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

After I had packed the automatic in the hip pocket of Red’s sporty pants, I picked up the jacket of my uniform and started to take off the badge. But then it struck me that it would be pretty dumb to have a State cop’s badge anywhere on me, knowing how nifty them gypsies were at picking pockets, and remembering how I’d have to let them fuss around me when I kidded them into thinking I was a rube what had come to have his fortune told.

And I wouldn’t need it nohow — not when I was dealing with this bunch. So I left the badge on my jacket and takes my roll of money from my breeches.

It looked like a good, respectable roll, but to tell the truth, it wasn’t as respectable as it looked. I had a nice new ten-spot wrapped around the outside of thirty ones — making just forty dollars all told. But it looked like four hundred when I flashed it around, and what’s life anyway but a game of bluff? After I’d counted it over to see that none was missing, I stuck the roll into Red’s jeans and starts for the captain’s office.

When I clicked my heels together and threw a salute, the captain laughed so hard that he almost toppled over in his whirligig chair. I knew what was making him laugh without asking. I’d peeped into the little mirror by my bunk after I’d got dolled up. And I saw that the color of Red’s suit didn’t go ’tall good with my complexion.

I got one of those regular he-man faces, all tanned and roughened and big. While the colors in Red’s suit was meant for some pale, sleek little fellow what fits ladies shoes or jerks a soda fountain. Then my flat nose looked awful masculine, too, spread out underneath Bud Rosser’s new straw sailor hat. It’s a shame I ever had to get that smash, but the crook that done it is doing twenty years. He didn’t get away even if he did flatten out my nose.

After the captain got through laughing, he reached for the phone. “Never seen anything better, sergeant!” he said. “You can’t be beat! The smartest man down at headquarters would never pick you for a State cop! Start for Cold Springs at once — I’ll phone the sheriff you’re on your way!”

Those kind words of the captain sort of made up for his laugh. Outside of the compliments, it made a fellow feel good to know that after nine years in the service, he didn’t carry the marks of a human bloodhound when he was dressed up. For there’s some people that’s not specially friendly to State cops, and when a man tries to get a little pleasure mixing with strangers at a clam bake or dance, he don’t like to get snubbed.

“Tell the sheriff I’ll be with those gypsies in less than an hour, and I’ll try to have his man spotted before he gets there if he takes his time,” I spoke up.

“I ain’t been over Cold Springs way for almost three years, but they tell me the new road’s pretty good. I guess it ’ll be all right to take that old Dodge — not so classy-looking, but it won’t take so long as my horse.”

“Sure, sergeant!” the captain sang out. “Help yourself — and good luck!”

And his smile reached from ear to ear, showing me he meant it. He’s a fine fellow, the captain!

Another salute, and I was on my way.

II

It was one of those bright, tickling, May mornings when I rattled along the road to Cold Springs. As I got out of the hard coal country, into the farming lands on the other side of the mountain, I could sniff the smells of spring.

The whiffs of blossoms was fine, but the whiffs of fertilizer wasn’t so good. Taken altogether, though — with the fresh green trees, the chirping of the birds, the croaking of the frogs, and the itching of that tickling, warm air — it was what the highbrows call a perfect day. But fellows like ourselves would call it a dangerous day. It made you feel like going fishing, or getting drunk, or falling in love.

When I came to the top of the hill that dropped down to the Cold Springs, I happened to think I’d forgotten to bring a pair of handcuffs. But maybe it was just as well, I told myself, ’cause them gypsies were great fanners, and if their fingers happened to touch a pair of nippers, they’d get wise in a jiffy. Anyhow, the sheriff calculated to make the actual pinch — he and his men would have plenty of bracelets!

As I got toward the bottom of the hill, I spied the heathens’ tents scattered around in a grove of pines, standing on a bluff a couple of hundred yards back of the springs. Three big covered wagons with a pair of nags tied to each of them, stood on a patch of level ground, right off the road. About the tents I could see gypsy kids playing, gypsy women working, and gypsy men loafing around with big, long pipes in their mouths. About a dozen all told, not counting the kids, I figured.