by J. T. Edson
At first thought, considering the importance of his family in New England, it might have been considered Crayne would have been better advised to carry out the intended killing in, or near, his home town. If he had, no matter how they regarded his act personally, parental influence could have been brought to bear upon his behalf and, at least, lessen the consequences created by his action. However, he had been disinclined to subject them to the adverse effects which would certainly accrue. Instead, despite knowing the risks would be greater in one respect, he had elected to make his attempt several hundred miles from New England. Unfortunately, he frequently told himself during the journey west, there would be little or no likelihood of being able to induce some kind of provocation to offer the excuse of responding in ‘self defense’; as such things were said to be judged in the less than civilized regions west of the Mississippi river.
Even more so than would have been the case back in the more adequately policed and civilized East, being the kind of man he was, David Icke would make sure he did not leave himself exposed to physical reprisals on the part of somebody who had suffered a grievous loss at his completely unscrupulous hands. However, Crayne had considered he might possibly be less upon his guard while making what he believed was a secret journey than in a region over which he had already spread his malevolent influence and incurred enmity.
Furthermore, the seeker after vengeance had concluded, there was probably a far better chance of escaping the legal penalty for his actions in Mulrooney. He would, it had occurred to him, only be in contention against rough and ready, casually employed peace officers who were inadequately trained for their duties, if at all. As a result, they were unlikely to be as efficient as their contemporaries in a civilized Eastern city. Their most usual adversaries were little worse than drunken cowboys who had arrived with herds of half wild longhorn cattle from Texas, or celebrating railroad construction workers, whereas he was a sober, clear thinking, graduate magna cum laude of Harvard University.
To give Crayne credit, there was much more than merely the arrogance of a college graduate behind his decision to pursue the illegal purpose which had brought him to Mulrooney. Certainly he was far from being a ‘liberal’ intellectual of the kind who professed disdain for the processes of law and order, or sought to display an assumed superiority of intelligence over the men responsible for its enforcement. He had what he considered to be a completely justifiable reason, if not morally or legally acceptable, for having embarked upon such a course. This had nothing to do with Icke’s illicit business as a receiver of stolen property, in fact he knew nothing whatsoever about it.
Attending a party, following a political meeting of the radical variety which had grown popular with many of her friends, Andrea, Crayne’s younger sister, had been raped by Icke while he was under the influence of as he frequently asserted harmless and even beneficial marijuana. She had then met her death as a result of having been pushed by him from a second floor window of the house in which the affair was being held. However, so thoroughly had all traces of the festivities been removed by the wealthy ‘liberal’ organizers, and so well had those present been induced to supply the required answers when questioned by the police, that Crayne had been informed by the investigating officers there was no way legal justice could even be set into motion, much less done.
Therefore, the young Bostonian had decided to take the law into his own hands!
To give him his due, if he had been able to acquire evidence which could have been brought before a court of law, Crayne would have been content to allow legal justice to take its course. It had for a time, in fact, seemed that he might be able to do so.
Being in a more advantageous position socially than the detectives assigned to the investigation, Crayne had persuaded one of the less culpable guests to tell him who was responsible for the death of his sister and how it had come about. As the potential witness had been on his way to give the information to the authorities, he had been knocked down and killed by a heavily loaded, apparently runaway, wagon and Crayne himself had barely escaped a similar fate. Although there was no evidence to support the theory, he had felt sure it was no accident and had been arranged either by, or at the instigation of, the man for whom he had developed an ever growing hatred.
With the possibility of action by the police thwarted, all other potential informants having refused to talk with him, Crayne had set about seeking the means for revenge. By employing ingenuity, knowledge acquired as a student, and paying out money judiciously, he had discovered what he considered would offer the best opportunity to achieve his ends. He had learned that Icke had suddenly elected to take an unannounced trip. However, it was not known exactly where he was going or why it was felt there was a need to shroud the matter in secrecy. This seemed to rule out the possibility of a desire to further his career as author of books and plays of a most violently radical kind, or to advance his political career along similar lines. When engaged upon travels with those objectives in mind, he invariably gave advance notification of his itinerary to ensure he received adequate publicity and attention.
Nevertheless, given the knowledge of where and when he would be setting out upon the journey, trailing the intended and deserving victim had proved easy!
Now, walking through an almost deserted area of Mulrooney given over to shipping pens for cattle and business premises concerned directly with this important factor of the town’s economy Crayne was telling himself he was ready to carry out the execution he felt was so richly deserved. Despite having been successful in following his victim, no easy opportunity of killing him presented itself.
Close to six foot in height, with a powerful build which had served him well in the rough and tumble play of the ‘Boston game’ and was still kept in excellent physical condition, the vengeance seeker was in his early twenties.
