It was a saloon in which a cowhand had been shot and mortally wounded; Big Jim strode into it as though it were a barracks in which a couple of off-duty troopers had been brawling. Gearey and the vaquero stood behind the sprawled figure of their stricken colleague, watching Max Giddons at work. Ike Nash hadn’t budged from behind the bar. Ned Calvert folded his arms and eyed the newcomer defiantly, while the four aged towners sat quiet and the Burdettes and their two sidekicks glowered at Jim’s broad back. They might all have been green volunteers caught in the act of committing some breach of army regulations, for all the impression they made on ex-Sergeant Rand. Only one man in this barroom warranted his immediate interest; he would get to the others later.
“I didn’t know Hillary had a new deputy,” frowned Calvert. “Well, Calvert’s my name, and I own this place.”
“I’ll get to you later,” said Jim, without looking at him.
All his attention was focused on Arnie Burdette’s hapless victim. He strode forward, crouched on one knee beside McLennan and frowned expectantly at Giddons, who sadly shook his head.
“Only a matter of moments,” was all the medico could say.
Jim stared down into the pallid, pain-wracked countenance. There was no resemblance, yet he was reminded of his dead brother. Why should that be? Probably because Chris and this man had been of similar age. Or—more probably—because Chris was still very much in his mind. He crouched lower to support McLennan’s head in the crook of his left arm. The cowpoke blinked dazedly at the shining metal badge on Jim’s vest. His mouth began working. Very softly, Giddons remarked:
“I wouldn’t have believed he could find the strength, Jim. He’s almost gone.”
“He’s trying to talk,” muttered Jim.
“It’s no use,” sighed Giddons. “You won’t hear anything.”
But the expression in McLennan’s eyes was so compelling, so filled with entreaty, that Jim did his utmost to hear. He bent lower, removed his Stetson and put his left ear as close as possible to McLennan’s twitching mouth, and now the whisper was audible to him, every word clearly pronounced.
“… swear I wasn’t—gonna draw. My hands—way up in front of me. And—he knew it. He—just filled his hand and—shot me down ...”
“Which one?” breathed Jim.
McLennan mouthed the name with his last breath. “Arnie Bur … dette …”
His eyes closed. Giddons cursed softly, and confided, “I still find myself resenting the wanton waste of a young man killed in a gunfight—cut down in his prime. I’ve been in practice many a year, and ought to be used to it, but ...”
“This was no gunfight,” growled Jim.
He gently lowered the dead man’s head to the floor, then rose to his feet and turned to face the four Block B men. Calvert began talking again, quickly, urgently.
“We all saw it, Deputy. This was a fair fight. Too bad about young McLennan, but he shouldn’t have ...”
“McLennan whispered a few things to me,” Jim curtly interrupted, “before he died.”
“I didn’t hear ...” began Calvert.
“You couldn’t,” frowned Jim. “I’m the only one who heard—and only because I had my ear close to his mouth. But I heard him clearly, and he claimed he was gunned down in cold blood. He wasn’t about to draw on anybody. His hands were raised.” Grim-faced, he studied them all—the old-timers seated at the table to his right, Gearey and Varez visible in the bar-mirror, Calvert and his barkeep and, finally, the four Block B men. “That’s what McLennan told me—and is anybody about to accuse McLennan of lying with his dying breath?”
“McLennan was lyin’,” drawled Travis Burdette, and he took one pace forward.
Jim eyed him coldly, glanced beyond him to the other three and asked:
“Which one is Arnie Burdette?”
Silence. The tension hung heavy over the barroom like a dark, threatening cloud. Travis Burdette glared defiantly and countered with another question.
“What d’you want with Arnie?”
“McLennan named him as the man who shot him,” Jim replied, “so now he’s under arrest—and the charge will be murder.”
“Make a run for it, Arnie!” ordered the elder brother, as he leapt forward to intercept the suddenly moving Jim.
The blow aimed at him by Travis Burdette never came within eighteen inches of his face, because he threw up his right hand and blocked it. Travis winced from the impact and, for an enticing moment, his hirsute visage was a clear target. Like a battering ram powered by a lightning-bolt, Jim’s bunched left flashed out. That driving, punishing blow plunged the elder brother into oblivion, lifted him and sent him reeling back to collide with his colleagues, and Jim took advantage of that confusion.
