by J. T. Edson
Give Sheriff Jack Tragg his due though, Holton mused, buying a fast imported heap like the M.G. for undercover work had been a mighty slick move. The whiz had not connected it with the local law enforcement officers back at the service station. If he had not seen Alice Fayde leave the £Women’s’ room, he might have walked unsuspecting into the arms of the waiting peace officers. Which raised the point of who they had been waiting for. It could not have been him. Or if it was, they must know about—
Letting out a low gasping growl, Holton tried to force the last thoughts from his head. No matter what the deputies following him knew, he would be safe for the time being if he could only cross the county line. There was no sign of a buzz box [vi] in the M.G., which meant they could not be in touch with other units. Nor did the badge-bandit appear to be in pursuit. Given luck, he might reach Route 90 and pass over the line into Presidio County before Alice Fayde managed to get a warning radioed ahead for road blocks to be set up.
After delivering his warning, Brad gave his full attention to handling the M.G. Measuring the distance between his car and the Mustang, he increased his foot-pressure on the accelerator and felt the engine throbbing its response. While Holton had been correct in his estimation of production-line performance, he had made an error. Brad owned the car, not the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. On purchasing it, he had put it into the hands of a mechanic every bit as skilled as those working for the combine. So it now possessed the extra speed and power, without loss of handling qualities, necessary to indulge in such a chase with the hope of success.
At Brad’s side, Alice watched the road ahead and listened to the growing growl of the M.G.’s engine. Behind them rose the wail of the Highway Patrol motor-cycle’s siren; but it was already too far to the rear to offer any hope of assistance. Fortunately the majority of the traffic was headed into Gusher City and so far the outward-bound fast lane had no other users. Glancing at the speedometer, she found its needle wavering beyond the 100-mile graduation. Not that she felt concerned, having ridden at high speed alongside Brad on other occasions.
Five miles fell behind them and they had left the more open range country to pass through an area of wooded land. Holton also studied his speedometer. Although travelling at something over one hundred and ten miles per hour, he could not detect any increase in the distance separating him from his pursuer. Before he could consider the matter, something happened to distract him. A hot-rod carrying two youngsters, their identical style of clothing and hairs’ length preventing him from determining their sex, emerged from a turn-off. Flashing by, he saw their faces turn his way. The girl in the passenger seat yelled something to her male companion, but Holton could not catch the words.
Seeing Holton pass the hot-rod, Brad also prepared to overtake it. However it cut across from the slow lane, increasing speed to fall into line behind the Mustang.
‘Watch them, Brad!’ Alice breathed. ‘Maybe they’re a convoy car running block for him.’
‘Could be,’ Brad admitted.
Although considering the possibility of the hot-rod belonging to the combine and being used to help the Mustang escape, Brad stabbed his thumb on to the horn’s button in the center of the steering wheel. Hearing the series of horn-blasts, the girl in the other car turned and looked back. Then she shrieked into the driver’s ear, clearly informing him of the M.G.’s proximity.
‘They can see our uniforms,’ Alice said.
‘It’s not making them slow down any, though,’ Brad replied. ‘If they’re running block for him, they should be.’ Alice nodded her agreement. If the occupants of the hotrod followed the usual tactics of a block car, they would try to delay the pursuit and prevent the M.G. from passing while the Mustang increased its lead. Instead, the youngsters continued to push along on the heels of the first car. When Brad again sounded his horn and Alice signaled for the hotrod to draw out into the center lane, the girl twisted around to make derisive gestures.
‘The stupid—!’ Alice spat out. ‘I’ll swear they’re just joy-riding and think this’s a wild kick. If there’s a road block ahead, they could get hurt.’
‘Yeah,’ Brad agreed, studying the condition of the road ahead. Satisfied that it was clear for over a mile, he went on, ‘Hold tight, boss lady!’
