Cap Fog 3

by J. T. Edson

  Once again an apprehension of impending peril had begun to bite into Mervyn!

  The sensation was only momentary, being driven away by pain!

  Hurtling into the attorney’s exposed and unguarded solar plexus with an even greater force than he himself had been struck, the burly newcomer’s fist produced the kind of effect which had eluded his assailant. Feeling as if his whole stomach was being driven through his backbone, Mervyn let out a strangled croak of agony and bowed at the waist like a closing jack-knife. Nor was that the end of his misfortunes. Although driven backwards, he was not granted sufficient time for him to be beyond the reach of the other massive fist as it was aimed in his direction.

  Seeming to grow rapidly larger until it filled his entire range of vision, the black gloved hand met the attorney’s descending face. Torment erupted through him as, with blood gushing from his nostrils and mouth—accompanied by his false teeth, the top plate broken—he was compelled to straighten up. He was in no shape to put up resistance, but this did not bring an end to his suffering.

  Still proving to be vastly more competent than had been suggested by the apparently inept way in which he had launched his first blow, the big man continued the attack. Stepping forward and—by accident or design—crushing the undamaged portion of the dentures underfoot, he directed his leather sheathed right knuckles against the side of the inadvertently offered jaw. Bone snapped as Mervyn was spun around and crashed against the hood of the car. Rebounding helplessly from it, he was unconscious before he sprawled limp and supine on the ground.

  Taking into consideration the alarm she had exhibited on the arrival of the massive newcomer whom she had identified as her husband, the behavior of the young woman following the commencement of the attack would have puzzled Mervyn if he had been in any condition to make an observation. Although she had regained control of her movements without falling after being pushed aside, she had neither fled nor tried to summon assistance by screaming. Instead, on the thud of the first blow reaching her ears, she had done no more than glance over her shoulder. Even the discovery that the attorney’s attack had failed did not provoke her into what might have been considered positive action. Still standing with her back to the men, she returned her attention to the rear entrance of the hotel.

  As the door opened, the young woman quickly slipped her right hand into the mouth of the reticule!

  ‘Why hello there!’ the blonde greeted, as Wilfred Plant came into the parking lot. ‘Just fancy meeting you here. Have you fix?’

  ‘You!’ the clerk ejaculated. ‘What are you doing he—?’

  Although he recognized the speaker as being the attractive and—he had anticipated—sexually obliging young woman with whom he had dallied prior to discovering the car in which he was to follow Philip Foote and the Texas Rangers would not start, Plant did not complete his question. His words died away as, chancing to glance past her, he became aware that all was far from being well in the parking lot.

  The clerk had arrived with the news that he had been unable to obtain alternative transport in which to carry out the escort duty promised to the gang leader. From what he saw beyond the blonde, however, he concluded this would be of no interest to his employer under the circumstances. Raising his startled gaze from where Mervyn was lying bleeding and motionless, an expression of alarm came to his unprepossessing features as the big man looked in his direction. Being of a far from courageous disposition, unless in contention with somebody over whom he was convinced he could exert authority—which most certainly was not the case at that moment—he decided his safest course would be to fetch help. With that aim in mind, he began to turn hurriedly towards the door through which he had emerged.

  As soon as the clerk started to swing away from her, the blonde brought her right hand from inside the reticule. It appeared grasping a short, leather wrapped billy which she swung with deft ease and speed. Given an added impulsion by the coil-spring which formed its handle, the weapon struck Plant on the top of the head. His flat cap offered little protection and he crumpled in mid-stride. Going down as if he had suddenly been boned, he fell against and pushed shut the door.

  When the big man saw that the young woman was preventing the new arrival from raising the alarm, he gave no indication of being surprised by such a development. Instead, nodding with satisfaction, he went and bent over her suitcase. There was still no trace of his former ungainly motions as he opened it and removed the two small cloth bags which were its sole contents. Stepping over the recumbent body of the attorney without giving it so much as a glance, he raised the hood of the Packard and placed the bags on the engine.

  ‘Can I do anything to help you?’ the blonde inquired, but in a different accent and with none of her previous tone suggestive of promiscuous sensuality.

