by Ronald Kelly
As Jasper McLeod and Joe Friday ran down the pier toward Keith and the Big Man, the Columbian acted. He lifted his Uzi and fired as the two men parted company. The Israeli submachine gun rattled off a stream of 9mm rounds that ricocheted off the fenders and grill of the roadster. The two G-men on the running boards reacted coolly, leveling their own Tommy Guns and deftly cutting down the thug with short bursts of .45 slugs.
The Jamaican tossed his head, sweeping his dreadlocks aside, then stepped in front of the LA detective and raised the sawed-off barrel of his scattergun. “Eat my lead, mahn,” he said in his sing-song voice.
Jasper acted before he could pull the trigger. With a look of regret on his face, he lifted the automatic Spade had given him and fired. The bullet struck the Jamaican in the left shoulder, knocking him off balance and causing him to drop the 12-gauge.
“Thank you, Mister McLeod,” said Friday politely. He quickly flipped the criminal onto his stomach and, drawing a pair of handcuffs from his belt, skillfully snapped the bracelets on him. “You have the right to remain silent…” he began with a dead-pan expression on his face.
“Step out of the way, Big Man,” Jasper warned, raising his gun for the second time. “Step away and let me have my grandson.”
“Fat chance, bumpkin!” laughed the crime boss. He planted his hand firmly against Keith’s chest and pushed, then leapt over the side of the pier into the fog.
Keith felt himself lurching backward slowly, the concrete block beginning to tip on its heavy base. But an instant before he could go over, he felt someone grab him by the ropes that bound his chest, pulling him back on balance. When he regained his bearings, he found that it was his grandfather who had saved him from a watery demise.
Jasper removed the gag from his grandson’s mouth, then took a Case pocketknife from his jacket and began to cut the ropes away. “Are you okay, Keith?”
“Thank God you got here in time, Grandpa,” said Keith breathlessly. “But how did you – ?”
“I’ll explain later,” said the old man. “Right now, we still have to deal with the Big Man. He’s skipping out on us!”
As the ropes fell away, Keith turned and peered into the dense fog. He could barely see the gangster drifting past the edge of the dock in a small motorboat, cranking the engine over and over, trying to get it to start.
“Hey, kid!” called Ness, tossing him the Tommy Gun. “Maybe you could put this to good use.”
“Thanks!” replied Keith. He worked the machinegun’s bolt, twisted at the waist, and squeezed the trigger.
“No!” screamed the Big Man, an expression of defeat breaking across his lean face. He abandoned the stubborn outboard and lifted his pistol. But he was too late. Keith got the drop on him first, emptying the circular drum of the Thompson into the motorboat and its occupant. Bloody bullet holes blossomed across the Big Man’s chest and abdomen, causing him to jump and jerk. Then the kingpin fell backward out of the skiff and landed in the harbor with a resounding splash.
They watched as the bullet-riddled body of the Big Man bobbed upon the choppy waves – once, twice. Then the cold currents of the harbor pulled the dead gangster downward into its dark depths, never to be seen again.
“Step back, Mr. McLeod,” said Spade. “I’ve got to get this just right.”
Jasper stood aside, while the private detective aimed his .45 at the block of cement that encased Keith’s feet. He fired three times, shattering the concrete and setting the twelve-year-old free. The old man was there to steady his grandson, who could barely stand after several hours of confinement.
“Do you think you can get us out of this place now?” Jasper asked.
“I’ll sure give it a try,” he said. He turned to those who had assisted his grandfather during his rescue. “Thanks for the help, guys,” he said.
“We were glad to help,” said Spade, lighting a smoke.
“But be careful when you get back,” advised Friday. “While you were gone, the one responsible has been busy. Tonight he’ll attempt to doom the town of Harmony, just as he tried to ninety years ago.”
“Thanks for the information,” said Keith. He took a deep breath and concentrated. Nothing happened at first. Then the fog that hung over the harbor began to grow thicker, swallowing the pier they stood upon and completely obscuring the gathering of law offices and the roadster they had arrived in.
“I think it’s working,” said Keith.
A second later, the soft grayness of the fog deepened into a cloak of jet black darkness.
