Cap Fog 3

by J. T. Edson

  For a moment, as the realization that he had been drugged came, the guard tried to throw off the restraining hands and opened his mouth with the intention of raising the alarm. No sound left it and, giving a convulsive shudder, his body went limp. Tilting him forward at the waist and lowering him gently until his head was resting on the table, the man responsible for his condition picked up the key-ring and walked swiftly along the passage.

  By the time Macauley reached their cell, Rapido Clint and Comanche Blood were on their feet. It was obvious that they had seen, but were not in the least surprised by what had happened to the guard. Apart from the former having removed his hat, they were fully dressed and had not even taken off their respective footwear before going to sleep. Knowing what was expected of them, the marshal studied each one’s face as he opened the door and they joined him in the passage. Reading only expressions of grim determination, he was satisfied they were both still ready, willing, and would be able to carry out their part in the far from pleasant task which lay ahead.

  ‘That’ll teach him not to drink on duty, for shame!’ Blood remarked in a low yet even voice, nodding towards the table on emerging from the cell. ‘And I’d surely hate to have a head as sore as his will be when he wakes up. Talking of which, how’s about Foote?’

  ‘He didn’t so much as stir as I came by,’ Macauley replied, equally sotto voce, leading the way to the cell of the man in question.

  ‘I thought only the just slept well,’ Clint commented, speaking as quietly as his companions and looking through the bars of the door.

  ‘The just are likely too worried over sons-of-bitches like him to sleep easy,’ Blood replied grimly, yet with a slight trace of satisfaction. ‘Which they’re going to have one less to worry about real soon.’

  ‘Let’s go and fetch him out!’ the marshal ordered, having turned the key in the lock while his supposed prisoners were speaking.

  Although Philip “Handsome Phil” Foote had been so tired he was sleeping soundly, either instinct or the slight noise made by the opening of the door disturbed him. Living the kind of life he had prior to his arrest had given him the ability to wake up swiftly and with his faculties starting to function almost immediately.

  Almost, but not entirely!

  Coming to his feet in an instinctive reaction, clad in a pair of garish silk pajamas which had been in the suitcase of spare clothing he had brought from Marlin, the gang leader stared at the two figures who were entering the cell side by side.

  ‘What’s u—?’ Foote commenced, momentarily assuming the visitors were guards. Then, recognizing Clint and Blood, he realized he was in error. A moment later, the recollection of something he had been told about their recent activities came and led him to reach a most disturbing conclusion over the reason for their presence. Trying to sound amiable, he went on hurriedly, ‘Thanks, fellers, but I’m not going to try and escape with y—!’

  At that moment, seeing the man he had believed to be a United States marshal behind the two young Texans, the gang leader brought his declaration to a halt!

  The reaction was caused by Foote remembering his escort had claimed that Clint and Blood had sought out and severely beaten a man who had incurred the displeasure of Hogan Turtle. Taking into consideration the peace officers’ intimation that this had not produced the anticipated gratitude on the part of the Big Hombre, he had assumed they were now seeking to earn his approbation by offering him the opportunity of escaping with them.

  The presence of Macauley—if that was his name—proved the theory to be badly, even frighteningly, incorrect!

  To have gained admission to the State Prison Farm and obtained such co-operation from its staff called for some means of identification, including a badge of office, which would pass as genuine!

  Such items were anything except easy to come by!

  They could only be produced by an organization with considerable facilities available!

  Hogan Turtle controlled such an organization!

  Beginning to appreciate the alarming alternative to his original summations, Foote sucked in a gasping breath which he intended to expend on shouting for help—deducing the guard in the block could supply it—at the top of his voice!

  Clearly anticipating what was portended by the action, Clint lunged forward!

  Then something took place which caused the gang leader’s vocal chords to freeze instead of responding to his wishes!

  Suddenly, Rapido Clint no longer seemed to be small!

  By some means which Foote was at that moment too startled to comprehend, the Texan appeared to have grown until he was the largest man present!

  Clint did not merely rely upon the strength of his personality, which—as the gang leader would have realized in less demanding circumstances—had created the apparent physical metamorphosis, to silence the proposed outcry!

  Bending his left arm in front of his chest, the big Texan whipped it around and up with a rapidity which illustrated to Foote how he had acquired his sobriquet. However, he did not deliver a conventional punch with a clenched fist. Left open, with the fingers extended together and thumb folded across the palm, it was the heel of the hand and not the knuckles which made the contact.

  Unusual as such a method might appear to one trained in normal fist fighting, it proved most effective!

  Caught just below the Adam’s apple and experiencing a sensation such as might have been caused by a blow from a blunt axe, Foote was unable to shout. Reeling away from his assailant, gasping hoarsely and half strangled, the back of his head struck the wall of the cell. Although the impact did not render him unconscious, he was too dazed by it to put up any resistance as the trio closed upon him. First he was twirled so his hands could be fastened behind his back. Then a bandana was knotted about his mouth to act as a gag and a hood made from thick black cloth descended over his head, blindfolding him.

