Big Jim 3 Read online

  “That’s enough talk,” murmured Dora May. “This man needs his rest. Let’s move out quiet.”

  They quit the bedroom. While the rancher’s wife returned to the upstairs parlor, Loomis, Sam and the chuck-boss moved out to the front porch.

  “You did right, young Sam,” opined Loomis, as he lit a cigar. “Bringin’ him here was a sight smarter than tryin’ to take him to Byrne City.”

  “I calculate he’d of died,” grunted Dan.

  “Don’t worry about him anymore,” drawled Loomis. “He’ll likely pull through. Thaddeus Russell is a real smart doc, and he ought to get here around sun-up tomorrow. See?” He pointed. “There goes the supply-wagon. You can bet Horton and Jelkie will make it fast.”

  “Sure,” nodded Sam. “Well, Mr. Loomis sir, I’d best mosey along. Didn’t mean to scare you—comin’ back like I did—but it was only to fetch Arch Gillery someplace where he could get some doctorin’.”

  “No call to apologize,” shrugged the rancher.

  “We ain’t scared any more,” muttered Dan. And he added, pointedly, “Now that we know you’re leavin’ again.”

  “Leavin’ right this very minute,” Sam assured him. He donned his Stetson, descended from the porch, then frowned back at the chuck-boss, struck by a sudden thought. “Where’d you say it is—that Box G spread?”

  “South,” said Dan. “Quite a ways. Why?”

  “Somebody oughta let them Gillerys know about Arch gettin’ shot up and all,” opined Sam. “They’ll be frettin’—wonderin’ where he’s at. Least a body could do is ride on down there and tell ’em the score.”

  “Suit yourself, boy,” frowned the chuck-boss. “I recall the fastest route would be the regular trail—as far as Bugle Spring. From the Spring you cut away from the trail and head due south toward the border. There’s no marked route, but the ridin’s easy. Me and Harkness and Kinsell—we made it easy enough.”

  “You’ll go to Box G?” prodded Loomis.

  “I need a job,” Sam reminded him, with a rueful grin. “Maybe them Gillerys’ll pardon me for bein’ so all-fired clumsy, when I tell ’em how I tried to help their brother.”

  “I guess they’ll be grateful,” mused Loomis. “It could be you saved his life by bringin’ him to Double L. Well—so-long, young Sam. And luck to you.”

  Across to his waiting pinto trudged Sam Beech. Into the saddle he swung. And all without causing a mishap. Maybe he was losing the hex that had dogged him the last few years. Maybe he was maturing.

  ~*~

  Sundown of that day, Holbrook and his party made camp at Bugle Spring, close to the border. Since the shooting of Arch Gillery, Truscott had been plagued by fears and doubts, and Holbrook was well aware of his apprehension, grimly amused. If Holbrook could so treacherously slay Arch Gillery, Truscott asked himself, might he not be capable of committing other such wanton acts? Arch Gillery had been, after all, naught but a messenger. Had he reached Byrne City, summoned a J.P. and begun escorting that J.P. south to the Gillery spread, it would have made little or no difference to the overall scheme outlined by Holbrook. The J.P. could hardly marry a girl who had disappeared. Therefore—why shoot the messenger?

  “You didn’t have to do that,” he chided Holbrook, as they squatted side by side near the cook-fire. “He wasn’t dangerous. Even if he fetched a J.P. from Byrne City ...”

  “Truscott,” scowled Holbrook, “don’t you ever try to tell me who’s dangerous and who ain’t, because I’m kind of an expert.”

  “I still say ...” began Truscott.

  “Listen, mister,” breathed Holbrook. “You want to know who’s the most dangerous hombre in this outfit? What would be your answer? You’d say me? No, Truscott, you’d be wrong. The most dangerous polecat I ever knew is you!”

  “Me?” frowned Truscott. “But—damnitall ...”

  “I kill for money,” muttered Holbrook. “Could I do that—if there wasn’t always some yeller-bellied skunk wantin’ to pay me, wantin’ somebody else to handle his dirty work? You, Truscott, and all your kind—you’re the dangerous ones. Me and the boys, we’re just four more gunhawks, and gunhawks are gettin’ to be a dollar a dozen, anywhere west of the Mississippi.”