A strange drowsiness gripped the boy and his grandfather and, before long, both were totally unaware of their whereabouts. Or anything else, for that matter.
~ * ~
The rattle of a key in the lock drew Rusty’s attention.
The cell door swung open with a squeal of unoiled hinges, revealing Sidewinder. The gunslinger grinned wickedly, the marshal’s badge gleaming against the black backdrop of his silhouette. He held a Colt revolver in his right hand.
“It’s time McLeod,” he said.
Rusty left his bunk and stood up. His heart pounded in his chest, threatening to drive him into a blind panic. But he quelled the emotion and stepped forward bravely, his shoulders squared. The fear was still there, nestled like a quivering animal in the pit of his stomach, but he refused to let his nervousness show.
“Don’t get any stupid ideas,” Sidewinder said, backing away from the door and allowing Rusty to step into the outer corridor. “You try to fight your way out of this predicament you’re in and the boys’ll plug you clean as a whistle.”
Rusty regarded the two that accompanied the bogus marshal. One was a grubby, crazy-eyed little fellow wearing a Confederate cap and holding a big Colt Dragoon pistol that was nearly a foot and a half long. The other was a big, burly Mexican bandito, wearing a sombrero, ammunition bandoleers across his chest, and holding a sawed-off Parker shotgun in his hands. Just looking at them, Rusty knew that he had no chance of battling his way past them. If he so much as twitched a muscle wrong, the two would let loose with their weapons and send him to the grave before the hangman could even get a crack at him.
“Start walking, señor,” the Mexican said, displaying a broken grin of missing teeth and gold fillings. He prodded Rusty in the back with the Parker’s twin muzzles, urging him down the corridor, toward the front of the jail.
A moment later, Rusty stepped out into the dusty main street of Carnage City. The grayness of dawn had bled away into the brilliant canvas of pastel pinks and purples. It would only be a minute or two before the sun made its appearance, creeping over the distant buttes in the east and casting its scorching rays upon the Arizona desert once again.
Sidewinder and his men herded Rusty down the street, toward the edge of town. When they finally reached the foremost limits of Carnage City, Rusty found himself standing before a tall, hand-built gallows constructed of new lumber and ten-penny nails. From the upper beam of the structure, dangled a length of sturdy hemp rope, knotted and fashioned into a hanging noose.
“Get on up those stairs, McLeod,” ordered Sidewinder. “Get up there and take your punishment for murdering that poor old widow woman.”
Rusty glared at the outlaw. “You know that wasn’t my fault. It was you I was aiming at.”
Sidewinder grinned. “I know that. But they don’t… and they’re the ones who count.”
As he was escorted up the wooden stairs to the gallows platform, Rusty looked out over the crowd who gathered around the structure, awaiting the execution to come. It looked as though every man, woman, and child in Carnage City had down up. Their faces were solemn, but their eyes belied the anticipation they felt. They were just as hungry for entertainment as they were for justice. The only spectators who seemed in a truly righteous state of mind were the Johnson children. The six orphans stood at the front of the crowd, dressed completely in black, their eyes burning with hatred. It was clear to see that they had come to see Rusty swing for shooting down the
ir mother, rather than out of a need for thrills in a town that had precious little of it.
“I didn’t do it!” he called out to them. “It was a mistake.”
The eldest of the Johnson brood – a boy of nine – spat in the dust glowered at him. “Go to hell, mister!” was all that he had to say.
Sidewinder winked at the kid. “Oh, he will, son. He most certainly will.”
It was at that moment that Rusty knew that his time had run out. There would be no reprieve from the sentence he had received. A minute from now, he would be kicking in the breeze, the noose burrowed deeply into the flesh of his throat and his tongue protruding from his mouth, bloated and blue due to lack of oxygen.
He reached the platform. The rebel and the bandito accompanied him to the center of the gallows, while Sidewinder remained on the ground below. The outlaw stood at the head of the crowd, his arms folded over his chest, an expression of cruel satisfaction on his lean, whiskered face.
“I told you I’d kill you,” he said, his voice carrying in the silence. “One way or another.”
Helplessly, Rusty was led to the center of a trap door. The hangman – who turned out to be the cadaverous town mortician – grimly approached him. “Do you have a last wish before this sentence is carried out?”
