Johnny Get Your Gun

by John Ball

  “It had better not be. Thank you.” Autry replied.

  The whine of the golf cart drew attention; it pulled up with the usher driving and a slender man beside him. Virgil did not waste time asking for his identity. “Can you play ‘Back in the Saddle Again’?” he inquired.

  “In what key would you like it?” the organist responded.

  “I’ll leave that up to you. Now here’s the plot—it’s vitally important that that poor frantic boy out there be completely convinced who it is when he sees Mr. Autry appear. The right music would help a lot.”

  “I understood, leave it to me. Just give me a cue when to begin.”

  A squeal of rubber came from outside as a horse van drew up. “Who’s the stage manager?” Autry asked.

  “Virgil,” Ted Bowsfield replied.

  “Then let’s go,” Tibbs said. “All we need is time to get back where we were and to make sure that someone is still standing by that power switch. When it’s time for the organ music I’ll signal, you’ll know. Ted, can we go now?”

  A few seconds later, in the golf cart, they were making excellent time down the deserted wide aisle provided for the patrons, then they dived down a ramp and were back in the underground complex. At full speed the cart stirred up a considerable breeze as it plunged down the last long tunnel and came out once more close to the left field bullpen. Sergeant Wilson was waiting for them there.

  “No one, absolutely no one, is to run out onto the field under any circumstances,” Virgil directed. “Even if he has to be restrained by force. That includes the boy’s father. If we get the boy down, we’re still not entirely out of the woods. We’ve got to disarm him and keep him from bolting.”

  “Right,” Wilson agreed.

  Virgil looked up and saw the organist wave from the press box area. “It looks like we’re all set. Ted, can you get the players in off the field? Just as though an inning had ended?”

  “Of course.”

  “All right, let’s get on with our little play.” Tibbs locked his fingers together and squeezed them. “At least we’ve got a top star.”

  There was the whine of a golf cart and an usher appeared. “Mr. Autry wants to know how many shots the boy has fired.”

  “Four,” Virgil answered immediately, then he looked at Bowsfield and amplified the statement. “One into a playmate’s house, two when he was stopped in the street, one at your usher. Correction: not at your usher, he deliberately aimed at the ceiling. The nick the bullet made was four feet in front of where your man fell down and almost five feet to the left. Even an inexperienced child couldn’t miss that badly in a confined space at very short range.”

  The stadium manager was visibly startled. “You see things, don’t you,” he commented.

  “That’s my business,” Tibbs replied.

  The usher departed with the desired information and instructions to deliver a message at the clubhouse. Moments later Bill Rigney, the Angel field manager, appeared at the top of the dugout and waved his arm. Immediately the mock baseball practice ceased; the players from both teams ran at a jog toward the bench and quickly filled up most of the available space. In the sinking sun of late afternoon the vast stadium seemed quite abruptly to become stagnant and still.

  In the third base stands, close to the bullpen, Mike McGuire sat silently, a policeman beside him apparently only as a fellow spectator. There were still many people in and around the baseball park, but almost all of them were intentionally well out of sight. Far across the field the executive boxes were well filled, but at that distance the occupants were barely visible. Thousands upon thousands of empty silent seats looked out unseeing at the broad spread of grass, at the deserted base paths, and the inert pitcher’s mound.

  Then the organist began to play. He started very softly, so much so that the first wisps of the music seemed to drift almost naturally across the now still playing area. Gradually it began to take a little more coherent form as it increased very slightly in volume and became clearer in context. What had been only a featureless type of improvisation began to take on a certain flavor which is associated only with the great American West. A snatch of “Ghost Riders in the Sky” echoed and was gone, a few seconds later there was a suggestion of “Red River Valley.”

  It was so artfully accomplished that Virgil found himself being swept up into the mood. Through a kind of alchemy the skill of the lone musician was transforming a busy corner of rapidly expanding, freeway-striped Orange County into a vast and lonely prairie; the bare ground around second base seemed almost to be waiting for the restless tumbleweeds to come rolling by, propelled by a warm summer wind.

