HORACE McCOY
The Mopper-Up

TWO EVENTS MADE Black Mask the great, pioneering magazine it was in the detective field. One was the decision of Dashiell Hammett to submit the bulk of his early work for publication in its pages; the other was the hiring, in 1926, of Joseph T. "Cap" Shaw as its new editor.
Shaw, a former Army captain in World War I, had never read or even heard of Black Mask when he accepted new publisher Ray Holland's offer to take editorial control. He did not care for what he found; it seemed to him the magazine had no direction—except, that was, for the stories written by Hammett. Immediately, taking Hammett as his model, he began not only to reshape the magazine but to establish a whole new style of detective writing: what later became known as the "Black Mask school." In his introduction to The Hard-Boiled Omnibus, his 1946 anthology of what he felt were the best stories he purchased during his ten years at the magazine's helm, Shaw described this new style as "hard, brittle . . . a full employment of the function of dialogue, and authenticity in characterization and action. To this may be added a very fast tempo, attained in part by typical economy of expression."
He went on to say that the writers he developed—Raymond Chandler, Frederick Nebel, Raoul Whitfield, George Harmon Coxe, Paul Cain, and Norbert Davis, among others—"observed the cardinal principle in creating the illusion of reality; they did not make their characters act and talk tough; they allowed them to. They gave the stories over to their characters, and kept themselves off the stage, as every writer of fiction should. They did not themselves state that a situation was dangerous or exciting; they did not describe their characters as dead-shots, or infallible men. They permitted the actors in the story to demonstrate all that to the extent of their particular and human capabilities. As a consequence, they wrote convincingly."
Shaw was constantly on the lookout for writers who could follow these principles, who could join Hammett as regulars in the Black Mask schoolroom, and among the first he encouraged was a young Texan named Horace McCoy. (Shaw stated in 1932 that McCoy was one of the writers "who helped establish the Black Mask standard.") He published McCoy's first story, "The Devil Man," in the December 1927 issue, and bought sixteen more over the next seven years, most of which feature flyer Jerry Frost and the fictional branch of the Texas Air Border Patrol known as "Hell's Stepsons." The Frost stories are generally good, but none quite matches McCoy's only novelette about Texas Ranger Tom Bender, "The Mopper-Up."
Bender is one of the toughest characters ever to appear in the pages of Black Mask; for sheer recklessness, few pulp detectives can match him. Yet "The Mopper-Up" is more than just a rough-and-tumble action yarn. It also contains elements of the symbolism and understated characterization that was to mark much of McCoy's later work, and lyrical passages of a type that Shaw considered "almost too fine writing." All in all, it exemplifies McCoy's creative imagination, which later gave us that American classic about marathon dance contests, They Shoot Horses, Don't They? (1935).
Born in 1897, Horace McCoy worked as a newspaperman in Dallas in the 1920s and also earned a national reputation as a little-theater actor. In 1931, he moved to Hollywood in an effort to break into motion pictures as both an actor and a writer; he succeeded in the latter goal only after the publication of They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, but then went on to attain a successful position as a screenwriter that lasted for twenty years. He published a number of other novels, including No Pockets in a Shroud (1937), Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye (1948), and Scalpel (1952), none of which had the same literary quality or the same impact of his first. He died in Los Angeles in 1955.

 ON THROUGH THE dusk and into the night they worked. Their clothes were splattered with grease and their ears and lips were purple, for winter was on and the weather was two above. The bluest norther of the year had been brewed in a devil's cauldron in the Rockies and it boiled out and came rolling down through Raton Pass to roar across the flats of the Panhandle and lash and sting and freeze.
The crew of Excelsior No. 1 was gaunt and tired and half-frozen, for they worked in a field that was squarely in front of the great slot through which the northers slid, but they cursed loud and kept on.
"Let's go with the bit, you	! The land's crazy with oil!"
Black gold down below.
A sixth of ninety days' production split eleven ways for the crew.
The rainbow's end for a roughneck who's slaved his life away.
Parties and liquor and sweet times for a hairy-handed tool dresser.
A warm apartment and a soft bed for a rig-man who's used to cots.
"Keep that steam up, you -----! The land's crazy with oil!"
Nobody believed in them because the livestock was freezing to death and a man had to hump himself to keep alive.
But the geologist told the chief operator it was a cinch and the chief operator believed him. He told the crew there was a lake of oil under there a mile wide, a mile deep and five miles long and that it was on a perfect anticline and would flow for years with never a chance for anybody to suck it out from under them.
He was a plunger and he had faith and he pleaded and threatened and cursed and kept his crew working through the coldest winter the plains country had known in twenty years. Night and day they tugged and heaved under gasoline flares in a mighty race with time for it was the discovery well that got the cream of production.
They spudded her in on a Monday night and by Wednesday they were down three hundred and fifty feet. Thursday they set in three hundred and fifty feet of eighteen-inch casing and cemented it with a hundred and fifty sacks of Trinity Portland. Friday they hooked up the storage tanks and by Saturday the cement was hard enough to drill through.
The wind swirled about their legs and ate through their cotton gloves and flurries of snow flecked their faces but they didn't mind because they were getting close to home.
The following Monday they made their water shut-off three feet below the last water and got ready to blow. At noon the chief yelled: "Swab 'er!" and they let the swab go down to two thousand feet. It came out with a rush. Everybody yelled. A hell of a kick under there. The tank man moved over to the big valve in the well-head and they sent the swab down again.
