by J. T. Edson
A sudden suspicion hit Alice and she glared at Brad. ‘You’ve known all along what’s been bugging me.’
‘Why sure.’
‘And what did your little speech mean?’
‘That as far as I’ve been concerned all along, you’re the boss.’
Slowly Alice let out her breath in a long sigh. She had known the subject of who ran the team must arise sooner or later and feared the moment when it came, not being sure of how the big male deputy would react to the idea of taking orders from a woman. Now she knew; and figured they could function more smoothly as a team for knowing.
‘You might not like me being boss,’ she warned.
‘Psychiatrists do say we all subconsciously hate our bosses,’ Brad answered. ‘I’ll try to hide it.’
A thought struck Alice as her partner left the car and opened the gate to allow them access to Goole’s property. When Brad returned to the car, she raised the matter.
‘Say, how do you know you’ve more hair on your chest than I have?’
‘I saw you wearing a bikini at the Lakeside Club’s pool,’ Brad explained. ‘They’d’ve been mighty slim hairs to hide under it. Mind though, I’m always willing to show for most.’
‘I’ve heard all about you Counters,’ Alice stated. ‘Read Mark’s book of memoirs when your folks brought it out.’
‘Drat Great-Grandpappy Mark,’ grinned Brad, starting the car and driving through the gate. ‘He plumb ruined the family’s reputation—I’m pleased to say.’
The car rolled along the track, but inside the slight air of tension had departed. After covering a mile or so across the open range, with the car’s lights out and the engine making a barely audible purr, they topped a ridge and saw the Goole place below. Brad stopped the car and they surveyed the situation. Lights glowed at the windows of the small, one-storey, frame house, showing a large truck parked before it. A few horses milled in the corral to the left of the buildings and on the right, also lit up, stood a barn, its doors open. Even as they watched, Brad and Alice saw a man pass before the open doorway on the inside of the barn.
‘Unit SO 12 to Cen-Con!’ Alice said into the microphone as Brad reversed the car. ‘In position over-looking Goole ranch. Where is support?’
‘Sheriff delayed, has only just reached landing strip,’ Cuchilo replied.
‘There’s some activity at the house,’ Alice went on. ‘Is Goole the kind of man who’d pay his hired help double time for working this late on a Sunday?’
‘He’s tighter than a duck’s butt and that’s water-tight,’ Cuchilo answered. ‘Sorry, Alice.’
‘So you should be, using such expressions to a lady,’ she smiled, it had been many years since such a comment raised a blush on her cheeks. Then she stopped smiling and made a decision. ‘Brad and I’ll have to move in, Sam. If Goole’s up to something, he’ll hole up and paint for war the moment he hears the chopper.’
‘Good luck. May Ka-Dih guide your steps, white-eye sister. I’ll inform Jack. Over and out.’
‘Nice to know we have the Comanche Great Spirit on our side,’ Brad remarked as he took up his riot gun and opened the car’s door.
‘Comforting,’ Alice agreed. ‘I only hope Ka-Dih heard Sam’s request. Wonder what they’re doing down there?’
‘Now me,’ said Brad, holding his voice down. ‘I’m more interested in whether he keeps any dogs around the place.’
‘We’ll soon know the answer to both. Let’s go.’
‘Wouldn’t want to borrow a gun, would you?’
‘This’s no time to start a firearms argument,’ smiled Alice. ‘Leave us try to keep the blind side of the bam between us and the house.’
While moving down the slope, Alice marveled at the light-footed manner in which Brad glided over the ground. For all his size and build, he moved lightly on his feet. Keeping alert and stepping cautiously, they advanced down the slope. Alice blessed the inspiration which led her to go home and change into slacks before reporting to the office. A cocktail gown, sheer nylons and spike heels were definitely not the thing for such an occasion.
‘No dogs!’ Brad breathed in relief as they reached the side of the barn. ‘They’d’ve heard us for sure, and started bawling, if there had been.’
Cautiously he peered around the corner of the barn, but saw no sign of life on the front of the house. Followed by Alice, who held her Cobra, and with his riot gun gripped in the ready position, Brad advanced silently along the front of the barn. From inside came a dull smacking sound such as one occasionally hears in a butcher’s shop.
