by J. T. Edson
‘Gracias, amigo,’ the burly Mexican thanked, thumbing the wad of one hundred dollar bills he was handed. Satisfied the full amount for the payment was there, knowing its deliverer would not dare take any of it, he reverted to his native tongue and told his men to start handing over the consignment. Then, returning to English, he went on, ‘Give mine back to him and say I’ll be dropping by to help him drink some Americano whiskey one day soon. Now there’s a drink I surely like.’
‘Give the greas… boys a hand, fellers,’ the Greek commanded, after waiting until all ten Mexicans had placed the rawhide loops attached to the rings of the carbines over the typically large horns of their saddles. Taking what he knew to have been a hint, he brought a flask from his hip pocket and held it forward. ‘Here you go, Sal, try a slug of it now.’
‘Gracias, gring… amigo, Nieto assented, having deliberately changed the second word to show he had noticed the offensive name the Greek had begun to use when speaking of the Mexicans.
On receiving the order from Demosthenes, laying the Thompson and shotguns in the cab of the truck, the other three white men went to where the Mexicans were starting to unload the first of the mules. It was obvious, villainous and unprepossessing though their appearance undoubtedly was, that the latter were skilled at their task. Quickly unfastening the lashings and opening out the tarpaulin cover, they passed the wooden boxes to their gringo helpers to take and load into the back of the vehicle. However, in spite of the wary way in which they had studied one another on meeting, knowing there was no need to fear a substitution for the tequila under the prevailing conditions, neither the Americans nor their leader offered to check that the contents were as ordered.
‘What’s happening up here, amigo?’ Nieto inquired, lowering the flask from which he had taken a long and noisy drink.
‘Not much hereabouts,’ the Greek replied, making no attempt to retrieve his property. ‘But I heard that the Chopper gunned down a couple of Texas Rangers in Cowtown last Monday.’
‘Good for him, whoever he might be,’ the burly Mexican praised. ‘I wish he’d come over the Rio Bravo and gun down some of our Rurales, we’ve got more of the bastards than we nee—!’
Letting out a snort and tossing its head, Nieto’s horse stared at the woodland to the right of the trail and brought the comment to a halt!
‘What’s u—?’ Demosthenes demanded, having heard its owner claim the animal was as good as a watchdog when it came to detecting unseen observers. He reached towards his automatic.
‘Hijo deputa!’ Nieto blasphemed, also grabbing for his gun.
‘Peace officers here!’ a voice boomed out of the trees to the right, before either weapon could clear leather. Then, while the words continued, the area was illuminated by bright lights from amongst the trees on both sides. ‘Stand still, all of you!’
The announcement was repeated in Spanish from the opposite direction!
A moment later moving swiftly and carrying weapons of various kinds, men wearing uniforms and badges of office strode into view. As none of them were holding the sources of brilliant illumination, it seemed likely there were more in the woodland to right and left. All but one were members of the United States’ Border Patrol.
The one exception was dressed little differently from the Mexicans, although he was cleaner and neater. Just over medium height, almost as broad as he was tall, his olive skinned and heavily mustached features had such a villainous aspect he might have been one of the Mexicans for he clearly had similar ethnic origins. Nevertheless, he held a Winchester Model of 1897 riot gun and, on the left breast of his black bolero jacket was the badge of a Texas Ranger.
Seeing there were peace officers converging from both sides, Nieto and Demosthenes were wise enough to refrain from drawing their weapons!
Not all of their men showed a similar grasp of the situation!
Turning, a Mexican sprang towards the horse which was leading the mule being unloaded. Snatching the carbine from its saddlehorn, he swiveled around!
