” Carrick asked. “Another perfect batch?”

  “Good enough,” frowned Emhart, “to fool anybody but an expert.”

  “That’s why I waited so long to recruit you, my friend,” drawled Carrick. “I knew you were the best.”

  “Get to the point,” Emhart curtly suggested. “You didn’t come up here just to pay compliments.”

  “You’re the most valuable man in the outfit, Marv,” said Carrick, “and a valuable man should be taken care of—never over-worked, never subjected to more strain than he can bear. I said it last night. I say it again this morning. You need to relax.”

  “I’m relaxing,” shrugged Emhart.

  “Like hell you are,” said Carrick. “You’re strung too tight for my liking. Unless you loosen up, something’s going to snap.”

  “This last trip west was enough to try any man’s nerve,” muttered Emhart. “I feel safe when we’re travelling open country, bamboozling some slow-witted cattleman. But, every time we passed through a town ...”

  “We’re as safe in a town,” asserted Carrick, “as anywhere else.”

  “Towns are policed by sheriffs and marshals,” scowled Emhart. “Lawmen keep records.”

  “Nobody’s about to discover who you are,” Carrick assured him. “You aren’t news any more, Marv.”

  “Some lawmen have keen memories,” fretted Emhart.

  “And Wakeford, Wisconsin,” said Carrick, “is a long way from New Mexico. Believe me, nobody will ever suspect that you’re back in business. At the time of your release, it was assumed you wouldn’t live another two months. That was better than a year ago, and now look at you. I took care of you, didn’t I? You’re in excellent health.”

  “Every so often,” sneered Emhart, “you remind me of all you’ve done for me. How about all I’ve done for you, Mace? You’re becoming a rich man—thanks to me.”

  “Thanks also,” countered Carrick, “to my own talent for organization.” He grinned reassuringly, produced a couple of cigars, tossed one to Emhart and lit the other for himself. “Marv, you’re too important an investment to be mishandled.”

  “So don’t mishandle me,” retorted Emhart. “Just leave me be. I’d sooner work on this next batch than ride to Tascosa with you.”

  “In Tascosa,” said Carrick, “we’ll sample the bourbon at Garvin’s Bar. We might pass the time of day with some of Garvin’s hired girls. And then we’ll go pay a visit to an old friend of mine ...”

  “If you think I’d show my face in Sheriff Rowenstock’s office ...!” began Emhart.

  “You won’t be recognized,” Carrick promised. “And the experience will be invaluable. Your courage will be boosted.”

  “More likely I’ll suffer a heart-attack,” fretted Emhart. “The only way to conquer fear,” drawled Carrick, “is to face it.” He gestured impatiently. “Shut down the press and get your hat and coat.”

  “But ...” Emhart began another protest.

  “Do as I say,” ordered Carrick. “We’re riding to Tascosa.”

  Chapter Six

  A Reason for Fear

  It was eleven a.m. when the three strangers idled their mounts into
Tascosa’s main street, and maybe there was ample justification for the curious stares aimed at them by boardwalk loungers. They were, after all, an oddly mixed trio—Big Jim, sitting the big charcoal straight-backed, the epitome of strength and authority, as formidable a man as had ever been seen in this neck of the woods—Pat McNear, obviously an out-of-work cowhand—and the scruffy, uncommonly ugly Mex astride the plodding, nondescript burro.

  Although financially stable at this time, Jim had an eye for—and preferred—boarding establishments of unpretentious exterior. As a temporary headquarters, he chose the Pascoe House, a hotel located half-way along the second block. The desk-clerk offered them a single and a double which were accessible by means of a connecting door.

  “Rooms Four and Six up the stairs,” nodded the clerk “If you want baths, the best place is Parry’s Tonsorial Parlor and Bath House a couple doors along the street. And, for your animals, I’d suggest the Dominguez Barn. That’s almost opposite Parry’s.”

  By eleven-forty, they were well and truly settled in. Jim and Pat had patronized the Parry establishment while Benito had drifted away to investigate Tascosa’s Mexican quarter. Their animals were being fed and rubbed down at the livery stable and now, bathed and shaved and rigged in clean clothing, the hunters were ready to pursue their search.

  Outside the tonsorial parlor, while pausing to roll a cigarette, Jim told Pat, “You know who you’re looking for, so I guess I don’t have to warn you to tread careful. Check the saloons for a starter. If you sight Baggot or any of his sidekicks, don’t raise a ruckus. Just come fetch me.”

  “And where’ll you be?” demanded Pat.