It wrenched free of the tubing, rode high-wide-and-handsome in the rigging and a deluge erupted from the hole.
The deluge was black and soft as velvet and blew over the top of the derrick.
They shouted and pounded one another in the back. The tank man forgot about the valve and jumped out and did a war dance crying over and over again: "Hot damn! Hot damn." He was thinking about his wife and three kids in Abilene who were up against it hard but stringing along on his gamble. A roughneck had to run over to the valve to close it. The deluge was trapped in twin flow pipes and gushed into the storage tanks with a soft squishy sound that was sweet music to their ears.
Excelsior No. 1 was running five thousand barrels a day.
The news was out at twilight and by dawn the march towards Rondora had started. It hadn't been in the papers yet but there are old-timers who can smell an oil strike five hundred miles off; and in their wake traveled the others: operators, scouts, vagabonds, thieves and women. The country was locked in by winter and everybody knew the going would be hard but there was gold at the end of the road, so they came on.
The ground spawned rigs . . . and in a little while the town was hemmed in by a palisade of hundred-feet derricks.
Spring.
Geese were going north and the aspen were budding into leaf. The creeks were running high in their banks from the melting snow, red squirrels chattered and blue jays screamed in strident notes. Light breezes came down from Raton Pass to whisper a magic message and the country popped alive. Jack-rabbits sat up lazily, their long ears flopping; the flowers went red and yellow and green; the grass grew tall and the cattle went out to graze. The mesquite and the chaparral stirred themselves and the blue came back to the sage.
Up and down the land had gone the fame of Rondora. Millions were there. All a man had to do was to take a hammer and chisel and bring in a gusher. They came from everywhere for the weather was warm and they could travel light. They settled like locusts and attracted no attention because everybody was thinking of something else . . . and it wasn't long before the grifters and gangsters and gamblers were running things.
II
WHEN TOM BENDER hopped a train north he was wearing a white hat that had silk lining as red as the alegria stain that saves your face from the sun.
It was big and hadn't been broken in yet and felt like a house sitting on top of his head. He hated to break in a new hat but his old one wasn't fit to wear to a town like Austin after he got through with those vaqueros. One of them had pushed a .44 bullet through the crown and Tom Bender knew it was only by the grace of God it wasn't his skull.
They were as slick a gang of greasers as a man ever clapped an eye on and they fought like wildcats but he brought four of them in alive. They had been running wet hosses, stampeding them off a hacienda in Nuevo Leon and then cutting out a few to swim across the river and sell to shady dealers in Texas. The whole country knew about it and everybody told Tom Bender they were maldito Indios and that if he went after them he was in for a lot of trouble.
He trapped them on the mud flats south of Rinera where the river cuts through wide cottonwood bottoms and called on them to surrender. They wanted to fight, so he accommodated them, killing one and plugging another before the others stuck their hands in the air and quit. It was a hell of a battle and there was no reason for it because he already had his orders to come to Austin.
After he put them in jail he caught a train for the capital. He didn't know why the Adjutant-General had called him and he didn't care because summer was just around the bend in the south and the Rio Grande country in the summertime was hot and cruel. The air was like the devil's own breath and the ground got hard and a man's feet stayed blistered all the time. Any kind of a job anywhere else was a picnic and Tom Bender liked picnics.
He was the issue of a frontier ancestry that had driven the Indians west of the Pecos to clear settlements for log cabins, a civilization of contrasts: hard, kind and tragic. The measure of an aristocrat was the nerve he had and the speed with which he could bark an Injun in his tracks and pitch a buffalo on his head with one ball.
Tom Bender's people were aristocrats and when they died that was all the heritage they left him.
That was enough.
When he hit Austin his body throbbed happily and he had a song in his heart for it was a passionate attraction he felt for the city. He swung along the street with the gait of a man to whom the feel of a pavement is a strange and mysterious thing, and everybody's eye was on him. They could tell by the walk of him that he was a fighting man and they knew by the brown of his face that he was from the south. Women looked at him but he paid no attention because he didn't know women could talk with their eyes. . . .
He went straight to the capitol and entered a dim, musty office in the east wing. Doubled up in a swivel-chair behind a massive desk was the Adjutant-General, lean and limber, and smoking a cigar. He said: "Hello, Tom," in a preoccupied tone but didn't get up or offer to shake hands.
There was a bluish haze hanging from the low ceiling, the office reeked with the smell of cigars and Tom Bender knew that when the smoke hung thick like this the Adjutant-General was getting ready to crawl somebody's frame. The thing to do was to let him alone and say nothing.
Bender sat down inelegantly in a Jacobean chair and waited. After a while he lighted a cigarette and as he began to puff the Adjutant-General said he had a trip for him and it was too bad he couldn't give it to somebody he didn't like. Bender asked him how was that and the Adjutant-General said it just looked like a hell of a way to reward him for getting those vaqueros.
Tom Bender laughed and said that was all right, the look on the Rinera sheriffs face was enough.
Then the Adjutant-General got up and stood by the desk. He looked down at the brim of Tom Bender's new white hat and said he was glad of that because he had a lulu now and he didn't mean maybe. Hell was popping over at Rondora. The old settlers had got enough of gangsters and gamblers and were about to take things into their own hands. The Adjutant-General said it was vigilante stuff.
