by J. T. Edson
Needing no telling, the man at the steering wheel was already getting ready to set the limousine into motion. However, even as he was starting to release the clutch and operate the accelerator, a truck shot from the next gateway and halted blocking the street. To provide another source of alarm, a second big vehicle appeared from the entrance to the Banyan Club and behaved in the same fashion. Even if any of the gang had believed their appearance was accidental, the thought would have been dispelled by the spotlights which came on from the back of each truck to illuminate the whole area between them. Furthermore, armed men with the silver five-pointed ‘star in a circle’ badges of the Texas Rangers on their jackets, sprang over the open sides or from the cabs.
‘Peace officers here!’ boomed a voice clearly augmented by some form of speaking trumpet. ‘Toss out your guns, then follow them with your hands held high!’
Muttering what would have been, ‘Like hell!’ if the words were understandable, Bradshaw kicked open the rear door and thrust himself forward. Knowing he was certain to receive a capital sentence should he be taken alive, he was determined to try and fight his way clear. Alighting on the sidewalk, despite the tommy gun being turned in the other direction, he saw what he decided must be his first target. The blond giant who had broken his jaw the night before at the Banyan Club had leapt from the running board of the second truck and was running forward. Snarling unintelligible profanities, the enforcer started to swing the weapon around to take his revenge.
Riding on the running board as he had been, Sergeant Ranse Smith was unable to have the weapon he had selected for the operation in his hands. Once again proving to have had considerable training, the moment his feet arrived on the ground, he set about rectifying the situation. Starting to advance, he sent his right hand beneath his jacket. However, what he brought into view was more potent than the Webley-Fosbery automatic-revolver. Carried in an open fronted spring retention holster on a three inch wide belt around his waist, the Burgess Folding Riot Gun was designed for comparative ease of concealment combined with speed of operation. Although the barrel was turned beneath the operating section and butt in the manner which supplied its name, on being swung forward, it pivoted on a hinge until it snapped home and automatically locked with the receiver. Such was the excellence of the design, it was possible to have the tubular magazine beneath the barrel filled to its six shot capacity and ready for use when the weapon was folded for carrying.
Deftly catching the fore grip in his left hand as it rose and was locked into the operating position, the blond giant continued to tilt the barrel of the Burgess upwards. While doing this, his right hand was manipulating the longitudinally sliding pistol grip and trigger guard assembly. This served the same purpose as the ‘trombone’ type of fore grip fitted to similar, albeit more conventional, weapons of the same category manufactured by other companies. Having operated the mechanism in a split second, he saw what Bradshaw was doing and concluded he had been selected as the next target for some of the bullets left in the fifty-round drum magazine on the tommy gun. What was more, he realized there was a problem he must resolve before he could open fire with his own weapon. The shell which he had fed into the chamber held a charge of nine buckshot balls. At the distance they would have to fly, they would have spread apart to such an extent that those which missed the enforcer would put in jeopardy the lives of the other members of Company ‘Z’ who were beyond him.
Goaded by a realization that everything was going terribly wrong, the Talker responded with a speed he rarely employed. Shoving open the front passenger door, he dived out of the limousine almost as quickly as Bradshaw. However, it was not his intention to fight. Instead, hoping to escape in the confusion while his companions were resisting, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him across the street towards the open gateway of the mansion at the other side. Seeing Buffong was not holding a weapon of any kind, the oldest of the Texas Rangers snapped an order instead of raising the ancient looking Winchester Model of 1873 rifle in his hands.
Leaving his master’s side in a way far more indicative of the name ‘Lightning’ than was its behavior for much of the time, Sergeant Jubal Branch’s big bluetick coonhound sped after the fleeing man. Hearing its pattering feet as he was running along the path towards the mansion, the Talker looked back. Realizing he could not outrun the big dog, he spun around and launched a kick at it. Avoiding the attack, Lightning lunged upwards and his powerful jaws closed upon the most vulnerable point of the masculine anatomy. Sudden and nauseating agony ripped through Buffong and he toppled backwards. While doing so, and after he landed on the hard gravel, he struggled thereby inducing the hold to be continued. By the time pain caused him to lapse into an unconscious state, he was left in no condition to be able to carry out the rape which—frequently accompanied by a brutal beating -had been an all too regular part of his treatment of women in the past, even if he would still have been young enough to follow up such an inclination when he finished the lengthy prison sentence he was to receive.
