Behind the Iron Read online

  On the other hand, Fallon wasn’t feeling all that good himself.

  The big man straightened when he had cleared the trash piles. Fallon looked up into the man’s pale eyes. He had to look way up. This giant had to be at least six-foot-six, and his shoes were flat.

  “Hell,” Fallon said, and would have added—What do you need a knife for?—had it not hurt so much when all he had said was Hell.

  He shot a quick glance behind him, but found no policemen coming to his rescue and few passersby on the street at the other end. He looked beyond the goon and the trash and could barely make out Dan MacGregor still tangling with one or two of the remaining thugs. His eyes rapidly came back to the grinning behemoth.

  Fallon brought the bat up, made a feint with it at the man’s belly. The man did not flinch.

  The blade slashed. Fallon jumped back and almost dropped the bat.

  The giant laughed.

  Fallon recovered, but did not wait a moment longer. He charged, swinging the bat, causing the big brute—shocked by the unexpected attack—to stumble back toward the trash. But Fallon stepped on a bottle, and that sent him sailing toward the ground. He had to drop the bat and send his hands out to break his fall.

  He hit hard, rolled over, saw the man coming at him again. Desperately, he reached out for the bat, but couldn’t find it. He thought about trying to bring his legs up again. Instead, he rolled to his left, over the bat, and saw the attacker stumble past him. The brute must have been expecting Fallon to try to flip him over his head again with his legs.

  Whatever the reason, the few seconds Fallon had were all he needed to pick up the bat.

  The man spun around, shifted the knife to his left hand, and stopped. He was sweating, too, and breathing hard. He grinned and spread his legs.

  That’s what gave Fallon the idea.

  He brought the bat down to his right side and used his left hand to wipe his brow. He breathed in deeply and as he exhaled, he brought the baseball bat up hard, savagely, and caught the fool right between the legs.

  The man’s face went white. The knife clattered on the ground as the giant’s hands reached for his groin, and as the man sank to his knees, Fallon brought the baseball bat up, lifted it above his head, and started to bring it down on the head of the big man, who now leaned over and vomited.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  He couldn’t do it.

  Harry Fallon had buffaloed men with the barrels or handles of revolvers before. It was a good method to knock a man out, or at least get a fellow’s attention. But he had known a few lawmen who had clubbed a drunk too hard with the pistol and left those men dead—or wishing they were dead—instead of just knocked out. A baseball bat? Even considering the size of the big Pole, Fallon thought the bat might kill the leviathan.

  Joliet and Yuma had hardened Fallon—but not that much.

  He brought the bat up, leaned the top half across his shoulder, and was starting to turn toward MacGregor and his muggers.

  That’s when the bullet splintered the bat and sent Fallon to the ground.

  He lay there trying to shake the feeling back into his right hand. And Fallon realized that he had been right when he had told Dan MacGregor that one or both of the criminals coming up the alley might be carrying a pistol.

  Seeing the splintered bat, Fallon realized that by not clubbing the giant with the bat, and instead bringing it down, well, that might have saved his life. Otherwise that bullet might have hit Fallon in the neck, throat, or head.

  The big tough was on all fours, still out of the fight—for now, at least—so Fallon rolled over toward the towering, sprawling trash heap. He heard footsteps as the two men ran toward him. No, Fallon figured out a moment later. Not two. Just one.

  He stopped rolling and stopped near the trash heap, rising no more than to his knees and hands. The feet kept pounding. Yes, one man.

  Fallon started for the entrance to the passageway. One thought almost made him stop.

  Could the man running toward him be Dan MacGregor?

  Another thought followed:

  Had this been some kind of setup to get me killed?

  No. That made no sense. And even if that were true, it did not matter.

  A running man was maybe twenty feet from Fallon, and that man certainly meant to kill Fallon.

  Then, Fallon remembered the derringer.

  He crawled rapidly and dived to the entranceway through the trash heaps. The derringer lay on the ground amid the tangled mess of flesh, clothing, trash, and blood. Fallon dived again. His right hand gripped the cold pearl handles of the silver-plated belly gun. He brought the weapon up just as one of the other two brutes appeared in the opposite entrance through the canyon of garbage.