  Truscott was silent for a long moment. Six thousand dollars. Was it worth it? Yes, damnitall. He had no intention of living in a state of penury. Who were these Gillerys after all? White trash. He had never seen Lucy Rose, but assumed her to be typical of the women raised in the isolated homesteads of the great Southwest—poorly educated, unrefined, plain-faced, hardened by over-exposure to the merciless heat of the Arizona sun. He asked himself the question—was six thousand dollars in his pocket more important than the life of such a woman? And, being a confirmed egotist, he could find only one answer.

  “All right,” he shrugged. “I won’t question your methods again, Holbrook. We’ll go on. You please yourself as to how you prevent the girl from marrying.”

  “That’s what I figured to do,” Holbrook assured him, “right from the start.” He took the platter handed him by Clayburn, dug a fork into the mixture of beans and beef and began eating. After a few moments, he reflected, “We’ve been movin’ south real steady. Way I calculate it, we’re gettin’ right close to this Box G outfit.”

  “Sometime tomorrow?” suggested Weems.

  “Early, I’d say,” nodded Holbrook. He eyed Truscott challengingly. “How about that?”

  “According to my information,” shrugged Truscott, “we haven’t much further to travel.”

  “So here’s what we’re gonna do,” drawled Holbrook. “We turn in early, get movin’ again before sunrise. I’d as soon hit Box G before they’re wide awake. Might’s well give ourselves an edge.”

  “Seems to me it’ll be four against four,” grinned Billy Joe. “Us against the Gillery brothers and the bridegroom. The girl don’t count.” Contemptuously, he jerked a thumb toward Truscott. “No more than the dude here.”

  Truscott bowed his head and pretended to ignore their insults. He would, he reminded himself, have the last laugh. There was no way Holbrook could learn that the legacy would amount to double the amount he had named. Not five thousand—but ten! When it was all over, when the money was in his hands, he would pay four thousand to these cut-throats and that would be the end of their association.

  There was little sleep for him that night. He was plagued by dreams of the hapless Archer Gillery falling from his horse, rolling down the slanting cliff-face in a welter of dislodged rock and rubble. Guilt weighed heavily on the head of Calvin Truscott.

  Seven – Late Night Alert

  At ten minutes before midnight all the participants of this potentially violent drama were engaged in widely varied pursuits. Some of these men—Lawyer Green, the Sheriff of Byrne County, Dr. Thaddeus Russell and the Justice of the Peace—were destined to be connected, but not actively involved in, the final showdown. Others were marked by Fate to be well and truly involved, risking their lives in a battle to the death.

  Ten minutes before midnight a couple of Double L hands were hustling the supply-wagon and a panting and lathered team into Byrne City’s main street.

  It had rolled past several saloons at which the two punchers on the seat—Horton and Jelkie—cast wistful sidelong glances.

  “I was never so all-fired thirsty …” began the skinny Horton.

  “There’s nothin’ like the sight and sound of a saloon,” growled the even skinnier Jelkie, “to give a man a thirst.”

  “Well ...?” prodded Horton.

  “Well,” frowned Jelkie, “we ain’t come to town to get likkered-up. Cole Robinson give us orders and, by Jonah, them orders better be followed right. First we pass the word to Doc Russell and the sheriff. Then we find a J.P. and tell him to head for Box G muy pronto—and then we check into Kimbrough’s barn till mornin’.”

  “And load supplies at the emporium—and go on back to the ranch.” Horton sighed sadly. “I wouldn’t call that a barrel of fun—would you?
”

  “We get paid for followin’ Cole’s orders,” Jelkie gruffly reminded him.

  They would have no difficulty in contacting the county sheriff. Light glowed from the windows of the law office. If Sheriff March wasn’t there, one of his deputies could surely inform them of his whereabouts. Horton stalled the team at the hitch rack. They climbed down, advanced on the closed door of the law-office and rapped loudly. Sheriff March certainly was present. He opened the door to them, his broad face creased in a frown, a half-smoked cigar jutting from his mouth.

  “Howdy, Horton—Jelkie,” he greeted. “What the devil do you fellers want at this hour? It’s near midnight.”

  “And time I went my weary way,” muttered Jonas Green, as he rose from his chair in front of the sheriff’s desk. “Long past my bed-time, Eli.”

  “We had to finish the game,” muttered March. “I couldn’t have slept a wink tonight—with such a game unfinished.”

