by J. T. Edson
Already darting to continue the onslaught, for the last few seconds had been that rather than merely an attack, the small Texan recognized the potential danger posed by Heifer’s actions. What was more, as on frequent occasions throughout the fight, he produced a highly effective and spectacular remedy for the predicament. Bounding into the air in such a fashion that his body became almost parallel to the floor, he drew up and thrust out his legs with all the force he could muster. Caught in the chest by the soles of the intruder’s boots before he could bring the revolver into alignment, the pimp involuntarily snatched at its trigger. The bullet went harmlessly into the wardrobe door and the Colt flew from his grasp as he was pitched backwards bodily. Striking the window with great violence, he shattered through. Taking the panes and sash with him in a spray of broken glass and pieces of wood, he was precipitated from the room.
In one respect, although he was in no condition to appreciate it at that moment, Heifer might have counted himself fortunate. A major factor in his choice of accommodation had been that its window overlooked a wooden lean-to attached to the back wall of the hotel, offering an easy extemporary exit in an emergency. However, he had not envisaged it would serve him as it now did. Instead of failing directly from the second floor to the ground, 31 he landed upon the sloping roof and rolled down to drop a much shorter distance. Not that he appreciated the slight blessing. By the time he landed, face down and spread-eagled, he was already unconscious.
Having rebounded slightly after delivering the leaping kick and alighted safely on his feet, the small Texan stood for a moment swaying and gasping for breath. Then he went and peered through the window. There was nobody in sight on the street behind the hotel, nor could he hear anything to suggest that the noise of the window being broken had aroused attention. In spite of that, he knew it would be inadvisable to delay his departure. Climbing out carefully, so as to avoid being cut on the remaining shards of glass, he slid down the lean-to and jumped to the ground.
‘That lil gal down to San Antonio would rest a whole lot easier could she see you now, you son-of-a-bitching mac,’ the intruder declared breathlessly, standing straddle-legged alongside his unconscious victim. ‘And I don’t reckon you’ll be doing any more blacksmithing for a spell.’ 32
‘That’s for sure, way he looks,’ commented a voice which suggested the speaker was also a Texan, albeit one whose education had been somewhat lower level. The voice originated from the deep shadows beneath the lean-to. ‘You’ve got a real mean temper, Rapido!’
‘I’ve heard rumors to that effect,’ the small intruder admitted, showing not the slightest concern at being addressed; which was understandable as the words had indicated he was known to the man in the lean-to.
Moving in silence, the speaker emerged from the blackness while his remark was being answered. He was not wearing any form of headdress, but there was insufficient light for the color of his hair or features to be discernible. However, his pleasant tenor voice suggested he was young. Like his companion, his clothing in general implied that he worked on a ranch. His footwear, a pair of Comanche moccasins instead of cowhand’s sharp toed and high heeled boots, 33 was the most noticeable deviation. He moved with a long, effortless-seeming stride indicative of there being hard and powerful, if not bulky, muscles in his six foot tall, lean frame. A hunting knife with an ivory handle hung in a sheath on the left side of the waist-belt. He was carrying a low crowned, wide brimmed black J.B. Stetson hat in his left hand and the right grasped the butt of a Colt Government Model of 1911 .45 automatic pistol. The latter was encased in a thin suede holster instead of the more conventional loop for attaching it to a belt.
‘Seems they were close to being true,’ the tall young man said dryly, hooking a toe beneath Heifer’s body and rolling him over so as to be able to look down at his face. Even in such limited illumination, something of the damage it had suffered was discernible. ‘Least-wise, amigo, I don’t reckon this son-of-a-bitch would want to argue against them.’
‘I’d feel I hadn’t done right by him if he did,’ the intruder claimed without any trace of remorse, accepting the offered Colt and tucking the holster inside the waist band of his Levi’s so the clip gripped the material but was hidden by his belt.
‘Anyways, we’d best get the hell away from here and pronto,’ the slender Texan warned. ‘I didn’t hear a thing until he came through the window. But when he came, by cracky, he came loud enough to wake half of the town.’
‘I tried to do it quietly, Comanch’,’ the shorter of the pair apologized, drawing up the zip fastener of his leather jacket and taking the hat from his companion. Donning it, he continued, ‘And I’ll admit that what you said’ll be a reasonable sort of thing for us to up and do.’
Leaving the unconscious pimp where he lay without so much as a backwards glance, the two young men made their way towards an alley between two of the buildings which faced the rear of the hotel. Taking a handkerchief from the right hand pocket of his Levi’s, the one who had been addressed as “Rapido”—meaning exceptionally fast in the Spanish spoken along the international border between the United States and Mexico—dabbed at the blood which had continued dribbling from his nostrils while they were talking. He had not staunched the flow, nor was he granted an opportunity to do so.
Just as the Texans were entering the alley, they heard hurrying footsteps approaching the other end. Instantly the taller, who apparently answered to an abbreviation of the word, “Comanche”, stepped into and merged with the deep shadows thrown by the wall of the nearer building. Suspecting he may have been heard, as his footwear did not permit him to move as silently as his companion, “Rapido” kept walking.
