Cap Fog 5 Page 4

  ‘I’d say so,’ estimated the recipient of the question and, although the girl spoke after the fashion of one born and well educated in New England, his accent was that of a native Texan from a similar class of society. ‘How do you boys feel about it?’

  ‘You should hang your head in shame, teaching her tricks like those,’ claimed the blond giant, also in the tones of a well raised son of the Lone Star State. Coming to his feet and starting to dust off his rear, he swung his gaze to Rita and continued in a seemingly aggrieved fashion, ‘And it’s all your fault—!’

  ‘What is?’ the girl was forced to enquire as the sentence had clearly been left uncompleted to provoke the question.

  ‘You know I told you I loved you to distraction and couldn’t wait until the day I was good enough to let you marry me,’ the blond explained. ‘Only, after seeing what you did to poor ole Comanch’ and me, I’m starting to have fourth thoughts on it.’

  ‘Which I don’t blame you for one lil tiny bit,’ the red head asserted. He too was obviously a Texan, but apparently from a somewhat lower stratum of society. Also having risen, he was eyeing the cause of his misfortune with more amusement than hostility in spite of his earlier behavior and the way she had responded to it. ‘I tell you, Rita—gal, should you keep on going the way you just did, folks’re going to start calling you “Is-A-Man”.’

  ‘Anybody who does is very quickly going to wish he hadn’t the girl claimed with what could have been severity except that the merry twinkle in her eyes belied the grim timbre of her voice. Having read and heard about the woman in question, whose admixture of white blood had not precluded her from becoming accepted as a Comanche warrior in the late 1870’s, 13 she elaborated, ‘I’ve seen pictures of Annie Singing Bear and, much as I admire her for all she accomplished, I’ve got a far better figure than she had.’

  ‘Now was I asked, which I don’t calculate I’m going to be—!’ the red head began.

  ‘Which isn’t going to stop you for one minute from telling us,’ Rita declared.

  That all depends on what kind of a figure a man’s a liking for,’ the red haired Texan continued, eyeing the male members of his small audience as if he expected them to take particular notice of his declaration and paying not the slightest attention to the interruption. ‘There’s them’s likes a gal to be close to skinny, which I’ll be willing to admit right truthful you’re not, Rita-gal—!’

  ‘Why thank you for that, kind sir,’ the girl put in, dropping what would have been a graceful curtsy if she had been dressed properly for making one.

  ‘Shucks, I’m only part Comanch’ but I’ve been raised right ’n’ proper to allus speak the truthful-true like all Injuns,’ the red head replied, ‘Anyways, there’s them’s likes their women with more meat—!’

  ‘I’ve heard tell that cannibals and other barbarians do,’ the blond giant offered, his manner helpful.

  ‘I’ve never heard of any of them being cannibals, Ranse, but let’s leave your family out of this,’ Rita requested, ‘Go ahead, Comanche, don’t mind the interruptions.’

  ‘I get so many of them, I never do,’ the red head asserted. However, instead of continuing the light-hearted conversation, he gazed along the fairly wide dirt trail which led to the property and the levity left his voice. ‘Maj’ Tragg’s coming and, way he’s moving, I’d say something real important’s bringing him!’

  Sitting hunched at the steering wheel of his Packard coupe, which he was driving at a greater speed than was usual when traversing the less than smooth track connecting his destination with the main road to Fort Worth, Major Benson Tragg had a grim expression on his deeply bronzed face.

  In his late forties, six foot tall, the Major’s brown hair was turning grey at the temples. Nevertheless, he had the lean and wiry build of one who still followed a strenuous occupation. In fact, although the tailor had failed to cut the jacket so it completely hid the bulge caused by a short barreled Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker revolver, holstered butt forward on the left side of his waist belt, there was no other indication that he belonged to a family which had long been associated with the enforcement of law in Texas 14 His excellently fitting lightweight brown suit, a white shirt, a bolo necktie with the head of a longhorn steer made from Navajo silver and turquoise for its fastener, and tan colored, sharp toed, high heeled riding boots, gave him the appearance of being a prosperous rancher who still continued to put in a hard day’s work with his cowhands. For all that, he was considered by those in the know to be one of the shrewdest and most incorruptible peace officers in the United States.

