The Owlhoot

by J. T. Edson

  Caught in the chest by the .41 Magnum bullet, Sandwich pitched backwards and in a circle. He fired one involuntary shot as the lead hit him, then the automatic flew from his hand. It struck the side of the truck and fell to the ground. Going forward fast, Cuchilo cursed his lack of foresight in not bringing a flashlight from the car.

  ‘Ka-Dih,’ he breathed, mentioning the Great Spirit of the Comanches and speaking his native tongue. ‘Look well on this brave-heart who has made a stupid mistake.’

  The only sounds coming from the truck were a scrabbling and low moan. For all that, Cuchilo did not relax his vigilance. Coming to a halt at the side of the vehicle, he felt into his pants pocket with his left hand. He brought out his cigarette-lighter, adjusting the jet to its maximum and flicking the wheel. As the flame licked up, he shot his arm around and set the lighter down on the bed of the truck. When no shot came, he moved cautiously until he could see inside. In the glow of light, he saw Sandwich sprawled face down and with empty hands.

  ‘My thanks, Ka-Dih,’ Cuchilo said soberly, climbing into the truck. Then he reverted to English. ‘Where the hell’s that paleface partner of mine?’

  Desperately Joan stiffened her neck-muscles. In doing so, she managed to reduce the force with which her head struck the ground. Bending her legs, Joan braced the soles of her feet and the back of her skull against the hard earth. With a surging effort, she bowed her body upwards and twisted suddenly to roll Laurie from her. Turning herself, Joan hooked her left leg over the girl and knelt astride her. If Joan had sought further proof of Laurie’s muscular development, the power of the hard-fleshed body between her thighs gave it. Before Joan could do more than assume the upper position, Laurie had managed to turn her and was on top once more. Only briefly. Raising her stocky frame upwards, Joan reversed their roles again. This time she ground her right hand into Laurie’s left breast. Pain held the girl helpless long enough for Joan to bring her extra weight to bear.

  Around lashed Joan’s knotted left fist, slamming into Laurie’s right cheek and rocking her head to one side. The girl’s fingers scrabbled wildly at Joan, trying to grip her or do anything to remove her. Failing to do so, and catching the back of Joan’s fist in the center of her face as it returned from the first blow, Laurie began to feel around on the ground. While she failed to find a rock, she clawed up two hands full of earth and small stones. Before Joan could hit again, the little blonde hurled the contents of her hands into the deputy’s face. Half-blinded by the earth and stung by the stones, Joan reared back enough for Laurie to see the chance of escaping. Bringing her left leg between Joan’s thighs, she thrust the woman away from her.

  They rolled apart, gasping for breath, and started to rise. Laurie made it first, although not by much. Spitting blood that had dribbled from her nose out of her mouth, the little blonde rushed at the deputy. It proved to be a costly mistake. Between the ages of eighteen and twenty, Joan had belonged to a troupe of professional girl boxers. While most of the bouts had been rigged, she had learned to box efficiently. Nor had becoming a peace officer caused her to forget the skills gathered in her younger days. Still rising, she cocked her fists as she had learned in the ring. Out stabbed the left, thudding against Laurie’s right breast. On the heels of the blow, Joan followed up with a right hook to the girl’s stomach. Laurie let out a croaking gasp, staggered back a few paces and turned away. When Joan came after her, she snapped up a reverse kick which thudded the heel of her left pump into the deputy’s belly. Caught by surprise, for few women had taken two such punches from her and recovered so quickly, Joan reeled and almost fell.

  After delivering the kick, Laurie staggered towards the convertible. Joan thought at first that the girl meant to try to flee in it. That idea departed fast as, reeling after Laurie, she saw her drop to her knees before reaching the car. Sobbing with pain, fury and exhaustion, the little blonde rested her left hand on the ground for support and her right reached under the vehicle. Fumbling around, she felt and closed her fingers around the hilt of her knife.

