Alvin Fog, Texas Ranger Page 2

  ‘The Major here allows you-all ’n’ me’s going to be working along of each other,’ Branch remarked, in such a neutral tone it was impossible to deduce how he regarded the arrangement. ‘Don’t know about you-all, but I’m right pleased. A smart young feller like you’ll certain sure be able to show a wored-out ’n’ old fashioned goat like me how all these newfangled scientifical wonders’s going to make life easier for us John-Laws work.’

  ‘Why now, you couldn’t have come to a better man to ask,’ Alvin asserted, his voice and attitude redolent of mock false modesty mingled with pride. ‘Back home to Polveroso City, we’ve not only traded in our Dragoon Colts for some of these fancy new metal cartridge guns, we’ve even got us a telephone in the Sheriff’s Office.’

  ‘Trust your Pappy Jackson for that,’ Branch drawled, his eyes twinkling. ‘Allus was a mighty per-gressive sort of feller ’n’ willing to try anything new.’

  ‘Why sure,’ Alvin agreed, sensing he was making the correct impression. ‘Trouble being, nobody else in Rio Hondo County has a telephone and, even should they have, ours isn’t wired up. We don’t have electricity yet.’

  ‘Well, you-all can’t have everything,’ Branch consoled. ‘Which’s what I told your Daddy Jackson the night him ’n’ me went a-visit to raid Minnie Ogilvie’s chicken ranch—’

  ‘We don’t either of us want to know that,’ Tragg interrupted firmly, satisfied that the sergeant was in agreement with the decision to enlist the young man and would be willing to act as his mentor through the probation period. Ignoring Alvin’s sotto voce, but audible comment, ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ he went on, ‘Why don’t you pair go someplace and do something useful, or just waste your time and the good tax-paying citizens of the fair State of Texas’s money. I don’t care much which, just so long as you leave me to get on with my work.’

  ‘Whatever you-all say,’ Major Branch drawled, oozing well simulated unctuous respect. ‘What say we head out to the National Guard’s ranges ’n’ shoot us a few, amigo? Way my eyes’re going back on me, I’ll need me spectacles to see the targets. But I reckon you’ll be able to hit enough for both of us. It’s surely a comfort to know I’ve got me a young ’n’ lusty partner to per-tect me should it be needed.’

  ‘I’ll do my level best to justify your faith in me, sir,’ Alvin promised, as soberly as if he was taking a solemn oath, then nodded to the dog. ‘Do you-all reckon he can make it down to the parking lot on his own, or should I carry him?’

  ‘He can make it for sure,’ Branch declared, if a touch doubtfully and gave a low whistle which brought the blue-tick to its feet with what, in a human being, would have been an air of dejected resignation. ‘Just so long’s we don’t walk too fast.’

  As if to be in keeping with the elderly sergeant’s emphasis on his age and general state of decrepitude, his car was a hard-used 1920 Ford Model-T center door, four seater sedan the exterior of which looked badly in need of a clean. There was a low horned, double girthed Texas range saddle on the back seat. When Branch opened the passenger door, the blue-tick climbed aboard and, acting as if the effort had been almost beyond its capacity, curled up alongside the rig with an air of proprietorship.

  ‘We could always ride over in my jalopy,’ Alvin suggested, nodding to the sleek silver-gray 1920 Cunningham V-8 sports car which had been a present from his family to celebrate his pending enrolment as a member of the Texas Rangers. ‘My saddle’s in the rumble seat, but there’d still be room for that fool hound dog as well.’

  ‘I’d sooner stay’s we are, happen that’s all right with you,’ Branch refused and, despite the polite way they were uttered, there was a slight suggestion of challenge in the words. ‘It’d mean disturbing him, which’d be a sinful shame. Anyways, ole Lightning ’n’ me, we’re just plain country folks and aren’t used to riding in nothing that fancy nor fast-looking.’

  ‘Have it your way,’ Alvin assented, starting to swing into the front passenger seat. ‘After all, you outrank me.’

  ‘I hadn’t give it a thought,’ Branch lied, but sounding as if he was speaking the unvarnished truth. He knew that he had just received an assurance with regard to their status quo which settled his thoughts on the subject. ‘Allus did take real well to a young feller’s’s respectful to his olders and knows his place.’

