by J. T. Edson
While the conversation had been taking place, the blond giant was looking the crowd of protesters over. They were much what he expected for such a gathering, having the appearance of being the kind of semi-professional agitators who were always ready to espouse any cause so long as it offered an excuse to create trouble. He was willing to bet that, regardless of their race, they were all products of middle-class-middle-management backgrounds who had ‘dropped out’ because of an inability to compete and who had adopted ‘causes’ to make up for their inadequacies in more productive fields. Although there was the usual leavening of representatives from ethnic ‘minorities’—a trio of Hispanics, a couple of all too obvious Indians and a black—present, the rest were white. Almost all of the latter men were long haired, bearded, looked in need of a wash and wore grubby clothes after the fashion of Philip Turner, and few of the women were any more tidy or presentable.
The banners which were still lying where they had been discarded in the rush to get clear of the approaching truck indicated the reason for the demonstration. Glancing around quickly, Brad read, ‘GAYS AGAINST WHALE KILLING’, ‘LESBIANS PROTEST THE USE OF WHALE MEAT’, ‘KEEP WHALES, NOT NUKES’, and other slogans, all dealing with the same theme. However, there were indications that more than just having a peaceful protest assembly had been contemplated. In addition to some of the banners having far thicker wooden handles than was necessary merely to support the slogans, scattered around where several things clearly more suitable as extemporary weapons. Not far from his feet, a steel crowbar for which he could think of no other use lay across a banner inscribed, ‘LOVER OF PEACE DEMAND END TO USE OF WHALE MEAT’.
One thing became apparent to the blond giant as he was conducting his observations. The crowd was coming together again and, he felt sure, would soon be continuing with their interrupted activities. What was more, while they had shown approbation over the way he had boarded the truck to slow it and give them time to escape, he did not doubt they would revert to their normal hatred of peace officers should they be ordered by his partner to desist.
Watching the first of the protesters starting to retrieve the discarded banners, Brad decided to take what he hoped would prove preventive action. With one of his upbringing and nature, to think was to act. Stepping forward, he bent and picked up the crowbar. Without showing signs of being interested in the actions of the crowd, or noticing they were also watching him, he raised it over his head. Resting it upon the back of his Stetson’s wide brim to offer some relief against what he intended, he began to pull at it with his hands. For a few seconds, nothing happened. However, the expression on his almost classically handsome face and whole bearing offered testimony to the great strain he was exerting. Then, to the accompaniment of ripping cloth as the sleeves of his shirt burst open under the pressure of his enormous bulging biceps, and evoking gasps of astonishment from the onlookers, the ends of the bar started to move forward. Nor did he halt his tremendous effort until he had bent the steel until it looked like a big horseshoe. Having accomplished this, he tossed it on the ground and stood with arms akimbo and breathing heavily.
‘Bueno, Mr. Chorley,’ Cord drawled in the silence which followed his partner’s Herculean display of strength. Although the workmen had stayed to watch, they were now turning to walk away. ‘You was saying you don’t use whale meat?’
‘We don’t,’ the manager agreed in an equally carrying tone. ‘And never have.’
‘Then you wouldn’t mind happen a couple or so of these good folks looked around to see that’s so?’ the deputy suggested.
‘The hell I wouldn—!’ Chorley answered, then he gave a shrug. ‘All right, have a couple of them do it. Only search them first. I don’t aim to have them fetching in anything to leave hidden around and get me in dutch with County Health.’
‘How about it, ladies and gentlemen?’ Cord called, turning to the crowd and feeling relieved to hear the wailing of approaching sirens heralding the pending arrival of support. ‘Will two of you come in and make sure there isn’t any whale meat being used?’
‘They can go any place they want and look through all my books, should they be so inclined—and any of them can remember how to read,’ the manager declared, glancing to where the television crew were directing their camera and other equipment towards himself and the deputy he was addressing. Wanting to avoid any suggestion that he was unwilling to help avert trouble and to refute the cause of it, but unable to refrain from continuing to show his dislike and distrust of the demonstrators, he went on, ‘Just so long’s they’ve been searched before they come through the gate.’
