by J. T. Edson
‘That’s all then, unless anybody has anything to raise,’ Jack said.
‘I still like the changing in the Metro-van idea best,’ commented Deputy Rafferty, winking at Alice.
‘I’m agreeable, if Bridget is,’ smiled Alice.
‘Motion withdrawn!’ Rafferty stated. ‘Not that me darlin’ wife wouldn’t understand it’s all in the line of duty, mind—’
On that light note the meeting ended. Chairs scraped back and the posse prepared to leave the building. Outside the auditorium, the officers scattered to various locker rooms where they changed into the khaki uniforms used for range and other training. Then weapons and equipment were assembled in the big official parking lot behind the building, its high walls preventing anybody seeing what went on within.
Backed close to the rear entrance of the building, its rollup door raised, one of the big Metro-vans waited to be loaded. Specially designed and equipped for riot control, the big vehicle could easily accommodate the posse. Although some of the specialized riot control equipment had been removed, the portable, battery-powered spotlights and signaling equipment remained in case the gang held out long enough to cause need for them.
Instead of galloping along Main Street and out across the ranges upon horseback, the posse sped away in a large, sophisticated modern vehicle. Not as picturesque, or as satisfying to a student of the Old West perhaps, but a whole lot more efficient.
Twenty-Three
Half a mile from the turn-off which led to the Zelimos cabin, First Deputy Buck Shields hooked his rump on to the saddle of the mount which had brought him out from his Euclid Sub-Office. Not a range-bred gelding, a spot-rumped Appaloosa, or even a Morgan quarter-horse, but a Honda Trail 90 motor-cycle which would go anywhere a horse could walk, had a petrol tank capacity to keep it going for more miles than a horse could cover without needing to rest, and never grew tired. Although born and raised in the range country and able to ride almost as soon as he could walk, Buck Shields moved with the times.
Buck Shields, First Deputy in command of the ten-man strong Euclid Sub-Office responsible for policing the small town and northwest portion of the county, was forty-nine years old—and had been for the past four years. Five years before that, his age had remained motionless at forty-eight. Tall, lean, tanned oak-brown and as tough as whang-leather, the middle-aged—the man did not live who dare call him old twice—peace officer might have passed the legal retirement age, only nobody ever got around to mentioning the fact. Certainly Jack Tragg accepted the figures on Buck’s documents and turned a blind eye to the defiance of the march of time; for his office had no shrewder, more experienced, practical law enforcer. Of course, as the records clearly stated, Buck had passed his Civil Service qualifying examination for First Deputy; although the actual papers appeared to have been lost and one might try without success to locate the man who gave him the oral test. Practical experience, a finger always on the pulse of an area roughly as large as most Eastern counties and the respect of its rugged inhabitants more than compensated for a lack of more formal qualifications in Jack Tragg’s book.
Dressed in the type of clothing a deer-hunter of the local variety might wear, Buck could have stepped straight from one of the more realistic western movies, or have been a sidekick of Brad’s great-grandfather. A standing joke around the Sheriff’s Office claimed that Buck had actually ridden with Mark Counter. However the revolver in the Arvo Ojala fast-draw western rig, while resembling the-famous old Colt Peacemaker, had been manufactured by Great Western Arms in the new, much improved .44 Magnum caliber. The rifle now tucked under his arm, after having travelled in a saddleboot fitted to the Honda, might be of the traditional lever action style, but it also fired the powerful .44 Magnum bullets used in his handgun.
‘They’ve no lookouts posted,’ he told Jack Tragg laconically. ‘No booby-traps up the way me ‘n’ ole Sassfitz here went, neither.’
Lying at its master’s feet, looking older than sin and meaner than a winter-starved Texas flat-head grizzly bear, the big bluetick hound acknowledged the mention of its name with a single wag of its tail’s tip, then resumed its suspicious study of the disembarking posse.
‘Figured you wouldn’t wait,’ Jack grunted, knowing the old-timer’s ability in the art of silent movement and visualizing the deadly stalk with the dog ranging ahead, alert and ready to give warning of hidden lookouts. ‘Let’s have the lay-out, Buck.’
