by J. T. Edson
‘Seems like you’re not what could be called popular with some folks—!’ Soehnen began, sounding as if he was surprised by the need to explain.
‘Who the hell cares what that bunch of small town hicks think?’ the gang leader snorted disdainfully.
‘It’s not them I’m talking about,’ the blond sergeant warned, clearly far from displeased by being able to deliver such disturbing information. ‘There’s been so much whooping and hollering in the newspapers since you were arrested about how owlhoots are being allowed to get away with breaking the law, it’s got peace officers all over Texas running the owlhoots on the loose ragged. Which same’s got them more than a mite riled at you.’
‘That’s the living truth,’ Goldberg seconded. ‘Fact being, there’s even talk that some of them sort of figure you should be taught better. ’
‘Hah!’ Foote snorted, but there was a strong suggestion of perturbation under his truculent demeanor. ‘Nobody would dare try it!’
‘I can name one feller who would,' Goldberg asserted.
‘And me,’ Soehnen supported. ‘Even though you’ve been using his tophand shyster, you’re only small potatoes to him.’
‘Hogan Turtle?’ the gang leader guessed, trying without any noticeable success to sound disbelieving. Then he went on, but it was more in the fashion of one who was trying to reassure himself than make a statement. ‘It can’t be him. He wouldn’t’ve let Reece Mervyn defend me if that was how he felt.’
‘Could be he hadn’t reckoned on how things would turn out when he gave the word for it,’ Soehnen countered. ‘Comes down to a right sharp point, though, nobody’s come right out and said it’s him who’s figuring on doing the teaching.’
‘They haven’t, Dutchy,’ Goldberg agreed. ‘But they do say he’s real riled about the way things have been stirred up. Look at what happened to that longhorn up to Denton. Maybe he’s a friend of yours, Mr. Foote. His name’s “Side-wheeler” Heifer.’
‘He’s nothing but a “mother-something” pimp and no friend of mine!' the gang leader protested indignantly, but his curiosity was too aroused for him to let the matter drop. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Seems he worked over one of his tail-peddlers a mite too enthusiastic down to San Antonio and lit a shuck to hide out in Denton when he heard Hogan Turtle had passed the word for everybody to keep things soft and easy,’ Goldberg explained. ‘Do you know Rapido Clint and Comanche Blood?’
‘I’ve been hearing some talk about them just recently, but our trails haven’t crossed,’ Foote replied, then a memory came to him and he directed his gaze at Soehnen. ‘Hey! Wasn’t it Clint who put—?’
‘Yeah!’ the burly blond interrupted, his whole manner prohibitive. He clearly had no wish to be reminded of how he had been shot by the man in question who had then escaped from his custody.
‘What’d they do, Sergeant Goldberg?’ the gang leader inquired, taking the hint and having no desire to antagonize Soehnen.
‘Found Heifer had worked him over so bad he’s still not out of hospital,’ the older sergeant replied.
‘Did the Big Hombre send them after him?’ Foote wanted to know, employing the respectful sobriquet by which members of the underworld referred to Hogan Turtle.
‘He’s been passing the word that he didn’t and they must have done it for personal reasons,’ Goldberg answered. ‘And, much as I hate his guts, I don’t think he’s lying. There’s no reason why he should be.’
‘Could be they did it hoping it would put them in good with him, them being so bad wanted around Texas and all,’ Soehnen suggested, then gave the impression that a thought had just struck him. ‘Hey though, I don’t recollect having seen Butch Cope in court this morning, waiting to find out what had happened to you.’
‘I told him to watch her father,’ Foote explained, concluding the blond wanted to change the subject for some reason and that it might be politic to oblige. ‘Oakes wasn’t there either and, thinking how I’d heard he was a pretty fair sniper in France, I reckoned he might have it in mind to gun me down when he heard I’d been found innocent.’
‘So you sent Cope to down him first?’ Soehnen suggested coldly.
‘No!’ the gang leader contradicted vehemently. ‘Just to take his rifle away from him, if that was what he had in mind.’