  Although it was not the first time he had found himself faced by the necessity to deliver the kind of news he bore, Tragg had never found repetition made the task less painful for him. Nor did he believe the news he bore would prove any less distressing because none of the people involved were related to the deceased. Everybody he was expecting to find at his ranch, which served the secondary purpose of supplying restful accommodation for the peace officers under his command between their frequent and most hazardous assignments, had been close friends of Sergeants Jubal Branch and Hans Soehnen. One thing he knew for certain, however, there was a bond between the members of Company ‘Z’, Texas Rangers, which would ensure all its members would be determined to avenge their murder. Nor, despite his objections to the seeking of personal vengeance as a general rule, did he intend to even try and stop them.

  Running his gaze over the girl and three young men as he brought the Packard to a halt, the Major set his face into as close to an impassive mask as he could manage. The grim visage softened, however, as his eyes turned to where the late Jubal Branch’s large bluetick coonhound was sprawled on the porch of the ranch house. 15 Raising its head with what appeared to require a considerable effort, it looked at the vehicle. However, although its tail twitched slightly a couple of times, it made no attempt to rise. Wondering how Lightning—a seemingly inappropriate name to which it lived up whenever sudden action was called for—would get on now its master was dead, he forced himself to put that aspect of the business from his thoughts. On returning his attention to the approaching quartet and studying them, he concluded they had deduced something of considerable importance had brought him to the ranch. Nor did he find it in the least surprising that the smallest of the Texans acted as their spokesman as Tragg climbed from the car to stand in front of them.

  ‘Howdy, Major. You look like there’s something bad’ wrong!’

  ‘There is, Rapido,’ Tragg confirmed somberly. ‘Rita, Ranse, Comanche, I reckon we’d best all go into the house.’ The Major was all too aware of the dangers faced by Sergeants Alvin Dustine ‘Rapido Clint’ Fog and Mark ‘Comanche Blood’ Scrapton when working undercover on the kind of clandestine official ‘unofficial’ assignments for which Company ‘Z’ was formed. Therefore, to ensure they remained accustomed to answering to their respective sobriquets—selected as having been favorites of their grandfathers when engaged in similar matters 16 —he always insisted the other members of his force used these when addressing them and not their real names.

  As the party started to walk forward, without anything further being said, Rita saw how Tragg was gazing at Lightning. A clairvoyance she had never known before struck her and she felt as if an ice cold hand was running along her spine. Letting out a low gasp, she caused the small Texan to look her way. Reaching instinctively to take his right hand in her left, she sensed rather than heard him breathe the words, ‘Oh God!’ and knew she had guided him into drawing a similar conclusion to her own. They both glanced at the bluetick, but her emotional state was such that she hardly felt his powerful grip tighten before he realized what he was doing and relaxed it without relinquishing his hold. Although the interplay was noticed by Mark Scrapton and Sergeant Ranse Smith, neither passed any comment. Nor did anybody speak until they were in the comfortably furnished sitting room of the house.

  ‘Where’re Buck and Lorna?’ the Major asked, referring to the retired
Texas Ranger and his wife who acted respectively as foreman and housekeeper of the ranch:

  ‘They went into Cowtown early to pick up some supplies,’ Rapido informed. ‘What is it, Major?’

  ‘I reckon you’d best sit down, Rita,’ Tragg suggested gently, instead of replying to the question.

  ‘Something’s happened to Jubal, hasn’t it?’ the girl inquired, although the words were more in the nature of a statement, but she did not sit down or remove her hand from the small Texan’s.

  ‘And to Dutchy,’ the Major replied. ‘They were gunned down outside the Interstate Vaudeville Theatre last night!’

  ‘Last night?’ Ranse growled, as Rapido placed an arm around Rita’s shoulder and, while she made an obvious effort to control her emotions, drew her closer to him. ‘Then why the hell didn’t y—?’