For a moment, even though the television camera was swung towards the crowd, there was no reply. Instead, everybody started to look suggestively at everybody else. Chorley gave a snort which indicated he considered the hesitation to allow the search he had wanted was proof that noxious substances had been brought for the purpose of planting in the factory. However, Cord was more inclined to suspect that a desire to avoid being found to be in possession of marijuana, or ‘harder’ narcotics, was the reason for the reluctance to be searched.
‘Hell!’ the only black member of the crowd said, stepping forward. Tall, well built and good looking, he was clean, albeit cheaply dressed in keeping with the image of being a member of a ‘poor and downtrodden’ section of society. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide. How about you, Tom Lindstrom?’
‘Or me,’ declared a tall, slender young white man, also advancing. ‘I reckon between us, Chekumbia Nyoka, we must have been shaken down at least six hundred and twenty-nine times by the pigs without ever once having been caught carrying so much as an aspirin.’
‘See to the searching and go with them, Brad,’ Cord instructed. ‘I’ll stay out here and wait for the boys from Drayton.’
‘Yo!’ the blond giant assented, lifting his gaze from studying the effect which bending the crowbar had had on his hat and deciding he would have to get it blocked at the shop from which it was purchased before it would return it to its original shape. Nothing on his face showed that—like his partner—he had appreciated the significance of the number emphasized by the slender white protester, and he walked forward, saying, ‘Let’s get her done, gents.’
Maintaining the excellent cooperation their organization showed to every other law enforcement agency throughout the whole of the country, the local Field Office of the Federal Bureau Of Investigation had informed Sheriff Jack Tragg and Chief Phineas Hagen of the Gusher City Police Department that—as elsewhere—they had agents working undercover amongst the various ‘protest’ movements in the area to ascertain the extent of control being exerted by elements of Communist persuasion. 6 Being in agreement with the objective, neither of the senior local peace officers had raised objections to the F.B.I.’s policy of refraining from disclosing the identities of the men involved in the interests of retaining their cover. Instead, both had accepted that the undercover agents would identify themselves if necessary by making some reference to the code numbers and each had informed the men under his command of that code.
Despite realizing he was dealing with two ‘G-Men’, the blond giant also knew that Chorley, the television crew, and men he recognized as working for the two local newspapers were watching him, so he conducted a search which appeared to be thorough, even though he did not put a hand into either’s pockets. However, although his external searching located small items on both which he would otherwise have investigated more closely, he made no attempt to do so. Instead, at the conclusion of the search, he stepped back and announced they were ‘clean’. Accepting the report without question or argument, the manager unlocked and opened the front gate to let them enter. Nevertheless, being clearly disinclined to take chances with only one deputy remaining to keep watch over the crowd, he closed and secured it again once they were through.
Before the inspection could be started, the first black and white radio patrol car bearing the insignia identifying it as belonging to the Sheriff’s Sub-Offi
ce at Drayton arrived. However, instead of keeping the two deputies it carried to help should there be trouble, Cord sent them up the steeply sloping road with instructions to try and find out what had happened to the driver of the truck. 7
Leading the way towards the nearest building, Chorley told the three young men something of the way in which the packing plant operated. He explained that they carried out some of the slaughtering on the premises and, making it clear he considered the explanation was purely for the benefit of the ‘protesters’, declared this was done in the most humane way possible and the methods employed met with the approval of inspectors from the Society For The Prevention Of Cruelty To Animals. He repeated his assertion that no whale meat was ever used because the company considered it cost too much to purchase, saying the last part with relish to annoy his unwanted pair of visitors and—Brad concluded, showing little tact—gave the impression they would do so if the price was lower. When neither commented, he announced that horses were occasionally purchased to supplement cattle, pigs or sheep, as the basic element of the product.