“Yeah,” muttered Rusty, sweat trickling down his face. “Wake me up from this crazy dream, will you?”
The hangman ignored his request. He slipped the loop of the noose over Rusty’s head, pulling the knot tight with a practiced tug. Then he walked over to the far side of the platform and laid his hand upon the lever that would open the trapdoor beneath Rusty’s feet.
“God help me,” Rusty whispered as the first rays of the sun burst over the horizon.
Below him, Sidewinder laughed. “You’re praying to deaf ears, McLeod. God ain’t in this dream of yours. Only me.”
Rusty glanced over at the hangman. The undertaker’s spidery hand clutched the lever’s handle, ready to pull. Rusty closed his eyes and waited to feel the lurch of open air beneath his boots and the lethal snap of the noose closing tightly around his neck.
But that never happened. Just as he was sure that he was on the verge of dying, a rifle shot rang out. He heard the whine of a bullet pass over his head and, abruptly, the rope parted. Stunned, he opened his eyes and turned, looking eastward.
He couldn’t believe his eyes. There, standing only a few yards from the gallows, were four people. The one who had shot away the hangman’s rope was none other than John Wayne, brandishing his trademark Winchester with its oversized lever ring. He couldn’t tell for sure, but the two who stood to either side of the Duke looked like Roy Rogers and Clint Eastwood. And, believe it or not, the fourth was Rusty’s mother.
“Mama!” he yelled out. “What are doing here?”
Susan McLeod stepped forward, levering a round into her Henry rifle. “I’ve come to save your hide, son,” she said. “Looks like I got here just in the nick of time.”
“I don’t think so,” said Sidewinder. He nodded to his cronies on the gallows platform.
The two took the signal and raised their guns. They were about to draw a bead on Rusty’s chest, when gunshots rang out. The men howled as bullets pierced their hands, causing them to drop their weapons as if they were red hot.
Rusty turned to see Roy on the stairway, holding a six-shooter in each hand. The singing cowboy blew the gun smoke from his pistols, then with a fancy twirl, returned them to the holsters on his hips. As Rusty followed the cowboy down the steps, he saw Sidewinder pushing his way back through the crowd, heading for the front of the Whipping Post Saloon. He intended to catch up to him, but when Rusty reached the street, he found Sidewinder’s deputies waiting for him. The four grinned arrogantly, ready to draw their weapons and gun him down in cold blood.
“If you’re looking for trouble, boys,” rasped a chilling voice from behind them. “You’ve sure as hell found it.”
The four turned to find themselves facing a single man. A tall, lean specter of death in a Mexican poncho. They eyed the bounty hunter warily, their hands still poised over their guns, unsure about how to react.
The bounty hunter tossed his cheroot away and flung his poncho over his shoulder, revealing the butt of his revolver. Steely eyes glared at them from the shadow beneath his hat. “Well, are you going to stand there whistling Dixie?” he asked softly. “Or are you going to draw?”
The four outlaws hesitated for a split second, then gathered their nerve and drew as one. But even then, they were much too slow. The revolver leapt into the bounty hunter’s hand, disgorging fire and deadly lead. An instant later, all four lay on the sunbaked earth, shot cleanly through their hearts.
The bounty hunter looked over to see Roy shaking his head in disapproval. “Sorry, cowboy,” he said. “But you’ve got your ways and I’ve got mine.” The lanky gunfighter tossed his gun to Rusty. “Here. There’s two rounds left. You’d best settle the score with Sidewinder before he gets away.”
“Thanks,” said Rusty. He stared down at the gun with the rattlesnake carved on its handle and realized the irony of the symbol. Tightening his grip on the six-shooter, he walked crowd until he reached the open street.
Sidewinder was at the hitching post in front of the saloon, hurriedly attempting to untie the reigns of his black horse. The icy confidence he had shown before was now gone.
“Sidewinder!” Rusty called out. “Turn around.”
The gunfighter froze, dropping the reigns from his hands. “I said turn around and face me!” Rusty demanded. “And there will be no tricks this time. It’ll just be you and me.” He stuck the gun the bounty hunter loaned him into the waistband of his britches.
