by J. T. Edson
A second man stepped into view, coming from the right side of the door where he must have been standing concealed until that moment. Tall, slim, wearing cowhand clothes and moccasins, he too was an Indian. In his right hand he held a Luger automatic pistol, with a bulging silencer on its muzzle, lined from waist high towards the girl.
Up to that moment Alice had not suspected the presence of the younger man, but she did not allow herself to be thrown into a state of panic. Already prepared to meet an attack, she needed only the warning signal flashed to her brain to set off her reaction. Thrusting herself to the left, she missed death by inches. Twice the Luger spat, the silencer muffling the sound of the shots. Lead passed through the space occupied by her body an instant before. Twisting behind the door, she lashed back with her foot as she bent to grab for the Commander. Although the door began to swing shut, it struck against the shoulder of the younger Indian. Moving into the room, he heard a startled, masculine exclamation from the other side of it. Coming from the kitchen with a cup of coffee in either hand, Brad saw the two figures at the front door. He watched Alice’s evasion and the firing of the Luger, hearing the bullets plough into the side-piece. Unable to stop his growl of, ‘What the hell—-?’ Brad dropped the cups and lunged through the door. He hurled himself towards the side-piece, blessing his luck in that he had not emptied the big Government Model on arrival at the apartment. Normally he would have done, but put the precaution off for once until after he had made and eaten a meal. The omission meant that he closed his hand around the butt of a fully loaded weapon.
At the door, the younger Indian altered his aim and fired again. Splinters erupted from the edge of the side-piece ahead of Brad. Scooping up his automatic, he tore the holster from it with his left hand. Then he spun around, going into the F.B.I. combat crouch. Easing down the safety catch with his thumb, he aimed by instinctive alignment towards the front door. He did not press the trigger.
After shooting at Brad, the younger Indian threw himself backwards and to the left of the door. Behind him, the other man held an old Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker drawn from the bag. He made no attempt to use the .45 caliber revolver but followed his departing companion.
Against such swift-moving targets, Brad did not dare to chance shooting. The hand-loaded bullets he used were even more powerful than the standard production rounds for the Government Model. Which meant that they flew with the strength to pass through the sturdy, sound-proofed walls of the opposite apartment should they miss their marks.
Instead Brad sprang forward. Running towards the front door, he saw Alice turn to face him. Clad only in her bathrobe and a pair of brief panties, Alice knew that she could not take part in the chase after the Indians. In her state of undress, she would be better employed in calling Cen Con and arranging for reinforcements to be sent to the Chadwick Building. Then she realized that Brad was not carrying spare magazines. Going against two desperate men, probably both armed, he might need more than the eight rounds in his Government Model.
‘Catch!’ Alice called and tossed her Commander underhand towards her partner.
The frame of the automatic slapped against Brad’s left palm and his hand closed about it. Then, still running, he inserted his forefinger through the trigger guard and curled the remaining three fingers and thumb around the butt. Skidding to a stop at the door, he looked around it. The two men had not halted, but were already starting to go down the stairs to the ground floor. Hearing the whir of a telephone’s dial turning, Brad plunged out of the door and along the passage. He reached the head of the stairs conscious of the weight of the two automatics he carried.
‘Halt! ’ Brad roared, looking downwards along the barrel of the right-hand pistol.
Leaping the final few steps, the two men landed in the passage at the foot of the stairs. Snapping something which Brad did not understand, the older man swung around. After a swift glance at the speaker, the second Indian sprinted out of Brad’s sight in the direction of the door leading to the parking lot. Clearly the mailman did not intend to go without a fight, for the Peacemaker’s four-and-three-quarter inch barrel slanted up the stairs.
The action left the deputy with no choice. Not only did the heavy-caliber revolver threaten him, but it carried a bullet as powerful as those in his automatic. With the lives of other people in jeopardy, Brad dared not hesitate. Already sighted, the Government Model boomed loud in the confines of the stairs. Struck in the head by a bullet shaped like a truncated cone, the old man spun around. Letting the revolver fall unfired from his limp hand, he collided with the passage wall and measured his length on the floor.
