by J. T. Edson
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
At first most people, even the majority of his victims, regarded the Owlhoot as something of a joke. Armed with a long-barreled Colt Peacemaker, masked by a bandana and dressed like an old West cowhand, he robbed couples necking in cars on lonely roads. Woman Deputy Alice Fayde and her partner, modern-day gun wizard Deputy Bradford Counter, did not think he was a joke. Especially as they stood looking at the two bodies sprawled by the Pontiac convertible. They had been shot at close range by the .45 caliber, black powder-powered bullets from the Owlhoot’s revolver. The deputies’ fears had been realized. No longer was the Owlhoot a joke. Now he was a killer who had to be located and arrested before he used the Colt again.
ROCKABYE COUNTY 8: THE OWLHOOT
By J. T. Edson
First Published by Transworld Publishers in 1970
Copyright © 1970, 2018 by J. T. Edson
First Kindle Edition: August 2018
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Cover image © 2018 by Tony Masero
Check out Tony’s work here
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
For my step-father, Bill Price, with thanks for everything.
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
About the Author
One
The tall, slim young man wore a low-crowned, wide-brimmed black J. B. Stetson hat tilted at just the right jack-deuce angle over his off eye. Knotted about his throat, the tight-rolled, multi-colored silk bandana trailed its long ends down over his black-and-white calfskin vest and dark green shirt. Cuffs turned back, so as to serve as a repository for nails or other small objects when working on foot, the legs of his faded Levis pants hung outside his high-heeled, fancy-stitched boots. Around his waist, slanting down to the right, was buckled a hand-carved, two-and-a-half-inch-wide gunbelt. Twenty long, fat, lead-nosed .45 caliber bullets rode the loops of the belt, available to replenish the chambers of the pearl-handled Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker in the carefully designed holster.
In appearance, he might have been an ordinary cowboy of the kind who had helped Texas grow from hide and horn into a prosperous State of the Union. There could have been a hundred or more harmless, innocent, even beneficial reasons why he stood among the moon-dappled trees about a mile beyond the limits of Gusher City, the seat of Rockabye County.
He might have been listening for the sounds of night-grazing ladino cattle, creatures so wild and alert that they could not be located during the hours of daylight. [i] Or he could be on watch, ears straining to detect the presence and activities of cow thieves. Maybe, in view of his fancy, go-to-town clothes, he was waiting at a rendezvous to meet up with some pretty little gal from the city whose father objected to the notion of having a cowhand for a prospective son-in-law.
However, his actions soon proved that he was not there for any harmless, innocent or beneficial purpose. Drawing a second bandana from his pants’ pocket, he folded it across the middle into a triangle. With that done, he fastened it around his head so that only his eyes and a narrow strip of his face showed between its upper edge and the brim of the Stetson.
In that moment, the man ceased to be an honest cowhand with innocent or honorable intentions. He wore the bandana as a mask, concealing his features and preventing his identity from being known. No harmless cowhand needed to do that. It was the act of a bandido, a long-rider, an owlhoot—a criminal.
With the bandana adjusted, he dropped his right hand to the butt of the Colt. The holster in which the revolver rode differed from the conventional pattern in a few important aspects. The most noticeable difference was that it was open down the front, the Colt being retained horizontally inside the leather case by a spring of finely-tempered steel clasping the cylinder in its U-shaped arms. Vertical stability came from the upper edge of the holster’s sides, higher than usual in a fast-draw rig, closing in above the cylinder and trigger-guard, and by the end of the barrel resting in a round hole cut into the base plug.
Instead of trying to lift the Colt upwards from its holster, he pivoted it forward and downward. Freed from the retaining spring, it left the frontal slit and was clear of leather. For a moment he stood savoring the solid two-pound five-ounce weight of the twelve-and-a-half-inch-long revolver. Then he threw a glance to where his mount was waiting beneath the spreading branches of an old white oak. Satisfied that all was ready in case he needed to leave in a hurry, he moved off through the trees. He went only a short way before coming in sight of his victims. Stepping on to the hard dirt surface of the track which wound through the woodland, he studied the target of his proposed crime.
Not a stagecoach, loaded with wealthy passengers, nor a rancher taking home the money from a successful cattle-drive, but an elegant Cadillac hardtop car.
It stood, without lights, at the side of the track. However, the moon’s glow permitted the owlhoot to see all he needed of the interior. Two people sat entangled in an embrace on the front seat.
Drawing closer to the car, his feet making little sound, the owlhoot felt a surge of excitement rising. Every instinct told him that he had picked well. That type of Cadillac would not be found in the hands of a poor worker from the Evans Park area known as the Bad Bit. It was the kind of heap used by the dwellers of snob Upton Heights, by the rich upper-class citizens of the big city, the lights of which glowed beyond the trees. Despite the growing use of credit cards, that type of person still carried a fair sum of money with them.
Slowly he advanced and reached out with his left hand. Neither occupant of the car gave any indication that they knew of his presence, but remained tangled in each other’s arms and with faces pressed passionately together. Even as he gripped the door handle, the owlhoot realized that he was not wearing gloves. Not too serious an oversight, but one which he must remember to avoid in future. The jet-age peace officer possessed methods and techniques not available to his old-West contemporaries. Twisting the handle, he pulled open the car’s door.
