The Owlhoot

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Do it, Barry,’ the girl whispered. ‘Humor him!’

  With that she left the car, eyes on the Owlhoot and paying no attention to the long-barreled revolver in his hand. There was a hint of mockery in her eyes, an air of condescending pity that made the masked figure writhe in growing fury. He could imagine how she was looking forward to describing her adventure to the other girls at work the following day. If the Owlhoot had anything to do with it, she was going to have quite a story—but she would not enjoy telling it.

  While waiting for her boyfriend to leave the car, the Owlhoot ran his eyes over the girl. Elegantly coiffured, very pretty, with an eye-catching figure that a mini-dress did nothing to hide, she possessed a poise and style that he had come to hate. Such girls had always intrigued the Owlhoot. Mostly they held jobs as secretaries, or receptionists, in large business organizations and they always treated him with disdain. Even as his alter ego, complete with a Colt Cavalry Peacemaker and appearance of an old-West outlaw, he inspired only derision on her part.

  Coming out of the car, the man was what the Owlhoot expected to see. Tall, well-dressed, handsome and muscular, he might have posed for a picture of a typical up-and-coming junior executive. Everything about him roused the Owlhoot’s hatred and goaded the masked man to carry out the plan thought of as a way of adding excitement to the robbery.

  From all appearances, the Owlhoot’s attention was diverted by the girl. So much so that Barry did not hesitate. The moment he had straightened up, he lunged towards the masked man. That was what the Owlhoot had wanted to happen.

  Bringing his Colt around and up in a backhand swing, he lashed its barrel across the side of Barry’s face. Spinning around, Barry crashed backwards into the car. Gliding forward, the Owlhoot drove up his right leg. The toe of his foot caught Barry savagely between the legs. Dazed by the blow from the revolver, Barry cried harshly in agony and began to fold over. Again the Owlhoot swung the Colt. Its barrel struck the top of Barry’s skull with sickening force and he collapsed as if he had been boned. Again the Owlhoot kicked, his boot striking the limp shape in the ribs.

  Everything had happened so quickly that the girl could do no more than gasp in horror before the Owlhoot swung in her direction. He repeated the means he had used to silence Ivy Monoghan. Out snaked the Colt’s long barrel, stabbing her hard in the pit of the stomach. Clutching her middle and gagging, she stumbled and almost fell before bumping into and clinging hold of the side of the car. At last she regained her breath and stared at the Owlhoot. Walking over to the car, he reached in and lit the interior lights.

  ‘Wha—What are you looking at me like that for?’ the girl gasped, a hank of her brunette hair trailing over her face.

  ‘Peel off,’ the Owlhoot ordered.

  ‘Wha—What?’

  ‘Take all your clothes off. Pronto!’

  ‘I—No—N—!’

  ‘Have it your way,’ drawled the Owlhoot, slanting the Colt’s barrel towards the unconscious man’s head. ‘Him first, then you.’

  Letting out a shuddering gasp, the girl tried to move away from the car. Swinging his revolver, the Owlhoot felt its barrel tap against the brunette’s nose. Her reaction showed him the way to achieve his ends. While she might not care about her boyfriend being shot, the thought of her face being scarred clearly frightened her. Up flew her hands, clasping at the face and feeling to see if it had been damaged. Again he jabbed the gun into her stomach, causing her to remove her hands.

  ‘You won’t look pretty when I’m through if you haven’t started peeling by the time I’ve counted to three. One—’

  Horror twisted at the girl’s face, mingled with a raw fear even greater than had been shown by his first female victim. Slowly she reached behind her, raking in drags of air and gasping them out. With fumbling hands, she unzipped her dress and peeled it off. She stood in the light thrown by the car’s lights, clad only in a bra and tights. Running his eyes over her richly-endowed figure, the Owlhoot made a savage gesture. Sobbing incoherent words, she removed her bra to leave her bust hanging unsupported. The Owlhoot ran his tongue tip over his lips as he eyed the two mounds of flesh, their nipples brown and jutting out.

  ‘And the rest,’ he commanded and, when she hesitated with hands covering her breasts, kicked Barry at the side of the head. ‘Lover-boy here wouldn’t want you not to keep me all pleasured and happy.’