Bounding down the stairs, Brad knew that his first assailant was finished. The big blond hurled himself forward to land facing in the direction that the second man had disappeared. Framed in the doorway, the young Indian cut loose with the Luger. Its bullet fanned by Brad’s face and his automatic cracked an answer. The Indian let out a yelp of pain and grabbed at his left thigh with his free hand. Still holding the Luger, he dived through the door. Before Brad could fire for greater effect, the Indian had passed through the pool of light and into the darkness of the parking lot.
Coming to a halt, the Indian faced the door and listened to the thud of feet approaching in the passage. Pain nagged at his leg, but he knew that the injury was not critical. His exploring fingers traced the course of the shallow groove, stickily wet with blood, caused by the bullet grazing his flesh. While it hurt, he could still use the leg—but not well enough to escape from his uninjured pursuer.
Gripping the Luger in both hands, the Indian raised it shoulder high and pointed at the door. He aimed it at chest level, knowing that a hit there would put the big blond down. Aware of his limitations, he felt disinclined to try a head shot. Sure he had hit Morgan that way, but it had been luck which he had no intention of trying to repeat. Not when his Luger held loads with the expansive qualities of their soft points improved to become dumdums. Big the blond might be, but not even his giant frame could absorb the terrible shock impact those murderous bullets produced against human flesh.
Nearer came the footsteps and the Indian watched the pool of light in front of the door. A round black blob appeared in it, the shadow of the big Texan’s head thrown before him. It advanced, widening and lengthening to the shape of shoulders and torso. Sucking in a deep breath, the young killer prepared to start shooting the instant his victim emerged.
Running towards the door,’ Brad became aware that the lights of the passage caused his shadow to precede him. More than that, he fully appreciated the danger. Unless he missed his guess, the Indian would be waiting in the darkness to the left of the door. Being wounded, he would know that he could not hope to escape on foot as long as Brad followed him so closely. So it seemed likely that he would stop and try to remove the chance of immediate pursuit. Brad’s shadow would give a warning of his proximity and tell the waiting man when he was due to come through the door.
In addition to his training at combat shooting, Brad possessed the inborn instincts from generations of fighting men. So he not only understood the peril but gave thought to circumventing it.
Step by step, without slackening his speed, he drew closer to the jaws of the trap. Unlike his usual footwear, the hard heels of his shoes clacked loudly as they hit the floor. They made sufficient noise to reach the ears of the Indian if he should be waiting. That would be all to the good.
Measuring the distance with his eyes, Brad prepared to time his moves correctly. If he failed, his life expectancy might be real short. Forward went his right leg in the stride that would carry him through the door. Stamping his foot down hard, he halted his advance while still inside the building.
Just an instant too late the Indian realized that his proposed victim had come to a stop instead of advancing into the line of fire. Nerves and muscles set ready for action, he was unable to prevent himself from touching off a shot. Although flying in a direction and at a height ideal for his purpose, the bullet s
truck the wall and not into the big blond’s chest. Back rode the Luger’s cocking mechanism, ejecting the empty case and replenishing the breech. Following his usual practice, the Indian pressed the trigger again. Another bullet spun through the barrel to end its flight harmlessly against the wall.
Brad watched the bullets strike, then flung himself through the door as fast as he could manage. Going down in a rolling dive, he passed across the lighted area. Looking in the direction from which the shots had come, he saw the dark shape of his attacker and sensed that the other was trying to line the Luger at him. Muzzle-blast sparked redly from the shape and Brad felt something strike the side of his Government Model with a force that knocked it from his hand and numbed his arm.
Continuing to roll, he landed on his stomach and thrust out Alice’s Commander. Sighting almost by instinctive alignment, he squeezed the trigger. Due to handling the same type of hand-loaded bullets, the Commander kicked far harder than the heavier Government Model. Brad felt the recoil jerk the barrel up, but saw the Indian reel and spin away from him. The Luger clattered to the ground and the man stumbled against the bonnet of a parked car.
