by J. T. Edson
At that moment, Chiverton and Schulman were solely interested in discovering the identity of the blanket-covered shape on the stretcher!
‘Who the hell is it?’ the former “straight man” demanded, gesturing with his right shoulder as his hands were still manacled behind his back and beating his companion to the question by a fraction of a second, as the Scottish sergeant reached the other two peace officers and they all came to a halt a short distance from the door.
‘Well now, that’s not for me to say,’ Breda replied. Drawing back the blanket just sufficiently to expose the head of the shape it was concealing, he went on, ‘See happen one or the other of you can tell us who he is.’
‘Well I’ll be damned!’ Chiverton spat out, at the same instant as Schulman with equal fury was making an identical identification. They glared at the uncovered face of Philip Foote’s second in command and started to move forward. ‘It’s Butch Cope!’
‘Go right ahead, if that’s the way you want it, darlin’s,’ Bratton offered, as the couple moved forward. ‘It’s not real likely he will have, but if it’s so minded he is to do it, that other feller will’ve had time to sneak back and be waiting for you by now.’
‘Wha—?’ Chiverton began, pausing and looking over his shoulder as he was on the point of leaving the building.
‘He might aim straighter next time,’ Bratton pointed out. ‘Happen he’s there, that is.’
Realizing what had been implied by the Irish sergeant’s first cryptic comment, the “straight man” was already reversing his direction hurriedly. No less quick on the uptake, Schulman had also changed his mind about going outside in order to make a closer examination of the motionless figure on the stretcher. Returning to the shelter offered by the walls on either side of the door, they both avoided showing more of their heads than was necessary as they resumed looking outside with caution.
‘Something told us you just might know him, gents,’ Breda claimed dryly, replacing the blanket. ‘Will you tote him down to the Sheriff’s office for us now they’ve seen him please, Dave, Frenchie?’
‘Be a real pleasure to do it,’ Swift-Eagle assented without hesitation, his English fluent and suggestive of his having had a college education. ‘Or, the way he looks, it might save time if we take him straight to the undertaker’s parlor.’
‘You do it any old way you’ve a mind, amigo,’ the Scottish sergeant authorized in a disinterested fashion. ‘Likely we won’t see you again afore we leave for Texarkana, so say, “Howdy you-all’ to all the boys in Company “A” and Company “D”.’
‘We’ll do that,’ Swift-Eagle promised and Giradot nodded concurrence. ‘Don’t take any wooden wampum along the way, paleface brothers. Are you ready to move, Frenchie?’
‘Any time you are, mon ami,’ the second stretcher bearer confirmed.
‘It looks like I owe you an apology, Paddy,’ Breda declared, returning to the passage as the other two sergeants were carrying away their burden. ‘They were being laid for out back of here.’
‘There’s devil the bit of need for you to be apologizing, Colin,’ Bratton objected. ‘Sure and didn’t I think you’d called it right when you said they’d be holding off until we was well clear of town? I wasn’t expecting anything to happen this soon, either. ’
‘God damn it!’ Chiverton wailed, staring in an accusative manner from one peace officer to the other and back. While his partner was gobbling a similar complaint almost incoherently, he continued with considerable heat, ‘You knew that son-of-a-bitch was gunning for us and you still let us go walking out there to get shot!’
‘Well now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say we knew what was coming,’ Breda contradicted, but not in any form of an apology. Rather his tone was sardonic and grew even more so as he elaborated upon the exculpation. ‘Word did get to Major Tragg that maybe Handsome Phil wasn’t entirely overjoyed by thinking about having a couple of longhorns like you boys with such a strong hold over him, on account of you just having happened to be selling him some bootleg liquor on the night he was supposed to be raping and killing that lil chorus girl up to Dallas.’ He paused for a moment, as if wishing to allow his audience time to digest the information he had already given, then went on, ‘There was even some talk that he could be thinking about how that same hold ought to be pried loose a mite. But there wasn’t anything definite, which Counselor Mervyn kept saying there must be all through the trial, we could use as an excuse to pick up and hold Butch Cope on.’
