If the pilot of the helicopter had been a character in the kind of television ‘cop’ programs currently being produced, he would, being a man who preyed on human suffering, be portrayed as a Southron, a veteran of the Vietnam War and, possibly, one who had won decorations for valor.
In real life, however, men who do not fall into any of those categories frequently take up such unsavory occupations!
Some, in fact, belong to a class of society the makers of the ‘cop’ shows apparently consider praiseworthy and incapable of breaking the law in such a fashion!
Tall, thickset and in his late twenties, Stewart Race had dodged the draft imposed to increase the armed forces of the United States during the—as it had proven—abortive struggle to save the people of South Vietnam from Communist domination. While enjoying the benefits of the ‘welfare state’ offered by ‘Trudeau’s turf’, he had learned to fly a helicopter. Remaining in Canada until an amnesty for ‘draft dodgers’ had made it safe for him to return to his homeland, he had put his training to use. Having no desire to start from the bottom in the competitive world of legitimate business, he had soon accepted an offer of employment from a far from legal source. From then on, he had continually been engaged in one criminal enterprise after another. He had so far avoided being connected by the police with such illicit activities, although he had not entirely escaped becoming entangled with the forces of law and order.
The sheriff of Rockabye County had been the officer concerned!
To make matters worse, the man with the pilot had been an active participant in the same incident!
Slightly taller, slimmer and about the same age, Reginald Holland had had the same type of background to Race. They had come into conflict with Jack as a result of their having been inflicting a beating on a prostitute. Unlike the later incident in Delicias, on this occasion he had had no need to restrain his protective inclinations. Although neither had produced a weapon, they had turned upon him and rapidly come to regret the decision. Well versed in the rougher aspects of unarmed combat, he was able to give both his would be assailants a beating neither would ever forget.
Nor, the sheriff realized bitterly, was either of the newcomers likely to have forgotten the man who had defeated them so painfully and thoroughly. Even having avoided prosecution, because their victim had refused to lay a charge against them, would not cause them to be in a forgiving mood when confronted by the creator of their suffering.
Regrettably, by the time Jack had realized with whom he would be dealing, there was no chance to turn away and avoid allowing the pair to see his face!
Clearly, the recognition was mutual!
‘God in heaven!’ squawked Holland, his voice having the somewhat high pitched, strident and self-assertive accent developed by a certain kind of middle class Americans. ‘Do you see who it is, Stewie?’
‘You bet your “mother-something” life I do, Reggie!’ Race snarled, also having stopped and stared in astonishment. He spoke like a well-educated Mid-Westerner and went on in tones redolent of alarm, ‘It’s that bastard, Jack Tragg!’
‘What’s with you two?’ Antonio Rodriquez demanded, sufficiently conversant in English to have followed the gist of the comments. ‘This’s my amigo, “Juan Herrero”, from Chihuahua City and not—!’
‘Like hell he is!' Race asserted, kicking the door closed and menacingly starting to cross the room followed by Holland. ‘He’s the “mother-something” sheriff of Rockabye County, not a god-damned greaser!’
‘Hey, amigo,’ Jack bluffed, in his practically faultless Spanish, mentally cursing the apparent change in transportation methods since the last of the informants against the Society For World Freedom From Passport Regulations had traversed the route. ‘What the “something” is bugging the gringos!’
‘Don’t try to feed us that crap, you bastard!’ Race commanded, knowing enough of the language to have translated the question. ‘Reggie and me know who the “something” hell you really are!’
‘I don’t know what’s eating this hombre—! ’ the sheriff commenced, directing the glance he believed there was time for him to take at his escort.
Displaying an unanticipated alacrity, the pilot sprang forward and lashed a backhand slap to the side of Jack’s turned away head. Sensing the danger just an instant too late and trying to avoid the blow, he was caught off balance and sent sprawling against the wall. The impact partially stunned him, but he was just able to give vent to an expletive in Spanish which had no actual counterpart in English.
The ploy failed to produce the desired effect!
Instead of drawing the required conclusion from the kind of profanity, elicited by circumstances which might have been expected to cause a man to employ his native tongue, Race started to follow his victim.
