The Pulp Hero

by Theodore A. Tinsley

  “Yuma!” said Penny sharply. “It’s bad enough for you to swear like a—like a mule skinner. Are you going to fib as well?”

  “M-me fib?”

  “Blaming me because you won’t stay here! Trying to say that it is my fault, and that I have no use for you!”

  “I—I—er uh…that is.…”

  “That’s an out ’n’ out fib!”

  Yuma’s jaw dropped and he stared. Comprehension came to him slowly. It was incredible, unthinkable! “Y-you—you want me tuh stay?” he faltered.

  Penelope looked at him and spoke softly. “Please.” She took one of his big hands in both of hers. “At least stay for a little while so I can tell you what I mean.”

  Yuma let out a wild yell that rang throughout the house. “I’m astayin’,” he roared. “She wants me tuh stay. I’m drunk—I’m adreamin’, an’ I’ll drill the critter that wakes me up.”

  “Blast yuh,” bellowed Bryant. “If yer goin’ loco, git those men downstairs first; then I don’t care what yuh do! Clear out my room an’ after that yer runnin’ this place on yer own!”

  “I’m adoin’ it!” cried Yuma, dashing through the door. In an instant he was back with Wallie under one arm, Vince beneath the other, both kicking their legs and crying at their undignified position. At the stairs, big Yuma met the Rangers coming up. “Hyar yuh are, boys,” he called heartily. “Thar’s a couple o’ yore prisoners an’ the rest are comin’ pronto.” He let go his grip, and the captive pair dropped to the stairs and rolled down part way, where the Texas Rangers caught them.

  It was then that Penny realized it: the Lone Ranger and Tonto were not there. Sometime during the conversation with big Yuma, the two had slipped away. They hadn’t gone down the front stairs; the Texas Rangers had been in that part of the house. Penny hurried down the hall to her own bedroom and looked out the window. It faced the same as Bryant’s window did. There were two horses at the corner of the house: Tonto’s paint horse and the big white stallion. She saw the masked man in the saddle, Tonto about to mount. The girl watched as the two rode out across the Basin toward the distant Gap. She felt that something vital left her as that masked man rode away, and yet she wouldn’t have called him back. “Good-by,” she breathed, “good-by, my friend.”

  The Gap yawned in the distance, a colorful opening under a westering sun. Penelope’s eyes were bright as she finally saw the two horsemen disappear beyond the bend.

  CHAPTER XXX

  THE BADGE OF A RANGER

  Riding through the gap at Tonto’s side, the Lone Ranger seemed lost in his thoughts. His mood was one of introspection. He had no desire for money; he never in the least desired to own land and large droves of livestock and make deals with other men. His silver mine would still remain unworked. Why, he wondered, should men want to make a trade that was to any other person’s disadvantage? True, self-preservation was the first law of life, but wild things of the forest interpreted that law of nature without greed or dishonesty. They lived by the rule of what was best for the greatest number.

  On the other hand, because men preyed on one another, should he turn his back upon a so-called civilization? The answer came to him then, clear and unmistakable. Since he had been a boy, the strong masked man had gone to nature for his education. Now, as a man unnamed, he would try to make mankind benefit by what he had learned.

  Tonto studied the masked man with grave concern. He had tried to persuade his friend to halt and let his wounds be dressed, but the Lone Ranger had refused. “We’ll go on,” he said. “There’s one more thing I want to do.”

  A period of riding in silence brought them deep inside the Gap. Tonto asked no questions, made no comments. He simply rode in stolid patience, wondering if the Lone Ranger could know what he so desperately hoped for the future. The pledge the masked man had made had been fulfilled. Now the Lone Ranger could unmask, reclaim his name, and take his place once more with white men. Would that be his decision? Tonto wondered.

  The Texan reined up, then dismounted. He still breathed with difficulty, and his face was white and drawn. Hard lines showed at each side of his mouth as he stepped close to one wall of the canyon. Tonto recognized the place. Six mounds of earth and stone were there, surmounted by six rough crosses.

