by J. T. Edson
At that moment, however, Alvin was more interested in his own welfare than speculating upon what the installation might be. The presence of the Thompson could render his present position untenable, no matter how effective it had proved so far. If fitted with a fifty-capacity drum magazine, as was likely, the weapon could pour such a volume of .45 caliber bullets his way that he would be driven into the open even should he escape being hit. Once out there, he would be at the mercy of the rest of the men, not that he believed any mercy would be given.
Scanning the top of the wall for the slightest indication of danger, the small Texan saw a sudden glow of light such as might be caused by a door opening. For a moment he was puzzled. Then he realized it must be coming from the entrance by which Zip had gained access to the installation. What was more, he appreciated how it might offer him a chance of salvation.
A glance at the opening informed Alvin that nobody was watching him from there. Rising, he darted swiftly towards the shadows on the left side of the canyon. As there was no outcry or shots sent at him, he felt sure his departure had gone unnoticed by any of his enemies. Turning in the inky blackness, he grasped the Colt in both hands and resumed his scrutiny of the top of the other wall.
Seconds dragged by on leaden feet!
For what seemed a very long time to Alvin, apart from the sound of one and then a second vehicle’s engines being started inside the installation, nothing happened.
Suddenly, two figures loomed into view at the top of the right hand wall!
The abrupt manner in which the pair appeared, taken with how quickly they started shooting, suggested they had crept towards the rim in a crouching posture until able to see the body of the gelding without exposing themselves more than marginally. Having aligned their weapons, they straightened up so as to be able to direct their fire more effectively. What was more, the harsh chattering and numerous spurts of muzzle blast emitting from the slightly shorter man’s firearm indicated that the small Texan had guessed correctly and a Thompson submachine gun was being used.
Despite the commotion caused by the Thompson and Eddie’s rifle as they poured lead downwards, supplemented with the vicious screams of ricochets, Alvin noticed another potential threat could be forthcoming. Headlights came on in the installation and gears grated as a vehicle was set into motion. If it should turn his way on emerging, he was almost certain to be illuminated by the lights. Although he had not meant to shoot back at the men on the rim, he knew he must revise his decision.
Bringing up the Colt to shoulder height and at arms’ length, the small Texan pointed it at the sky. Doing so allowed him to look along the cocking slide, although it was almost impossible to make out the blade of the foresight. Turning his torso until the barrel merged with the red-spurting bulk of the man using the Thompson, he began to discharge the contents of the magazine nearly as swiftly as the other weapon was firing. [73] After either the fourth or fifth shot, they were leaving the automatic in such rapid succession that he could not say which it was, he heard a scream of pain. Dazzled by his own muzzle blast, he did not see the man jerk, spin around and throw the submachine gun into the air. However, the cessation of its fire informed him of what had happened even before he heard it crash to the ground at the foot of the wall.
Despite the evidence that he had achieved at least part of his intentions, Alvin devoted not so much as a second to self-congratulation. Firing at such speed had prevented him from counting how many shots were expended, but he did not need an aid of that nature to inform him when the weapon was empty. On the last round being discharged, the front end of the cartridge follower, pushed up by the magazine spring, pressed against and forced the stop attached to the frame into the niche cut in the cocking slide to hold it open as an indication of the situation.
Moving to the left as soon as he received the warning that his Colt was empty, the small Texan set about rectifying the situation. At that moment, the long hours of training and practice he had carried out paid dividends. In spite of the darkness, his left hand found and extracted the third of the spare magazines. Working by instinct rather than visual aid, his right thumb pressed the retainer stud and the one it was to replace slid from the housing in the butt. With the loaded magazine thrust home, he drew down the stop and the slide advanced to make the pistol operative once more. By the time he halted in his new position, he was ready and able to defend himself.
And not a moment too soon!
