by J. T. Edson
The call of a whippoorwill brought Doc’s attention to the other side of the street. He crossed and joined Waco behind the wall, only just in time as a big bulky man strode from the other direction, looked around him suspiciously, then entered the church hall.
“Know something, Doc?” Waco asked, holding his voice to hardly more than a whisper. “I reckon we’ve made a hit.”
“Yeah,” Doc agreed. “It seems tolerable strange that a man called Goldstein should be going to a church.”
Inside the small room at the rear of the church hall sat the men who ran the Syndicate, six men who had the power of life or death throughout Arizona Territory. Of them Gulpe was only a junior member, that was clear from the way the others treated him and by his scared attitude.
Gaunt as a buzzard, black-dressed, and with a hard, harsh look on his face-like when he pounded the pulpit side and bellowed about the evils of strong drink at the congregation- the Reverend Arnold Postaite looked at the others. It might have been a normal stockholders’ meeting from his next actions. Taking a thick leather-bound Bible from the bookshelves on the walls, Postaite ran through the accounts of the Syndicate quickly. Then he slapped the cover down and looked at the others.
“Our profits have been cut by nearly a third in three weeks. We’ve lost control of four towns, and others are making trouble.”
“It’s since Jaqfaye died and we haven’t been able to ship gunmen out,” put in Gulpe, feeling as always that he would be blamed for the failure.
“You want to tell me something I don’t know,” snorted Postaite, his eyes going to Hultz. “I don’t suppose you’ve managed to trace Jaqfaye’s books and the map he kept?”
“No. I still think the Rangers opened the safe, took them, and left the keys in Jaqfaye’s pocket so we wouldn’t be suspicious.”
“They got onto Butcher and the others too fast for just luck,” growled the big, burly man in the dress of a professional gambler, his red face turning a shade redder. “We know that the man those two Texans said killed Jaqfaye was one of our top hands. And Kinsey’s not showed up again since we sent him out to kill Mosehan.”
Postage’s hand slapped hard on to the table. “Since you, not we, sent,” he corrected angrily. “I didn’t order the killing. No, you stupid fools had to act on your own—”
“He was causing us trouble,” growled Lakeman, the gambler. “He closed down some of our places.”
“And why?” Postaite bellowed in the tone he used when damning the sinners who drank, gambled, and womanized, a tone that had rung loud and clear in a dozen towns. “Because they couldn’t stand to take a normal honest percentage but had to go all-out. A blind man could have spotted the rigged decks, wheels, and dice in those places. I said we ran the house games fair unless there was no chance of a comeback, but some of you had to start thinking smart—”
“Hold hard,” Lakeman growled. “You were all for the crooked gambling factory we started in Haggertville.”
“I was. It brought in money. We supply places as far away as east Texas and north to the Idaho line. But we didn’t need to ram every house we own full of it.”
“Anyway,” Gulpe put in nervously, “it seemed like a good idea to get rid of Mosehan. He’s made a lot of enemies and the Syndicate might never have been mentioned if he’d died.”
“He didn’t die!” Postaite pointed out. “Do you think everything would’ve been forgotten if he had died? Mosehan’s important in the territory. More, he’s got loyal friends and they wouldn’t rest until they found the men who had him killed. Never underestimate friends, especially the sort of friends Mosehan’s kind make. He closed a few houses down but that didn’t hurt us. We own in on every other place in their towns and the trade still comes to us. That should have been enough, but no. You had to try and have him killed. It failed, so most likely Kinsey and the other two are dead. But did they talk before they died?”
“Kinsey wouldn’t talk,” Gulpe groaned.
“A dying man might talk,” Postaite snarled. “Even if he didn’t mean to and didn’t know what he was saying.”
“Maybe you could get one of them Texans in and have him confess his sins.” Lakeman, who never took to the idea of being ordered about by a preacher, sneered.
Postaite sent his chair flying backward and came to his feet, He looked as mean as a starving grizzly and a damned sight more dangerous as he leaned forward, resting his palms on the top of the table. Lakeman thrust back his chair slightly but did not rise. For a moment he sat, trying to act defiant, then he sank down again, cowered almost. The two men in the Syndicate he most feared had been Jaqfaye and the gaunt man who was known as a sturdy hater of everything the Syndicate stood for, who preached against the evils of gambling, brothels, drinking, and the other pleasures the organization catered to, the man called Postaite. Of the two, Lakeman had feared Postaite the more.
“I’ll not tell you again not to say those kind of things,” Postaite warned, his voice a savage hiss. He took his seat again and looked around the table, reading the fear in each face. This was why he ran the Syndicate, why he formed and made it. Early in life he learned the futility of trying to stop people having their pleasure, and though he still preached against it, he knew no words would ever do any good. So he took over, made the fools to whom he preached pay for their amusement. It gave him pleasure to know other men feared him.
“Now,” he went on when sure all were under his control again. “We’ve got to get rid of the Rangers, or hold them off until we get organized again.”
“Who’s going to call the guns together?” Goldstein asked. “Lakeman at his saloon?”
