by Ronald Kelly
“You’re willing to help me?” asked Susan, surprised. “Just like that?”
“We all owe Marshal McLeod a debt of gratitude for helping us out of some tight predicaments,” said the bounty hunter. “Remember that time down in New Mexico, boys? Just us against fifty Apache Indians. We thought our scalps would end up hanging on their lodge poles. Then the Marshal rode in with an armed posse and saved our hides.”
Roy nodded. “We’re obliged to him, ma’am. And if we can help get him out of a bad scrape, we aim to do it.”
“I’ve heard tell that Sidewinder rode into Carnage City yesterday,” said the Duke. He hefted a saddle over his shoulder and, taking a short-barreled Winchester with a bowed lever ring in hand, headed for three horses tethered nearby. “Maybe he has something to do with the trouble Rusty’s in.”
“Sidewinder?” asked Susan, watching as they prepared their mounts.
“A no-account, scoundrel of an outlaw, ma’am,” explained Roy, checking his six-shooters.
The Bounty Hunter’s eyes glittered beneath the brim of his weathered hat. “Ah, Sidewinder. I’ve been wanting to take him on for a long, long time.”
“Do you plan on killing him?” the woman wanted to know.
Roy smiled. “We’ll only shoot to wound if you want it that way, ma’am.”
“Speak for yourself, pretty boy,” rasped the Bounty Hunter, lighting a narrow cheroot with a sulfur match. Jutting from beneath his poncho was a revolver with the image of a coiled rattler engraved on its handle.
“Well, if we’re gonna get to Carnage City before daybreak, I suggest we quit jawing and start riding, pilgrims,” drawled the Duke, swinging onto his horse.
Soon, Susan and the others were atop their own mounts and galloping out of the arroyo, heading westward across the desert. She didn’t know what sort of danger Rusty might be in, but if anyone could help her save him, it was certainly the band of western heroes that rode along side her. And they were willing to lay their lives on the line if the need arose.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Tom Sutton opened his eyes and found himself sitting on a park bench. He felt disoriented at first and then realized that he had arrived in the dreamworld that his sister had conjured from her imagination. He stood and started up a brick pathway, passing a white gazebo and coming to the street of a peaceful midwestern town. As he paused, trying to come to terms with the place his slumber had brought him to, he watched a couple of vehicles pass one another on the picturesque avenue. One was a horse-drawn ice wagon, while the other was a Model-T Ford, its engine chattering noisily and its tailpipe farting clouds of gassy black exhaust.
The teenager crossed the street and headed toward town square. Around him, quaint buildings stood, reminiscent of a bygone age. They were turn-of-the-century structures with coats of immaculate white paint and plenty of fancy gingerbread trim, like the buildings on the Magic Kingdom’s Main Street in Disney World, or some small town out of a Ray Bradbury story.
He was passing a butcher shop, when he felt something tug at his pants leg. Tom expected it to be a dog or a small child, but it wasn’t. Surprised, he stared down at the tiniest man he had ever seen in his life. A man who must have been twice his age, dressed in a French general’s uniform. Napoleon Bonaparte in miniature.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the little man in a squeaky, but cultured voice. “But would you be Mister Thomas Sutton?”
Tom nodded. “Yeah, I am. Who are you?”
“Why, General Tom Thumb,” said the dwarf, seeming upset that the teenager didn’t recognize him.
“Bullshit!” said Tom, his mouth hanging open.
The little man’s face reddened. “Watch your language, sir! There are ladies about, you know.”
“Sorry,” said Tom in embarrassment.
“I understand that you are looking for your sister,” Thumb said confidentially, pulling the teenager to the side of the walkway.
“I sure am,” said Tom. “Do you know where she is?”
“There,” said the famous dwarf. “Beyond the edge of town.”
Tom looked to where he pointed. Past the end of the main street, he could see a tall black form looming over the treetops. It was the biggest circus tent he had ever seen.
“So what are we waiting for?” he said, starting down the street. “Let’s go get her!”