Coming from the opening, a black 1921 Packard Twin-Six sedan carrying several men began to turn in Alvin’s direction. Before its headlights could illuminate him as a target for Eddie, he twisted at the waist. Adopting the double handed hold again, he sighted and fired twice. A yell of pain rose from the vehicle and, as it continued across the canyon to crash into the left side wall, he presumed he had hit the driver. Although he moved after firing, no shot came his way from the top of the other wall. Nor did the occupants of the car try to regain control of it. Instead, they quit the vehicle and ran, the wounded man clutching his shoulder, back into the installation.
Glancing upwards and seeing only the uninterrupted sky line, Alvin decided that Eddie might have retired to take part in the departure. Being aware that there was at least one more vehicle available, he knew another attempt to leave was sure to be made. Considering that a further change of location was demanded, he ran back to and dropped behind the bullet-riddled carcass of the gelding. Even in the poor light, he could see enough of its condition to realize he could not have survived the fusillade if he had remained there.
A couple of seconds after Alvin had taken cover, another Packard came from the opening. So did three men armed with rifles and a Winchester trench gun. Still unaware of how far away his friends might be, he refrained from taking any action. To have disclosed his position would be suicidal. The trio were looking along the canyon as the car turned, holding their respective firearms ready for instant use. What was more, the three men accompanying the driver each grasped a revolver and were displaying an equal state of preparedness.
‘Where the hell is he?’ yelled the man with the trench gun, as the Packard’s headlights illuminated the canyon and it sped, picking up speed, through the shallow water of the stream.
‘He must be behind the hoss!’ guessed one of the rifle-users. ‘But I’m damned if I can see him!’
Hugging the ground face down, Alvin listened to the comments and the Packard approaching. Then, as it was going by, he tilted up and began to fire the automatic. His intention was less to hit anybody than to distract the passengers and lessen their chances of shooting him. Although he caused no casualties as far as he could tell, neither did any bullets come his way while the vehicle was passing. However, with the trio still at the opening and having a need to reload once more, he was unable to make an attempt to halt its departure despite his supposition that the occupants’ intention was to collect reinforcements.
Hearing a rumbling sound, the small Texan raised his head warily. He found that the three men had returned through the opening and its disguised door was closing. Deciding he had guessed correctly about the reason why the quartet had been allowed to leave, he made another change of magazines. Having done so, he rose and returned to the darkness at the foot of the left side wall.
‘Come on, blast it!’ Alvin breathed, tucking the third empty magazine into the pocket from which it had come and making a mental note to retrieve the other two at a more opportune moment. ‘Where the hell are you-all, Company “Z”?’
As if in answer to the question, lights showed and engines sounded beyond the curve in the canyon. A few seconds later, two vehicles came into view. Alvin identified them as Jubal Branch’s Ford Model-T sedan and the rugged 1920 Essex Four convertible belonging to Sergeant Swift Eagle. Each was carrying passengers, the latter having three men clinging to its running boards, but j there was no sign of the deceptively dilapidated looking 1915 Hudson Super-Six Landaulette in which Sergeant Scrapton had visited Grouperville.
‘Are you all right, boy?’ Branch asked, almost before he had brought the sedan to a halt, looking to where his partner was approaching.
‘They tried some,’ Alvin replied, trying to keep all trace of his relief out of his voice, as he tucked the Colt into his waistband. ‘But they never so much as nicked me.’
‘Where are they?’ Major Tragg demanded, jumping from the Ford’s front passenger seat holding a Winchester trench gun and followed by Sergeant Soehnen, who had shared the back with Lightning.
‘They’re holed up in a cave, or something, in the right wall,’ the small Texan answered, watching other members of Company “Z” leaving the Essex and noticing there were two absentees. ‘They’re loaded for bear with rifles and trench guns, maybe even Thompsons. The door looked to be made of thick rock and there’s another way out on top.’
‘Happen any of ’em try to use it, they’ll right quick wish they’d not took the notion,’ Branch declared. ‘Mon Hammy ’n’ young Scrapton’s up the other side with their rifles and I reckon’s they’ll likely be able to do something about it, young’s they are.’
