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Title: The famous killer who—
Author: Ray Humphreys
Release date: September 30, 2026 [eBook #79692]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Street & Smith Corporation, 1927
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79692
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FAMOUS KILLER WHO— ***
THE FAMOUS KILLER WHO—
By Ray Humphreys
Author of “The Very Outlaw He Was,” etc.
“I thank you, mayor!”
Sheriff Joe Cook of Monte Vista accepted the fat, black cigar with the
gold band that Mayor Al Foster of Monte Vista handed him.
“I have one for “Shorty,” ef he’s around,” said the mayor genially,
pulling out a mate to the sheriff’s cigar from a vest pocket.
“That gal telegrapher at the station!” exploded Sheriff Cook, savagely
biting the end off of his cigar. “I knowed when the railroad put her in
here that she’d be a-causin’ trouble with them big blinkers of hers, an’
that babylike voice she’s got! Dang me, mayor, ef it ain’t one thing
it’s another, seems, all the time! I ain’t agin’ wimmen in business,
y’understand, mayor, but I’m agin’ purty ones mixin’ up business an’
romance!”
Mayor Foster nodded in sympathy.
“Ah,” he said politely, “an’—ef I may ask—what has the young lady
telegrapher done, sheriff?”
The sheriff puffed violently on the gift cigar.
“She’s sure throwed a fistful of monkey wrenches into the machinery of
this office, mayor!” exclaimed Sheriff Cook.
“You ask me a minnit ago whar Shorty McKay, my deputy, was, an’ I answer
you by throwin’ a fit over that gal telegrapher. Waal, mayor, it’s got
under my hide. Every minnit that I ain’t got my eyes on that Shorty,
he’s struttin’ around the railroad station, swappin’ sweet words an’
lovin’ looks with that gal telegrapher.”
“You suppose he’s thar now?” asked the mayor.
“I dunno, but I suspect!” said the sheriff. “I sent him over to the
Palace Feed Stable at eleven thirty, to find out about a stray hoss
they’ve got over thar, an’ I figger he had to drap by the station to see
the noon train come in, an’ like as not he’s still thar.”
The sheriff’s telephone buzzed.
“Hullo?” said the sheriff, shifting his cigar to the far side of his
mouth. “Yes—what is it? Huh, who is it speakin’? _Talk up, I kain’t hear
you._ Oh, yes—yes—I hear you now, ma’am—yes—the telegrapher at the
station speakin’.”
The mayor arched his eyebrows and cocked his head sideways.
“Yes,” went on the sheriff, nodding energetically, “a telegram fer me
from Sage Mound—yes—yes, it’ll be all right ef you read it to me. Wait a
minute until I git a pencil now.”
The mayor hurriedly offered his pencil.
“Yes,” went on Cook, chewing vigorously on his cigar, “Give it slow—
an a little louder, please! I’ll write it down. Sheriff Joe Cook,
Monte Vista, Colo. Yes, I got that. Famous—yes. What? Oh, yes,
killer—who—arrived—yes—your town—yes—noon train—what?—Oh, yes—
period—yes—suggest entertain—yes—until—we—arrive—yes—signed—yes—
Hodges—yes—Osborn—yes—Morgan—uh-huh!”
The sheriff’s hand was shaking violently as the mayor leaned over his
shoulder to read the remarkable message the sheriff had written out. The
mayor’s face blanched as he read it.
SHERIFF JOE COOK,
Monte Vista, Colorado.
Famous killer who arrived your town noon train. Suggest
entertainment until we arrive.
HODGES,
OSBORN,
MORGAN.
“Lissen, miss,” the sheriff was stammering, “did you—waal—happen to
notice—ef—a man like that got off the train?”
“Oh, yes, sheriff,” came back the soft, musical reply of the girl
operator, “I particularly noticed that just one man got off the train.
He went to the Lone Spruce Hotel, I think.”
“Is—is my deputy, Shorty, around thar anywhars?” asked Cook. “Have you
seen—er—noticed him—that is?”