The couple on the front seat jerked away from each other. Snatching his right hand from beneath the woman’s brief skirt, the man behind the wheel twisted towards the intruder. Shock, annoyance, then anger mingled with disbelief flickered on his features as he glared at the masked figure.
‘What the he—!’ the man began, while his companion let out a muffled, horrified squeak and covered her face with her hands.
‘This’s a stick up,’ the owlhoot interrupted, voice holding a cold snarl. ‘Climb out with your hands high. Don’t rile me none and nobody’ll get made wolf-bait.’
Listening to the words, the car’s driver tensed and he started to say, ‘You’ve flipped ‘
The protest ended as the owlhoot drew back the hammer of the big Colt with his right thumb. It was a gesture, accompanied by a clicking sound, all too familiar to mo
viegoers or watchers of television Western shows. Somehow it carried an added menace due to the bizarre conditions facing the driver of the Cadillac. If anything, the owlhoot’s choice of clothing and method of preventing identification added to, rather than distracted from, the threat produced by the brief motion required to cock the revolver’s single-action mechanism.
Certainly the threat caused the driver to relax slightly and put aside his intention of leaping from the car at the owlhoot. With the hammer drawn to the rear, a slight pressure on the trigger would free it to slam forward and ignite the waiting cartridge’s primer. If that happened, a bullet would spiral along the rifling grooves of the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel which pointed so disconcertingly at the center of his chest.
‘You’re riling me, hombre.’ warned the owlhoot, watching the aggression ebb from the driver. ‘Git out of that buggy or I’ll throw smoke in your face.’
Slowly the woman’s hands crept apart and she stared at the speaker. From the expression on her face, she appeared almost relieved to find herself involved in a hold-up.
‘D-Do as he says, Marty,’ she begged.
‘The lady’s giving right good advice, hombre,’ the owlhoot stated. ‘I’m counting to “three” and if you’re not out by then, you’ll be staying there permanent.’ He paused briefly to let the threat sink in, and continued, ‘One!’
‘All right, already!’ the driver yelped. ‘Keep your cool, man. I’m coming out like you say.’
Backing off slightly, the owlhoot kept his Colt’s muzzle directed at the car’s door. Aware that he was still too close to be missed, Marty climbed out. He was a young man, slightly taller and heavier than the owlhoot, with a tanned, handsome face and long black hair. Dressed to the height of with-it fashion, he sported a gold wristwatch and a couple of valuable-looking rings. Straightening up, looking surly and as truculent as he dared chance under the circumstances, he moved aside and towards the rear door of the car.
‘Now you, lady,’ ordered the owlhoot, advancing a stride. ‘Come on out this way.’
Wriggling across the seat, she obeyed. In her haste, the very short skirt of her metallic-looking mini-dress rode even higher. So when she swung her shapely legs around the end of the seat and from the car, they were exposed to the tops of their thighs. It was a sight calculated to make any red-blooded man look more closely and the owlhoot gave it his full attention. Nor did the cleavage of the dress’s neckline do anything to lessen the distraction as its wearer bent over, then stood erect outside the car. The woman had blonde hair that, although slightly disheveled, was fixed in an expensive coiffure. Good-looking, she filled the mini-dress with a gorgeously-curved body. Costly jewelry glittered in the moonlight, on her fingers, about her wrists and around her throat. In her hands, she held a bag which matched the material of her dress.
Finding the owlhoot’s attention diverted from him, Marty let out a low hiss of furious triumph and lunged forward. While his intention was to tackle the other man, making use of the skills gained in many a street-fight, he had committed a serious tactical error.
On hearing the warning sound made by Marty, the owlhoot tore his eyes from the woman. Pivoting around, he gave his attention to his assailant. Even so, Marty might have counted himself a lucky young man. Although he held a fully-loaded and cocked Colt Peacemaker in his right hand, the owlhoot did not use it as a firearm. Instead he swung it around at arm’s length, laying the long barrel hard against the side of Marty’s head. As many an old-West peace officer could have attested, the Peacemaker, with its sturdy construction and solid frame, made a mighty effective man-stopper even when used as a club. Caught by the savage blow, Marty’s attack attempt came to a halt. More than that, it was turned from an advance into a retreat as he spun around and fell limply against the side of the Cadillac, then crumpled to the ground.
Even as the woman opened her mouth to scream, the owlhoot turned towards her. Showing the same devastating speed with which he had struck down her companion, he stabbed the muzzle of the Peacemaker into the pit of her stomach. Again, one of his victims had cause to be grateful. While the impact served to wind her and cut off her scream, his forefinger did not tighten on the trigger and fire the Colt.
Gagging, clutching at her midsection, the woman collapsed onto the car’s front seat. From there she stared at her attacker, glanced at the recumbent figure of her escort and turned terrified eyes back to the owlhoot. Realizing that she still held her handbag, she thrust it in the masked man’s direction.