‘And that’s what you reckon he’s been doing?’ Goldberg inquired, a sardonic note having entered his hitherto not unfriendly voice.
‘That’s all I told him to do!’ Foote asserted, wondering whether his second in command had been caught either while or after carrying out the far less innocuous orders he had given.
‘Then it seems like somebody else must have told him to do something different,’ the older peace officer declared. ‘Major Tragg figured on the same lines as you about Mr. Oakes and what you might do. So Jubal Branch was dogging Cope to make sure he didn’t try to do the stopping permanently. Which-he didn’t. Fact being, Jubal didn’t even need to follow him for long. He came from the hotel with his gear, went straight to his car and lit a shuck out of town.’
‘He wouldn’t dare run out on me!’ Foote claimed, once again with a discernible timbre of uncertainty. ‘God damn it, I know too much about him for that!’
‘Be that as it may, he would dare—and has,’ Goldberg countered. ‘Which could mean he’s counting on you not being able to tell what you know about him. Anyways, to make sure nothing happens to you before you stand trial for the bootlegging at Texarkana, the Major told us to take you to the State Prison Farm at Jonestown for safe keeping.’
‘Was I a suspicious man,’ Foote remarked, after having lapsed into silence for a few seconds during which the peace officers had refrained from speaking as if respecting his desire to consider what he had been told, ‘I’d think you were trying to throw a scare into me so I’ll get riled and give Butch to you.’
‘Think any old thing you like,’ Goldberg authorized, showing no offense at the suggestion. ‘But we told Counselor Mervyn what was doing while the jury were out.’
‘God damn it!’ the gang leader muttered, half to himself. ‘He never said anything to me about it!’
‘Didn’t he, though?’ Goldberg asked and glanced over his shoulder briefly, yet pointedly, at the other sergeant before continuing, ‘And there I was thinking he was just playing along with us after the trial when he acted like he still thought we were taking you to Texarkana.’
‘He never told me anything about i—!’ Foote commenced. Then an expression of consternation came to his face and his voice became charged with indignation overlaid by alarm as he protested, ‘You told him where I was being taken?’
‘Why not?’ Goldberg challenged. ‘He was your attorney.’
‘God damn it!’ Foote almost wailed. ‘Didn’t you know he’s the Big Hombre’s “mother-something” man?’
‘Well yes, we have heard rumors that he might be,’ Goldberg confessed dryly. ‘Which’s why we just told him there’d been a change to the plan. He wanted to know where we were taking you, but I said it would maybe come out better for all concerned if only Sergeant Soehnen and I knew.’
‘I thought he gave up on it too all fired easy, though,’ the burly blond peace officer commented and, as he had done on a number of occasions since setting off from the courthouse, he gazed for a few seconds through the rear window. Turning to the front, he went on, ‘Anyways, nobody’s following us.’
‘Nobody?' the gang leader queried.
‘Not even that miserable-looking son-of-a-bitch who does Mervyn’s dirty work for him,’ Soehnen affirmed. ‘And the Counselor told us he would be.’
Twisting around hurriedly, Foote also studied the road behind the vehicle. He found, as the blond sergeant had claimed, that it was completely deserted as far as he could see. Furthermore, there was not even a trace of dust rising above the horizon to suggest it was being stirred up by a traveler beyond his range of vision.
Returning his gaze to the front, the gang leader ran
the tip of his tongue over lips which had suddenly become very dry. He realized that, providing the instructions given for his protection by the attorney had been carried out, Wilfred Plant should be following the Templar despite the alteration to its destination. Discovering this was not the case did nothing to decrease the sense of foreboding which had begun to assail him as the conversation with the peace officers progressed. Conceding to himself that Goldberg had been correct with regards to his lack of importance as far as Hogan Turtle was concerned, Foote forgot his suspicions over the remarks about Butch Cope’s activities. He could envisage how adversely his future could be affected as a result of the other things he had been told. Learning he had aroused the animosity of someone so powerful in criminal circles and suspecting that his liberty would be curtailed for an indefinite period as a penalty for the supposed bootlegging, which was likely to be stiffer than usual as it had helped him obtain a verdict of ‘not guilty’ at the trial, Cope might have decided the wisest course was to follow the orders received from the Big Hombre and leave him to his own devices. What was more, if he was to be punished at the instigation of Turtle, Reece Mervyn would have been instructed to refrain from further involvement in his affairs. This, in turn, would explain why the clerk was not following him as had been arranged.