‘First off I couldn’t figure why there were no lookouts,’ Buck drawled. ‘Even wondered if mebbe for once all the scientifical wonders had gone cock-eyed. Then I found sign of where one of ’em’d stood for a fair spell, place being where I’d choose was I wanting to watch the trail up to the cabin. Feller’d only just pulled out a few minutes afore. Moved on a piece and found where another jasper’d come down and gone back with the lookout. Time I got up as close as I could, I heard a tolerable fuss going on in the cabin. Couldn’t understand a word of it, seeing’s how I only talk English, Mex. and some Comanche.’
‘Sounds like they’re trying to, decide what to do next,’ Jack remarked.
‘Was tolerable hard at trying to make up their minds when I left,’ Buck replied. ‘Sounded like it might go on a spell, but leave us not rely on that.’
‘How about their transport?’ Hagen inquired.
‘Nothing in the lean-to, but there’s a tolerable fast-looking heap stashed away, all covered in branches, among the trees. It won’t be going far with two flat tires.’
‘Anything special for us to watch?’ Jack asked.
‘I didn’t go all round, but there’s no booby-traps the way I’ll take you. There’s one change been made at the cabin though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Loopholes and firing slits cut in the walls. The wood’s back in place, but they’re just waiting to be pushed open.’
‘You hear that, men?’ Jack demanded and the posse agreed they had. ‘Any more, Buck?’
‘Nope. As long as your boys don’t fall over too many logs, or into any holes, we ought to get around ’em easy enough.’
‘Let’s go then!’ Jack ordered.
Levering himself erect, Buck led the way towards the trees. Sassfitz gave a grunt, lurched upright and loped after its master. Directing a glance at the posse, Buck let out a sniff and, apparently recalling that it consisted of sedentary town-dwellers who did most of their work from the padded seat of a car, held down his pace to a level in keeping with his views on their capacities. Jack raised no objections to that, for most of the posse carried some kind of specialized equipment and he wanted them fresh on their arrival. After covering some three-quarters of the distance, Buck raised his hand in a signal which halted the posse.
‘Hold ’em here for a spell, Jack,’ he suggested. ‘Me ’n’ ole Sassfitz’ll just amble over and see if that pesky look-out’s come back.’
‘Go ahead,’ Jack authorized.
‘Rest’ll not do them city fellers any harm,’ the old-timer sniffed and faded silently into the bushes with his dog at his side.
‘How the hell does he do it?’ Hagen demanded, glancing admiringly after the departing deputy. ‘I’ve known him ever since I was a kid, and I’ll swear he doesn’t look a day older now than he did then.’
‘It’s all done by good clean living,’ Jack grinned. ‘And regular medicinal dosing with Tapley Morgan’s moonshine.’
‘One of these days you’ll have to bring Tap Morgan in on a triple six-four, xi Jack,’ Hagen warned.
‘If any of Buck’s boys find his still I will,’ agreed Jack. ‘Not that they look over hard. Buck says let the Tobacco and Alcohol Tax fuzz worry about Tap.’
‘That’s a hell of a sentiment for a peace officer,’ Hagen chuckled. ‘But I’m not going against it. I take Tap Morgan’s “medicine” on occasion myself.’
The time was to come when the Sheriff’s Office would take a more active interest in Tapley Morgan’s activities, xii but at that moment more important matters fille
d Jack Tragg’s mind.
Ten minutes went by before Buck returned. ‘Feller’s not back yet,’ he said.
‘Most likely they’re still trying to decide what to do,’ Jack guessed and gave the signal to resume the advance.
Allowing Buck Shields to guide him, Jack led the posse closer and closer to their objective. At last he caught a glimpse of the cabin’s roof among the trees and bushes ahead.
‘Take them round, Buck,’ he ordered and pointed across the trail leading to the cabin. ‘Signal from by that flowering dogwood when they’re in place.’
‘Yo!’ Buck answered and moved off, followed by the first of the posse.