  ‘Just make sure nobody else comes out of the back door before I get through,’ the big man requested, unscrewing the cap and pouring the contents of one sack—which were metallic and not liquid—into the oil sump. While his voice still had the drawl of a Texan, it no longer employed the slurred timbre suggestive of wits which were less than sharp. ‘It won’t take me long to fix things, although I surely hate to do it to such a fine car.’

  ‘Well, it’s all gone off smoothly enough,’ the blonde commented, after having watched the burly man replace the cap of the sump and make an addition—which was not gasoline—to the fuel tank from the second bag. Crossing to pick up the keys dropped by Mervyn at the commencement of his abortive attack, she went on, ‘And thank heavens you won’t need to keep saying, ‘duhhh’, like some stage mooley.’ 51

  ‘It took in the city slicker there though, duhhh!’ the man answered, tossing the now empty bags into the suitcase and closing the hood of the Packard, resuming the manner in which he had spoken on his arrival.

  ‘You look the part, too,’ the blonde claimed. ‘Shall I drive?’

  ‘I will,’ the man declared, reverting to what was clearly his normal voice and holding out his right hand. ‘That way, if the engine seizes up before we reach our car, it’ll save us changing places so you can do the pushing.’

  ‘I’ll say one thing!’ the blonde asserted, in either real or well simulated disdain, surrendering the keys. ‘Chivalry might not be dead, but where you’re concerned, it’s sure limping badly.’

  Eleven – You’ll Be Breaking the Law If You Do

  ‘Look there, Colin,’ Sergeant Aloysius “Paddy” Bratton requested, as he steered the black 1922 Hudson Essex Coach four-door sedan around a blind corner of the road. ‘Sure and going by the way that feller there’s acting, I’m thinking he’s wanting us to stop.’

  ‘It looks that way to me too, Paddy,’ Sergeant Colin Breda confirmed. ‘You know him?’

  ‘I can’t be saying’s I do,’ the Irish peace officer confessed ‘But I didn’t come down this way to stop off there for a meal, so I wouldn’t be knowing if that’s where he’s from. How about one of the other of you two, darlin’s?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him before,’ Seth Chiverton asserted, peering ahead between the shoulders of the sergeants on the front seat. ‘How about you, Irv?’

  ‘I couldn’t say from here,’ Irvin Schulman replied. ‘Anyway, coons are the same as Chinks. They all look alike to me.’ Having kept the vehicle moving at a good speed, Bratton had already transported his party over the boundary between Falls and Limestone Counties. Since leaving Marlin, neither of the prisoners had offered to open a conversation with each other or their escort. Nor had the two Texas Rangers done more than exchange the odd remark between themselves and they had shown no inclination to talk with the handcuffed pair sitting behind them. They were still some five miles from Groesbeck, seat of Limestone County, when the Irish sergeant broke the silence.

  The man who had provoked the remark from Bratton was a tall, lanky and cheerful-looking young Negro. Although clad in a collarless blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows, new Levi pants and cowhand’s boots, he had on an apron spec
kled by food stains and a no cleaner white chef’s hat was perched on his head. The latter two items of his attire suggested he was employed, probably as fry-cook, in the kitchen of the small and not over impressive diner at the left side of the road. Standing in the center of the thoroughfare, he was waving his hands over his head in the crisscross fashion which was one way of signaling a request for a vehicle to halt. It was, in fact, a way indicating considerably more urgency than when merely soliciting a free ride.

  ‘What’s up, friend?’ Bratton inquired amiably, looking out of the open window as he was bringing the Essex to a stop, despite having transferred his right hand to the butt of the Colt Army Model of 1917 revolver.

  ‘Is you gents Texas Rangers?’ the Negro asked, having stepped aside when the vehicle drew near. ‘And, if you is, would you-all be taking them two fellers in the back to the pokey in Texarkana?’

  ‘I reckon’s you might say we’re Texas Rangers,’ the Irish sergeant answered, gesturing with his left thumb to the badge of office he was wearing. ‘And it’s not wrong you are in thinking we’re taking these two fellers to the pokey in Texarkana.’