All in all, the gang leader concluded he was in a most precarious situation!
Slumping worriedly on the seat of the car, Foote drew some consolation from remembering he was in the safe-keeping of two very competent members of the Texas Rangers. What was more, he possessed sufficient knowledge of other criminals’ activities to use in bargaining for his salvation. Until this could be done, no matter what their personal feelings on the subject might be, Goldberg and Soehnen would have to do their duty as law enforcement officers and give him their protection.
That was, the gang leader told himself with something of his usual smug self-satisfaction, another of the advantages of being a law breaker in a democracy.
Nine – What Will Your Wife Say?
‘My, what a magnificent car!’
‘It isn’t bad,’ Reece Mervyn conceded as he looked around, employing the kind of mock understatement which suggested he felt much satisfaction where the object in question was concerned.
The comment about the vehicle had been made by a feminine voice and in tones redolent of much admiration. Its accent was that of a Bostonian—although not one who hailed from that city’s wealthy and elite Back Bay district—and came to the attorney’s ears as he was straightening up from placing his matched set of pigskin suitcases in the trunk of the car. The way in which he had replied indicated that the compliment and the sight of the person who made it were causing his mood to take a turn for the better.
Conceding that he was having the worst of the exchange with the man who claimed to be the proprietor of the Palace Hotel, Mervyn had repeated his warning that he would be checking out shortly. When this had evoked no greater display of helpfulness, or even contrition, he had stalked up the stair to his suite with what little dignity he could muster. There was no need for the two bell-boys he had requested to help with his packing, he had done the majority of it before leaving for the courthouse that morning. After having relieved the distress caused to his bowels by the latest affront to his pride, he had removed his formal attire and placed it in one of the suitcases. Donning an open-necked white silk sports shirt, a navy blue blazer bearing the crest of an exclusive Austin country club on its left breast pocket, stylish flannel trousers and brown shoes, he had gathered his belongings ready to leave.
Being compelled to perform the menial task of collecting and carrying down his baggage personally had done nothing to improve the attorney’s temper. However, he had drawn some slight consolation from discovering that the parking lot at the rear of the hotel was unoccupied and the high walls surrounding it prevented anybody who chanced to be passing on the street, or looking from the windows of the rooms, witnessing his humiliation.
Until Mervyn had heard the voice, he was unaware that he was no longer alone in the parking lot. Much to his relief, however, the tone had been friendly. On turning, he had run his gaze over the speaker with considerable interest and approbation. Even discounting the amiable and admiring attitude being exhibited, which he found vastly more satisfactory than almost all of the treatment he had received since the end of Philip Foote’s trial, he would have liked what he saw.
Although possessing a keen eye and a well-developed taste for the pleasures offered by members of the opposite sex, the attorney was not enamored of the current trend in feminine fashion. It called for a trim, boyish figure and he preferred something more substantially curvaceous. The speaker could not be termed buxom, but neither was she slender and willowy. Nor, despite carrying a suitcase in her right hand, was there anything even remotely suggestive of masculinity about the way she walked. Rather the opposite in fact. She had the kind of gait which—combined with her build—would have caused him to look after her if they had passed on the street and give thought as to how he might make her acquaintance.