On stepping through the open barn doors, the deputies answered their second question, what Goole was doing at that hour of a Sunday night. Standing with his back to them, a big, burly, crop-haired man in his shirtsleeves wearing a butcher’s apron, used a meat cleaver on a side of freshly killed beef.
‘Mr. Goole?’ Brad said quietly.
Instantly the man turned, starting to raise the cleaver in a threatening manner. Then he froze as the yawning bore of the riot gun lined squarely on him. He scowled at Brad, who still wore his shooting clothes but had pinned on his deputy’s badge, and from Brad turned his eyes to Alice, recognizing the uniform of a woman deputy.
‘Who’re you?’ he growled, more to gain time than through necessity.
‘Deputies out of the sheriff’s office,’ Brad replied, moving forward slowly with Alice on his heels. ‘Drop the cleaver and step this way.’
‘Are you Mr. Goole?’ Alice went on as the man sullenly tossed his cleaver into a corner of the barn, where it landed on a rolled-up cowhide.
‘Yeah!’ came the surly reply.
‘Where’ve you been all night?’ Brad snapped.
‘Picking daisies,’ Goole answered, throwing a sullen glance at the hide.
‘Don’t crack wise, hombre,’ warned Brad. ‘I said—’
‘Hey, Floyd!’ yelled a voice from outside. ‘How much longer you going to be?’
Only for an instant did Brad take his eyes from Goole, but it proved long enough. Showing remarkable speed for so bulky a man—Goole stood as tall as Brad and weighed heavier—the rancher sprang forward. His big, bloodstained hands deflected and clamped hold of the riot gun, trying to wrest the weapon from Brad’s grasp. At the same moment Goole let out a bellow for help and feet thudded outside the bam as men ran to his assistance.
Alice threw a quick glance at where the two big men struggled for possession of the gun. Having seen Brad in action at the gym, and on duty, she figured he stood a better than fair chance of handling Goole, so she gave her full attention to dealing with the rescue party.
Flattening herself at the side of the door, Alice waited. She timed her opening move just right. As the first man, a tall gangling cowhand, burst through the doorway, she thrust out her leg. Unable to stop, the man tripped over Alice’s leg and went sprawling to the floor. In this he came off lighter than the second of his party. Wearing a peaked baseball cap, windcheater and jeans, the second man made his entrance carrying an open switchblade knife. Seeing the weapon, Alice lashed her right arm around in a backhand swing that drove the butt of the Cobra under the man’s chin and full into his Adam’s apple. Letting out a strangled croak and dropping his knife, the man stumbled back into the arms of the third member of the party.
The third man showed speed and a keen judgment of the situation. Shoving the second rescuer, the third sent him staggering towards Alice and reached under his denim jacket, stepping forward. He came to a halt as the girl avoided his path and came into view. While the third man had read firearms magazines and believed articles on the subject of the .38 Special’s lack of stopping power, he reckoned such a bullet would severely damage him at the distance from which Alice covered him.
‘Hit the wall!’ she snapped, moving to cover all three and still be able to lend a hand should Brad need one.
When Goole jumped Brad, he expected a comparatively easy time. Taking Brad’s upper-crust Southern drawl along with the ex
pensive clothing, Goole figured the blond to be a rich sport taken on as an honorary officer to keep his family happy. So the rancher expected little trouble in gaining possession of the riot gun. He found himself tangling with a man even stronger than himself.
Bracing their feet apart, the two men exerted their strength in the effort each made to free the gun from the other’s grasp. Gasping slightly, sweat trickling down his face, Goole staked everything on driving up a knee in an attempt to catch Brad’s groin and force an immediate release, or a weakening of the deputy’s grip. Brad had learned roughhouse fighting from cowhands and oil-field workers, in addition to gaining a thorough knowledge of boxing, savate, karate and judo. Twisting his lower body without loosening his grip, he took the knee on his hip. Then he gave a tremendous surging heave. Caught off balance, Goole felt his feet leave the floor. He lost his hold on the gun in his amazement and staggered back. Not quite far enough. Like a flash, Brad brought around the gun, driving its butt against the side of Goole’s jaw. The force of the blow, taken with catching him off balance, pitched Goole bodily across the room. The whole building rocked as he smashed into the wall and when he slid down, he lay without a move.
