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  CONTENTS

  About the Book

  Author's Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Copyright

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  More on J. T. Edson

  Tom Cord was within three months of retirement when bushwhack lead cut him down. No lawman ever allowed one of his fellow officers to be murdered without making every effort to get his killer. Deputy Sheriff Bradford Counter, a modern-day gun wizard, had been Tom’s partner; Woman Deputy Alice Fayde was Tom’s niece.

  Together they began the hunt for the old deputy’s killer. The search took them across the Rockabye County rangelands, through the slums of Gusher City’s Bad Bit and into the upper-crust district of Upton Heights. At last the trail ended, with Brad Counter’s gun-skill matched against the two professional killers who shot his partner down.

  ROCKABYE COUNTY 4: THE PROFESSIONAL KILLERS

  By J. T. Edson

  First Published by Transworld Publishers in 1968

  Copyright © 1968, 2016 by J. T. Edson

  First Smashwords Edition: June 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Cover image © 2017 by Tony Masero

  Check out Tony’s work here

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  Author’s Note

  I would like to thank the Sheriff’s Association of Texas and the Texas Department of Public Safety for their invaluable help and information on matters of modern law-enforcement.

  One

  Some of the old West’s trades have gone forever. The buffalo hunter is no more, departed in the wake of the once enormous herds of bison his rifle decimated. No longer does the prairie scout guide wagon trains or lead avenging troops of cavalry across the plains. Instead of raiding, stealing horses and taking the white-eye brother’s scalp, the Indian now goes to college, becomes a business man, truck driver, football star, wrestler or takes to other mundane pursuits. Even the glamorous town marshal is replaced by prosaic, though possibly more efficient, policemen.

  Yet others of the old trades remain. Sleath and Jordan came to Gusher City, seat of Rockabye County, Texas, to practice one such trade which had withstood the test of time and retained a niche in the modem, jet-age world. They had come to kill a man; a man neither had ever met and who had done them no harm. Sleath and Jordan followed an old West trade brought up-to-date—they were professional killers.

  Bringing the dark blue, four-door Plymouth Fury sedan along Station Street, Sleath swung it neatly into the last parking spot before the corner of Hardin Street, facing the steps leading into the entrance hall of the Southern Pacific Railroad’s depot. Glancing at his watch, Sleath saw the time was nine forty-five. He gave a low grunt of satisfaction. Their schedule appeared to be working as planned. With their combined experience, it mostly did.

  ‘We’d best stay here,’ he remarked over his shoulder to Jordan. ‘The train won’t be in for at least five minutes though.’

  ‘Be best,’ Jordan replied, his voice breezy and friendly-sounding. ‘We’ve been lucky enough to hit this spot. Leave us no chance lousing the luck by driving round the block. It might be filled when we get back. I hate taking a contract on the fly.’

  ‘I’ll feed the parking meter,’ Sleath said, ignoring the other’s comment and digging into his pants’ pocket for a nickel.

  Under similar circumstances many a law-abiding citizen would have ignored the meter, taking a chance that no patrolman would come along; or, if one came, be willing to swear he had only just parked and still searched for a coin to pay the required fee. Trying to beat a parking meter out of its just and lawful due offers a harmless outlet for the little touch of larceny which nestles in even the most law-abiding breast.

  In view of his chosen profession, Sleath could hardly be classed as a law-abiding citizen. Yet he moved across the car’s seat, leaned out of the window, fed his nickel into the parking meter’s slot and watched the dial record his payment. Satisfied that he now possessed the legal right to remain parked upon that particular piece of Southern Texas for a period of one hour, Sleath returned to his place behind the Plymouth’s wheel and leaned back with the air of one who has done his civic duty and whose conscience is clear.

  Sitting in the rear seat, Jordan took out a package of cigarettes, shook two up and passed one forward to Sleath. After lighting his smoke, Jordan settled back and relaxed to wait until the westbound train brought in their victim.

  As usual when awaiting a contract in the area which formed the Old West, Jordan began to compare the way the early hired killers operated with his own outfit’s methods. Somehow it never seemed right to him to make a hit from a car—after paying a parking meter’s fee—in one of the locations where his trade received its development.

  The professional killers of the 1870s rode horseback into town, received payment on the spot, made their hit in what passed as a fair fight in those days, or by less legal methods. In the latter case, the killer left a string of horses stretched across the countryside to assist in out-running a vengeance-seeking posse. Things were much easier and simpler in those days. Cut a set of telegraph wires and a man knew no word of his coming could be passed ahead to other lawmen.

