by J. T. Edson
While submitting to a search which he knew would yield no weapons, and being handcuffed, Holton thought fast. Brad’s response to his statement had rung a warning bell. It could mean that the law knew a whole heap less than Holton had at first imagined.
Suddenly, with shocking clarity, the whiz saw everything in its proper perspective. In his earlier worried state he had acted suspiciously and attracted Alice Fayde’s attention. Naturally she gave chase, any peace officer would have under the circumstances. Nor was Brad Counter’s alert behavior out of the ordinary. A trained deputy sheriff, he would remain ready to deal with trouble when approaching a potentially dangerous suspect.
‘All right, feller,’ Brad said, allowing the handcuffed whiz to turn and face him. ‘Who was it you didn’t kill?’
‘How’s that?’ Holton answered. ‘I don’t have a notion what you’re talking about.’
Three
To a student of the Old West, the Sheriff’s Office at Gusher City would have been a disappointment in a number of ways. Instead of being in an adobe, or even wooden, shack on Main Street, it was located on the third floor of the six-story Department of Public Safety Building. The deputies’ squad room looked more like a modern business office than an adjunct of a Western peace officer’s place of employment.
Two lines of desks, none of them scarred by spur-decorated boot-heels or cigarette burns, stretched across the big, cool, well-illuminated room. Typewriters and telephones replaced saddlery or the cell keys on the desks. Filing cabinets lined two of the walls instead of racks holding Winchester rifles and shotguns; the Office’s assault armament—Thompson submachine guns, Winchester Model 12 riot guns, M.1. carbines and cased Federal gas-gun kits—being kept in the boxes flanking the connecting door to the Watch Commander’s office. Over that door hung the ‘hot-shot’ speaker through which messages of general interest could be relayed.
While one small touch of the traditional Old West remained, it lacked much of its former hint of drama. The notices concerning fugitives fastened to the bulletin board by the squad room’s main doors still bore pictures and descriptions of the wanted persons, but lacked the chillingly grim comment ‘WANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE’.
Bringing Holton into the squad room, Brad and Alice separated at the doors. Brad escorted the man to the team’s desk. Turning to the table on the left of the doors, Alice set down the unlabeled bottle of whiskey she carried and signed them in on the Office’s log book. She did not remove the ‘Off Watch’ plates from their names on the Duty Roster
board, although the deserted condition of the squadron warned her that she and Brad might be left to handle Holton’s case. The fact that none of the Night Watch’s four teams were present did not surprise Alice. Quite often every member of the watch was working outside the building.
At the desk, Brad allowed Holton to sit down but did not offer to remove the handcuffs. However the whiz could take, comfort in the knowledge that his wrists were fastened in front of him, instead of in the manner used during the ride into town.
After bringing the hysterical girl under control, Alice had dismissed the hot-rod with a warning that its driver had taken to heart. Nursing his sore jaw, he had driven in the direction of Gusher City at a more leisurely pace than shown during the chase. Joining Brad, Alice had been told of Holton’s first statement. Despite the whiz’s repeated denials of making it, Alice had been satisfied with Brad’s veracity. Borrowing the Highway Patrol car’s radio, she had raised the permanently-manned Central Control of the G.C.P.D.’s Communications Bureau and been put into contact with the Sheriff’s Office Night Watch Commander. On hearing her story, First Deputy Ricardo Alvarez had said that they should bring Holton in for further questioning.
While Alice made the call, Brad had taken the precaution of searching the Mustang for weapons. He found none, but had unearthed a bottle of whiskey from the glove compartment. Judging by its unlabeled state that it was moonshine, they had kept it as evidence.
There had been another problem to solve, transporting Holton to the Sheriff’s Office. Not wishing to take the Highway Patrol car from its duty, Alice had decided that she would drive Brad’s M.G. while he carried Holton in the Mustang. None of the officers present were contemptuous when Brad had insisted on taking precautions against Holton making trouble during the journey. Freeing the whiz’s right arm, Brad had drawn the links of the handcuffs between Holton’s legs and recoupled the wrist at the rear. With his right leg caught between his linked wrists, his mobility had been impaired to such an extent that he could make no attempt to attack his escort.