  The Lone Ranger stood before the first of these and removed his hat and then his mask. The soft, warm light of the sunset brought a glow into the Texan’s upraised face and wiped away the lines of pain and fatigue. His lips moved slowly, though the Texan’s voice was silent. Then he dropped his eyes and whispered, “Bert.” He moved to the next grave and paused there, whispering, “For you too, Jim.” At the third small cross the Texan whispered, “Dave,” and at the next he called to, “Grant,” then “Don.”

  At the sixth grave, the tall white man crouched and scooped aside the dirt and shale. He reached into the pocket of his shirt and withdrew a star of metal. He looked at it for just a moment. The badge of the Ranger caught the sun’s light and sent it sparkling into Tonto’s eyes. Then the Texan dropped the badge into the hollow he had made, and covered it.

  Now he rose and faced the Indian. He nodded ever so slightly as if he understood what Tonto hoped for and desired. A faint smile broke the corners of his mouth as he replaced the mask across his eyes.

  “A little rest,” he said, “to give my wounds a chance to heal, and then we’ll ride again!”

  Tonto said, “Me know good camp. We go there? Tonto fix wound?”

  The masked man put on his hat and jerked it low. He placed one foot in the stirrup. “We,” he said, “will go there now!” He swung his leg across the saddle, and his voice rang out with a crystal clearness that carried through Bryant’s Gap, echoing and re-echoing from wall to wall. “Hi-Yo Silver, Away-y-y!”

  Silver leaped ahead, his master in the saddle. Tonto rode behind and grinned in happiness, following the tall masked man whom he called “friend.”

  THE WHISPERING EYE, by G. T. Fleming-Roberts

  Originally published in The Hooded Detective, Jan. 1942.

  CHAPTER I

  Rob And Kill

  That night, the sounds that came from the metal stamping plant of Weedham Industries, Incorporated, might have been prophetic of the immediate and ugly future, for they were like the rattle of machine guns. But Joseph, keeper of the south gate, was blissfully ignorant of a Thompson gun and its deadly chatter, so that he drew no such comparison. His only worry at the time lay in the dark sky above and the blue-white stabs of lightning that promised an electrical storm.

  He hated storms. Probably he hated the idea of being murdered, or would have if it ever occurred to him. But then he didn’t know that he was going to be murdered, and he did know it was going to storm. The thunder was the tocsin of the storm, but those who came to rob and kill moved unheralded in swift silence.

  The night shift had clocked in over an hour ago, and there should be no passing through the gate for at least six hours. Joseph tilted his chair back against the steel fence and kindled his cob pipe. The air was hot and still so that blobs of pipe smoke clung like earth-bound ghosts about him. In spite of the impending storm, Joseph was happy. In his mind was a kindly thought for William “Old Bill” Weedham, principal owner of Weedham Industries. That was because of the bonus Joseph was anticipating.

  Within the next twenty-four hours, Joseph knew, seventy-five thousand dollars would be distributed in cash bonuses to the employees of the metal stamping division. Joseph had mentally spent his tiny fraction of the money a dozen times or more. He did a lot of dreaming, Joseph did. But about pleasant things. He had never dreamed of those who rob and kill.

  A low slung maroon roadster came down the street and nosed into the mouth of the tarvia drive at Joseph’s gate. Joseph eased his chair forward, stood up, approached the car, his faded eyes squinted against the glare of the floodlights mounted on top of the high fence. The car looked like
the one young Jeff Weedham drove. Jeff Weedham was “Old Bill” Weedham’s son. He took no interest in his father’s business or in anything else unless it was that newspaper business which the elder Weedham had purchased for him.

  Yes, that was Jeff Weedham at the wheel, and beside him were two other young people—a girl and a redheaded man. Joseph took off his cap and a grin cracked his weathered face.

  “Hi,” Jeff Weedham said. He was a narrow-headed man with frail-looking sloped shoulders and a thin triangle of face. He had an engaging, careless grin, and light brown eyes that laughed. He had a marked tendency to stutter.

  “Well,” Joseph said, highly pleased, “if it ain’t Mr. Jeff Weedham!”

  Joseph sent a shy glance toward the other occupants of the car. The girl instantly reminded him of honey and violets. Hers was one of those clear, golden complexions, and there was a certain unspoiled sweetness about her mouth. It must have been her eyes that recalled violets.

