Big Jim 9 Read online

  ‘Bueno,’ he shrugged. ‘Rosa will have Benito for her husband.’ He eyed her steadily, composed his face in an expression of sad resignation. ‘I just hope she’s strong enough.’

  ‘In all of Delandro,’ Pasquale smugly assured him, ‘there is no woman as strong as my Rosa.’

  ‘I don’t mean physical strength, Señor Pasquale,’ frowned Jim. ‘I mean strength of mind, the courage to overcome her fear of the unknown.’

  Pasquale eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘¿Que pasa?’

  ‘The unknown,’ Jim patiently repeated. ‘The unexpected. The unnatural.’

  ‘I do not understand you, señor,’ frowned Pasquale. ‘What is unnatural about this marriage? Rosa is a woman. He is a man.’

  ‘And no ordinary man.’ Jim sighed heavily, shook his head. ‘As Rosa will discover to her sorrow.’

  ‘Is a trick, Tío Antonio,’ opined one of Pasquale’s many nephews. ‘Do not listen to the gringo.’

  ‘Amigo Jim …’ began Benito.

  ‘I know what you’re about to ask, little feller,’ said Jim. ‘You’re gonna beg me to stay quiet about it—to tell them nothing of the dark secret of the Espinas. Well, maybe you’re right. Why frighten Rosa? It probably couldn’t happen again anyway.’

  ‘¿Que?’ blinked Benito.

  ‘Take yourself, for instance,’ Jim went on. ‘You’re damn near normal—compared to your brother Miguel and your cousin Rafael.’ While Benito stood there with his jaw sagging and his brain struggling to comprehend, Jim switched his gaze to Pasquale again, eyeing the fat man pensively. ‘How about you, Señor Pasquale? Are you as strong as your daughter?’

  ‘You speak in riddles,’ complained Pasquale.

  ‘I beg you, Amigo Jim!’ cried Benito.

  ‘All right—all right,’ nodded Jim. ‘You don’t have to beg. I’ll keep my mouth shut.’ He turned towards the door. ‘As I said before, it probably couldn’t happen again.’

  ‘What does not happen again?’ demanded the spouse of the restaurant keeper.

  Rosa’s mother, like Rosa herself, was a lot of woman—big, bovine, broad-footed, bosomy and belligerent. Her tiny dark eyes surveyed Jim suspiciously. Her voice was rough and challenging, but Jim sensed her growing alarm and took advantage of it.

  ‘Better not to speak of it, señora,’ he asserted.

  ‘I would not listen to any bad things this gringo says,’ declared Rosa, ‘about my Benito.’

  ‘I am not your Benito!’ gasped Benito.

  ‘Is better I ask the questions, my little pigeon,’ Pasquale suggested to his wife.

  ‘Sí, Mama,’ said Rosa. ‘Let Papa ask the gringo—’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ chided Mama Pasquale. She patted her massive fore structure to emphasize her words. ‘I will ask the questions!’ She whirled on Jim, pointing a pudgy finger. ‘You tell us, gringo. You tell us now!’

  ‘You mean—while Rosa is listening?’ asked Jim.

  ‘What is difference if Rosa listen?’ demanded Mama Pasquale. ‘Muy presto she will be the wife of this Benito.’

  ‘Sure,’ he grunted. ‘And then she’ll find out.’ He stared sadly at Rosa. ‘But it will be too late.’

  ‘Amigo Jim!’ groaned Benito. He was still vainly attempting to get a word in edgewise.

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ hissed Mama. ‘You—big gringo …’ She prodded at Jim’s broad chest. ‘You tell us about his brother Miguel and his cousin Rafael.’

  ‘That’s all in the past, señora,’ Jim told her with deep regret. ‘Miguel was shot seven years ago. A posse ran him down. Well you could hardly blame the vigilantes. And then poor Rafael …’

  ‘What you mean?’ she challenged. ‘No blame the vigilantes for shooting him?’

  ‘They were riled up,’ said Jim. ‘Women were mighty scarce in that part of Sonora. The men didn’t take it kindly when Miguel killed his own wife.’

  ‘¡Ai, caramba!’

  ‘Strangled her in his sleep. Uh huh. That’s the curse of the Espinas. But only the Espina men, you understand. And not all of them. Heck, no. Plenty of Espinas get married and their wives are never harmed. Poor Miguel and Rafael—Carlos and Ricardo and a few others—’

  ‘So many?’

