Cap Fog 5 Read online

  Having given the order, the sergeant set off along the alley. Knowing the Ku Klux Klan were no longer active in Texas, despite what Cornridge had said, he felt sure they were not involved in the shooting. On the other hand, whoever had gunned down the three men opposite the Interstate Vaudeville theatre—even if it was the Chopper, for once operating without a disguise—he might have donned a hood to avoid being recognized. In response to the question he flung over his shoulder, one of the patrolmen who had seen the suspect crossing the street replied that the light had been too poor for them to make out such details as the hood. In fact, they had not even seen the Thompson submachine gun and, as it had not been found by the rest of the officers, assumed he must have carried it by his side.

  Wanting to be involved if his companions should catch up with whoever they were after, especially if it was the Chopper, Patrolman Burgherof hurriedly scribbled the address he was given in his note back. Then, telling the Negro to wait until somebody returned, he ran after the others. Glancing back as he went, he saw that Cornridge was leaning against one of the trash cans and concluded his instructions would be obeyed.

  ‘Not hide nor hair of him, Sarg,’ “Pete” reported, as O’Toole and the rest of the patrolmen, with the exception of the one left with the Negro, joined the advance party on the street at the end of the building. Gesturing with his carbine in each direction, he continued angrily, ‘He was out of sight afore we got here and there’s not even any of our other boys around here’s might’ve seen which way he went.’

  ‘He sure moves quiet!’ commented a harness bull carrying a riot gun. ‘We stopped’s soon’s we got out here, but couldn’t hear him running off.’

  ‘He’s not likely to chance doubling back,’ O’Toole assessed. ‘So pair up with the boys’s’re only toting handguns ’n’ spread out through the next few alleys. Just keep one thing in mind, though. We all know he’s dangerous ’n’ what he’s toting; but, happen you come on somebody, make good ’n’ sure it’s him and not some civilian, one of our boys, or from the Sheriff’s Office, afore you start throwing lead.’

  ‘We couldn’t find him, sir,’ the burly sergeant reported bitterly. ‘It seemed like the ground’d opened up and swallowed him once he’d got through that second alley.’

  After having passed through the gaps between the buildings which the man they were hunting could have reached in the time available Sergeant O’Toole had decided reluctantly he and his party were achieving nothing. Returning to the area in which the multiple shooting had taken place, he had found senior law enforcement officials of his own Department and the Tarrant County Sheriff’s Office were present along with reinforcements. Glancing around, he had concluded everything was being dealt with as he would have done if he had remained on the scene. The three victims of the unknown assailant had been removed. Officers were still questioning members of the audience and those known to have criminal records had been segregated. He was describing his activities to Chief of Police Stanley Madison and Sheriff Francis Everard.

  ‘You can’t be blamed for that,’ asserted the head of the Fort Worth Police Department, and the senior law enforcement official for the county nodded concurrence.

  ‘How about Jubal Branch and Dutchy Soehnen?’ the burly non-com inquired, although he felt sure he knew what the answer would be in the case of the first Texas Ranger he mentioned.

  ‘From what I heard, Jubal was dead,’ Madison replied, his voice showing that he too had strong feelings which went beyond it having been just fellow peace officers gunned down. ‘Dutchy was alive when they put him in the ambulance, but the intern with it said there wasn’t much hope.’

  ‘It’s a bad business all ’round,’ Everard stated somberly.

  ‘The worse we’ve had in Cowtown for many a long year,’ the Chief of Police supplemented. ‘I’ve tried to let Benson Tragg know what’s happened to them, but so far I’ve not been able to reach him. Seems the telephone wire to his headquarters’s down and we can’t get through on the radio.’

  ‘Goddamn all these new-fangled contraptions, Jubal would’ve said, even though he was allus quick enough to use whatever of ’em was needed,’ O’Toole growled. ‘He was one smart lawman.’

  ‘That he was,’ Madison concurred, deciding Sergeant Jubal Branch of the Texas Rangers would not have wished for a better epitaph.