Tom Bender nodded and declared that was the way with them 	boom towns. They were so busy trying to get rich that the riff-raff had the place by the tail before they knew it.
"That's it exactly," the Adjutant-General said. "Last week a couple of bums put on a shooting match on the main stem and accidentally killed a twelve-year-old girl. Neither one of them was hit but a bullet ricocheted and got the daughter of Jeff Peebles. He couldn't get any satisfaction from the sheriff so he's got the whole town steamed up. It's a tough place."
Tom Bender looked up, bared his teeth wisely and said they were all tough but that some were tougher.
"Then Rondora's tougher," the Adjutant-General said. "I want you to get over there and head off trouble. There may be some even after you get there."
Tom Bender looked up, bared his teeth a little and said: "Yeah— there may be at that."
He was a good officer and scared of nothing but when he got in a tight corner he unlimbered his guns and started blasting.
The Adjutant-General glared down and snapped: "And, by — 	! I don't want you to make a shooting gallery out of that town, either!"
Tom Bender grinned and spread his hands placatingly.
"All right," he said; "—no shooting gallery."
It was easy to agree to anything when a man's insides felt as if they had soaked up a lot of sunshine and he knew he had a day or two to play before he went back to work.
The Adjutant-General wrinkled his brow studiously and said: "I think maybe I better get Klepper down from Fort Worth to help you."
"Naw," said Bender, shaking his head; "you leave Klep be. I'll take a crack at it by myself. If I need help I'll holler."
"Well—" said the Adjutant-General, "all right. But I want results. I want the place mopped up."
"I'll mop 'er up," Bender said. "I'll get right over there tomorrow."
"No, you won't," his superior said quickly. "You have lunch with me and I'll put you on the train. There's a 1:15 train out for Amarillo that makes connections. I'll take you myself—I want to know you're on it."
Every time Tom Bender was turned loose in Austin he hit the high spots. He didn't get in often but when he did he took all they had and yelled for more.
"Don't rush me," he said, grinning. "I just got here. I know a lot of people here. I got to say hello to my friends."
The Adjutant-General frowned through a geyser of smoke.
"Tom," he said slowly, "you're a hell of a good man but the next time you get tight and wake up in Oklahoma City I'm going to kick you off the staff if I get impeached for it."
Bender grinned boyishly and slanted his head with his left eye closed from the thin finger of smoke that pried at it.
"Naw," he said disdainfully; "I ain't gonna get tight. I just wanna look around. I'll catch that train for sure."
"All right—but if you don't it'll be just too bad. I'm telling you, Rondora's hot. They're ready to start stringing 'em up to telephone poles."
"That'd be swell," Bender said; "yes, sir—that'd be swell."
The Adjutant-General meditated a moment and then gave up trying to be serious.
"Hell," he said, and sat down.
III
TOM BENDER UNLOADED at Rondora the next night an hour after sunset when the drilling rigs were ablaze with lights. The rigs were thrown around the town in an uneven circle, a glow about the floor of each derrick, a lone light gleaming up near the double board, another ninety feet in the air to light the top of the stands and another above that on a gin pole which shone dully down on the crown blocks.
It was an unearthly spectacle and looking at it Tom Bender could believe those who said there was no arrangement of lights that could look like this. His nostrils were filled with the cloying smell of a breeze that has blown over hundreds of pools of oil and his ears vibrated to a slow boom that was like the ringing of a great bell from far off. Somewhere out there they were running surface casing in the holes and beating it with sledges.
He was unconscious of the people around him until he heard a voice say: "Taxi to the hotel," and felt somebody tug at his glad-stone. He released it and followed a man across the gravel to a flivver that was parked in front of the station. The man hoisted the bag up and slammed it down hard in the space between the hood and the fender and then started back to the train from which people were still emerging.
The way he handled the bag got Tom Bender's dander up because it was a present from the Adjutant-General and he was as careful of it as he was of his watch. He yelled: "Hey!" and the driver stopped. Bender strode over with blood in his eyes and asked him where he was going. The driver replied shortly that he was going to get some more passengers and walked away muttering to himself.
"Hey!" Bender yelled again. When he faced him this time the yellow glare of the station lamps revealed deep lines in his face. Tom Bender was spoiling for a good ruction and he didn't care where it started. "How long you gonna be?" he challenged.
"Aw, I dunno," the driver responded lazily. "You in a hurry?"
"You're right I'm in a hurry!" Bender snapped. The driver wasn't very big and Bender knew if he slammed him one he'd probably break him in two.
The driver's fingers were spread and working and his face was alight with belligerency but he knew this was too much man for him to take on single-handed. In a minute his fingers grew still, he relaxed a little and tried to take it good-naturedly.
"In that case," he said; "I guess we better be rolling."
"Yeah," said Bender, still a little sore; "in that case we better be rolling."
They rolled.
Rondora was booming. It was a settlement of drab one- and two-story buildings squatting upon the prairie with only a railroad to keep it alive. It was the sort of town that can be found nowhere but on the west Texas flats, and had the hand of fortune stayed itself Rondora probably would have gone on for generations on end creating not even a flicker of interest from the world outside. People were born, lived and died in the same house—that sort of town. Quick riches had increased the tempo of life and geared it too high for old-time fashions. She was an old chassis with a new and powerful motor and anybody who stopped to think would have known she couldn't stand a pace like this without bursting somewhere.