  The harmonies began to swell and a certain feeling of subdued triumph impregnated them, it was almost impossible to resist the spell that was being created. The long curved rows of tens of thousands of empty seats remained motionless and mute, but life was in the stadium now, a life that could be heard and almost felt.

  Then, behind home plate where the umpires normally appeared, a single figure came into view. It was a long way from the extreme end of left field, but it could not be mistaken—it was a man on horseback. His face was all but hidden by his wide-brimmed Stetson. As he began to ride slowly forward the chaps he wore on his legs were outlined and the pattern of his brilliantly decorated shirt began to be visible.

  With a lofty disdain of the sacred areas of the baseball diamond the fine horse lifted his forefeet elegantly and stepped across the pitcher’s mound as though it were a mere slight hump on some vast and featureless grazing land. The music grew clearer, it began to reach for something without quite attaining it; then it tried again, came nearer to the elusive melody, and finally, in a burst of triumph, captured it. Proud of its conquest it swung into the introduction to “Back in the Saddle Again,” now clear and bright.

  The well-trained horse at an unshaken even pace walked across the wide dirt area at second base and reached the outfield grass. The musical introduction ended on a sustained note and then the well-known melody burst out in full flower. The horse paused on direction and stood in splendid silhouette while the song was finished. Then, when the organ swung into “Tumbling Tumbleweeds” the horse again came forward, broke into a slow gallop, and turned toward the left field bullpen area. Within a hundred feet of the gate it stopped when it was reined in. The rider on its back reached up and with a fine sweeping motion took off his hat.

  And then from high above the stadium, from the tiny sanctuary which had crawled so far up on the soaring A-frame, there came an excited, bursting, joyful cry in the treble voice of a young boy, “GENE AUTRY!!!”

  Gulping, Virgil turned and swung his arm down to indicate that the power was to be turned on. He found Charles Dempsey behind him, anxious to be heard. “I’m sorry fo’ what I done,” he said urgently.

  “Don’t do it again,” Tibbs said with grim sharpness. He had no more time for Dempsey at that moment, the drama was nearing its climax.

  “Hi, Johnny, how’s my pal?” the famous voice called out.

  There was no answer.

  “Can’t you say, ‘Hi, Gene’?” the man on horseback called.

  It came back down, joy mixed with fright and awe. “Hi, Gene!”

  “I can’t hear you, you’re too high!” Autry lifted his left hand and cupped it behind his ear.

  “One,” Virgil began, counting the seconds, “two, three, four, five, six, se—” At that point the car began to descend. It came down slowly and steadily until it was close to the top of the scoreboard—then it stopped.

  “That’s better!” On the back of his splendid mount the cowboy rode at a gallop in as big a circle as the outfield would allow. Virgil Tibbs checked the position of Mike McGuire and saw that his attention was riveted on his boy, but that he was making no attempt to leave the place where he was sitting. Apparently he understood that he could help now only by keeping out of the way. When the short ride was finished, the man on horseback drew up, pulled a gun from the holster which hung at h
is hip and fired into the air.

  The shot rang out with raw power.

  “Come on,” he coaxed. “Don’t you remember me? Where’s your cowboy greeting?”

  Quickly Virgil looked aloft once more and saw the head and shoulders of the boy who had been transplanted into another, better, and happier world. He saw him reach down for his own gun, hold it in both hands, and then fire it overhead into the air.

  “Five,” Tibbs said aloud to himself.

  “Attaboy, Johnny, you do remember me!” Autry reined up tightly on his horse; in answer the animal rose up on its hind legs and for a moment pawed the air with its front hoofs.

  “How about Champion?” The rider drew his gun and fired overhead once more. “You aren’t going to forget him, are you?”