Thumb grabbed the tail of Tom’s team jacket in his tiny hand, stopping him cold. “Don’t be so blasted impetuous! If you try to rescue her now, both of you are doomed. You will need some assistance. That is why I’ve been sent to find you… so that a plan of action can be formulated.”
“Exactly who sent you, short stuff?” Tom asked suspiciously.
“I did,” came a gruff voice from the shadows of an alleyway.
Tom turned and saw a tall, portly gentleman in a dark suit standing there. He had wry eyes, a bulbous nose, and curly white hair framing a partially bald head. He had the look of a salesman about him. Either that or a clever con man.
“Who are you?” Tom asked.
“Phineas Taylor Barnum, at your service, sir,” replied the man with a gracious bow.
Tom couldn’t believe his eyes. P.T. Barnum was standing right there in front of him, in the flesh!
“Well, don’t stand there gawking, boy,” said Barnum. “Come along and we shall discuss your problem.”
Tom complied, not knowing what else to do. He followed the great showman and his star attraction down the narrow alleyway to a doorway at the rear of the butcher shop. When he stepped inside, Tom found himself in a cramped room bearing only a table and four chairs.
“Have a seat, young man,” instructed Barnum. “Snap to it! We don’t have time to waste.”
“Yes sir,” said Tom. He took a seat at the table and stared at the one who sat directly opposite him. It was a sad-faced clown wearing a derby hat, ragged hobo clothes, and floppy shoes.
“This is one of our acquaintances, although not from the same era as General Tom and I,” introduced the boisterous showman. “Weary Willie, or as you might know him, Emmett Kelly.”
“Hi,” said Tom, flabbergasted.
The clown merely nodded silently, folding his arms and parking his oversized shoes on the edge of the table.
As Barnum sat down, something slithered across the floor and pulled itself up the side of the chair. Soon, it was perched on the showman’s shoulder. It was a bizarre creature; half monkey and half fish. The legendary Fiji Mermaid.
“I thought that thing was a hoax,” said Tom.
“Perhaps in your world,” said Barnum. “But in this realm that your sister has created, anything is possible.”
“Concerning the rescue of young Margret,” said General Thumb, “we are prepared to join you in the fight to retrieve her from the clutches of that loathsome Colonel Raven and his band of sadistic freaks.”
“Who’s Colonel Raven?” asked Tom.
“The scoundrel who owns and operates Circus Horrific,” said Barnum, his eyes full of disgust. “And one of my major competitors.”
“Phineas doesn’t particularly care for the quality of Raven’s showmanship,” Thumb said.
“Showmanship!” snarled Barnum. “The word cannot even be used to describe him. He is a thrill-peddler of the worse sort. A man who deals solely in exploitation and darkness. He would much rather give his audience sensational feats of pure suicidal daring, rather than wholesome, family entertainment. He cares nothing for his performers or animals. Dozens perish at each performance, in the most grisly ways imaginable!”
Tom Thumb nodded. “Needless to say, he is not one of Mister Barnum’s favorite people.”
“I’d say not,” agreed the high school student. “But how are we going to get to Maggie? Are we gonna sneak in and rescue her before they know we’re even there?”
Barnum smiled smugly. “On the contrary. We are going to arrive at the pinnacle of showtime and snatch her from beneath Raven’s crooked nose, just as she is on the verge
of beginning her final performance on the high wire.”
“High wire?” said Tom. He shook his head with wonder and admiration. “That crazy kid.”
“And to assist us in our attack, we will be using a secret weapon,” Thumb told him.
“What sort of secret weapon?”
General Thumb and Barnum exchanged amused glances. “Come and I shall introduce you,” said the portly showman.
Thumb, Barnum, and Kelly escorted Tom outside, to where the alleyway opened into a small, fenced yard. When the teenager turned the corner, he nearly peed in his pants. For, filling every inch of the yard was an animal as tall as a two-story building and as long, from trunk to tail, as a Greyhound bus.
“Tom Sutton, meet our secret weapon,” introduced Barnum with pride. “I give you Jumbo, the largest elephant on the face of the earth!”
~ * ~
“What is the nature of your business, sir?” asked an MP at the military base’s guard post.
Joe Adkins looked down and saw that he was dressed in the uniform of an Army major. “I’m here to locate my son,” he said. “Chuck Adkins.”