Wishing to avoid recognition by his proposed victim, with whom he was acquainted albeit on far from amicable terms even prior to the murder of his sister he had covered his ruggedly good looking face with a well made false black beard and his reddish brown hair was concealed by an equally realistic wig. He was further disguised in the attire of an Irish workman, such as were employed in considerable numbers to help lay down tracks for the ever spreading tentacles of the railroad. Tucked into the waistband of his trousers, on the left side, and hidden by the unbuttoned vest of his cheap three-piece gray mottled suit, was a Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker. Although he had had practice with a revolver of lighter caliber, one designed for the specific purpose of firing rather than as a concealable weapon, he felt he had sufficient skill at target shooting to be able to produce all the accuracy he would require.
Having come from the best hotel in town, his professed desire to improve the lot of the ‘downtrodden working people’ not extending to living amongst them even temporarily, Icke was strolling along the sidewalk some seventy-five yards ahead of the young Bostonian. At last he was offering an opportunity to be reached and vengeance taken.
Despite telling himself he was merely following the biblical precept of extracting an eye for an eye, as he had repeatedly been compelled to do since embarking upon his self appointed quest for revenge, Crayne found himself wishing the distasteful and even repellent task was over. It went, he knew at the bottom of his heart, against every moral precept imparted by his Christian and law abiding upbringing. Nor did the thought that it would soon be brought to fruition lessen the mixed emotions with which he was finding himself increasingly assailed.
Deciding to increase his pace and close the distance between them so that he could carry out his intentions, Crayne elected to leave it until he had passed two men who were standing by one of the shipping pens, studying the cattle it held. While it would be useful to have witnesses who could supply details of his present disguised appearance to the peace officers who would undoubtedly come to investigate the shooting, he did not want to be placed in the position where he might have to use the Colt against them should the
y try to prevent him from dealing with Icke, or stop him from escaping after the execution.
Even as the young man was reaching his conclusion, he saw Icke call and, although he could not hear what was being said, the men turned to cross the street. Halting, he concluded from various gestures being made that the author was asking for directions to somewhere. Having pointed towards the other side of the shipping pens and received nods of confirmation, Icke set off again along the sidewalk. However, instead of returning to the fence, the men started to walk in Crayne’s direction.
Looking at the pair, to find out whether they were wearing badges indicating they were peace officers, the young man was not particularly interested in them. He concluded they were nothing more than cowhands killing time before making for a saloon or some other form of entertainment. Tall and lean, tanned by long hours of exposure to the elements, they had the appearance he had seen depicted in paintings of range country activities. Nor did the low tied holsters in which they carried their Colt Peacemakers strike him as out of the ordinary, as all the cowhands illustrated had been armed in a similar fashion.
Before Crayne and the men converged, a woman emerged from the alley he was approaching and, peering as if short-sighted, bumped into him.
About five foot eight in height, of an indeterminate age, the woman was unlikely to arouse passion unless a man had been long deprived of feminine company. Even then, this effect was only likely to be produced if there was no other member of her sex present. A ‘spoon bonnet’, which resembled and was much the same off-yellow color as a well weather canopy for a Conestoga wagon, was devoid of the simple decorations usually employed to brighten such drab headgear and completely concealed her hair. Her somber and severe cheap black travelling costume was just as effective in preventing any indication of the contours inside it, other than suggesting they might be more bulky than curvaceous. Whatever good looks nature might have endowed were spoiled by a pair of large, horn rimmed spectacles, sallow features with a somewhat bulbous nose and prominent ‘buck’ teeth. She was grasping a furled umbrella in her right hand and an equally bulky and shapeless black reticule was held in the left in spite of its carrying strap being around her wrist.
“Excuse me, young man!” the woman apologized, her voice a harsh and far from femininely enticing croak.
“That’s all right, ma’am,” Crayne replied, stepping by.
Even as he was resuming the briefly interrupted quest for revenge, the young man realized something was wrong. He had not been carrying the short barreled, but still fairly heavy, revolver on his person for long enough to have grown so accustomed he no longer noticed its weight and bulk. Therefore, on passing the woman, he became aware that it was no longer in his waistband.
Obviously, during the momentary contact caused by the collision, the woman had stolen the weapon!
Chapter Fifteen – As Dead as Kelsey’s Nuts
“Just look at this lousy Pat-Lander, Steve!”
“Yeah, Lee. Seems the hairy bastard wants to have the whole god-damned sidewalk to his-self!”
Hearing the comments made in harsh Mid-West accents, as he was on the point of turning and demanding the return of the purloined revolver, Geoffrey Crayne realized that he must be the ‘lousy Pat-Lander’ to whom the approaching men were referring with obvious hostility. Although under different circumstances, he might have considered the words a tribute to his ability at adopting a convincing disguise, at that moment, what he deduced from their context was a cause for some consternation. He concluded, as he was studying the demeanor of the speakers, that unless he was mistaken, they were intent upon provoking trouble. There was a truculence about them which was even more open than he had seen when confronted by a bunch of Yale students when he and some of his fraternity brothers were celebrating one evening in New York City.
However, the young man’s instincts warned him that the situation might prove vastly more serious than comparatively friendly rough-and-tumble with members of what he regarded as a lesser university!
Nor was Crayne wrong!