‘And isn’t that the rights of it, darlin’s?’ Bratton supported, clearly sharing his companion’s thinly disguised pleasure over the disturbing and alarming news they were delivering. ‘There wasn’t nobody at all went to the Major and said outright, “Excuse me, sir, but I thought you ought to know’s Handsome Phil’s told Butch Cope to gun down those two good old boys from Texarkana when they get fetched out of the courthouse without him.” Now if that, or some such similar, had been said, we could’ve took steps to stop it happening and saved you both some grief. ’
‘Why that god-damned, “mother-something” son-of-a-bitch!’ Schulman yelled, having been staring open mouthed from one peace officer to the other all the time they were talking. The enormity of the possibility that Foote had ordered the assassination of himself and his partner filled him with such rage that it drove every other consideration from his head and he continued, ‘He tried to have us killed after we lied—!’
‘Bag your head, you stupid bastard!’ Chiverton interposed savagely, pushing across the space between them and ramming his shoulder into the chest of the former comic. He was alert to the danger posed by the indiscreet comment Schulman had been making and, as the other was silenced by being jolted backwards a couple of steps, he resumed speaking in a voice charged with warning. ‘They can’t try that son-of-a-bitch for what he did again now he’s been found “not guilty”, but they could sure as shit nail us for perjury!’
For a moment, the pudgy man glared at his assailant and seemed to be on the point of retaliating. Then a realization of why Chiverton had spoken and acted in such a fashion came to him and he relaxed.
‘Anyways, we stopped them nailing you! Breda drawled, having watched the interplay, his attitude suggesting he considered the matter was closed. Picking up his Winchester carbine, he went on, ‘Now we’d better be making a start for Texarkana.’
‘That we had, darlin’s,’ the Irish sergeant agreed as he was retrieving his trench gun, also making no attempt to induce the comic to enlarge upon the interrupted admission or to question the “straight man’s” statement. ‘Sure and haven’t we wasted enough time already.’
‘How about that bastard who sided Butch Cope?’ Schulman asked, staring worriedly at the open door. ‘He could be out there waiting for us!’
‘Shucks no, he’s not likely to have come back,’ Breda replied. ‘And, even if he should have, it won’t be with a rifle. He dropped his when he lit out and I reckon that, between us, Sergeant Bratton and I can hand him his needings happen he should come close enough to try and get you with a belt-gun.’
‘I didn’t see you fetch back no god-damned rifle!’ Chiverton objected, as the Irish sergeant nodded agreement.
‘Or me!’ the comic seconded, showing no greater sign of being reassured.
‘And no more we did, darlin’s,’ Bratton admitted. ‘Sure and didn’t Sergeant Swift-Eagle and Sergeant Giradot offer, out of the goodness of their two hearts, to tote it and the one Butch Cope used back on the stretcher for us along with himself?’
Catching his partner’s eye as he noticed the other was about to speak, the “straight man” shook his head in a prohibitive signal.
While considerably relieved by the suggestion that neither Breda nor Bratton appeared interested in seeking enlightenment over the potentially incriminating admission he had prevented Schulman from completing, or from his own almost equally ill-advised declaration which implied they had committed perjury, Chiverton was drawing conclusions with rega
rds to the omission. Having learned something of the means by which peace officers sought to obtain information, he guessed what had been happening.
Suspecting that their prisoners had lied in the witness box, the sergeants had been using the attempt on their lives to try and acquire confirmation. What was more, due to Schulman’s ill-considered remark and—although Chiverton preferred to gloss over this aspect—his own words, they had almost succeeded. With that in mind, he wanted to avoid prolonging the conversation. If Breda and Bratton were willing to oblige, instead of trying to make the most of the opportunity they had been offered, it was all right with him.
‘Come on, Irv,’ the straight man commanded. ‘I reckon we can count on these gents to look out for us.’