Shaking his throbbing right hand, Brad came to his feet. Windows were raised in the building and heads appeared through them. Mingling with shouted inquiries, the wail of sirens rose as police cars converged in response to Alice’s telephone call. Holding the Commander ready for use, Brad walked towards the moaning Indian. One hand clutching at his leg, while the other grasped his right shoulder, the killer sank to his knees. From there he collapsed on to his face in a faint.
‘Now what the hell was all that about?’ Brad asked himself and went to meet the first of the R.P. cars as it came to a stop.
Nineteen
‘Well,’ Jack Tragg said as Alice and Brad walked into the deputies’ squad room about an hour after the shooting, ‘you’ve got the Dumdum Killer. Jed Cornelius came in and ran comparison tests with empty cases from the Luger and those found at the killings and they match up.’
Alice, wearing her uniform blouse, slacks and boots, looked at her partner who had on his usual working clothes and carried the mailman’s bag. Although they had just completed the formalities at the Chadwick Building, they had taken the first opportunity to send the Luger and Peacemaker to the Sheriff’s Office along with a brief report of what had happened. Called from his home, the head of the F.I.L. had been instructed to examine the weapons. Doing so had not been a lengthy process. Concentrating mainly on the Luger, he had proved beyond any doubt that it was the same which had ejected the empty cases found at the scenes of the three killings.
‘I’ve sent Ian and Jake over to Central Receiving,’ Jack continued, for the wounded man had been taken to that hospital. ‘They called in to say that he’s under sedation and won’t be able to talk before morning. Joan and Sam’ve just come in and they’re apologizing for not calling in to report that Mrs. Dajon claimed to have seen an Indian wearing a mailman’s uniform. They got tied up in an 1160 and didn’t have a chance.’
‘We weren’t available either,’ Alice said, leading the way to her team’s desk. ‘I don’t blame them.’
‘Or me,’ Jack admitted. ‘They’d no reason to think the old lady was telling the truth. Or that her Indian had any connection with the one who stole the Luger in Coke County. Have you any idea why he came after you, Alice?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘There’s something—It’s—I can’t tie it down, it happened so long ago.’
‘Just ignore us and think about it,’ Jack ordered. ‘What’s in the bag, Brad?’
‘He’d been carrying the guns in it, I’d say,’ the big blond answered. ‘Got a folded newspaper in the bottom to prevent their shapes showing. Pat and Tommy went around to the head post office to see the night supervisor and learn what they could about the old man. They’ve got his badge number. All he and the other one had on them was this notebook. I haven’t looked at it yet.’
Taking the dog-eared old book, Jack opened it. Alice sat in her chair, staring unseeingly at the wall and clearly deep in thought. Hooking his rump on to the edge of the desk, Brad took the papers from his ‘In’ tray. He read Joan’s note, skimmed through the others and dropped them into the tray. Then he crossed to the blonde and Cuchilo’s desk.
‘There’s a list of names here,’ Jack remarked. ‘Cortez, Hagmeyer, Jones, Bonaventura, Cohen—Alice, he’s got your father, mother and you down—’
‘Maybe this’ll tell us why they’re down,’ Brad put in, holding the sheet of paper he had found on the other team’s desk. ‘Joan and Sam asked for a make on a Harry Blackhorse. He’s clean in the County, but they came up with a Joe Blackhorse. Arrested February 12, 1949, on a 1408a: Robbery in which a firearm or other deadly weapon is used or exposed. The victim was R. Cohen, of—’
‘Cohen’s Corner Drugstore, Danvers Street, Evans Hill,’ Alice finished for the big blond. ‘It doesn’t seem possible after all these years.’
‘What, Alice?’ Jack prompted.
‘I can hardly remember it. We, mother, dad and I, had been to visit with Uncle Tom and Aunt Mavis and were late coming home. I was asleep on the back seat, but my folks saw a man coming out of Cohen’s drugstore. Something about how he acted made them suspicious. I think dad put all the car’s lights on so they could see the man more clearly. He ran away. Then they went into the drugstore and found Mr. Cohen had been attacked. While dad was calling the police, two patrolmen brought the man back. I’m not very sure of what happened, though.’