  Staring at the glowing eyes above the bandana mask, the girl shuddered. She wanted to scream, but could imagine what would happen if she did. There was nobody to hear her and the masked man would batter her face brutally the moment she made a sound. Kicking off her shoes, she looked pleadingly at him but found no sign of him weakening. So she began to draw down her tights. With them off, she held them before her until he snarled for her to throw them down. Obeying, she backed against the car. One hand covered her pubic regions, the other ineffectually tried to retain some semblance of modesty by concealing part of her thirty-eight-inch bust.

  ‘Put your hands on your hips,’ the Owlhoot told her.

  Somewhere or other he had read that a civilized human being was never so vulnerable and unprotected mentally than when naked. From the expression on the brunette’s face as she obeyed, it was true. If he had visited her place of employment, he would have found her cool, distant, superciliously polite. She did not look that way as she stood before him. Tears of fright and pain had washed away her eye-shadow, while perspiration left her make-up in ruins. Reaching out with his left hand, he jiggled her right breast on it and felt her convulsive attempt to draw away. Coldly, cruelly, he tightened his fingers on the globe of flesh until she whimpered in agony. Seeing her mouth open to scream, he released the breast and lashed the palm of his hand across her cheek. Reeling, she stumbled to her hands and knees. A gobble of fear babbled from her lips as his hand dug into her hair and tilted her face upwards. The Colt raised, poised ready to strike.

  It did not fall. Instead the Owlhoot gave the head a shake and released its hair. Pointing to the right front wheel, he told the brunette to let all the air from its tire. Still making a low whimpering, sobbing sound, she crawled forward to obey. Watching her assailant, she saw him remove and empty her companion’s wallet. Then he took her handbag from the car and added its meager contents to his other loot.

  ‘Now the others,’ he ordered when the first tire had sunk to its rims.

  Fighting to hold down a growing wave of hysteria, the girl went from tire to tire. All the time she was conscious of the masked man’s eyes on her and occasionally he would come close to fondle her buttocks or bust. How she held herself in check she would never know, but she could imagine what the result of a hysterical outburst or resistance would be. At last she had deflated all four tires and was told to stand up.

  ‘No—No—!’ she moaned.

  On the point of moving closer, the Owlhoot’s attention was caught by a flicker of light down among the trees. It came and went in a flash, but he realized that it had been a car passing along the road to Hoseville. If the driver had seen him, or somebody happened to notice the glow of lights, they might come to investigate. Which meant that the Owlhoot could not chance carrying his abuses to the full extent. It was a pity though, for he would never have a better chance with a girl of her kind. Unfortunately, no man could move swiftly with his pants trailing around his knees. Grinning a little at his wit, he prepared to give her a further dose of terror before he left.

  Again his left hand reached towards her bust. Cowering away, oblivious of everything but his crooked fingers, the brunette fought against the scream that she knew must come as soon as he touched her. Then, with the fingers almost brushing against her flesh, everything went black and she collapsed in a faint at the Owlhoot’s feet. For a moment he stood looking at her, then he grinned and holstered his Colt. Bending down, he rolled the girl on her back. After stretching her arms out from her sides, he drew her legs apart and stepped aside to admire his handiwork.

  ‘Let’s see you laugh
when you tell about this,’ the Owlhoot gritted, gathering up all her clothes and then strolling nonchalantly off through the trees.

  When she recovered, the girl was too terrified and hysterical to do anything sensible or constructive. Sitting up, she became aware of how she had been spread-eagled on the ground and drew the conclusion that the Owlhoot had hoped she might.

  Being left stark naked added to her emotional turmoil, rendering her incapable of thinking rationally. She crawled into the car, crouching on the seat and sobbing without giving a thought to her unconscious companion. With every passing second she expected the masked figure to return. What he had done while she lay in the faint, she could only guess. If he came back, it would be to continue his activities or to make sure that she was unable to give evidence against him.

  Almost two hours went by before she could think more sensibly. In her emotional state, she knew that she could not hope to get her still unconscious companion aboard and drive the car. Desperation caused her to switch on all the vehicle’s lights in the hope of attracting somebody’s attention.