To experienced Western eyes, Stephen Forey and Lee Potter were clearly ‘on the prod’ and looking for trouble!
No coward, neither was the Bostonian the kind to deliberately seek trouble. Furthermore, although the term ‘bastard’ rankled, he was less annoyed by the other remarks as he was neither Irish nor hairy. An added inducement to forbearance was that he was disinclined to let himself be turned aside from his quest for vengeance by what was nothing more than a triviality. He realized that to become involved in an unnecessary street brawl would do nothing to help him catch up with David Icke. In fact, if he should lose his false beard in a fight, his identity might be betrayed to the man he was after. Should that prove the case, being smart enough to guess what he was intending, the author would take flight and be even more difficult to approach in the future. With the latter contingency in mind, he decided he would not allow himself to be provoked by the two men.
A person better acquainted with the west than Crayne would have read something vastly more sinister than an attempt to start a fistfight in the behavior of Forey and Potter. Halting so as to block the sidewalk, despite being about four foot apart, each was holding his right hand with seeming negligence close to the butt of his low tied revolver. It was the posture of a frontier trained gun fighter at readiness to draw and throw lead.
Wondering whether the two men were in league with the woman who had purloined his revolver, Crayne decided against putting the matter to the test. He would do all he could to avoid trouble. On the point of doing so, he was given the biggest surprise of his life.
“Pathrick Moichael O’Toole!” yelled a feminine voice with a strong Irish brogue. “Don’t yez dast go picking no foight with them cowboys. Didn’t yez bust up two of ’em just the day ago and wasn’t it meself’s had to bail you out of jail?”
Hearing the words and seeing the woman who had collided with the Easterner stalking past him, Forey and Potter exchanged glances redolent of puzzlement!
The effect which the announcement had upon the hard cases was nothing compared to the amazement aroused in Crayne. Not only had the speaker stolen his revolver during their brief moment of contact, but, although she was a complete stranger, she now seemed to be mistaking him for a close acquaintance, or even someone related to her. However, something else occurred to him as she began to turn his way. There had been no trace of the broad Irish accent in the few words she had addressed to him when she had apologized for the collision.
After staring at the woman for a moment, Forey and Potter again traded puzzled looks. Then the taller of them gave a jerk with his head in her direction and, indicating himself with a jerk of his left thumb, nodded towards the Bostonian.
“All right, you god-damned peat bog biddy!” Potter growled, stepping forward in accordance with the signals he had received and laying his left hand upon the shoulder of the female intruder. “Get the h—!”
The words came to an end as the woman exhibited resentment at being spoken to, and treated, in such a fashion. Twisting her shoulder free and grasping the bulky umbrella in both hands having dropped her reticule before moving forward she pivoted with more grace than might have been expected of one with her somewhat dumpy build. Thrusting as she turned, she rammed the curved handle hard just above the waist band of the shorter hard case. Giving a startled profanity, he stumbled backwards a few steps.
Relying upon his companion to take care of the intruder, Forey had walked past her alert for any movement on the part of the Bostonian which would offer an excuse to pull and use his gun. Concentrating upon his intended victim, although he heard the pain filled exclamation from Potter, he was not granted an opportunity to investigate.
Showing the same kind of speed as when dealing with the shorter hard case, the woman swung around. Sending her right hand to join the left lower on the umbrella, she reached and hooked its handle into the back of Forey’s open necked shirt. Having done so, she gave a s
winging heave. Caught unawares and with one foot off the ground in mid step, the strength with which he was assailed caused him to be spun away from his intended victim. Unable to stop himself, before he could even so much as utter a sound in protest, he felt the handle removed and was propelled across the sidewalk. Striking the hitching rail, he went over in a half somersault to alight on his back in the street.
Watching in open mouthed astonishment, everything happening so rapidly he could not catch up with the event, Crayne found himself unable to respond despite seeing the woman was being threatened by the shorter hard case. Face suffused by rage, Potter was starting towards her with the obvious intention of avenging the blow he had taken. Showing an awareness of the possibility, she reacted to it in a swift and positive fashion. Turning, with her hands moving apart on the umbrella, she employed it as a soldier would a bayonet by jabbing with the steel ferrule at the point already struck by the handle. The effect was even more severe, but it was not the only suffering she inflicted. Withdrawing the ferrule, she swung it upwards to catch him under the chin. Back snapped his head and, as he blundered away from his assailant, it struck the wall of the building at the other edge of the sidewalk. Stunned by the impact, he crumpled limply to the planks.
Despite being partially winded by the fall, Forey was sitting up. Mouthing breathless profanities, he reached with his right hand and found only the empty top of his holster. Looking around, he located the revolver which had fallen from it as he was passing over the hitching rail. More eager to take revenge upon the cause of his misfortunes than to settle accounts with the Easterner, he made a grab. Just before his fingers could close around the butt, he once more felt his collar seized by the crook of the umbrella. On this occasion, however, the jerk it delivered drove the base of his skull against the edge of the sidewalk and he too was rendered unconscious.