The single important street teemed with people. Automobiles were parked nose-first at the curbing and crowds were gathered on the corners and in the drug stores. Some of them were in the habiliments of the field and some of them were in plain trousers and shirt sleeves but all of them had money in their pockets and were looking for things to buy. From somewhere came the noisy discord of an electric piano. Conversation was loud, laughter was boisterous and women drove slowly up and down the street in closed cars, sitting alone in the shadows, and stealing surreptitious come-hither looks at the men on the sidewalks.
Bender grinned and remarked that Rondora was sure a hot burg. The driver laughed pleasantly and agreed but added it sure as hell was gonna cool off now.
"I know you," he said with a touch of pride. "You're Cap'n Tom Bender."
Bender admitted it, looked at the driver and said he didn't remember him.
"Nope," the driver explained; "but I was up to Denton seven or eight years ago when Willie Braun barricaded himself in that house and dared the cops to come and get him."
It was a six-hour gun battle with a train robber and Bender said he remembered it all right.
"I was standing pretty close when Braun shot your legs out from under you," the driver went on. "You laid flat on your belly in the street and blew his head off."
Tom Bender didn't have to be reminded of that. He grunted and said nothing but the driver looked at him enviously and under the look Bender expanded and forgot all about the unpleasantness of a few minutes before. The driver asked him if he were in town on business and Bender said he had come up from the Rio Grande just to spend a vacation. He could tell from the way the driver laughed that he didn't believe it.
Bender asked him if he knew where Jeff Peebles lived and the driver said he did. He asked if Bender wanted to go out there.
"Later," he said. "I got plenty of time. Take me to the hotel first."
Up towards the end of the street they stopped before the hotel and a Negro bell-boy dashed out and got the bag. Bender told the driver to wait and went inside. The lobby was narrow and small but it was filled. All the seats were taken and there were women sitting around with diamonds on their fingers as big as dimes. Rondora had about ten times more people than it could care for.
Bender signed the register at the desk and the clerk explained that the hotel was pretty crowded and asked him if he was particular about a room. Bender said he wasn't just so it had a bed and a tub and the clerk handed a key to the Negro and said: "505."
On the way to 505 the bell-boy tried to get solicitous and confided that if the big gentleman wanted anything to pass the time or get anything to drink all he had to do was call number Four. He held up his badge to show the number but Bender flipped back his own coat lapel and said: "I like mine best because it's gold."
When the Negro saw the little star in the circle his eye popped and he shut up.
The room was plain and severe but it had a bed and a tub so Bender didn't complain. A guy got shoved in a lot of funny places when he was a Ranger, and anyway he consoled himself with the thought that he wouldn't be here long. He didn't like Rondora and when he didn't like a town he got right to work.
He washed his face, combed his hair, stuck a Police Positive .38 in his shoulder-holster, a blue-barreled .45 automatic in his hip pocket holster and came downstairs. The driver asked him if he was ready to go to Jeff Peebles and Bender said yes.
The driver turned off to the east and after a few blocks the town petered out and ran off into the sage. There were scores of rigs nearby and the din was terrific. Tall, gaunt skeletons they were and up close they looked like bad dreams. The smell of crude oil was strong and occasionally some roughneck sang out in profane music.
Jeff Peebles lived in a plain cottage and Bender had to cross a footbridge to reach the gate. He went up and knocked at the front door.
It was partly opened by an angular woman. Her face was sharp and she wore a plain print cotton dress, her hair was pulled tightly down about her ears and parted in the middle. In the light of the lamp in the front room Bender could see it was heavily streaked with gray and that her face was wan and lifeless. Jeff Peebles' millions had come too late.
She stared out apprehensively, as if she were half-afraid and Bender said:
"I'm looking for Mr. Peebles."
She shook her head slowly and replied: "He ain't here."
"Well," Bender asked; "where could I find him?"
She shook her head again.
"He ain't here," she repeated in that flat tone that was instantly monotonous.
"Yessum, I know he ain't here. But where is he?"
She looked at him with wide, sharp eyes and she started to shake her head when Bender said, "I'm Captain Bender of the Rangers. It's pretty important."
The woman now evidenced a slight animation. She stepped back and opened the door a little, saying: "Come in, Captain Bender. Come in."
"No'm," he said; "I just wanna locate Mr. Peebles."
"He's off to a meeting," she said, her voice sounding as if it were struggling from great depths to reach the surface. "You can wait here if you want to or you can go down to the Odd Fellows' Hall. That's where the meeting is. The Odd Fellows' Hall."
"Thanks," he replied. "I'll run on down there."
"That's all right, Captain," she said. "You come back any time you want to."
"Thanks," Bender said. He went out the gate, latched it and recrossed the narrow footbridge to the car. He said to the driver: "Drop me at the Odd Fellows' Hall."
Going back he asked the driver if he knew anything about the shooting of Jeff Peebles' daughter. The driver said he didn't know any more than anybody else. They killed the girl all right and the sheriff arrested two guys named Botchey Miller and Pack Patton but they were released on bail or something right away.
Bender asked him where it happened.
The driver replied that the girl was killed down the street from the hotel in front of the Happy Hour Club.