‘And, afore you starting waving fresh banners,’ the manager went on, glowering at the white ‘protester’ rather than the black. ‘They aren’t descendants of some that got away from Cortez and’ve been running wild for generations. It’s like the cattle, pigs and sheep we use, they’re the culls which would have been killed by the farmers and ranchers as being useless anyway. All we do is save the carcasses going to waste. We use all the meat, fat and lean, in our food and sell the bones and hides.’
Having made what he considered to be an essential point, Chorley showed the trio what was happening in the buildings given over to preparing the food, then showed them the filling, labeling and packing areas where the cans were prepared for shipment. Then he led the way to the largest structure, which stood at the rear of the property and was separated from the rest. Explaining that it was where the animals were slaughtered and butchered, he held open the door. Following them inside, Brad thought Chorley looked disappointed that neither of the ‘protesters’ showed signs of being nauseated by the sights which greeted them.
Although the blond giant did not know it, his guess was correct and the manager, hoping to produce the desired effect even though the slaughtering was finished, took his visitors to see the carcasses being butchered. As he had claimed, nothing was being wasted. When as much meat as possible had been stripped off by hand, the remains were put into large vats filled with boiling water to remove the rest. With this accomplished, the bones were laid on beds to dry. However, that did not conclude the visit. In another section of the building, the hides of the animals killed that day were being stretched on frames and rubbed down with salt to ensure they dried out.
‘Was I to make a guess,’ Brad remarked, after having watched a man starting to work on the nearest hide—which still retained its hair—with more interest than he had shown in the tour until that moment, ‘I’d say you’re not processing beef today.’
‘Nope,’ Chorley agreed, attaching no particular significance to the remark and giving an explanation more for the benefit of the ‘protesters’ than the big blond peace officer. ‘I’ve bought a bunch of the scrubbiest horses I’ve ever seen, but they were healthy enough and we’re using them. Hell, at the prices we charge, we can’t run to porterhouse, nor T-bone steak and, anyways, I reckon horse meat’s good as either to feed to dog or cats. It’s printed on the label that there’s horse meat used.’
‘Well, gents,’ Brad drawled, looking once more at the hide which had caught his attention to satisfy himself there was no mistake about the summation he had just formed and which had prompted his question. ‘I haven’t seen any whale meat being used, have you?’
‘There doesn’t appear to be any,’ Lindstrom admitted, with what sounded like reluctance and annoyance at having been compelled to give a negative answer. Then, behaving as any “liberal” would do under similar circumstances, he went on in a thinly veiled condescending fashion, ‘Does there, Chekumbia Nyota?’
‘I’ve not seen any,’ the black admitted, also sounding disappointed.
‘There isn’t and there never has been,’ Chorley stated and then said what the blond giant had hoped he would say when Brad had raised the query. ‘But, so’s you’ll know that for sure, come and look over our books.’
Taking the peace officer and the two “liberals” to his office, the manager produced a ledger which contained information about the purchases of meat. Feeling sure there would be no reference to whale meat being purchased, even if it should be used, despite the claims made by Chorley, Brad was only interested in the latest entry. Memorizing the source from which the horses had come, he waited impatiently for the ‘protesters’ to ‘satisfy’ themselves that the cause of the demonstration was without foundation. With this done, they returned to the road and Lindstrom made the announcement.
‘You know something?’ Agent Frank ‘Chekumbia Nyota’ Williams said to a woman holding a banner inscribed, ‘LESBIANS PROTEST THE USE OF WHALE MEAT’, having gone to mingle with the crowd while his partner was speaking. ‘I think we’ve been had. I heard a couple of the gays saying they’d heard there was going to be a demonstration at Ysabel Air Base and free pot, even fixes, would be handed out. I bet the Anti-Nukes bunch spread the word about there being whale meat here to keep us away and leave all the freebies for themselves.’