  ‘Sure enough, señora. They strangled their wives in bed. Didn’t mean to do it, you understand. They were asleep when it happened. It was probably all part of a dream. But, of course, that didn’t make their wives feel any easier about it.’

  Silence. The Mexicans stood quiet, trading uncertain frowns. Big Rosa, seeing married bliss slipping from her sweaty grasp, gave vent to a wail of anguish. Mama urged her to shut her mouth and swung a back-hander at her. Fortunately she missed.

  ‘Is a trick,’ opined Pasquale, but he didn’t sound very sure of himself now. ‘The gringo gigante lies to us, tries to frighten us.’

  ‘You don’t have to take my word for it,’ drawled Jim. ‘Ask the alcalde of San Lazaro, down Sonora way. Ask the good doctor Rodriguez of Chihuahua. Well, what the heck…’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It doesn’t happen to all the Espina men. Benito could be one of the lucky bridegrooms. Chances are Rosa doesn’t have a thing to worry about.’

  More silence. He could almost hear them thinking— and fretting.

  ‘I think …’ began Pasquale.

  ‘I think,’ said Mama Pasquale, ‘is better Rosa waits for another man—one who is not loco when he sleeps.’

  ‘Mighty strange,’ mused Jim, ‘what some men can do while they’re asleep. You hear of sleepwalkers and men who talk in their sleep. We had a corporal in the Eleventh Cavalry once—he seemed normal enough. But one night he just rolled out of his bunk, sashayed over to the officers’ quarters and tried to set fire to the C.O.’s tent. He didn’t wake up till a captain and a major grabbed him, and then he swore he didn’t know how he got there.’

  The Mexicans weren’t even slightly interested in Jim’s reminiscences of the army; they had ceased to listen after his description of the dire fate that had befallen the fictitious wives of the fictitious Miguel, Rafael, Carlos and Company. These were simple folk of humble peasant stock, and Jim was almost ashamed for having taken advantage of their gullibility; on the other hand he couldn’t stand by and see the terrified Benito forced into marriage with the terrifying Rosa.

  Some of the Mexicans were already quitting the law office, sidling out through the street doorway, eyeing Benito askance. Rosa burst into tears and filled the air with loud wailing, probably figuring it was expected of her, as her massive mother led her outside. They were followed by Antonio Pasquale who, on the threshold, frowned back at Jim and asserted:

  ‘Maybe you are one smart liar, Señor Gigante, but Rosa is my beloved daughter. With her happiness I can take no chances.’ He beckoned the other representatives of the clan. ‘¡Animo! We go now.’

  His sons and nephews joined the mass exodus. In a moment, only Jim and Benito remained in the office. Benito, still nervous suggested:

  ‘We go too, eh, amigo?’

  ‘We go,’ nodded Jim. ‘I have Capitan Cortez hitched to the rack out front. Fetch your gear and let’s get out of here—bridegroom.’

  ‘Don’t call me that!’ gasped Benito. He scuttled back into the cell-block, returned almost immediately toting his guitar and sombrero. ‘Call me coward. Call me thief. Call me cucaracha. But never bridegroom, por favor!’

  The demoralized philanderer collected his holstered pistola from the gun rack. Even now, still scared stiff by his narrow escape from matrimony, he might have lingered to loot the drawers of the desk, had Jim not seized him by the collar of his jacket and frog marched him outside. ‘Mount up,’ he gruffly ordered.

  ‘Saludos, El Capitan!’ grinned Benito, and the burro lazily flicked his ears.

  The Mex swung astride and rode level with the big man striding back towards the Silver Queen. Only now did he think to enquire as to where they were going and why. Jim confined his reply to a few terse sentences, after which Benito nodded sadly
and remarked:

  ‘Ah, sí. I have heard the shooting, the explosion. The patron Rurale was killed?’

  ‘And the old deputy—Kittridge—wounded,’ muttered Jim.

  ‘You would ride with the son of this patron Rurale?’ frowned Benito.

  ‘His father was shot in the back,’ said Jim. ‘You know how I feel about back-shooters.’

  When they reached the saloon hitchrack, Kell Garrard was packing liquor and provisions into the saddlebags of a rangy bay gelding. The gunbelt once worn by his father was now strapped about his loins, the butt of the Colt jutting from the tied-down holster. To Jim, he still looked like a saloon-worker, a professional gambler, but somewhat more formidable now. A lot of maturity had come to Kell in a very short time.

  Jim untethered the big black and swung astride, while Kell mounted the bay. Glancing at the Mex, Kell asked:

  ‘Is your itchy-fingered little friend coming along?’