"What kind of a dump is that?" Bender asked.
"Well," the driver explained; "it's supposed to be a pool-hall but they run it wide open. You can find any kind of a game and get any kind of a drink. I mean, strangers and everybody can."
"Who runs it?"
"Botchey Miller," the driver said. "Patton runs the Fishtail Club out on the Amarillo road."
"Roadhouses too?" said Bender.
"Sure. Botchey's got one out beyond Jeff Peebles' place about two miles."
Bender nodded and said, "I gather from that the boys don't like each other—Miller and Patton."
"I'll say they don't," the driver said. "Didn't they try to kill each other?"
Bender laughed and told him that wasn't always a fair test. He explained that gun-fighting was like boxing or golf or anything else; after it was finished it was all over and there was no use having hard feelings.
"Well, Botchey and Pack don't figure that way," the driver said. "They're at each other's throats and everybody knows it."
He turned a corner and stopped the flivver before a notion store. He said the Odd Fellows' Hall was upstairs.
"Okey," Bender said, getting out. "How much I owe you?"
"Just a buck," the driver said and Bender gave him a dollar bill and said: "Come back to the hotel at ten o'clock. I'll be wanting to ride some more then."
The driver said he would, and Bender turned around to look for the steps that led to the Odd Fellows' Hall.

IV
THE STAIRS WERE long and wide and went straight up with no landing to break the climb. In the hall above a globe shed a pale and insufficient glow. Bender saw a chink of light shining through a crack in one of the doors and he went over. He could hear the hum of conversation inside and he listened for a moment but couldn't make out what they were saying so he knocked on the door.
A man in shirt sleeves and with a light beard opened it, holding one hand on the knob and bracing the other against the wall suspiciously. He gruffly asked Bender what he wanted.
He said he wanted to see Jeff Peebles.
"He ain't here," came the answer. The man tried to shut the door but Bender jammed his foot at the bottom of it and told him to wait a minute. He pushed inside with little effort.
The man surveyed him with ill grace and said in a sharp tone: "You're liable to get throwed out on your ear, guy."
Tom Bender grinned and complacently remarked that he'd been thrown out on his ear before. He told the man to go get Peebles. The man told him to go to hell and looked around as if he needed help.
The room was deep and cavernous and there were a dozen or more men inside, all of them looking in the direction of the door. Two of them stepped off a small rostrum at the end of the hall and walked down the aisle between the chairs, their feet clumping loudly on the board floor.
One was willowy and cadaverous and wore a cheap suit with yellow square-toed shoes. The other was younger but both were agitated. As they came up Bender asked which was Jeff Peebles and the cadaverous man said he was. Before Bender had a chance to say anything else he told him to state his business and make it snappy.
The hall bristled with defiance and the attitudes of the men indicated they were in no mood for horseplay, so much as he disliked to Bender flipped back his coat lapel and flashed his badge.
"I'll make it plenty snappy," he told them straight from the shoulder. "I'm Tom Bender. Peebles, come outside. I wanna talk to you."
Peebles recognized the authority but he shook his head grimly and declared whatever had to be said could be said right there.
The other men arose and sauntered down. Bender saw trouble coming and his mood was truculent.
"Okey," he said. "I'm here to take charge."
The men exchanged glances, amused, and Peebles said sarcastically:
"Well, you're just outta luck. We've decided to handle this ourselves."
"Let's talk about it," Bender suggested but Peebles shook his head, pressed his thin lips together and said talk wouldn't do any good because everything was settled.
A few of the men chorused: "Yeah," and a deep bass voice from behind said: "You're damned right."
Tom Bender knew what his chances were without any long thinking. There was a great strength latent in the group but all of them were sensible and might yet be reasoned with. But if they got out carrying the torch there would be hundreds of irresponsible men to fall in and care not where the flame touched.
"Bender," Peebles said; "my girl was killed. The men who killed her were arrested but it didn't take. Now we're gonna have justice."
Tom Bender worked back against the door and said: "You can't get justice with a mob—that's no good. I'm down here to take charge and I will but I got to have a chance. Leave me be and I'll mop up this burg so clean you can eat your dinner off the sidewalks."
Nobody paid much attention to what he said because they all felt like fighting. Old Jeff Peebles shook his head and looked at Bender through narrow-slitted eyes, the puzzled look of a man who faces a strange thing he knows he must deal with.
In a low voice he said: "Get away from that door, Bender—we're going out!"
Behind him there was a milling of feet. Somebody cried: "Here we go!" and another voice shouted: "We'll show these bootleggers something!"
Tom Bender was pressed flat against the door working his elbows to clear his coat from in front so he could get to his guns unimpeded and saying in a tense voice:
"There ain't gonna be no mob stuff—I'm telling you that! I know the girl got killed . . . and that the town's filled with bootleggers and gamblers . . . but I'm gonna handle it my own way and you might as well get that straight!"
The men surged and carried Peebles a step forward. He turned and spread his thin arms saying ". . . Wait," and faced Bender again. The big Ranger had his feet planted wide, there was a heavy scowl on his face and his hands were on his hips. A little excited, Peebles shrilled: "Get outta the way!"
Bender didn't budge. He felt immensely relieved that he had got set for action without touching off an explosion and he knew he had the upper hand now. He told Peebles to cool off in a tone that was almost banter.