‘Bueno!’ Alvin enthused, without asking whether the pair had made their ascent on the right or the left. Each was a superlative marksman and armed with a rifle that had a telescopic sight, so they should be competent to prevent an attempt to leave the installation even if it was taking place on the opposite side of the canyon. ‘Trouble is, sir, one car got by me and it’s likely going to Grouperville for help.’
‘Take out after them, Jubal, Hans, Alvin!’ the Major commanded, knowing the Ford—decrepit as it might look—was capable of making better speed than Swift Eagle’s Essex although unable to carry as many men. ‘The rest of us will keep the others bottled up, even if we can’t get in to fetch them out. Likely they’ll be ready to holler calf rope soon’s they find out no help’s coming.’
‘You-all go in the front, Hans!’ Alvin suggested, glancing at the Thompson submachine gun equipped with a drum magazine held by Soehnen. ‘I’ll ride on the running-board.’
‘Why sure,’ the burly sergeant assented. ‘Only you’d best go on the left side. I don’t reckon Jubal’d take kind to me cutting loose with this old Tommy gun close to his one good ear.’
‘You can bet your goddamned life I wouldn’t,’ Branch confirmed, having sufficient faith in his partner’s ambidextrous gun handling prowess to go along with the proposal and ignoring the comment about his ears. ‘Come on, both of you-all. Time’s a-wasting.’
‘Was I asked, which I don’t expect to be,’ Alvin Fog drawled, holding himself in place on the Ford as he had while attending the firing practice on the day Company “Z” had been ordered to go to San Antonio and help deal with the so-called Machine Gun Gang, except that he was on the opposite side’s running board. ‘I’d say they’re slowing down.’
‘It looks that way to me,’ Jubal Branch supported, gazing ahead as he drove the sedan at its best pace and without using its headlights along the far from smooth trail, having covered something over eight miles since leaving Brixton’s Canyon.
‘He’s not stopping, though,’ Sergeant Soehnen pointed out, as the distant vehicle continued to move. ‘Fact being, I’d say he’s speeding up again. Are you-all thinking what I’m thinking, amigo?’
‘I’d reckon that all depends on what you’re thinking,’ the oldest of the sergeants replied, then glanced to his left. ‘Have you-all gotten that fool auty-matical of your’n out, boy?’
‘I’ve been trying ever since we left the canyon,’ the small Texan answered, having duplicated his companions’ as yet unuttered suppositions. ‘But, the way you’re bouncing this beat up old Tin Lizzie around, it’s all I can do to stay on.’
‘God blast it iffen you young ’n’s don’t want everything served up on a silk-soft cushion!’ Branch snorted, as if more incensed by his partner employing the derogatory—yet, in many cases, respectful and loving even—sobriquet frequently applied to the Ford Model-T than he had been at the suggestion of his hearing being defective. ‘Happen I’ll be able to get her running smoother should I put the lights on.’
‘It couldn’t run any worse,’ Alvin snorted, despite realizing why the proposal had been made and, despite being compelled to use his left hand, extracting the Colt from his waistband with none of the difficulty his previous comment implied. ‘Why don’t you give it a whirl and see?’
‘Danged if I don’t at that!’ Branch threatened, apparently with irascibility. ‘But not just yet a-whiles.’
Continuing to drive with no reduction of speed, in case his suppositions should prove invalid and hoping to catch the Packard before it reached Grouperville, the elderly sergeant concentrated on handling the car and left his companions to keep watch. However, as they were approaching the area at which the other vehicle had slowed down, he delivered a warning of his intentions and reached for one of the switches on the dashboard. Throwing it to turn on the headlights, he transferred his hand to the brake and his foot operated the clutch as he prepared to reduce the sedan’s pace.
The precaution was justified!
Clumps of bushes flanked the trail at the point the Ford was approaching. Although there was no sign of human beings, the glint of something metallic among the foliage on the left warned Alvin at least one might be present. Bringing up his Colt, he lined it and started squeezing the trigger. As on the previous occasions that night, he did not attempt to take a precise aim. Instead, he directed the bullets so they radiated like the spokes of a wheel. Even as a shriek of agony and the crash of a revolver shot—which was sent into the air instead of at him—rewarded his efforts, he became aware that he was not alone in finding the need to take offensive measures.