‘What the “something” hell are you doing you loco gringo bastard?’ Rodriquez yelled, as the three immigrants were rising with startled yells. Throwing his arms around the pilot from behind, he continued just as heatedly, ‘Quit it, god damn y—!’
The demand was not finished!
Having already been bringing a switch-blade knife from the right side pocket of his Levi’s, Holland flicked it open. A furious exclamation burst from him as he saw the Mexican grabbing the man who—bi-sexual tendencies notwithstanding—he regarded as being more than ‘just good friends’. Acting as he had when Race had been tackled by the ‘sweat-raiser’, he lunged and savagely thrust out his right hand.
For one who had protested an abhorrence of taking human life as his excuse to become a draft dodger, Holland showed no scruples over and considerable skill in his attempt to do so. Driven forward, the spear point of the eight inches long blade sank deep into Rodriquez’s kidney region. While such a blow did not kill as instantaneously as the one which had taken the life of Sergeant Ramon Sebastian, the pain it caused compelled its recipient to release his hold immediately.
Liberated unexpectedly as he was struggling to free himself, Race went forward faster than he had intended or was wise. The respite caused by Rodriquez intervening had been just of sufficient duration for his proposed victim to recover. Shooting forward his clenched right fist, Jack struck the pilot just below the breastbone. Brought to a halt and forced to start withdrawing, Race took the sheriff’s other fist on the temple. Spun around, he was propelled across the room with arms flailing violently until he went down and landed on hands and knees by the fireplace.
Although Jack had cleared himself of one danger, another potentially far more menacing was confronting him.
Spewing out high-pitched profanities at the sight of the treatment accorded to his friend, Holland prepared to launch another attack. He did not allow his close to hysterical rage to lead him into impetuosity. Rather it gave a direction to his actions which made him all the more deadly.
Studying the situation with the gaze of one well versed in such matters, the sheriff concluded he was in contention against an extremely competent knife fighter. Held close in against the side, the blade protruded ahead of the thumb and forefinger so the weapon could be used to stab, thrust, or cut in either direction with equal facility. What was more, as he essayed a grab, he discovered his assailant could move with considerable rapidity. Pulling back a trifle, Holland slashed swiftly. Slicing through the flimsy jacket and shirt worn by Jack, the razor sharp cutting edge bit into the top of his left forearm to inflict a shallow and not incapacitating gash. Bringing up his right foot, he managed to use it to thrust the young man far enough away to leave him room to maneuver.
Adopting the ‘forward stance with front-facing posture’ of karate, Jack advanced his left leg on the side facing the switchblade knife. As his assailant lunged forward and thrust at his apparently undefended midsection, he turned his torso to the right by transferring his off foot in a circular motion to his rear and leaving his other leg in place. Moving in conjunction with the evasive action, he raised both arms to almost shoulder height and held them, palms facing downwards, in front of him. As the weapon was nearing him, he applied the ‘grasping block’ by catching the wrist of its wielder with an inwards pressing action from his left hand and a ‘top grip’ hold from the right. Doing so had the effect of forcing the arm holding the knife downward.
Taking a firm grasp of the limb he had captured, the sheriff pulled it diagonally backwards to his right and away from his body. Shifting his weight on to the left leg as he was raising his right foot from the floor, he bent the off knee until its thigh was nearly horizontal. Giving Holland no chance to even consider a counter, he whipped up a ‘front snap kick’. Flying as it was intended, the ball of his right foot made contact with his assailant’s groin. Furthermore, it arrived against that most vulnerable portion of the masculine anatomy with all the force he could muster. A screech such as might have been emitted by a soul in torment burst from Holland. Fluttering from his hand, the switchblade knife made a flickering arc in the electric light which he was in no condition to see, much less worry over.
Even as Jack was releasing his hold and allowing Holland to blunder away, hands clasping ineffectually at the stricken area, he glanced around. What he saw warned him that he was still far from out of the woods as Texans put it.