  ‘You’ll learn to cope with him,’ shrugged Jim. ‘Just remember to check your pockets any time he’s been close enough to touch you.’ As he wheeled the black, he asked, ‘You know which direction we should ride now?’

  ‘South-west after the cross roads south of town,’ frowned Kell. ‘The general direction of L-Bar-W. I figure we’ll run into Leo somewhere along the way.’

  At the corner of Main and the side street on which the clinic was located, they reined up for a few words with Emma Kittridge.

  ‘I was on my way home from visiting Dad,’ she told them. ‘Mother is still with him.’

  ‘Any change in his condition?’ asked Kell.

  ‘He isn’t awake yet,’ she murmured. ‘Dr. Jeff keeps checking on him, and he seems satisfied for the present.’ Her gaze dropped to the holstered weapon at Kell’s right side. ‘Your father’s gun.’

  ‘Appropriate, wouldn’t you say?’ His face contorted in a mirthless grin. ‘The avenger carries the gun of his murdered sire, as he rides out to do battle with the enemy. A fine gesture—but too late—too damned late …’

  ‘Don’t punish yourself,’ she begged.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he frowned. ‘I’m more concerned with the punishment of those yellow-livered butchers. I think that’s what Dad would have wanted.’ He raised a hand to the brim of his Stetson. ‘Goodbye for now, Emma. When I return, I hope to be told that your father is out of danger.’

  She nodded slowly, wistfully.

  ‘Goodbye for now, Kell, and may the Lord protect you.’

  They nudged their mounts to movement and rode to Delandro’s southern outskirts. In silence they travelled, until they veered to the southwest after the crossroads. Kell then moodily remarked:

  ‘The funeral was a quiet affair. A lot of people attended, but there wasn’t much hymn singing or sermonizing. The eulogy was short. Dad would’ve wanted it that way. Many of the women wept—including Emma. Well, the least my father deserved was a few tears.’

  ‘Tears are soon forgotten,’ declared Jim. ‘What he really deserves is for his killers to be apprehended.’

  ‘I’m told they got away with quite a passel of dinero,’ said Kell. ‘Better than forty thousand—in bills of all denominations. There’s a question keeps occurring to me. Will they divide the money and scatter in different directions, or will they stay together as a group? I wish I knew.’

  ‘The important thing at this stage,’ Jim assured him, ‘is to find their tracks.’

  ‘And that won’t be easy,’ predicted Kell.

  ‘Hurst might’ve gotten lucky,’ said Jim.

  It was 12.10 p.m. when they encountered the saddle-weary, grim-visaged deputy. Hurst was walking a tired sorrel pony along the bank of a creek, moving northward, when he sighted them and waved a greeting. They joined him atop a windswept rise some short distance from the creek. Kell offered him a match for the cold cigar clamped between his teeth. He puffed gratefully, glanced at Jim and the Mex and bitterly remarked:

  ‘I did have a posse.’

  ‘I know,’ nodded Jim.

  ‘Some men give up too easily,’ Hurst complained.

  ‘The way I hear it,’ said Jim, ‘all track of those four thieves was blotted out by a stampede.’

  ‘That’s the hell of it, Rand,’ scowled the deputy. ‘But I’m not quittin’. The L-Bar-W herd has been rounded up—almost. Somewhere south of Luscombe and Wilton’s range there’ll be tracks, and I’ll find ’em.’

  ‘We’ll be siding you, Leo,’ said Kell.

  Hurst traded frowns with him.

  ‘I wish your father’s coin had come down heads last night,’ he muttered. ‘He’d still be alive.’

  ‘And you could be critically wounded like Boone Kittridge,’ Kell pointed out. ‘Or worse.’

  ‘How’s Boone makin’ out?’ Hurst asked.

  ‘He’ll pull through, they say,’ said Jim, ‘but it’ll take time.’

  And now the deputy stared hard at Benito, Who accorded him a guileless grin.

  ‘Some posse we’ll be,’ he moodily reflected. ‘A gambler, a pickpocket, a deputy who can scarce keep his eyes open—and Big Jim. Well …’ He shrugged philosophically. ‘At least one of us can hold his own in a hassle.’

  ‘Where were you headed when we sighted you?’ asked Jim.

  ‘Back to the L-Bar-W,’ said Hurst. ‘Things happened fast last night. I didn’t get much chance to question the men who saw those owlhoots. I figure I ought to try and get some kind of description before I make another search for tracks.’ He gestured southward. ‘I’ve checked three-four miles this side of the county line: After I’ve talked to Luscombe and Wilton, we’ll make another search. That’s where they were headed when they stampeded the herd. South.’