Feeling the power of the M.G.’s motor increase, Alice watched the speedometer’s needle jam at one hundred and twenty m.p.h. Every instinct she possessed warned that they were going much faster. The trees flanking the road became almost a blur as they fell behind the M.G. However Alice paid little attention to either the scenery or the occasional wind-buffeting caused by a car speeding along the opposite fast-lane. Instead she studied her partner as he deftly corrected any slight tendency to swing when a rush of air hit them, guessing what he planned to do. There could be no overtaking the hot-rod correctly from the left, it was too far across the lane and the central reservation’s strip of worn grass prevented the M.G. going in that direction.
Forced back against the leather upholstery of the bucket-type seat, Alice found that she had called the play accurately. Easing the steering wheel around with a powerful yet delicate touch Brad directed the M.G. to the right. Tearing along the fringe of the fast-lane, Alice saw the hot-rod’s rear drawing closer. They would soon know for sure if it was driven by a whiz for the combine.
Coming level with the hot-rod, Alice saw the other girl’s face twist to look in their direction and heard her yell in surprise. Wild excitement played on the girl’s features as she clung grimly to her seat and shouted at where shoulder-long hair obscured her companion’s right ear. Instinctively Alice’s right hand found the butt of the Colt Commander and her thumb forced the holster’s restraining strap clear of the automatic’s cocked-back hammer. If the hot-rod was running block for the Mustang, its driver would try to make Brad withdraw or to push the M.G. off the road.
When neither happened, Alice relaxed as well as she could under the conditions. Instead of acting as a block-car’s driver would, the youngster merely glared in exasperation at the M.G. and let it go by. Not until Brad had left him behind did he ram his foot down on the accelerator and swing the hot-rod out ready to make an attempt at passing the imported car on the right.
‘They must think it’s a race!’ Alice announced, with mingled annoyance and relief in her voice.
Brad made no reply. Driving at a speed well exceeding a hundred miles an hour demanded all his concentration. While he had still not quite reached the M.G.’s maximum speed, he found that they had crept level with the Mustang. Advancing inch by inch, the M.G. reached a point where Alice could see directly across the other car’s front seat.
Giving all his attention to the speeding Mustang, Holton had at first cursed the hot-rod for hiding the M.G. from his view. Then he realized that the youngsters might serve as effectively as a combine block-car in holding the deputies back. If the hot-rod refused to yield, the M.G. could not come by it From what Holton could see, the long-haired driver showed no sign of doing anything as sensible as drawing aside. Satisfied, Holton focused his gaze on the road ahead.
The sound of a powerful engine to his right jolted Holton from his complacency. With a feeling of shock, he discovered that the M.G. had ranged itself alongside the Mustang. Even as the knowledge that the peace officers were ignoring the rules of the road sank home, the imported car crept slowly by the transporter. Panic hit at Holton. Staring into Alice’s face across the car, he tightened his hold of the steering wheel.
Almost as if they had been printed on Holton’s face, Alice read his intentions.
‘He’s trying to ram us!’ she screeched.
Like his partner, Brad had been watching Holton and was alert for any warning signs. Thrusting down hard with his foot, he depressed the accelerator as far as it would go. Alice could feel the surging rise in the engine’s driving power, while the M.G. seemed to leap forward like a horse that had been raked suddenly with a spur. Never had she travelled so fast in a car. Yet it seemed that they migh
t still be too slow.
Staring to the left, Alice saw the Mustang’s bonnet drawing closer even as it slid towards the rear. She sat rigid, hardly breathing, for what appeared to be far longer than the fleeting interval of time during which the cars converged on a collision course. Then they were through in safety, although the transporter’s right headlight must have missed the rear of the M.G. by inches. For the second time since they had teamed up, Alice found herself grateful that her partner could drive so well and owned such an excellent car. [vii]
From behind came the blaring of a car’s horn, followed by the scream of tires being braked at high speed. Forgetting her feeling of relief over the narrow escape, Alice twisted around as well as the seat belt and the M.G.’s speed would allow to look to their rear.
‘Slow down, Brad!’ she shouted.