  With everything accomplished very quickly, having been swung around once more, the gang leader felt his arms being grasped from each side. Even as his mind was striving to gather his scattered wits and catch up with developments, he was compelled to start walking between the two men who were holding him. However, such was the perturbed state of his reasoning powers, he had no idea of the direction in which he was turned on leaving the cell. All he knew for certain was that his captors were hustling him along the passage with an irresistible force. Then they guided him through a door which was unlocked by the man he had heard going ahead of them.

  As there was no breeze, or any other indication, Foote surmised he was not being taken out of the building!

  Before the still dazed mind of the gang leader could arrive at any conclusions from the discovery, he found himself being hauled rather than steered up a short flight of wooden steps!

  Alarm had been assailing Foote ever since he was bound, gagged, blindfolded and forced to leave the cell. It increased as, having been propelled across what was clearly a floor of planks at the top of the steps, he was stopped and his ankles were swiftly fastened together. On the hood being jerked from his head, he stared around. What he saw did nothing to relieve his sense of trepidation. Rather it grew and turned to panic stricken terror. In spite of the lights being switched off in the portion of the building to which he had been brought, the moon was sending sufficient illumination through the windows of the roof—there were none in the walls—for him to identify his surroundings.

  They were similar to those in which the gang leader would have paid the ultimate penalty if his guilt of raping and murdering Eloise Charmain could have been proven at the trial!

  Realizing he was standing on the trap of the gallows in the execution room of the cell block, Foote tried to throw himself from it. His efforts were to no avail. The men on either side were holding his arms in a grasp like the closed steel jaws of a bear-trap. He was unable to pull himself free, even from the surprisingly strong hands of the smaller of the pair.

  Stepping forward, the third of the gang leader’s abductors
—who he discovered was no longer wearing the insignia of a United States marshal—deftly slipped the waiting noose over his head. It was adjusted with a speed and precision which implied the man had performed a similar task on more than one occasion.

  Still restrained by Rapido Clint and Comanche Blood, feeling as if he was on the verge of collapsing, Foote watched their companion—who most definitely could not be considered in any other way—-cross to the lever on the wall at the side of the platform. Struggling without any success at getting free and guessing what was coming, he was prevented by the gag over his mouth from even uttering the plea for mercy he wished to make.

  ‘Philip “Handsome Phil” Foote!’ intoned the grim-visaged man who had established his identity as “U.S. Marshal J.B. Macauley” on his arrival at the State Prison Farm. His voice was unemotional, yet as filled with inescapable menace as the crack of doom as he went on, ‘The jury at your trial in Marlin, Falls County, had to find you ‘‘not guilty” of raping and murdering Eloise Charmain. But we know and you know, you were guilty as charged and you’re going to pay for doing it—Now!’

  Having uttered the last word of the menacing pronouncement in a louder tone, the obviously bogus peace officer grasped and thrust the lever downwards!

  Releasing their holds on receiving what was clearly a pre-arranged signal, the two young Texans sprang away from the gang leader!

  Before Foote could try to avert his fate by duplicating the ‘prisoners’ evasive action, the trap hinged away from beneath his feet. He plummeted downwards until the slack of the sturdy hemp rope was taken up. There was a sharp crack as his neck was broken. His body jerked spasmodically for a moment, then dangled limply.

  The execution of the rapist and murderer of Eloise Charmain had been carried out as efficiently as if he had been sentenced to death by the court which had tried him!

  To an onlooker possessing knowledge of such matters, it would have been obvious that Macauley had either been very fortunate or was competent at the task he had performed. The length of the ‘drop’, a matter of vital importance, had been just right. If it had been too short, Foote would have been strangled instead of killed instantly. On the other hand, should the distance have been excessive, when the downwards progression of the body was suddenly brought to a halt, its weight could have tom the head from the shoulders.

  As it was, the amount of slack in the rope had been calculated correctly and death was instantaneous!

  ‘Whooee, Jason!’ Blood ejaculated, staring at the gently swinging, but otherwise unmoving corpse of the gang leader. ‘That was clean and sudden!’

  ‘I always try to make it clean and sudden,’ replied the man whose full name—-which, although he had never before carried out his specialized occupation anywhere near Texas, might have betrayed his true identity to the Warden or some of the guards—was Jason Byron Macauley Farringdon. ‘Let’s get him taken down and back to his cell, boys. Then we can be on our way.’

  Returning the corpse of Philip “Handsome Phil” Foote to the cell, the trio of extemporary executioners placed it on the bed and covered it by the blankets to give the impression it was only asleep. With that done, while Rapido Clint was collecting his Stetson, the man who had performed the hanging with such competence resumed the pose of being a United States marshal.

  Donning his badge of office, Jason Byron Macauley Farringdon secured the wrists of the Texans in front of them with the handcuffs. Then, passing the unconscious guard at the table, they behaved like a peace officer and his prisoners on leaving the execution block. The bogus marshal had brought the dark blue Apperson 8-20 four-door sedan in which they had arrived to the front entrance. Although it bore no insignia to denote official status and its license plates were not of Texas issue, there was evidence that it had been prepared carefully for its purpose. Its interior was fitted with certain additions which were frequently installed in vehicles used for law enforcement duties and had given added credence to his assumed identity.