  Coming up, Joan realized what Laurie was doing. Out lashed the deputy’s left leg. The toe of her shoe collided with the tightly-stretched seat of Laurie’s pants. Hurled forward, the girl’s head smashed into the side of the convertible and she collapsed. Almost on the verge of collapse herself, Joan sank down to kneel at Laurie’s side. Fighting to breathe, Joan rolled the girl on to her back. Gripping the front of Laurie’s torn black sweater, Joan began to haul her into a sitting position. Then she became aware of how the girl’s head dangled limply back with eyes staring glassily ahead. Opening her hands, Joan allowed Laurie to flop to the ground.

  Still on her hands and knees, Joan became aware for the first time of the rapidly-approaching wail of sirens. Then she heard more shooting and, exhausted as she was, realized with relief that the heavier-calibered weapon fired last.

  Lights spiked their yellow glow along Lake Drive and tires screamed as a G.C.P.D. radio patrol car rocked to a halt beyond the convertible. Drawing their guns as they sprang out, its crew sprinted across the vacant lot. The shotgun had showed more foresight than Cuchilo, for he carried a flashlight and its beam illuminated the scene behind the little vehicle.

  ‘What the hell?’ growled the driver, skidding to a halt and staring goggle-eyed at the two bedraggled blondes.

  ‘I—Dep—u—ty Hil—ton—!’ Joan gasped, unable to do more than raise her head and look at the newcomers.

  ‘I know who you are,’ the driver interrupted. ‘Only I never figured I’d see any gal come this close to licking you.’

  ‘S-Sam—Cuchilo—!’ Joan managed to get out, bracing her pain-wracked body on her left hand while pointing at the fence with the right. ‘In—there—after San—Sandwich.’

  ‘Go see if he needs help, Pete,’ ordered the driver. ‘I’ll tend to Joan.’

  Three minutes later Cuchilo arrived, coming on the run after hearing the shotgun’s news about his partner. Despite his haste, he managed to hide his concern under an impassive Indian face. For a moment he studied Joan’s swollen nose as she sat with her back resting against the convertible’s left front wheel. Then his eyes turned to where Laurie lay with her wrists secured and the links of the handcuffs taken underneath her left thigh. Groans came from her as she fought back to consciousness.

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for her, Sam,’ Joan said. ‘She killed the guard at Euro-Tex, not Sandwich.’

  ‘Like I said,’ Cuchilo replied, looking back at his partner’s disheveled, exhausted condition. ‘That’s one real tough little paleface naivi. How’re you feeling, Joan?’

  ‘Never better since the last time I was run down by a loaded beer-truck,’ the blonde answered, trying to decide which of her numerous aches and pains throbbed the most. ‘I sure hope that Alice and Brad had an easier time taking the Owlhoot.’

  Eleven

  ‘How do we play it, boss-lady?’ Brad inquired, studying the figure on the trail motorcycle.

  Slowing their Oldsmobile to a walking pace, Alice thought for a moment before she replied. Seeing Laurie make her ‘unobserved’ turn, the deputies had known that their part in the ‘psychological tailing’ was over. On Brad notifying Joan of the girl’s actions, the blonde deputy had told Unit S.O. 12 to break off their pursuit. That had left Alice and Brad free to take action against the man ahead of them. Whatever they did, it would be concerted, planned teamwork as the big blond’s question indicated.

  If the man had been in a car and circumstances permitted it, Alice would have suggested following him into a road-block established at her request by the local House. There were too many chances of escape for the deputies to risk delaying the apprehension of the figure in the archaic clothing.

  ‘I’ll cut in front of him when he hits the next street light,’ Alice decided. ‘Then we’ll pile out fast and take him.’

  Which was the line of action Brad would have. suggested, with one small variation that Alice had not mentioned. Normally, especially if they had been
dealing with a violator in a car, Alice would have angled the Oldsmobile to the right in front of him. That allowed her to use their vehicle as a shield while leaving it and Brad would have followed her out through the driver’s door. On this occasion, he felt that a change in procedure was justified.

  ‘I’ll go out my side,’ Brad said as he placed the Voice Commander radio on the rear seat. ‘Hell have his hands full with the bike long enough for me to throw down on him.’

  ‘All right,’ Alice assented.

  Brad took the transmission microphone of the car’s radio from its hook and switched it on.

  ‘Unit S.O. 12 to Cen-Con.’