  Fallon heard a little pop, and his fingers and palm warmed suddenly. The man screamed. Something whined. Glass shattered.

  Fallon came up, squeezed the trigger again, sending lead from both barrels at the other assassin. The man was on his knees, gripping his stomach and muttering for his mother. Harry didn’t see any blood seeping between the mugger’s fingers. The little pistol the thug was carrying lay on the ground, next to the other baseball bat.

  “Gawd a’mighty,” the man said, as he started to straighten.

  Fallon stepped over the mounds of men who remained unconscious, bent to pick up the pistol—it was a small Smith & Wesson hideaway gun—lifted it over his head, and when the man stopped clutching his belly and looked up, Fallon brought the weapon down.

  Not hard enough to kill the idiot. At least, Fallon hoped he didn’t. The man groaned and slid against the trash heap briefly before he joined his colleagues. Fallon noticed the big brass buckle on a belt that held a holster for the little Smith & Wesson and a pouch, probably for ammunition, on the other hip. The buckle was dented. Apparently, one or both bullets from that derringer Fallon had picked up had struck this one in his midsection.

  “Lucky,” Fallon told him, though the man couldn’t hear anything right now. “Otherwise you’d be gut-shot and dying real slow.”

  Fallon looked down the alley. Dan MacGregor lay spread-eagled between a makeshift tent of newspapers, petticoats, and an old, rat-chewed yellow rain slicker, and the other one of the criminals. He hoped MacGregor was just unconscious. At this point, he really didn’t give a damn about the fellow on the ground next to the detective.

  That reminded Fallon about the big cuss, so he waded across the other men, cleared the canyon, and saw the brute crawling his way toward the opposite street. Fallon caught up with him and cracked the barrel of the Smith & Wesson against the back of the giant’s skull. He had to do it again before the man groaned and fell onto his face.

  He was, Fallon was reassured to see, still breathing.

  As he walked back through the trash canyon, he broke open the Smith & Wesson and looked at the cylinder.

  “Hell,” he said in disgust. Only three shells—though the .32-caliber popgun could hold six—and all three had been fired. He snapped the cylinder shut, glanced at MacGregor and the other unconscious thug several yards down the alley, and stopped beside the one who had been carrying the pistol.

  Fallon squatted, pushed back the linen duster, and opened the pouch on the unconscious man’s left hip. He swore again. The pouch did not carry .32-caliber cartridges for a Smith & Wesson hideaway gun.

  Thinking that he might find or even buy bullets to fit the .32, Fallon shoved the pistol into his waistband and looked and felt again inside the pouch. He came out with a cigar, tossed it on the ground, and reached in again. This time he brought out a double eagle. He found another twenty-dollar gold coin in the pouch, too.

  These, he pocketed, and as he stood, he glanced at the cigar. He stopped, bent down, and picked up the cigar. A bum, or a brute like this, Fallon expected to be keeping a well-used, soggy cigar, but this one still had the wrapper around it and had not yet been clipped—not that a mugger would have known to clip a good cigar first.

  As he rose, Fallon brought the ciga
r under his nose. It smelled strong. He walked toward MacGregor but first stopped at the unconscious man lying near the detective. Fallon again smelled the cigar and looked at the name on the band. He cussed himself for not paying enough attention and squatted by the man Dan MacGregor had managed to knock out. He was just unconscious, with his face already purpling with bruises. Dan MacGregor must have known a thing or two about boxing, for he had managed pretty well. He probably could have taken both of these goons had the one with the pistol not used the walnut butt to club MacGregor from behind.

  Fallon found another cigar of the same brand in this gent’s vest pocket. It was unsmoked, too, and Fallon tossed it to the side. He also found some matches, so he bit off the end of the cigar he had kept, struck the match on a piece of iron, and held it to the cigar until it was glowing red and Fallon could feel the smoke in his mouth.