  Returning to his motorcycle, the Owlhoot was about to throw away the bundle of female clothing when a thought struck him. He ought to keep a trophy; something to remind him of the most thrilling moment of his life so far. Shaking the garments into separate items, he studied them. There could only be one choice, of course. So he picked up the tights and stuffed them into his saddlebag. They would be the first of his growing collection.

  Wild elation filled the Owlhoot as he mounted the motorcycle, started its engine and rode off in search of other victims. That had been one hell of a sensation. Far more satisfying even than his first robbery. Once the brunette told her story, nobody would sell him short. Especially if he could duplicate his actions with the other couples he found.

  For a time it appeared that the Owlhoot would be disappointed. Taking a direct route to the next turn-off, he failed to locate a parked car on it. Angrily he made his way through the trees until he approached another winding, narrow track. Hoping that the Stenton turn-off would prove more productive than the last, he left the trail-bike leaning against a rock and scouted on foot.

  Observation and experience had taught him that lovers preferred to park in a place where a bend and bushes hid them from other users of the turn-off. So he moved along among the trees flanking the track, looking hopefully around each bend. At last he saw a Plymouth hardtop standing just off the trail beyond a sharp curve. He stood for a moment, listening and estimating how far he had come since leaving the motorcycle. Hearing no other traffic on the turn-off, he decided against wasting time in collecting the trail-bike before he paid his visit to the car.

  Silently the Owlhoot moved across to the car and jerked open its door. Inside, a tall, well-built young soldier released the petite, vivacious red-haired girl he had been kissing. His eyes went to the revolver, noticing that its hammer lay back in the fully cocked position, before lifting to study the masked figure. By his side, the girl stared at the Owlhoot and she gave a giggle.

  ‘Out, pronto!’ the masked man ordered, promising himself that it would be a long time before she giggled again.

  ‘It’s the Owlhoot, Dean,’ the girl whispered. ‘The nu—feller all the newscasts have been talking about.’

  ‘You heard me!’ the Owlhoot snarled. ‘Get out with your hands high!’

  ‘Sure, mac,’ the soldier replied calmly. ‘Just take it easy. I’ve got back from Vietnam without taking lead, so I’m not fixing to get shot up now.’

  Although he occupied the passenger seat and emerged first, the soldier did not try to take advantage of the Owlhoot’s apparent distraction. Despite the masked man appearing to be preoccupied with ogling at the girl’s legs while she left the car, Dean stood immobile with his hands raised.

  ‘If it’s money you’re after, mac, you’ve picked a poor mark,’ the soldier remarked casually. ‘My pappy always taught me only to carry as much as I’d need and we sure weren’t fixing to go spending tonight.’

  The couple’s air of calm and lack of fear tore at the Owlhoot like a knife. Fury twisted through him and he wanted to humble the soldier’s casual competence, then avenge himself on the girl for her lack of respect. There was one way the Owlhoot felt certain would make the soldier act in the required manner.

  ‘I’ll take money or pleasure, blue-belly,’ the Owlhoot sneered, waving the Peacemaker in the girl’s direction. ‘Start strip—’

  ‘Why you—!’ the soldier spat out, starting to move forward just as the Owlhoot wanted.

  Delight surged up inside the Owlhoot as he whipped his revolver in a savage roundhouse swing—then things began to go wrong. Instead of walking blindly into the blow, the soldier ducked beneath its arc. Still crouching, he shot his left fist forward. Hard knuckles drove into the Owlhoot’s chest and, despite the awkward position from which the blow had been struck, the impact sent him staggering backwards.

  Fear stabbed at the masked man as he fought to retain his balance. Scenes from his childhood flashed through his memory and he recalled the times when his brooding temper had led him to attack other boys. On each occasion his amateurish efforts had met with disaster and he could see the same thing happening to him at that moment. Only this time the results would be far more serious.

  More by luck than conscious effort, the Owlhoot kept on his feet. He saw the soldier coming after him, fists clenched and face hard with menace. Desperately he turned the Colt’s barrel and its muzzle could not have been more than a couple of inches from the soldier’s chest when he jerked on the trigger. Flame lit up the center of the khaki shirt and its wearer changed direction dramatically Shock and agony distorted his features for a moment as he spun around and fell face first to the ground.

