The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun (17 page)

The chief groaned, “I knew it, I knew it. There was bound to be another. Has he made his move yet?”

“The driver says not yet.”

“Where are they?”

The operator waved for silence and then reported, “He says they’re east of Tucumcari, through Glenrio and just before Vega. That’s some pretty wild country. A passenger saw him take out a gun. He looks just like the other guy.”

The chief dispatcher had already signalled his telephone switchboard shouting, “Get me police headquarters,” and then said to the man at the microphone, “Look, tell him to keep his shirt on and not to lose his nerve. Just pretend he doesn’t know anything and keep on driving. Get it? We’ll handle it. Get his exact position.” To the telephonist he yelled, “Get me Captain Russell.” The dispatcher queried the driver and then called to the chief dispatcher, who was already at the phone, “He’s three miles east of Glenrio, doing sixty. He ought to be near Wildorado in twenty minutes.”

The chief dispatcher said, “Hello, Russ? Keegan, chief dispatcher, Inter-State. Our driver on Bus 150 L.A.–Washington reports there could be another hijack attempt. He just passed through Glenrio. Can you get a roadblock somewhere around Wildorado? He hasn’t made his move yet.”

C H A P T E R
1 1

T
he roadblock had been installed efficiently and strategically around the corner of a large left-hand bend so that there was no chance of anyone in the bus seeing it until the very last moment when they came out of the turn where the straightaway began again. The fat driver, sweat pouring from him, sighed with relief as he saw the barrier across the highway, the police sign and the roadside swarming with men. State troopers and sheriff’s cars, pistols, shotguns and one submachine-gun were in evidence. A quick look into the rear vision mirror brought further relief to the driver. None of his passengers had stirred. He eased to a halt.

Looking forward towards what appeared to be a small army, there was no longer any doubt in Marshall’s mind. He groaned, “Oh no! Son of a bitch! And I figured we had got away clean. That goddamn cop back at the gas station and the driver giving him the dope. Probably didn’t want to tackle it alone so he telephoned ahead.”

He felt Julian’s searching gaze upon him and knew that the boy was looking to see whether he was scared. He wasn’t any longer. Nevertheless, he must give hope. He said, “Remember, you’re my kid brother and let me do the talking.”

Julian asked, “Do I keep my beard on?”

Marshall replied, “Yeah. And your hair too and remember, no stammer. Wait a minute, put that gun in your pocket—no, you better give it to me—hell, leave it where it is.” Marshall dropped his hand over the holstered Bubble Gun so as to conceal it.

The Coote sisters saw him do it and exchanged glances.

Vera asked, “Is he going to shoot?”

Prudence replied, “I don’t think so. We’re saved.”

For at that moment the driver had swung the door open and with the bus entirely surrounded by armed men, two burly sheriffs climbed aboard and positioned themselves at the head of the gangway, huge florid westerners with hands like hams, but with curiously innocent and almost cherubic and childlike faces that belied the great pistols slung from their hips. They needed no microphone and the leader of the two boomed forth.

“Folks, I’m Sheriff Casper of Navajo County here speakin’ to you and this is my deputy, Williams. Jes’ to say there ain’t no need to git excited or upset-like. We’re jes’ carryin’ out a little routine investigation for someone maybe the law is lookin’ fer and we’re askin’ fer yer kind cooperation.”

The phrase “someone maybe the law is looking for” was all the confirmation Marshall needed. He resorted to the side of his mouth again and said to Julian, “That’s us. Play it cool.”

Sheriff Casper was announcing, “Me and my deputy here will now pass down though the bus jes’ askin’ y’all to produce any identification you might have and if anyone is packin’ any hardware, we’d appreciate it if you’d jes’ be so kind as to hand it over butt-end to.”

The passengers stirred and rustled with unease and turned and looked about their immediate vicinity to see who the culprit or desperado might be who had brought out this army.

Sheriff Casper queried the first man on his right, “Yer identification, suh?”

The passenger said, “Harry Morrison. I’m a salesman. Bathroom fixtures. My car broke down at St Elmo. Here’s my social security card and driver’s licence.”

“Much obliged, suh. You carryin’?”

Harry Morrison reached into his right hip pocket and produced a flat .38 automatic which he first carefully turned around, then tendered grip end first.

Sheriff Casper said, “That sho is a lotta gun.”

Morrison said apologetically, “Well, when you do a lot of driving at night . . . Here’s my licence to carry.”

