The stranger had a right to describe any further belligerence on Gage’s part as suicide. His gun, a Colt .45 with the cavalry-length barrel, had cleared leather while Gage was still jerking at his six-gun. It was cocked, and its muzzle was pointed unerringly at Gage’s third shirt-button at a range of less than five feet.
Gage did freeze. His eyes bulged as he stared in anguished fascination at the muzzle of Jim’s .45. He hadn’t released his grip of his own revolver, but he speedily did so when Jim sourly advised him to, “Let go of it.”
That gun-butt might have been white-hot for all the speed with which Gage relinquished it. He raised his hands to shoulder-level. Groggily, Hallet and Moon began the struggle to resume the perpendicular.
“Now,” growled Jim, eyeing Gage grimly. “Pick up your portrait—then dig out two dollars and pay Tully for it.”
“That won’t be necessary—thanks anyway,” muttered Tully. “I never accept payment when a client expresses dissatisfaction. At the same time ...” He rose up, trudged to the discarded sketch, bent and scratched a match, “I reserve the right to destroy what I have created.”
“Tully,” called Bracken, “try not to set fire to the whole damn house.”
“Of course, Mr. Bracken,” nodded Tully.
Having crumpled the sheet into a ball, he touched the match-flame to it and dropped it into an empty spittoon.
“Well,” frowned Jim, “if that’s how you want it ...”
“That’s exactly how I want it,” the artist assured him. “I abhor violence, but I realize there was no other way you could stop Gage from pounding me to pulp—so I thank you most heartily.”
“You’re entirely welcome,” said Jim. And then, scowling at Gage and gesturing with his Colt, he offered a few words of advice. “Vamoose—all three of you. Leave town, or just stay out of sight. One thing or the other.”
He was destined never to see those three roughnecks again. Jim returned his Colt to its holster, and the saloon owner called to him.
“You didn’t finish your beer.”
One of the poker-players toted Jim’s half-empty flagon to the bar. Jim thanked him and, as he finished his drink, some of the tension eased; Bracken’s staff and clients resumed their normal pursuits. The artist had retrieved his hat and donned it. Now, he was bending to pick up his sketchpad and pencils. The color hadn’t returned to his cheeks, Jim noted. To be kicked in the midriff by a man as powerful as Gage must have been a painful experience.
“You live far from here?” he asked the artist. “I’m thinking you ought to go on home and get a load off your feet.”
“I find that suggestion most appealing, my friend.” Tully grinned ruefully, as he propped an elbow on the bar and studied both strangers. “My home is one room in an establishment two blocks from here. Small but comfortable—at least for a man of my simple tastes.” He glanced at Jim’s empty beer-mug. “Bracken’s whisky isn’t the best. I happen to have a bottle of good bourbon. A satisfied subject insisted on paying me with liquor some little time ago. Are you, by any chance, partial to bourbon, Mr ... .?”
“Rand—Jim Rand.” Jim nodded to the Mex. “This sawed-off hombre is called Benito Espina.”
“Mucho gusto,” grinned Benito.
“And,” finished Jim. “I hardly ever say ‘no’ to good bourbon.”
“The least I can do is buy you a drink,” Tully opined. “This disagreement with Gage and his friends was building up to an ugly incident.” He touched his stomach and winced. “I’m indebted to you, Mr. Rand.”
“Forget it,” shrugged Jim. “But I’ll take you up on that offer.”
They escorted the artist out into the sunlight and along Main toward a room and board establishment with a faded paint sign proclaiming it “LOGAN’S”.
To a nomad of Benito’s predatory instincts, Owen Tully’s bedroom-cum-studio was something of a wonderland. His mercenary eyes flicked from one painting to another, from the paintings of New Mexico’s arid and sprawling prairies to the smaller canvases, pictures painted right here in town, a sorrel and a bay standing shoulder to shoulder at a hitch rail with a general store in the background. The gleam of their coats, the fine detail of their manes and their saddles were so lifelike that the Mex was moved to remark:
“One can almost feel these caballos—almost smell them.”
“Another compliment.” Tully grinned affably as he opened a closet and produced a bottle and glasses “Muchas gracias, amigo.” And then his gaze fastened on the tall man, who hadn’t advanced beyond the threshold. Jim was standing tense, staring, his mouth set in a hard line. “Mr. Rand—what is it?”
“Caramba!” breathed Benito, upon noting the big man’s expression. “You have seen the ghost, no?”
