Cap Fog 3 Page 6

  Springing to his feet, Oakes made for the window. Rising and hurrying in the same direction, also without producing the kind of response from the big bluetick which his impetuous arrival had elicited, Shelby joined his cousin. Looking towards the courthouse, he drew a similar conclusion from what he saw.

  If the way in which the crowd were behaving offered a guide, the shots had not been discharged from the direction taken by the car carrying Foote!

  However, if the two men had been less engrossed in trying to discover the cause and location of the disturbance, they might have noticed something strange closer at hand!

  Instead of rising to join Oakes and Shelby at the window, or leave and investigate the incident, Branch remained seated on the bed!

  Five – He’s Not Taken with Your Company

  ‘Do you reckon’s how there might be something in it, Colin?’ inquired Sergeant Aloysius Bratton in his broad Irish brogue, as he and a second Texas Ranger strolled to where the deputy sheriff on duty as “turnkey” was unlocking the door of one of the cells in the basement of the Falls County courthouse. ‘Sure and it’s not often that Major Tragg gets the wrong of things.’

  ‘Not so all fired often it’s got to be noticeable, Paddy,’ Sergeant Colin Breda agreed and, despite being a second generation Texan, 44 his voice retained a strong suggestion of his ancestors having come from the Highlands of Scotland. ‘But I sort of hope he is this time. I’d hate to have to lay my life on the line for the likes of them.’

  ‘And me,’ Bratton seconded vehemently, darting a far from friendly glance at the two men in the cell. ‘But that’s the worst of being a peace officer. You’re always having to do things you’d sooner be leaving undone.’

  Six foot tall, black haired, ruddy faced, and in his mid-thirties, the Irish sergeant was barrel chested and solid-looking.

  Wearing a pearl gray derby hat at a jaunty angle, a salmon-pink shirt with a bow-tie which clashed against its hue, a somewhat loud brown and white check suit and ox-blood red shoes with white explosions on the toes, he looked more like a carnival side show’s “talented talker” than a peace officer. He did not wear a gunbelt, but the butt of a Colt Army Model of 1917 revolver—carried in a spring retention shoulder holster—showed from beneath the left side of his jacket and he was carrying a Winchester Model of 1897 ‘trench gun’ across the crook of his right arm. 45

  Matching the other Texas Ranger in height, a few years younger, Breda was less heavily built—which did not make him puny—and had a tanned, craggily handsome face. Dressed in cowhand’s clothes, he had on a gunbelt with a Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in its well-designed fast draw holster. 46 His left hand gripped a Winchester Model of 1894 carbine by the wrist of its butt, with its barrel resting on his shoulder.

  ‘Come on out!’ the turnkey ordered, with no suggestion of courtesy, opening the door of the cell. Then he looked at the approaching peace officers and continued, They’re all ready for you, Paddy, Colin.’

  ‘Sure and isn’t it the goodness you are, Barney,’ Bratton replied, but the note of amiability left his voice as he went on, ‘Let’s be having you out here, darlin’s!’

  After looking past the two men they sensed were to be their escort to Texarkana, Seth Chiverton and Irvin Schulman exchanged puzzled glances as they walked from the cell. Prior to having become small time operators in the bootlegging of illicit liquor, they had been a moderately successful ‘crosstalk’ act traveling the cheaper burlesque circuits and still dressed much as they had in their former occupation.

  Tallish, slim, moderately good looking, Chiverton had been the “straight man” of the team and still tended to act as its spokesman. He wore a smart light gray three-piece lounge suit, the jacket of which had a two-button fastening and the single-breasted waistcoat was cut high with a V opening. Always one to keep up the current fashion, the legs of his trousers were tailored with the wider legs which were becoming increasingly popular and would soon develop into the extremes of the so-called Oxford bags.

  Short, chubby and, apart from having a naturally dark tinge around his jaws which was incongruous with such features, innocent looking, Schulman’s attire was less stylish as became the comedian of the team. His derby hat was a size too small, the loud check sports jacket too large and long and his trousers looked a touch too tight. However, the reputation he had where members of the opposite sex were concerned—a trait he shared with his more presentable partner—suggested he was far less ingenuous than he appeared on the surface.