  The man on the girl’s right seemed to overlap her possessively which could have been accounted for by the width of his shoulders. His red hair bristled in defiance to any comb. His nose looked as though it had been hit a few times in its owner’s lifetime. The greenish suit he wore was filled to capacity with overly developed muscles. A leather cased camera was suspended from his bull neck by means of a strap. He had a flashlight gun in his right hand, and a photographer’s tripod was propped upright between his knees.

  “D-d-do you think you could let us in?” Jeff Weedham asked of Joseph. “The D-Daily Opinion is going to give D-d-dad a plug.”

  The Daily Opinion was the newspaper which Bill Weedham had bought for his son, Joseph recalled.

  “Why, I guess so,” Joseph replied. “But your friends here will have to sign the register book.”

  The big redhead had some difficulty getting into the pocket of his suit coat from which he extracted a card. He swelled importantly as he handed it across to the gate keeper. The card read, “The Daily Opinion. Joe Strong, News Photographer.”

  He said, “I guess this will fix everything, huh Jeff?”

  “This is Miss Barbara Sutton,” Jeff said, indicating the girl beside him. “I’ve hired her as a reporter, and Joe Strong is her cameraman. I just came along to see that they get inside. They’re d-d-doing an article on the various manufacturing plants around New York.”

  * * * *

  Joseph bowed to Barbara Sutton. “You folks can go right in, just as soon as you sign the book.” He went back to his post and returned with a ledger. He turned pages with a moistened thumb, took a pencil out of his pocket, passed both to the passengers of the roadster. Barbara Sutton and Joe Strong signed.

  “Looks like it’s kicking up a storm,” Joseph said.

  The thunder rolled ominous reply to his remark. Then Joseph went to the gate, opened it, and the roadster rolled up the drive toward the stamping mill.

  Joseph went back to his chair and rekindled his pipe. He smiled at the memory of Barbara Sutton. He didn’t know when he had seen a prettier girl. There must be an awful lot of young fellows who thought the same thing.

  “And if I was twenty years younger I guess I’d try to give them a lot of competition!” he said aloud and chuckled.

  His chuckle stopped as lightning flare threw the shadow of a man across the ground at Joseph’s feet. He looked up, startled. The man faced Joseph silently. He was slight, wore a workman’s overall suit, and he had a lunch box under his arm. His face, what could be seen of it beneath the low drawn hat, was one of starved cheeks, lipless mouth, pinched nose, and a chin that seemed to dangle.

  Joseph at first thought the man was one of the mill hands who had arrived late for work.

  “You don’t care what time you show up,” Joseph grumped. “You know you’re over an hour late?”

  The slight man laughed unpleasantly.

  “I ain’t late,” he said. “I guess I’m just about in time.”

  Something with the glint of bright steel flashed from the lunch box under the man’s arm. Instantly Joseph’s mind connected this with the seventy-five thousand dollars in small bills that was to come in on the bank express truck in a few minutes.

  Stick-up! Joseph’s brain shrieked the alarm. He tried to get out of his chair, but a knife blade that was like a sliver of light was driven into Joseph’s throat, sliding through flesh and muscle, torturing every pain nerve in his body, driving relentlessly until the point of it wedged into the wood back of the gate keeper’s chair.

  The chair creaked and groaned beneath Josephs’ writhings. But the knife and the thin, dirty fingers of the killer did not permit his body to alter its position. And then the pain nerves died. Joseph’s brain emptied, fortunately; a man would not want to know that he was tacked to a chair, bleeding to death.

  The killer released Joseph. A little of the spurting blood had got on his dirty fingers, and he wiped his hands on the seat of his trousers. Then he removed the keys from the gate keeper’s pocket. He went to the gate, unlocked it, and opened it wide.

  There were great overgrown shrubs on either side of the gate just outside the factory grounds. The killer walked to the bushes at the west side of the gate, parted the branches with his dirty fingers.

  “Delancy,” his voice croaked.

  The shrubbery shook. The thick torso of a man who squatted like a toad could be seen partly emerging from the shrubs.

  “Okay, Shiv?”

