No Escape Trail by Marshall Grover

Author:Marshall Grover [Grover, Marshall]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: piccadilly publishing, western fiction ebook, a big jim western, jim rand and benito espina, colt 45, marshall grover westerns, cowboys and outlaws of the old west, leonard mears australian writer
Amazon: B0756J1DQG
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing
Published: 2017-11-02T00:00:00+00:00

Soon afterwards, in his room at the Rockwell establishment, Jim peeled off his clothes and prepared for bed. He would sleep easily this night, he assured himself. After many months of travelling in company of the larcenous Benito, he still hadn’t reconciled himself to the Mex’s warped philosophy, the fact that his guitar-plunking shadow could no more resist the temptation to rob him than a dedicated drunk could stay away from the bottle. Benito had three favorite targets—Jim’s wallet, the gold watch presented to him by the grateful citizens of a town called Libertad, or a St. Christopher medal given him by one of several women who had hoped to persuade him to abandon his hunt for Jenner. Many times each week, Benito did his utmost to relieve Jim of those prized possessions. Sometimes he succeeded, but only temporarily.

His only reminders of the Mex were the packroll and saddlebag dumped in the corner. He now recalled that, while being hustled out of the Gay Lady by Deputy Robinson. Benito was still in possession of his beloved guitar. The lawmen of Ortega, he reflected, would soon have cause to regret the oversight, should they permit Benito to keep the guitar. The Mex would undoubtedly sing, accompanying himself on the guitar, and that instrument was no more tuneful than the nasal, rasping voice of the grimiest pickpocket north of the Rio Bravo.

He had been asleep almost two hours when he was awakened by a rapping at his door and a voice calling his name. The voice was Rockwell’s. He sat up, yawning, rubbing at his bare chest.

“Yeah—I’m here. What is it?”

“We’re sure sorry to wake you up, Mr. Rand, but …”

“We?”

“Yessir. Quite a few of us out here—hankerin’ to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait till morning?”

“I reckon we’d all feel a sight easier if we get it settled tonight.”

He felt for his matches, scratched one and got his lamp working, then quit the bed and wrapped a bath towel about his midriff. Other voices reached him now. He unlocked and opened the door, gestured for them to enter. As they moved in, three of them offered apologies.

“We’re sure sorry …” began Rockwell.

“Helluva time to bust in on a man,” mumbled Jonah Welsh.

“But we decided to parley with you,” explained Owen Leith, “while the notion was still hot in our minds.”

“Howdy again,” grinned Kurt Richter.

There were eight in all, so that the bedroom now appeared overcrowded. Undismayed at his near-naked state, Jim rolled and lit a cigarette, perched on the ledge of the open window. Jonah and Leith occupied the only chairs. Richter squatted on the floor with his broad back pressed to the closed door. The other five perched on the edges of the beds. Leith, the good-looking owner of L Bar, seemed to have been elected spokesman; he introduced those men with whom Jim was not yet acquainted.

“These gentlemen were also on the Garcia jury, Rand. I think you’ve already met Mort Brinkley of the MB Corral and Livery …”

“Hello again.” Jim nodded to the doleful Brinkley, and couldn’t resist a jibe.

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