Improved by years of tripping, delivering whiskey, in a transporter car, Holton’s driving instincts gave warning of danger. Glancing to the right, he saw the hot-rod hurtling in his direction. Fright contorted the youngsters’ faces at the sight of the Mustang cutting in front of them. While the girl screamed, the boy spun his steering wheel to the right, raised his foot from the accelerator but shoved the other down on the brake.
Acting just as automatically, Holton turned his front wheels to the left and applied the brakes. Before he could correct the danger his reaction had placed him in, he felt the car start to skid and swing.
Staring back in fascinated horror as the M.G. began to slow down, Alice saw the other two cars spin on locked wheels. Rubber burned black marks across the road’s surface and she thought that she could hear the girl in the hotrod scream as it skidded across the other two lanes to come to a halt facing south on the edge of the trees. Going the other way, the Mustang once again narrowly avoided a collision. Out of control, even from Holton’s skilled hands, the transporter turned a full circle, bounced and came to a stop on the central reservation.
Brad brought the M.G. to a controlled halt without taking the time to cross into the slow lane. Directing it on to the grass of the central reservation, he slapped the fastenings of his seat-belt before it came fully to a stop. Opening his door, Brad sprang out. With hands that shook a mite, Alice set herself free and left the car.
‘Take the kids, Alice,’ Brad suggested. ‘I’ll tend to Holton.’
‘Yo!’ Alice replied, knowing her partner to be better able to deal with the whiz at that moment.
Sirens wailed from north and south as Brad ran along the central reservation. The motor-cycle officer had clearly called for help and it had been dispatched without delay. Dipping down his right hand, Brad hooked its forefinger under the long tang of the Elden Carl safety-strap. Held under tension around the Colt’s hammer, the strap sprang into the air on being freed from its retaining stud. Out came the accurized automatic, Brad’s thumb pushing the manual safety catch into the ‘fire’ position and finger entering the trigger guard only after the muzzle pointed safely away from his body. The draw while on the move, perfected by running the Mexican Defense Course on the firing range, was fast, a thing which did not escape Holton’s attention.
Regaining control of his emotions, the whiz looked around him. With relief he saw that the occupants of the hot-rod appeared to be unharmed, although, from the sound of her the girl was behaving hysterically. He could sympathize with her for he felt just a mite that way himself. Recollection of the situation flooded back to him. Turning his head, he saw that the M.G. had halted. Already Alice Fayde was running across the road towards the hot-rod and her partner was approaching the Mustang.
Even as Holton gave thought to making another escape bid, he saw the big automatic come into Brad’s hand. Memories bit at him, recalling certain incidents which he had read in newspapers concerning Alice Fayde and her big blond partner. The man running towards him was Brad Counter. It had been his gun that cut down the two hired pistols who washed out Deputy Sheriff Tom Cord, [viii] and finished George Plytas when he shot at Counter and missed. [ix]
Seeing that he could not hope to reach the Mustang before Holton recovered and drove off, Brad skidded to a halt. Dropping to his right knee, he rested his left elbow on the bent left leg and supported the extended right arm. By adopting the braced-kneeling position, he could perform deliberate shooting with every hope of making a hit on a target up to a distance of one hundred and fifty yards. The Mustang was well within that range,
‘Don’t try it, hombre? Brad shouted. ‘Get out with your hands empty and raised high.’
Leaving Brad to deal with Holton, Alice darted across the road towards the hot-rod. The boy still sat with his hands clutching the wheel, staring straight ahead, while the girl gasped and babbled hysterically. As Alice came up, the boy lurched to his feet. Fury twisted at his face as he saw one of the people whom he blamed for his fright. Mouthing obscenities, he sprang from the driving seat.
At any other time Alice might have sympathized with the young driver, having suffered under an equally great strain during the last moments of the chase. That same feeling of strain wiped away any tendency of sympathy towards him. By his stupidity, he had forced Brad to take a desperate chance and endangered all their lives. In addition to her own sentiments, she could see that the youngster would not be swayed or affected by any words she might utter.