  With intense concentration Virgil watched the boy. He saw his gun, he saw his hands go up as he pointed the weapon toward the sky, and then he heard the sharp bark of sound as the last shot was fired.

  He was weak in the knees, but he still had his job to do. He turned toward the lanky teen-ager who still stood, open-mouthed beside him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Charles Dempsey,” he said. “You are under arrest for the murder of Willie Orthcutt.”

  15

  When the morning at last came, it was bright and beautiful. A fresh wind had blown away every trace of smog so that the close-by mountains stood out in needle-sharp detail. Across the street from the Pasadena police station the little cluster of trees around the parking lot was crowned with a rich summer green. The windows were all open, inviting the warm pleasant air of the near perfect day to permeate through the otherwise spartan working areas.

  Captain Carl Lindholm sat in his office chair, his elbows on his desk, while he contemplated the face of the quiet, well-dressed man who stood before him. “I know that you had a tough day yesterday, Virgil,” he said, “but I think we need a wrap-up on it this morning if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tibbs said.

  “A couple of things first. One: you’ll be glad to know that the three men who pulled that double header are in custody. They’ve all got records and there’s no doubt about it.”

  “I heard, sir. Congratulations.”

  “Next, since Chief Addis moving up into the top spot the position of Assistant Chief has been open.”

  Virgil held out his hand. “Congratulations again, sir. I’m delighted and I know that everyone else will be too.”

  Lindholm stood up to accept the offered hand and the feelings which went with it. “You know what I think of you, Virgil. All I can say is that I hope you will be with us for a long, long time.”

  “I hope so too, sir.”

  The phone rang and Lindholm answered it. He gave a brief directive and then hung up. “The visitors are down in the lobby. Before they come up, are you sure of your ground?”

  “Yes, sir, very sure.”

  “Are the civil rights loopholes all plugged?”

  “Absolutely, sir. I was present when Sergeant Wilson of the Anaheim police informed Dempsey of his civil rights. He was advised again here. An attorney is with him now.”

  “Good. Now you’d better explain things to these people and clear up a few points. There’s one or two I want to hear you on myself.”

  Five minutes later there was a fair gathering in the captain’s office. Ralph Hotchkiss was there with his son Billy, now a very chastened young man. He sat still in the chair that had been assigned to him and looked straight forward.

  Mike and Maggie McGuire were fiercely self-conscious; Mike expressed himself by rubbing his hands together and looking carefully at everything visible in the room. Maggie held her son Johnny tightly by the hand and wished devoutly that it was all over. She did not want anything explained to her, she only wanted to be safely at home with her boy.

  In quiet dignity the parents of Willie Orthcutt sat a little stiffly in the two remaining chairs. They were simply dressed, he in a threadbare suit which had nonetheless been carefully brushed for the occasion, his wife in plain unrelieved black which surrounded her ample figure with as much grace as it could.

  When everyone was comfortably seated, the captain took quiet command of the meeting. “I want to thank all of you for coming here this morning so that we can help to clear away certain serious misunderstandings which, directly or otherwise, concern you all.” He turned toward the Orthcutts. “Let me begin by saying that I am very deeply sorry for the tragedy which came to your home.”

  “Thank you,” Orthcutt answered simply.

  “I sincerely hope that you may find a little comfort in learning the truth of what happened. If you wish to leave at any time, please feel completely free to do so; I have a car standing by that will take you home.”

  “You’ve been very good to us,” Mrs. Orthcutt said. Despite her grief she was in control of herself and Lindholm admired her for it.

  “Now I’m going to let Mr. Tibbs explain to you what happened; I think it’s very important that you understand this, even though it may be painful for Mr. and Mrs. Orthcutt. Part of a policeman’s job is to see that the guilty are punished, another part is to see that, insofar as possible, the innocent are not.” When he had finished he settled back into his chair and prepared to listen.