Skidding to a halt, not for the first time in his comparatively short service as a peace officer, Ranse felt grateful for having acted upon advice given by a more experienced associate. During the preparations for the ambush of the criminals which he had helped to bring about, Sergeant Jubal Branch had suggested how he should load his Burgess. There was, warned the elderly veteran of law enforcement duties for almost as many years as the blond giant had been alive, the chance that the driver of the gang’s vehicle might try to crash past the truck blocking the road ahead. If this happened, a charge of buckshot would not be sufficient to stop it. Therefore, although he had a shell with such a load ready to feed into the chamber, the next in the magazine tube was more potent than required just to deal with a man.
While swinging the butt of the riot gun until it was cradled against his right shoulder, Ranse flicked the reloading mechanism back and forward to eject the buckshot and replace it with the next shell. Continuing to move with unflurried speed, despite watching the tommy gun being swung in his direction and being aware of its lethal potential at such close quarters, he squinted along the barrel. Unlike a shotgun used for purely sporting purposes such as hunting flying game birds, the Burgess was equipped with a rudimentary rear and front sight to allow more positive alignment. Completing his aim, even though he could see more members of Company ‘Z’ beyond his objective, he did not hesitate before squeezing the trigger. The gun crashed, but what passed through the barrel was not nine separate balls. Instead, a solid slug .729 of an inch in caliber was sent on its way.
While satisfied that he had held true, the blond giant did not rely upon his summation. Instead, his right hand pulled back and then thrust forward the sliding assembly twice. On the first occasion, the empty case was tossed into the air. However, because the next shell was loaded with buckshot, the second movement ejected and replaced it with its successor which held another solid ball. Before he had completed the precaution, he saw Bradshaw reel under the impact of the first chunk of lead. Jets of flame burst from the muzzle of the tommy gun, but the barrel had been deflected and the bullets did nothing more than send chips of adobe flying from the surrounding wall of the mansion to the right of the big Texan. The chatter of the deadly weapon ended as the enforcer crumpled backwards to go down with a hole in the center of his chest. However, being made of soft lead, the solid ball did not go through his body and endanger the peace officers behind him.
Taking in the sight of the well armed peace officers who had left the trucks at each end of the limousine, the surviving members of the gang knew resistance would be both futile and almost certainly fatal. First taking the precaution of throwing out their weapons, they yelled that they surrendered and emerged with raised hands as they had been instructed.
‘You’ve got them all, Ben,’ Lieutenant Victorio Bianco enthused, having been brought into town to take part in the ambush.
‘Every one,’ Major Benson Tragg agreed, holding the loud speaker with wh
ich he had delivered the orders. Then he turned his gaze to where one of his men had gone through the gate at which the rendezvous was to take place. ‘Did they get him?’
‘He’s cashed in his chips,’ was the reply.
‘Bueno,’ the commanding officer of Company ‘Z’ declared. ‘I’d have been real sorry happen this trick we played on good old Big Frankie had wound up with him being taken to hospital—alive.’
On hearing that Francis Wright and his gang were in Dallas, being a member of a family whose connections with law enforcement in Texas extended almost as far back did the Turtles on the other side, Major Benson Tragg had appreciated the danger created by their presence. He knew Hogan Turtle was not acting with the interests of justice at heart when reporting that they had arrived and intended to try and take over the town, but hoped to avert a situation neither of them wanted to arise. Being aware that any attempt to take over would be resisted by Turtle and the other local criminals, he had been determined to prevent gang warfare commencing.