“Can’t you see that guns aren’t the answer?” Postaite demanded angrily. “We’d need more guns than we could hire to handle the Rangers, even if we could get men to chance it. We’ll have to try something else.”
“Why not go to the governor and ask him to have the Rangers disbanded?” Lakeman, trying to regain his self-control, sneered again.
For a moment Lakeman thought he had gone too far. The cold look ran across the preacher’s face and Lakeman shuddered, expecting to be killed this time for sure. Then a savage grin came to Postaite’s face, like the death sneer on the lips of a pain-racked body.
“That’s what we’ll have to do. There’s an election due very shortly and the governor’s more likely to be swayed by the weight of public opinion than at any other time. Suppose he received petitions for the disbanding of the Rangers?”
For a moment none of the others replied. Then Gulpe, the self-acknowledged authority on matters of public opinion and politics, looked up beaming with delight.
“That’s an idea,” he said enthusiastically. “Any petition that comes in now will find itself looked over with more interest than usual. If only a small number of people from enough of the vital towns ask to have the Rangers disbanded, the governor will be forced to act. Being in politics, I know—”
“You’re in politics only because I let you stay in,” snapped Postaite. “If the Syndicate didn’t back you, there’d be nobody fool enough to vote for you.”
Gulpe sank down into his chair, a sullen look on his face and cold hate in his eyes. He and every other Syndicate leader had noticed that of late their organizer tended to look upon them less and less as partners and more as a pack of stupid underlings who hindered rather than helped him.
“All right, let’s fix the details,” Postaite snapped. “We can rely on getting a good list of names from Haggertville. But for the rest I don’t know. How does our political expert think that will be?”
Hiding his resentment at the sneering tone, Gulpe replied, “It’ll be a good start. But we could really do with a petition from some other town.”
“What other town can we rely on?” Goldstein asked.
“Only one,” Postaite replied. “Prescott.”
“Here?” Gulpe gasped. “But I don’t think you could find people to sign a petition against the Rangers here.”
“We might not be able to, but Lakeman can. Every drunk, loafer, drifter, and saloon hanger-on in the area will flock to his place for a free drink and willingly sign the petition to get it.”
Once more Postaite sat back and let the other men think the matter out, sure he had hit upon the right method. He knew that the chances of the petition bringing about a complete disbanding were slight. However, the governor would be forced to suspend the Rangers from duty for a few weeks while the charges against them were investigated. In a few weeks the Syndicate could make fresh arrangements for the movement of their hired guns. Then they would be able to end the growing dissension in their ranks.
“That’s what we’ll do then,” he said, not bothering to put it up to vote as had once been the case. “Now for this new business we were entering into. Lakeman, the man with the goods should be on his way from Mexico now. He’ll deliver to you.”
“Can’t say I’m too happy about that,” Lakeman growled. “I know the penalty for what you’re planning. It’s heavy.”
“What risk is there?” Postaite snapped. “The man comes, delivers the package, which you record and pay him for. Then you bring it along here and I see to the distribution.”
“Is it necessary to our organization to do it, knowing the risks and the penalties?” Goldstein inquired.
“It is. No matter what way this business with the Rangers goes we are going to clean up our gambling houses; that means people are going to win in them. So we take in their money and pay out in ours. An easy way of spreading the money and a safe one.”
“About this petition” the lawyer put in. “Who’ll take it before the governor?”
“Yeah,” Lakeman agreed. “I don’t think you’ll be doing it.”
“No. Hultz, Goldstein, and Gulpe will hand it to the governor and demand the inquiry. Three solid, upright, and sober citizens.”
The remainder of the men gave their agreement, although the three named did not appear to be any too happy about their part in the business. Not that Postaite even gave them a chance to object. He brought the meeting to a close, turned the cover of the heavy old Bible over, and put it with the other books on the shelf. The other men exchanged glances as they were waved from the room. In the hall they left alone, but on the street Gulpe found Hultz waiting for him.
The two men walked along the street together, not noticing the shadows that now tagged along behind them. Neither spoke for a time, then Hultz glanced back over his shoulder, seeing nothing, for Doc and Waco took cover in a shop doorway.
“Postaite’s growing more and more abusive each time,” he said. “We’re not partners anymore. He makes the decisions.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Gulpe replied nervously.
“I think, Senator, that the time’s coming when the Syndicate needs to fold up and we make a trip to safer climes.”
Gulpe did not reply to this for a time. He thought of his bank account, his social position, and the fact that they were getting in deeper water all the time. It came as something of a surprise to find that another member of the Syndicate also felt the time for departure drew near.
“I thought of a trip to Europe,” Gulpe finally remarked. “How about you?”
“The thought did occur to me,” Hultz agreed. “We’ll have to move carefully, though, or the rest might get suspicious.”
Neither man spoke again, both busy with their own thoughts, each trying to decide if the other would agree to a quiet betrayal that would leave their trail fairly safe. Neither decided and they separated to go to their homes, where they spent a restless night trying to decide how far they should trust the other.
Waco and Doc met after seeing their men home. The two Rangers leaned against the bar in a small downtown saloon, talking in low tones and as safe as they would have been on the open range.