The room was of average size, but appeared smaller for all that the artist had crammed into it—his easel and canvases, the bed, several chairs and stools, an old-fashioned dresser, a hat-stand. Directly opposite the doorway, stacked against a rear wall were a half-dozen or so large canvases. The one to the fore, clearly visible from where Jim stood, depicted four men gathered about a roulette table, obviously the roulette layout at the Bracken Casino. This was graphic art at its best. The figures, their faces and apparel were typical of the frontier. And one of the figures had won Jim’s immediate attention.
Slowly, he moved across the threshold and pulled the door shut behind him. He walked to the large canvas and, as he instinctively reached out to touch it, Tully said: “I’d rather you didn’t. It hasn’t dried.”
“If the paint’s still wet,” muttered Jim, with his pulse quickening. “I guess you finished this picture only a little while ago.”
“Three nights ago, at Bracken’s,” nodded Tully. He grinned wryly, as he eyed his handiwork. “I’m indebted to these gamblers. They were very patient, very obliging. Not that they needed to stand for a long time. I work fastest when I’m painting the human animal.”
“The man furthest to the rear,” prodded Jim. “Didn’t he object to being painted?”
Tully studied the group and put his memory to work. The figure slightly to the rear of the others was that of a blond and saturnine man, flashily garbed and sporting a pearl cravat-pin.
“Oh—this fellow? Well, he wasn’t actually in the picture in the first place.”
“He’s in the picture now,” Jim impatiently reminded him. “You mind explaining exactly what you mean, Tully? It’s important to me.”
“He could be the one?” Benito demanded. “This gambler with the cold blue eyes?”
“It’s as though he came alive from the descriptions given at the inquest,” growled Jim. “And, don’t forget, I talked to the witnesses.” He eyed Tully expectantly. “How about it? What can you tell me about him—and how did he get into the picture? Believe me, he couldn’t have known you were painting him—not if he’s the man I’m hunting.”
“Hunting?” frowned Tully. “You’re a lawman of some kind?”
“I used to be a sergeant of the Eleventh Cavalry ...” Jim briefly recounted his reasons for searching for that certain gambler, that tinhorn who took his brandy neat, favored pearl jewelry and bitterly resented to lose at any game of chance. Then, “Think now, Tully,” he urged, “try to remember.”
“Remembering is the easy part,” Tully assured him. He had poured three generous shots of bourbon and, to his own, had added a little water. Now he gestured for them to seat themselves. They accepted the whisky and the proffered chairs. “If, for instance, I wished to sketch a likeness of either of you, I wouldn’t have to start at this moment. I could do it many days after you’ve left Burnett Junction and, believe me, it would still be a good likeness.”
“That’s a rare talent,” Jim conceded.
“As for the gambler to the rear of this group ...” Tully looked at the picture again. “I added him as an afterthought. At the beginning, I meant to make it a trio gathered about a roulette-wheel, but the composition seemed to lack something.”
“So you added a fourth figure,” frowned Jim. “All right now—can you recall where you first saw him?”
“Easily,” said the artist. “It was at Bracken’s a couple of nights before. I didn’t really work from memory when I painted him into this group. I’d done a pencil sketch of him two nights earlier. I was able to refer to it when I decided to make this trio a quartet.”
“He didn’t know he was being sketched.” Jim made it a flat statement rather than a question.
“I’m sure, he didn’t,” shrugged Tully.
“Any special reason you chose to sketch him?” asked Jim.
“No.” And, again, Tully studied the painting. “Only that he looked to be typical of his breed. Well—perhaps not all the time ...”
“Meaning?” challenged Jim.
“Most professional gamblers expect to lose once in a while—isn’t that so?” Tully countered. “They become philosophical about it and, when they drop a hundred or two, they shrug it off and keep their temper. Well, not this fellow.”
“Sore loser,” breathed Jim.
“I watched him fly into a rage at the dice table,” nodded Tully. “Maybe that’s what first drew my attention to him.”
“And you do recall the pearl jewelry?” demanded Jim.
“Quite clearly,” said Tully.
“Was he armed?” prodded Jim.
“Not visibly.” The artist smiled mirthlessly. “That is, not visibly as far as the average observer is concerned. But it’s my opinion he carried a pistol in a shoulder-holster. Many gamblers do. But, of course, you don’t need to be told this.”
Jim finished his drink, refused Tully’s offer of a refill and began building a smoke.
“Anything else you can remember about this hombre?” he asked.