  ‘Cen-Con by,’ answered the Central Control dispatcher. ‘Your triplex message heard and understood. We are ordering two R.P.’s and A.D. car to converge on your location.’

  ‘Bueno!’ Brad praised, not surprised that the situation was so well in hand. Central Control knew what kind of assistance might be required in any emergency. ‘Tell them to come “Code Two”. [xix] The sirens might queer the “psycho-tails’s” chances.’

  ‘Will do. What are your plans?’

  ‘We’ll take suspect as soon as he passes through the next lit area, whether the support has arrived or not.’

  ‘Is that necessary, S.O. 12?’

  ‘Yes. There’re too many escape routes available for us to delay. Suspect approaching lit area now. Over and out.’

  ‘Good luck!’ replied the Central Control dispatcher and the radio went silent.

  ‘I wish we’d got a spotlight,’ Alice remarked, never taking her eyes from the man. ‘We could hit him in the face with the beam and take him while he’s still dazzled.’

  Considering that Alice shot ‘Expert’ on a qualification course that took no account of the entrant’s sex, and that Brad was one of the select few local peace officers who received an additional sixteen dollars a week on their salary by virtue of a ‘Distinguished Expert’ rating, the suggestion might have struck some people as cowardly. Brad did not see it in that light. Arresting a man they knew to be dangerous was not a game to be played by sporting rules, but a deadly serious business. While the deputies were prepared to use their guns if necessary, they wanted to take the man alive. So they would have made use of any means that allowed them to do it with greater safety.

  ‘He must know we’re following him,’ Brad commented as Alice increased the car’s speed. ‘Why doesn’t he try to get away?’

  ‘Maybe he wants us to catch up,’ Alice replied, ‘so he can shoot it out with us.’

  Brad conceded that her guess was a possibility, especially if Doctor Hertel’s suggestions about the Owlhoot’s motivation should be correct. With that in mind, he slid the big Colt from its shoulder-holster and reached across his left hand to grip the handle of the door.

  Drawing closer to the suspect, Brad felt his pulse quicken. The gunbelt had bullets in its loops. Going by its shape and the position that it rode, the holster was of the Berns-Martin ‘Speed’ pattern. Tall, slim, the man matched the description of the Owlhoot’s physique. In a very short time the deputies might learn if Ivy Monoghan had been exaggerating when she spoke of his speed on the draw.

  The Oldsmobile drew alongside and crept by the man as they entered the area of the road illuminated by a street light. Glancing sideways, Brad saw the other looking his way. No surprise or concern showed on the lean, not too handsome features at finding a deputy car so close to him. Brad wished that they were going faster than the twenty-miles per hour shown by the Oldsmobile’s speedometer. It could not be helped, however, and made Alice’s task easier.

  Alice flicked a sideways glance, hands tightening a little on the steering wheel as she estimated her position in respect to the sidewalk and the man on the trail motorcycle.

  ‘Now!’

  The word cracked from her lips as she turned the wheel. Swinging to the right, the Oldsmobile headed towards the side of the street ahead of the man. With the speed of urgency, but avoiding panic, Alice knocked the gears into neutral, applied the hand and footbrakes and brought the car to a stop. It halted at an angle, its right front wheel touching the edge of the sidewalk, blocking the man’s path.

  Before the Oldsmobile’s movement ended, Brad had flung open his door. He left the car in a bound. Landing on the sidewalk, he faced the suspect and went into the F.B.I. combat crouch. Legs apart, knees slightly bent and body inclined forward, he held the big Government Model automatic at waist level. Its .45 caliber muzzle, aimed by instinctive alignment, pointed at the center of the approaching man’s chest.

  With the car stopped, Alice quit it from the left side door. Wearing a uniform blouse, slacks and calf-high boots, she carried her Colt in a Safariland Model 55 holster on the official strapless Sam Browne belt. The instant her feet hit the road, she dipped her right hand. Thumbing off the safety-strap, she drew the automatic while running towards the rear of the car. Going to her left knee, she rested her forearms on top of the trunk and gripped the gun’s butt in both hands to aim it at the suspect. So smoothly had she and Brad worked that the man was covered by two heavy-caliber weapons in less than a minute. Under those conditions, resistance on his part would have been suicidal.