Having seen a man armed with a revolver standing among the bushes to the right, Soehnen cut loose with the Thompson he had already been pointing through the window. A rattle of rapid detonations followed the tightening of his trigger finger, the change lever being set for automatic fire. Duplicating the small Texan’s methods, he sent a spray of lead which engulfed the would-be attacker in its lethal swathe. Much to his satisfaction, being a realist, he watched the men being thrown backwards by the bullets without having a chance to shoot in return.
Once again, an unexpected jolt produced by the far from smooth ground beneath the Ford threatened to endanger Alvin. It was, however, more severe and serious than on the previous occasion. In spite of being reduced, the speed at which the car was traveling was greater and the force of the bounce dislodged him. Nor was he able to retain his equilibrium as he alighted on the uneven surface at the edge of the trail. Feeling himself falling, he could not prevent the automatic from flying out of his grasp and he saw another of the men who had left the Packard to halt the pursuit rising from amongst the bushes. Yet, for all the alarm and consternation it was causing him the mishap was to provide his salvation.
Lining the revolver he was holding, the man fired and missed as his intended target went down so unexpectedly. He was not granted an opportunity to make a second attempt.
Sensing that something out of the ordinary was happening, the big blue-tick had been standing on the back seat and was watching what was taking place. Noticing the disturbance amongst the bushes before Alvin’s second attacker appeared, it thrust past its master and out of the open window of the Ford. Dashing forward on landing, it attacked just after the shot was fired. Taking off in a bound, it caught the outstretched arm between its powerful jaws. A combination of pain, its weight and the unexpected arrival caused its victim to drop the revolver as he was sent sprawling.
Contriving to break his fall without injury, although at the cost of some skin scraped from the base of his left hand, Alvin wasted no time before starting to rise. Shaking his throbbing palm as he was getting up, he reached across with his other hand to pull the second automatic from its shoulder holster instead of looking for the one he had lost. A glance around informed him that Branch and Soehnen were already leaving the now halted sedan. Drawing the
Colt from behind his back, the elderly sergeant ran to where his dog was still maintaining its hold on the man’s wrist while avoiding attempts to strike or kick it.
‘Lie still so’s I can call him off!’ Branch commanded, halting alongside the blue-tick and its captive, then continued without waiting to be obeyed, ‘Let loose, you fool critter. You can chomp away on him some more happen he gives you cause.’
Jumping clear before the words came to an end, Lightning sat down at a safe distance and watched with what the man, clutching at his lacerated wrist and lying still, considered was an attitude of eager anticipation.
‘That’s better,’ Branch stated. ‘Are you all right this time, amigo?’
‘I’ve grazed my hand is all,’ Alvin answered, walking towards the man he had shot. Looking down with the aid of a match he struck, there was a trace of relief in his tone as he reported, ‘This one’s hit bad, but still alive.’
‘We’ll ’tend to him soon’s I get a flashlight from the car,’ Branch promised. ‘How’s your’n, Hans?’
‘Dead’s a six-day stunk-up skunk,’ Soehnen replied, having conducted a similar examination of his victim instead of accompanying the elderly sergeant. ‘How’d you expect, with maybe half a dozen point forty-five bullets in the chest?’
‘They do say such ain’t conducterive to long life ’n’ good health,’ Branch admitted. ‘Now you do any old thing you’ve a mind while I’m gone, hombre, only that fool Lightning dog of mine’ll not take kind to it should you try. Then, soon’s we’re through ’tending to you ’n’ your amigo’s hurts, you’re likely going to feel hoe-bliggerated enough to do some talking to us.’
‘Looks like you was mistook,’ Sheriff Healey said, staring around the corner of the building and along the trail which led to Brixton’s Canyon. ‘There’s no car coming.’