Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 41, No. 4, October 1977

Ranger Warren’s house was dark and the door was open. Rudell didn’t want to go in there, because he knew what was waiting for him to stumble over. But he was more afraid of what was back at Tod’s, and he didn’t want to be caught out here in the moonlight, so in he went.

The ranger lay flat on his back in the middle of the front room. Rudell could see his face clearly, even though no lights were on. His eyes were used to darkness, now.

Rudell had been in here before, visiting with Warren over the years, and he felt his way across the room and found the flashlight. He pulled out the chair, sat down at the ranger’s desk, and turned on the flash just long enough to find the switch on the two-way radio and pick up the mike. He didn’t fiddle with the settings or anything like that because he knew that Warren never had.

“Hello,” he said, his voice hoarse from the phlegm and the fear and the running, “come in... I need help here...”

But nothing was happening. The radio wasn’t doing the things radios are supposed to do, and after a few seconds of sitting with the dead mike in his hand, Rudell stood and flashed the light quickly behind the radio, saw where the wires had been ripped out. Outside the ranger’s house the wind moaned and went silent, getting ready for a gust.

Panic came in and took Rudell, then. He couldn’t just stand here, he had to do something, didn’t know what. Get out of this goddamn place, that’s what he had to do, get out there on top of one of those low hills where he could, hunker down and see anyone coming at him, where he could spot anything that moved out of this town. Good.

He swung the door, open and looked out. Nothing stirred but the wind. Down the rise from his lay the town, its ancient shadows cutting deep gouges into the moonlight. Over on the right was Tod’s house with the light on. No movement at all from over there, no sound, nothing. Rudell leveled his rifle straight ahead and stepped through the doorway.

The man was waiting for him against the outside wall. He gripped the rifle’s barrel and twisted and heaved, and Rudell was lying flat on his back, disarmed, staring open-mouthed and gasping with fear at a black head and impossibly wide shoulders silhouetted above him against the sky.

Rudell had known all along who it was. He’d shaken with fear inside, remembering those cold, dead eyes looking for targets, and he knew he was going to die. He closed his eyes tight.

Black said, “Get up.” Rudell heard the sound of the lever cocking the Savage. He opened his eyes just as Black kicked him hard in the calf of the leg. “Get up, I said.”

Suddenly, strangely, they were back inside Warren’s front room. Neither of them paid any attention to the body. Rudell could see Black clearly in the moonlight. He was dressed as before, only the windbreaker was zipped all the way up, hiding the white T-shirt. The big hard hands were out of sight inside tight dark gloves.

The rifle clattered against the opposite wall as Black tossed it away and confronted Rudell with empty hands. Rudell wondered where the other gun was, the one Black had used to kill the others.

“Where is he?” There wasn’t a trace of civility in Black’s voice. It was the snarling voice of an animal.

“Who?” Rudell faltered.

Black gritted his teeth and said, “Okay.” He snatched Rudell by the front of his dirty shirt. “You are making me mad, punk.” He slammed Rudell against the wall and kicked him in the pit of the stomach. Rudell pitched to the floor, wanting to breathe, to dry out.

“When I get mad I break things.” Black picked up the ranger’s chair and smashed it against the desk, flung most of the remains through the window. The shattering glass shocked Rudell and made him look up through his pain. Black was holding the leg of the chair and advancing. “I think I’m gonna start with your hands.”

The rough treatment had shaken all resolution out of Rudell. He knew he had no chance against this man, that this savage individual was his master, who would gleefully break every bone in Rudell Foster’s body if he wanted to, and that Rudell could do nothing to stop him.

“I’ll tell you,” he gasped, wanting to weep, “I’ll tell you—”

Snarling obscenities, Black reached down with one hand and hauled Rudell to his feet. The strength in the man was terrifying. Rudell would have handed over his mother to him if asked. “Save it for later. Right now you show me the money.”

Rudell didn’t want to go down there, but the presence of Black was an imperative he couldn’t think of defying. He merely nodded and led the way to Tod’s house.

The lights were still on. The card game had still be in progress. They’d been playing for poker chips, that’s all. Joe Morgan had been holding the bottle of Seagrams when Black’s bullet found him, and the room stank of whiskey. The others were all there, too. Rudell tried not to look at them as he and Black walked back to the pantry.