About five foot six in height, pretty without being classically beautiful—although her face was made up just a trifle excessively—the woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties. Hanging to shoulder level and immaculately coiffured, her platinum blonde hair was considerably longer than was currently regarded as a la mode. Made of mauve satin covered by an overdress of pearled orange tulle, with a matching silk hip sash, her frock showed off a curvaceous figure to its best advantage and left bare her arms. They were clearly strong without losing femininity. The low cut, square neckline indicated she did not follow the current trend of seeking a flat-chested look with the aid of a device on the lines of a Poiret-designed ‘flattening brassiere’. In fact, the back was at such a level it suggested she wore little by way of undergarments above her slim waist and certainly eschewed an unboned knitted elastic girdle, a frequently employed aid to attaining a fashionable shape. Encased in sheer black stockings, her sturdy yet shapely legs ended in silver-colored shoes with very high heels. Like her clothes, the jewelry she had on—fair sized gold loop earrings, three thin bangles of the same precious metal on each wrist and a long pearl necklace—were fairly expensive. Grasping the neck of a silver lame vanity bag, her left hand was devoid of any rings to establish whether she was married or engaged.
‘Why you’re far too modest, sir!’ the young woman declared, as she halted her sensually motioned advance in front of the attorney. ‘Why I’ve never seen such a magnificently dashing car. In fact, I’ve never seen one like it at all!’
Bending to put down her suitcase while speaking, the blonde allowed Mervyn to see sufficiently into the neckline of the dress to be left with no doubt that the firm mounds of her well-developed bosom were natural and not produced by artificial means. On straightening up, she made no attempt to adopt the so-called ‘debutante slouch’—with hands on hips and pelvis thrown forward which many of her sex were currently adopting to help increase the ‘flat chested’ appearance. Instead, clearly aware of its appeal to members of the opposite gender, she stood in a way which was calculated to exhibit her well-endowed curves.
‘That’s not too surprising, my dear young lady,’ the attorney replied, still exuding a blatant false modesty and, as his lascivious gaze roamed slowly over the blonde’s figure, trying to estimate just how little underclothing lay beneath the well filled frock. Deciding it must be minimal, he elaborated, ‘When I bought it, I was told this is the first of its kind to reach Texas. None of the oil barons, nor even the Governor himself, have one of this model.’
There was considerable justification for the pride Mervyn was displaying over his car. It was a new 1923 Packard Single-Eight convertible coupe with a dashing red and black trim. In addition to possessing all the style and standards of excellence in workmanship which had already given its manufacturers pre-eminence in the international luxury-vehicle field, he had spent lavishly upon several items of the kind a later generatio
n would refer to as ‘optional extras’. The seats and steering wheel were covered in leopard skin instead of leather. Shining chromium plate sheathed the frame of the radiator, the mascot in the shape of a rearing horse on its cap, the lights, bumper, and the rearview mirrors attached to the holders of the spare wheels on the forward end of each side’s running board. All the tires were “white walls”, these being more costly than the usual variety.
‘My, now isn’t that just something!’ the young woman ejaculated, sounding as impressed as the attorney had hoped—even expected—she would be. Then she gave a deep sigh which caused the swell of her magnificent bosom to become even more pronounced and went on in a voice which held more than a hint of suggestive promise, ‘I’d just dearly love to be taken for a drive in such a magnificent car. It would be so romantic.’
‘It is quite an experience, I can assure you, my dear,’ Mervyn answered, continuing to feast his eyes upon the generously displayed feminine pulchritude in front of him and wishing circumstances were such that he could exploit the situation to its full potential. ‘What’s more, if I didn’t have to leave Marlin straight away, I’d be honored to take you for a ride in it.’
‘Are you leaving too?’ the blonde inquired and, glancing pointedly at the suitcase she had set down, added hopefully as she looked back at the lawyer, ‘But I don’t suppose you’re going anywhere near Austin by any chance?’
‘Is that where you’re going?’
‘I’ll be spending a few days there. At least, I will providing I can find some—suitable—accommodation. That’s why I’ve come here. That terribly coarse man who owns the Palace also operates a bus line and I want to make reservations for this afternoon.’
‘Well now, my dear,’ Mervyn said solicitously, his hopes rising with the possibilities which had been opened up by what he had just heard, and sharing the speaker’s point of view as far as the proprietor of the Palace Hotel was concerned. ‘I must say you don’t strike me as being the kind of young lady who would want to ride anywhere in something as cheap as a bus.'