“No, I haven’t,” the girl sang back.
The sheriff hung up the receiver.
“Who yuh reckon it is?” whispered Mayor Foster.
The sheriff picked up the message he had written out.
“I dunno,” he said, candidly, “it might be “Scarface Slim” Kildare from
over Ouray, but I thought he was in the pen; it might be “Gun-fanner”
Smith from Big Springs—he’s a bad aigg! It might be “Slippery Dell”
Hanson, a right tough hombre hisself; or it might be “Greaser Tom”
Romero—with a dozen notches on his cannon.”
The mayor’s voice trembled.
“Them signatures, sheriff,” he stammered.
“Hodges is the district attorney over thar at Sage Mound,” said Cook.
“An’ you know Osborn is mayor of Sage Mound. Morgan is the sheriff. An’
them three signin’ the telegram means just one thing. This hombre is
wanted bad. We gotta git that feller.”
The mayor raised a hand.
“Sheriff, we gotta git him—of course,” said the mayor. “But we ain’t got
to have no shootin’ scrape over it. We got fair warnin’ he’s a bad one.
He ain’t no one-man proposition. We kin call on volunteers to help git
him.”
The sheriff was on the verge of asking the mayor why he was butting in,
but a second glance at the message caused Cook to decide that possibly,
after all, Mayor Foster had the right idea. There was no sense in
tackling a famous killer single-handed. No, sir! It would be well to
assemble a posse of sizable proportions and then trap the desperado in
such a way that he would have no chance to get his guns cracking.
“Whoever he is, he’s probably kilt his man in Sage Mound,” said the
sheriff, “an’ then rid over through the butte country, probably ketchin’
the train at Painted Bluffs, drappin’ off here, figgerin’ he had doubled
back far enough to fool ’em.”
“Yes,” said the mayor, licking his dry lips, “but let us postpone
guessin’ about him until after we has him! I won’t feel right until we
has him subdued, sheriff.”
“We’ll git some of the boys,” said the sheriff.
Fifteen minutes later, after diligent telephoning on the part of the
sheriff, some twenty men had assembled at the sheriff’s office, all
heavily armed. The sheriff explained—briefly, and the mayor had his say,
cautioning care so that there would be no slip-up that might result in
shooting and bloodshed.
“I believe ef we kin lure him out in the street, outa the hotel, we kin
rope him by surprise,” suggested the mayor.
The sheriff grunted.
“We got Jodey Bennett here to do the trick ropin’,” said the sheriff,
“but who is goin’ to do the lurin’, the nice job, Mister Mayor—that’s
what you got to consider—it’s got to be a dang smart hombre to handle
that without tippin’ his hand or gittin’ bumped off.”
“I wish Shorty was here,” said the mayor, wistfully.
“Shorty ain’t smart enough fer that job, even ef he was here,” said the
sheriff. “Who’ll volunteer?”
The silence was eloquent.
“Very well,” said the mayor, quietly. “I’ll git him out, an’ you boys do
the rest!”
“You git him out at your own risk, mayor,” said the sheriff, “an’ then
step quickly away from him so Jodey Bennett kin rope him. We kin fire a
few shots over his haid to pacify him—an’ by that time he’ll know the
jig’s up with him!”
So the crowd adjourned to Pecos Street and scattered around the Lone
Spruce Hotel. Jodey Bennett, the best trick roper in the San Luis
Valley, took station just around the corner from the main entrance to
the hotel. The sheriff, a sawed-off shotgun under his arm, planted
himself directly across from the hotel entrance, behind a sign board
which offered the twin merits of some secrecy and some security. The
rest of the boys stepped into doorways or loitered at the curbs, their
guns in hand under their coats or under folded arms. Mayor Al Foster
lurched across the street.
So quietly had the posse arrived and taken position that no one on the
street had noticed anything unusual. The hotel lobby was practically
deserted when the mayor stumbled in, brave at heart but irresolute at
the knees. He made for the desk, aware that his gait was shaky and
uncertain. The clerk, listening to his whisper, suddenly drew back as
though a rattlesnake had struck at his face.