As well as learning all he could about the newcomers from Chief of Police Samuel Ballinger, the Major had had a surveillance of them carried out by his own men. He had also availed himself of the assistance of a friend who was born deaf and, in addition to being able to read lips, was very competent at interpreting what was thought as well as said by studying facial expressions. Watching a meeting between Wright and Michael Buffong, the friend had stated a belief that there was animosity between them and the latter was concerned about a large sum of money belonging to the gang which the former claimed to be in safe keeping. Using the information he had accrued, Tragg had formulated a plan to deal with the unwanted visitors.
Selected as being the most suitable to play the part, even though it would be his first assignment without the support of a longer serving companion, Ranse Smith had posed as a dishonest peace officer. To help him with the deception, Rita Yarborough—accepted as an ‘unofficial official’ member of Company ‘Z’—pretended to be his girl friend whose extravagant tastes helped to cause him to live beyond his means. Although an attempt to make Wright’s acquaintance at the race track had failed, there had been an unanticipated bonus. Compelled by circumstances to act without the blond giant’s help, ‘Alicia’ had become involved with and brought to justice a trio of criminals engaged in an attempt to swindle the management of the Banyan Club. 10
Seeking another opportunity to meet the gang leader, Ranse had suggested he put to use his ability as a golfer. What was more, he had arranged this to take advantage of the ill feeling which had developed between Wright and the Talker. To help set the scene, knowing Buffong played every day at the North Dallas Golf and Country Club and had earned a reputation for being a ‘bandit’, Tragg had prevailed upon Judge Jules Robespierre to arrange to meet the gang leader there. Acting the part of a young man with more gullibility and money than skill, the blond giant had persuaded the Talker to challenge him to a round with a good sized bet at stake. In addition to being a four handicap player, he possessed a good knowledge of the tricks employed by ‘bandits’ like Buffong and countered them to such good effect that he won a considerable sum of money.
As had been anticipated, having heard about the game and informed that the Judge could not join him, Wright had taken what he considered to be a chance to get to know the young man who had made a sucker out of the Talker. Supplied with the letter from the bank and the ‘returned’ check, the head waiter had helped to establish that Ranse was a peace officer with financial difficulties and not over-burdened by scruples. Once more, the gang leader had reacted as was expected. Wanting to prove himself smarter and more capable than Buffong, he had changed his habit of keeping in the background and had begun to cultivate the ‘rotten apple in the barrel’ he had found.
Wright was correct in his assumption that one of his men had been arrested soon after each of the subsequent meetings with the blond giant which had been witnessed by Kevin Bradshaw. This had caused suspicion amongst the other members of his gang. On learning that Ranse was wealthy he had reacted exactly the way it had been hoped he would. He had realized, Ranse had no need to accept bribes and presumably was seeking personal aggrandizement for bringing about his downfall and he had come to the rendezvous they had arranged with revenge by murder in mind. Although it had not been anticipated, the behavior of the enforcer in the parking lot of the Banyan Club had been a worthwhile bonus for having given added credence to another part of the plan. Employing his favorite alias, ‘Comanche Blood’, 11 Sergeant Mark Scrapton had paid the call on Buffong in the guise of a young criminal and had given the information which caused the gang to arrive with the intention of preventing Wright from betraying them.
Although the Philadelphia Police Department had sufficient evidence to convict all the other members of the gang, from the beginning of the operation Major Tragg had known there would be considerable difficulty in making charges against Wright hold up in court. However, the special force of Texas Rangers he commanded had been formed to cope with such situations. Guessing correctly how all of the gang would react, his plan had always been intended to achieve the ending which had, in fact, happened.
Francis ‘Big Frankie’ Wright might have avoided paying the penalty for his numerous crimes if he had been brought to trial!
However, the gang leader had met a well deserved fate and justice had been done at the hands of Company ‘Z’!
Part Four – The Penalty of False Arrest
Featuring
Jessica and Trudeau Front de Beouf
‘Give me a glass of sarsaparilla, please—No, dash it, make that a tall freer!’
