THE GANGMAN SEES RED
Exactly thirty minutes after Clay had left him to break into the house,
Johnnie lifted his voice in a loud wail for the police. He had read
somewhere that one can never find an officer when he is wanted, but the
Bull-of-Bashan roar of the cowpuncher brought them running from all
directions.
Out of the confused explanations of the range-rider the first policeman
to reach him got two lucid statements.
"They're white-slavin' a straight girl. This busher says his pal went
in to rescue her half an hour ago and hasn't showed up since," he told
his mates.
With Johnnie bringing up the rear they made a noisy attack on the front
door of Number 121. Almost immediately it was opened from the inside.
Four men had come down the stairs in a headlong rush to cut off the
escape of one who had outwitted and taunted them.
Those who wanted to get in and those who wanted to get out all tried to
talk at once, but as soon as the police recognized Jerry Durand they
gave him the floor.
"We're after a flat-worker," explained the ex-pugilist. "He must be
tryin' for a roof getaway." He turned and led the joint forces back up
the stairs.
Thugs and officers surged up after him, carrying with them in their
rush the Runt. He presently found himself on the roof with those
engaged in a man-hunt for his friend. When Clay shattered the window
and disappeared inside after his escape from the roof, Johnnie gave a
deep sigh of relief. This gun-play got on his nerves, since Lindsay
was the target of it.
The bandy-legged range-rider was still trailing along with the party
ten minutes later when its scattered members drew together in tacit
admission that the hunted man had escaped.
"Did youse get a look at his mug, Mr. Durand?" asked one of the
officers. "It's likely we've got it down at headquarters in the
gall'ry."
Durand had already made up his mind on that point.
"We didn't see his face in the light, Pete. No, I wouldn't know him
again."
His plug-uglies took their cue from him. So did the officers. If
Durand did not want a pinch there would, of course, not be one.
The gang leader was in a vile temper. If this story reached the
newspapers all New York would be laughing at him. He could appeal to
the police, have Clay Lindsay arrested, and get him sent up for a term
on the charge of burglary. But he could not do it without the whole
tale coming out. One thing Jerry Durand could not stand was ridicule.
His vanity was one of his outstanding qualities, and he did not want it
widely known that the boob he had intended to trap had turned the
tables on him, manhandled him, jeered at him, and locked him in a room
with his three henchmen.
Johnnie Green chose this malapropos moment for reminding the officers
of the reason for the coming to the house.
"What about the young lady?" he asked solicitously.
Durand wheeled on him, looked him over with an insolent, malevolent
eye, and jerked a thumb in his direction. "Who is this guy?"
"He's the fellow tipped us off his pal was inside," answered one of the
patrolmen. He spoke in a whisper close to the ear of Jerry. "Likely
he knows more than he lets on. Shall I make a pinch?"
The eyes of the gang leader narrowed. "So he's a friend of this
second-story bird, is he?"
"Y'betcha!" chirped up Johnnie, "and I'm plumb tickled to take his dust
too. Now about this yere young lady--"
Jerry caught him hard on the side of the jaw with a short arm jolt.
The range-rider hit the pavement hard. Slowly he got to his feet
nursing his cheek.
"What yuh do that for, doggone it?" he demanded resentfully. "Me, I
wasn't lookin' for no trouble. Me, I--"
Durand leaped at him across the sidewalk. His strong fingers closed on
the throat of the bow-legged puncher. He shook him as a lion does his
kill. The rage of the pugilist found a vent in punishing the friend of
the man he hated. Johnnie grew black in the face. His knees sagged
and his lips foamed.
The officers pried Jerry loose from his victim with the greatest
difficulty. He tried furiously to get at him, lunging from the men who
were holding his arms.
The puncher sank helplessly against the wall.
"He's got all he can carry, Mr. Durand," one of the bluecoats said
soothingly. "You don't wantta croak the little guy."
The ex-prize-fighter returned to sanity. "Says I'm white-slavin' a
girl, does he? I'll learn him to lie about me," he growled.
Johnnie strangled and sputtered, fighting for breath to relieve his
tortured lungs.
"Gimme the word, an' I'll run him in for a drunk," the policeman
suggested out of the corner of a whispering mouth.
Jerry shook his head. "Nope. Let him go, Pete."
The policeman walked up to the Runt and caught him roughly by the arm.
"Move along outa here. I'd ought to pinch you, but I'm not gonna do it
this time. See? You beat it!"
Durand turned to one of his followers. "Tail that fellow. Find out
where he's stayin' and report."
Helplessly Johnnie went staggering down the street. He did not
understand why he had been treated so. His outraged soul protested at
such injustice, but the instinct of self-preservation carried him out
of the danger zone without argument about it. Even as he wobbled away
he was looking with unwavering faith to his friend to right his wrongs.
Clay would fix this fellow Durand for what he had done to him. Before
Clay got through with him the bully would wish he had never lifted a
hand to him.