Big Jim was hungry, weary and in no mood for argument, but the desire for vengeance still burned hot within him; to accept Sheriff Hillary’s offer seemed the only logical thing to do at this time. Hillary could be right. And, if Seymour had taken refuge at Block B and proved to be the man who had called himself Jenner on the night of March 7—it was safe to assume he would stay put awhile.
He accepted the badge, listened to Hillary’s brief but comprehensive description of the current situation and reflected that, in more ways than one, this community did need help.
“About the little Mex,” said Hillary, in conclusion. “Whether he stays in jail is up to you. If you swear out charges against him, we have to hold him for trial and feed him at the taxpayers’ expense—and there’s no tellin’ how long we’d have to wait for the circuit-judge.”
“Doesn’t the circuit-judge visit regularly?” asked Jim. “Judge Ford used to stop by every month,” sighed Hillary. “But he’s gettin’ on in years. Kind of nervous, you know? The last time he came was over two months back. Staked-out riflemen sniped at the stagecoach as it came past Castillo Butte.”
“Some of Burdette’s gunhawks,” suggested Jim, “having a little harmless fun?”
“I can’t think of anybody else that’d play so rough,” frowned Hillary. “The hell of it is I can’t prove anything.”
“Would the judge come and hold court again,” prodded Jim, “if we telegraphed a guarantee of his safe passage?”
“Why, sure,” nodded Hillary. “But how can we offer such a guarantee?”
“Time will tell,” muttered Jim. He gathered up his gear, trudged to the door. “How about the other spreads in this area?”
“A few rough outfits,” said Hillary, “but none that I’d call owlhoot—and none with nerve enough to oppose Block B.”
“All right,” frowned Jim. “Keep the Mex awhile. I’ll eat, check my prad into a stable and find myself a hotel.”
“Yeah—you do that,” Hillary urged. “Try and catch up on your rest this afternoon. It’s Saturday—and we might need all our strength.” Awkwardly and favoring his right arm, he unlocked and opened the street-door. “The Hotel Regio, on Peel Street, has good chow, clean rooms and a stable out back. You travel two blocks uptown, then take the turn left.”
“All right,” Jim nodded and yawned. “I’ll see you around sundown.”
~*~
At four-thirty, shaved, bathed, garbed in clean clothing and feeling refreshed from several hours of sound sleep, Big Jim quit his room at the Hotel Regio and sauntered up Peel Street to Calle Central. He was loafing along, but not with the stoop-shouldered, swaggering gait of the veteran cowpoke. He strode surely, his back ramrod-straight, his broad shoulders squared; there was still a lot of army in ex-Sergeant Rand.
Behind the locked door of his office, the sheriff was catnapping on the couch. He awoke to Jim’s knock, admitted him and, after an exchange of greetings, suggested: “We might’s well get our one and only prisoner fed early. How about you fetch his supper from the Hill and Santchez Diner?”
“You said Hill and Santchez?” frowned Jim.
“Sure enough,” grinned Hillary. “An Iowa man who used to be a chuck-boss, and a Mex cook who once worked with the Fortuna Nuevo outfit. They formed a partnership five years back. At that hash-house, you can eat like an Americano or a Mex or both.”
Soon afterward, Jim entered the cellblock and toted a laden tray to the cell occupied by the indolent, philosophical Benito. The little opportunist was huddled on the bunk, lazily. strumming his guitar, humming softly. His greeting was a bland, buck-toothed grin and a mumbled offer.
“Ah, Amigo Jim, you wish for Benito should sing to you? You have a favorite song, no?”
“If you sang my favorite song,” retorted Jim, “I don’t reckon I could recognize it. Consarn you, Benito, didn’t you ever learn to sing in tune?”
“I always sing in tune!” Benito warmly assured him.
“Forget it,” sighed Jim. “On your feet, boy. Chowtime.”
He slid the tray through the horizontal aperture in the cell-door, then squatted on his heels and rolled and lit a cigarette. The ugly little thief attacked that meal like a termite assaulting a slab of timber.
Benito wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeves, discarded an empty platter, reached for the coffee and took several large gulps. Then, after a resonant burp, he grinned at Jim and said:
“You will please accept my humble apology for robbing you, my amigo, and let me thank you from the bottom of my worthless heart for saving my life today.”
“That makes us even—you savvy that?” frowned Jim.
“Ah—but I will be forever in your debt, Amigo Jim,” asserted Benito. “Always I will remember you have save my life.”
“But you saved mine first,” Jim patiently reminded him. “It’s even-Stephen, Benito, you know what I mean? All debts paid up.”
“You have your fine pistola again,” Benito observed, as his dark eyes flashed on Jim’s holster. “Bueno. I am glad.”