Slowly, Sidewinder turned. His lean face was oddly pale in contrast to his dark clothing. He was scared; Rusty could tell. His hand even trembled as he slipped the thong off his revolver’s hammer and splayed his fingers above the ivory handle.
Rusty smiled with cold satisfaction. “We draw on the count of three,” he said. “One…”
“Listen, Marshal –“ Sidewinder stammered, his eyes bright with fear.
“Two…”
“Couldn’t we just go in the saloon and have a drink?” suggested the outlaw. “Maybe discuss this?”
Rusty ignored him. He paused a second and said “Three.” Then he drew, aimed, and fired.
Sidewinder’s hand flashed downward, but before he could even slap gun leather, Rusty’s gun boomed in the early morning air. The outlaw staggered backward, then glanced down at his chest. With relief, he discovered no blood there. He grinned and lowered his fingers toward his own gun. “You missed, McLeod.”
Rusty shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”
Bewildered, Sidewinder suddenly felt something wet trickling down the bridge of his nose. He raised his hand to his face and stared at his fingers. The tips were coated with blood. Then, abruptly, darkness began to close in on him as his brain succumbed to the havoc Rusty’s bullet had wreaked.
Rusty watched as the outlaw fell on his back in the middle of the dusty street. He walked up to him and stared at the bullet hole in the center of Sidewinder’s forehead and the look of surprise and defeat that was forever etched onto the gunslinger’s face.
He sensed someone behind him and turned to find his mother standing there. “Rusty, are you alright?” she asked.
The boy sighed and nodded. “I am now. How did you get here?”
“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “What does matter is… can you get us out of here? Can you take us back home again?”
“I think so,” said Rusty. He turned and regarded the three Western heroes who stood nearby. “I’m obliged to you all.”
The Duke nodded, canting his rifle over his shoulder. “You’re welcome, pilgrim. Now you’d best skedaddle on home. Trouble’s brewing back yonder and you’ll need to take care of it… before it’s too late.”
“What do you mean?” asked Rusty.
“You’ll find
out,” said Roy. He smiled that famous smile of his. “Happy Trails… to both of you.”
Rusty reached out and took his mother’s hand. “Ready, Mama?”
Susan nodded. “Let’s go.”
Rusty concentrated, willing the dreamscape around him to fade. A moment later, it did just that. The gathering of townspeople, the frontier buildings, the three heroes… all vanished in a shimmering wave like that of a desert mirage, leaving only the blistering Arizona wilderness in their place. Then that too disappeared. The blazing western sun seemed to abruptly blink out, plunging them into cool, featureless darkness.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Bobo wrenched open the door of Maggie’s trailer and stuck his head inside. “It’s showtime!” he said, his eyes sparkling cruelly in his white face. He was dressed in his usual clown costume for that matinee, but there were no colors whatsoever to his makeup or clothing. They were just as drab and dark as those that Maggie wore; somber shades of black and gray, rather than the traditional rainbow hues of the circus.
The girl was about to protest and retreat further into her trailer, when the clown grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her through the open doorway.
“I’m not going to do it!” she said, dragging her feet, trying to slow him down.
Without warning, Bobo reached inside his baggy coat and withdrew a butcher knife. “No objections this time!” he warned, holding the edge of the blade against her throat. “This time the show must go on! And, unfortunately for you, it shall be your final performance.”
Maggie stopped her struggling, afraid that the honed edge of Bobo’s blade would cut her if she continued to resist. A feeling of hopelessness filled her, dragging her spirit to rock bottom. There was no way she could escape what Colonel Raven had in store for her. She would have to go on with the show as scheduled, even though she knew it was pure suicide for her to do so.
A minute later, she was inside the Big Top, climbing the steel pole to the tightrope that awaited far above the center ring. This time the distance between ground and platform was much greater than before; a scary two hundred feet at the very least. By the time she reached the stand, her muscles quivered from the terror and exertion of the long climb. Totally exhausted, she sat on the floor of the platform, her knees pulled against her chest, listening as the distant voice of the ringmaster introduced her. The applause of thousands of blood-thirsty spectators drifted from down below. Breathlessly, they awaited the thrill of watching the high wire acrobat slip and plunge to her death.