The sheriff said, “Sho, sho, cain’t say I blame you. I’ll jes’ hang on to this fer a minute.” And then, removing his ten-gallon hat, he dropped the gun into it and went on to the next passenger, a woman who handed him a driving licence, “Mrs. J. R. McQuarey, 437 Elm Avenue, La Jolla, California.”

“Very kind of you, ma’am.”

Mrs. McQuarey explained, “I was just going to Oklahoma City to visit my mother. See, here’s my ticket.”

“Thank you, ma’am, I guess that tallies.” The sheriff indicated her handbag and said, “Now, what about that there little . . .”

With a slight flush of embarrassment she produced a small, pear-handled, short barrelled .32. She said, “My husband . . .”

Sheriff Casper lifted an eyebrow. He said, “You ain’t got nuthin against yer husband now, have you, ma’am?”

“Oh no, sheriff, it’s just that when I travel alone, he thinks I ought to . . .”

The sheriff said, “Well, now, ma’am, maybe he’s right. We’ll just have it for a moment.” He deposited in into his hat and moved on.

By the time the two had proceeded the length of the bus and approached Marshall, Julian and the Coote sisters, they had unearthed no one whose
bona fides
was not impeccable. On the other hand, Sheriff Casper’s Stetson was now practically overflowing with weapons, pistols of every kind and calibre, including a .22 woodsman, .32’s, .45’s both in automatic and revolver, an old-fashioned double-barrelled gambler’s derringer, one bowie and one hunting knife in an ornate sheath. Marshall was sitting quietly and looking both wary and puzzled. Were they after him and Julian and, if they were, why didn’t they grab them immediately, and if they weren’t what the hell was this all about?

Prudence had been watching the approach of the pair and suddenly turned to Vera and said, “Oh dear,” but she recovered quickly when the two men arrived at their station. Casper glanced at Marshall, then at the Coote sisters, and Prudence summoning all her courage gave him an almost imperceptible nod of her head in Marshall’s direction. The sheriff exchanged glances with his deputy and then said to Marshall, “Okay, young feller, what’s yer name?”

Looking up from beneath the brim of his hat, Marshall appeared imperturbed, if anything, slightly derisive, “Frank Marshall.”

“Identification?”

Marshall reached inside his shirt and pulled out dog tags which were attached to a thin chain. They clinked faintly as the sheriff examined them.

The sheriff nodded and said, “Oh, I see. How long you been back?”

“Fourteen months.”

“Where you goin’?”

“Washington.”

“What fer?”

“Guy promised me a job.”

The sheriff indicated Julian, “Who’s he?”

“My kid brother.”

“What’s his name?”

Marshall said the first name that came into his head, “Herman.”

Julian looked up startled.

The sheriff said, “Herman, eh? Looks like Buffalo Bill to me.” Then, to Marshall, “You heeled?”

“No.”

“Any objection to a frisk?”

Some mockery had come into Marshall’s voice as he replied, “Yes, but go ahead.”

He stood up and raised his arms and Casper nodded to his deputy who gave Marshall a quick professional going-over.

Deputy Wiliams reported, “He’s clean.”

Marshall sat down again. As he did so, Prudence in a quick gesture pointed to Julian.

The sheriff caught it and said to Julian, “Okay, Herman Buffalo Bill, let’s have a look at that cannon.”

Julian extracted the Bubble Gun from its holster and with the same care and grown-up gesture he had seen adopted by the others handing over their weapons, he held it by the muzzle and handed the butt end to the sheriff. He said, “Be careful.”

The sheriff asked, “Loaded, is it?”

Julian replied, “It isn’t a real one. It’s a Bub—”

Before he had finished the sentence, a hand dropped on to his leg, cutting him off.

Marshall said, “Oh, for God’s sake, sheriff, it’s a kid’s toy.”

The sheriff gave it only a cursory examination, shook it once and then handed it back, saying, “Okay, Buffalo,” and then to Marshall, “Sorry about the frisk, brother. No offence.” He then turned to the two Coote sisters. “Well now, what about you two ladies here?”

Almost in unison, Prudence and Vera replied, “We’re British.” And then Prudence added, “The Misses Vera and Prudence Coote, Vine Cottage, Birdsfeather Lane, Little Eggham, Dorset.” She opened her reticule partly and then quickly closed it again just sufficiently so that she was able to get her hand in to fumble and produce their two passports.

“We’re on a tour,” she said, handing them to Sheriff Casper.