  ‘I was out in the piney woods coon hunting last night and couldn’t be reached, boy,’ Tragg explained, showing no resentment over the way in which he had been addressed by a man under his disciplinary control. ‘Nor could anybody else who knew you’re here.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the blond giant apologized, having forgotten in the stress of the moment that the connection between the ranch and Company ‘Z’ was a closely guarded secret to which only a few non-members were privy.

  ‘Who did it?’ the red head demanded and the expression on his Indian dark face gave credence to his earlier reference to being part Comanche.

  ‘We don’t know, but it could have been the Chopper,’ the Major replied and, after insisting Rita sat down, he told them everything he had heard about the events of the previous evening.

  ‘I know the Chopper’s always reckoned to work alone,’ the red head commented at the conclusion of the description. ‘But do you reckon that black feller they found in the alley could’ve been in cahoots with him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so,’ Tragg assessed. ‘Sure he gave a false address, and name, most likely, but no black ever wants to get mixed up in white folks’ troubles; especially if the law’s involved. Anyways, the Cowtown police are going to try to find him and we’ll leave that up to them.’

  ‘But we’re not going to leave it all to them, are we, sir?’ the small Texan asked, sounding almost gentle, as he sat alongside Rita, allowing her to sob quietly in his arms.

  ‘You can bet your life we’re not!’ the Major assured in tones of grim determination. ‘Whether it was the Chopper, or not, I want whoever did it!’

  ‘We all want that, sir!’ Rapido claimed and suddenly he no longer looked small. Instead, such was the strength of his personality that—even seated—he gave the impression of being the largest man in the room. ‘And none of us are going to rest until we’ve found him and nailed his hide to the wall.’ Listening to the rumble of concurrence which came from the other two young men and the still tearful girl, Tragg decided he would not care to be in the killer’s shoes if they succeeded in their task.

  Chapter Four – This Will Happen All Over Texas

  ‘Get it down, ladies and gentlemen! Send it in to beat the book! Double up and beat the book! Watch it! Here they come! Coming out now! Eight’s the point … And’s he’s missed it! … Coming out again!’

  Listening to the slightly more refined version of the traditional chanting given by the ‘stickman’ at the nearby table devoted to the game of ‘open craps’, 17 Roland Massart glanced around the big main room of the mansion in the best part of Dallas. Everything he saw filled him with a sense of satisfaction. Business was good and, in his capacity of ‘floorwalker’, he would receive a percentage of the profits as well as his salary for his managerial capacity. The bonus showed signs of being a decent sum. Even though this was the first night of operations in a new location, there was a fair sized crowd present. What was more, in addition to the considerable amount of money changing hands at the various gaming tables, the costly attire and expensive jewelry worn by all the players was testimony to the wealth which had given them access to the latest illicit gambling operation set up in the city by Tobias O’Reilly on behalf of Hogan Turtle.

  Aware that operating games of chance, as he was doing, was illegal under the statutes of the Sovereign State of Texas, just as alcoholic beverages were being sold in contravention of the Volstead Act, the portly and pleasant faced floorwalker—his ‘black tie’ attire as well tailored as that worn by any of the players, but lacking the discernible bulge beneath the left arm present in the majority of the other male employees present—felt little concern. Throughout all the years he had worked in the gambling ‘houses’ run by Hogan Turtle’s multi-faceted criminal organization, there had never been any attempt made by local peace officers or Federal Prohibition agents to enforce the laws being broken in whichever premises were currently in use. While his group had only commenced their illicit activities in the mansion that evening, these had merely been transferred from another location. The move had been made with well tested security so that it was not widely known to have taken place. He felt sure there was even less chance of anything unto wards happening tonight.

  ‘Come eighter from Decatur! Come, you lil babies, my gal wants a mink coat, not a new pair of shoes!’

  Massart’s complacent thoughts on the immunity of the ‘house’ from interference by the forces of law and order were diverted by hearing the exhortation of the player at the open craps table as he shook the dice before throwing in an attempt to make the required ‘point’ with a score of eight. However, although the words were uttered in a strident tone, such as might have been heard when a group of Negroes were playing rather than the elegantly clad Caucasian and Mexican participants present this evening, he merely glanced and smiled tolerantly. What was more, despite the somewhat unusual appearance of the speaker, the others around the table showed amusement rather than annoyance over his comments and behavior.