"All right," the old man rasped; "I'm gonna count three and if you don't move we'll move you. . . . One. . . . Two. . . ."
Jeff Peebles took a step forward and a blue-black .45 automatic came into the Ranger's hand. He pointed it at Peebles' belly and said:
"Okey—but I'll plug the first guy that gets in close!"
Old Jeff Peebles' eyes went shut in high, impotent rage, the muscles in his face and neck twitched violently and for a moment Bender thought he was coming on anyway. He said: "By ------!" through his clenched teeth and fell back a step.
There were loud mutterings from the others but none of them wanted any of him. He had a gat in his hand, guts in his belly and the tradition of the Texas Rangers behind him. That was what held them off though Bender was not conscious of it—that tradition. He was only conscious that his friend was the blue-black automatic around whose broad butt his long fingers were wrapped and that it felt nice and warm and comfortable in his hand. He waved the barrel in a semi-circle and told them to back up and sit down. They backed up but they didn't sit down because they were waiting on old Jeff Peebles to take the lead. Old Jeff was holding his ground and looking as if he would like to paw up the floor. Bender knew as long as he was up anything might happen.
"That goes for you too, Peebles," he said. "Back up and sit down."
Jeff Peebles glared at him in silent ferocity trying to decide whether he would lose caste by retreating. Bender knew what was going on in the back of the old man's mind but he didn't say anything because he didn't give a damn. . . . Finally Peebles grunted and went over to a chair. Bender put his gun away and followed him and they sat down side by side at the same time like a pair of robots. The men all breathed easier because they would rather have a Ranger with them than against them.
He sat among them, strength of their strength, and with the authority to act. He could have given them commands and they would have been obeyed with no questions asked but he gave no commands. He looked at old Jeff Peebles and asked him what he wanted done.
The quiet request made it difficult for old Jeff and in that moment Bender's triumph was complete. Old Jeff cleared his throat, embarrassed, and said vaguely: "Well ... I dunno, Cap'n. Things are pretty bad."
Bender said they were and that he was ready for suggestions. After a little while old Jeff said maybe it would be better if the Cap'n used his own judgment and then he looked at the other men for approval.
It was noisy and emphatic.
They all came downstairs feeling that the problem was solved and they tried to get in close to Bender to shake his hand. He laughed and told them gruffly to get the hell on home and leave him be.
V
RANGER TOM BENDER cruised through the open double doors of Botchey Miller's Happy Hour Club.
It was a long, wide room with a partition separating half of it. The front half contained pool tables and domino tables and both were well patronized. Voices came above the click of the balls and the slap of the dominoes on the wood.
Tom Bender went through the portieres into the rear half.
Here were dice tables, a chuck-a-luck game, a keno game and a stud poker game going full blast. Dealers were at each game, wearing green eye shades and small black sateen aprons and a number of hard-looking workmen were waiting their chances to play.
Bender sauntered over to one of the dice tables and watched a boisterous roughneck who smelled of cheap perfume throw a double ace for ten dollars, a double six for twenty dollars and then get six for a forty-dollar point. He lunged all around it but no six, and eventually tossed a four-tray for craps. The roughneck rubbed his hands, backed out and said nothing, and the space was quickly filled by another eager gambler.
A waiter passed by with a tray filled with drinks and Bender stopped him and asked where Botchey was. The waiter said he was in the back and Bender asked him where the back was. The waiter pointed to a door and went on.
Bender went to the door and opened it without knocking.
It was a little office lighted by a single light that was suspended from the rafter on a single cord and the glow was deflected down by a shade to cut through the smoky atmosphere in a lurid shaft. Three men were inside. Two of them were sitting at a table looking at magazines and the third was leaning back in a chair with his feet propped up against an opened drawer.
He was forty, sallow and hook-nosed. He wore a soft hat, no coat, his sleeves were rolled up and his collar was open.
None of them got up as Bender entered. They stirred and the man at the desk said: "All right?"
Bender stopped beside the table and said he was looking for Botchey Miller. The man at the desk stood up and walked over slowly saying: "I'm him, brother."
Bender nodded and said: "I'm Tom Bender, Captain, Texas Rangers."
Botchey Miller's face took on a puzzled look and the two men at the table closed their magazines and looked around.
Miller said: "Ranger, hunh? Well, what's it all about?"
"Nothing much," Bender drawled; "only you're out of a job. This joint is closing."
Miller's lips worked in and out like a fish breathing and Bender took a step closer to the table where the two men were sitting. One of them was dark and wore a blue suit and a small black bow tie. He was scowling and biting his lower lip. The other man was younger and had a pleasant face. Bender asked him what his name was and he said Eddie Price.
Bender asked the dark man the same question but he leered and tried to get hardboiled.
"Ah, hell, tough guy," he said. "What's coming off here?"
"I asked you a question," Bender said evenly.
The man guffawed and looked at Botchey. "Say, Botchey," he called, "these Rangers are sure big tough babies, ain't they?" Miller laughed because he didn't know what else to do.
Bender flattened a great hand against the dark man's mouth and nearly slapped him out of the chair. He scrambled up, his eyes blazing, and made a move to his hip pocket. Bender laid his .38 Police Positive across his hip and the yellow light glinted along the barrel.
"What's your name?" he repeated.
