Meet Me in Moredo (A Big Jim Western Book 2) Read online

  “Pardon ...?” began Benito.

  “You heard me,” growled Jim. “Now wipe that grin off your face and give me the stuff.” Benito surrendered the wrapped parcel. It had been stuffed into the crown of a straw sombrero with a broad and floppy brim, typical of the headgear worn by the peons. Without glancing toward the makeshift partition, Jim called to the girl. “You ready, Maria?”

  “Si.” Her answer sounded guarded and somewhat apprehensive.

  “Remember,” he emphasized. “I said peel down to your bare skin. If anybody caught a glimpse of lacy female underduds, they’d get wise to you rightaway.” He tossed the sombrero over the partition. “Catch.” He then tossed the parcel. “This, too. And now get yourself rigged and come on out here.”

  In less than ten minutes she emerged from behind the blankets, a smaller, less assertive Maria Castaldez. The lustrous raven hair had been piled atop her head and secured with a comb. The sombrero was tugged low so that, when she bowed her head, her face was invisible. The floppy blouse and cotton pants, the serape that enveloped her from shoulders to heels, completed the transformation.

  “Buenas noches—Cousin José,” chuckled Benito.

  “So far, so good,” frowned Jim. “But now I have to teach her how to walk, how to move—how to keep her mouth shut.”

  Five – Dreamers and Schemers

  At nine o’clock of that Friday night, a cattleman with a dream paid a late call on one of his neighbors. The dreamer was the hefty and flabby Art Sharkey, an uncouth Nebraskan who, thanks to a succession of good seasons and an abundant water supply, had managed the transition from struggling rancher to prosperous cattle baron. To Sharkey, his wife and his son, money was no longer a problem; they had as much of that essential commodity as they were ever apt to need—and more. But money can’t buy manners, diplomacy, an impressive, gentlemanly demeanor—all the qualities exhibited by the neighbor now welcoming Sharkey.

  “How have you been, Art?” Gil Farnsworth, the Box 5 owner, politely enquired.

  “Fair enough,” frowned Sharkey. “Stew and Rosebud and me—we’re all gettin’ a mite excited. I guess you could say—plain and straight—that we’re a mite scared. We ain’t sure us Sharkeys could make—uh—what you call a good impression—on that high-falutin’ Castaldez bunch.”

  Farnsworth grinned inwardly, contriving to maintain a serious and attentive exterior. At forty, he was the handsomest cattleman in Moredo County, and the poorest. He dressed well, drank only the best quality liquor, smoked only the finest cigars. He was tall and distinguished-looking, with well-chiseled features, quizzical blue eyes and dark hair graying at the temples. He took pains about his appearance, always pandering to his own vanity. Unfortunately he wasn’t as painstaking in the matter of running Box 5. And, even during his periods of solvency, he was apt to gamble his profits away. At this time, Farnsworth needed cash—as much of it as he could acquire. And the law authorities of Moredo County would have been extremely interested—professionally—in his future plans.

  “Is it tomorrow,” he asked, “that Don Diego is bringing his charming daughter to Moredo, to be betrothed to your—uh—handsome son?”

  “That’s how we planned it,” nodded Sharkey. “Don Diego and me, we aim to make the announcement at the grand ball.”

  “Very appropriate.” Farnsworth nodded approvingly. “A fitting climax to a day of great rejoicing.”

  “Gil, I don’t want for us Sharkeys to look like a passel o’ white trash, when we meet Don Diego at the railroad depot,” mumbled Sharkey. “I want for everything to go smooth. Like, for instance, I know it’s up to me to make some kinda speech—to welcome ’em, you know? But what do I know about speech making? Me and Stew and Rosebud—we never had no education. Plain truth is we’re a mighty sloppy bunch—us Sharkeys.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” drawled Farnsworth, who secretly considered Sharkey’s self-condemnation to be quite accurate. “I’m sure you’ll say all the right things.”

  “That northbound train,” said Sharkey, “is gonna roll into the Moredo depot at high noon. Could you be there, Gil? I need your help, and that’s the plain fact of it. Miss Maria’s apt to get scared clear down to her Sunday shift when she catches sight of us Sharkeys. She acted a mite leery the first time her and Stew got interdooced, come to think of it. Well, tomorrer could be worse—’less I can figure some way to please her. I was thinkin’ Stew could give her a posy and—uh—if you could be there and maybe make a speech ...”