Knowing the man to be a bandido of the worst type and as viciously inclined as a cornered rat, Sergeant Carlos Franco of Company ‘Z’ did not hesitate before responding. Held at waist level and aimed by instinctive alignment, his riot gun boomed out. 24 Caught by seven of the nine .32 caliber buckshot balls, a scream burst from the aggressive smuggler and he was thrown off his feet before he could complete his hostile intentions. Operating the ‘trombone’ slide beneath the twenty inch barrel, evicting the empty case and replenishing the chamber from the five-capacity tubular magazine, the Chicano peace officer turned his weapon so it covered the stricken man’s companions. 25
Startled by the detonation of the shot and scream from the Mexican, the horses and mules started to rear and plunge. Seeing what he thought to be a chance, one of the white men dropped the box of tequila he was carrying and darted towards the cab of the truck. Throwing up a spurt of dirt just in front of his descending right foot, a bullet from a revolver brought him to a halt still several steps clear of his destination. It was fired by the tall, lean, youthful peace officer—who bore a resemblance in build and features to a young actor, Gary Cooper, already growing popular in movies—placed in command of the Border Patrol group assigned to assist Franco.
Taking the hint, the rest of the men refrained from such obviously futile attempts at hostilities. Nor did any of them try to interfere when some of the uniformed officers holstered handguns and advanced to grab hold of horses. In spite of this prompt action, however, four of the animals and their pack mules were able to dash away. The departure through the woodland was to the accompaniment of splintering wood and shattering glass as various of the loads were burst open.
‘Who the hell sold us, Jor—Mr. Jordan?’ Demosthenes growled, considering it advisable to make the alteration and supply the honorific.
‘A gypsy read it in my palm,’ replied the senior Border Patrol officer, his voice a lazy Texas drawl, being too prudent to say the information had been supplied by an informer to the Texas Ranger.
‘And when Joe the Greek gets you out of the calabozo on bail,’ Franco supplemented, his English showing just a trace of his Hispanic ‘roots’, getting down to the main purpose of the ambush—as Sergeant Ranse Smith was doing in Dallas at almost the same time—‘You tell him that gypsy’s going to keep on reading palms until we’ve nailed the Chopper’s hide to the wall!’
Work was progressing smoothly at the fair sized former warehouse which had been secretly converted to a well-equipped and laid out brewery in the business district of Austin. In fact, looking through the window of the raised office at the left of the main entrance to where beer was flowing into the two large storage vats, the tall, good looking and fastidiously dressed owner was congratulating the white haired, bulky middle-aged German brau meister on the rate of production. Leaning on either side of the door, the two armed bodyguards of Talbot ‘Dapper Dan’ Sharmain—who, like Dimitri Horopolis, had acquired a sufficiently strong criminal force to remain independent of Hogan Turtle’s much larger organization—masticated lumps of gum like cows contentedly chewing cud in a meadow. Satisfied that the establishment was not known to either the local police or Prohibition agents based in the State Capitol, neither was alert. On the ground floor, the work force was too busily engaged in their various duties to bother about what was going on elsewhere within or outside the building.
Therefore, what happened took everybody on the premises completely by surprise!
With a thunderous crash, the big double doors of the main entrance burst inwards!
The destruction was caused by one of the large F.W.D. ‘Liberty’ four wheel drive trucks sold off as surplus to requirements by the United States’ Army after the Great War. Sturdy as it was when first manufactured, it had been rendered even more suited to its present purpose by having had two thick steel plates in the form of a triangle welded securely in front of its radiator. These had shattered through the reinforced main entrance without damaging the
engine.
‘What the hell?’ Sharmain gasped.
‘Gott im Himmel!’ the brau meister ejaculated in the same breath.
‘It’s a raid!’ announced the bodyguard longest in the gang boss’s employment just as simultaneously, having a flair for stating the obvious.
Despite the brakes having been applied on the entrance being effected, the velocity required to gain admittance in such a way caused the big vehicle to keep moving far enough to let a black limousine enter close behind it. The latter was filled with well-armed Prohibition agents in civilian clothing. However, also without uniform, the men standing on the running boards at each side, grasping weapons with the hands not engaged in holding them there, wore the insignia of Texas Rangers. As the car swerved and skidded to a halt on the left of the truck, they sprang clear and the men inside started to emerge with an equal rapidity.
Having only recently attained his well-paid position, and wanting to prove he was more efficient than his companion, the second bodyguard had drawn his revolver and plunged through the door of the office without speaking or even waiting to ascertain who the newcomers might be. Discovering they were peace officers and mindful that he was wanted for murder in New Mexico, a point he had omitted to mention when applying for the job, he reacted instinctively. However, the shot he fired downwards narrowly missed the man at whom it was directed.