  After withdrawing the cigar for a moment, Fallon spit and went through the other man’s pockets. He found no identification, no .32-caliber cartridges, and only a penknife, three copper pennies, and two double eagles. He let the man keep the pennies and the knife, but Fallon slipped the gold pieces into his pocket. He glanced down the alley, and thought he would likely find a cigar and some forty dollars in gold in the pockets of those hired muggers, too.

  But he didn’t have that much time, or inclination, to rob thieves.

  The cigar returned to Fallon’s mouth, and he sucked on it, as he moved closer to the out-cold American Detective Agency’s operative.

  He gently slapped MacGregor’s face. “Dan,” he said, after removing the cigar. “Dan,” he said louder, and slapped the face harder. “MacGregor.”

  The man moaned, but that was all. He smoked more of the cigar, studied the label again, and took a few more puffs, then brought the dark cigar past his nose, breathing in deeply. He tossed the cigar across the alley, spit onto the ground, and swore softly.

  He might not have gotten a good look at the label, but Harry Fallon would remember that smell. A strong cigar. No, not strong, but damned near potent.

  Fallon moved back to the cigar he had not smoked, and decided to keep it, just to show MacGregor. Maybe. And maybe Fallon would show MacGregor the gold coins, too. This cigar smelled just like those Sean MacGregor, the detective’s father, smoked.

  So . . . had Sean MacGregor hired these six goons to beat up, and maybe even kill, Fallon? And had Dan MacGregor let himself get knocked out?

  Or had ten years in Joliet and not that long but too damned long in Yuma just made Fallon as paranoid as a trusty?

  He slapped MacGregor’s cheeks again.

  The goon must have hit MacGregor pretty hard. So Fallon decided that this had not been the younger MacGregor’s idea.

  He looked down the alley toward the street. The wind must have picked up, because the few people who passed by had their heads bent and their collars pulled up. Somewhere a church bell began to chime, and a few carriages rumbled down the street. No one bothered to look into the alley. For a moment, Fallon considered heading for the street to get some help.

  But he quickly dismissed that idea and opted for a better plan.

  He pulled open MacGregor’s coat. The man must have been confident. Wearing a coat like this, most men would have taken it off before engaging in a brawl down some disgusting Chicago alley. He saw the watch chain and fob, and a cigar sticking inside the top pocket. Fallon withdrew it, saw the band—Knights of Pythias, not one of the imported Havanas his father smoked—and returned it to the pocket. He saw no shoulder holster, no hideaway pistol. Dan MacGregor hadn’t lied; he wasn’t heeled.

  The inside coat pocket showed some bulk. Fallon reached inside. No pistol, but an envelope—no, two envelopes—and a wallet. He didn’t care about the wallet, so he withdrew the envelopes. One held paper currency in mostly twenties and fives, by Fallon’s rough estimate, around two hundred dollars. The other was a letter. Fallon read the name and address, which made Fallon curious—but not enough to open the sealed letter. The envelope wasn’t one of those he had seen at the American Detective Agency. In fact, there was the address for the sender in the corner.

  Open the letter, and MacGregor would know it had been read. And the only person who could have read it was Harry Fallon. He cursed his luck, read the name and address again, and returned the letter and the envelope with the money back to the coat pocket. He let the wallet be.

  He was pulling his hand away from the coat when he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel press behind his left earlobe. A second later, Harry Fallon heard a sound a lawman never forgets.

  The metallic clicking of a hammer on a revolver being pulled to full cock.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “An’ wha’ d’ye think ye be doing, laddie?”

  The Irish brogue was thick. The barrel of the pistol did not move.

  “I’m just helping this man,” Fallon said.

  “Aye. Ye be helping him by taking his money, or so it appears to me and my tired ol’ eyes.”

  “Trying to find out who he is.” Fallon raised his hands and slowly, very carefully, began to turn his head.

  The Chicago cop was a big man, with a bulbous, rose-colored nose and watery eyes. He sported a massive mustache, the handles curled up and stretching toward his flapjack-sized ears. The policeman used his free hand to wipe the bit of nose one could see behind the red mustache. Finally, he took a step back and motioned with the revolver’s barrel for Fallon to stand. It felt a whole lot better not to have that cold steel against his ear and skull.