‘Huh?’ Schulman grunted, staring at his partner. Then, accepting that the other knew what he was doing, he swung his gaze to the two sergeants and asked, ‘Hey, are you going to make us ride all the way to Texarkana with our hands behind our backs?’
‘That wouldn’t be neighborly of us, Paddy,’ the Scottish peace officer drawled. ‘Now would it?’
‘That it wouldn’t, Colin,’ Bratton agreed, grasping the trench gun in his big left hand and reaching into the side pocket of his jacket with the right to bring out two keys. ‘Turn ’round, darlin’s, and I’ll put them on the other way.’
Once again, Chiverton silenced whatever comment his partner was obviously on the point of making by delivering a warning shake of his head. Taking the hint, Schulman allowed the transference of the manacled wrists from behind to in front without speaking. With the change made for both of them, the prisoners were escorted from the courthouse. Constantly scanning the area beyond the perimeter wall, they were guided to an uncompromisingly angular, somewhat ugly, black 1922 Hudson Essex Coach four-door sedan. After they had taken the back seats as instructed, their escorts also climbed aboard. Starting the engine, Bratton drove them from the parking lot and, reaching the main street clear of the still assembled crowd, set off along it towards the edge of town.
Having watched the vehicle pass through the window of the Last Chance Tavern, which—as its name implied—was on the outskirts of Marlin, the only customer went to the public telephone. Picking up the receiver, he gave an out-of-town number and, on being connected, said, ‘They’re on their way in one of those Hudson Essex Coaches, senor. You can’t mistake it, it’s a black, four-door sedan. Unless something happens to delay them, they ought to be reaching you in a couple of hours or so.’
Eight – Nobody Would Dare Try It!
‘Hey there, feller!’ greeted the man who was coming through the door inscribed, MANAGER, Private, his voice indicating disapproval. ‘Sounds to me like you’re in one all fired hurry.’
‘I am!’ Reece Mervyn confirmed, having found the lobby of the Palace Hotel deserted on his arrival and having sought to attract attention by pounding several times upon the bell on the reception desk. ‘I want to check out! Where’s the clerk?’
‘He’s like ’most everybody else in town,’ the man replied. ‘Down to the courthouse seeing what’s doing.’
‘Then send for him immediately!’ the attorney ordered with considerable asperity, having much the same kind of attitude as his senior clerk when dealing with those he regarded as his social inferiors. ‘And have a couple of the bell-hops come up to my suite to help me with my bags.’
‘I can’t do neither,’ the man stated flatly.
‘Do you know who I am?’ Mervyn demanded.
‘Sure, I know who you are, Counselor,’ the man admitted, although the way he emphasized the honorific and his tone in general suggested the knowledge did not please him. ‘But that don’t make no never-mind. All the bell-hops are with the clerk and, afore you say it, I don’t aim to leave the desk un’tended to go chasing after them.’
A red flush of annoyance suffused the attorney’s features as he studied the speaker.
Big, well-made and in his middle-fifties, the man was bareheaded, with short-cropped grizzled hair and a deeply tanned face in need of a shave. His attire—a well-worn brown leather jacket, an open necked tartan shirt and corduroy trousers tucked into calf high untanned boots which laced up the fronts—seemed more in keeping with a hunting camp than the elegant entrance hall of the best hotel in Marlin. Nor was his laconic Texas drawl anywhere near as polite as that of a menial employee should be when speaking to an influential client, and that was all he struck Mervyn as being, a menial employee, despite having come from the private office of the manager. Obviously, as he was aware to whom he was speaking he shared the general animosity which had been displayed by other officials and citizens of the town.
Being used to a fair amount of deference on account of his legal skill which gave him considerable power and authority, as well as through his connection with Hogan Turtle, Mervyn was already in a far from amiable mood due to the treatment to which he had been subjected since the end of the trial. Ordinarily, he was far too thick-skinned to worry about how his triumphs in the courtroom might be regarded by others. However, on this occasion, he had become increasingly perturbed by the open hostility directed at him. This had not been restricted to his unsatisfactory interviews with Judge Robert J. McCrindle and the police sergeant.