  ‘That’s me from here to there and back the long way,’ Alvin declared, sealing the unspoken agreement. Glancing over his shoulder at the Winchester Model of 1873 rifle in the boot attached to the left skirt of the saddle, he went on, ‘Hey though, shall I fetch my carbine along?’

  ‘Was figuring on using sidearms,’ Branch replied. ‘Less you-all’d sooner show me how it’s done with a saddle-gun.’

  ‘Like I said,’ Alvin drawled, not averse to finding out where the sergeant was carrying the obligatory handgun. ‘You’re the boss.’

  Having noticed that the Ford’s wheels were equipped with demountable rims, the young Texan was not surprised to discover—when his companion settled in the driver’s seat—that it also had an electric starter, although both were still optional extras on such vehicles. What was more, as the engine purred into life, he realized it was a far more powerful unit than the one with which the car had left the factory. He considered the improvements further proof of his suspicion that the sergeant was far more progressive than appeared on the surface.

  ‘What do you-all reckon about this Company “Z” we’ll be joining?’ Branch inquired, driving the sedan westwards across the city with a laconic aplomb.

  ‘Seems to me like it’s an outfit that’s badly needed,’ Alvin replied, remembering all he had been told by Major Tragg and the Governor of Texas when they had met the previous evening. ‘We’ve both seen too many times when a son-of-a-bitch who’s guiltier than all hell gets away scot-free because his shyster lawyer comes up with some ruling that’s supposed just to protect the innocent. I’m all for anything that’ll stop it happening.’

  ‘There’s some’s won’t see it that way,’ Branch warned, giving no indication of whether or not he approved of his companion’s sentiments. ‘They’ll allow it’s not right.’

  ‘Hell!’ Alvin protested. ‘It’s not that we’re being let take away the rules to protect the innocent. We’ll just be making sure the guilty sons-of-bitches don’t use them to escape. It’s only shyster lawyers, criminals, soft-shells and liberadicals [15] who’ll be against Company “Z”. Honest, law-abiding folks will back us all the way.’

  ‘Trouble being, them said honest, law abiding folks’re too busy working and earning their livings to go spouting off about what they reckon in the newspapers or on the radio,’ Branch pointed out. ‘Which same, seems like the soft-shells and liberadicals can allus find time to do. Way some of them take on about the way things’re going to be now the “people” have took over in Russia, there won’t be no laws, police, nor criminals over there ’n’ I believe ’em. Mind you, though, I’m just a half-smart ole country boy’s believes in Father Christmas ’n’ the Tooth Fairy.’

  ‘I’ll have to remember to buy you a Christmas stocking to hang on your bed,’ Alvin said with a grin, then became more serious. ‘Anyways, once Company “Z” gets going, we have to make sure that nobody gets to hear about how we work.’

  ‘I’ll say “amen” to that,’ Branch replied and changed the subject. ‘Have you-all ever been on the National Guard’s new handgun range?’

  ‘No,’ Alvin admitted. ‘Is it different from the others I’ve shot on?’

  ‘Well now,’ the sergeant drawled. ‘I’d say that all “dee-pends’’ on what they was like. One thing I will say, though, it’s Sure not the easiest son-of-a-bitch I’ve seen.’

  A movement in the bushes caught Alvin’s eye as he walked with Branch along the path at the bottom of a wood covered valley to which they had been directed by the controller of the National Guard’s shooting range. Seeing what caused it, the young Texan realized he had been deliberately misled. They were not going to the mysterious pis
tol range, but were already on it.

  Stopping instantly on spread apart feet, Alvin bent his knees slightly while tilting his torso forward a little. Working in smooth co-ordination with the other movements, his left hand rose to grasp and draw open the near side of his jacket and the right crossed with equal alacrity to swivel the Colt automatic from the spring retention clips of the shoulder holster. Turning outwards at waist level and aimed by instinctive alignment, the weapon barked just a second after he had appreciated the situation. For all that, the .45 bullet struck the center of the man-sized and shaped target which had swung into view from behind a tree some twenty feet from the trail. Against a human being, the hit would have proved fatal.

