The night awoke to vivid, hectic life with the ominous rattle and growl of guns. The black alley was punctured with livid stabs of flame from the automatics, and the weird bursts of light etched in a scene of carnage.
But Shanty Hogan and Hymie were not to have it out alone that night. Two minutes after the two rival gangs had taken up positions of vantage on either side of the street, China Cholly’s horde of yellow gorillas swept down on the fray. The yellow men went into action with a reckless daring and spattered their foes, both Hogan’s men and Zeiss’ mob, with a deadly fire that took ghastly toll.
From then on it was every man for himself! It was hard to distinguish between friend and foe. The evil, dirty street was made heroic with the crash and thunder of glorious combat; the growl and bark of guns; the terrible blasphemous oaths of the fighters and the despairing death cries of the mortally wounded.
For a full ten minutes they carried on a miniature war. Neither side gave way, yielded; neither side gained despite the slaughter. The street became a shambles. Blood ran like water through the fetid gutters. The living stumbled over the dead, cursed them and kicked them out of the way. The three gangs would have fought it out there to the last man but—
Yelton, at the head of a squad of Federals, decided that the carnage had lasted long enough. In three high-powered cars they careened down the street, straight into the heart of the fray. Machine guns thrust their blunt, ominous nozzles from the windows of the cars and splattered a murderous rain of hail into the middle ranks of the gangsters. Friend and foe alike, Chink, Jew and Irish, fell like toy soldiers before that first, treacherous burst of lead. Confusion! Devastation! Pandemonium filled the street. The curses and death rattles of the dying rose on the howling wind above the roar of the guns.
In another few minutes Yelton would have carried out his intention of wiping out the three gangs. At this new, unexpected threat, the three mobs were utterly routed. All of the men were attacked from three sides at once and no one knew which fire to return first.
Half of the men had been mowed down in the first minute of bitter warfare before an answering round of singing death was spewed forth from their guns at the new foe. A foe more to be hated than any rival gang or gangster.
With a sick heart Shanty saw his men wither before the barrage of lead from the Federals. All the acid bitterness in his heart that a few moments before had been directed at Little Hymie and China Cholly, concentrated into one burning lust; a lust to kill Silas Yelton! But what was he to do? Retreat? The longer he held the few remnants of his mob there, the target for three fires, the less chance he would have of fulfilling his vengeance. For the first time in his long career as a gangster, panic seized his heart. Not that he was afraid to die — die with a hunk of lead in his guts. He had long realized that that was the way he would eventually go out. No! Shanty was filled with panic on realizing the terrific carnage amongst his men.
Common sense dictated retreat but never yet had he stooped to such an ignominious course. Then it was, when all seemed lost save honor, that inspiration came to Shanty Hogan. There came a momentary lull in the firing and in the brief silence he raised his voice and bellowed into the night.
“Hymie! Cholly!” he roared with all the power of his leather lungs. “It’s Yelton and the bulls. Let’s forget our battle and clean them out!”
Two answering incoherent bellows assured Shanty that his words had been understood and agreed upon. He breathed a half muttered prayer of relief. Quickly he rallied his men, encouraging them with bitter promises of vengeance. Revolvers and automatics were loaded again for the last time. Bleeding, stricken dying men rose to the last emergency like heroes.
“Now!” rang out Shanty’s voice above the chaos and din of battle.
As one man the few remaining survivors of his once indomitable mob swept into the street and headed for Yelton’s mob, still firing from the security of their machines. Hymie Zeiss at the head of his gang of gunmen joined them from the opposite side of the street. And on their flank, China Cholly, grinning devilishly, swept forward with his villainous crew of Chinks.
Involuntarily a blood curdling yell of triumph swelled from their lips, as with a united front they swept irresistibly forward. Nothing could stop them. They knew it. And Yelton and his men knew it too. At the sound of that savage, atavistic death cry from the mob of killers, panic and yellow crawling fear filled the heart of the Federals.
They returned an irresolute fire, but the underworld, united for once that night, was invincible.
The front of their ranks presented one continuous flame of fire as they advanced savagely up the street, guns and automatics belching death. When one man fell in the van, there was another from the rear, ready and eager to push up. Chink, Jew and Irishman battled shoulder to shoulder!
Slowly, at first, Yelton began to retreat. Then more swiftly. But ever that raking, deadly, unrelenting fire from the united mobs of the underworld, pressed on. The retreat became a route, a ghastly massacre. Men died, hurling terrible blasphemy on Yelton’s head.
Of the forty deputies that he had marshalled to what he believed a killing, less than half returned. Twenty men out of forty and of course Yelton himself. He saw to that!
The complete panicky route of the Federal men brought a temporary lull among the foes of the three gangs. They needed the next few minutes for the bitter task of collecting their dead. With sorrow-laden hearts they went about the gruesome work. They picked up the riddled bodies of their followers and placed them in machines.
In the course of the heart-breaking task, Shanty, Cholly and Little Hymie came together, elbow to elbow.
“Got to thank you, Shanty,” growled Little Hymie, “for comin’ through against Yelton.”
“Same goes here,” chimed in China Cholly.
“Forget it, you mugs,” snapped Shanty, slightly embarrassed. “This bloke yours?” And with the words he gently rolled over a stiffening corpse in the street.
Little Hymie claimed the dead man. There was a sob in his voice as he spoke.
“Louis, they got you too, did they? Don’t worry, old pal, I’ll get ’em.”
“We better lay off each other tonight,” continued Shanty. “Enough hell.”
“Yeah,” agreed Little Hymie. “We got plenty dead to bury.”
“How in hell all this hell start?” queried China Cholly.
“You guys trying to shoulder in on my racket!” growled Shanty.
“Your racket?” snarled Little Hymie. “How ya get that way? Since when you got a monopoly on the booze peddling in this town?”
“Sure, no your racket, Shanty. Me got to live too,” put in China Cholly. “No your racket Shanty any more Little Hymie’s or mine.”
“All right, all right! Forget it!” snapped Shanty. “All the stiffs taken care of?”
They looked around the street which at last had been cleared of its ghastly cargo. With a curt nod and a grunt to each other, the three gang chiefs turned on their heels and returned to their mobs. A minute later the blustery March wind had cleared away the acrid smoke of gun fire.
It was a weary, disillusioned remnant of his gang that Shanty Hogan led back to his retreat on Tenth Street. And it was with a stricken heart that Shanty counted the cost of the ill-fated expedition. And that was not alone in sorrowing his heart. The booze truck, the thing that had cost so much bloodshed, had escaped entirely.
Groucho had been right that morning when he had forewarned him of trouble. He too had suspected it, but the venture had turned out otherwise than he had planned. For the greater part of the time it had been out of his control. Only when the new menace of Yelton’s men had crashed down on them had he risen to the situation.