Brad whirled around, slanting the Winchester hip high in the direction of the door, but found Alice had the situation well in hand.
‘You had to do it the hard way,’ she remarked.
Before Brad could think up a suitable comment, he heard the rotor beats of a helicopter approaching.
‘Freeze, boys,’ he ordered, seeing the three rescuers tense. ‘Go out and put down the red carpet, boss lady.’
‘Don’t let them take your gun while I’m gone,’ she replied.
Despite his grin at the girl’s words, Brad stayed alert and kept his attention on the trio of prisoners. While they knew the helicopter brought reinforcements for the law, not one tried to make a break. Against a man holding a handgun they might have chanced a dash for freedom; but not when covered by a riot gun. Buckshot spread and would not miss at such close range; a skilled man could work the pump-action of a Winchester Model ’17 almost as fast as a semi-automatic weapon’s mechanism churned lead out. Brad’s decision to fetch along the riot gun was justified in that it prevented further trouble.
Jack Tragg had taken time out to change into his uniform and carried a stag-horn butted Colt Single Action Army revolver—a modern version of the fabulous old Peacemaker traditionally used by every great old-time gunfighter—thrust into his waistband; an M.1. carbine dangling in his right hand. The uniform and revolver were spares he kept at the office, but he did not have a reserve belt. A man who wanted to stay alive did not borrow a gunbelt when going into what might be a fight.
Followed by Alice, Larsen and Valenca, who had flown up in the helicopter with the sheriff, Jack entered the barn and took in the scene. From the butchered beef, his eyes went to a groaning Goole as the rancher tried to get to his feet.
‘Well, well, well,’ Jack said. ‘You’ve been slow-elking again, Floyd.’
Rubbing his jaw, Goole turned and sat with his back against the wall. ‘It's the first time since I came out. Who stooled on me?'
‘Where were you at nine-fifty last night?' Brad asked, walking towards Goole at the sheriff’s side.
‘Here, where else?’
‘How about outside the depot on Station Street?’
‘Why in hell should I be there?’
‘To kill Tom Cord,’ Brad answered, watching the man’s face.
There could be no mistaking the surprise which twisted Goole’s surly features. ‘To kill … Did somebody do that?’
‘Yes,’ Brad said flatly.
Goole saw the big deputy tense slightly and held down the comment which rose automatically. Having received a sample of Brad’s strength, Goole did not wish to receive a full portion; and he figured he might, despite the sheriff’s strict orders on the subject of handling prisoners, if he took to abusing or mean mouthing the dead deputy.
Then Goole realized why the law had descended upon him at such an inopportune moment. ‘Hey!’ he yelped, rising hurriedly in his agitation. ‘Am I crazy or something? Do I have rocks in my head? Would I wash a badge and come back here to fix an alibi by letting you catch me slow-elking?’
‘You’ve a point there,’ the sheriff admitted. ‘Where-at’s your shotgun?’
‘Up to the house. I don’t use it no more. Got me a humane killer, it makes less noise and mess. I haven’t used the Stevens in weeks.’
‘I hope for your sake you’re right,’ Jack answered. ‘Go check it out, Brad. Take Lars with you.’
‘Alice’s my partner,’ Brad replied.
A grin creased Jack’s face as he watched Alice and Brad leave the barn. A team worked as such, or failed, that meant the girl and blond went to the house together even if they might find more members of Goole’s crowd inside. From the look of the barn, they could take good care of themselves.
At the house Alice wrapped her handkerchief over her palm and took down the Stevens Model 77 pump-action shotgun from its place over the fireplace. They had found the house to be deserted, although they entered ready for trouble.
‘It’s clean,’ she stated after peeking into the barrel. ‘F.I.L’ll be able to say roughly when it was fired last.’
‘Sure,’ Brad agreed. ‘Trouble is, Alice, I think Goole’s clean.’
‘So do I,’ Alice admitted. ‘He’d know we would be looking for him and the last thing he’d do was start making big antelope iii tonight. He’s a five to ten stretch ahead of him. No, Brad, I don’t think Goole’s our man.’