‘Cohen’s name’s crossed off,’ Jack remarked. ‘So are some of the others, Tap Morgan, Hagmeyer, Cortez, your parents—’
‘They were killed in an automobile accident when I was seventeen,’ Alice said. ‘Mr. Cohen died last year.’
Brad had joined Alice and the sheriff at the desk. Looking over Jack’s shoulder, he studied the list. ‘The arresting officers were Patrolmen Jones and Bonaventura, sir. Starting from Tap Morgan, how many more names are there?’
‘Twelve,’ Jack said after counting and knew what Brad was implying. ‘If we say this “Shippey” is Judge Shippey and “Boland” was Assistant District Attorney and County Prosecutor Boland, that’d make Tap and the others the members of the jury that tried Blackhorse.’
‘And the two Indians are his father and brother—or son—taking revenge on everybody concerned with his arrest?’ Alice asked. ‘Why would they do it?’
‘He pulled fifteen years—’ Brad began.
‘That much?’ the girl gasped.
‘Leave us not forget this was ’49, Alice,’ Jack reminded. ‘Folks still remembered the years they’d been under gang rule. They weren’t inclined to go easy on owlhoots, especially those who used guns or other weapons. What happened to Blackhorse, Brad?’
‘He was killed trying to escape from the Walls in ’50,’ the blond replied.
‘And the old man waited until now to get his revenge?’ Alice asked.
‘Likely he had to,’ Jack answered. ‘The two men at the top of his list weren’t around for him to get at them, if we assume that Cortez and Hagmeyer were tied in with Blackhorse, that is.’
‘Maybe Peraro knows the answer to that,’ Brad suggested.
Taking the telephone directory from the rack on the side of the desk, Jack found Carrasco’s number. He dialed it and asked to speak with Peraro.
‘This’s Sheriff Tragg,’ Jack said when the Mexican answered. ‘Does the name Blackhorse mean anything to' you?’
‘No,’ Peraro replied.
‘We think he was one of the fellers your nephew ran out on,’ Jack explained.
‘It’s possible. Now you mention it, Bill Heenan’s father said something about Tomas pigging out on an Indian kid, but I never asked who. One tries to see the best in one’s kinfolk.’
‘Was Cortez tied in with Hagmeyer?’
‘I don’t know. At the time you are talking about, Gusher City was not a healthy location for men of my prominence, so I knew little of my nephew
’s affairs. I only started taking an interest in him after the Heenans complained of his behavior. Did this Indian—?’
‘He was killed in a jail break,’ Jack answered. ‘But his kin weren’t. We’ve got them and the gun they used to kill Morgan, Hagmeyer and Cortez.’
‘You have worked fast, señor,’ Peraro complimented. ‘See you do the same,’ Jack warned. ‘This’s still an unhealthy location for men of your prominence.’
‘I believe it is,’ Peraro smiled. ‘So I’ll be going home in the morning. By the way, sheriff, I give my word that my business with the gentleman from New York is not connected in any way with your county. We prefer—easier pickings, shall we say.’
After the sheriff had hung up, Peraro let out a sigh of relief. The Syndicate’s local representative had called shortly after the peace officers left, saying that his bosses were worried by Peraro’s reason for visiting Gusher City. Aware of the local law enforcement agencies’ efficiency, they had doubted the wisdom of Peraro hunting for and taking revenge on Cortez’s killer. That had placed him in a delicate position. He did not wish to antagonize the Syndicate, but must make a gesture to prove to the more ambitious elements of his gang that he was still worthy of being their leader. By the greatest good fortune, the Sheriff’s Office had solved his problem. With his nephew’s killer under arrest, he could return to Mexico and claim his work was done.
‘It looks like Cortez might have been tied in with Blackhorse,’ Jack told Alice and Brad after finishing the call. ‘We still haven’t connected Hagmeyer to them in any way.’
At that moment Joan and Cuchilo returned from the Badge Diner, where they had been taking a meal. They were accompanied by Rafferty and Chu.
‘The night super says the feller’s name’s Ben Blackhorse,’ Rafferty announced. ‘He’s been a mailman for twenty-five years. Was a good worker, but a mite—eccentric—’