“No,” said Tully. “I only saw him on that one occasion.”
“Five nights ago,” mused Jim.
“Monday,” nodded Tully. He took another pull at his drink, watched Jim light his cigarette. “You’ve been at a disadvantage, my friend. To travel from town to town repeating a description—this can be futile and frustrating. One picture is worth a thousand words.”
“If you’re thinking what I’m thinking ...” began Jim.
“One more kick from the large boot of Ike Gage,” said Tully, “could have made a cot-case of me. I’m beholden to you, Mr. Rand, and I welcome the opportunity to repay your kindness.”
“As long as it won’t be any trouble ...” frowned Jim.
“No trouble,” Tully assured him. “And not a lengthy task.” He finished his drink, rose to his feet. “I think a pen-sketch would be best for your purpose. A line drawing. Simple black and white. We don’t have a really efficient printery here at the Junction but, when you do find a newspaper office—or a good print-shop ...”
“I could have copies made,” nodded Jim. “All right. I’ll be mighty obliged.”
Being free of temperament, the artist had no objection to making the sketch with the eyes of his visitors following every stroke of the pen. Consulting the oil painting and his memory and working with quick, sure strokes, he executed a head and shoulders portrait of the man who, until now, had been naught but a description, something burned into Jim’s brain. On paper, the blond killer with the weakness for flashy clothing, pearl jewelry and raw brandy seemed to come alive, and Jim was fascinated—as well as repelled. Here, he felt sure, was the evil-tempered, itchy-fingered coward, who had so treacherously murdered Lieutenant Christopher Rand in a San Marco saloon on March 7.
“The ink will dry in just a few moments.” Tully had finished and was discarding his pen. His eyes surveyed Jim sadly. “You mean to kill this man, of course. A life for a life ...”
“He has to answer for what he did,” muttered Jim. “If he refuses to surrender when I catch up with him—there’ll be bloodshed. If he does surrender, I’ll deliver him to the San Marco law and see him tried for murder.”
They waited for the ink to dry. When Tully passed the sketch to him, he folded it carefully, slid it into a pocket of his shirt and rose from his chair.
“I’m much obliged. Tully.”
“What will you do now?” asked Tully. “Show that sketch all over town—question every citizen?”
“I already checked with the sheriff,” frowned Jim.
“Nat Croy and his deputies are good men,” shrugged Tully, “but we can’t expect them to be in seven different places at once. Your man could have ridden into town, stayed a couple of nights and ridden out again—without coming under notice of the local law. Or he may have been here only the one night. Many visitors to the Junction arrive by train and stay for less than twenty-four hours.”
“He might have arrived by train,” mused Jim. “Yeah. He just might have.”
“So?” prodded Benito. “We go now?”
“We go,” nodded Jim. “Thanks again, Tully.”
“My pleasure,” the artist assured him, as he conducted them to the door.
Along Main Street Jim strode, hurrying to the hitch-rack outside Bracken’s Casino, where the charcoal and the burro awaited. The runty Mex had to trot to keep up with him.
“This was lucky, no?” he grinned. “Quite by chance you find a hombre who has seen this killer—this Jenner ...”
“It has to be the same man,” opined Jim. “Everything checks. The raw brandy and the pearl jewelry the fact that he turns mean when he loses a gamble. The hell with him—it just couldn’t be a coincidence!”
At the railroad depot, his luck held. The ticket-clerk inspected the portrait with keen interest, then remarked on Tully’s uncanny talent for achieving a likeness and asked:
“What color are his eyes? Would they be blue by any chance? Real pale blue?” Jim nodded slowly, struggling to maintain his patience. “Well, I reckon he’d be the same feller.”
Jim fished out his wallet, extracted a five-dollar bill and shoved it under the grill.
“Keep thinking,” he urged.
And, after much rubbing of his jowls and scratching of his balding dome, the clerk recalled details of his transaction with the subject of the portrait—after which he promptly scooped up the banknote and pocketed it.
“Tuesday morning it was. Early. Yeah—mighty early—because he bought a ticket for the northbound, and the northbound always rolls out at a quarter to six.”
“How far would that ticket take him?” demanded Jim.
“Moredo,” said the clerk. “It was just a one-way ticket, you know? Moredo is where he was headed, and that’s no surprise. Plenty of tinhorns head for Moredo this time of year. Well, you know how folks are when there’s celebratin’ to be done. They like to risk a few dollars gamblin’. It’s bonanza time for all the sharpers and tinhorns and bunko steerers.” He tapped at the portrait with a decisive forefinger. “He’ll be in Moredo tomorrow, nothin’ surer. It happens every year.”