“What?” he exclaimed.
“The man who came in on the noon train!” repeated the mayor in a hoarse
whisper, “is Scarface Joe or Gunslingin’ Pete or something like that—a
famous murderer—an’—would you please—kindly point him out to—to—to me?”
The clerk’s eyes looked like marbles protruding from his head. He tried
to speak, choked, and then pointed guardedly.
“Er—him?” asked the mayor.
The clerk nodded, mutely.
The mayor looked at the short, stockily built gentleman sitting on the
lounge near the front window. The man did not resemble the typical
murderer as the mayor had pictured him. He was not in cowboy clothes.
Instead he wore a brown derby and a suit of checked store clothes. He
was husky, however, and appeared able to put up a good fight with his
fists.
The mayor wabbled toward him.
“Excuse me, brother,” said the mayor, touching his man on the arm, with
deference, “I am the mayor here—an’—would you—honor—honor—me—if we took
a look at our—our scenery outside, perhaps?”
The man’s jaw dropped.
“Outside—outdoors,” said Mayor Foster, trying to smile.
The man took off his derby and scratched his head.
“Are you coo-coo, brother?” he asked, kindly, “or am I? I don’t git you
at all, but I’ll step out with you.”
They went out at once—the mayor staggering slightly, but still game.
A shrill whistle sounded. That was the sheriff’s signal to Jodey Bennett
to get ready with his rope. But the killer was not yet far enough out in
the street to give Jodey a chance.
“Over here,” said the mayor, smiling weakly, “ef you please. Really, our
scenery—mountains, mountains—an’—an’—a very fine climate.”
The man in the derby stepped toward the beckoning mayor.
Two shrill whistles; that meant the throw, from Bennett. The mayor, his
face chalky, tried to leap away, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot.
Jodey had made a perfect catch!
“What the heck!” screamed the stranger, as the rope slipped down and
tightened over his arms and likewise around the quivering form of Mayor
Foster. Immediately there was a volley of shots, and while the stranger
cringed a bit at the unexpected fusillade, it was the mayor who yelled:
“I’m here!” he cried. “Don’t shoot _me!_”
The stranger appeared dazed for only a minute. Then, with a wild cry
about “lunatics,” he seized Foster by the shoulders and attempted to
force him down through the hemp loop as a prelude to escape himself. He
did not know who the men were with the guns. He struggled mightily,
despite the feeble cries of the mayor, but at the moment that he had
forced the mayor to his knees and had the rope up, almost over the
mayor’s head, a man on horseback dashed around the corner, circled half
way once; and the lariat suddenly tightened with tremendous pressure,
yanking the stranger off his feet so that he somersaulted over the
mayor. Both rolled over and over in the street, like two fighting
bulldogs.
The mayor did his part. He yelled lustily. But the stranger, muttering
his astonishment, jerked the mayor up, and then, with an almost
superhuman effort, wiggled out of the noose and lurched for Bennett. He
pulled that gentleman from his horse so fast that Bennett thought a
tornado had struck him. Then, using Bennett as a shield, and lifting the
cowboy right off his feet, the stranger rushed the sheriff, closed with
him, and obtained possession of the shotgun in jig order.
Instantly the street cleared, as if by magic.
The stranger, whirling around dizzily, seemed to be attempting to cover
all points of the compass at once, but his tormentors appeared to have
vanished. Only the mayor, entangled in Jodey Bennett’s lariat, remained,
and he was sitting comfortably in the dust, massaging his forehead and
mumbling in a dazed sort of way. The sheriff and Jodey Bennett and Jodey
Bennett’s horse were all three crowded between two buildings. Others of
the posse were here and there, wherever they had found refuge. But the
stranger, handling the sawed-off shotgun most recklessly, held the fort.
“Your ropin’,” gasped the sheriff to Bennett, “was most scandalous!”