  “I defeated you.” The lawyer’s eyes gleamed. He showed March a good-humored smile. “You’ll stay awake anyway—trying to unravel my system, trying to decide where you went wrong.”

  March scowled at the chessboard and sourly opined, “I should’ve stayed with checkers. It’s less complicated.” But he tried not to be a sore loser. “Well, thanks for stopping by, Jonas. At least I got whupped by a good friend.”

  “Sheriff,” frowned Jelkie, “what we got to tell you is mighty important.”

  “Tell it, then,” offered March.

  The aged lawyer had donned his derby and was moving toward the doorway, but he came to a halt and listened attentively, as Jelkie announced:

  “We got a feller name of Gillery laid up out at the ranch. Seems he was drygulched. Sam Beech found him and brought him in ...”

  “Calamity Sam?” interrupted March. “Don’t tell me he still works for Double L? I thought sure Luke would’ve fired him weeks ago.”

  “Beech got fired,” grunted Horton. “It was afterwards that he found this Gillery.”

  “You’re quite sure about the name?” demanded Green.

  “Gillery,” nodded Horton. “That’s what Cole Robinson called him. He ain’t cashed in yet. Luke wants we should send Doc Russell out to the ranch muy pronto, on account of ...”

  “On account of,” guessed the sheriff, “Dora May and Cole and old Dan have been playing doctor—and they want to be sure they didn’t kill this poor jasper.” He eyed the lawyer curiously. “Jonas—does the name mean anything to you?”

  “If he’s one of the Box G Gillerys ...” began Green.

  “He’s from Box G all right,” said Jelkie.

  “One of the Gillery boys,” mused Green.

  “That wild bunch from down by the border?” challenged March.

  “The brothers,” frowned Green, “of Lucy Rose Gillery—to whom old Brigg Fullerton left half of his estate. Subject to a certain condition, of course.” He stroked his chin, stared pensively at the cowpokes. “Do you happen to know exactly where this man was ambushed?”

  “And which brother is he?” demanded March. “Did Cole mention his first name?”

  “Sam did,” recalled Jelkie. “He called him Arch—said he found him back near Lampazo Bend.”

  “It’s my guess this Gillery hombre was headed for town,” offered Horton.

  “What makes you think so?” prodded March.

  “Well, Cole says we gotta send a J.P. down south to the Box G spread,” drawled Horton. “Says that’s what Gillery wanted most. And where else would he find a J.P.? He’d just have to come to Byrne City.”

  “I think our friend is right, Eli,” muttered the lawyer. “Also, I can offer a shrewd guess as to why a J.P. is so badly needed at the Gillery ranch. Lucy Rose has been courted and is ready to marry—in accordance with the terms of the Fullerton will.”

  “It’s none of my business whether or not the Gillery girl gets married,” frowned March, as he donned his Stetson. “What interests me is who drygulched Arch Gillery. In my book, attempted murder is damn near as bad as murder itself. Tell you what, Jonas. How about you stop by the Clifford house, wake Ed Clifford and give him the message? I’ll find Doc Russell and one of my deputies and ride out to Double L. Maybe Doc can revive Gillery long enough for me to question him.”

  “It’ll be near sun-up before you reach Double L,” Jelkie pointed out.

  “That’s okay by me,” shrugged March. “I’d relish breakfast dished up by old Dan Collins.”

  “I’ll certainly pass the word to Ed Clifford,” said Green, as he quit the office.

  Twenty minutes later, Sheriff March and one of his deputies, the barrel-chested Josh Pardelow, escorted Doc Russell’s surrey out of Byrne City and began covering the miles to Double L. March’s other deputies had been alerted and could be relied upon to maintain the peace in town, no matter how long their chief stayed away.

  While they rode level with the surrey-seat, March confided to Pardelow his reason for wanting to interrogate the wounded man as quickly as possible.

  “I got my own notion about who drygulched Gillery. I haven’t forgotten Pete Holbrook and his trigger-happy pards.”

  “If it was Holbrook,” frowned Pardelow, “you got to remember Lampazo Bend is way out of your jurisdiction.”

  “Josh,” scowled the sheriff, “I’ve had my bellyful of Holbrook and his kind—scavenging scum that drift all over the Southwest, making sneak-raids, ganging up on lone travelers. The hell with the rules. I’d take a chance on tangling with the Federal authorities, if it meant putting Holbrook behind bars.”