Moving on, the black repeated his story—giving the woman credit for the claim—to a representative of the ‘LOVERS OF PEACE DEMAND END TO USE OF WHALE MEAT’ faction. By the time he had spoken with two more groups, the story was being spread and, because they distrusted everybody, even their own kind, knowing they would behave in a similar fashion given the opportunity, it produced the desired effect. Claiming there was no need to continue the protest, the recipients of the false information drifted to their vehicles and drove away.
‘Well,’ Cord remarked to Brad, watching the last of the protesters leaving. ‘They sure went easy and quiet.’
‘It’s all done by kindness and understanding,’ the blond giant replied, suspecting that the black F.B.I, undercover agent had helped organize the departure. ‘Anyways, we’ve been lucky here. Let’s hope we’re just as lucky the next time Tricky Al comes over the great, gray-green and greasy Rio Grande.’
‘You reckon he will?’ the older deputy inquired.
‘Sure,’ Brad answered. ‘Unless finding us waiting scares him off.’
‘It never has before,’ Cord remarked, studying his partner in a speculative fashion. ‘How come you’re still interested in him?’
‘It’s only a feeling I’ve got, mind,’ the blond giant admitted. ‘But, I reckon I know what he was smuggling in.’
‘Well, it went easy like they said it would,’ Tomas Santiago remarked, riding with his nominal employer towards a small ranch house in the rolling open scrub-covered country a couple of miles outside Gusher City.
‘They don’t have to take the risks,’ Alonzo Tricky Al’ Nevada replied. ‘If I’d had my way, I’d have waited for at least a couple of weeks before making another run.’
‘The pigs didn’t find anything last time,’ Santiago pointed out. ‘And that stupid bunch of gringo do-gooders who’re fronting for us have made sure they don’t search like they did before.’
‘That’s what worries me,’ the smuggler asserted. ‘The Customs’ officers over here don’t usually give up so easy, nor Jack Tragg’s boys comes to that.’
‘We’ve got them all licked,’ Santiago claimed.
‘That’s how it looks,’ Nevada admitted, then he waved a hand to the horses they were leading which no longer carried loads on the pack saddles. ‘But I won’t be sorry when we’re paid for this bunch and are back into Mexico.’
Being a compulsive gambler with a tendency towards such disastrous habits as betting on several horses in each race of a track meet, drawing to inside straights at poker, or accepting the most outrageous ‘sucker bets’ when shooting craps,
Nevada never contrived to save much of the money he made as a smuggler. In fact, added to his unwise tactics, a recent run of exceptionally bad luck had caused him to sign several I.O.U.’s to cover his losses. Wondering how he could clear his indebtedness, and being aware that failure to do so would prove extremely painful, he had been contacted by the man to whom he owed the money. He was told his services were required to help in a deal upon which the owners of the game were engaged. They had obtained a number of horses, for which there was no market in Mexico, and wanted them delivering to the United States without the formality of legal entry.
Thinking the matter over, spurred on by the inducement of getting out of debt, Nevada had come up with a scheme. Contacting the Society For Encouraging The Use Of Energy-Conserving Transport, who he had heard of and who he had planned to use in another venture, he had said he wanted to help out the poor manufacturers of curious made in Mexico by delivering their products to the more lucrative markets offered by the United States, and that it was his intention to do so by using a train of pack horses instead of trucks. The organizers had agreed to give their assistance to the project and, with their help, he had obtained all the necessary permits for exporting and importing the consignment.
Stating there were far too many horses for a single delivery, Nevada had estimated the greatest number he considered could be handled and his views had been accepted. However, he had been far from enamored by the insistence of his employers and the Society that he be accompanied by Santiago and Phillip Purser to look after their respective interests. Given no choice in the matter, he had decided to make the best of the situation by using them instead of hiring more competent assistance. Having his mare and the three mules trained to follow her would allow him to deal with the majority of the horses and he had felt sure the pair could cope with the rest. Except for the apparently accidental dumping of Purser from the startled horse, which he had regarded as being most amusing, his confidence had been justified.