“We’re in fer it now, plenty!” said Cook uneasily, “I don’t recognize
that hombre as any of th’ outlaws I knows.”
“Say,” cried Bennett, “look who is comin’!”
Up the street came the girl telegrapher. Hands reached out from between
buildings, attempting to detain her, and hoarse warnings were hissed at
her, en route, but she paid no heed. In the middle of the street,
however, she saw one man with a shotgun and another man rubbing his
head. She ran out impulsively and laid a hand on the arm of the man with
the gun, and groans and sighs echoed from all sides, where the posse
waited.
Instantly heads popped out on all sides.
“That gal telegrapher!” exclaimed the sheriff, excitedly. “She’s got
spunk, brains, good, ol’-fashioned nerve!”
A figure loomed up beside the sheriff.
“Hullo, boss,” it said, “I been lookin’ fer you over to the office. I
got a message fer you. It was phoned up.”
“That gal telegrapher!” gasped the sheriff. “I hand it to her, Shorty. I
take back all I ever said! Why, fer out an’ out bravery, she jus’ takes
the cake!”
“Thanks!” said Shorty, fidgeting.
And then, before any one thought of rushing to the girl’s assistance, a
cavalcade of horsemen swept up the street. There were Hodges and Osborn
and Morgan and other leading citizens of Sage Mound. The girl waved them
down. They tumbled off sweating horses and crowded around, and it was
then that the sheriff remembered the telegram Shorty had thrust into his
hand. He read it swiftly, to utter a wild cry of mingled grief and rage.
He shoved the telegram at Bennett.
“Read that!” he howled.
Bennett read it. It said:
SHERIFF JOE COOK,
Monte Vista, Colorado.
Famous Miller New arrived your town noon train. Suggest
entertainment until we arrive.
HODGES,
OSBORN,
MORGAN.
“Miller New, the famous wrestler!” cried Bennett, his eyes bulging. “The
bird that is goin’ to wrestle at Sage Mound tonight!”
“Miller New!” whooped the sheriff, frantically. “An’ when that
baby-voiced, afraid-to-speak-up woman telephoned me, I thought she said
‘famous killer who’ instead of ‘famous Miller New!’”
“Explain,” said Bennett, shrugging his shoulders.
So the perspiring sheriff rushed out toward the group in the street,
where the mighty Miller New, famed wrestler, was loudly complaining
about the treatment he had received by a gang of thugs and maniacs. The
Sage Mound bunch were voicing angry exclamations, and a storm seemed
brewing.
“_That gal telegrapher_,” began Sheriff Cook, wildly.
“That gal telegrapher,” repeated Mr. New, in stentorian tones, “was the
only sane person in this burg. She come right out an’ asked me what the
trouble was, an’ when I told her who I was everything was lovely. Ef it
hadn’t been fer her I’d still be out here gettin’ shot at, I reckon, by
a lot of——”
“_That gal telegrapher_,” cried the sheriff, desperately.
“Listen, gents,” broke in Shorty, with a roar, “my boss, the sheriff, is
only tryin’ to tell you how brave he thinks the little woman is. He just
told me back thar on the sidewalk. He gives her credit! An’ as fer this
awful mixup about Mr. New—I reckon we’re all sorry. But I invite every
one o’ you Sage Mound gents to our weddin’——”
“_That gal telegrapher!_” roared the sheriff, once more, but again he
was interrupted. The mighty Miller New broke into a smile and at that
the Sage Mound boys sent up a friendly yell, while they waved their hats
and beamed on the girl and Shorty.
“That’s right, sheriff!” they whooped in cordial tones, though perhaps
in error. “We’re for her, too—hooray fer that gal telegrapher of ol’
Monte Vista!”
And the sheriff, speechless, sat down beside the speechless mayor, who
was still rubbing his forehead in a dazed sort of way.
[Notes on the Text: This story appeared in _Western Story Magazine_,
March 26, 1927. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United
States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
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