  “Holbrook is one of the worst—that’s true enough,” mused Pardelow. “But would he ambush a Gillery? Where’s the profit? Box G is a hard-luck outfit. Everybody knows that.”

  “I still say it’s too much of a coincidence,” muttered the sheriff. “Holbrook run out of town—and an ambush on the trail to Byrne City—all within the same twenty-four hours. Too much of a coincidence.”

  ~*~

  It was exactly three-twenty-five in the morning when the surrey stalled in the front yard. The sheriff and his deputy reined up, dismounted and tethered their animals to a corral-rail, while Russell descended from the rig and headed for the ranch house porch, toting his small valise and nodding a greeting to Luke Loomis, who was ambling out to greet them.

  “Are we too late?” March demanded.

  “For what?” countered Loomis.

  “Doc thought young Gillery might suffer a relapse,” said March. “I want to question him, Luke, because …”

  “He’s sore and sorry for himself .” frowned the rancher, “but I don’t reckon he’s any sicker than when we patched that bullet-hole for him. Been sleepin’ steady, he has. Only reason he woke was he got thirsty.”

  “What did you give him to drink?” demanded Russell.

  “Glass of water,” shrugged Loomis, “with a slug of whisky in it.”

  “If he’s going to survive the bullet-wound ...” Russell grinned wryly, “the whisky won’t harm him. All right, Luke, let’s go.”

  A few moments later, they were entering the ground-floor bedroom. The rancher and the two lawmen stood clear of the bed, conversing in undertones while Russell examined Arch Gillery’s wounds.

  “Concussion—no doubt on that score,” he cheerfully assured them.

  The patient spoke up. It seemed his lengthy sleep had restored some of his spirit, because he bitterly complained of Russell, “How come you sound so happy—when I feel so bad?”

  Russell didn’t answer until he had finished his careful inspection of Arch’s torso.

  “I’m always happy, son, if a diagnosis comes easy. It’s the complicated cases that shorten my temper.”

  “Well,” frowned Arch, “I’m glad you’re happy.”

  “You said you feel bad,” Russell reminded him. “How bad—and where?”

  “My head aches like ...”

  “Sure. You couldn’t expect otherwise when you’re suffering concussion. What else?”
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  “Them bullet-holes smart gosh—awful—like they was afire.”

  “It doesn’t hurt you to breathe?”

  “No—it just smarts—like somebody was jabbin’ a hot poker clear through me.”

  Arch complained sourly and with heat for some three or four minutes. As Russell put it, “The concussion must be mild—and it’s for sure there’s no infection, no blood-poisoning, otherwise he wouldn’t be so eager to run off at the mouth.”

  “I ain’t runnin’ off at the mouth!” protested Arch. “I’m only tellin’ you …”

  “Save all the telling for Sheriff March,” drawled Russell. “As soon as I’ve fixed you a fresh dressing and some bandages, he’ll want to ask you some questions.”

  “Thanks for tendin’ me so good, Doc,” grunted Arch. And he had the good grace to add, “I guess I do run off at the mouth.”

  “Hold still,” ordered Russell.

  While he worked, the patient frowned past him at the impassive Luke Loomis and offered a few words of gratitude.

  “Sure am beholden to you, Mr. Loomis. And—uh— I’ll ask you to pass on my thanks to them that patched me up—and the hombre that brought me in.”

  “I’ll tell ’em,” Loomis promised. “All except the hombre that brought you in. Your brothers can thank him.”

  “My—brothers?” prodded Arch.

  “Sam Beech,” said Loomis, “has gone to Box G to explain things to your brothers. He figured you’d want ’em to know what happened to you. As for the J.P. you asked for ...”

  “That’s been taken care of,” interrupted the sheriff. “You know Jonas Green, the lawyer. Sure. You’d know him. Well, he’ll send Ed Clifford down to Box G.”

  Arch nodded thoughtfully, and opined, “I’m powerful lucky. Everybody treatin’ me so kindly and all. Dunno if I’d still be alive—if that Beech feller hadn’t found me. I was buzzard-bait—that’s for sure.”

  “Got any more whisky in the house, Luke?” asked Russell, as he finished his chores.