  ‘All hell’ll break loose when Maj’ Tragg gets the word,’ O’Toole claimed, after a moment of silent tribute had followed the tribute from his superior.

  ‘There’s nothing more certain than that,’ the Chief of Police agreed, also knowing the intense loyalty Major Benson Tragg gave to the men under his command. Even at such a moment, remembering its composition, he found himself wondering why so many very experienced sergeants came to be in one Company. However, putting aside the question, he went on, ‘Nobody in the crowd, not even the feller who was with the first victim, got so much’s a glimpse of the killer.’

  ‘If only we could find somebody who did!’ Everard said, almost plaintively, being more politician than lawman and willing to allow the more experienced professional peace officers to handle matters, although the situation demanded his presence in accordance with the rules laid down by Tarrant County.

  ‘We had somebody,’ the sergeant replied, his tone a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. ‘Only we don’t have him no more!’

  ‘Who was it?’ Madison asked.

  ‘How’d he get away from you?’ the sheriff demanded in the same breath.

  ‘It was my fault,’ O’Toole admitted, never one to shirk, or try to pass elsewhere, the responsibility for an error of judgment. ‘We come on this black feller hiding in an alley. Whoever did the shooting’d run right by him, but all he could say was he’d got a hood of some kind over his head—! ’

  ‘A hood?’ the sheriff interrupted.

  ‘That’s what he said,’ the sergeant confirmed. ‘From what he reckoned, him being from New Orleans by his account, the hood made him think of the Ku Klux Klan and—!’

  ‘We haven’t had any Klan trouble hereabouts—!’ Everard put in, but was not allowed to continue.

  ‘And, seeing the jasper was carrying a Tommy gun,’ O’Toole continued, as if the comment from the sheriff had never been made, ‘he didn’t reckon it’d be safe for him to look too close. ’

  ‘I don’t reckon any darkie would under those circumstances,’ Madison judged. ‘What did he say he was doing in the alley?’

  ‘Just passing through, looking for a crap game he’d heard tell about,’ the sergeant replied.

  ‘Did he give you anything to go on, Brendan?’ the Chief of Police asked.

  ‘I didn’t reckon it was the time, nor place, to stick around and ask,’ the sergeant replied. ‘It was my own fault, mind. Wanting to get after the feller, I told young Burgherof to get his address instead of saying to hold him until I got back. I’ll give the boy credit though. He told that jasper to stay put afore he came after us.’

  ‘I can’t see any nigger sticking around at a time like that, unless he was made to,’ Everard estimated. ‘They don’t none of them ever want any truck with the law.’

  ‘Do you have any notion where the crap game he was headed for might be, Brendan?’ Madison inquired, also paying no attention to the sheriff.

  ‘No, but maybe the boys who walk this beat do,’ O’Toole replied. ‘I hope they do, anyways.’

  ‘Why?’ the Chief of Police asked.

  ‘Like I said, Burgherof did’s I told him ’n’ got the feller’s address,’ the sergeant explained. ‘As I know, having walked that district for years, but he don’t not having been there much, there’s no such address as the one he was given.’

  Chapter Three – I Want Whoever Did It!

  Strolling by the end of a barn on a small and yet well-appointed ranch about twenty five miles west of Fort Worth, Rita Yarborough, although not conforming to current conventions for feminine attributes and attire, presented a most attractive appearance, calc
ulated to catch the masculine eye.