It wasn’t the fastest draw ever seen hereabouts, but it served the purpose. Jim’s Colt was out and cocked by the time the younger brother and his two cronies were ready to offer retaliation.
“I wouldn’t try it ...!” he called.
But one of the Burdette employees made the bad mistake of reaching to his holster; he was begging for discouragement—and Jim obliged. The Colt roared. The man raised a wild, anguished yell, spun around, slumped against the bar and then sagged to the floor. His gun-arm had been, broken by Jim’s well-aimed slug. He groaned curses, blinked at the big man through a red haze of agony.
The long-barreled .45, re-cocked, was now lined on the other hardcases. Jim sourly repeated his question.
“Which one is Arnie?”
Arnie Burdette spat, squared his shoulders and named himself.
“I’m Arnie Burdette and, by Judas, Deputy, you’re buildin’ yourself a pine box! You’re diggin’ your own grave! Any man that dares to brace us Burdettes ...!”
“Shuddup!” bellowed Jim, in his best parade-ground voice, so that the old-timers started convulsively. “One more yap out of you, boy, and I won’t march you to jail. I’ll carry you—the way I’m gonna carry your damn fool brother! Unstrap your sidearm. Do it now—and do it smart!”
Muttering curses, Arnie Burdette obeyed. The fourth Block B man, grimly intimidated by the punishment meted out to his colleague and to the still-unconscious Travis, wisely kept his arms folded. Jim sidled to the bar and drawled a command to Calvert.
“I’ll thank you to fetch some rope.”
“You’ll get no help from me, damnitall!” Here was Calvert’s chance to prove his loyalty to the Block B faction, and he was ready to offer the younger Burdette a heartening performance. “Arnie stands unjustly accused. You have no right to ...”
Jim didn’t let him finish that sentence; he was in no mood for a speech from the bootlicking owner of the Rialto. Without taking his eyes off Arnie Burdette, or lowering his Colt, he rammed his left elbow into Calvert’s midsection. Calvert gave vent to a gasp, a groan and a curse, in that order. His hawk-like countenance turned beetroot-red, as he clasped his hands to his belly.
“Rope,” grunted Jim. “And I mean right now.”
“Holy smokes!” breathed Gearey.
As Calvert tottered around the bar and out into the saloon kitchen, Jim addressed the old-timers, the two Circle T hands and the barkeep. Doc Giddons was still crouched beside the body of Dan McLennan, but was giving the new deputy his undivided attention.
“I guess you all realize,” said Jim, “you’ll be called to testify at the trial.”
“There’ll be no trial—you ...!” began Arnie.
“Damn right there will!” snapped Jim. “You’ll have your day in court—and that’s my solemn promise!”
“Deputy,” jeered Arnie, “if you think any of these galoots would dare testify against a Burdette, you’re plumb loco.”
“How about that?” Jim demanded of the witnesses.
One of the old men shrugged forlornly, and said, “I hanker to die in peace.”
“Meaning?” challenged Jim.
“You’re new here, Deputy,” muttered Gearey. “You dunno how it is, how it feels. I mean—bein’ scared all the time.”
“You all saw what happened,” growled Jim.
“I have not the courage,” mumbled the vaquero, “to risk my life.”
“You?” Jim stared hard at the barkeep.
“I got nothin’ to say,” frowned Nash.
Calvert returned, hefting a coil of rope. Taking it from him, Jim hammered down, holstered his .45 and eyed the fourth Block B man coldly.
“I’m takin’ these Burdettes to jail,” he announced. “Also your foolish friend with the busted wing.” His eyes narrowed, as he tucked his right thumb in his cartridge belt. This professional gunslinger could probably outdraw him—but why let him know it? “You can head for home—or you can come along to the calaboose. All it takes is one rash move.”
“I ain’t budged an inch,” the gunfighter carefully pointed out.
“Budge now,” Jim suggested. “Out that door—to your horse—and out of town.”