‘Set up ready, Alice,’ Jack went on and the girl sank to her knees behind a tree, preparing the General Electric ‘Voice Commander’ portable radio for use.
Fully transistorized, light, powerful, the two-way radio served ideally for the work ahead. The assault force had been split into eight sections, each with a walkie-talkie, and it was Alice’s duty to keep the groups informed on each other’s activities. After completing the encirclement of the cabin at a safe distance, each section was to move into its appointed position, trying to time its arrival so as to coordinate with the rest of the posse. Seconds ticked by and at last Buck Shields appeared momentarily alongside the conspicuous flowering dogwood tree, signaled and when sure he had been seen sank out of sight again.
Jack nodded and Alice spoke quietly into the radio’s microphone:
‘Red Head to mob. Converge.’
All around the circle walkie-talkie men picked up the message through their ear-phones, used to minimize the noise, and waved their sections forward.
‘Blue Four to Red Head!’ came a voice shortly after Alice’s command, sounding clear despite the use of a throat-speaker, with the operator holding down his words to little more than a whisper. ‘Have struck obstacle!’
‘Red Head to all units! Freeze! Freeze! Freeze!’
‘Blue One, yo!’ crackled Brad’s voice.
‘Blue Two, yo!’ That would be Ian Grantley.
‘Blue Five, yo!’
‘Blue Three. Confirm!’ Alice hissed urgently when the remaining sections announced that they had heard her order. ‘Red Head to Blue Three—!’
‘Hear you, Red Head,’ replied the missing section. ‘Have obstacle here, too.’
‘Red Head to Blue Four, can you negotiate your obstacle?’ Alice asked and silently swore revenge against whoever selected her call sign.
‘Blue Four to Red Head. Negative!’
‘Will send delousing team,’ Alice promised and nodded to the waiting Bomb Squad man who picked up his tool kit and faded off into the trees.
Passing behind the circle of men, the expert came to where a section lay in cover. He looked to where a glint of a tightly-stretched wire showed among the ferns at a height just right to catch an unwary foot. Moving forward even more cautiously he traced the wire to its source.
‘Simple pull-out mechanism,’ he breathed and, after deactivating the detonator, clipped the wire. Then he moved on to where another section of the posse had found a second trip-wire booby-trap.
‘Delousing team to Red Head,’ said the radio. ‘Way clear.’
‘Red Head to all units. Advance. Advance. Advance.’ Dramatic sounding, but necessary. The gang was known to have a radio and might be lucky enough to hit the frequency used by the posse. If so, the code names and phrases would give no clue of what kind of an operation was in progress.
The reason for halting the entire party was simple. To be effective, the circle around the building needed to be complete. As far as possible, Jack wanted all his units to reach their assigned positions at the same moment. In that way, if the gang located one section, a solid wall of guns blocked any chance of escape.
No further trip-wires or booby-traps made their appearance to halt the posse’s advance. Time dragged by, seeming far longer than the actual minutes and seconds involved. With every tick of her watch, Alice expected to hear shots or other sounds telling that the gang had seen some part of the encircling force. However, each member of the posse had been selected for his experience at hunting the most wily game animal on the American continent. A man who matched his wits against the keen senses of a trophy-sized, or even normal well-hunted, buck whitetail deer learned the value of silent, unobserved movement, or met with no success. That training came in useful when practiced against the much less keen eyes and ears of human beings.
‘Blue Two to Red Head. In sight!’
‘Blue Seven to Red Head. In sight!’
‘Blue Four to Red Head. In sight!’
So the calls came in as each section reached the final point beyond which its members could not advance without being in plain view of the cabin. Alice took no chances of missing a call. On her knee rested a notepad, opened and ready. As each section called in, she crossed off the speaker’s number from her list.
‘All in place, Sheriff!’ she whispered at last.
‘Stay on listening watch,’ Jack answered and took up a hand-held audio megaphone, battery-operated and with sufficient power to carry his voice to the men in the cabin or the waiting members of the posse. ‘I’m moving in.’