“What happens every year?” prodded Jim.
“Foundation Day,” the clerk explained. “Anniversary of the foundation of Moredo. Big doin’s, you know? Like a county fair—and with a real high-class shindig at city hall tomorrow night.”
“Moredo ...” Jim repeated the name thoughtfully. “A big town to the north, you say?”
“A sight bigger than Burnett Junction,” the clerk grudgingly conceded.
“If we leave rightaway ...” began Jim.
“You wouldn’t reach Moredo as fast—or as easy,” said the clerk, “as if you went by train. Next northbound leaves this here depot at a quarter to six tomorrow mornin’, reaches Moredo at high noon—in plenty of time for the celebrations. That’s why you see so many Mex cattlemen in town today. They check in overnight at the Junction, take the mornin’ train for Moredo. Same damn thing every year.”
“Have you sold every seat?” asked Jim.
“Oh, sure,” nodded the clerk. “But there’d be plenty of room in the baggage car. The conductor is Toby Jethrow—kind of a miserable feller, but friendly enough. You’d want to take your horses along anyway, wouldn’t you?” Jim nodded. “All right. It’s the caboose for you, mister.”
“Are there stalls in that caboose?” frowned Jim. “Sure enough,” said the clerk.
“We’ll be here at five-thirty,” declared Jim, “to help put our animals into that caboose. It’ll be the first time my horse travelled that way. He’s a one-man animal and plenty wild.”
Having purchased the tickets, he left the depot, tagged by his sawn-off shadow. The sketch of the man he believed to be his brother’s murderer was folded and returned to his shirt pocket. His expression was grim and, deep within him, he felt a stirring of new excitement. This could be it—the end of his quest. Any time after high noon tomorrow, in a town called Moredo, he might at last confront his brother’s assassin.
“Amigo Jim,” frowned Benito, “what of the meantime?”
He roused from his reverie.
“The meantime?”
“Should we not eat and sleep?” shrugged the Mex. “Should not Capitan Cortez and your fine black caballo be accommodated at some suitable establishment?” He added, warmly, “Capitan Cortez should have nothing but the best.”
“Capitan Cortez,” Jim retorted, “is a no-account, flea-bitten burro—damn near as lazy as the galoot that rides him.”
“We find a livery stable, no?” persisted Benito.
“Yeah, sure,” agreed Jim. “And a hotel for ourselves.”
By four p.m. they had found accommodation at an uptown barn for the magnificent stallion and for the nondescript burro so grandiloquently named Capitan Cortez by his raffish master. But, when it came to renting a room for their overnight stay, they found every hotel filled; they had to settle for a double bedroom in a dingy boarding establishment on Calle Hernando, a narrow thoroughfare angling off West Main Street. Jim would have preferred a couple of singles, but figured he could bear to share a room with his grubby shadow for just this one night.
It was sundown, when Jim decided that the early hours of this Friday night could be spent gainfully at a midtown saloon called the Sandalia Rojo. The proprietor was half-American, half-Mexican and too shrewd to hire sharpers to cheat his clients. Local cowhands, it seemed, were apt to administer the tar and feathers treatment to any dealer caught in the act of secreting a high card, sliding one from under the deck or using loaded dice. This much could be said for the gambling houses of Burnett Junction: a visitor could only go broke through bad luck or lack of familiarity with the game of his choice.
At the Sandalia Rojo, Jim found everything he needed to keep himself occupied for several hours; food, liquor and games of chance were plentiful. Having satisfied his appetite, he sat in on a poker game that looked good for at least a couple more hours. He had purchased a substantial supper for Benito and had warned him to stay out of trouble.
“Pick no pockets while we’re in this town,” he cautioned. “If you get yourself in a jam, I swear I won’t hang around to pull you out of it. I aim to be on that early morning train for Moredo—no matter what happens to you.”
“It grieves me,” sighed the little Mex, “that you can never trust me. You—my dear and close friend.”
By seven p.m., he had wearied of watching play at the poker table, even though Jim was steadily winning, out-bluffing the other players. Other possibilities for entertainment now occurred to the ugliest thief ever to ride out of Mexico. He was devoting his attention to a raven-haired, shapely young woman of his own race, a percentage-girl who pleaded a raging headache and won her employer’s permission to go home and sleep. When she left the saloon, Benito followed.