  Allowing Clint and Comanche Blood to climb into the back, giving the impression he was compelling them do so, Farringdon took his place behind the steering wheel. Then, starting the powerful engine, he set the vehicle into unhurried motion.

  An astute observer watching the preparations for departure might have been made suspicious by noticing that, unlike on his arrival, the “marshal” was no longer taking the kind of precautions he had then apparently considered necessary. He had left his sawn-off shotgun on the front passenger seat while going to fetch out the two men who had the reputation for being desperate criminals and against whom he had warned the Farm’s staff to be exceptionally wary. Furthermore, despite “Macauley” having spoken of Clint’s escape from custody on one occasion by taking advantage of a lapse on the part of his escort, he and Blood were being allowed to sit behind their current captor. Nor had the “peace officer” offered to couple their handcuffs to the short chains attached to the floor of the car as an aid to increased security.

  However, nobody was in the immediate vicinity to notice the omissions!

  Even those “tower hacks” in the lookout posts on the walls which offered a view of the execution block were paying no attention. As was the case with all the staff, the passive nature of the State Prison Farm’s usual inmates had lulled them into such a state of complacent relaxation that the watch they kept was desultory at the best.

  Nor were the guards on duty at the main entrance any more alert and conscientious. Having been warned the previous evening that it was the intention of the “marshal” to take an early departure, they made no attempt to stop the Apperson. Seeing it approaching, they opened the gates and did no more than give a cursory glance inside as it went past. Satisfied that all was well, they did not even wait until the rear lights were out of sight before closing and locking the gates once more.

  Passing the keys of the handcuffs to Clint as soon as he was informed of the guards’ actions, Farringdon increased the speed of the vehicle while his “prisoners” were releasing one another. However, even after they were at liberty, neither of the young Texans nor their “captor” spoke much as he drove them swiftly towards the rising sun. Having traveled on the otherwise deserted highway for about ninety minutes, at a speed which rarely dropped below fifty miles per hour, they turned along a narrow and little used trail across the rolling range country. Covering something over another five miles, at a rate which was of necessity reduced, they passed through a fair sized area of fairly dense woodland. On emerging, they came upon the first sign of human beings they had seen since leaving the Prison Farm.

  Despite the dilapidated state of the adobe buildings which looked to have been the headquarters of a small and not too prosperous ranch, there were clearly people in occupation. However, the quality of two of the cars in front of it—the third being an obviously hard-used 1920 Ford Model-T center door, four-seater sedan more in keeping with the surroundings—and the privately owned Curtis JN-6H ‘Jenny’ biplane standing at the rear suggested that whoever might be inside were not the original owners of the building.

  As the Apperson came to a halt alongside the Ford and the trio climbed out, the door of the cabin opened. Followed by three men and an attractive young woman, a big bluetick coon-hound appeared. Wagging its tail languidly and walking as if doing so was a great physical effort, the dog preceded the human beings across the porch and towards the car.

  ‘Why howdy there, Lightning, good old buddy!’ Blood greeted, displaying none of the surprise and consternation which might have been expected from a badly wanted criminal who clearly recognized the animal and. the people behind it. ‘I’m real pleasured to see you’re as lively as ever.’

  ‘I’m damned if I know how a man can stand having a dog that excitable around.’ Clint supplemented, his reaction to seeing who had come from the cabin much the same as that of the taller Texan. ‘He should be trained to slow down some.’

  ‘Howdy, Alvin, Mark,’ responded the foremost man of the party from the bu
ilding, running his gaze in a speculative—but far from hostile or wary—fashion over the “prisoners” rather than their “captor” as he was speaking. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Without a hitch, Ben,’ replied the “United States marshal”, showing as little concern as his companions over being confronted by three members of the Texas Rangers. Knowing the leisurely way in which they had arrived would have informed the speaker that they were not being pursued, he deduced what had actually been implied by the question and went on, ‘These two boys of yours did real good. I couldn’t have asked for anybody better to be siding me.’

  ‘Bueno, Jason!’ Major Benson Tragg declared, nodding in satisfaction. Then, taking his watch out and looking at it, he continued, ‘They don’t have reveille at the Farm until six, so the guard in the execution block shouldn’t have been found yet. Take that moustache off, amigo and, while you’re washing the dye out of your hair, Rita and Ranse will fix some breakfast for us. When we’ve eaten, I’ll fly you over to Austin and see you safe on your way back to Montana.’

  ‘That’s fine with me, Ben,’ Farringdon asserted, rubbing at his top lip. ‘I won’t be sorry to get rid of this damned thing.’

  ‘Now me,’ Tragg drawled. ‘I thought it looked real fetching.’

  ‘Are the rest of the arrangements still the same, sir?’ asked “Rapido Clint”, gently massaging the ribs of the bluetick which had sprawled at his feet with the toe of his boot.

  Far from being a badly wanted outlaw, the small Texan’s status and name was Sergeant Alvin Dustine Fog. He had adopted that particular alias in honor of his illustrious paternal grandfather who had also used it on occasion. 61