“Just to satisfy my curiosity, boy,” drawled Jim. “Is this all you want in life? To snoop around from town to town, pickin’ pockets ...?”
“I am one fine thief,” said Benito, with dignity. “Very talented. This is what you gringos call the family tradition. My padre was a thief, and his padre before him.” He gulped the rest of his coffee, inserted an unclean finger and thumb into the top of his boot and produced a cigar. Gesturing in lofty impatience, he enquired, “Would you have me betray the memory of my illustrious forebears—uh?”
“Well,” said Jim, poker-faced, “I guess you do have to maintain your standards.”
“We understand each other—you and me,” chuckled Benito. “We will be true friends, I think.”
“Like hell we will,” scowled Jim.
“Amigo,” frowned Benito, “how long must I stay in this carcel?”
“That’s kind of up to me,” Jim told him, and only now did Benito observe the star on his vest. “When I signed on as deputy to Sheriff Hillary, he said we could hold you for the circuit-judge—if I swore out a complaint against you.”
“But you would not do that, uh?” begged Benito. “Not to me—your close and dear friend?”
“Hell’s fire!” gasped Jim. He was fast learning to appreciate the little Mexican’s peculiar psychology, but could still be taken aback by his sheer audacity, his stone-cold nerve. “You got the gall to call me your friend—you thieving little buzzard ...?” Abruptly he regained control of himself. “Maybe we’ll let you rot in this calaboose a month or more,” he growled, “or maybe we’ll turn you loose in a couple days—just so we don’t have to listen to that damn-blasted caterwauling.”
“Hasta la vista, Amigo Jim,” chuckled Benito.
“Go sing yourself to sleep,” snapped Jim.
It was easy for him to dismiss the little Mexican from his thoughts at six o’clock. By then, there were other matters requiring his attention, Celie Kilminster, attired in her Sunday-best gown, had fetched a fine supper to the law office for her uncle and for the new deputy; it was obvious that she was smitten by the large stranger and determined to win his admiration. While they worked their way through that more than satisfying repast, Jim sat at a slight angle to the open street-doorway, so that he could keep a goodly section of Calle Central under observation. Cowpokes were arriving in pairs and in groups. It was payday for all the county spreads, and every rider was pleasure-bent.
Celie had recovered from her initial confusion. Upon her arrival, her uncle had bluntly assured his new sidekick that this was a departure from their normal procedure.
“I usually have somebody keep an eye on the office while I go home for supper. Only reason Celie fetched it tonight—she hankers to impress you.”
In the manner of so many affectionate elders, the sheriff enjoyed baiting his niece. But that embarrassing moment had passed. Celie was now seated on the couch, her hands clasped in her lap, her eager eyes on the seated stranger sampling her cooking. She tried in vain to start him talking about his army career, his long hitch with the 11th Cavalry, and the sheriff drawled a reprimand—unheated, but firm.
“Quittin’ the army wasn’t Jim’s own idea, Celie, so don’t plague him. He misses his old outfit. Only reason he resigned was the boss-officer couldn’t grant him a long leave of absence.”
“That’s how it was, Miss Celie,” nodded Jim, without shifting his gaze from the street.
“Just Celie,” she begged. “It sounds friendlier.”
“Whatever you say, Celie,” he grunted, as he forked up another mouthful.
“If talk of the army stirs up too many memories,” she murmured, “might a lady enquire about your health? How’s that snakebite coming along, Jim?”
“It only smarts a mite—and I don’t care anymore,” he fervently assured her. “What matters is to be rid of the poison. When a man can be that lucky, he surely oughtn’t complain of the pain from the bite.”
“I admire a man that counts his blessin’s,” muttered Hillary. “My old pappy used to say that’s the only way to be truly happy—bein’ thankful for what you already got.”
“I can’t see all the-saloons from here,” frowned Jim. “Where do most of the cattlemen spend their pay?”
“The bigger houses, mostly,” said Hillary. “Arlington’s Palace—the Long Rail—the Rialto—the Lucky Ace.” He finished eating, frowned thoughtfully towards the doorway and told Jim, “As for pay-nights, it’s hard to guess how such a Saturday is gonna end. I recall many a pay-night when there wasn’t any real trouble at all. Just a drunk or two that had to be locked up. No fights. No shooting. Even nowadays, with the Burdettes always on hand, we can be lucky. We can have a quiet Saturday—once in awhile.”
~*~
At the Rialto Saloon, around seven o’clock that evening, a Circle T cowpoke name of Dan McLennan stood at the bar with two fellow-employees, nursed a short beer and traded friendly talk with the barkeep. Not yet twenty three years old, McLennan was boyish, mild-mannered, passably good-looking and, as the Circle T boss would have willingly testified, a hard worker. His companions were a barrel-chested cowpoke named Saul Gearey and a lean, impassive vaquero, Luiz Varez. An oddly assorted trio they seemed, but they got along. The barkeep was short, pudgy Ike Nash, a taciturn dispenser of liquid cheer.