  Letting out a startled exclamation as the car cut in front of him, the man twisted his motorcycle’s handlebars to the right and applied the brakes. The front wheel struck the edge of the sidewalk and he flung his feet to the ground in an attempt to retain his balance. Even if he had wanted to make trouble, the deputies’ rapid actions would have prevented him from doing so.

  ‘Law here!’ Brad barked. ‘Get your hands high!’

  ‘Do it!’ Alice shouted a moment later, looking along the cocking slide of her Commander.

  Staring in amazement from the big blond to the grim-faced girl, the man let his motorcycle slide to the ground. Slowly he raised his hands, bending his elbows until his palms faced the deputies and were level with his ears. Although his mouth opened and closed spasmodically, no sound left it.

  ‘Step away from the bike,’ Brad said and, after the man had obeyed, went on, ‘Now unbuckle your belt and let it drop. Do it with your left hand, real slow.’

  ‘Wha—What’s with you?’ the man croaked, staring woodenly at the yawning muzzle of the big blond’s lined automatic pistol.

  ‘Do like I told you!’ Brad insisted.

  Numbed by shock and surprise though he might be, the suspect showed himself to be capable of understanding what he heard. Keeping his right hand elevated, he lowered the left to the level of his waist. Slowly he fumbled for, found, unfastened and let the gunbelt slide to the sidewalk at his feet.

  ‘Now go over to the wall there,’ Brad commanded. ‘Ass—Face it, put your hands flat on it and lean well forward with your feet spread wide apart.’

  If, as the deputies believed, the Owlhoot had no criminal associates or connections, he might not know what was meant by the usual order to ‘assume the posture’. So Brad put it in a way that left no doubt in the other’s mind as to what he wanted.

  Retaining her position behind the car, Alice tensed slightly. If the man was the Owlhoot and possessed the intelligence she suspected, he would know what obedience to Brad’s order meant. Once in that position, he would be at the deputies’ mercy and unable to move swiftly enough to escape. So he must act now, make his play immediately, or take up the position and accept capture.

  Still looking dazed, the man turned and walked slowly towards the wall. He stared back briefly over his shoulder and found no weakening or relaxing of the peace officers’ vigilance. Then he rested his palms against the wall and followed the remainder of Brad’s instructions. Not until he had assumed the posture did the man offer to speak.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ he asked plaintively.

  ‘Try thinking on it.’ Brad answered, returning the automatic to its holster. ‘Maybe you’ll come up with an answer.’

  Alice rose, but kept her Commander held ready for use. Stepping on to the sidewalk, she ha
lted to the right of the leaning man. With his partner in position, Brad moved in from the suspect’s left. A black car with a flashing red light on its roof came tearing along the street but the deputies ignored it. Swiftly Brad ran his hands over the suspect’s arms, sides and down his legs.

  ‘He’s clean,’ the big blond said, straightening up.

  Skidding to a halt, the car discharged its occupants. One was tall, lean, gray-haired and Anglo-Saxon, the other a big, thickset Chinese. Wearing civilian clothes, they had hooked their G.C.P.D. shields on their left breast pockets.

  ‘Hi, Alice,’ greeted the white man. ‘Got him, huh?’

  ‘We’ve got him,’ Alice agreed, the recognition being mutual. ‘Have you met my partner, Brad Counter? Brad, this is Doug Smith and Charlie Chan, the pride of Gusher City South’s Detective Squad.’

  ‘Doug,’ Brad began formally. ‘Charlie—huh?’

  Clearly the Chinese detective had grown accustomed to how people reacted on learning his name. Grinning broadly, he said, ‘My old man used to go to the movies and had a wry sense of humor.’

  ‘And after getting given a name like that, what else could Charlie become but a detective,’ Smith went on.

  ‘I’m not as good as the one on the movies,’ Chan continued cheerfully. ‘But let us not forget he had the script-writers on his si—Hey! This’s the Owlhoot?’

  ‘You know him?’ Alice demanded, noticing that the suspect had turned to look back over his shoulder at them. She returned her Commander to its holster.

  ‘Name’s Ernie Kochek,’ Chan replied.