  ‘It was a dark night, Leo,’ said Kell. ‘Not much chance those L-Bar-W waddies would get a clear look at them—especially in a stampede.’

  ‘Maybe not.’ Hurst heaved a sigh, stifled a yawn. ‘But they’re the only ones that got any kind of look at the killers, so I have to talk to ’em.’ He started the sorrel moving again. ‘You fellers taggin’ along?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kell was grinning a wry grin, as he wheeled his mount and began riding stirrup to stirrup with Jim. ‘We’ll tag along—and let’s hope this meeting with Luscombe’s men will be less violent than our last.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ demanded Jim.

  ‘Those three cowpokes we tangled with yesterday,’ Kell explained, ‘were L-Bar-W men.’

  ‘They won’t be lookin’ to start a fight today,’ opined Hurst. ‘They’ll be too damn busy roundin’ up strays.’

  He led his volunteers due north across a green plain dotted with steers retrieved by the herders. Beyond were the clapboard buildings of the ranch headquarters, the corrals, the ramshackle bunkhouse. They could see two riders flushing beeves from the brush away to the west, another dismounting in the yard fronting the ranch house.

  Wilton and Luscombe were in conversation with Red Modine, watching Underfield dismount by the corral, when they heard the thudding of hooves heralding the approach of the quartet. They stared to the south. Luscombe swore luridly, but Wilton remained impassive.

  ‘This’ll be easy,’ he assured them. ‘All we have to do is keep our heads and act polite. We have nothing to hide, nothing to gain by scrapping with that deputy.’

  Underfield hurried over to join them, and to report, ‘The big hombre on the charcoal—he’s the one beat up Sam and Ike yesterday!’

  Seven – Decision of the Hunters

  It was a brief parley. Wilton and Luscombe spoke for their employees, assuring Hurst that none of the men could identify the night raiders. Underfield stood to one side, licking his lips, never looking directly at the big man on the handsome black stallion. Modine had nothing to say, until Wilton had finished his description of the stampede. Then:

  ‘You ought to remind the deputy of our drive west to Lupton City.’

  ‘Oh,’ Wilton shrugged nonchalantly, ‘the whole county knows we’ll be on our way—day after tomorrow.’r />
  ‘I’d forgotten,’ Hurst confessed.

  ‘I’ll postpone the drive if you say the word,’ Wilton assured him. ‘If you’re hard-pressed to find volunteers for a posse—well—this outfit won’t let you down. I had a lot of respect for the sheriff. You’d be welcome to use every man on the L-Bar-W payroll.’

  ‘Includin’ me and Kane,’ declared Luscombe.

  ‘You said there were only four of those raiders?’ Hurst asked Underfield.

  ‘Four is all we seen,’ mumbled Underfield.

  ‘Well, four against four is even,’ said Hurst. ‘We won’t need any more men.’

  ‘If you change your mind, come back and we’ll talk it over,’ drawled Wilton. ‘We won’t be moving out until the mid-afternoon, day after tomorrow.’ He studied Jim with keen interest. ‘Howdy there. I understand you had a run-in with my boys yesterday. Hope you won’t hold that little dispute against the whole outfit.’

  ‘We didn’t mean no harm,’ Underfield grudgingly assured Jim. ‘Ike got mad when your cayuse fazed him. He shouldn’t of lost his temper.’

  ‘What’s done is done,’ was all Jim had to say about it.

  ‘You find any sign of them crazy stampeders?’ Luscombe asked Hurst.

  ‘They aren’t just stampeders, Luscombe,’ scowled Hurst. ‘They’re thieves and killers.’ He turned in his saddle, stared southward. ‘No. I haven’t yet found track of ’em, but I’ll sure keep lookin’.’

  ‘We had to chase our herd as far south as the river,’ Wilton pointed out. ‘Can’t you guess what those owl hoots have done? They’re travelling the shallows, and they’ll go on travelling that way—clear into New Mexico.’

  ‘You’re likely right,’ nodded Hurst. ‘But I aim to make sure.’ He looked at Underfield again. ‘You did notice they were totin’ grain sacks?’

  ‘Yeah,’ grunted Underfield. ‘A couple grain sacks.’

  ‘Well, that figures,’ said Hurst. ‘They’d need at least a couple big sacks to carry all the paper money from that safe. The safe was probably jam-packed.’ He nodded to Jim and Kell. ‘We’d better be on our way. It’s a long ride to the river.’