He gave the passports a cursory glance and handed them back. “Well, now that’s jes’ fine and allow me to say that you are mighty welcome to our country.”

“Course you ladies wouldn’t be packin’ any shootin’ irons.” Deputy Williams said this not as a question but more like a statement of something highly obvious, but just as the sheriff and Williams were about to turn way, they caught a glance of alarm exchanged between the two sisters.

The sheriff altered his deputy’s statement to a question. “No offence, ladies, but I guess we got to ask you like everybody else. Are you carryin’ any lethal weapons?”

Prudence and Vera exchanged another look, this time of complete panic.

Vera turned to her sister and said, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to, Pru.”

Slowly, and looking up into Sheriff Casper’s face with a mixture of fright and sheepishness, Prudence opened her huge reticule and extracted therefrom, held by the muzzle with great distaste and anxiety, an enormous British Army revolver of about 1892 vintage.

Deputy Williams took it from her. “Goshamighty, what do you call that?” He handed the gun to Sheriff Casper.

Casper examined the gun and read off the maker’s mark, “Webley, Mark III Army Issue, 1890,” and then addressed Prudence, “Is it loaded, ma’am?”

Prudence looked terrified. “I don’t know.”

Sheriff Casper worked an ejector on the gun and five huge brass cartridges clinked into his hand.

Prudence gave a little shriek of alarm. “Oh, dear, is that what they look like?”

Sheriff Casper asked, “Ma’am, where’d y’all git a thing like this?”

Vera replied, “Our grandfather carried it in the Crimean War.”

Prudence said, “Boer War, Vera, not Crimean.”

“Grandfather always said it was the Crimean War,” Vera protested.

“Come, Vera, you know grandfather was always a little dotty. It couldn’t have been the Crimean. He was only a baby then.”

“Oh, dear, I get so confused about our wars,” Vera sighed, and then brightly and rather sweetly she said to Sheriff Casper, “We’ve had so many, you know.”

Sheriff Casper returned to the point. “Well, now whatever do you ladies want to be carryin’ a thing like this fer?”

Prudence replied, “You see, we were coming to America for the first time and the colonel had warned us, well, you know, the dangers, and we thought we’d better . . .”

Sheriff Casper, in dead earnestness, said, “Why, ma’am, you don’t need nuthin’ like that over here. You’re jes’ as safe as you would be in yer own home. This is a peace-lovin’ country.”

He was moved by the emotion of his speech so that his hatful of assorted artillery rattled gently.

Sheriff Casper handed the weapon back to Prudence with the cartridges separate. “I wouldn’t put them shells back in there if I was you, ma’am. If that old gun went off, it’d likely blow out the side of a house.”

The sheriff and his deputy turned and started back up the aisle. When they reched the front of the bus, Sheriff Casper picked up the driver’s microphone and addressed the passengers. “Well, folks my deputy here will return yer personal property now, and that’s about all and we want to apologize for holdin’ you up this way and we’re glad to be able to cause you no further trouble everybody bein’ properly identified as bein’ innocent citizens. Happy trip, folks.”

Deputy Williams arrived at the front of the bus, having returned all the weapons to their owners, and the two sheriffs left.

Marshall wiped the sweat from his forehead and said under his breath, “Son of a bitch, those two nutty old bags.”

Julian eyed him and said, “W-w-what happened?”

Marshall turned upon him irritably, “Didn’t I tell you to cut out the goddamn stammer?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, then say it right.”

Julian did. “What happened?” Then he added, “Are you scared again?”

Marshall said, “No, I’m not and stop asking that. When I am, I’ll let you know. But it wouldn’t have been funny if those cops had been after us, would it?”

“But, what were they . . . ?” And then, as an afterthought, “Why did you tell them my name was Herman?”

Marshall wondered what it would be like if he really had a kid brother like Julian. Were all kids like that? He supposed so. He probably had been himself. His sense of humour reasserted itself and he replied, “I once had a parrot by that name. He could talk your head off. What happened was that those two biddies thought we were hijackers and told the driver.”

Julian said, “Hijackers! Say, gee, that would be fun.” He whipped his Bubble Gun from its holster and pressed it against Marshall’s side. “I ain’t aimin’ to hurt anybody long as you stay nice and quiet in your seat, but I wouldn’t like this thing to go off because it sure makes a powerful hole. Driver, turn around, we ain’t goin’ to Washington. We’re going to . . . What was the name of that place in Mexico?”