“Sergeant Adkins left the base yesterday,” said the military policeman. “I’m afraid his whereabouts are top secret.”
“But I’ve got to find him,” urged Joe. “I have reason to believe he’s in terrible danger.”
“If you insist, sir, then you will have to talk to the General. I believe he is at the officer’s club.”
“Thank you, Private,” said Joe with a salute. Then he walked through the gate and made his way among a maze of olive drab tents to a hastily erected building in the very center of the compound.
When he walked through the doorway, he nearly bumped into a lovely WAC. “Pardon me, ma’am, but could you tell me where I can find the General?”
“He’s over there at the corner table,” said the lady soldier with a smile. “With the others.”
Joe nodded his thanks, then crossed the empty room to the only table in the club that was occupied. He recognized the General at once. He was a tall and distinguished gentleman dressed in a gray Confederate uniform with gold stars on the collar. He wore a flapped holster cradling a .44 Leech & Rigdon revolver on one hip and a cavalry sword in a polished scabbard on the other. His white-bearded face was stern, but his eyes were kind and full of honesty. There was no mistaking his identity. It was the commander of the Army of the Confederacy himself… General Robert E. Lee.
“Don’t you know that it is not polite to stare, Major?” the General said, noticing Joe standing there. “Especially when the one being stared at is a superior officer?”
“Excuse me, sir,” apologized Joe. “But I must speak to you concerning an urgent matter.”
“You may talk in front of my drinking buddies here,” said Lee. “Have a seat.”
Joe joined them. He studied the other two who sat at the table with the famous general. Both were infantry soldiers, but from different wars. The one in the World War Two uniform was gruff and roughly-hewn, while the solider from World War One was tall and gangly. Both looked suspiciously familiar. Joe was certain he had seen them somewhere before.
“So what is this all about, Major?” asked the General.
“My name is Adkins, sir. Joe Adkins. Chuck Adkins is my son.”
An expression of intrigue shown in the general’s eyes. “I see. And I suppose you wish to know your son’s whereabouts?”
“I was told that his location is top secret,” Joe said. “But I have to know. I believe he’s in trouble.”
Lee looked at the other two, then nodded sternly. “You believe right. He has been captured by the enemy.”
“The Nazis?” Joe asked.
“That’s right,” said the infantryman. Joe suddenly recognized him as Vic Morrow in his role of Sergeant Chip Saunders in the old 60’s TV show, Combat. “He and a platoon of soldiers were on their way to Berlin, when the goose-steppers ambushed them. All of the men were killed, except for Sergeant Adkins. From what a German operative told us, the Fuhrer himself showed up and captured Chuck. He put him on a train to one of those godforsaken concentration camps of his.”
“Do you know which one?” asked Joe.
“Yup,” replied the lanky soldier in the World War I uniform. Joe suddenly placed his long, hang-dog face. It was Gary Cooper, reprising his role as the Tennessee mountain farmer turned war hero, Sergeant Alvin York. “They done gone and sent him to a place o’er in Poland. A place folks call Auschwitz.”
“Good Lord!” said Joe, feeling a chill of dread run through him.
“Don’t worry, Major,” Lee assured him. “We were just in the process of working out a rescue plan when you came in. And if you are willing, we’d very much like for you to be a part of it.”
“Do you think we can get him out of there before… well, you know…”
“Before they eradicate him?” asked Saunders.
“Yeah,” said Joe uneasily.
“I reckon we’ll get to him in time,” said York. He took an Enfield rifle from where it leaned in the corner, then licked his thumb and touched it to the front sight, to help cut down on the glare. He aimed down the barrel with the skill of a seasoned sharpshooter. “Yup, them there Krauts ain’t gonna know what hit ‘em when we go in there loaded for bear.”
“We will be heading out in a few minutes,” Lee told him. “But first let us wet our whistles.”