This proved a fatal mistake!
Coming to a halt and showing no sign of being disconcerted by having had lead pass close to his head, the burlier Texas Ranger swung up his Smith & Wesson Army Model of 1917 revolver at arms’ length in both hands to aim and fire three times in rapid succession. Hit in the torso by the second and third .45 caliber bullets, the imprudent criminal was spun against the guard rail at the top of the wooden stairs and, breaking through, came crashing to the floor. Having less to fear from being arrested, his companion showed a greater and wiser discretion. Dropping the weapon he had drawn, he raised his hands over his head and preceded his employer and the brau meister from the office.
Satisfied there would be no further attempts at resistance, ordering the workers to stand clear, four Prohibition agents raised the Thompson submachine guns they were holding.
Each emptied the fifty round drum magazine into the vats, causing beer to spurt through the holes.
‘Come on down, Mr. Sharmain,’ called the senior agent, after the fusillade had ended. His voice held a blatantly synthetic note of pleasure as he continued, ‘We didn’t know who’d be here, so it’s something of a bonus for our night’s work.’
‘You look sad, mon ami,’ remarked Sergeant Alexandre “Frenchie” Giradot. Tall, slim, wiry and swarthily handsome, he was as dapper in appearance as Sharmain; albeit, lacking the other’s sources of income and less expensively attired. He claimed his ancestors had been Parisian apache and his accent had a Gallic timbre. 26 Nodding towards the vehicle which had created access to the brewery, he continued, ‘But the idea for strengthening the truck you got from Elliot works very well.’
‘Sure it does and I hope it’ll serve him as well when he gets the chance to use one like it,’ 27 replied Sergeant Aloysius “Paddy” Bratton in his Irish brogue. Slightly taller and much more bulky in build, he wore the kind of loud clothes for which he had acquired a taste while working as a carnival roustabout in his youth. Gazing at the devastation caused by the Thompsons, he went on in a tone of sadness, ‘But will you just be looking at all that fine beer going to waste and isn’t it knowing I’ve cause to be just how tasty it was, darlin’. Sure and was things different, I’d not have wanted the Murphy to be paying back an old debt by telling me just where “Dapper Dan’d” got his brewery hid out.’
‘I sympathize with you, mon ami,’ the slimmer sergeant claimed, ignoring what was an admission of the Volstead Act having been broken by his companion and returning his Colt Government Model automatic pistol to its shoulder holster. ‘Let’s go and warn M’sieur Sharmain this kind of thing’s going to keep on happening until we get the Chopper.’
‘Yes, Talbot, I know and how I know!’ Hogan Turtle said into the mouthpiece of the telephone, his somewhat nasal and high pitched drawl sounding almost petulant although far more patient than he was feeling. ‘But it’s no good you, Joe the Greek and all the others who’ve been calling me, saying it can’t be happening. The fact is, it is happening all over Texas and I’m being hit just as hard as anybody else.’
Sprawling rather than just sitting in a comfortably padded leather swivel chair specially designed to accept his massive figure, behind a well-polished large oak antique desk, there was nothing visible to indicate the speaker was the most powerful criminal in the Lone Star State. Surmounted by thick and curly brown hair, which rumor—never mentioned in his hearing, as his resentment was known to be most painful—claimed needed regular tinting to conceal grey streaks, his face was reddened by good living and, except in rare moments of rage, seemed bland to the point of innocence. The white flannel suit, matching silk shirt and flowing dark blue silk cravat, embellished with a diamond stickpin of considerable dimensions, were reminiscent of a wealthy Old South plantation owner. However, lethargic and somnolent as he gave the outer impression of being, he had inherited and even improved upon the cunning, intelligent, completely ruthless attributes which enabled his ancestors to build up and maintain a criminal empire second to none in Texas.
Although only a week had elapsed since Company ‘Z’ began to implement the plan set out by Major Benson Tragg, already all of the major and minor gang leaders were starting to feel its effects!
