Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

“A swell chance he’ll have of getting his bird, once I hit the camp in the uniform!” I sputtered. “Them gypsies is damn cute — and don’t you forget it!”

The captain gave me one of his chuckling laughs. “Of course, you can’t go in the uniform, but in plain clothes — who could be better? Just talk and act natural, and they’ll never get wise you’re a State cop. There’s no one in the company who could carry out the part of the rube sucker as well as you!”

That kind of tickled me, ’cause I always felt I had the makings of a star actor, only I never had the chance to show my stuff.

“I’ll have the stage all set for that rattle-brained sheriff — just leave it to me!” I spouted. “All I want is a little time — then if his man’s in the camp, I’ll hand him over to him when he comes. As I was saying, them gypsies is cute, but I’ll show ’em there’s a man floating around here that’s a dam’ sight cuter!”

“It can’t be that you’re speaking of yourself!” the captain drawled.

Of course, the captain didn’t mean it — it was only his way of edging a fellow on.

“I’ll dig up some other clothes,” I said, paying no attention to his little joke, “and I’ll report before I pull out.”

“Do!” The captain picked up the morning paper. “I’ll phone the sheriff when you start.”

I pulled off a salute, walked out of his office, and hustles to the bunk rooms in the other end of the barracks. On the way, I happened to think that the coat to the only store suit what I owned was in a tailor shop, getting fixed. I’d got it torn in a mix-up at the Mine Workers’ ball, the week before.

But that didn’t worry me, ’cause I knew I’d be able to pick one up in the bunk room — some fellow always left his sparking clothes hanging on the wall.

When I got to our snoring quarters, I saw I was right. Red Calahan had left his new, checkerboard suit on a hanger, back of his bunk. And me and Red was always pretty good friends. As long as I’ve got to borrow the coat, I thought, why not take the whole suit? I figured my black trousers and vest wouldn’t go so well with that ice cream coat.

I knew I’d be able to get into it somehow, even if I was almost five foot eleven, ’cause Red was only a couple of inches less. Of course, I expected it’d be a little tight and short, but what of that! I wasn’t going to make a call on some swell chicken — I was going out on business — the business of the law.

So I grabbed Red’s glad rags and went to my own bunk. Sinking down on the springs, I threw off my big cowboy hat and peeled off my leather leggings. Then I stripped off the tight-fitting, dark gray jacket and my nifty, peg-topped, riding trousers. It wasn’t long then — just a little longer than it took me to change my flannel shirt for a white hard-boiler with a high, stand-up collar, and fix my new, bright red tie — before I was all set, in Red’s suit.

It fitted kind of snug and the bottoms of the pants didn’t quite come to the tops of my shoes, but I figured if I took it easy, I wouldn’t bust it. The thing that worried me the most was those blamed short sleeves. They didn’t cover a bit of my cuffs, and I didn’t want those cuffs to get dirty, ’cause they was the only pair I had.

Then I was a little bit bothered about a hat. I knew without digging it out of my trunk, my black derby wouldn’t look so good with that splashy suit. But I remembered all of a sudden that Bud Rosser had showed me a new straw hat that he’d bought yesterday. He wouldn’t want it before evening — I’d see if I couldn’t find it!

I found it all right, only it fit a little tight — stayed up on top of my head, making my ears look kind of low. But it stuck on when I shook my head, so I decided to wear it. Then I was all fixed to go on the job, excepting for my gun and badge.

But when I tried to get my big Colt into the hip pocket of those bologna skin pants, it couldn’t be done. And the coat was too short to wear a holster. Any one would have seen the gun a mile away. I had a pocket automatic in my trunk, and I made up my mind to take that. Even if some one saw it, they wouldn’t get wise — the constabulary didn’t carry that kind of a shooting iron.

I see you’re dying to know how I got it, then. Well, mum’s the word, but we troopers don’t always turn in everything we get hold of. Of course, we always turn over to the captain anything we haven’t got any use for — such as raw green moonshine, liquor made from wood alcohol, wornout bootleggers’ trucks, counterfeit money, and the likes of that, or anything that really amounts anything.

But when it comes to a single quart of good old rye, a lone case of real, honest-to-goodness beer, or an extra nice piece of small artillery, we sometimes get a trifle forgetful. If we didn’t, they would only pass down the line until they landed in some county official’s stomach or pocket, and what’s the use of that! Enough said — that automatic was a dandy!