The General called for a waitress. She brought a tray of root beers in frosty mugs. Joe was a little puzzled by the choice of libations, then remembered that the Confederate commander had been a religious man and a teetotaler. He gracefully accepted the root beer and took a swallow. Joe felt confident, being among men with such backbone and military savvy. But, still, he couldn’t help but wonder if they would reach the death camp in time to save his son from the most horrible of fates.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
A gray fog engulfed the harbor, obscuring the water and the tall buildings of the skyline, leaving only the long platform of the pier in view. Keith Bishop stood at the very edge of the end, unable to move anything but his eyes. A filthy handkerchief gagged his mouth, a coil of heavy dock rope encircled his body from shoulder to waist, and his feet were completely encased in a heavy block of concrete. His back was to the water. He faced the long boardwalk of the pier, as well as those who were on the verge of pushing him into the freezing depths of the harbor.
“You’re scared, aren’t you, Bishop?” asked the Big Man, standing before him. He grinned, showing a set of pearly teeth with a diamond stud embedded in one of the front incisors. “I can smell the fear drifting off you like the stench of some cheap, dime-store cologne.”
Keith was frightened. More frightened than he had ever been before. Deep down inside, he knew that his nightmare was swiftly coming to a close. But rather than awaking to the safety of his grandfather’s spare bedroom, he would not be waking up at all. A few scant seconds from now, Keith would be shoved off the edge of the pier. He would feel the biting cold of the salt water engulf him, then would feel nothing at all as numbness, suffocation, and darkness dragged him downward to his death.
“It’s too bad that you didn’t cash in like your fellow cops,” the crime lord told him. “You could have been my right hand man, if only you had abandoned those foolish principles of yours. Instead, you chose good over evil. So I have no choice other than to waste you.”
Keith cursed beneath the cloth of the gag, his eyes full of fire. But that was all the resistance he could manage. All other options had been deprived from him by constricting rope and concrete.
The Big Man turned and regarded the other three who accompanied him on the pier. “Does anyone want to bid poor Detective Bishop a fond farewell?” he asked with a mock expression of solemnity.
Both the Jamaican and the Colombian, once again armed with shotgun and Uzi, simply grinned those grins that failed to match the contempt in their cold-blooded eyes. The third witness to the Big Man’s crime
was his moll, the voluptuous Cassandra from the Purple Passion Lounge. She took a puff on a cigarette in a long black holder, her face full of boredom. “Oh, just push the loser in and get it over with,” she said.
The Big Man turned and shrugged his padded shoulders apologetically. “Sorry, but no one really seems to give a damn,” he said. “So I suppose there is nothing more to say than… adios.” The gangster reached out, his palm extended, intending to push Keith over the edge of the pier.
But, before he had the chance, something unexpected happened. Keith heard the roar of a car engine. He looked past the Big Man and his cronies, and saw a convertible roadster barreling down the long boardwalk of the pier toward them. Four men occupied the car’s front and back seats, while two others rode the automobile’s running boards. When the vehicle braked to a halt twenty feet away, Keith watched as three of the passengers leapt out, armed with guns.
Among the trio, Keith recognized one immediately. It was the last person in the world he would have expected to see at that moment.
It was Grandpa McLeod… and he was coming to his rescue!
“Surrender and untie him!” demanded Elliot Ness, standing up in the roadster and brandishing a 45-caliber Thompson. His loyal agents, Rico and Youngblood, remained on the running boards, also holding submachine guns. “Do as I say and you’ll serve a nice long stretch in the Big House. Refuse and we’ll mow you down like the gutter rats you are.”
“To hell with you, G-Man!” growled the Big Man. He pulled a nickel-plated Colt automatic from beneath his wide-lapelled coat. “This is a private party and you’re not invited.”
“Then we’re here to crash it,” said Sam Spade. As he started toward them, gun drawn, he suddenly found the long-legged Cassandra standing in his way. “Outta the way, sweetheart,” he warned.
“Not on your life, gumshoe,” she hissed. She lifted a slender arm and aimed a small revolver at him.
“I’m usually respectful of ladies,” said Spade, clubbing the little gat out of her hand with his own heater. “But seeing as you ain’t one, I’ll dispense with the gentleman act.” He then hauled off and delivered a haymaker at the woman, sending the Big Man’s moll over the side of the dock and into the drink.