  Times change and so do methods. Sleath and Jordan had received their orders by telephone; at least he assumed that Sleath had, for they never met except when on a contract. Such a call brought Jordan to Gusher City on Friday evening. After making a brief contact in the men’s room at the airport, he and Sleath had gone to different hotels and waited to hear which of the city’s quarter of a million inhabitants would be their hit. Not until Sunday afternoon had a voice over a telephone given out the instructions. They were to collect a dark blue Plymouth Fury with local plates from a car park in Greevers, make a study of the kill-zone, pick out their escape route, then wait for the nine-fifty westbound train to bring them their hit. That and the description of their victim were all that they need to be told. The rest of the contract, their departure from Gusher City and emergency instructions in case of mishap, had been arranged in their first orders. Payment for the contract would reach them after they had returned to their respective homes.

  ‘It’s easy so far,’ Jordan remarked, blowing a smoke-ring at the roof of the car. ‘Can’t say I liked the idea of handling a hit on a Sunday evening, but things’ve come out better than I expected.’

  ‘Sure,’ Sleath replied. ‘Any other day and we’d been lucky to find ourselves this parking spot. Tonight we have the street to ourselves. Only three hacks in the rank across there, so they aren’t expecting many folks off the train. The fewer passengers, the easier you pick out the pigeon.
This thing’s going too easy. I don’t like it. Remember that Chicago contract we blew?’

  ‘I’m not likely to forget it.’

  ‘That started easily,’ Sleath went on worriedly. ‘Just like this. Then it loused up.’

  ‘Conditions were different,’ Jordan objected. ‘Hell, there’s not a handful of traffic here. Later there might be, when the movie-houses close. But by that time we’ll be at the airport ready to fly back East.’

  ‘I still don’t like it!’ grunted Sleath.

  Nor did Jordan for all his reassuring words. Several aspects of the contract puzzled him; why had there been no photograph of the victim? Why the delay even in learning when to make the hit? Small things—but worrying to a man of Jordan’s experience. He glanced down to the blanket-covered shape of the Remington Brushmaster shotgun at his feet. While he carried a 9-mm Browning P-35 automatic pistol holstered under his arm, he much preferred the deadly buckshot load of the Brushmaster when making a hit across the width of an average street; the nine balls spread just enough to wipe out any chance of a near miss and at that range sufficient would hit their mark to ensure a kill. Yet he still felt the nagging doubts and worries.

  Much the same doubts continued to gnaw at Sleath as he sat smoking behind the steering wheel. While Jordan handled the shooting, he would take care of the escape. Glancing into the rear-view mirror, Sleath watched a car cruise slowly by, then saw a man approaching the car. Not just an ordinary man, but one wearing the dark blue peaked hat and uniform of a Gusher City Police Department patrolman, with a Colt .357 revolver hanging in the open-topped holster at his right side; a significant sign in an area which prided itself on the ability of its law-enforcement officers in handling weapons.

  ‘Cop coming,’ Sleath said quietly, not turning around.

  Neither Jordan nor Sleath showed any anxiety at the thought of a policeman approaching, despite the warning. They did not draw down their hat brims, or raise their coat collars to avoid recognition. It never occurred to Sleath to start the car’s engine and drive away. Instead they stayed just as they were, each continuing to smoke and giving no hint that they knew—or had reason to care—about the patrolman’s presence.

  For his part, the patrolman had not spent twenty years in the G.C.P.D. without learning to perform his duty with as much ease and little inconvenience to himself as possible. He did his work thoroughly, but no longer went out of his way to look for minor infractions on which he might make a pinch. Pinch-hunting was a game for young rookie cops who had not yet learned that each pinch meant extra paperwork and time spent in court, mostly on an off-watch day.

  In another part of town, in front of some jewelry or fur store in Business Division, even though the car be legally parked, the patrolman would certainly have stopped and asked questions. However, he saw nothing suspicious in a car parked opposite a railroad depot, especially with a passenger train due to arrive at any moment. Police caution led him to give the car a searching glance, noting license number, make, color and the fact that it contained two occupants; the one in the rear tall and bulky, the driver slightly taller and slimmer, both wearing dark slouch hats and what appeared to be dark business suits. A Plymouth Fury had been on the stolen car list, but that was a two-tone, not dark blue. Only one thing remained to be checked. One look at the parking meter’s dial told him the fee had been correctly paid, so he passed on without another glance.

  During his career as a cop, the patrolman had learned how touchy honest tax-paying citizens could be, especially when seated in a legally-parked car. Stirred by righteous indignation, plus the fact that they had paid out a whole nickel for the privilege of parking, many people objected to too close a scrutiny from a passing patrolman. As a complaint from an indignant taxpayer meant a visit—in off-watch hours—to the House Captain’s office for formal explanation and rebuke, a wise cop tried to avoid giving cause for the citizen’s wrath.

  After passing the Plymouth, the patrolman crossed the junction with Hardin Street. He heard the nine-fifty westbound draw into the depot but did not bother to wait for it. A short distance along Station Street stood a police telephone and after calling in a routine check on the Plymouth’s license number he aimed to go eat a hot-dog at a nearby stand.

  Sleath and Jordan watched the patrolman’s departure with relief. Neither wanted to make the hit with a cop so close at hand—especially when the cop be an old hand who wore a Colt ‘maggie’ and looked like he could be relied upon to act real fast in an emergency. While being professional killers, the two men were not suicidally inclined.