Despite being unaware of the reason for the attack, the three illegal immigrants were showing no sign of coming to the assistance of a person they still believed to be another Mexican and fellow seeker of a better life in the United States. Instead, they were running in the direction of the door through which they had entered the cabin. Watching them, he concluded he could expect no help as far as they were concerned. Yet his need for some form of aid was, if anything, even greater than when he was confronting Holland.
Having made the most of his companion’s intervention, Race was kneeling where he had fallen and drawing a Colt Diamondback .38 Special revolver from the waistband of his Wrangler trousers. He was moving with a speed and purpose which implied he was as well able to handle the gun as his friend had been at wielding the switchblade knife. To make a precarious position even more fraught with peril, he was at a distance too great for the sheriff to hope to reach him before he was able to bring his weapon into action.
Even as Jack was about to throw himself forward, all too bitterly aware that he could not hope to arrive in time to prevent the Colt being turned upon him, there was a crash and the door flew open with a violence which partially ripped it from the hinges!
Leaving their place of concealment as soon as they had heard enough to indicate the sheriff was in need of assistance, Deputy Sheriff Bradford Counter had ignored the convention calling for the senior member of an investigation team to be first into a situation of possible danger.
Crossing the porch with his partner close on his heels, he used the full force of his enormously powerful body to shoulder charge his way into the building. As he entered, he took in all there was to see. His, of necessity, hurried scrutiny left him in no doubt there was a situation of lethal potential threatening his superior.
Assessing the state of affairs with the kind of rapidity called for by its severity, the blond giant took what he considered to be the only way out!
Aware that he and the three cheaply dressed Mexicans who were approaching impeded his partner’s line of fire, as the trio were blocking his own, Brad allowed the Winchester Model of 1897 riot gun to fall from his hands. Throwing himself forward with outstretched arms, he engulfed the illegal immigrants in them. No person lacking his Herculean thews could have hoped to achieve what he intended, but—helped to a great extent by his realization of what could happen to Jack Tragg should he fail—he lifted and swept all three aside although none came into the ‘ninety pound weakling’ category into whose face sand could be kicked with impunity. It was a feat which, if there should be some kind of Valhalla reserved for heroes, his great-grandfather, Mark Counter, and the other members of Ole Devil Hardin’s legendary floating outfit would have watched with approbation.
If Deputy Sheriff Thomas Cord had still retained any misgivings about the way in which his young partner had ‘caught the star’, (the means having been vastly different from his own), they were rapidly removed when he saw how the situation was being handled.
Watching the barrier of innocent bystanders being removed by the prompt action of his young partner, the elderly peace officer came to a halt while elevating his Winchester Model of 1912 riot gun to a firing position.
Discovering that he was exposed to such a well armed and potentially dangerous foe, Race put aside his desire to kill Jack Tragg!
The decision was as ill-advised as it was belated!
Watching the muzzle of the Colt Diamondback being turned his way, Cord aimed the much more effective riot gun. Its design and charge required less time to function than was necessary to ensure accuracy with a handgun. Squeezing the trigger, he turned free the very lethal load in the chamber. Then, deftly and rapidly operating the cocking mechanism, to eject and replace the empty case, he sent another nine .32 caliber buckshot balls closely in the wake of their predecessors. At such a comparatively short range, only a few of the missiles failed to connect with their intended target. The remainder ripped Race from his feet and pitched his lifeless body into the empty fireplace before he could fire at the elderly deputy.
Tensed ready to throw himself bodily across the room in a probably futile attempt to avoid being shot, the sheriff saw the need to do so had been removed. Instead, he looked to where Holland was rolling in agony on the floor. Deducing there was no immediate threat from that source, he swung his gaze to his subordinates.
‘I don’t know how you pair got here,’ Jack declared. ‘But I’ve never been more pleased to see anybody in my life!’