Unintelligible growls came from the man's throat and words
finally took form. "Wright,	you!" he cried. "You got a nerve—"
"Yeah," Bender said. He looked at Miller, who was standing stiff and straight as a tent pole. "All right, Miller, clean the house out. You're closing tight as a drum."
Botchey Miller was boiling inside and his eyes were swimming in anger, but he managed to say: "Aw, hell ... I got to have a chance. Let's talk this over."
Bender shook his head and kept his .38 across his hip. Wright and Price were a little way in front of him and both of them were itching to go after their guns, but they were afraid to.
"Talkin's out," Bender snapped. "You're closing right now. Are you gonna do this or am I?"
"Well," Miller sneered, "since you're so	tough suppose you do it."
"Okey. Your roadhouse is closing, too. I'm going out there later and if it's open I'll roll you guys good."
He turned around and walked out.
Outside Tom Bender stopped in the middle of the floor and raised his voice.
"Everybody listen," he said. In a minute or two there was quiet and they all were looking at him. "Cash in your chips and get out quietly. This joint is closing for good. There ain't no argument. . . cash in and beat it."
Tall, square-built, his eyes unwavering, he stood there loosely and looked out at them . . . and they began to do his bidding. There were mutterings and an undercurrent of antipathy, but he conveyed to them a quiet force and although he hadn't told them who he was everybody sensed that he was a Ranger. They began to shuffle . . . and in a little while the room was devoid of customers. A few of the dealers and two or three waiters stood around. The rear door opened and Botchey Miller ambled out, smiling sourly.
"Miller," Bender said, "keep this place shut down. Tomorrow I'm gonna start a bonfire with your furniture."
Botchey Miller said between his teeth: "You'll never get away with this—you'll never get away with it."
Tom Bender grinned and told him he'd been getting away with it for fifteen years.
"You close that roadhouse tonight or I'll fix it for you," he said.
"Aw, lissen—" Miller said, "you—"
"You heard me. You guys catch a rabbit."
He walked out.
The taxi driver kept his appointment and at ten o'clock straight up he parked his flivver in front of the hotel and started inside. At precisely the same moment the Negro bell-boy came through the lobby paging Mr. Bender. The driver spotted him and came over, but Bender told him to wait a moment and answered the page. The bell-boy took him over to the desk and said that gentleman there was waiting for him.
He was bulky, a little fat and wore a greenish suit and a wide black hat with the brim curled in cowboy style. He introduced himself as Jim Lovell, the chief of police, and asked if they couldn't go where they could talk.
Bender asked him what was the matter with right here and the chief said he'd rather not.
"All right, then," said Bender; "we'll go to my room."
They went upstairs and Jim Lovell sat down and made himself comfortable and asked him bluntly if he didn't know he was violating all ethics by not reporting to the chief of police.
Just as bluntly Bender told him he wasn't a damn bit interested in ethics.
"I know," Lovell said, "but just the same I'm the chief here even
if you are a Ranger. I might be able to help you."
"I don't need any help," Bender said. "A job like this is a cinch for me."
"Cinch huh?" Lovell drawled, lifting his eyes.
"Yeah—a cinch."
Lovell laughed a little and said there ought to be some way out that wasn't so violent. He was acquainted with Botchey Miller and after all Botchey wasn't such a bad egg. He didn't see any use in getting hard without some reason and he thought Botchey ought to have a couple of days to get his business straight.
Bender began to get sore and he told Lovell it didn't make a — what he thought, that he was running the show.
Lovell's face turned red as a beet and he declared loudly that he had some rights in the matter and that if Bender didn't hold off a while and co-operate with him he'd wire the Adjutant-General and raise some hell.
That sounded like a funny story to Tom Bender and he laughed and told him to go right ahead and wire. He had his orders and he wasn't afraid of any wire.
"Look here," he said, "these guys have been splitting wide open for months. Did you know that not three hours ago old Jeff Peebles had a mob together to clean the place up?" Jim Lovell winced a little and Bender went on: "Now, there ain't gonna be no more foolishness. They're shutting down pronto."
Lovell nodded and said all right, his only reason for saying anything was to try to head off a war. Bender asked him what he meant.
"Well," he said, "you know you can't lock everything tight without something happening. As long as you got an oil field you're gonna have bootlegging and gambling . . ."
"Yeah, I know. There'll be hip-pocket bootlegging and a man'd be a damn' fool to think he could stop that. There'll be dice shooting and poker games, too . . . but that'll be when the boys get together. I ain't trying to stop that. It's these organized gangs I'm after."
"Well," Lovell said, "I've warned you. Now there's just one more thing: you want me to help you or not?"
"Thanks," Bender said dryly. "I'll handle it. I wanna know all my trouble's in front."
Lovell jumped up, his cheeks scarlet and asked him what the hell he meant by a crack like that. Bender told him it meant any thing he wanted it to mean.
His enmity was brutal and open and Lovell choked with rage. For a minute it seemed that the old over-ripe hatred between police chiefs and Rangers would come to a head. Lovell was excited but Bender was impassive and relaxed because he knew the Rondora chief wouldn't start anything. To have done that would have been mutely to testify to something Bender already suspected—that he was on Botchey Miller's payroll.
Lovell finally decided there wasn't anything he wanted to do about it. He said, compressed: "All right ... all right . . ." and walked out, slamming the door.