  “Okay, Delancy,” the killer chuckled. “His own mudder would t’ink he was asleep in the chair. Don’t death make a guy look natural, huh?”

  “You get back to the car,” the man in the bushes said. “Be ready to pick us up as soon as we crack the money truck. If you get nervous, think of the dough. Seventy-five grand!”

  “I ain’t noivous!” the killer said. “T’ink I never croaked a guy before. It’s a pipe. Dis whole job is a pipe, wit’ us havin’ a Monitor gun to open dat armored truck. I’m almost ashamed to be associated wit’ such a pipe of a job.”

  “Sure it’s a pipe,” Delancy agreed from amid the bushes. “Only don’t get too cocky on account of there’s one guy who could mess things up for us if he ever hits our trail.”

  Shiv laughed. “You’re worrying about the Black Hood, huh?”

  “I’m not worrying,” Delancy said crossly. “I’m just being cautious. Each job we do for the boss gets a little bigger. One of these times we’ll run into Mr. Black Hood.”

  “And when we do—” the killer drew a line across his throat with his forefinger. Then he turned and walked away from the bushes.

  * * * *

  Delancy’s moon face disappeared in the foliage. Only his hard little eyes glittered in the shadows. Beside him, patiently silent, was Squid Murphy. Murphy was motionless except for his twitching left eyelid. Murphy was manning the Colt Monitor rifle, the kind of gun the G-men used to death-drill the armor plate cars the mobsters sometimes used. Tonight the weapon was in other hands.

  Delancy watched the lean figure of the knifeman ambling leisurely up the road toward where the get-away car was parked, lights out. Shiv wasn’t nervous. Neither was Murphy, in spite of his twitching eyelid. There was nothing to be nervous about since they had hooked up with this new boss—this guy Delancy had never seen; this guy who knew all the answers. No, there was nothing to worry about as long as that relentless hunter of criminals known as the Black Hood kept off their tail.

  Delancy wasn’t nervous even when the blunt gray snout of the bank express truck turned into the mouth of the drive and slowed up before the open gate. He just took a firmer grip on his automatic and waited.

  The driver of the bank truck yelled at the motionless figure of Joseph. And when Joseph didn’t answer, the driver nudged the guard who rode beside him.

  “What the hell’s wrong with their watchman?”

  Delancy heard that. His little eyes saw
the guard get out of the cab. He saw that the back door of the armored truck was opening and another guard was getting out. Delancy thought, What a break this is! And then he shot the driver in the back.

  The guard who had ridden up in front snatched at his shoulder holster as he turned in the direction of Delancy’s fire. On the other side of the drive, two more of Delancy’s boys opened up with automatics, so that by the time the guard had decided he was facing death, death spoke from behind him. Two slugs ripped into him. His own gun jumped twice, the first shot coming dangerously close to Delancy’s head, while the second was an unaimed thing caused by the convulsive jerk of the guard’s trigger finger as he spilled forward on his face.

  The man who had got out of the rear of the truck saw a glimpse of the hell that had spouted from the shrubbery and tried to duck for cover behind the truck. And beside Delancy, the Monitor gun came to life. It talked fast in a language that was all its own. It got the retreating guard twice, the heavy, bone-shattering slugs knocking the man first one way and then another as he fell crazily to the ground.

  There were two guards inside the truck. Their guns roared from the ports in the armored walls. But the Monitor rifle was a can opener. Crouching beside Squid Murphy, Delancy felt the heat of its barrel and saw the black periods that were bullet holes speckling the gray steel sides of the truck. Now only one of the gun ports in the truck was active.

  The barrel of the Monitor swung and the hot steel barrel burned Delancy’s arm. He said, “Hell!” hoarsely and jumped out of the bushes, automatic in hand. Delancy dropped flat and heard the sound of a bullet whining by. And then the Monitor’s deafening hammer sounded again, and after that, silence.

  Delancy picked himself up, ran, his thick, toadlike body silhouetted by the truck lights. Gun smoke lay in placidly moving layers of gray before the light beams. Delancy ducked through the open door of the truck. One of his own men was already inside, and he tossed a money bag to Delancy. Delancy caught it with one arm and a belly and passed it back through the door to Squid Murphy who was standing just outside.