Seven
At about the time Alice and Brad left Headquarters Building to visit the Greer house, a frightened man was working in a garage on Jenner Street in the part of Gusher City known as The Bad-Bit. He stood by the side of a Plymouth Fury car, rapidly spraying a coat of parkway-green paint over its dark blue body. Sweat rolled down the man’s face as he worked. To prevent any chance of light showing and arousing suspicions, he had covered all the windows with thick drapes and plugged the crack at the bottom of the roll-down doors.
Lowering the spray gun for a moment, the man wiped sweat from his face. He had never expected anything like that when he received orders to change the Plymouth’s original two-tone coloration to a dark blue finish, fit it with the license plates provided by the man who gave him his orders and deliver it to a parking lot on the fringe of Greevers.
Sure he knew a crime would be committed in the car, but not the killing of a deputy sheriff. At the worst, he figured a safe job—either blowing it by explosives, or taking it away for leisurely opening—or maybe a window-breaking at some uptown jewelry or fur store. But a wash job: a contract with a lawman as victim, that was something entirely different. Everybody knew the law never let up when one of their own had been the victim in a murder attempt.
The man wondered what he ought to do for the best. While working for a hot-car ring, he had no criminal connections, other than the man who gave him his orders, delivered vehicles to be worked on and paid him. In fact he did not even know how to contact his sole connection with the outfit. His original orders had been to collect the car from where he left it, bring it to his garage and alter its color after destroying the plates. Already acid ate away at the license plates and he had begun the repainting when the news broke over the radio. Fear gnawed at him as the implication of what he heard struck him. Under his orders, he should finish painting the Fury and hold it until his contact collected and disposed of it through the outfit’s channels. Now a lawman had been killed from the car, it was too hot for such handling.
There was another point eating at the man, one which worried him even more than the possession of a red-hot car. Arriving early at the rendezvous, he had seen the two men drive up, even spoke to them as they left the car. Men who gunned down a badge did not take kindly to the thought of being recognized. However, if he knew anything of the organization behind the killers, they ought to be long gone from Gusher
City by now.
A low buzzing sound came to the man’s ears. He swung around, face working nervously, for he had not been expecting anybody to come to his side door at that hour of a Sunday evening. Again the buzzer sounded, a long, angry blast. Clearly the caller intended to be admitted and the owner had no wish for a disturbance that might attract a beat patrolman’s attention. Crossing the room, he switched out the lights and stepped into the passage which separated the workshop from his living-quarters. He walked along the passage towards the door opening on to the alley alongside the building.
‘You!’ he gasped, staring at the two shapes which confronted him as he opened the door.
‘Us,’ agreed Jordan, stepping into the building with Sleath on his heels. ‘You was expecting maybe Adam Flint and Frank Arcaro?’
‘Wh-what do you want?’ the garage-owner asked; for while he had not expected to see the detectives of the Naked City television show, he also did not expect to come face to face with the two killers again.
‘Come to see you, buddy-buddy,’ Sleath answered in his high-pitched voice. ‘This town’s jumping with law. They’re searching luggage at the airport already.’
‘L-look, fellers,’ croaked the owner. ‘I’m clear here. The law don’t make me part of the mob. I don’t know if the top men would go for me hiding you.’
Between them the killers backed the owner along the passage and into his workshop. Sleath clicked on the lights and they gave the room a searching study, with particular attention to the half-painted Plymouth.
The patrolman’s guess at the killers’ appearance had been good. Both topped the six-foot mark, Jordan just making it and Sleath two inches above it. Now they wore lightweight topcoats, but each retained his dark-colored fedora hat. Under the coats Jordan wore a navy blue business suit, while Sleath’s was dark brown. In appearance the two men were very different. Jordan had wide shoulders and the tanned jovial face of an outdoors man. Slimmer and pallid-featured, Sleath looked a city dweller. Normally his face bore an expression of pious, slightly hypocritical, self-effacement. In his hometown he was known as a pillar of the church, a do-gooder always ready to champion the cause of banning something or other that most people enjoyed doing. One could not imagine two such opposite types of men, Jordan the breezy extrovert and Sleath the reverse, working together; a valuable asset in their trade.