  “I’m truly sorry, Art,” sighed Farnsworth. “I’d like nothing better than to be part of the reception committee and to offer a few well-chosen words to the bride-to-be—but ...”

  “You ain’t turnin’ me down?” blinked Sharkey. “Shucks, Gil, I was countin’ on you.”

  “I’ll be dealing with an emergency,” lied Farnsworth. “Of course I’m looking forward to paying my respects to the happy couple at the grand ball, but there’s little hope of my coming to town before eight o’clock tomorrow night.”

  “An emergency?” frowned Sharkey. “Aw, hell, Gil n—”

  “My entire herd stampeded tonight,” said Farnsworth. “I’ll have to turn out at dawn with my men, and I expect we’ll be hard at work all day long. It’ll take us until sundown to locate every stray and settle the herd on home-range.” He took another pull at his drink, studied Sharkey’s bulky silhouette in the half-gloom. “Sorry, Art, but that’s how it is.”

  “Aw, hell,” groaned Sharkey.

  “But you don’t really need me,” Farnsworth assured him. “Think of all the civic leaders who’ll be assembled to greet the visitors. Mayor Cosgrove—Judge Bain—Dr Eldridge ...”

  “Yeah—yeah ...” Sharkey nodded thoughtfully. “I guess you’re right, Gil. I could talk to ’em soon as I hit town.”

  “I’m sure any one of them would be honored to offer a word of welcome,” said Farnsworth, “to visitors as distinguished as Don Diego and the Señorita Castaldez.” He smiled encouragingly, as he added, “I’ll bet Cosgrove and Doc and the judge will all make speeches.”

  The county’s wealthiest cattleman took heart from these assurances and, a few moments later, bade his host goodnight, returned to his waiting horse and rode away. Farnsworth finished his drink, lit a fresh cigar and said: “All right. You can light the lamp again now.” During his brief conversation with the 3 Circles boss, there had been eavesdroppers—six of them—seated about the parlor table within earshot of the front porch. He rejoined them now, as his foreman, Rocky Wesson, re-lit the lamp. Wesson was a burly unkempt, beady-eyed ruffian who packed his hardware in a low-slung holster. Four of the others were cast of a similar mould—hard-faced hombres rigged in range clothes. The sixth was currently using the alias of “Keefe.” At some time in his past, he had supported Wesson in a lawless enterprise, and this was more than enough to assure him a place in Gil Farnsworth’s current project. He was sandy-haired with pale blue eyes. He wore the garb of the professional gambler and, if the ring on his right hand and the stickpin in his flowered cravat were any indication, he was addicted to pearl jewelry.

  As he re-seated himself at the table, Farnsworth sourly remarked:

  “It seems downright indecent that a fool of Sharkey’s caliber could become so wealthy—while men of breeding and education are forced to live in near-poverty.”

  “Near-poverty?” grinned Wesson. “Hell, Gil, you do all right for yourself.”

  “I’ll do better after tomorrow,” Farnsworth declared. He leaned back in his chair, eyed the other men challengingly. “Well—how about the Triangle outfit? Do we count you in, Leech?”

  “Let me hear it again,” growled the unprepossessing Rickard Leech. “You’ve dealt it out before, I know, but I hanker to hear it one more time.”

  “By all means, Leech,” smiled Farnsworth. “I’m very much in favor of our re-checking every phase of the operation. The more familiar it becomes, the more efficiently we’ll function.”

  “One t
hing you didn’t make real clear—this mornin’ out at the line-shack,” muttered one of Leech’s men.

  “Meaning?” prodded Farnsworth.

  “Meanin’ our getaway,” said the cautious one. “I want to be mighty sure we’ll be a long ways from Powderhorn Bend—right back on our own home-range—before the county law gets wise.”

  “The escape-route is a cinch,” grunted the man who called himself Keefe. “With all of us riding the shallows of the creek—then leaving the creek in twos and threes, instead of all together ...”

  “It’ll be somewhat confusing for the law-boys,” chuckled Farnsworth, “when they finally locate our tracks.”

  “If they find our tracks,” grinned Wesson.

  “The getaway will be no problem at all,” Farnsworth assured the cautious one. “We’ll move up that timbered slope to the west of the bend—after carefully disarming all the male passengers—and then we’ll head for the creek. By noon, every Triangle man should be home and dry. As for my group, we’ll be involved in routine chores, should a law-posse come our way. I’ll have the loot carefully hidden and I’ll be out with my men—rounding up strays.”