  Once more Sleath glanced at his wristwatch. He stubbed out the cigarette in the car’s ashtray and then reached down to turn the ignition key. Experience had taught him never to leave starting the motor until the last minute in case it failed to catch at the vital moment. Listening to the purr of the powerful motor, Sleath nodded his satisfaction. When Jordan made the hit, he would be ready to start the car rolling without a second’s delay.

  Reaching down, Jordan uncovered the Brushmaster and lifted it from the floor. He examined the gun carefully, working the slide to feed a shell into the chamber. Never had he come across a firearm so ideally suited for his purpose. The Brushmaster balanced well, its twenty-inch barrel carried an adjustable rifle-type rear and ramp foresight instead of the usual shotgun fittings, which greatly increased its accuracy potential. Built to handle buckshot or solid slug loads and used for deer hunting in heavy brush, the gun also met with all Jordan’s specialized needs—except one. However, the Brushmaster's one failing had not yet proved any disadvantage and Jordan tended to regard the gun as being lucky.

  ‘Here they come,’ Sleath said, taking his attention from the escape-route for a moment and glancing at the entrance to the depot.

  ‘Get set then,’ Jordan replied.

  Cautiously Jordan raised the Brushmaster, making sure its barrel did not extend through the open window. He did not know what manner of man they waited to kill, but taking precautions cost nothing. Cradling the gun at his shoulder, he lined the sights on the steps, watching the few people who came out of the entrance and down to the street.

  After his one quick look, Sleath ignored the entrance and gave his full attention to the impending departure. A check through the rear-view mirror showed him that no traffic approached. Ahead the cop stood some seventy yards away, back to the car, speaking over the official telephone. That could be bad, meaning the hunt would start a few seconds earlier; although Sleath doubted if the few seconds were likely to make any serious difference to their escape. Swiftly he turned the escape-route over in his mind and made sure he knew just where he must go. Gripping the steering wheel in his gloved hands, brakes off, car in gear, powerful engine purring ready for the clutch to be freed. The instant the shotgun boomed, Sleath would be ready to do his part in the contract.

  Yet the awaited boom did not come. A few people streamed down the steps, all three cabs departed with fares, men and women walked off along the other side of Station Street—and still the Brushmaster did not roar.

  ‘Somebody goofed!’ Jordan growled, lowering the gun as the last of the passengers emerged and started to take their departure. ‘He didn’t show.’

  ‘I knew this caper was going too easy,’ Sleath complained. ‘Just like that Chicago contr—’

  ‘Shut it!’ Jordan hissed and brought up his gun again.

  A man appeared at the depot entrance and started to walk down the steps. Carefully Jordan studied the latecomer. Just over middle-height, stocky, wearing a black slouch hat, tan belted trench coat of a pattern that had gone out of style five years or so previously, carrying a brown suitcase. Each detail matched the description they had been given by their contractor. He was the man whom they had come to Gusher City to kill.

  Once more Jordan sighted his Brushmaster. It would not be a difficult shot, far easier than the one which had brought down the ten-pointer whitetail buck that Jordan had taken in the Catskills and had hoped would win itself
a place in the Boone & Crockett Club’s trophy lists.

  With the sights lined, Jordan squeezed the trigger. The gun barked and he felt the recoil-pad thrust back against his shoulder, muzzle-blast momentarily blinded him, and nine .32-caliber balls belched out of the twelve-gauge barrel. Instantly he worked the cocking-slide, ejecting the empty case and feeding a loaded round into the chamber. The move came automatically, needing no thought.

  Caught in the chest by several of the buckshot balls, the victim lurched backwards, dropping his case and trying to claw open his trench coat, his feet struck the step behind him and he began to fall backwards; Jordan fired again, the second charge ripping home as the victim started to go down.

  As the second shot sounded, Sleath started the Plymouth moving, even before Jordan had ejected its empty case. The car picked up speed, swinging around the corner on to Hardin Street, increasing acceleration by the second. Along Station Street the patrolman had dropped the telephone receiver and whirled on hearing the shots. His ‘maggie’ came into his hand fast, but he did not shoot. Before he could take careful aim—and such would be needed to avoid a miss which might endanger innocent lives—the car had swung on to Hardin and gone from sight.

  Sleath flashed one quick look in the patrolman’s direction, noticing the speedy reaction and feeling grateful that the man had not been closer. A slight grin creased Sleath’s face as his last sight of the patrolman showed the other springing forward. Before the cop reached Hardin, Sleath knew they would be out of sight and range.

  ‘It went off A-O.K. after all,’ Jordan stated as Sleath took the car in a tight turn on to a dimly-lit street which crossed Hardin some four blocks below the junction with Station.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sleath replied doubtfully. ‘Looks that way. But I don’t know. I still reckon there’s something wrong with this caper.’