Big Jim 7 by Marshall Grover

Author:Marshall Grover [Grover, Marshall]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: winchester rifle, colt 45, western pulp fiction, lawmen and outlaws, western fiction ebook, leonard meares, marshall grover, big jim rand, benito espina, the wild west of the 1880s
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Seven – Deadly Decision

By the time that meeting adjourned, Clay Morrow needed a stiff shot of raw liquor to steady his nerves; more than any other time in his whole life, he needed it now. But he was loath to drink with the conspirators at this time, fearful that his apprehension might give him away. How much longer could he hide his feelings behind an impassive mask?

In response to Trantor’s offer of a drink, he shook his head, rose from his chair and said, “No, thanks. I’d as soon drink downstairs—with Jo.” He essayed a jest. “You hombres are friendly enough, but she’s prettier.”

Larkin’s grim expression didn’t change. Trantor shrugged in the manner of a man too preoccupied for levity. Lundy and Yuill chuckled good humoredly. As Clay turned and ambled to the door, Trantor thought to ask:

“How are you fixed for cash?”

“I can hold out,” Clay assured him, “till I collect my cut of that payroll loot.”

Yuill opened the door for him, his grin contorting his scarred visage. He moved out into the gallery, after which Yuill re-closed the door and opined to the boss thief: “He’ll do.”

“Sure,” agreed Trantor. “If I hadn’t been ninety percent sure, I’d never have propositioned him.”

“For my money,” muttered Larkin, “he’s too damn sure of himself.”

“Let’s be thankful, Ed,” drawled the marshal. “What d’you want? Some nervous fool that might spook at the last moment and foul up the whole deal?”

“Morrison,” Trantor firmly asserted, “is just the kind of man we need.”

Clay did a great deal of thinking in the short time it took him to descend those stairs and join Joanna Gifford at a corner table. Two other faces were clear and compelling to his mind’s eye, the faces of his son and daughter, freckled, gap-toothed, always laughing.

“I’m the most pathetic fool in all creation, because I never knew when I was well off. I never knew—until I lost everything.”

The barkeep brought a bottle, two glasses and a pitcher of water to the table. Joanna poured a double shot for Clay, half-filled a glass for herself and added water. Her smile was as knowing as ever, when they toasted each other. She knew the answer to her question while voicing it.

“You’re with us, Cole?”

“With you all the way,” he drawled, grateful for the feel of the raw rye coursing to his vitals. “I like the set up—so Trantor didn’t have to work hard to convince me.” He crossed his legs, set his glass down and began rolling a cigarette. Again a poignant memory assailed him; he was suddenly yearning for his pipe, missing it. Poignant memories and rising fears; it seemed there was no room in his brain for anything else. Hope? Was there any hope for him? To whom could he turn? He tried to sound casual, as he enquired of the woman:

“Who is Rand?”

“Rand?” She raised her eyebrows.

“While we were talking about that army payroll,” said Clay, dropping his voice, “Trantor mentioned a feller called Rand. And another—name of Curtis.”

“Oh—those two.

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