  “Don’t you fret, Leech,” muttered Wesson, “the boss has thought of everything.”

  “Well,” frowned Leech, “as long as me and Farnsworth are travellin’ to ’Frisco together—with all that loot ...”

  “I promise you a pleasant trip to the west coast, Leech,” smiled Farnsworth.

  “All right,” said Leech. “Triangle is gonna be empty in the mornin,’ but I guess that don’t much matter. Scarce anybody ever stops by.”

  “Box Five will be empty,” shrugged Farnsworth, “except for the chuck-boss and his wife. It doesn’t matter. I can rely on their discretion. If a posse comes by, they’ll be told we’re all out chasing strays. So our movements, will be accounted for.”

  “So we’re all set to go,” grinned Wesson.

  “This will be an unforgettable Foundation Day,” Farnsworth predicted. And he added, with a mirthless grin: “Especially for all those well-heeled Mexicans on the northbound train.”

  “Gil, I oughtn’t be offering any advice,” said Keefe. “This is your deal and I’m obliged to you for inviting me in ...”

  “But what?” prodded Farnsworth. “I’ll listen to any useful suggestions, Keefe. Any friend of Rocky’s is a friend of mine.”

  “I just want to remind you that there’s one sure way of keeping those passengers in line,” said Keefe. “All you have to do is grab one hostage—one is plenty. It could be the engineer or the conductor; it doesn’t much matter who. And then, while you put a gun on your hostage, you warn the rest of ’em to obey orders and no arguments. One rash move, and the hostage gets his brains blown out.” He spread his hands in a complacent gesture. “You ever hear anything so simple? It can’t fail.”

  “How about that, Gil?” drawled Wesson.

  “I like it,” declared Farnsworth. “It makes sense.”

  “Yeah—sure enough,” agreed Leech. “A hostage is a smart notion.”

  “Wait till you hear them whine.” Farnsworth stared down to the spot on the map, the penciled circle that marked the location of Powderhorn Bend. “Those well-heeled Mexicans with all their jewelry, their fat wallets.” His smile was ugly now, because there was more than a little spite in his disposition. He despised and was jealous of the wealthy, while he himself yearned for wealth. “They’ll lose it all. They’ll see every last peso, every last cent, every bauble, dumped into a grain sack. And they’ll whine, believe me, they’ll whine.”

  “Like you said before,” chuckled his ramrod, “this’ll be one Foundation Day nobody’s gonna forget.”

  ~*~

  When Art Sharkey returned to 3 Circles that night, he found his wife and son still very much awake. 3 Circles. The brand was an unfortunate choice, and for more than one reason. Standing side by side, the Sharkeys and the sole issue of their union appeared as three of the fattest citizens of the county, three human spheres. Also, Gil Farnsworth had once remarked that the Sharkey brand strongly resembled an emblem he had once seen—hung over the entrance to a ’Frisco pawnbroker’s establishment.

  Not surprisingly, the house was big. As for the interior decorations, they were in deplorable taste—not surprisingly. The parlor in which Sharkey conversed with his family was a clutter of rugs dyed to every color of the rainbow, over-stuffed chairs, two liquor-cabinets, a grand piano freighted all the way from Dallas, Texas—nobody at 3 Circles could play it—framed prints of such stirring subjects as The Monarch Of The Glen, Pocahontas and John Smith, The Battle Of Bunker Hill, Whistler’s Mother and The Birth of Venus—plus no less than seven moose-heads, one of which bore an alarming resemblance to Rosebud Sharkey. She was, at this moment, displaying a recent purchase, the hat she planned to wear on the morrow, and the sprigs of artificial wildflowers sprouting from it looked very much like festooned antlers. Massive and rotund in her checked gingham, she waddled back and forth, primping. Sharkey entered the room, paused to eye her in rapt admiration. His pudgy and slovenly son sat in a sagging chair, immersed in his favorite hobby—eating.

  “Rosebud,” breathed Sharkey, “that there’s the gosh-durnedest, purtiest hat I ever seen in my whole life. Hey, Stew, ain’t that purty?”

  “Sure is,” grunted Stew.

  “What about that Farnsworth feller?” Rosebud demanded, in her harsh, nasal growl. “He gonna be at the depot to gab fancy at little Maria and her pa?”