  ‘Dean!’

  Hearing the girl’s scream, almost animal in its distress and rage, the Owlhoot stared at her. She was coming towards him, all teeth and claws, looking more dangerous than an enraged lioness protecting its young. Cocking his Colt by instinct, he thrust it at her. Although she ran on to the barrel, she gave no sign of feeling pain or retreating. Instead she forced against the hard steel, eyes blazing hatred and fingernails reaching for his face. Again he jerked the trigger. There was no blaze of muzzle-flash when the gun went off, only the stench of burning cloth and human flesh. Thrown backwards, her frock smoldering where the blood from the wound did not soak it, she fell at the soldier’s side.

  Letting out a low hiss, the Owlhoot stood and stared at the two figures sprawled limply by the car. Slowly he returned the Colt to its holster and moved closer. He listened, ears straining to catch any warning that the shooting had been heard. Satisfied that it had not, he knelt and removed the wallet from the soldier’s back pocket. After emptying it, he tossed it aside and went to the girl. One thing was for sure, he decided as he removed his trophy from her, the people of Rockabye County would stop treating the Owlhoot as a joke after tonight.

  Fourteen

  ‘I’m Woman Deputy Fayde,’ Alice introduced, showing her I.D. wallet to the two men who had found the Owlhoot’s latest victims. She indicated the peace officers leaving the Oldsmobile. ‘Those’re my partners, Deputy Counter and Detectives Vaughn and Heilman.’

  ‘This’s Stan McGeary and I’m Ollie Alexander,’ the taller of the pair replied. ‘You sure didn’t waste any time getting here.’

  ‘We were headed out this way already,’ Alice explained, looking around her.

  McGeary and Alexander were coon-hunters, both tall, lean and tanned. The former carried a shotgun on the crook of his left arm and the latter had a Colt Woodsman automatic pistol holstered on his right thigh. Beyond the Plymouth hardtop, pointing in the direction from which the peace officers had come, was a battered old jeep with a pair of black-and-tan coonhounds tied to its front bumper. Alice’s eyes returned to the Plymouth and what lay beside it.

  ‘Gal was still alive when we got here,’ McGeary remarked in a voice made deliberately casual to prevent the
anger he felt bursting into violent, useless cursing. ‘Only just, but alive.’

  ‘Did you move her?’ Alice asked, leaving Brad and the detectives to unload the murder kit and other equipment from the deputy car’s boot.

  ‘Lady,’ Alexander answered huskily, clearly fighting to keep control of his emotions. ‘I was a medic in Normandy during the war. One thing I learned. When they’re hit like she’d been, you don’t start trying to make them “comfortable”. I stayed with her while Stan took the jeep and drove like hell to the Stenton place and telephoned the Sheriff’s Office. She went about a minute after he left. There wasn’t a solitary damned thing I could do for her—’

  ‘Did she say anything before she died?’ Alice inquired gently as the man’s words died away in the bitter, helpless manner that she had heard before under similar circumstances.

  ‘Talked about somebody called “Dean”. I figured it was the soldier. Then I asked her who’d done it and she said it was the Owlhoot,’ Alexander replied and his hand brushed the butt of the Woodsman. ‘He’d gone before we came, or he’d still be here—for keeps.’

  ‘You didn’t hear anything?’ Alice asked. ‘Footsteps, a trail-bike’s engine, like that.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Alexander growled. ‘That poor lil gal—’

  ‘Yes,’ Alice said quietly and looked over her shoulder. ‘Start getting your S.O.C. shots, Sam. Brad, bring the spotlight and well take a look around. Ben, would you get these gentlemen’s names and addresses, please?’

  ‘Sure, Alice,’ replied Detective Vaughn, knowing that he could not start examining the car for fingerprints until after the photographer had finished work.

  In dress and appearance Sam Heilman might have been a member of a coon-hunting party. Instead he worked as a cameraman for the G.C.P D.’s Scientific Investigation Bureau. It fell on him to carry out the unpleasant, unexciting, but vitally important task of recording the scene of the crime on film. Having worked with Alice and Brad on other cases, he respected the girl’s ability and did not question her right to give orders. Fitting a flash-bulb into his Land Polaroid camera, Heilman studied the car.