Given ‘Code Three’ cover by the motorcycle officer as far as Gusher City, Alice and Brad had been escorted in a like manner through the streets to the D.P.S. Building by a G.C.P.D. radio patrol car. On their arrival, they had put the Mustang into the hands of the waiting Scientific Investigation Bureau team. Wanting to make a start at her side of the investigation, Alice had decided not to wait for S.I.B.’s finding. So Holton had been secured in the conventional way and delivered, along with his bottle of whiskey, to the deputies’ squad room.
‘Make yourself to home,’ Brad offered, hooking his rump on to the edge of the desk.
‘When do I get to call a lawyer?’ Holton demanded, watching Alice carry the bottle of whiskey to the connecting door and disappear into the Watch Commander’s office.
‘When we book you,’ Brad promised. ‘Who was that feller you didn’t kill?’
‘You tell me and I’ll tell you,’ Holton grunted. ‘You wouldn’t be doing this to me if I was a Negro or a Jew.’
‘That’s the hell of being a white, Protestant Southerner,’ Brad commiserated. ‘You’re not a member of a recognized minority group. Who was he? If you didn’t kill him, you’ve nothing to worry over.’
‘Lemme talk to a lawyer first,’ Holton said. ‘Then I’ll tell you.’
Entering the Watch Commander’s office, Alice found two First Deputies present. Middle-sized, slender, with the graceful carriage of a bull-fighter, First Deputy Ricardo Alvarez was the Night Watch Commander. Handsome as a Hollywood Latin-lover, he wore a neatly-pressed uniform and carried a Colt Commander in a fast draw combat bikini. Despite his looks, he was a tough hombre when the situation demanded it and ran Brad Counter a close second in matters pistolero.
It was to Alvarez that Alice directed her first words, although she could guess why the other man was present.
‘He’s here, Ric,’ Alice said. ‘But he still hasn’t repeated it or admitted anything. S.I.B.’s going over the Mustang. This bottle was in the glove compartment, so I brought it up.’
‘Let’s go and see him,’ Alvarez suggested and nodded to his companion. ‘I asked Buck to stay on when I heard you’d picked up a whiz.’
Tall, lean, tanned to the color of old saddle-leather by years of range-country living, First Deputy Buck Shields conveyed an impression of being a typical Old West lawman, He gave his uniform the appearance of being a hickory shirt and pair of levis pants as he lounged by the wall, right hand thumb-hooked into his western-style Arvo Ojala gunbelt. In its contoured holster rode a revolver that looked like the traditional Colt Peacemaker, but had been made by Great Western Arms and fired the powerful .44 Magnum bullets.
‘Danged if I don’t stop coming into town,’ Buck drawled. ‘Every time I get here, I find some danged work. Ric figured I knowed more’n the scientifical wonders about moonshining. I’m consarned if I know what give him that idea.’
Being a tactful young lady, Alice diplomatically declined to suggest an answer. Buck Shields ran the Euclid Sub-Office, with jurisdiction over some of the county’s most rugged terrain and citizens who might still have been living in the days when Mark Counter rode with Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit. Handling them required a special breed of lawman. At forty-nine—an inquisitive observer once commented that his age had been the same for at least four years—Buck was that kind of peace officer. Rumor had it that on occasion he had been known to imbibe non-tax
-paid whiskey, but Sheriff Jack Tragg’s other deputies ignored such malicious fabrications. If anybody could deal with Holton, Buck Shields was the best qualified to do so.
‘Do you want to take a look at this first, Buck?’ Alice inquired, holding out the bottle.
‘Let’s hear what that hombre has to say afore I do that,’ the old deputy answered and she went along willingly with his suggestion.
‘Did he say anything yet, Brad?’ Alice asked as she and the two First Deputies joined her partner.
‘Only asked for a telephone,’ Brad replied. ‘Way he keeps going on about wanting a lawyer, he must’ve done something bad.’
‘Have you?’ Alvarez demanded, studying Holton coldly.
‘I’m saying nothing until I’ve talked to a lawyer!’ the whiz stated.
‘If you didn’t kill him, why do you need a lawyer?’ Alice wanted to know. ‘Were you tripping with a full load?’