  Anticipating what was to happen, Branch had been watching with interest. He liked everything he had seen and, despite having expected a display of skill, was impressed. Caught unawares, the youngster had not become flustered. Yet, swiftly as he had reacted, his right forefinger only entered the trigger guard and the thumb refrained from pushing down the manual safety catch until after the muzzle of the Colt was pointing outwards. [16] That was the mark of the truly expert pistolero and a major criteria by which the sergeant judged such matters.

  ‘You sneaky cuss!’ Alvin ejaculated, looking at his companion as the target turned to disappear from whence it had come.

  ‘Land’s sakes!’ Branch gasped innocently. ‘Didn’t I tell you-all’s we was on the pistol range? That’s the worst of getting old. You turn sort of fer-getical. That fool gun of your’n jammed?’

  ‘No,’ Alvin replied, after glancing in surprise to the weapon he was holding and at which the sergeant was staring disdainfully. ‘What made you think it might have?’

  ‘I’ve heard tell all them new-fangled auty-matics jam every time anybody’s loco enough to shoot one off,’ Branch explained. ‘Could be I wasn’t told it right.’

  ‘Way I heard it, revolvers throw flames out of the sides of their cylinders,’ Alvin stated, having encountered a similar prejudice against automatic pistols on other occasions, ‘That’s why I don’t use one. What now?’

  ‘Might’s well keep walking,’ Branch suggested.

  ‘Shall I holster my iron?’ Alvin inquired.

  ‘I’d say that’s up to you-all,’ Branch answered in an offhand fashion. ‘I don’t know, mind, but there could be some more of them sneaky targets along the way.’

  Starting to walk, with the sergeant following in a way which allowed him to keep the fairly dense woodland on each side of the trail under observation, Alvin decided whoever laid out the unconventional—yet very practical—range was a man with experience where using handguns was concerned. It presented a demanding test of alertness and skill. With one exception, the targets were situated between fifteen and thirty feet from the trail. All were brought into view with only sufficient commotion to make it possible for the ears to play their part in the detection as well as the eyes.

  Advancing steadily along the winding three-quarters of a mile length of the range, which was controlled by a man in a high tower on the rim of the valley signaling to the operators of the targets when he wanted them to appear, Alvin contrived not only to locate but to hit each in turn – even the third, which was a good fifty yards away. Nor did the fact that he had retained the Colt in his hand, instead of replacing and drawing it after each shot, lessen the admiration he was arousing in Branch.

  All in all, the sergeant concluded he was witnessing a masterly display. He had asked the range master to signal for the third target, which was normally only used when the man on the trail was carrying a rifle, more as a joke than part of the test. Yet, bringing the pistol to shoulder height at arms’ length and supporting it with both hands while using the sights, Alvin had made a hit. Then, when the fifth target emerged slightly behind and to the left, the weapon was transferred swiftly to that hand instead of being delayed while turning his whole body, and he fired with no loss of accuracy.

  Although the sixth, seventh and eighth targets appeared close together and in rapid succession, Alvin was able to deal with them all because he had developed reloading the pistol into a fine art. Having returned the Colt to his right hand after the fifth target, he had extracted a full magazine with the left as he started walking. Firing the sixth shot, he pressed the stud on the left side of the pistol with his right thumb. As the empty magazine slid from its housing in the butt, he deftly replaced it with the reserve and was able to continue shooting. Having dispatched the eighth bullet to puncture its intended mark, he could not resist commenting to his companion that such a feat would have been impossible for a man who was old fashioned enough to make use of a slow-to-reload revolver.

  Despite his continued success and feeling sure he was leaving his future partner with no doubts regarding his competence at handling a gun, Alvin was aware that he had not achieved his secondary purpose. As yet, Branch had made no attempt to participate and, by doing so, display where he was carrying his sidearm. Deducing from a sign announcing, Unload Weapon Before Passing This Point—which was nailed to a tree on the bend they were approaching—that they were reaching the end of the range, he was unable to restrain his curiosity any longer.

  ‘I’m empty, Jubal. Happen there’s another target, you’ll have to take it.’

