A Disgrace to the Badge

by Ed Gorman

  "I know."

  "Maybe we should kill him."

  "We kill a kid like that, we'll have every lawman in the state down on us. You think it's bad now, wait till we do something like that. One more killing in this state and they'll probably sic the damn army on us."

  "Then what you gonna do?"

  "I'm gonna tie him up and gag him."

  At which point Henry Starr opened the door and climbed out of the car.

  * * *

  Laurel was relieved to see only one car on the drive. Sometimes when she popped in to see Sully, he was so busy he could barely give her enough time for a simple hello.

  Maybe he'd have at least a few minutes, if the repair work inside the garage wasn't too much.

  She was no more than thirty feet from the garage, just about to sound her horn so Sully would know she was here and maybe wave to her, when she saw the big man take the gun from somewhere inside his suit coat, walk up to Sully, who was pumping gas, and shove the gun into Sully's back.

  A robbery!

  "Sully," she cried out.

  The man turned and looked at her now. And half a second later another man in the car came lunging out onto the drive and started running for her, pistol drawn and gleaming in the autumn sunlight.

  "Get out of here!" Sully shouted to her. "Fast!" But her hesitation undid her. For such a bulky body, the second man could sure run fast. He closed on her, pointed the gun right at her face, and then escorted her to the gas station.

  She and Sully were prisoners.

  * * *

  Sam Mines got the call just as he was leaving the sheriff's office.

  A lawman to the east told him, "Hotel people think Starr and his boys stayed there last night. The night crew didn't pick up on it, but one of the morning people saw four men around a Model T this morning and was pretty sure that it was Starr and his boys. That means he's on a direct route to Pruett City."

  "It sure does," Mines said. "Thanks."

  * * *

  The last words Sully said to Laurel—just before one of Starr's men gagged him—was, "I sure wish you wouldn't've come out here, Laurel."

  "I had to, Sully. I wanted you to know that my Dad wasn't speaking for me when he said all those things."

  "Aw," Starr laughed. "Listen to 'em. True love." Once Laurel and Sully were both bound and gagged, Starr and his men left the station, got in their car, and pulled away.

  * * *

  Sam Mines issued each of his three daytime deputies a shotgun. "I want two of you in front of the bank, out in plain sight where everybody can see you. And I want one of you on the back door. In plain sight."

  "Shouldn't we try to ambush them?" one of his men said.

  "Nope. Ambush would mean a shoot-out. A lot of people could get hurt. They won't see the two of you out front until they get close. And that's when I'll use my own car to pull up right behind them and order them to put their guns down."

  "What if they start firing?"

  "With three shotguns on them?" Sam said. "If they're that crazy, then so be it."

  * * *

  It was sort of funny, watching Laurel and Sully wiggle and waggle and wobble on their bottoms trying to extricate themselves from the ropes Starr's man had wound them up in.

  Every once in a while, they'd try and talk around their gags. She was trying to tell Sully that she loved him. Sully was trying to tell her about the hopefully clever thing he'd done. He just hoped Sam could find out about it in time.

  * * *

  "The car kinda ridin' funny?" one of Starr's men said.

  Starr sighed. It was always something with these guys. Someday he'd get himself a fine shiny new bunch of boys. Boys who weren't always complaining. Boys who weren't always second-guessing everything he said. Boys who were grateful to be in the presence of a man as notorious as Henry Starr. "The car is ridin' just fine. Now shut up." He said this just after driving four blocks to the start of Pruett City's business district.

  * * *

  When the car came on the dusty drive, both Sully and Laurel looked up. If only the customer would come inside and find them—

  This customer, whoever it was, was in a hurry.

  Honked the horn not once, not twice, but three times.

  He will come in and untie and ungag us, and Sully will grab the telephone and call Sam and tell him what he's done.

  Hope gleamed in Laurel's lovely eyes.

  They would be rescued at last.

  She was sure of it.

  And it was then, after a final frustrated honk, that the customer pulled away.