  Five foot six in height, about twenty-five years of age, the girl—she had no rings to establish marital status on her left hand, or any other jewelry—was pretty without being excessively beautiful. Her golden bronzed features were devoid of makeup and her reddish-brown hair was cut in a shortish, tousled looking, curly ‘wind blown’ bob. Contrary to the current trend in fashion—which was already considerably influenced by the dictates of movie stars in distant Hollywood, California—she did not have the now greatly favored trim and ‘boyish’ type of physique. In fact, it fell just short of having Junoesque ‘hourglass’ contours such as had been all the rage a few decades earlier. Instead of seeking a fashionable shape with the aid of a device such as a Poiret-designed ‘flattening brassiere’, her bosom rose full and firm over a trim midriff. These were emphasized to their best advantage by the snug fit of the masculine dark blue and green tartan shirt she wore, its neck open, top three buttons unfastened and the sleeves rolled up to show arms which were well muscled without losing femininity. As Levi’s had not yet commenced production of feminine attire, the trousers she wore were made for a man. Nevertheless, having no need for the support of the floral patterned brown leather belt with a silver buckle around her waist, they showed off her curvaceously rounded hips and sturdy thighs in a most effective manner. A pair of Indian moccasins upon her otherwise bare feet completed an ensemble which was eye-catching, if not conventional.

  If their response was anything to go by, two of the three young men lounging against the wall around the corner of the building were more than just content to study the sight Rita presented as she passed them, apparently without being aware of their presence. Exchanging glances, although their companion did not accompany them, they started to follow her.

  The shorter of the pair proved also to be faster. He moved with a long, seemingly effortless stride indicative of hard muscles in his lean frame. Around six foot in height, with a whipcord slender build, he appeared to be in his late twenties. There was something about his deeply tanned handsome features which suggested a wildness of nature and, moderate in length, his straight hair was reddish brown. Bareheaded, he was clad in the attire of a working cowhand. While it was clean, each garment had seen considerable wear. A hunting knife with an ivory handle and eight inch long, clip point blade was hanging in a sheath from the left side of a waist belt of Indian manufacture inscribed with ‘medicine’ symbols. Instead of the more usual high heeled, sharp toed riding boots, he had on Comanche-made moccasins.

  While a good three inches taller than his companion and much more heavily built, despite moving slower there was nothing lethargic or clumsy about the second man. A couple of years younger, possessing tremendously wide shoulders, he trimmed down to a slim, flat bellied waist and his entire physique was suggestive of exceptional fitness, health and strength. Under recently barbered ash blond hair, his almost classically handsome face was pleasant, tanned and clean shaven. Also dressed as a cowhand, including the traditional footwear, his clothing was most costly and even a trifle dandified, but he too wore no hat.

  Coming up swiftly and apparently without his presence being detected, the red head threw his right arm around the girl’s throat from behind and his left encircled her waist. Having done this, he swung her around so she was facing his larger companion who reached for her with massive hands. If the reaction of the third young man was any guide, he found nothing out of the ordinary about such behavior. Instead of doing anything positive, if only shouting for help he continued to lean against the wall and watch what was happening.

  Should there have been a chance onlooker in the vicinity—although the third member of the masculine trio hardly qualified as that—such behavior would not have seemed to be in accord with the surroundings. Everything about the area suggested the ranch was prosperous, or that at least its owner had sufficient wealth to create that impression. Made from planks painted white, the two story wooden main house was well designed to stand up to the vagaries of the region’s varying climatic conditions. Like the various out buildings, it was made from the best quality material and maintained in first class condition.

  In addition to neatly laid out flower and vegetable gardens, presumably to help feed the occupants, there were pens containing chickens and pigs not too far from the back of the house. Several excellent riding horses and a few just as well suited to working in harness roamed at liberty in two large pole corrals a short distance away. Assorted implements and vehicles which required pulling by working horses were in evidence, but motorized transportation was not ignored. This ranged from a most dilapidated looking Ford Model T—which must have seen better days—via a powerful motor cycle, to two fine sports cars, an expensive limousine and a couple of trucks. Nor was this all the means available for travelling to and from the property. Sufficiently far from the buildings and corrals to avoid the animals being disturbed, was what a later generation would call an ‘airstrip’. It had been constructed on level ground and, hardly stirring in the light breeze, a windsock dangled from a tall pole. At one end stood a Douglas DT-2 two-seater biplane. Its red and white color scheme, civil aviation registration number and lack of armament indicated it had been purchased by somebody other than the United States’ Army or Navy.