The Rialto’s owner, Ned Calvert, was officiating at the roulette layout. Tall, lean and lank-haired, with hawk-like features and a too-ready smile, Calvert was inclined to toady to the Block B faction. Maybe he didn’t admire that old hellion Cyrus Burdette or his two trigger-happy sons, but he certainly pretended to, because it was good for business. The Burdettes, Calvert felt sure, were destined to become the leaders of this community.
Outside, in Calle Central, a clatter of hooves heralded the arrival of yet another group of pleasure-hungry cattlemen, a quartet this time—the brothers Burdette and two of their cronies. When these four came swaggering into the Rialto, the owner greeted them with an expansive smile and an invitation.
“Step up to the bar, boys. Your first drinks are on me.”
“See you fellers later,” Nash muttered to McLennan and his friends. “Looks like I’m gonna be busy awhile.” The Circle T men concentrated all their attention on their drinks and made a point of ignoring the new arrivals. Cowhands from some of the other local spreads finished their drinks in a hurry, or abandoned their card games, and quietly retreated, some exiting by the front door, some heading for the rear. As for the towners, few cared to remain in the same barroom with men as rough, as arrogant, as aggressive as Travis and Arnold Burdette. In less than a minute, only a handful remained.
“Muy depravado, these hombres,” Luiz Varez quietly remarked to his two colleagues.
“Real bad medicine,” mumbled Gearey. “All of a sudden I wish I was someplace else.”
“Well,” said the peace-loving McLennan, “we don’t have to stay here. Finish your drinks and we’ll mosey downtown to the Palace.”
He propped his elbows on the bar-top, took another pull at his beer and, in the long mirror, studied the reflections of the four hardcases. The two men siding the brothers were typical of all the roughnecks hired by Old Man Burdette—big, unprepossessing, with their hardware housed in tied-down holsters; one Block B gunman looked pretty much the same as the others. Of the two brothers, Travis, the elder, most resembled the father. He was tall, scrawny and lethal, as ugly as old Cyrus himself, with the craggy Burdette features and a stubble of ginger hair covering his jowls, a thinly rolled cigarette adhering to his underlip. The younger brother, Arnold, was the more talkative of the two, a squatly-built, flashily-garbed braggart whose chief pleasure was the harassing and provoking of men too weak or too nervous to stand up to him. It was well known that Arnie Burdette was lightning-fast with the pearl-butted .45 slung to his right thigh.
“Where are the girls, Ned?” the elder brother demanded of the grinning Calvert. “Me and the boys hanker for company tonight.”
“Bring ’em out, Ned,” ordered his kinsman. “Tell ’em Arnie’s here.”
“I reckon they know already, Arnie,” chuckled Calvert. “They saw you ride in—so they’re upstairs now, getting prettied up for you.” He nudged Nash. “Get a move on, Ike. The boys are thirsty. Serve ’em my best bourbon.”
“Comin’ up,” grunted Nash.
“Place looks kinda empty, all of a sudden,” observed Travis, with a mirthless grin.
“Now ain’t that a shame?” guffawed Arnie. “Seems like we scared half your customers away, Ned.”
Quickly, he turned, stepping away from the counter to position himself in front of the three Circle T punchers, who had set down their empty glasses and were making for the door. McLennan came to a halt with Gearey and Varez hovering directly behind him.
“Goin’ some place, boys?” Arnie challenged, while his brother and his sidekicks traded amused grins. “Hey now—it ain’t polite to just sashay outa here without sayin’ so-long.”
Gearey and the Mexican grimaced uneasily. McLennan merely gestured impatiently and said:
“All right, Burdette, if it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll say so-long.”
He made to move past Arnie, but was again forced to halt. The leering younger brother had sidestepped to intercept him.
“I ain’t sure ‘so-long’ is enough,” he drawled. “Nope, I ain’t sure at all. Reckon you hombres better ask for my permission—you know what I mean? ‘May I leave, Mr. Burdette?’ Just like that—seein’ as how there never was a Circle T saddlebum worth one quarter of any Block B man.”
“Move clear of us, Burdette,” frowned McLennan. “I hate to spoil your pleasure, but I ain’t about to beg your permission—not for anything.”
“Better be real careful there, brother,” cautioned Travis in mock alarm. “You’re apt to make McLennan real sore.”
“I ain’t sore,” McLennan coolly assured him. “Just a mite impatient.”
“He don’t act scared of you, Arnie,” sniggered one of the hired guns. “Why, I’d swear you don’t scare him one little bit.”
