His taxicab was still waiting where he had left it a short distance up the street. He got in, perched tensely on the edge of the cushion, and directed, “Reservoir Hill! And make it snappy!”
Reservoir Hill was a knob at the north of the Tulsa City limit. A zig-zagging drive climbed its abrupt slope. The top offered a birdseye view of Tulsa, and mansions clustered there.
Behind the hill was the Osage — a hilly wilderness of scrub oak, spotted with oil derricks and compression pumping stations and a small refinery or two.
Nace dismissed his cab at the top of the hill and went on afoot. There was the faint sound of oil wells pumping in the distance. The tang of crude hung faintly in the air. Nowhere in Tulsa did it seem possible to escape the odor of oil.
The mansions on top were even more magnificent than they had appeared from below. In architectural style they ranged from Spanish, Irish and old English, to American Colonial. The fact that they were expensive, and the grounds well maintained, kept them from seeming garish.
There were no sidewalks along the wide, smooth, concrete parkways. Nace walked in the road, keeping to the left. Street names were painted, in black and yellow panels, on the raised curbs. His eyes searched these.
When he found the one he wanted, he walked on as if it were of no consequence.
He still carried his canvas zipper bag. Indeed, the valise seemed to be out of his hands only when he was in action. He lugged it along instinctively, much as another man wears his hat.
Sheltered by an ornamental hedge, he lowered the bag, opened it, and took out a small but powerful telescope. He wielded this until he located the house to which Julia had trailed the Robin Hood.
Somewhere near, a voice purred, “So now you’ve turned peeping Tom!”
Nace’s first reaction was to jump for cover. He did that. Concealed on the other side of the hedge, he scuttled twenty feet, then stopped.
The voice made hateful laughter. “Scared of little old Jaxon, Skipper?”
Nace angled south a few yards, then worked through the hedge. He found Jaxon hunkered down behind a squatty fir tree.
Jaxon returned Nace’s blank look with an unpleasant smile. “So now I’m in your hair again!”
Nace glared. “Hell, but you’re funny.”
“Oh yeah?” Jaxon seemed to consider the insult. “I reckon I don’t rate an explanation of why you’re here.”
Nace wrinkled the serpentine scar on his forehead. “I’m not quite sure what you rate.”
Jaxon leered. “If you’re wondering how I got the tip-off on this place, Skipper, I’ll tell you! It was the phone girl. She listened in when your platinum-haired dame called you. Mighty slick, your sending the blond on ahead! I didn’t give you the credit.”
“Why are you out here?” Nace asked him levelly.
“Didn’t I just tell you? For the Robin Hood and the ten thousand reward on his head.”
“Blood money, eh?”
“Any money is good money, Skipper—”
Nace flung out a hand and shoved. Sputtering angrily, Jaxon upset. Getting atop Jaxon, Nace clutched and got the little derringer from the oil editor’s watch pocket.
Sitting up, Jaxon lashed out with two angry fist blows. Nace dodged the fists, vanishing from their path in a way that seemed uncanny.
“Gimme that owl head!” Jaxon said.
Ignoring the request, Nace told him, “You can either go back to town, or you can behave yourself and go with me.”
Jaxon considered this, straightening his double-breasted gray vest with angry jerks. In getting the derringer, Nace had torn the watch pocket. Jaxon fingered the frayed edges.
“You couldn’t get rid of me!” the oil editor said finally.
“Okay!” Nace told him. “But you make one crack-brained move and I’ll crown you!”
“I’ll get that ten thousand before this is over,” Jaxon said grimly.
Nace opened his zipper bag to return the telescope. While he had the bag open, he removed four of his cigars, and pocketed them.
“I thought you smoked a pipe!” Jaxon grunted.
“What do you care what I smoke?”
They set off along the street, side by side.
The house to which Julia had trailed the Robin Hood was situated on a street a block to the right. They headed for it, cutting across yards and haunting the shelter of shrubbery.
The house was probably the most unattractive on the hill, but at the same time one of the largest. It was gray brick, squarish of line, rambling — not unlike a cluster of big gray boxes jammed together.
The body of the house had a height of two stories. Atop this sat a square room, the sides almost entirely of glass. These windows were not curtained, and Nace kept a close watch on them.
No one stirred. The absence of curtains lent the mansion a deserted aspect.
Jaxon whispered shrilly, “The Robin Hood may not be in there! He may have left!”
“Shut up!” Nace advised.
They crept up to within three-score feet on the house. There, behind a low, vine-covered fence of steel pickets, they reconnoitered. Using the telescope, Nace not only surveyed the house but also the yard and dwellings around them and behind.
To the rear, Nace saw something which caused him to start violently. However, he made an elaborate pretense and continued his survey of the surroundings.
Then he tapped Jaxon on the shoulder. “You’re going back!”
“What the—”
“Don’t argue! Beat it!”
Jaxon made an angry face. “If you think I’m gonna be left out in the cold on that ten thousand—”
Nace showed him a granite-hard fist. “You’re going to be left cold on the ground if you don’t do what I tell you.”
Jaxon considered this; then, mumbling disgustedly, he crawled away.
He had covered no more than two dozen yards when the Robin Hood and his two followers popped out of bushes and seized him.
Jaxon put up a violent struggle. He kicked, wielded his fists and tried to use his teeth. He sought to cry out, but a hand over his mouth stopped that.
Nace made no effort to go to his assistance, but merely looked on, as if it were all some drama he had staged. A swipe from a six-gun barrel finally reduced Jaxon to a limp pile.
The Robin Hood approached. His two followers came behind, dragging the oil editor.
Nace and the Robin Hood exchanged sour looks.
“You do the damnedest things!” growled the Oklahoma bandit.
“That’s a matter of opinion!” Nace told him.
Diving out a quick hand, the Robin Hood searched Nace. He found the derringer which the private detective had taken from Jaxon.
“Hell!” he snarled, and tried to give Nace back the weapon.
Nace scowled, knocked at his hand. The derringer flew off in the shrubbery somewhere.
The Robin Hood sat back with a pained expression on his wolfish features.
“If I ever catch you with a gun in your hand, I’m going to kill you dead!” he promised.
Nace replied nothing. In the eastern newspapers he had read of this fellow — and wondered how one man could garner such a reputation. Now that he was in contact with the Robin Hood, the answer was clear. The man had a code of honor and adhered to it. He was a character from the old, two-gun west, transplanted to 1933.
The Robin Hood shoved his wolf jaw out. “We’re going in! There ain’t nobody in there, but we’ll go anyway! I want to talk to you.”
They entered the house through a rear door which was unlocked and gave into a kitchen. The furniture, Nace noted, was swathed in dust covers. The place showed few signs of recent occupancy.
Jaxon was deposited on a divan. One of the Robin Hood’s men went into the kitchen, ran water into his hat, came back, and doused the fluid on the recumbent oil editor.