The decision proved basically sound!
Each of the two men who appeared at the other end of the alley wore the uniform of the Denton Police Department. It was clear that they were coming to investigate the disturbance and would have been suspicious if they had heard somebody running away.
‘Hold it right there!’ commanded the taller officer, right hand hovering over the butt of his holstered revolver. ‘What’s happening?’
“I dunno,’ “Rapido” lied, coming to a halt with the handkerchief still at his nose. His voice had lost its confidence and took on a worried timbre as he continued, ‘I saw a feller come through a window at the hotel and reckoned it was no place for me.’
‘Why not?’ the second officer demanded.
‘I know how you john l—peace officers are with us cowhands!’ the small Texan asserted, watching the pair drawing closer and making the substitution as if suddenly realizing the term, “john laws”, might be impolitic under the circumstances. ‘Any time there’s fuss, you allus pick on us!’
‘What’s your name, boy?’ the taller officer asked, relaxing his wary posture as did his companion. ‘And where’d you hail from?’
‘I’m Billy-Bob Washington from Decatur, Wise County,’ “Rapido” claimed, with no greater truth than when making his first reply. ‘Only I’m riding for the Collins’ spread now.’
‘Riding?’ the second officer sniffed. ‘Cook’s louse’s closer to what you do, I’d bet. And what for you holding your nose with that wipe?’
‘I walked into a verandah post watching what was doing,’ “Rapido” prevaricated, contriving to convey dislike for being referred to as the helper of the cook; a most menial task. ‘Set my nose to bleeding.’
‘Did, huh?’ grunted the shorter officer, his attitude showing he expected nothing better. Glancing at his companion, he went on derisively, ‘Some folks’s just natural’ born awkward, aren’t they, Ted?’
‘Just so long’s awkward is all there’s to it,’ the other man replied, but without resuming his position of readiness. ‘You’d best come and show us where that feller fell out of—!’
Releasing the handkerchief as the officers were almost within reaching distance, the small Texan lunged forward and brought the instructions to an abrupt end. Placing a hand on each man’s chest as h
is right leg passed between them, he pushed with all his far from inconsiderable strength. Taken unawares, hands dangling by their sides and with a foot off the ground, neither could avoid having his balance destroyed. Giving vent to mutually startled profanities, they toppled on to their backs. Almost before they landed, their assailant had leapt beyond them and was racing along the alley. Still keeping to the shadows, “Comanche” followed close on his companion’s heels.
‘What the hell?’ Ted spluttered, thrusting himself into a sitting position and grabbing for his revolver. ‘There’s two of the bastards!’
Before either officer could draw his weapon, it was too late! The two young men had turned the corner at the end of the buildings and had gone from view!
The escape of the pair was not entirely the fault of Ted, or his companion.
Because they were serving as policemen in a small town it did not imply they were stupid, incompetent, or poorly trained in their duties. In fact, compared with the law enforcement agencies in larger cities (who rarely gave their officers training with firearms applicable to conditions which might be met while on patrol) they were probably better able to cope with a situation that might involve shooting. Normally, they would have kept at a greater distance from one another and been ready to draw their guns at the first hint of hostility. As had been the case with Heifer, confronted by such an apparently harmless person, neither had anticipated trouble.
‘Come on!’ Ted commanded, as he and his companion rose.
‘Hey there!’ called a voice before any action could be taken. The voice spoke in English which had the timbre suggestive of Hispanic origins in the border country of Southern Texas. ‘You’ve got trouble, amigos!’
Swinging around, the officers saw a man at the entrance to the alley. Of medium height, almost as broad as he was long, he wore the attire of a Mexican vaquero. However, although he had features of such a villainous aspect that even his mother might have been excused for mistrusting him, he carried a revolver in the open-topped holster of a gunbelt and the silver star-in-a-circle badge of a Texas Ranger was pinned to his shirt, indicating he had the right to be armed in such a fashion.
‘You’re Carlos Franco, aren’t you?’ Ted identified.
‘That’s me, amigo,’ the newcomer agreed. ‘I’ve come from San Antonio after a son-of-a-bitch who’s wanted by the police down there. Trouble being, a couple of real bad hombres called “Rapido Clint” and “Comanche Blood” have been sent after him and I reckon they’ve beaten me to it. Which I won’t lose too much sleep if that is him lying out back of the hotel. All the meanness he’s done in the past, no matter what’s happened to him, he sure as hell deserved it.’
Three – It’s A Pack of Lies
‘Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached your verdict?’
Uttered by Judge Robert J. McCrindle, the words brought an end to the muted rumble of speculative conversation which arose in the crowded courtroom at the sight of the jury returning at the conclusion of almost four hours' deliberations.
Such was the sensational nature of the trial taking place, that it had brought newspaper reporters from every major city in Texas and even a few with national connections. Their numbers were swelled by sensation seekers who had also flocked to the generally sleepy town of Marlin, seat of Falls County. So many of both categories had come, in fact, that it caused much resentment amongst those of the local residents who wished but were prevented from being able to attend.