  “Not a chance,” sighed Sharkey. He flopped into an over-stuffed chair; it sagged and groaned a protest. “Seems he’s gonna be ridin’ out with his hired hands—lookin’ all over for strays. They had ’emselves a stampede over to Box Five tonight.”

  “Well now, that’s a consarned shame,” frowned Rosebud.

  “Sure is,” grunted Stew, who would never qualify as a brilliant conversationalist.

  “What I wanta know,” said Rosebud, pausing to pour herself a shot of whisky, “is who’s gonna gab a fancy speech at them Castaldezes?”

  “Gil Farnsworth says we oughta ask the judge,” said her spouse, “or the mayor, or Doc Eldridge. So I guess that’s just what I better do. Rosebud, honey, you oughta wear that purty hat to the ball, as well as all through the day. I betcha every buck in Moredo County’ll be fightin’ for a chance to dance with you.”

  “You want a shot of redeye?” asked Rosebud.

  “No, thanks,” said Sharkey. “Had one with Gil Farnsworth.”

  “Well,” said Rosebud, “I reckon I’ll have me another.”

  “Sure is,” grunted Stew.

  “You know—about this weddin’ ...” Sharkey heaved a wistful sigh. “There’s only one thing grieves me. She’s purty, that Maria, but she ain’t half as purty as you, Rosebud. And I always wanted the best for my boy, always hankered to see him hitched to a fine-framed, beautiful woman—just like his ma.”

  Rosebud finished her second tumbler of rye, shrugged philosophically and said:

  “Well, I guess he can’t have everything.”

  Would Don Diego have relented, had he been able to study the Sharkeys at this moment? Would he have given second thoughts to the advisability of offering his daughter in marriage to a Sharkey, mixing the aristocratic blood of the Castaldez family with the plebeian manners and rye whisky of the Sharkeys? Maybe. And maybe not.

  Certainly the question would never have been in doubt, had Big Jim Rand ever laid eyes on Stew Sharkey, tough though he was—and an ex-sergeant of cavalry to boot—he had some appreciation of the feminine sensitivities; he would never have aided and abetted the matching of two such sharply contrasted people—the fiery and imperious Maria—the dull-witted Stew.

  Sleeping arrangements had been unconventional, but Jim had ensured that there would be no invasion of Maria’s privacy; those two blankets were very secure on the taut line. Long before dawn, in lamplight, he roused Benito and called quietly to the girl. He had flipped a coin to decide who should occupy the
second bed; Benito had won that toss, so Jim had slept on the floor.

  “Rise up quiet,” he ordered the Mex. And then, standing close to the hanging blankets. “You awake now, Maria?”

  “Dressing,” came her soft reply, “in these—these foolish clothes ...”

  “I guess a man’d feel just as foolish,” Jim conceded, “if he had to get rigged up in women’s clothes.”

  “You still wish me to—to rub dirt on my face?”

  “And on your hands—and don’t forget your ankles. Then come on out here and we’ll go through the whole routine again.”

  By “the routine”, he meant the actions, the gestures, the mode of walk he had taught her so carefully in the last few hours before midnight. Never in his army career had he been obliged to give such tuition—naturally. He was probably ill suited to the chore of teaching a beautiful young woman how to move like a shiftless boy, but he had done his best. He deemed it an urgent necessity; this would be no time for taking chances.

  When Maria announced she was ready, Jim was finishing his shave. He nodded to Benito to pull down the blankets and re-wind the line. Then, after drying his face and hands on a towel, he subjected Maria to a critical scrutiny. She stared back at him lugubriously and declared:

  “I wish it could be me that used the soap and water.”

  “Walk,” he gruffly ordered. “I want to see how you walk.”

  She looked tiny, nondescript to a pathetic extreme, but the disguise was effective—more so than Jim had hoped. The black hair was upswept and held thus by the floppy straw sombrero, and that headgear also served to conceal most of her face. Minus powder and rouge and with dirt smeared on her cheeks, her chin and throat, she certainly didn’t resemble any beautiful women of Jim’s acquaintance. The camisa and pantalones were of fairly snug fit. Sandalias to protect her small feet completed the transformation—except for the serape. That blanket-like robe so characteristic of the Mexicans was to serve an important purpose; how else could the well-rounded chest of this shuffling “boy” be hidden from view of passers-by?