  ‘Where’s “Handsome Phil”?’ Chiverton asked, his rasping voice having an East Coast timbre and registering puzzlement.

  ‘He’s gone already,’ Breda replied.

  ‘Without us?’ inquired Schulman, in a tone much like that of his partner instead of employing the childish squeak he used on the stage.

  ‘Well now,’ the Scottish sergeant drawled sardonically. ‘Seeing’s he’s not here and you’re not with him, I’d say it’s closer to “yes” than “no” to that.’

  ‘Why’s he gone without us?’ Chiverton wanted to know.

  ‘Seems like that’s the way he wanted it,’ Breda explained and the Irish sergeant nodded concurrence with the claim.

  ‘Why?’ Chiverton challenged, his bearing indicative of suspicion.

  ‘Neither he nor that fancy legal shyster of his told us when they brought word from Major Tragg for him to go alone,’ Breda elaborated. ‘Only it seemed to me like, now he’s in the clear, he’s not taken with your company.’

  ‘So you noticed that as well, did you, Colin?’ Bratton inquired, leaning his trench gun against the bars of the cell and bringing two sets of handcuffs from the right side pocket of his jacket. ‘And here’s me thinking it’s just imagining I was that he looked real eager to be quit of them.’

  ‘Might just be’s how he didn’t want to ride along with them in case they started in to doing that lousy act of theirs,’ the turnkey suggested, making no attempt to conceal his dislike for the pair whose testimony had played a major part in securing the acquittal of Philip Foote. Without mentioning that he too had not been informed why the gang leader was being permitted to travel separately, he went on, ‘Do you reckon that’s what it was, Paddy?’

  ‘Sure now and isn’t that just what it might’ve been, Barney,’ Britton conceded, then turned a gaze filled with mockery to the prisoners. ‘Anyways, darlin’s, ’tis gone already he is and without you. So you’ll have to be making do with just Colin and me for company.’

  ‘And pleasant company you’ll find us,’ Breda promised, but with reservations. ‘Just so long as you don’t start doing your act for us.’

  Disregarding the Scottish’s sergeant’s remark, but digesting the information they had gleaned from the rest of the conversation, the two perjurers remained in the cell and once again traded worried looks. Stemming out of their own far from reliable, loyal or trustworthy natures, Chiverton and Schulman each possessed a wary skepticism where the motives of other people were concerned. Because of this trait, they were disinclined to put too much faith in anybody and the discovery that Foote was apparently desirous of avoiding their company during the journey to Texarkana, added to the exchange of comments they had overheard as their escort arrived, was filling them with disconcerting speculations and misgivings.

  Being realists, the pair accepted they were neither the most intelligent nor influential members of their illicit chosen field of endeavor. They also had no doubt this had been the reason they were selected to supply the gang leader with his fake alibi. Despite having allowed themselves to be persuaded by Reece Mervyn’s confidential clerk that performing such a service for Foote would be beneficial to their future activities, and having received adequate recompense for the consequences of their falsehoods in the witness box, they had a good idea of how things stood. Neither believed they were regarded as friends, or even as social equals, by the man they had helped save from the gallows and, remembering that he had made no mention of his intentions bef
ore leaving for the courtroom to hear the verdict of the trial that morning, they were both surprised and perturbed to discover he had made arrangements to travel separately.

  ‘Come on now, will you, darlin’s!’ Bratton commanded, his voice taking on a timbre of impatience close to asperity as the prisoners continued to stand in the cell and stare at one another. ‘Colin, Barney and me’ve got better things to be doing than standing around here all day ‘waiting on your convenience. Sure and you don’t have Counselor Mervyn to be looking after your interests.’

  Although the prisoners would have liked to ask questions about the points which were causing their perturbation, they decided that to do so at that moment might be unwise. It was clear from the burly Irish sergeant’s demeanor that he was no more enamored of them than the other two peace officers. They had no doubt that the part they had played in Foote’s trial was creating the hostility and, taking a warning from the reminder that the attorney did not represent them, neither wished to try the patience of any of the trio as this could offer an excuse for punitive action to be taken against them. For all that, neither was easy in his mind as Bratton coupled their wrists together behind their backs with the handcuffs—which would not be comfortable when riding in a car, to say the least—and ordered them to start moving.