The telephone on the desk buzzed and Brad scooped up its receiver. ‘Counter speaking,’ he said and listened, then went on, ‘Thanks, anyways.’ He hung up and addressed Alvarez. ‘That was S.I.B. The Mustang’s trapped, its back seat’s an upholstered tank—only it’s an empty tank.’
‘He couldn’t have run the load off, could he?’ Alvarez asked.
‘Not without us knowing it,’ Alice insisted.
Many ‘trapped’ cars were fitted with the means, to jettison their cargo while in motion. However Alice knew that they would have seen the whiskey pouring away, even if the liquor had not made its presence felt on the road surface beneath the wheels of their car.
‘He was running away from some reason,’ Brad continued. ‘As soon as he saw Alice, he took off like the devil after a yearling. If he wasn’t carrying, why’d he do that?’
‘I’ve heard that badges rough up a man out of meanness if they can’t get him for anything,’ Holton put in.
‘And you couldn’t explain why your car was trapped, huh?’ Alice suggested.
‘I didn’t know it was,’ Holton replied, making the standard excuse of the whiz secure in the knowledge that he could prove his words with documents. ‘I got it last week in trade for my old heap.’
‘And you haven’t killed anybody?’ Alvarez said.
‘N—I’m saying no more until I’ve seen a lawyer.’
‘It’s Gary Holton, from up Van Horn way, ain’t it?’ Buck Shields remarked. ‘I’ve heard tell about you. He ain’t no tush-hawg, [x] Ric. I’ll bet they never even found a gun on him nor the car.’
‘We didn’t,’ Alice admitted.
‘You-all may as well tell us who you didn’t kill, boy,’ Buck advised.
‘I want to talk to a lawyer,’ Holton repeated doggedly. ‘Just hand me that there temping-bottle, Alice,’ Buck drawled. ‘Lemme see how that ole stuff beads. Maybe we’ll learn something from it—Less’n you-all want to let the scientifical wonders see what they can find out.’
‘I’m an old-fashioned gal,’ Alice smiled, handing over the bottle. ‘All they could do is tell us that it’s whiskey, when it was brewed and what went into it.’
‘Now me,’ Buck answered, ‘I ain’t saying’s I can tell you that much.’
Watching the old deputy, Holton began to feel more uneasy by the second. Every driver for the combine had heard of First Deputy Buck Shields from Euclid. While a ‘third rail’, incorruptible member, of the little law—local as opposed to the Federal bomber boys—he tended to overlook the distilling of non-tax-paid whiskey; as long as it remained on a small scale and was conducted peaceably. One of the reasons Holton did not want to make a statement without legal advice from a combine lawyer stemmed from Buck’s habit of turning a blind eye.
By all accounts, Buck could claim to be something of an authority on moonshining. Although he did not hold the small glass vial mostly used for the purpose, he clearly knew how to handle a temping-bottle. Shaking the bottle from the Mustang, Buck watched the little bubbles forming on the surface of the liquor. It was one way experienced moonshiners tested for proof and quality, and they could make an accurate assessment from what they saw.
‘It’s got a good bead,’ Buck stated, drawing the cork. ‘Feller who made it knowed what he was doing.’ Then he took a small sip, rolling it in a calculating manner over his tongue before swallowing it. ‘Ain’t black-pot brew, neither. No sir, this’s’s good’s you can buy. I’d say you got it from Eli Slocum, young feller.’
‘Never heard of him,’ Holton muttered sullenly. ‘I bought the bottle from a feller in a diner on Highway 90.’
‘If it ain’t Eli,’ Buck continued as if the whiz had never spoken, ‘I reckon we’ll take a drive out and see ole Tapley Morgan’s pi—’
Instantly Holton flung himself out. of his chair. Dropping his shoulder, he hurled himself between Alice and Alvarez with enough force to stagger them aside. Brad launched himself from the desk and Buck leapt after the whiz with a speed many a man who had only been forty-nine for one year would have envied. Fright and desperation lent wings to Holton’s feet and he raced towards the double doors of the main entrance. They opened as he approached and two deputies came in.
Give them their due, Deputy Sam Cuchilo and Woman Deputy Joan Hilton reacted fast. Confronted by a hand cuffed prisoner making a definite attempt to escape from what might be regarded as the secure precincts of the deputies’ squad room, they wasted no time in deciding what to do.