  ‘Danged if I wasn’t fearer’s you’d say something like that,’ the sergeant protested plaintively, having counted the number of shots expended since his companion last changed magazines and being aware that there were still two bullets in the pistol. Arching his spine with a wince and reaching around with his right hand as if to rub it, he continued, ‘And me with screwmatics in my back fit to—’

  Rising from among a clump of bushes some thirty feet beyond Branch’s side of the trail, a target caused him to stop speaking and turn, bringing the hand into view quickly. It was grasping the ivory butt of a Colt Civilian Model Frontier revolver. [17] Adopting a gunman’s crouch with remarkable ease for one who claimed to be suffering from rheumatism, he pressed his right elbow tightly against his side and brought his left hand in a circular motion which drew back, then released the hammer.

  Unlike when Alvin had been firing his more modern smokeless ammunition, the gasses produced by detonating the revolver’s forty grains of black powder gushed from the four and three-quarter inch barrel in a white cloud. There was little breeze on the trail to disperse it and it was added to that which was generated from the four shots fanned by the sergeant’s rapidly moving left hand in the wake of the first bullet. Despite the target being partially concealed by the smoke, he contrived to put three of the bullets into its chest.

  ‘Well now,’ Alvin drawled, after the smoke wafted away. ‘Is that a trick you learned in France when you-all and my daddy were over there fighting the Germans?’

  ‘Shucks, no,’ Branch replied, having mentioned during the drive to the range that he had served in the same regiment as Jackson Fog during the World War. ‘I learned fanning from my old grandpappy. Over there, I used me a lucky ole B.A.R.’ [18]

  ‘I was meaning putting down a smoke screen that way,’ Alvin corrected with a grin. ‘I’ll give you it’s a sneaky trick, though. Happen you-all miss despite spraying so much lead around, the other feller couldn’t see to shoot back at you.’

  ‘Smart alecky young cuss,’ Branch sniffed, returning the revolver to the holster which rode horizontally instead of vertically on the back of his wide waist belt. ‘Anyways, like you say, it’s a smart trick. Trouble being’s how they don’t give out no smoke, you-all couldn’t do it with that blasted auty-matical pistol gun you’re loco enough to be carrying.’

  The screeching of tires brought Alvin Fog to the front window of the accommodation he was renting while in Austin. Although the term motel had not yet come into use, the Greenville Inn could have qualified for such a title. In addition to the main hotel building, it offered several small detached cabins surrounding the parking lot.

  Rocking on its springs from the violence with which it had been tur
ned from the street, an open, four-seater, black 1923 Buick Sport Tourer was crossing the parking lot faster than was prudent. Before it swerved and skidded to a halt in front of the next but one cabin to his own, Alvin had been able to study its occupants. Guided by comments from an obviously disgruntled neighbor, he deduced they were the Holstein brothers, Willie and Karl, and their cousin, Hubert Blitzer. Certainly the physical resemblance of the two young men on the front seat suggested they were closely related. Tall, slim, with good looking features, they were bare-headed and their dark hair was slicked down by oil. Like the shorter and more heavily built passenger in the rear—who had on a white fedora hat and whose sun-reddened face was sullen—they were dressed in lightweight, costly alpaca suits, white shirts and multi-hued ties. Climbing from the vehicle, they were clearly in high spirits. Laughing, exchanging comments he could not hear and slapping each other on the back, they disappeared into the cabin.

  There had been something besides the reckless fashion in which the man behind the steering wheel—his neatly trimmed moustache suggested he could be the elder brother, Willie—had been driving to attract Alvin’s attention. A brown leather strap passed across the chest of his shirt as if he was wearing his waist belt unusually high for some reason. The young peace officer doubted whether this was the case. In fact, unless he missed his guess, it formed part of a shoulder holster which was not so well designed for concealment purposes as his own. He was also aware that, if the assumption was correct, it opened the way to other and more disturbing speculations.

  After completing the Walk And Shoot course, Alvin and Branch had returned to the range master’s office. There, while cleaning and reloading their weapons, they had been joined by three members of the Austin City Police Department. After being introduced, one of them had commented upon a wave of hold ups which was plaguing the municipal law enforcement agency. Although eight had taken place so far, very little was known about the perpetrators other than two were tall and slim, the third shorter and stocky. They invariably wore masks and coveralls which effectively concealed whatever clothing and features were beneath. However, witnesses in two of the robberies had claimed the tallest of the trio produced his Luger automatic pistol from what appeared to be a shoulder holster.