Cautiously advancing along the edge of the trail, Jack halted at Major Houghton-Rand’s side. The Englishman held an M.1. carbine in his hands, while his face showed grim satisfaction at being at last so close to the men who helped murder several British soldiers as well as the women and baby. Together Jack and the major studied the cabin. Its windows were covered with heavier wire mesh than normally used to keep out insects, but that had been taken into account and planned against.
Everything had gone as Jack hoped so far. Now all that remained was for him to start the final part of the affair. Sucking in his breath, he raised the audio megaphone to his mouth.
Twenty-Four
A heated argument raged inside the cabin, involving Colismides and all the eight remaining members of his gang. One party suggested immediate flight and chance breaking through Operation Close-Off’s road blocks. Another faction, equally insistent, claimed that the law had no idea where to find them and that they should remain at the cabin. Yet a third school of thought inclined towards splitting the loot, waiting until nightfall and separating, every man for himself, in an effort to reach the safety of the Rio Grande. Only Colismides stood firm on the original plan. He said they should stay put, at least until Papas found means of re-opening communications and told them of the latest developments.
On only one subject did the gang stand unanimous. Already the death of Plytas had deprived them of one car. None of the party trusted their companions enough to allow a small group to take the other vehicle and reconnoiter while they remained at the cabin. Protests of innocent intent fell on deaf ears; suggestions of trying to steal another car, or going to find Papas, met with no approval. The issue was plain to every man present. Either they all went, risking attracting attention by the car’s over-loaded condition—or they all remained at the hide-out.
‘Tragg don’t know where to find us,’ declared one of the stay-put faction, showing masterly timing.
‘Colismides!’ boomed a voice from outside. ‘This is Sheriff Tragg. The building is surrounded. Come out with your hands empty and in the air.’
Throwing over his chair, Colismides rose and darted to a window. He flattened himself against the wall and peered out cautiously. All around the woods looked as harmless as ever, but that gave him no comfort.
Differences forgotten, the gang hurried to snatch up weapons and make for firing positions. Blocks of wood flipped mysteriously out of the walls as gun barrels thrust the covers from the loop-holes. Then the men in the cabin scanned the surrounding land for some sign of the posse.
‘Come on out, Colismides!’ Jack ordered after a pause, keeping the sturdy trunk of a white oak between him and the cabin. ‘This is your last chance!’
All around the clearing, the posse’s members tensed. Snipers squinted
through telescopic sights and made certain that their high-velocity bullets would not endanger their companions at the other side of the circle. Kneeling alongside open Federal Emergency Kit No. 235 boxes, the gas-gun handlers aimed their weapons and made sure they could reach the supply of Flite-Rite barricade projectiles each box held. Riot guns and Thompsons, the latter carrying fifty-shot drum magazines, lined at their appointed targets as their users waited for the answer to Jack’s demands.
‘Go to hell!’ Colismides screamed, catching the M.3 burb-gun tossed by one of the gang.
A burst of bullets sprayed from one of the firing-slits, directed at a member of the posse who had incautiously lifted his head above cover. Although he received a face full of dirt, he avoided becoming the first casualty of the raid.
‘Fire!’ Jack roared.
Instantly all hell broke loose around the cabin; but it was organized and directed hell.
Brad Counter took aim along the barrel of his riot gun and touched off a shot. Close by, two Thompson submachine guns chattered harshly. A .729 caliber shotgun slug and two converging bursts of fat .45 bullets ripped into the right side front window. Smoothly working the Winchester’s pump back and forwards, Brad fired another shot, adding to the increasing destruction of the wire mesh.
Every window in the building received a similar pounding, while lead also raked the firing-slits and made their use hazardous.
‘Gas!’ boomed out Jack’s voice, the Audio Megaphone increasing its volume so that it carried over the sound of the shooting. ‘Covering fire!’
On the order every riot gun and Thompson sent its load at the firing-slits, beating down the opposition and allowing the Federal gas guns to be aimed safely and carefully at the damaged windows.