‘H-Here !’ she gasped. ‘T-Take it.’
One look at Marty told the owlhoot that he did not need to worry about further intervention from that source. So he returned the Colt to its holster, placing the muzzle into its cavity and easing the cylinder between the arms of the retaining spring.
‘I can right fast enough get it out again, ma’am,’ he warned, accepting and opening the bag.
‘You won’t need to!’ she assured him and started to unfasten the bracelet from her left wrist. ‘D-Don’t hurt me!’
Taking a thick billfold from the bag, he opened it up and extracted the money it held. He returned the billfold and stuffed the wad of money into his Levis pants’ hip pocket.
‘You can forget that,’ he said, waving aside the bracelet and tossing the bag into her lap. ‘I’ve got what I wanted.’
With that he stepped to and knelt alongside the motionless Marty. The woman watched as he reached beneath the other’s jacket.
‘Is—he dead?’ she asked, and immediately wished that she had not. If the answer should be in the affirmative, the masked man would be unlikely to leave a living witness to his crime.
‘Nope,’ drawled the owlhoot, in a tone of callous indifference which chilled the blonde and increased her fright.
Producing Marty’s wallet, the masked man transferred its contents to his own back pocket. The woman moved restlessly, eyes never leaving the owlhoot. At the slight sound she made, he tossed Marty’s empty wallet aside and thrust himself upright. While rising, his right hand flashed down to pivot the Colt from its holster and point its barrel in her direction. Once more she was very close to death, nearer than even her terrified mind imagined, for he had not lowered the hammer before holstering the revolver.
‘Don’t shoot!’ the blonde screeched, scrunching herself up small on the edge of the seat and with a note of near-hysteria making her voice sound tinny. ‘I wasn’t trying anything.’
‘You’d’ve right soon regretted it if you had been,’ the owlhoot promised. Then he lowered the Colt’s hammer and returned the gun to its holster. ‘I’m pulling out now, ma’am.’
‘Bu-But—’
‘Yeah?’
‘Wh-What about M-Marty?’
‘What about him?’ demanded the owlhoot, throwing a disinterested glance at the unconscious figure.
‘He’s hurt,’ the woman pointed out.
‘Which same he asked for.’
‘Y-Yes. I suppose he did. But—but how can I get him into the car and to hospital?’
For a moment the owlhoot stood as if meaning to announce his complete disinterest in how she managed. Then he gave a shrug and opened the car’s rear door.
‘Go ’round the other side,’ he told her. ‘Just make one wrong move, or loud sound, and I’ll kill you.’
Listening to him, the blonde did not doubt for a moment that he meant to do as he said. So she scuttled around the car and stood like a statue as he bent, raised and thrust Marty’s limp body inside. Closing the door, the owlhoot realized that he had once again left fingerprints on a surface ideally suited to retaining them. From his left pants’ pocket, he took a handkerchief and wiped the handles of both the doors. All the time, the blonde remained as motionless as if turned to stone. Fear twisted at her face as the cold eyes raised to her.
‘I’m going now,’ the owlhoot told her. ‘But if you make a sound, start blowing the horn, or raising fuss, I’ll be back.’
Not until the masked figure had fad
ed off among the trees did the woman move. Then she let out a long, low, strangled sob and stumbled around the car. Climbing into the driving seat, she looked back at Marty. He sprawled half on the rear seat, groaning slightly. With shaking hands the blonde started the car and crashed it into gear. Accompanied by moans from the rear, which did nothing to sooth her tensed-up emotions, she drove along the track until finding a place at which she could turn. Doing so, she retraced her route until joining a better-grade road which led into Gusher City.
Going through the trees, the owlhoot had returned to his mount—a Honda Trail 90 motorcycle—before he heard the sound of the Cadillac’s engine. He grinned at the thought of the robbery and wondered what damage the blonde was doing to the car’s tortured gearbox. Long before she arrived in the city, he would have reached safety.
Two
Maybe the owlhoot dressed in an archaic manner and bore some of the old West’s glamour in his appearance, but the same did not apply to the people who would soon be taking an active interest in his affairs. The deputies of the Sheriff’s Office in Gusher City worked during their two-watch rota—eight in the morning until four in the afternoon and four to midnight—from a scene that bore little resemblance to the traditional Texas range-country jailhouse. Located on the third floor of the modern, six-story Department of Public Safety Building, instead of in a wood or adobe shack on main street, the deputies’ squad-room looked like an office in any other twentieth-century law enforcement organization. Two lines of desks, each with its telephone extension and typewriter, stretched across the room. No longer did the Office’s assault weapons stand exposed to view on a wall-rack. The more sophisticated firearms—Winchester Model 12 riot guns, Thompson submachine guns, M.1 carbines, telescope-sighted snipers’ rifles, Federal gas-shell dischargers—and their ammunition were stored in the two large boxes which flanked the connecting door to the Watch Commander’s office. Filing cabinets lined two of the walls, while the main entrance was flanked by the Duty Roster and bulletin boards, the latter carrying wanted posters in addition to other notices. On a table by the double doors, beneath the Duty Roster board, the Office log was open ready for use.