  Virgil Tibbs looked at his audience with the air of a man who is prepared to speak, but only reluctantly. “I think the best way to approach this,” he began, “is to give you a more or less running explanation of what occurred. After that, if you have any questions, I’ll try to answer them for you.

  “Some weeks ago Mr. and Mrs. McGuire moved here from Tennessee with their son. Mr. McGuire’s employment and prospects where he was were both limited, so he made the decision to move his family out here in the expectation of a better opportunity.”

  He paused for a moment, as though he were considering which words would be the best for him to use.

  “Like many other people, Mr. McGuire has a strong sense of self-sufficiency and, also like many others, he expressed his feelings in part by keeping a revolver in his home—loaded and ready for use. Specifically it was a Colt Chief’s Special, which is a particularly dangerous weapon. Unfortunately, he kept it where a child had access to it, told his son where it was, and to some degree instructed him in its use.

  “To do justice to Mr. McGuire, I must point out that in keeping this unregistered weapon as he did, despite the great danger that it represented, he was entirely within the law, at least so far.”

  Virgil stopped and waited, but Mike McGuire remained motionless and did not utter a sound.

  “One of the real dangers of owning a gun is the incentive it provides to shoot it out with possible intruders—which is a quick and easy way to get killed. Most home owners are insured against burglary. If there is any shooting to be done, let us handle it—that’s our job. Private citizens aren’t asked to take such risks, and if you do, you can get into serious legal complications.”

  He realized that he was editorializing and stopped. For a moment he stood, head down, his lips pressed hard together. Then he recovered himself and picked up the threads of the discussion.

  “Two days ago Johnny McGuire took his small transistor radio to school. During the lunch hour it was snatched away from him and he was cruelly teased by Billy Hotchkiss. The end result was that the radio, which meant a great deal to Johnny, was broken in the scuffling. It was accidental and to his credit Billy offered to replace it immediately, but the fact remains that he was merciless in picking on someone younger and smaller than himself. For that he must stand responsible.”

  He looked at Ralph Hotchkiss, who nodded and indicated that he wanted to speak. “What you have just said is true and justified,” he acknowledged. “Billy is still very young, but he certainly should have known better. I’m sorry that I didn’t teach him better manners. For his inexcusable conduct I’d like to apologize now, publicly, to Mr. and Mrs. McGuire, and particularly to Johnny.”

  Without yielding to the temptation t
o do so openly, Tibbs watched the effect of Hotchkiss’s statement on Mike McGuire. The proud man from Tennessee would have found such an open declaration impossible, he would have considered it humiliating. But on his face now there was an awareness that Hotchkiss had gained stature instead of losing it. The habits and attitudes of a lifetime were battling against the hard lessons he had learned during the past twenty-four hours; conciliation came very hard to him.

  He made an effort, struggled, and succeeded. “I’ll pay for the window Johnny broke,” he said, “and for whatever else he busted.”

  Ralph Hotchkiss was no fool; he knew as well as Virgil did how hard that speech had been for Mike McGuire to make. He brushed his hand through the air to indicate that it was no matter. “I don’t think you’ll have to,” he said. “The insurance company has already replaced the window and the rest was negligible.”

  Mike was relieved that he had been able to do the right thing without it costing him any money. “I’m to blame for what you went through,” he added. “And Maggie and me, we’re sorry.”

  Anxiously Maggie nodded to indicate her agreement.

  Ralph Hotchkiss accepted gracefully. “Let’s call it even,” he proposed, and then turned back toward Tibbs, who was patiently waiting for this side discussion to end. When the room was again quiet, he continued.

  “As you know, Johnny put a bullet through the Hotchkiss home and then fled. This was both a tort and a violation of the law. In view of Johnny’s youth, and the state of mind he was in, Captain Lindholm has agreed to dismiss the matter from a police standpoint. So that much is now a closed incident unless Mr. Hotchkiss wishes to press charges.”

  Virgil did not even bother to look at Ralph Hotchkiss to see him shaking his head negatively.