Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 19, No. 99, February 1952

“Let... ’em get me...” he said. He tried to laugh. “Let... them punks... get me...”

Old Casey wasn’t as heavy as Jim had imagined. Only the car door was too narrow. But he got him in. A slug was in his shoulder.

“Hurt a lot?”

Casey tried to laugh. “Not... a lot.”

Jim staggered up. It couldn’t matter now whose brother that was. “Give me the shells,” he heard himself yelling. He took them, snatched up the shotgun. “Be right back, Sarge,” he promised.

Running, he didn’t think to bend low. Didn’t Charley know he’d catch him? Hadn’t he always caught him, ever since they were kids? Even in the dark he could see where the gang had raced down the muddy bank. A snag of somebody’s raincoat hung on the barbed-wire fence. Jim ducked through it and halted, listening.

They were over that way, down the hill. He ran, following the sound.

Back on the road he heard a police siren coming. Some other car, that meant. It would find Casey. He ran on: He needn’t turn back now. For anything. Needn’t turn till the job was done.

A voice shouted: “Dropped it in the mud. Busted it.”

“Let it go,” someone answered. “Don’t need it.”

Jim didn’t recognize either voice. They were too far off. It didn’t matter, anyway. Didn’t matter, either, what they had dropped; even when he tripped over it, the tommy-gun, he didn’t pause. He didn’t want it, any more than they did. He still could hear them. But they didn’t hear him. Or else they didn’t care.

“Where the hell we goin’?” one of them yelled. “Me, I want the road. Get another car. Hell with the woods.”

Jim slowed, and moved forward more silently. Casey had said they would find the swamp too tough. Jim could hear them arguing. He tried to make out the voices. But still he couldn’t. He could see them, though. Suddenly, in the darkness of the woods, his wet eyes made out the three darker shadows. He knelt in the swamp water and carefully lifted the shotgun. What would his mother say, if they brought bad news about Charley?

The three plunged toward him, still crashing through the brush. Going hack to concrete, were they? He couldn’t tell which was tallest. Couldn’t see what they looked like. Whether any of them had a scar. But one did have a scar. Three witnesses had said...

“Halt, you!” he sang out.

The three halted.

“What’s this, a gag?” a voice demanded.

“I’ll shoot,” Jim said. He felt very calm. Nothing mattered. If he had to shoot, he had to shoot. If that was Charley nearest him, it was Charley.

“Shoot, then,” one of the figures said.

“If I could see him,” another muttered.

So they couldn’t see him, here on his knees. He had that advantage.

“Who the hell are you, anyhow?” the voice demanded.

“Drop your gun, you,” Jim bade. “Drop it.”

There was a flash, instead. So they wanted to shoot him, too, did they? Jim’s finger closed on the trigger. Slowly. Squeezing the way he’d been taught on the range. The fellow who’d tried to shoot at him sang out as he fell.

“Rest of you want the same?” Jim asked. They didn’t.

“How many guns?” Jim asked. “Throw ’em in the brush!” He heard one crash.

“Pick up your man,” he bade them. “Carry him. Face into the rain. It’ll take you to the road.”

They did not resist. But it took both of them to lift the man Jim had shot. He was tall, seemed heavy, and they kept tripping.

“I’m right behind you,” Jim warned. “Now, which of you is Charley?”

“Huh?” the voice asked. “Another gag? No Charley here.”

At the edge of the woods Jim met the corporal from the Traverse City post and a couple of troopers coming to help him. Two new police cars and the sheriff’s sedan stood at the road by the culvert. Casey still was there, propped up in his own seat. He was smoking his pipe, swearing, while two of the hoys, who had taken his tunic off, were binding the hole in his shoulder. He wasn’t being sick any more. When he saw Jim, he said, “Three dirty punks, kid, just like I said.” He shouted at the hoodlums, “Where you birds from?”

“Chicago,” one answered. He was a hungry-looking guy. All three looked hungry. And scared. And dumb. One did have a scar. But he didn’t look like Charley. Not a bit.

“What’d I tell you, kid?” Casey demanded. “City punks. Anybody’d know it, way they done the job. No farm kid would make all them mistakes.” He paused. “Ouch!” he said. “Just punks.”

“Sure,” Jim said. “That’s right.”

He was feeling easy. Over to the west a flock of cars were rushing down the hill. Posse men tumbled out. Troopers were patting him on the back, calling it nice work to bring in all three. One of them shouted, “Come on, boys. Get Casey and this lug to the hospital.”

“Me?” Casey said. “Oh, all right. Only first, on the way, leave Jim here get to a ’phone. He’s been havin’ an awful time. Something awful important to call about.” He chuckled.

“Thanks, Sarge,” Jim said. “Never mind. Nothing to call about now...”