  Judging by appearance, the non-participant was well advised not to have attempted any physical intervention. About the same age as the red head, at the most he was no more than five foot six in height. Youthful and bronzed, his clean shaven face was moderately good looking without coming close to being as eye-catching as that of the blond giant. A low crowned, wide brimmed black Stetson hat dangled by its plaited leather barbiquejo chinstrap on his shoulders and exposed shortish curly black hair. He had on a waist length brown leather jacket which hung unfastened. A tightly rolled scarlet silk bandana trailed its long ends down the front of an open necked dark blue shirt with a white ‘arrow’ motif decorating its pockets. A brown waist belt with floral patterning cut into its two and a quarter inch width and a large silver buckle embossed by the letters ‘RC’ gave support to fairly new Levi’s pants. Their legs, the cuffs turned back a good three inches after the style of cowhands, hung outside fancy stitched Justin boots carrying Kelly ‘Petmaker’ spurs on their high heels.

  Even though the small observer failed to offer any kind of succor, Rita did not behave in any such passive fashion. In fact, if her assailants expected her to respond like the heroines of the popular fiction and movies of the day who—with few exceptions 12 —did nothing other than scream piteously to be rescued or faint when faced with danger, they were quickly disillusioned.

  Knocking apart the big hands with her arms before they could grip her, the girl braced herself against the red head. Bringing up and bending her legs, she placed her feet on the chest of the man in front of her. Giving a shove, powered by what were obviously well developed thigh and calf muscles, she sent him staggering backwards a few steps. Having done so, bringing down her legs, she set about freeing herself from her less bulky captor.

  Arching forward her torso, Rita jerked it suddenly and sharply to her rear. Caught with some force by her well rounded buttocks, the grunt which burst from the red head suggested he was finding that the sensation was less pleasant than would have been the case in different circumstances. Feeling the arm release her waist and its mate loosen across her throat, she grabbed the latter with both hands. Dropping to her right knee, while drawing the trapped limb well down over her imposing bosom, she allowed him no time to experience pleasure at brushing against it. Instead, giving a sharp and thrusting motion with her hips against his knees, she completed the ruin of his already disturbed balance. Caused to pass over her shoulders in a half somersault, landing on the hard ground, he might have considered himself fortunate that long experience as a horseman allowed him to reduce the impact of the fall.

  Having dealt so competently with the red head, the girl showed what appeared to be a poor assessment of the situation. Instead of
keeping an eye upon the blond giant, she turned and started to walk, not run, away. His response proved this to be an error in tactics. Bounding over his recumbent companion with considerably agility considering his bulk, he wrapped his arms around and, interlocking his fingers, squeezed her biceps against her sides. From the way in which she relaxed completely in his encircling grasp, her appearance suggested she was enjoying it. However, he quickly discovered this was far from the case.

  Although her upper arms were pinioned, Rita was able to move them below the elbow. Having lulled the blond giant into a sense of false security, she clenched her right fist and ground its knuckles against the back of his right hand. Doing so did not cause him to set her free, but the pain was sufficient to loosen his encircling arms. Having achieved so much, she continued to improve her situation. Forcing her hips against his body and carrying her left leg a long step sideways, she contrived to bend forward at the waist. Reaching rearwards with both hands, she caught hold of his left ankle. Lifting it quickly, she sank until all her weight was resting upon his knee and by forcing upwards on the limb at the same time, she compelled him to topple over. Being released as he started to fall, he too had cause to be grateful for possessing the requisite equestrian skill to lessen the force with which he arrived on the ground.

  Once again, having escaped from the grasp of an assailant, the girl did not behave as might have been expected. Instead of taking a hurried departure, or even calling to summon help, she merely stepped a couple of paces away from the two men she had thrown to the ground and dusted her hands together as if considering she had done everything necessary for her self-preservation.

  ‘Did I get it right, Rapido?’ Rita inquired, looking at the third young man in cowhand attire and showing no resentment over his having done nothing to assist her through what had appeared a potentially dangerous situation.