  * * *

  Within a few minutes, Sam's men took their places in front of and behind the bank. Sam had quickly called in a couple of auxiliary men who'd do anything as long as they got to wear badges. These two men set about keeping the bank street clear, rerouting people so they'd be out of the way if any trouble started.

  * * *

  Henry Starr had one of his few moments of peace. He liked Pruett City. There was something so pleasant about the tree-shaded streets and all the little white clapboard houses and cottages, the picket fences, the dogs and cats and tykes. He even cast an appreciative glance on the Lutheran church and its proud white spire that seemed to almost pierce the soft blue sky. Someday, when he retired . . .

  "Hey, boss."

  "Yeah?"

  "You sure you don't feel nothin'?"

  Starr did, but he didn't want to admit it. He was sick of their whining. Maybe he could will the obvious problem away by just not thinking about it.

  He drove on.

  * * *

  This time the customer, a middle-aged lady in a bonnet, goggles, and long driving gloves, came in and expeditiously freed Laurel and Sully from their bonds. Sully jumped up and ran to the phone. The operator put him through to Sam's office. The man left behind said that Sam was out. Sully told him what he'd done and told him to get the word to Sam immediately.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Sam was in his own car with two of his deputies in the back, shotguns at the ready.

  The scene was just as Sully had predicted. Henry Starr and his boys were in the process of pushing their car off to the side of the street where they could fix the flat tire Sully had given them.

  Starr's gang was in no position to grab their weapons. Or even run. Not when they were being covered by three shotguns.

  With Starr, it was another matter. With the speed and force of a much younger man, he grabbed a lawman and got him in a choke hold that turned the officer's face a dark sick red. The man was dying on the spot.

  Starr relieved him of his gun and then stabbed the barrel of it against the man's temple.

  "You," Starr snapped at Sam. "You drive that car of yours over here. We're goin' for a ride."

  Everybody could see the resentment on Sam's face. What a way to wind down a career—helping a wanted killer escape.

  But what choice did he have? The hostage was twenty-four years old and the father of three. Sam couldn't stand here and let him be sacrificed that way.

  "Let him go," Sam said.

  "Sure," Starr said. "That would make a lot of sense, wouldn't it? I let him go and you open fire. Now get your car."

  Sam shook his head. He didn't have any choice. He would have to help this killer make his escape.

  Or would he?

  The shadows that had troubled Sam's eyes were gone suddenly. He walked almost jauntily to the car he'd kept running. Even if it meant that he had to give up his own life, he'd be damned if he'd help Starr escape.

  He pulled the car up to Starr.

  "Open the door," Starr said, meaning the passenger door.

  Sam's jaw muscles bunched, and he muttered a lot of words the ladies wouldn't ever approve of. And then he pushed the door open.

  Starr proved agile again. He flung the young deputy away from him and in the same motion, jumped in the passenger seat and jammed his gun against Sam's head.

  "Drive," Starr said.


  Sam drove. Boy, did he drive. And he knew just where he was driving to—at fifty-three miles per hour. Absolute top end.

  "You ever seen what somebody looks like when the car he's in runs into a tree at this speed?" he shouted at Starr above the roar of the engine.

  "You crazy bastard! Slow down!"

  "About a block from here there's this old oak tree, Starr. It sits right on the corner. If you don't throw that gun of yours out the window, I'm going to drive us right into it."

  "You won't kill yourself! Don't try and bluff me, old man!"

  "Won't I? Like you say, I'm an old man. I've had a good life. And I'll be damned if I'll help you escape."

  Houses and trees and lawns began to sweep by as Sam kept the car at top speed. Buggies and carriages and bicycles all whipped out of his way, many of their occupants shaking fists at him after he'd passed.

  "You got one block, Starr! Make up your mind. I'll be dead, but so will you." There wasn't any guarantee either of them would be dead—though there was a good probability they would be—but he didn't need to tell Starr that at the moment.

  "Slow down!"

  "It's comin' right up, Starr! Half a block!"

  Starr saw the massive oak Sam was talking about. You could see him calculating his chances of surviving such a crash.