“Reckon we made a hit?” Doc asked.
“Likely. What better place than a church could the Syndicate find to operate from?”
“What’ll we do, try to get in and find the books?”
“Nope. Let’s send for Cap’n Bert, tell him what we know, and see how he wants it played,” Waco drawled.
The governor of Arizona Territory sat in his comfortable chair and held out a long sheet of paper on which appeared many names. Captain Bertram H. Mosehan took the paper and glanced at it. His face showed little change in expression but his eyes narrowed slightly as he read:
We the undersigned, having grave concern for the manner by which the law enforcement body known as the Arizona Rangers abuse their authority by accepting bribes, forcibly extracting confessions, murdering suspects under the guise of arresting same, and sundry other unlawful acts, do hereby petition the Governor of Arizona Territory that the Rangers be disbanded until such time as these complaints be fully investigated and legal action be taken against those responsible for the above acts!
Under this stretched a long list of names, each with the owner’s mark or signature by it.
Mosehan laid the petition on the desk and scowled at the governor. “You know there’s not a word of truth in any of it,” he said. “Haggertville’s nothing but a hangout for every slimy law dodger in the territory.”
“I know that, even though it’s never been proven in a court of law. But if the opposition gets wind of it, I’ll have to move. So far this’s the only petition I’ve received and I’m willing to ignore it. We both know where it’s come from, or who’s behind it. But, Bert, if there’s another petition comes in, I may have to disband you until there’s been an investigation.”
Mosehan’s scowl grew deeper. “We’re close, nigh on got the Syndicate treed,” he told the other man. “That’s why they’re moving this way. They need time to get themselves reorganized, and if you disband us they’ll have that time. Then every man who shoved his neck out to help us is like to get it stomped on by some hired killer’s heel.”
“I know that.”
“I passed my word that I’d stand by the folks who helped me. I’ll do it even without a badge.”
“I’ve heard rumors there might be a petition going the rounds in Prescott,” the governor warned. “In fact I’ve a meeting with three prominent citizens tomorrow at noon. I feel you should be there. We’re holding it in the private room at the Dale Hotel.”
“I’ll be there,” Mosehan promised. “I came to town because my boys have found something out and sent for me in a hurry. Got young Jed Franks along but he went downtown to see some friends. He’ll be handy for producing the records for us. I’ll get going now.”
“It’s going to be rough, Bert,” the governor said.
“For me-and for you,” Mosehan agreed. “You’re the man who formed us and it won’t set well with folks, happen they believe what’s said about the Rangers.”
Mosehan left the governor to find his two men waiting in his hotel room, or what he expected to be two men. Instead he found five Rangers, Sergeant Pete Glendon, Billy Speed, and Brad Kinross having arrived while he was seeing the governor.
“Look at this,” Mosehan told the men, passing the petition paper to Glendon.
The men gathered around to read and their comments were lurid, savage, but to the point.
“I never took a bribe in my life, and I’ve had plenty of chances,” Glendon snapped.
“And none of us ever killed a man unless he was hidebound out to kill one of us,” Waco went on. “The governor doesn’t believe this sort of thing, does he, Cap’n Bert?”
“He doesn’t, but there’ll be men who’ll make political capital out of this if he lets it ride. Now I want to go extra careful around town, they might try and stir things up for us by picking fights. Where’s Jed?”
“Still downtown,” Waco replied. “Sounded all-fired eager to see somebody down there.”
“So’d you if you saw the gal he’s gone to see.” Doc grinned.
Mosehan repeated his warning and left the other men to go back and talk with the governor, who would call in his legal adviser to help deal
with this menace to the Arizona Rangers.
“What’ll we do about that petition?” Glendon asked, looking at the others. “Wouldn’t’ve done no good tearing it up, folks’d say it was true.”
“There’s one thing we can do,” Waco replied. “Ever heard of fighting fire with fire, Pete?”
Glendon came to his feet, a grin splitting his face. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I’ll take Billy and Brad along with me. What’ll you’n Doc be doing?”
“Checking in with the marshal. I want to know what he’s heard about that petition talk in town,” Waco replied.
So the men separated at the door, but before they went their separate ways Waco made another suggestion to Glendon.
“Stay on at the post office until you get the replies.”
“Be best,” Glendon agreed. “Keep clear of trouble if you can, boy.”
The town marshal came along the street, his stride hurried, his face showing worry. He saw the two Texans and raised a hand, calling to them.
“What’s wrong, Marshal?” Waco asked as they met up with Draper in the center of the street.
“That pard of yours, young Jed Franks, he’s down to the doctor’s right now.”
“Jed?” Doc growled. “What happened to him?”
Draper’s eyes did not meet either man’s and he felt suddenly scared, knowing the close-knit friendship of the Rangers. He knew better than to try and hide something from Waco and Doc now he had told them that much.
“Somebody beat him almost to death.”
“Where?” Doc snapped.
“Who?” demanded Waco, getting to the more important aspect as far as he was concerned.
“We found him down by the Chinese laundry. One of my deputies come on him and got him to the doctor. I don’t know who done it. You know how close-mouthed the Chinese are when they want to be.”