At that, the youngest Burdette ceased to grin; his temper was suddenly on edge.
“He’ll act scared,” he promised. “He’ll act plenty scared!”
“Now, look ...” began McLennan.
And then he was backstepping, stung by the fast blow swung at him by Arnie Burdette, a backhander that started one side of his face smarting, all the way from temple to jaw. He gasped, regained his balance and opened his mouth to voice a protest. His assailant cut it short by backhanding him a second time. Again he backstepped, with Gearey and Varez nervously moving clear, and Arnie barging after him, swinging a third blow. And now the most even-tempered young man on the Circle T payroll—probably in the entire territory—lost patience with the braggart and offered retaliation. With his left arm, he warded off that third swing. With his bunched right, he threw one fast, badly timed punch. Fighting wasn’t McLennan’s game; he was too ill equipped for it, too much of a peace-lover. Nevertheless that punch caught Arnie squarely on the point of the chin and sent him lurching backwards for three yards. The back of his knees made contact with a chair. He tripped over it, crashed to the floor with obscenities spilling from his contorted mouth.
McLennan stood his ground fully expecting that he would now have to defend himself in a hard and rough brawl, probably against all four Block B men. His clenched fists were raised to the level of his shoulders and he was eyeing the fallen man warily, but was still taken by surprise at Arnie Burdette’s impulsive and murderous reaction. From where he lay, the younger brother drew his Colt, hammered back and squeezed trigger. The weapon roared and McLennan shuddered. An expression of acute shock and pain showed on his suddenly pallid face. His legs buckled. Varez made to catch him, mumbling:
“¡Por Dios!”
Gearey grasped McLennan’s left arm as, with a groan of anguish, the stricken puncher sagged to the floor. His shirtfront was wet; the red stain was spreading across his chest. He was gritting his teeth and that shocked look still showed in his eyes.
Abruptly, Arnie Burdette rose to his feet. He twirled his Colt by its trigger-guard, before deftly re-holstering it. His challenging gaze travelled from face to face. He drawled a warning to Calvert and his barkeep, the few townsmen still present and the two Circle T waddies.
“Just so nobody gets any wrong ideas—this was self-defense. You all saw what happened. McLennan was about to draw on me.”
Calvert was first to break the tense silence that followed. He licked his lips, nodded eagerly and muttered: “Yeah—I reckon that’s exactly how it was.”
“Damn and blast ...!” breathed the barkeep.
“Shut up, Ike,” chided Calvert.
“You say somethin’, bartender?” drawled the elder brother, turning to scowl belligerently at Nash.
Nash shrugged forlornly and shook his head. The Burdettes stared enquiringly at Gearey and Varez, both of whom knelt beside the silent Dan McLennan.
“You jaspers satisfied?” Arnie demanded. “I say self-defense. Any arguments?”
He chuckled derisively, as Gearey averted his eyes and the vaquero bowed his head. Travis Burdette glowered at the townsmen. There were only four of them. They were elderly and appeared badly scared.
“How about you?” he prodded. “Any of you claimin’ it wasn’t a fair fight?”
The locals were dumbstruck. Again, Arnie Burdette laughed.
“C’mon,” he grinned. “We don’t have to hang around and answer Luke Hillary’s fool questions. Let Ned tell him what happened, while we sashay on down to the Lucky Ace.”
“Yeah—let’s just do that,” nodded Travis, glancing contemptuously at the prone victim of his brother’s fancy gun. “Ned’s floor is gettin’ to look plumb untidy.”
When the sound of that single report had reached the three people in the law office, Jim Rand had promptly risen to his feet and donned his Stetson. The sheriff said: “Probably just some half-drunk cowpoke lettin’ off steam. I’ll fetch a shotgun and ...”
“No,” said Jim. “You stay with Celie. We don’t both need to go and it’s about time I started earning whatever this job pays.”
“Sixty a month and ammunition,” muttered Hillary. “I meant to tell you.”
Jim nodded a polite farewell to Celie and moved out briskly. As he hustled uptown, he easily identified the scene of the disturbance. It had to be the saloon towards which Doc Giddons was hurrying. Toting his valise and looking somewhat less than patient, the medico disappeared through the batwings of the Rialto. A few moments later, when Jim reached the entrance, the Burdettes and their two cronies were in the act of leaving. The elder brother was nudging the batwings open, making to step out onto the porch. He backstepped instead, because Jim planted a large, firm hand on his chest, never slowing his pace, moving in swiftly, so that Travis Burdette was forced backwards into the bar-room.
The Burdettes, unaccustomed to such rock-hard defiance, surveyed Jim through narrowed eyes, as he calmly announced:
“I’ll tell you when you can leave, boys. Meantime, stand right where you are.”