  ‘That being so,’ the Negro declared, ‘your boss wants to speak to you-all on the telephone.’

  ‘And what’d the name of this “boss” of ours be?’ Breda challenged, also sitting with his right hand on the butt of his sidearm although his Winchester Model of 1894 carbine and Bratton’s trench gun were resting between them.

  ‘He allowed’s it was “Major Benson Tragg”, or some such,’ the black man supplied. ‘And’s how you two gents is “Sergeant Bleeder” and “Sergeant Pattern.” Least-wise, that’s what it sounded like.’

  ‘Sure and it’s close enough,’ the Irish peace officer asserted, relaxing and removing his hand from the weapon. ‘Shall I take it, or do you want to, “Sergeant Bleeder”?’

  ‘Sure and seeing’s how it’s yourself who’s such a fine “pattern” of an Irish boyo,’ Breda countered with a grin, employing a broad parody of his companion’s brogue. ‘I’m thinking ’tis yourself’s should be doing the honors.’

  ‘Your boss allowed’s how he wanted to talk to you both, gents,’ the Negro warned, before Bratton could reply. ‘Reckoned it was something mighty important and so urgent you’d best both be on hand to hear what he’d got to say.’

  ‘Hey!’ Schulman put in, as the two peace officers exchanged glances and seemed on the verge of speaking. ‘Seeing’s we’ve stopped, I could do with going to the restroom.’

  ‘And me,’ Chiverton supported, ‘I’m damned near ready to piss myself.’

  ‘Sure and we wouldn’t be wanting you to be incriminating yourself any the worse by doing such in an official vehicle,’ Bratton said dryly. ‘Would we, Colin?’

  ‘Not so long as we have to ride in it,’ Breda seconded. ‘Then you can go while we’re seeing what the Major’s wanting to tell us, darlin’s,’ the Irish sergeant authorized, his demeanor indicating he considered he was conferring a favor. Returning his gaze to the bearer of the information, he went on in a less bantering and more amiable fashion, ‘Go and tell the Major’s it’s coming directly we’ll be, will you, friend?’

  ‘Sure, boss,’ the black man assented and turned to walk away with a gait which was gangling, but swift.

  Such was the rapidity with which the black man moved, that he was going into the diner before Bratton brought the Essex to halt in front of it.

  While leaving the road and approaching the diner, the two sergeants had been alertly gazing about them. From all appearances, business was far from flourishing. There was no sign of activity from the building, nor any other vehicles to be seen in the vicinity. Apart from a small grove of cottonwood trees about a quarter of a mile to the rear and the slope around which the road curved and disappeared, the surrounding terrain was fairly open and seemed equally devoid of human life.

  However, in spite of the deserted nature of the area, Breda climbed from the sedan holding the carbine, and Bratton carried the Winchester Model of 1897 trench gun as he emerged from behind the steering wheel.

  ‘Hey!’ Schulman yelped worriedly, glancing at the weapon held by the Scottish sergeant, as the rear door was opened and he received a signal to come out. ‘Are you expecting trouble?’

  ‘Not ’specially,’ Breda denied. ‘What makes you think we might be?’

  ‘Then what you carrying them guns for?’ the former comic challenged, instead of answering the question directly.

  ‘You don’t reckon we’d leave them in the car, do you?’ Breda asked sardonically, studying the scared expression on the other’s pudgy features with undisguised amusement. ‘Get going inside and leave Sergeant Bratton and me to do any worrying that’s needed.’

  ‘Sure and isn’t that the good advice you’re getting?’ the Irish peace officer interjected, showing no greater concern than his companion over the possibility of danger to their prisoners. ‘Get on in with you, darlin’s. And it’s hoping I am you can do what you have to do with the handcuffs on, because they’re not coming off when it’s out of our sight you’ll be being while you’re doing it.’

  Although far from convinced by either sergeant’s comments and actions, the call of nature proved too strong for Schulman to continue the discussion. Being equally affected, despite sharing the misgivings of his partner, Chiverton also refrained from expressing his point of view. Instead, with the former comic close on his heels and their escort bringing up the rear, he led the way towards the front door.