There were, in addition to the onlookers, more peace officers than would normally have been considered necessary to keep order. While the town was generally law abiding and peaceful the judge in charge, aware of how deeply feelings were running with regards to the case upon which he was sitting in judgment, considered it advisable to reinforce his bailiffs with every member of the small police department and several deputies serving in the Falls County Sheriff’s Office. Furthermore—and probably more likely to produce a salutary effect should there be any disturbance—it was known that there were an undisclosed number of Texas Rangers in attendance.
Every eye was on the foreman of the jury as, having glanced around at the other members, he came slowly and almost reluctantly to his feet. The brief hesitation was all the more obvious when taken in consideration with his appearance. A tall, deeply tanned and leathery man in his early fifties, dressed after the fashion of a not-too-prosperous working rancher, his bearing suggested he was not usually plagued by doubt or indecision. Directing a look of undisguised contempt mingled with frustration to both the defendant in the dock and the attorney for the defense, his whole demeanor was that of one who had been asked a question he was far from pleased to answer.
The defendant was lounging against the rail of the raised enclosure, which put him in plain view over the heads of the crowd. Despite the gravity of the charge to which he was answering and the all too apparent animosity shown by the foreman of the jury, he had the relaxed air of one whose conscience was clear.
Or who believed it was a foregone conclusion that the verdict would be favorable!
Six foot tall, broad of shoulder, lean waisted and with the carriage of a well-trained athlete, Philip Foote was in his mid-thirties. Parted exactly in the middle, his black hair was so slicked down with aromatic—or, depending upon one’s point of view, pungent—bay rum that it resembled patent leather. 34 Although sallow in a way suggesting he spent little of his time out of doors, there was a regularity to his features which indicated how he had acquired the sobriquet, “Handsome Phil”. Nevertheless, the hardness of his eyes and slightly sardonic twist to his lips gave a warning—all too often overlooked, particularly by members of the opposite sex—of his true and anything but pleasant nature. He wore an excellently tailored brown three-piece suit with a loud white pinstripe and his shoes were made from alligator hide. A red, white and green striped necktie was tightly knotted around the collar of his mauve silk shirt. Jeweled links connected its French cuffs, sparkling like the diamond ring which glistened on each pinkie. Giving the impression that all he wore underneath was of the same material as his shirt, which was true, his attire was far more expensive and made of better material than the clothes worn by the jury; or the judge, for that matter.
Of much the same height and build as his client, although some twenty years older, Counselor Reece Mervyn had the appearance of being equally prone to athletic activities; although now running somewhat to seed as a result of good living. His thick brown hair was set in a series of precise waves. There was a smug, self-satisfied expression on his tanned and handsome features and he displayed even white teeth as he smiled reassuringly at the man in the dock. Although more soberly clad, as became a very successful member of the legal profession, he was one of the few present to dress anywhere near as well as Foote. His black coat and vest, white silk shirt, glossy black cravat embellished by a good-sized diamond stickpin, gray striped trousers, black shoes and white spats had come from the best manufacturers. So well cut were they, that they concealed the ravages left by his sedentary and occasionally licentious way of life. From all appearances, he was confident of a verdict which would add to his string of previous courtroom victories attained when everything had seemed to indicate defeat was a distinct possibility.
The case being tried in the courthouse at Marlin had had signs of being less than successful for Mervyn and his client when it commenced.
There had been no doubt of Foote’s guilt when he was arrested for the rape and murder of Eloise Charmain, a local girl attracting attention as a member of the chorus playing the Inter-State Vaudeville Theatre in Dallas. Having accumulated all the available evidence, those responsible for the maintenance of law and order in Texas had hoped at last to bring his successful criminal career to an end. Alert to his peril, he had considered only one man could save him.
Reece Mervyn was arguably the Lone Star State’s best trial lawyer and certainly, if not provably, the most unscrupulous!
Faced with such an obviously strong cas
e for the prosecution, a more honest attorney would have despaired of even being able to save his client from the death penalty. However, having made an exhaustive study of the ways in which the course of justice could be thwarted in a democracy, Mervyn had believed something more favorable could be produced. Once the financial arrangements had been agreed upon, the sum involved being considerable, he had set to work.
With the connivance of a dishonest reporter, the lawyer had caused the crime to receive a vast amount of coverage and much comment adverse to his client. Using the latter as the basis for his argument, he had sought to gain badly needed time by demanding that the trial was held in a more impartial venue than Dallas was likely to offer. The plea had been successful, but finding an acceptable location was deliberately made difficult by Mervyn. Court after court had either been objected to by him, or had refused to adjudicate. Finally, at the personal request of the State Attorney General, Judge Robert J. McCrindle had offered to officiate. Being noted for his absolutely impartiality and honesty, but also for the severity he employed upon those rare occasions when dealing with the type of crimes of which Foote was accused, he had seemed the worst possible person before whom a defense attorney would want to take a client so patently guilty. Regardless of that, Mervyn had agreed to the venue. In a statement to the newspapers, he had claimed he was willing to accept as he could be sure of the court’s fair-mindedness and disinclination to be swayed by the antagonist publicity to which Foote had been subjected since being arrested.