  A quarter of a block now.

  Sam gulped. Starr was a brave man in his way. Most men would've thrown their guns out a block ago.

  Sam said a mental good-bye to his loved ones and began to angle the car toward the low curb so that the car would hit the tree at a solid angle. He wouldn't want to survive this kind of wreck anyway. It wouldn't be any kind of life being crippled or maybe without any mental faculties left.

  And it was then that Starr screamed, "All right! All right! I'm throwing my gun out."

  And just as Sam had been preparing to set his eyes on some angels—at least he hoped that was the general vicinity he was headed for—Starr flung his gun out the window.

  And Sam, shaking, sweating, feeling a need to vomit, began the process of steering the car back onto the street and slowing down.

  * * *

  "So where did you get the nail?" Sam asked Sully later that afternoon. Sully, Laurel, and Sam had gone to the ice cream parlor for sodas. Sam hadn't had to tell them about his cleverness and bravery. By now it was all over town.

  "Had it in my pocket. I'd been fixing up that old workbench I use. Had a bunch of nails in my pocket, matter of fact."

  "You just might've saved a lot of lives," Sam said. "I was afraid Starr and his boys might panic when they pulled up in front of the bank and saw my men. These days, bank robbers do some pretty crazy things."

  They talked for another twenty minutes, and then Sam said he had to get back to the office. As he was leaving, he said, "I guess maybe I'd better think some things through, huh, son?"

  Sully smiled. "I guess so."

  After he was gone, Laurel said, "That doesn't mean he's changed his mind."

  "I know."

  "But it's a start." Then she took his hand and caressed it. "A good start."

  A Small and Private War

  His nightmares once again woke her. She held his sweaty, trembling body until he eased once more into the embrace of sleep.

  At breakfast, the maid Irene fed the two youngsters first. They were scheduled to be at Harvey Claybourne's all day. It was master Harvey's seventh birthday and festivities were to be daylong.

  Aggie Monroe came down later than usual. She was a pretty, slender woman but this morning she looked pale and tired. She'd hoped to be fresh today. Needed to be. This was the day she was to follow her secretive husband and find out what he was up to. And Irene played a role in it.

  Aggie was finishing her eggs when Sam came into the dining room. She noted that he'd stopped by the study and brought in a large bourbon glass three-quarters filled. She'd never seen him drink in the morning before. He came to her, kissed her on the forehead, seated himself across from her.

  Before saying a word, he picked up the Tribune and scanned the front page. The Confederates had recently been routed near the Rio Grande. He sipped his whiskey. The second story he read dealt with President Lincoln sending an emissary here to speak the night before the election, the day after tomorrow. Lincoln wanted to make sure that only pro-war and pro-Northern candidates were elected. There was a small but ferocious band of Copperheads in Chicago, Northerners who sympathized with the South. They'd already shot a number of policemen, set a library on fire, and tried to smuggle arms into a prisoner-of-war camp not far from the city's outskirts. Jefferson Davis had already declared that the South could not win the war without the consistent help of the Copperheads.

  Aggie said, touching his hand, "You had the nightmare again last night."

  He nodded. "That's why I hope you'll excuse the bourbon. I was pretty scared when I woke up."

  "Bourbon won't help you, dear." She hesitated. "You need to tell me what's going on. You need a confidante."

  He smiled. "You and your theory that something's going on. Nothing's going on. I'm just having nightmares about my brother dying, Aggie, that's all."

  The Monroe family was from Virginia. Sam had come up here after graduating from Vanderbilt. He hadn't any choice. He'd met the fetching Aggie at a governor's ball—the Monroe family owned a construction company in Illinois, and contributed to the governor's coffers—and since she was a self-described "unreconstructed Yankee," he had no choice but to move north, buy himself a small bank with a loan from his father, and set about starting a family with this woman who so obsessed him.