  Fallon obeyed the command, and the burly policeman took a step back, kept the gun trained on Fallon’s chest.

  “Stop!” the copper shouted. The finger tightened on the trigger.

  Fallon froze.

  “Ye be carrying a toy, I see,” the policeman said. “Would ye mind pulling that toy from ye pants, but not too fast as I wouldna wan’ to get excited and blow a hole in ye middle.”

  Fallon removed the Smith & Wesson .32 and held it, butt forward, toward the policeman.

  The copper took it and sniffed the barrel.

  “Ye be taking target practice, laddie, within the city limits.”

  “I took it off a thief,” Fallon said. “They were robbing this gent.” He motioned at MacGregor.

  The police officer took a quick glance at Dan MacGregor’s long body. Next, he looked at the one MacGregor had managed to knock out.

  “Would that be ye partner?” the policeman asked.

  Fallon shook his head. “No. This one was trying to rob this one.” He nodded at the respective bodies.

  The copper chuckled.

  Maybe, Fallon thought, he should have said that MacGregor was his partner, but that would not have explained why Fallon had been going through the detective’s pockets.

  “An’,” the copper said with a surly grin, “ye, being the upright and outstanding citizen that ye are . . . ye decided to pitch in and help a total stranger.” He still had not lowered the hammer on the big Schofield .45. “We dunna find that many Good Samaritans in Chicago, laddie. Especially in this part of our fine city.”

  While he was talking, the Irishman fiddled with his pocket until he got it unopened and shoved the empty .32 into the opening.

  “Six-to-one,” Fallon said, “just didn’t look like a fair fight to me, sir.” Maybe the sir would help, Fallon thought.

  It didn’t. But the six-to-one got the big police officer’s attention.

  “Six-to-one d’ye say?”

  Fallon nodded toward the mountain of trash down the narrow alley.

  The copper looked. His eyes grew even wider. He took a couple of steps back and shot another quick look at Dan MacGregor and the thug beside him, and finally stared hard into Harry Fallon’s eyes.

  “Move,” the cop said, and motioned again with that still-cocked cannon of a .45. “An’ be quick about it. But not too quick, laddie. Ye resemble a fine pacer we used to race north of Dublin, and I’m jes an old plow horse. In other words, ye look lik
e ye can run, and ye are a few inches taller and thirty pounds lighter than me, but I dunna think ye can outrun a bullet. On. Toward those feet and hands I see amongst the garbage that stinks to high heaven.”

  Fallon turned and moved hurriedly, but not too fast, to the pile of men in the canyon through the mountains of garbage. He had to hurry. Neither the muggers nor Dan MacGregor would stay unconscious for long. In fact, one of the baseball bat – wielders appeared to be stirring.

  Once they reached the tallest trash heap, the copper again motioned with his pistol, and Harry Fallon backed up till he felt the bricks of the tenement building against his back. The Irish policeman turned. His mouth opened. He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his uniform coat.

  “Bloody hell,” the copper said, and looked back at Fallon. He shot a quick glance again at the carnage, before repeating, “Bloody hell,” and then he added, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” He crossed himself with his free hand. “D’ye mean to tell me, laddie, that these four blokes were in on this wee little set-to?”

  Fallon gestured. “There’s another over the mountains and through the woods.”

  The one who had been wielding one of the baseball bats started to rise. The copper pulled the billy club from his belt and slammed it against the man’s head. Fallon couldn’t see the stick strike the criminal, but the sound made him cringe.

  “Six?” The copper returned the stick, bent, kept the Schofield aimed in Fallon’s general direction, and his left hand disappeared into the canyon cut through the garbage. The hand came back into view. The little derringer looked even smaller in the policeman’s huge hand.

  “An’ this wouldna be yer’s either, I be guessing?”

  “No.”

  The copper tried to drop the derringer into the pocket with the Smith & Wesson, but realized there was no room, so he stuck it beneath the belt around his ample midsection. Again, he looked at the bodies, and then motioned Fallon to walk back toward him.