  Passing the turnkey, with the sergeants close on their heels, Chiverton and Schulman ascended the stairs leading from the cell block to the ground floor passage at the rear of the court house. The back door was wide open and, beyond the low perimeter wall of the judicial building’s parking lot, they could see the pleasant and moderately expensive houses at the opposite side of the street. Both the lot and the surrounding area appeared to be deserted as they went through the door side by side. However, if they had glanced behind them on leaving the building, they would have seen something calculated to increase rather than diminish their misgivings.

  Instead of following their prisoners, the two peace officers had stepped apart so that each was standing behind the wall on either side and not in line with the doorway!

  The precaution, inexplicable as it appeared on the surface, proved to be justifiable!

  Two heavy caliber rifles crashed from an upstairs window of the building directly opposite the rear exit of the courthouse!

  The house in question was owned by Judge Robert J. McCrindle, although it was now empty as he was in court and his family on vacation!

  Missing Chiverton and Schulman by such a narrow margin that each felt the wind of a bullet as it passed close to his head, they flew onwards to shatter harmlessly against the floor of the passage behind them!

  Even as the prisoners were yelling in fright—but before either could so much as think of trying to retreat into the safety of the courthouse—the two Rangers plunged through the doorway. Their movements were so smoothly coordinated that, combined with the fact that Bratton had leaned the trench gun against the wall an instant before the shots were fired, it seemed they might have anticipated such a contingency was going to take place.

  While Breda sprang to one side, swiftly snapping the butt of the Winchester carbine to his right shoulder, Bratton reached for Chiverton and Schulman. Taking hold of the close to panic stricken pair by the scruffs of their necks, he flung them behind him with all the strength he could muster, and he was noted for the power of his muscles. Traveling in an uncontrollable twirling rush, they were propelled to safety. As they were hurtling across the threshold, they heard the Scottish sergeant commence firing with all the rapidity allowed by the lever action mechanism of his weapon. They were unable to see at whom he was shooting, or whether he was meeting with any success, but no more bullets came in their direction.

  Despite having been removed from the potentially dangerous location, the prisoners found their present position something of a mixed blessing. They had been flung into the shelter offered by the building with great force and, having had their wrists secured behind their backs by the handcuffs, they were unable to use their arms as a means of regaining control of their movements or retaining their equilibrium. First Schulman and then Chiverton, who was the lighter, lost his balance. Each crashed to the floor in a most painful manner. Nor was their suffering relieved to any great extent by hearing Bratton yelling exultantly that the Scottish sergeant had ‘got’ one of their would-be assailants.

  ‘That’s what I was figuring on doing, Faddy,’ Breda pointed out, lowering his carbine and gazing across the parking lot.

  ‘’Cepting that I was hoping to make it both of them. I’ll get that old corn-sheller of yours, then go and see if I can make it two straight while you take care of Chiverton and Schulman. ’

  ‘The devil a bit of that I’ll be having, Colin!’ Bratton protested, turning around. ‘I’ll get the little darlin’ and come with you.’ Stepping into the courthouse, he picked up the trench gun and looked to where the turnkey appeared from the cell block. ‘Take care of these two for a spell, will you, Barney?’ he said.

  ‘What happened?’ the turnkey asked, his leisurely arrival indicating that he had been unaware of the shooting.

  ‘Seems I must have heaved them back inside just a little mite harder than was good for them,’ the Irish sergeant replied.

  ‘Well yes, it sort of looks that way,’ the turnkey admitted, also glancing at the recumbent and squirming pair. ‘Only, without wanting to sound nosey or nothing, how come you-all heaved them back inside?’

  ‘Seemed like the right thing to do,’ Bratton asserted, gesturing with the trench gun towards the hollows left in the stone floor by the bullets. ‘Seeing’s somebody tried to make wolf bait of them as soon’s they went outside. And, ’though we’d sooner not, Colin ‘n’ me’re going to take out after them’s was figuring on doing it.’