No other trial in which the attorney had participated had ever aroused such depths of animosity on the part of the public. Although there had been no attempts at physical abuse as he was talking with Wilfred Plant before returning to the hotel, he was aware this was due solely to the presence of so many peace officers. For all that, the police and deputy sheriffs had done nothing to prevent him being assailed by boos and shouted insults. These had ended and the protestors were diverted by the arrival of the judge on the steps of the courthouse to give the press interview he had promised.
For once, Mervyn had no desire to speak with the reporters. Having seen the hostility created as a result of the outcome of the trial, he sensed that he would not be given the kind of favorable publicity which had greeted many of his earlier defenses. With that in mind, and considering that to linger would be injudicious to say the least, he had grown firmer in his resolve to leave Marlin and Falls County with the least possible delay.
The reception he was receiving at the hotel was doing nothing to cause the attorney to change his mind!
‘I don’t care for your attitude, my man!’ Mervyn warned, adopting a demeanor which had never failed to quell any hotel employee who incurred his displeasure.
Until this time!
‘Well now,’ the tanned man replied calmly. ‘Happen I figure on selling it, I’ll know there’ll be no use offering it to you.’
‘By God!’ the attorney barked, putting on all the awesome dignity and threat his years in the courtroom had taught him to attain. ‘That’s enough from you. Within two minutes of my reporting your insolence to the manager, you’ll be fired.’
‘He’s not here either, Counselor. And, even if he was, he couldn’t do spit about firing me, seeing’s how I own the hotel.’
‘You own it?’
‘I own it.’
For a moment, Mervyn was on the point of dismissing the claim out of hand. Then, realizing that such a challenge would be tantamount to calling the speaker a liar, an appreciation of the possible consequences caused him to refrain. To do so outside the sanctity of a courtroom where he would have the protection offered by the law against physical reprisals, would be ill-advised and could even prove dangerous. There was an aura about the man which implied he would resent most strenuously—but might, under the circumstances, welcome—having his veracity impugned by a person for whom he clearly had no liking.
‘In that case, sir,’ the attorney ejaculated, contriving to retain a timbre of menace in his voice, ‘having seen your attitude, I consider it is only fair by my friends to warn them against ever coming here.’
‘I’m right pleased to hear that,’ the proprietor answered, showing no sign of being perturbed by the threat. ‘Fact being, should they be friend
s of yours, Counselor, I’d sooner not have them under my roof and I’m real pleased to hear that you’ll soon be out of here, comes to that.’
‘You know what you can do with your hotel?’ Mervyn asked, in what he hoped would be a parting shot.
‘I reckon I’ve a notion what you’ve got in mind,’ the proprietor countered blandly. ‘And, happen you can do the same with your bags after you’ve packed them, you’ll be able to tote them out of here without needing the bell-hops.’
‘Hey!’ Philip “Handsome Phil”!’ Foote exclaimed, realizing that Sergeant Benjamin Goldberg was driving the dark blue 1922 Templar four-door sedan in a southerly direction. ‘This isn’t the way to Texarkana!’
‘Well now,’ Sergeant Hans “Dutchy” Soehnen answered laconically, sitting on the back seat of the vehicle at the right side of the prisoner. ‘That could be ’cause we’re not taking you to Texarkana.’
‘What’s the game, damn it?’ Foote demanded, staring at the burly Germanic guard in a mixture of challenge and anxiety.
‘You know what it is,’ Soehnen claimed.
‘Like hell I do!’ the gang leader contradicted.
‘I don’t believe you do,’ Soehnen conceded. ‘Hey, Benny, it looks like Counselor Mervyn hasn’t told him.’
‘That’s just what it looks like, Dutchy,’ Goldberg agreed. ‘What didn’t he tell me?’ Foote asked, swinging his gaze from one to the other of the sergeants and showing more alarm.