  Then, six months ago, his older brother was killed in a battle in Kentucky; he'd died in the uniform of the South. Sam had felt guilty ever since. He couldn't even make love all the time anymore. He felt unmanned by his beloved brother's death. But worst of all were the nightmares. He'd described them to her. How he hovered just behind his brother, trying to warn him to hit the dirt before the bullet took him in the forehead. Hit the dirt, Richard! Hit the dirt! But in the nightmares, Richard never heard him. He always stood straight up, aiming his rifle as the bluecoats came streaming over a hill. Stood straight up. Angry that so many of his friends had fallen. Stood straight up. As if daring the bluecoats to kill him.

  Irene poured him more coffee.

  When she was gone, Aggie said, "The way you stay out nights these days, I'd swear you had a mistress."

  This time he didn't smile. Nothing funny about taking a mistress. Aggie was the only woman he'd ever been with, the only woman he'd ever be with. He conveyed this to her by getting up and crossing over to where she sat and taking her hand and saying, "Never say anything like that again, Aggie. You're my wife and the mother of my children."

  Aggie felt properly admonished. She could see how she'd inadvertently hurt him. Southern men thought of themselves as men of honor and principle. A Northern man might joke about having a mistress. But not a Southern one. Not an honorable one, anyway.

  He drank very little of his bourbon and ate all of his breakfast. A very good sign as far as Aggie was concerned.

  When he was finished, he came to her again and kissed her. "I need to get to the bank, Aggie."

  "On Saturday morning?"

  "Yes," he said gently. "On Saturday mornings when I've got all this work on my desk. I'll be home by evening."

  She knew there was no point arguing. She'd argued with him many nights about him being gone. It was a dance they did now. Him saying he was sorry he had to go, her questioning why he had to go.

  In ten minutes, dressed in a suit and the kind of heavy coat called a Benjamin, his slicked-down hair smelling of perfumed macassar oil, he once again kissed her good-bye and set off.

  * * *

  He didn't go to the bank. He drove his horse-drawn carriage to a small business building on State Street. He stayed there two hours, got into his buggy and drove to an isolated spot over by the packing houses and tanneries. Nearby were the tenements and small pine
shacks where the workers lived. The stench of the packing-houses and tanneries was suffocating; the cries of the dying animals even worse. Chicago was a fine place to be rich in—a place to rival the infamous Calcutta if you were poor.

  He had a Henry. He went to a clearing next to a wooded area and spent the rest of the day practicing on targets he affixed to trees.

  He was quite good. Again and again he hit the bull's-eye.

  He shot with feverish intent. He did not stop except to reload. The Henry was a breech-loading sixteen-shot rifle. The Union army was justifiably proud when they introduced it only a month ago.

  He spent the afternoon this way. Then he got into his carriage and returned to the same small business building on State Street.

  * * *

  Cawthorne said, "Have you ever met Jim McReedy?"

  Sam Monroe had been wondering who was sitting with Big Mike Cawthorne in Cawthorne's office.

  McReedy, whose clothes were worn and whose expression combined anxiety and contempt, put forth a bony but strong hand. He and Sam shook.

  Big Mike Cawthorne said, "McReedy here is my personal spy. I use him to make sure everybody in our little group is staying in line."

  "I'm not sure I like that, Mike," Sam said.

  "I don't like it, either," Big Mike said in his expansive way. Despite his 250-pound bulk, he was still a dashing figure. He wore custom-tailored clothes and moved with great strength and style. "But I'm not naive, Sam. Our little cell has to worry about being infiltrated. Or having a double agent. Jim here just checks people out for me."

  In every major Northern city there was a half dozen or so Copperhead cells. It had been decided that cells of six or seven were safer than one large one, each operating independently. This gave the Copperheads a stronger chance of surviving.

  Sam had known Cawthorne long before his brother's death in Kentucky. They did a lot of banking business together. Cawthorne was in real estate. One drunken night Sam confessed to Cawthorne that he secretly favored the South in the war. Within days, Cawthorne had introduced him to the six other members of the Copperhead cell. Sam joined eagerly.

  Cawthorne said, "Tell him, Jim."

  "Today when you were practicing with your Henry?"