  Six – I Wasn’t Doing As You Promised

  ‘I say there, officer,’ Reece Mervyn called, introducing a note of amiability he was far from feeling into his voice. ‘What’s going on?’

  Ever since he had been a child, being subjected to severe stress or violent emotions had had a detrimental effect upon the actions of the attorney’s bowels.

  Feeling the usual pangs assailing him as he was leaving Judge Robert J. McCrindle’s chambers at the conclusion of the unpleasant and most disturbing interview, Mervyn had hurried to the lavatories adjacent to the side door of the courthouse. While he was sitting in one of the cubicles, he could not prevent himself from contemplating various ways in which he might take revenge for the affront to his dignity, although he was aware that he had no way of implementing such plans.

  All the attorney’s considerations on the subject of vengeance achieved was to prolong his stomach spasm. As a result, almost a quarter of an hour elapsed before he could compose his churned up emotions sufficiently for relief to come. He had been alone in the lavatories all that time and, such was the sturdy way in which the building was constructed, he had not been able to hear the shooting in the parking lot.

  He was, therefore, unaware that anything out of the ordinary had taken place. Nor was there anybody in sight who might have informed him as he emerged from the lavatories and went through the side exit. Turning towards the front of the courthouse, he found some of the local peace officers were forming what was clearly a cordon across the areaway between it and the next building. Although his thoughts were mainly on how quickly he could leave Marlin and Falls County, he was curious enough to try and discover what was happening.

  ‘Huh?’ ejaculated the man to whom Mervyn had addressed the question, swinging around quickly and acting as if surprised to hear a voice from his rear. Big and burly, he wore the uniform of a sergeant in the Marlin Police Department. Although he clearly recognized the speaker—or, more likely, because he did—a frown came to his face and there was no suggestion of a matching amiability in his voice as he inquired, ‘Didn’t you hear the shooting?’

  ‘What shooting was that?’ the attorney asked.

  ‘Seems like somebody took the notion to put blue windows in t
hose two jaspers of your’n,’ the sergeant replied.

  ‘Which two men do you mean?’ Mervyn wanted to know, being aware that the term, “put blue windows in” meant to shoot. He was genuinely puzzled as he had only one member of his staff with him.

  ‘Those two no-account “burley-cue” comics you brought in to give Handsome Phil the “alibi” that got him off,’ the peace officer elaborated, making no attempt to conceal his doubts with regards to the veracity of the men in question.

  ‘They aren’t my men!’ the attorney protested, always alert to the possibility of having his manipulations of evidence exposed. ‘It was my client who told me of their connection with him. I even had to have them brought here on a subpoena before they would agree to give evidence.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ the sergeant answered, showing no indication of being impressed or even convinced by the explanation he had received. ‘Anyways, somebody threw lead at them just now.’

  ‘Was Mr. Foote hurt?’ Mervyn inquired, having deduced from the peace officer’s first comment that neither Seth Chiverton nor Irvin Schulman had been hit.

  ‘I shouldn’t reckon so,’ the sergeant declared sardonically, ‘seeing’s how he wasn’t with them when it happened.’

  ‘He wasn’t with them?’ the attorney repeated.

  ‘Nope,’ the sergeant confirmed. ‘Benny Goldberg and Dutchy Soehnen took him off with them in their car as soon’s they fetched him out of the courthouse. What I saw, they didn’t go around the back to pick up Chiverton and Schulman afore heading out of town.’

  ‘Why didn’t they?’ Mervyn challenged.

  ‘I don’t know and didn’t ask,’ the peace officer admitted, his attitude indicating he considered the matter was none of his business.

  ‘Who did the shooting?’ Mervyn asked.

  ‘I don’t know nothing about that, neither,’ the sergeant replied, displaying no greater interest than he had throughout the previous conversation. ‘We heard the shots, then Colin Breda yelled for us to keep everybody away from the parking lot while him and Paddy Bratton went after whoever had done it. The Chief of Police said for us to do it, which’s good enough for me.'