  If the way in which Bratton and Breda were carrying their shoulder arms cradled across the left elbow while following the prisoners into the diner was any guide, they were genuinely satisfied that there was no cause for alarm.

  The building into which the party entered was little different in general appearance from thousands of similar establishments catering for the needs of travelers on the roads of Texas. There were a few booths along two of the walls, offering slightly more privacy and seclusion than the tables and chairs scattered around the room. Neither booths nor tables were occupied. Nor was anybody sitting on the stools at the counter.

  For all that, the building was not deserted!

  Nor was the Negro who had stopped the car and now leaned against the wall by the telephone—the receiver of which was on the hook—with his right hand hidden behind his back, the only occupant!

  Standing at the kitchen side of the serving hatch were two men clad in nondescript range clothing!

  There was, however, nothing nondescript about the double-barreled, ten gauge shotgun which each man was lining in the direction of the new arrivals!

  What was more, the pair and the Negro were not alone!

  Two men dressed in the same inconspicuous fashion stepped swiftly through the swinging double doors of the kitchen. The shorter and more thickset of them was carrying a well-used Winchester Model of 1873 rifle. Although a riding quirt was dangling from the right wrist of the other, he was unarmed as far as could be seen.

  Proving that he belonged to the group and had not been an innocent, or coerced dupe, the young black man brought his right hand into view. He was grasping a cocked Colt Artillery Model Peacemaker and he handled it with the confidence only acquired by long experience.

  It was impossible to tell whether the other four men were also Negroes. Each was wearing a hood made from a flour sack which concealed his face and hair and riding gloves covered every pair of hands.

  ‘Stand still, you Rangers!’ ordered the unarmed man, his voice that of a well-educated Southron who was used to commanding obedience. ‘We don’t mean any harm to you!’

  No matter what action the peace officers had intended to take, they were being hindered by their prisoners. Letting out exclamations of alarm, Chiverton and Schulman sprang backwards. Instinctive though the movements had been, or rather inspired by panic, the frightened pair were acting against their own best interests. In retreating they collided with the, men behind them, preventing either the trench gun or the carb
ine from being brought to a position of readiness.

  ‘Set down your weapons, please!’ the unarmed man continued, but—for all their apparent politeness—the words were as much a command as their predecessors had been. ‘As I said, we don’t mean you any harm. It’s those two lecherous, girl despoiling bastards we want and we intend to have them.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be guarding us!’ Schulman wailed, having been shoved aside by Bratton and, turning hurriedly, he saw the officer was not offering to move the barrel of the trench gun forward. ‘Why aren’t you doing something?’ he wailed.

  ‘We don’t want to shoot, Rangers!’ the unarmed man reiterated, his tone showing not the slightest lack of resolution. ‘But, if we have to, the Wisenheimer and the Dummy will be the first to go.’

  ‘Well, darlin’s,’ the Irish sergeant said dryly, knowing the names which had been given were those used by the prisoners for their act when they were performing in burlesque and not merely terms of derision. 52 ‘And what would you be wanting us to do for you?’

  ‘Why sure,’ Breda supported. Having thrust Chiverton aside he was also refraining from anything which might be construed as a hostile or threatening movement with his carbine. ‘Just tell us what we can do and, hot-damn, we’ll make a stab at doing it.’

  ‘D—Don’t do anything!’ Chiverton almost pleaded and Schulman mumbled just as hurried concurrence.

  ‘You mean we should surrender?’ the Scottish peace officer inquired.

  ‘Yes, god damn it!’ the former “straight man” confirmed vehemently. ‘If you try anything else, you’ll get me killed!’

  ‘And me?’ the erstwhile comic put in, darting a glare at his companion and clearly not enamored of the omission. Then he swung his gaze to the two men at the kitchen door and his voice took on a timbre of whining ingratiation. ‘You don’t need to do nothing to us, fellers. Tell “Handsome” Phil we’ll keep our mouths shut!’