The man on duty behind the counter noticed the way this particular customer started to give his order, and then changed, using a tone implying a desire to be reckless. This was after he had darted a glance at the front entrance to the Scranton Saloon. The bartender was reminded of a schoolboy checking he was not under observation by somebody whose authority he feared. Having been a bartender for most of his working life, Harry Trilby considered himself a shrewd judge of character and, business being slack despite the time being half past three on a Saturday afternoon, he studied the speaker with more than just casual interest.
At least six foot two inches in height, the customer was built on massive lines and was in his mid-twenties. Clean shaven, his handsome face was pallid and had an expression of petulance rather than rugged determination. His voice was just as Trilby expected, having the accent of a well bred Southerner and with a soft, mild, almost hesitant timbre. Despite his exceptional size and bulk, he conveyed the impression of having received a gentle, even pampered, upbringing somewhere below the Mason-Dixon line. There was a lethargic air about his movements and, at first sight, Trilby would not have been surprised if he had been breathing heavily as the result of taking unaccustomed exercise by walking to the saloon.
While pouring beer from its bottle into a schooner, the bartender looked more closely at the newcomer. It came as no surprise that he did not conform with any of the styles of dress worn by the usual run of visitors—particularly the railroad workers, cowhands and buffalo hunters—who came to Abilene. From beneath a flat check ‘sporting’ cap, curly mousey brown hair hung somewhat longer than was regarded as de rigueur amongst cowhands from Texas in particular; not that anything about him suggested he belonged to that hard-working, hard-fighting, harder-playing breed. The high collar of his white shirt, which disappeared into a silver gray vest without lapels, was embellished by a neatly fastened black bow-tie. Although he did not have the look of an outdoor man, the rest of his attire was comprised of a light-tan-colored yoked shooting jacket, matching knickerbockers, thick woolen Argyll plaid stockings and well polished black boots with short gaiters of the kind known as ‘spatter-dashes’. Tidy to the point of being fastidious, the garments had clearly been tailored to his fit. However, his bearing seemed to imply there was soft flesh rather than hard muscle under them. What was more, and the bartender had noticed this ear
ly in the examination, there was nothing to indicate they concealed a weapon of any kind.
Having been born and raised west of the Mississippi River, Trilby assessed that the newcomer was not showing the best of sense by appearing in public dressed in such a fashion; especially on that particular Saturday afternoon. The very capable Town Marshal Stanley Woodrow Markham had already left on a hunting trip for the weekend with the President of the First Stockmen’s Bank and a few other cronies. Because of the disinclination of the Mayor and City Council to spend more than was absolutely necessary on paying them, none of his deputies were of such a high quality that they commanded the wholesome respect he had acquired by virtue of his rugged enforcement of the law. Therefore, some of the transient population might decide to take advantage of his absence
to ‘raise a little hell’. However, fortunately, there were only a few other customers in the bar-room, none of whom would regard the massive young man as an easy target for the baiting or rough horseplay frequently accorded to such an obvious dude by the more rowdy element.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have anything smaller on me,’ the newcomer said on being told what he owed for the beer which was placed in front of him, bringing a thick bundle of money from inside his jacket and peeling away a ten dollar bill. ‘And please take a drink for yourself out of it.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Trilby replied, then noticed the appearance of the money was attracting the attention of three men sitting at a nearby table.
Always on the alert to pick out potential trouble-causers, the bartender had scrutinized the trio when they came in shortly after he opened up. From their Eastern style of clothing and snatches of conversation which reached his ears, he had concluded they were travelling salesmen of some kind. If that was the case, they had not shown any signs of being in a hurry to go about their business. Instead, they had sat making a couple of beers apiece last a considerable time and, while playing an apparently cheerful and noisy game of poker with a deck of cards borrowed from him, had looked over everybody else who came in. Watching and listening, he had ascertained that—in the order of their respective size—they answered to the names, ‘Sheets’, ‘Dishpan’ and what sounded like ‘Un-Mench’.