He didn’t fail to note the significant glance that passed between this man and the murderer of Dan McLennan. The fourth hardcase would become, of course, a special courier; he would ride fast to the Block B headquarters to advise the much-feared Cyrus Burdette of the arrest of both his sons—one for murder, the other for impeding an officer of the law in the performance of his duty. And that was just fine by Deputy Jim Rand. An irate Cyrus Burdette would be dangerous, but vulnerable. The hotter his fury, the stronger the possibility of his making a tactical error.
After the gunman walked out, Jim advanced on the youngest Burdette and brusquely ordered him to turn his back. It took him only a few moments to lash his prisoner’s wrists behind him. He then disarmed the wounded gunfighter, unconscious now from loss of blood. Travis Burdette still slumbered. He unstrapped that third gunbelt, hung it over his left arm with the others, then seized Travis by his shirt-collar, hauled him upright and draped him across his shoulder. Just as he had anticipated, the younger brother suddenly panicked, spun around and made to dash out into the street. Jim emptied his holster, and his movement was smooth and deft, despite the considerable weight of the befuddled Travis slumped across his shoulder. He cocked, aimed and fired and Arnie froze in mid-flight, because the bullet had kicked splinters from the doorjamb bare inches from his head.
“The next bullet I have to use on you,” vowed Jim, “is gonna blow you to Kingdom Come.”
Sweating profusely, trembling a little, Arnie Burdette again turned to face him. He gestured with his Colt to indicate the gunhawk with the broken arm. “You look strong enough to tote that other hero. Go pick him up, then move out ahead of me. We’ll be marching slow and easy to the jailhouse—as if you haven’t guessed.”
As he trudged to the huddled and bloodied gunfighter, Arnie cursed luridly and assured him:
“You’re never gonna get away with this, big man.”
“You think not?” countered Jim. “Well—don’t take any bets.” He waited for Arnie to pick up the wounded man and tote him to the entrance. Then, just before moving after him, he glanced back at the tense-faced locals and asked, “Whatever made you hombres think the Burdettes were unbeatable? You mind what I said about giving evidence at the trial. It’ll be your privilege—and your responsibility.”
“Jim,” said Giddons, “the dead man’s name was Dan McLennan. The sheriff would need to know. You go ahead now. I’ll be along to tend those wounded prisoners, after I’ve arranged for the removal of the body.”
“Right,” grunted Jim.
He departed with his prisoners, and the locals traded pensive glances. Gearey stood somewhat straighter now. His sidekick, the Mex frowned solemnly down at the dead man and muttered:
“This butchery must end, amigo.”
“Yep,” breathed Gearey. “And maybe the time has come.”
“He was one amiable hombre, this McLennan, a true amigo,” Varez declared. “And what of us? Are we so loyal?”
“Only way we can prove that,” asserted Gearey, “is to say our piece when Arnie Burdette stands trial for killin’ him. And—so help me—that’s exactly what I’m fixin’ to do!”
“And me,” nodded Varez. “We will stand together in this.”
“Count me in,” drawled Ike Nash. This taciturn barkeep had never sought the limelight, but now he had something to say, and there would be no stopping him. He was deeply affected, not only by the wanton slaying of the amiable McLennan, but by the relentless, grimly-efficient way in which Big Jim had dealt with the four hardcases of Block B. “I saw what we all saw. Dan had his fists raised high. I bet he never in his life drew his gun in anger, and he wasn’t about to draw on Burdette—and Burdette knew it—when he butchered him.”
“Well ...” frowned one of the aged locals, “if you fellers are gonna take a chance ...”
“Hold on now!” Calvert hastily remonstrated. “You all better think twice about this! What does the life of one no-account cowhand matter? The Burdettes are the leaders of this territory. They’ll bring prosperity—security for all of us. They’ll keep Libertad alive ...!”
“You boot-lickin’ skunk,” said Nash. Even now, in the heat of passion, he didn’t raise his voice. He spoke quietly, while his employer whirled and gaped at him. “Any man that praises the Burdettes is a fool, a liar, or no man at all.”
“Damn and blast you!” panted Calvert. “You can’t talk to me that way! You’re fired, Nash!”
“Thanks,” said Nash. He untied his apron, tossed it onto the bar and donned his hat and coat, then came around front. “And I really mean thanks, Calvert, because I’ve always believed it’s bad luck to clobber the man that pays your wages.”
With that, to the chagrin of the saloonkeeper and the astonishment of the locals, the barkeep administered a short and powerful punch to Calvert’s mouth. Calvert yelped and swore, fell back against the bar and began dabbing at his bloodied mouth with a kerchief, but made no attempt at retaliation, despite his being a much taller man than the grave-faced Ike Nash.
The four aged locals traded glances, rose from their seats and followed Nash out into the street. For a distance of some thirty yards beyond the batwings, they had to shoulder their way through the growing crowd gathering to shout queries and, ultimately, to watch the transfer of Dan McLennan’s body to the funeral parlor.
Gearey and the Mexican stayed behind with Giddons. “If it’s okay by you. Doc,” muttered Gearey, “Luiz and me will help tote Dan out. He was our friend, and—”
“And you’ll do your duty?” prodded the medico. “You’ll give testimony against Arnie Burdette in court?”
“Damn right we will,” growled the cowpoke.
“Si,” nodded Varez. He shrugged self-consciously. “We are not brave hombres, Señor Doc, but I think this new rurale, this muy alto hombre, has prove something. He has prove these evil ones can be beaten.”
Max Giddons repeated the vaquero’s statement to Jim and the sheriff some forty-five minutes later. It took him that long to tape the fractured jaw of Travis Burdette, to extract the bullet from the arm of the wounded gunhawk, cleanse the wound and set the broken bones. The Burdette brothers now shared a cell, and Arnie Burdette was handling all the talking, because conversation would have been difficult for his brother. The gunman with the broken arm slept fitfully in an adjoining cell while, across the corridor from them, Benito Espina squatted on his bunk and crooned a love song.
Luke Hillary had ordered a reliable local to see his niece safely home. Grim-faced and somewhat harassed, he sat slumped behind his desk and listened to Jim’s understated report of the arrests, while Giddons perched on the couch and restored his instruments to his valise. When Jim had finished his description, the medico grinned wryly and assured Luke:
“It all happened just as Jim has told you—except that he told it army-style. Everything trimmed down to the bare essentials. Either your new deputy is a man of remarkable modesty, or he just doesn’t realize the extent of his achievement.” He stopped grinning abruptly. “Luke, this was a mighty significant victory for law and order in Libertad, and more than just an arrest. It was humiliation for Block B. Jim made the Burdettes look like a couple of amateur hell-raisers. And, when old Cyrus gets to hear about it, he’ll be positively sick with rage.” He paused a moment, then thoughtfully enlarged on that possibility. “He may even suffer a stroke. By golly, that would save us a heap of grief.”
“There’ll be counter-action from Block B,” muttered Luke. “And I’d welcome an open fight, a shooting showdown with the old man and his trigger-happy scum, if it wasn’t for ...” He indicated his useless right arm, grimaced in disgust. “I wouldn’t feel so damn foolish if I’d been thrown by a horse or got in the way of a bolting team. But to just fall downstairs like some dodderin’ old-timer ...” He tensed, darted a glance to the locked and barred street-door. There were sounds of movement outside on the porch. Somebody rapped at the door. Jim gestured reassuringly, put his hand on his holster and unhurriedly sidled to one of the closed front windows. By standing with his back to the wall, he could study some of the men on the porch.
“Nobody’s showing a gun,” he told Luke. “I think I recognize ’em. Uh huh. They were at the Rialto when I took the Burdette boys.”
“Well,” frowned Luke, “we’d best find out what they want.”
The knock was repeated. Jim lifted the bar, unlocked and opened the door. Into the office trooped Saul Gearey, Luiz Varez and the four aged towners who had witnessed the killing of Dan McLennan. After them came a curious Oscar Deitch and a placid Ike Nash. The office looked jam-packed, when Jim reclosed the door and stood with his back to it.
“Don’t all try to talk at once, gents,” begged the sheriff. He nodded to one of the old-timers, a gnarled, gray-bearded seventy-year-old. “You want to be spokesman, Linus Critchley? I’d as soon you talked for the others, because you aren’t a man for long speech-makin’.”
“We all done agreed to it, Luke,” old Critchley announced. “We seen what we seen, and we figure it’s up to us to tell it. Only we hanker to get it writ down and witnessed legal, ’case we’re all dead by the time that kill-crazy whippersnapper has his day in court.”
“Affidavits?” prodded Luke, his eyes agleam. “You want to volunteer statements, swear to ’em and ...?”
“That’s it, Sheriff,” nodded Gearey. “Just like Mr. Critchley says.”
“I couldn’t lay my head to my pillow in peace this night,” mumbled another of the old-timers, “’less’n I got it outa my system.”
“Doc,” said the sheriff, “where do you go from here?”
“Straight down to the funeral parlor to sign the death certificate on McLennan,” said Giddons.
“Would you first go find Mayor Navarro?” begged Luke. “Have him hustle up here to draw up the affidavits. I want these statements to carry a little muscle, when I present ’em to the prosecutor.”
“Well,” frowned Giddons, “I guess the alcalde is qualified.”
“The alcalde,” Varez pointed out, “is also a justice of the peace.”
“Oh, sure,” nodded the medico. “I was forgetting.” He moved across to the door, voicing a thought. “This could be the beginning, huh, Luke? What we’ve waited for—hoped for—ever since Old Man Burdette and his gunslicks came to Libertad?”
“Damn right, Doc,” said Hillary. “It might just be the beginning of one big showdown.”
Within an hour the formalities were over. Into Luke Hillary’s safe were placed the duly witnessed affidavits of Saul Gearey, Luiz Varez, Ike Nash and the four old-timers. Those seven volunteer witnesses had gone their way, as had Mayor Emilio Navarro. Only Oscar Deitch remained with the sheriff and his new deputy. The storekeeper was in two moods—elated at this first manifestation of opposition to Block B—sobered at the knowledge of Dan McLennan’s untimely end.
“By the time we’re through with the Burdettes,” he opined, “there could be more than one new tombstone in the Libertad cemetery.”
“There’ll be trouble,” Hillary flatly asserted, “just as sure as there’s corn in Iowa. Old Cyrus isn’t the kind to wire some Tucson lawyer and bring him in to defend his precious sons. No siree. The Burdettes don’t hold with courts or attorneys—or even judges. Direct action is the only law the old man savvies.”
“They’ll try to bust Arnie and Travis and the other one out of jail?” prodded Jim. “Well now, that mightn’t be as easy as they think. You don’t have a rear entrance. Keep that front door locked and barred, and the windows barricaded, and there’s no way Block B could get in. They won’t try to burn you out, for fear of hurting their own men.”
“I’ll bet a half-year’s pay the old man’ll make some kind of trouble,” muttered Hillary, “some attempt to bust his boys out. It mightn’t come right away—but we won’t have to wait long. It’ll happen soon enough.”
“Three of them out of action,” frowned Jim. “How many does that leave?”
“Seven, countin’ Cyrus himself,” said Hillary, “and not countin’ the certain party that just might be visitin’ out at Block B.” He shrugged and sighed. “I feel like I owe you an apology, Jim. You got your own axe to grind—meanin’ Jenner, or Seymour—and now I’ve tied you in to a shootin’ war with the Burdette outfit.”
“I’ll make a bargain with you,” offered Jim. “You save your apologies till I start complaining—fair enough?”
“Whatever you say,” said Hillary.
“Luke,” grunted Deitch, “take a close look at your new deputy. He’s big—and plenty tough—but notice how his eyes keep closin’? It’s the rattlesnake bite. It comes back on a man, keeps wearyin’ him.”
“Poison’s all out of my system,” Jim gruffly assured him.
“Maybe so,” said Hillary, “but we ought to play it safe. You’re mighty valuable to us, Jim, so how’s about you go on back to your hotel and rest awhile?”
“I won’t say no to that,” yawned Jim. “But first, I aim to turn Benito loose, if you got no objection. This would be a fine time to run him out of town.”