Timing her move perfectly, she knotted and swung her right fist. Driving around, her knuckles collided against the youngster’s jaw as he landed on the ground but before he could catch his balance. The force of the blow knocked him from his feet, sprawling him dazed and unresisting on to his rump. From hitting him, her hand flashed down and drew the Commander from its holster.
Still spluttering curses and shaking his head, the boy focused his eyes on Alice as he tried to rise. What he saw froze him into amazed immobility. She held a .45 caliber Colt Commander, not the snub-nosed revolver most female peace officers carried. Not only that, but she handled it with a calm competence which was most disconcerting when one looked into its enormous muzzle. Taken with the cold, angry expression on Alice’s face, the menace of the big automatic caused the boy to remain sitting on the ground.
‘That’s better!’ Alice said. ‘You stay put while I look to your friend.’
Holton saw and heard the motor-cycle coming from the direction of Gusher City. Red light flashing and siren wailing, a Highway Patrol car approached ‘Code Three’ from the other direction. There might still be a chance to escape, but it grew slighter by the second. Then he turned his attention to Brad, attracted by the big blond deputy’s challenge. Holton found that the Colt automatic was pointing straight at his face. Again he remembered that Brad Counter had been forced to kill at least five men in the line of duty. More than that, the blond’s name featured regularly amongst the winners of various combat shooting competitions. In such matches, the emphasis was placed on practical gun-handling rather than formal target-popping and included working at distances normally attributed only to heroes in Western movies.
‘This’s your last warning, hombre,’ Brad shouted. ‘Come out, or I fire.’
Holton figured that Brad could burst one of his tires, or hit him in the head, at such a short range. So he gave a sigh and switched off the Mustang’s engine. Seeing that Brad showed no sign of relaxing, the whiz opened the door and climbed out. Still the big automatic did not waver.
‘Close the door and lean against the side,’ Brad commanded.
Not until Holton obeyed, standing at arms’ length with palms resting on the roof and feet spread wide apart, did Brad lower the gun. In such a position, the whiz could not make any sudden moves. For all that, Brad rose fast. Walking forward, alert and ready to defend himself, he saw the Highway Patrol’s car and motor-cycle officer converging on the scene. With them so close at hand, Holton’s last hope of escape had gone.
Equally aware of that fact, Holton gulped and looked over his shoulder. Going by the way he acted, the deputy expected trouble. Which meant that he must know about—
‘I never killed him!’ Holton yelled. £He was dead when I got there.’
Brad came to a halt at the unexpected comment. Watching him, Holton saw that the words came as a surprise. An uneasy sensation bit at the whiz, but he made no attempt to straighten up.
Before any more could be said on either side, the Highway Patrol car climbed on to the central reservation and stopped a few feet from the Mustang. Almost before it fully halted, the officer riding shotgun thrust open his door and sprang out. The driver followed, although in a more leisurely manner.
‘What’s up?’ greeted the shotgun.
‘He’s a whiz for the combine,’ Brad answered. ’And he’s lucky to be alive.’
‘It sure looks that way,’ drawled the shotgun sardonically, eyeing the skid-marks on the road. ‘Anybody hurt?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Brad replied.
‘I saw your gal drop that long-haired creep from the hotrod,’ the driver remarked. ‘If he wasn’t hurt afore, I’ll bet he reckons he is now.’
‘Can one of you go over and see if she needs help?’ Brad asked.
A deputy sheriff held equivalent rank to a G.C.P.D. Patrol Bureau’s lieutenant, but the Highway Patrol officers came under State rather than County or municipal authority. So he had to phrase his request that way, even though he—and they—knew that their superiors would raise hell if they failed to give him co-operation.
‘No need for it,’ the shotgun said, nodding to where the motor-cycle officer stopped by the hot-rod. ‘Speedy Gonzales and his iron-horse’ve got here.’
‘Is that guy heavy?’ asked the driver, indicating Holton.
‘I was just going to search him,’ Brad answered, holstering the Colt. ‘From what he said, it’d better be done pronto.’
