The Night McLennan Died (A Big Jim Western Book 1) by Marshall Grover

Author:Marshall Grover
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: big jim, western pulp fiction ebook, cowboys and gunfighters 1880s historical fiction, marshall grover, beninto espina, big jim rand, cleveland westerns, jim rand, the night mclennan died, us frontier fiction ebook
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Seven – Six Bullets At 2.25

In the kitchen of the untidy, musty-smelling Block B ranch house, the old man fed his ire with raw whisky and conversed with the visitor, the blond man who had discreetly remained in the background during the brief intrusion by Benito Espina.

“I’ll tell you this, Clegg,” mumbled Burdette. “I won’t stand for it. I won’t let that sonofagun sheriff get away with it. Not him nor his new deputy.”

“The way it all adds up,” drawled Clegg Seymour, “Hillary ain’t half as big a problem as the deputy. It was the deputy that listened to McLennan’s last words.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” scowled Burdette. “Kyle Burt has made it clear enough.”

“I’d offer to help, Cy,” frowned Seymour, “but it’s like I told you when you first took me in. I need to lay low, just can’t afford to show my face in Libertad—or any other town.”

Cyrus Burdette’s nephew was two inches short of being a six-footer. The sandy hair and moustache were well tended and, while listening to his kinsman’s outburst, he kept his tapered fingers busy and in practice, shuffling a deck, dealing solitaire. A pearl ring gleamed on his left little finger. Under his left armpit, held in position by an elaborate harness that would be invisible under his buttoned coat, he wore a holstered Smith and Wesson of .38 caliber.

“That the sons of Cyrus Burdette should be stuck in that tin-can jail!” fumed the old man. “And one with his jaw broke! It’s a humiliation, Clegg, and somebody’s gonna pay for it—in blood.”

“What about all the jaspers that saw Arnie gun this McLennan?” asked Seymour. “Would they stand up in court?”

“Calvert is the only one I could count on to lie for Arnie,” muttered Burdette. “The others might get to feelin’ brave—maybe brave enough to testify against Arnie—so it seems I’ll have to discourage ’em.” He grinned mirthlessly. “Kinda warn ’em off—you know what I mean?”

“You can afford to take your time,” opined Seymour. “Judge Ford ain’t due for quite a spell, huh?”

“Judge Ford wouldn’t dare quit Tucson and head for Libertad,” Burdette asserted. “We got him buffaloed—scared stiff. Last time he came south, my boys put a few forty-four-forty slugs through them stagecoach windows, and I hear tell the judge sweated so bad he looked like he took a bath with his clothes on.” His expression hardened and, again, his eyes had that unnatural gleam. “If they send for him now—if he heads south to sit in judgment on my boy—I swear that coach’ll never get any closer than Angle Butte.”

“I never try to hand out advice, Cy, but ...”

“Don’t start now. This is my problem, and I’ll handle it my way.”

“I was only gonna say one thing, Cy.”

“All right. You’re kin to us Burdettes, so I’ll hear you.”

“It doesn’t pay to kill a judge, Cy. It’d be like gunnin’ a senator or a parson. You could stir up a whole mess of grief for yourself. And, anyway, you don’t need to kill the judge.

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