Middle-sized, stocky in the manner of his full-blood Comanche ancestors, Sam Cuchilo sprang forward. Before the deputy could grapple with him, Holton interlaced his fingers and lashed out with his arms. Caught off balance, Cuchilo was knocked out of the whiz’s way. That left Joan to prevent the man escaping. As more than one hooker or female drunk around Gusher City could have profanely testified, being a woman made Joan no less capable of doing it.
Following Cuchilo up, Joan bunched her right hand into a fist and threw a punch. All the weight and power of the blonde’s rubbery, buxom, five foot six inch body added backing to the blow. Driving under Holton’s raised arms, her knuckles ripped into the pit of his stomach. Breath burst from the whiz’s lungs as his forward progress halted. Folding over, gagging and gasping, he almost fell into the arms of Brad and Buck. They took hold of an arm each, half-dragging, half-carrying the unresisting Holton to the chair he had quit and slamming him down on it.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ Joan commented, looking at Alice. ‘If you have to dump your pinch-quota gatherings here on our watch, keep hold of them.’
‘So help me, he behaved himself until I told him you were coming, figured it was Leap-year and you was looking for a husband,’ Alice answered.
The Sheriff’s Office worked a two-watch rota, from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon and four to midnight. If deputies were needed after midnight, the Business Office of the G.C.P.D.’s Headquarters Division—located in the D.P.S. Building—called them out from their homes.
In addition to being Alice’s opposite number on the Night Watch, Joan was her friend. It had been Joan who guided Alice during her early days as a detective and they had shared the dangerous undercover narcotics assignment which brought their promotion to the Sheriff’s Office. Together they had faced the near hostility of the male deputies, who felt that women should remain in their original capacity rather than become regular members of an investigating team. With successes behind them, Alice and Joan had won their acceptance from the men. During the Tom Cord case, Joan had saved Alice from a brutal beating when three women attacked her. However inter-watch rivalry demanded that some disparaging comment be made and answered.
‘How’d it go, Joan?’ Alvarez inquired as she and Cuchilo went to their desk. They had been out dealing with a wife-beating complaint.
‘About the same as usual,’ the blonde answered, flopping into her chair. ‘By the time we got there, a local R.P. had handled it. The wife was hanging on to the husband’s neck, screeching about what lousy heels the cops are and how she loved him.’
‘Most times, all we do is get them back together again,’ Cuchilo went on. ‘It’s the times when they don’t that give us work.’
‘Seems like it was more furniture breaking than fighting, anyways,’ Joan went on. ‘All was forgiven and peaceable. So we left them to it.’
‘You must have filled your quota early this month,’ Alice remarked.
Jack Tragg did not permit quota-filling, keeping up one’s arrest numbers by hunting for minor infractions on which to act, but the chance was too good to miss.
‘Yah!’ Joan sniffed, interrupting the placing of a report form in the typewriter to look pointedly at the doubled-over, gasping Holton. ‘At least when we bring them in, we hold on to them.’
‘What’s he done, Brad?’ Cuchilo inquired.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Brad admitted.
Four
Painfully dragging air into his lungs, Holton held his stomach as best he could with his pinioned hands. At last he straightened a little in the chair and looked at the deputies around him.
‘I—I didn’t kill old Tap Morgan,’ the whiz croaked. ‘He was dead when I got there.’
Although he had known Morgan as a friend for more than forty-nine years, Buck Shields’ leathery face showed no emotion. Only by a brief intake of breath did he give a sign that the words came as a shock.
‘Tell us about it,’ Alvarez suggested.
Once he accepted that further evasion was futile, Holton wanted only to tell the story and make his innocence clear to the peace officers. So he paused for a moment to marshal the facts.
‘It was this way. When I called at Tap’s place tonight, he wasn’t out front but my bottle was on the porch like always. He allus left one for me. Never handed it to me, though. The combine don’t go for us drivers drinking on the job. So Tap used to say if anybody asked if he’d give me any whiskey, I could say “no” and tell the truth.’
Knowing the value of allowing a suspect, or witness, to tell his story in his own way, none of the deputies spoke when Holton paused for breath. After rubbing his belly, he directed a scowl at Joan and went on:
