I didn’t have to answer. A short, heavy man came to the door and stood there alongside the man who’d opened it. He looked me over without saying a word to me, then said to the first man: “We’d better gather him in. It’ll just be one less. My way’s best — we’ll just take over the camp tonight. Hold the head guys and to hell with the kids.”
The minute I’d heard him talk I’d known he was the man I was looking for. The same one who’d gotten away the night before. The same one who’d fixed the trap for the truck and killed Comiskey and the two boys. The same one who’d shot the other boy in the road. His voice was a give-away. He had a city twang in it you couldn’t mistake.
He said to me: “O.K., wise guy! You asked for it and you’re going to get it. You should keep your nose out of what don’t concern it. You’re learning too late.”
I heard somebody inside the house say, “Who is it Mickey?” and knew there were at least three of them. And I knew that if they ever got me inside the house Rawlins wouldn’t be able to use that rifle.
I said: “I’ll stay out here.”
He said: “Why you big clown, I’ll take you apart and see what makes you tick.” And then he took a step away from the door toward me. And I took a step back away from him and yanked at the gun in my waistband.
He turned then and jumped for the house door, and he ran into the other man, who was standing there and staring. T got the gun cleared from my coat and started to turn it toward them, but I was far too slow. They were both out of sight by the time I got ready to shoot. A gun banged in the house and a bunch of splinters showed on the warped boards not a foot from my head, and I dropped to the ground, where I could watch the front door.
After a while I could hear talking — and then by and by a hat came poking out alongside of the door-casing. I didn’t shoot.
I could hear somebody inside say, “I’m going out!” and hear somebody else say, “That ain’t the way to do it, I’m telling you. He can’t get away.”
Then there wasn’t any more talking for a little while. And then the rifle at the edge of the clearing went off, sounding as loud as any cannon, and I heard somebody shout, around the corner of the house in back of me. The shout sounded odd, muffled.
Rawlins called out: “One down, Bryant! Keep low.”
I shouted back: “I’m going to set fire to the shack. That’ll bring ’em out — we’ve got ’em for sure!”
The same man who’d opened the door called: “Hey, young Bryant! Don’t burn the place. I ain’t got nothing to do with this. I’ll have a warrant out for you if you touch a match to it.”
That was funny but I didn’t have time to laugh. Somebody inside the house started shooting through the wall at me, and I had to get as close to the house as I could to keep from getting hit. One of the slugs didn’t miss me by more than an inch.
Rawlins let go a couple of shots from the rifle, apparently just trying to scare them, and then he shouted: “You there in the house! You can’t get away! We’ve got you trapped! Come out with your hands in the air!”
They didn’t answer him but I could hear them talking among themselves. And then one of them shouted: “All right! Here we come!”
Two of them, the same two I’d seen, came out the door in front of me, telling me they were going to do it and for me not to shoot. They had their hands up above their shoulders.
I called to Rawlins: “There’s still another one.”
The man I knew was a murderer snarled: “Get smart, wise guy! He ran for it and that guy shot him down like a rabbit. He’s out in back, deader than a herring.”
They stood there about ten feet from the house and with their hands like that — and Rawlins came walking across the clearing toward us. He was holding the rifle down now, with the muzzle slanting across his body and tipped a little in the air, but I had my gun pointed at the prisoners. Rawlins was walking along without looking toward his feet, and he was stepping as though he were walking on eggs — just balanced, taking little dainty steps.
And then he just dropped as though he’d been shot, shoving the rifle out ahead of him — and just when a gun roared inside the house he shot back. And a man pitched out of the door, not over five feet in front of my face.
Rawlins called: “That’ll be all of them, Mr. Bryant, but you’d better make sure. Go in and look. I’ll cover these men.”
I went in and looked. We had a dead man in the back yard as well as the one I’d just seen shot, but that was all except our two prisoners.
When I got through with my looking around, Rawlins was standing in front of them and saying: “And if either of you open your mouth except to answer questions, I’ll turn you over to my boys. They’ll hang you higher than Haman. I’ll get the straight of this if I have to stand back and see you lynched to get it.”
I said: “The house is empty, Captain. Both the other two men are dead.”
He said: “I’m a fair shot if I do say it myself. These men came out too readily — I knew there was a trap. So I thought I’d spring it. Mr. Withers, here, admits owning the 7Y brand, Mr. Bryant. There’s nothing else to do. We’ll march them back and turn them over to the police. The county coroner can pick up the bodies. I won’t bother with such trash.”
I said: “The dead man in back is the one that held us up in the cookhouse.”
“I’d figured that,” he said.
That was all there was to the thing. We walked them back to camp and we got the story on the way. Young Deiss’ brother had robbed a bank, along with four other men. He’d joined the C.C.C.’s to keep out of sight for a while — and he’d taken the caretaker job, over the winter, for the same reason. He’d figured it would be a good place for both himself and his pals. They joined him and spent part of the winter with him, all of them expecting the camp not to open again. And then, when the government unexpectedly decided to open, they had to get out in a hurry. They’d had their bank loot buried under the cookhouse floor — they got to it by taking a board from the base of the building — and they didn’t have time to get it out.
All of a sudden, trucks loaded with C.C.C. boys had started pulling into camp, and they’d left right then because they couldn’t explain being there. If there’d been any question about it and if the law had grabbed them for trespass, their bank robbery would have came to light.
Young Deiss’ brother had gone back to Gary, to wait until things had quieted down, and got arrested for another crime. The others just moved in with Jed Withers, who was a no-good loafer they’d met during the winter. They’d tried to get at the money several times — but each time something had happened and they’d failed. They’d finally decided to scare the camp away — and they hadn’t missed it by much at that.
Rawlins admitted to the state trooper we were talking with: “I’d made up my mind that if anything else happened I’d apply for a camp transfer. I was willing to admit the place was too much for me.”
The trooper said: “This is all well and good. It explains the shooting of the boy, in the road, as well as the accident to the truck. The man you captured admits both the shooting and wrecking the truck, though I’d like to know how you made that tough egg sign a confession.”
Rawlins said: “The boys were talking about a lynching. That was all. I let him hear the talk.”
“That’s well and good, like I said,” said the trooper, looking now at Lieutenant Ward. “But there’s this other boy getting shot. The one called Biggers. I realize the lieutenant can claim self-defense — there’s no doubt about it being that — but I’ll have to take him in I’m afraid.”
I said: “I can give you the guilty one on that, too, Sergeant. One of the bank robbers was named Deiss — he’s now in jail in the East for manslaughter. His brother is with us, and he and this Joe Biggers, who was shot, were pals. I think it was like this, but you can readily find out. Young Deiss knew his brother had robbed a bank and then ducked out here to keep out of sight. He undoubtedly recognized the man who held us up in the cookhouse as one of his brother’s confederates in the bank robbery, though the man wouldn’t recognize young Deiss.”