Flown sometimes with as many as three passengers crowded into the Douglas DT-2 biplane piloted by Ranse Smith, members of the Company were constantly on the move throughout Texas. Making the best possible use of information acquired from all their multifarious sources, some of it even being donated free by professional stool pigeons out of respect for the memory of Jubal Branch, they had struck constantly at various illicit enterprises in conjunction with peace officers from their own and other law enforcement agencies.
Among other things, aided by the ‘bomber boys’—as investigators in the Enforcement Branch of the Inland Revenue Service’s Alcohol & Tobacco Tax Division were frequently called—Sergeant Colin Breda caused so much disruption to the vehicles trying to make deliveries, and destroyed so many long established stills, that the ‘moonshining’ activities for which Jack County had long been renowned were practically brought to a halt. 28 Informers in the port of Brownsville had allowed Alexandre Giradot to send a Coast Guard cutter which intercepted and captured a small cargo ship from the West Indies carrying a consignment of liquor for Turtle. Supported by United States’ marshals, the crime being ‘Federal’ due to its perpetration occurring on an Indian reservation in the Panhandle district, Sergeant David Swift-Eagle—a Kiowa—had ruined a previously lucrative cattle stealing trade as a result of details acquired from members of his tribe. 29 Learning where more high stakes gambling ‘houses’ could be located, the blond giant had been too busy acting as pilot, and had left dealing with them to Aloysius Bratton.
One result of all these activities, supplemented by more from other law enforcement agencies without needing the co-operation of Company ‘Z’, had been a spate of telephone calls and meetings between the leaders of different gangs. Being so prominent amongst them, all had at some time made contact with and sought advice from Turtle. Cautious by nature, he had refused to accept the onus of being the first to make the decision which they all knew must eventually be reached. It was the first conversation he had had with Sharmain. However, in spite of guessing the delay was caused by the other wishing to show independence, he was giving no suggestion of the annoyance his suppositions had aroused.
‘Yeah, I’ve heard you’ve been getting your share of hassle,’ the Austin gang leader admitted, as if wanting to give the impression he was conferring a favor. ‘How much longer do you reckon it’s going to keep on?’
‘Until Benson Tragg gets wha
t he wants,’ Turtle estimated somberly. ‘And, accepting that and bearing in mind the people he’s got backing him, we all know there’s only one way to stop it.’
‘We do,’ Sharmain agreed, then paused to show he was waiting for the suggestion to come from the man to whom he was speaking.
‘I don’t know who the Chopper is,’ Turtle asserted.
‘Nor do I.’
‘But we both—and all the others—know how to get in touch with him.’
‘You mean we should pass the word for him to get the hell out of the country until this blows over?’ Sharmain inquired, although he felt sure such a course would not satisfy Major Tragg.
‘Something like that, Talbot,’ Turtle replied, having drawn an identical conclusion. ‘Something like that.’
Chapter Six – I’d Kill My Own Mother
‘Have any of you folks ever been in a Polack bingo parlor?’ asked the comedian on the small stage of the Turtleback Cottage in Brownsville. ‘You can always tell if you do go in one. The feller calling the numbers starts off, “One. Two. Three. Four”—And I’m going to keep on counting until you laugh!’ He paused until the audience responded enthusiastically to his ethnic humor, then went on, ‘All right, so I’m not real funny. For the kind of money Hogan pays, you expect maybe Haysoff Spades?’
‘Have you noticed how they all look at me before they laugh at something like he just said?’ Hogan Turtle inquired, with an air of self-satisfied complacency, beaming and waving a languid right hand in acknowledgement of the bow directed his way by the entertainer.
‘We noticed,’ Dimitri “Joe the Greek” Horopolis admitted sourly, being less interested in the behavior of the well-dressed people in the night club than the matter which had brought him there. Big, heavy set, with crinkly short white hair and a teak brown face, he looked a hard man and had proved himself to be just that whenever the need arose. For all that and despite clearly feeling ill at ease in such formal attire, he had donned a tuxedo and black bow tie because he had been informed his host expected such attire and, especially with the unsatisfactory conditions which continued to prevail throughout the whole of Texas, he had no desire to antagonize so potentially dangerous a competitor by disregarding what had unmistakably been made a qualification for being admitted. ‘Only seeing it don’t help us figure out what to do about what’s going on.’