~*~
‘You can thank English Herb for us being on hand when needed,’ explained Deputy Sheriff Thomas Cord, after the other members of the Sheriff’s Office who had remained in the background until the shooting, had arrived to help clear up at the leisure cabin. ‘I’d asked him to see what he could come up with and he passed the word to us those two yo-yos you had fuss with were flying chopper for the society. As soon as we heard and Cen-Con told us Captain Machados said they’d picked up your signal that you was on the trail, Brad and I figured you could be headed for trouble. No matter that Alice and young Hernandez from Euclid hadn’t recognized you that day, we concluded they’d have reason enough to make you when they clapped eyes on you. So we reckoned it could be a mite better all round—well, maybe not for the bad guys—was we to hand should it come down that way.’
‘And you won’t get any argument from me on that,’ Sheriff Jack Tragg asserted, glancing at the bloodstained bandage around his not too seriously injured left forearm. ‘But how did you know which place to stake out?’
‘We didn’t go against your orders and come checking them out,’ Cord replied, taking on a well stimulated aura of the kind of conscious virtue which arose from having been justified in some form of disobedience. Waving a hand to his smiling young partner, he continued, ‘But a couple of Brad’s good buddies who’re in the Confederate States Air Force just happened to drop by at Gusher City the day after you left for Delicias—!’
‘They fly a Spitfire and a Mustang,’ Deputy Sheriff Bradford Counter supplied, as the older peace officer paused and made it obvious he was expected to go on with the explanation. ‘Which don’t look anything like the planes we use in the Air Patrol.’
‘And they just happened to fly around taking pictures of every cabin S.I.B. suggested could be the one,’ Jack guessed, knowing the organization in question was comprised of wealthy enthusiasts who owned and piloted airplanes built during World War II.
‘Yes, sir,’ confirmed the blond giant, the query having been directed at him. ‘That narrowed the field pretty well. Only three of the places in the areas S.I.B. said were possibles had space close by where a chopper could land. We had all of them covered and got lucky by drawing this one for ourselves.’
‘I should live long enough to see the day you rely on luck, Tom,’ the sheriff claimed with a grin.
‘Well, I’d admit, was I pressed, this looked the most likely of them all,’ the elderly deputy drawled. ‘And I’ll bet you’ll never guess who owns it.’
‘Then I’m not even going to try,’ Jack stated. ‘Who owns it?’
‘Frank Allaun,’ the big blond announced. ‘Bless his little “liberal” heart.’
‘Which same doesn’t necessarily mean he knows this place’s being used by the society,’ Cord pointed out, the man named being the owner of the “liberally” slanted Gusher City Mirror. ‘And, even if he should be, he’s likely covered his tracks so well we’ll have one hell of a time proving it on him.’
‘You can bet your bottom dollar on that,’ Jack agreed. ‘Hey, though, you must have moved fast to get so many of your watch gathered and out here.’
‘They were all with us at the Brendan Condominium,’ Cord replied. ‘Alice said to tell you she’s sorry she couldn’t make it, or at least, she would have said that had she been feeling like talking when we pulled out.’
‘Seems like you’ve had a busy night,’ Jack commented, after he had received a detailed account of the events—including the silent stalking and capture of the Mexican helicopter pilot—which had taken place prior to his rescue. ‘I’m real pleased to hear you’ve been kept busy since I went away.’
‘What else, with Mac McCall as acting sheriff?’ Cord inquired.
‘I told him not to leave you jaspers loafing around the Office,’ Jack claimed. ‘And I’m right pleased to find out somebody follows orders the way they were given.’
There was no malice in the comment!
Considered objectively, the sheriff found little about which he had cause to complain in the way things had turned out. Showing the kind of initiative he expected of them, Cord and Brad had acquired the information which allowed them to be on hand and save him from almost certain death. While he would not now be able to follow the ‘line’ employed by the Society For World Freedom From Passport Regulations to the end, he considered he had acquired sufficient knowledge of its working to ensure its dissolution. xlviii
Taking everything into account, Jack felt a good night’s work had been done. A hold up was circumvented and the loot retrieved. Contemplated blackmail was staved off and the photographs intended to support it had been destroyed undeveloped. Finally, an operation of what must have been considerable complexity was mounted and brought off satisfactorily. Nor did he doubt there had been other successes in his absence. Law and order had been maintained, even though he had not been present in his bailiwick while this was done.
Which was what the sheriff of Rockabye County expected and received from his deputies!