  About five foot ten in height, the ‘shooter’ seeking to make an eight—before he threw a seven for a losing decision—had a build which was slim yet clearly far from puny. It was set off by the excellent fit of the kind of informal dinner jacket (short, made from midnight blue worsted, with a rolling silk collar) known as a ‘tuxedo’. 18 His white shirt—although soft as was socially acceptable with ‘black tie’ attire—black bow tie and matching black silk waistcoat and trousers, with braid side seams, also were equal in quality to those worn by anybody else in the room, even though the white cotton gloves he wore were not a mandatory adjunct to such raiment. However, the reason for their unusual appearance being known to everybody present, as was the fact that his hair and features hardly seemed in keeping with the time and place, no complaints or comments were made. His hair was black and crinkly, cut fairly close all round his skull. His face, while pleasant, gave no indication of his true age, and was sooty black except for a rim around the mouth which was white and the lips red. The effect was clearly achieved by using theatrical make up of some kind.

  That James Ogilby should elect to come to a high class gambling ‘house’ with his head looking as it did was understandable to anybody who knew the circumstances which had led him to appearing in public that way.

  Using the application of burnt cork on the face, with an appropriate wig to establish the exaggerated character of a Negro, had originated in the minstrel shows which had come into prominence at the turn of the century. While they were losing their popularity to later, different, and in some cases more sophisticated forms of entertainment, performers—particularly comedians—in these other fields frequently worked in ‘blackface’ even though no longer involved in the minstrel format. Wearing it in addition to loud, or otherwise eccentric, costume now frequently served merely to offer an indication to the audience that something of a comical nature was forthcoming.

  Even before what was known as the ‘Great War’, Ogilby appearing under the name, ‘Haysoff Spades’—from the expression, ‘Black as the ace of spades’—had had a reputation as a ‘song and dance’ man who worked in blackface and was one of the top performers in hi
s field. At that time, however, he had had no need to wear his theatrical make up in public. Caught in Europe at the commencement of hostilities, although the United States had not yet declared war against Germany and her allies, like many of his countrymen he had taken service in the British Armed Forces. Ever alert for suitable recruits, Military Intelligence had taken notice of his linguistic and other abilities. Extracted with his complete agreement from the infantry regiment in which he had enrolled at the instigation of Frederick Manton, an English fellow performer who also joined, he had proved a competent and efficient secret agent.

  On being transferred to the American Army when his country entered the conflict, Ogilby had remained a member of the Secret Service. It was in this capacity, whilst operating behind enemy lines, that he had learned of a new ‘secret weapon’ upon which German scientists were working. Using all his skill, he had discovered this was a form of what would become known as ‘bacteriological warfare’ intended to spread a very serious communicable disease amongst the civilian population as well as the armed forces of their enemies. His efforts to prevent the completion of the scheme had been entirely successful. However, while on his mission, he had been infected by a less virulent brand of the substance they were creating. This had proved to create a type of ichthyosis, otherwise known as ‘pseudo-leprosy’, a scale-like infection which left all his skin bleached with hideous white patches identical to those caused by the real and dreaded disease they simulated.

  In spite of the ichthyosis having conclusively been proven to be non-infective or communicable, the result was unsightly to say the least particularly when it was taken into consideration with the illness it so closely resembled. What was more, regardless of a belief expressed to an earlier sufferer, 19 it had proved incurable. As he had intended to resume his interrupted career of being a professional entertainer in civilian life, the appearance his skin now presented could have ruined his career. In part, this had been saved by his having already established himself as a performer in blackface. Of an equal importance, his sterling, service as a secret agent had not been forgotten by his own and the other Allied Governments. A special dispensation was ratified by Congress, to which Great—as it was then—Britain and France were co-signatories, allowing him to wear his theatrical make up at all times when travelling outside the United States and entering domains over which they exerted jurisdictional control. Accordingly, he had been photographed in blackface for his passport and, along with the authority for this being included in the document, it was stated further verification of his identification could be obtained by checking his fingerprints against those displayed therein.