For a moment Bender stood there looking at the door, the inside of him rising and falling slowly like an infallible barometer that recorded trouble close at hand. With a lurch the inside of him settled and he felt heavy . . . and in the next moment energy flowed into him as if he had drained it from the floor.
He rushed to the door, flung it open and went downstairs. The driver was waiting.
"Let's go!" he said.
Three miles out on the Amarillo road stood a two-storied, high-gabled house alone in the open country. Once upon a time it had been a pretentious dwelling but now it made no pretense. It was a mile beyond the frontier of the drilling rig lights.
This was Pack Patton's notorious dive—the Fishtail Club and it was lighted from top to bottom, making no effort to hide the secret of what went on inside. It was pretty generally known that in the basement was a big still and that upstairs were rooms and gambling apparatus.
Bender went up the wide front stairs two at a time but at the front door he was met by three men who had their hats off. One of them, heavy-set and with thick jowls, intercepted him as he started inside and told him he'd have to show his card. The other two men crowded around him close.
Bender said he didn't have a card and asked him who the hell he was. The man replied that his name was Patton.
"You're just the guy I'm looking for," Bender retorted. "I see you was expecting me."
Patton leered and said he always made it a rule to meet distinguished guests. He said he was sorry but the club was closed.
"You're	 right it's closed," Bender said. "It's closed for good. I wanna go in and look around."
"Sorry," Patton said; "you can't go in."
Bender nodded.
"Yeah," he said; "I'm going in."
He started in and somebody grabbed his arm. Bender whirled around, reaching for his .38 with right hand and swinging out with his left. It struck something hard and they closed in on him and tried to throw something over his head.
He gave up trying to get the .38 and lashed out hard, struck one of them and heard him grunt. He fell back, still swinging and something hit him a powerful lick behind the head and he thought it was going to snap off. A white explosion ascended in front of him and he staggered. As he did he came out with his .45 from his hip pocket and shook his head desperately to clear the mists and locate one of his assailants. In a moment he saw a form before him and he leveled the .45 and squeezed the trigger.
The narrow alcove lighted in a great red glare, a man swore loudly, doubled up and pitched on to the floor. A moment later Bender saw a form running up the steps and was about to shoot when he recognized the driver of the taxi. He wanted to shout a warning but before he could the driver had swung a heavy tire tool against one of the men's heads and knocked him back against the wall. He followed it up swinging and grunting, the man trying to get his gun out and the driver banging away with the tire tool.
Tom Bender looked at the third man who stood before him and looked down the muzzle of his gun. It was Patton, his face contorted in the pale light.
"Get your hands up," Bender rasped.
Patton swore and raised them and Bender reached out and searched him carefully. He took a nickel-plated pistol out of his coat pocket. The door surged with people from the inside who had been attracted by the shot and Bender yelled:
"Get the hell back in there!"
The men in the lobby groaned and the taxi driver came over beside Bender and said: "Where do we go from here?"
"Keep these guys right here," Bender said, passing over Patton's gun. "I'm going inside."
He pushed his way in. There were perhaps a dozen persons within the dance space, some of them women. Everybody was excited and several already had made their exits through the rear.
"Everybody beat it!" Bender said. "The joint is pinched!"
"By -----	!" somebody yelled. "There's a coupla guys out there dying! Why don't you call the ambulance?"
Bender looked coldly in the direction of the voice. "You call it," he said. "I'm busy."
He walked across the dance-floor to the steps leading upstairs. This was his element and his powerful figure dominated the foreground. He went up the steps and in the corridor he reached for his gun and walked on. He opened a door and stepped inside a brilliantly lighted room that was equipped with a dozen tables and gambling devices.
There were five employees inside, regarding him calmly. They seemed not in the least disturbed.
"All right, boys," Bender said; "this is the finish. Get out."
One of them asked if this was a pinch. Bender told him it wasn't if he got the lead out and beat it. Three of them marched out without a word, but the other two changed their eyeshades for hats and told Bender so long.
Bender followed them out, went down the hall and looked inside three other rooms. They were all dark, but from the light outside he could see they were comfortably furnished and all the beds wore silk spreads.
When he came back downstairs the lower floor was emptied. Employees had deserted Patton in his hour of need and he stood alone and captured by a taxi driver.
Bender went in the kitchen. The Negro chef was hurriedly putting on his pants and when he saw the Ranger he began to jabber and protest his innocence.
"Never mind," Bender said. "You go on home and don't take any more jobs like this. How do I get downstairs?"
The Negro pointed to a door in the wall beside a big gas stove and Bender went over and opened it. A flight of narrow steps was revealed. Gun in hand, Bender rolled down them. The cellar smelled strongly of raw mash and before him he saw two great copper stills. The lights were on but nobody was there.
"Hey!" he yelled.
He came back upstairs. The Negro was on his way out.
"Anybody down there?" he asked.
"Naw, sir," the Negro said. "They come up a while ago and went outside."
"Sure?"
"Yes, sir, I'm sure."
"Okey. Beat it."
The Negro went out and left him alone in the kitchen. Bender looked around. In the corner was a basin of waste paper and trash. Bender grinned and went over and stood beside it. He put his gun in his pocket and lighted a cigarette.
He flipped the match in the trash box and came back to the lobby.
The taxi driver, charged with a sudden responsibility, was proving himself trustworthy. He had Pack Patton covered but there were a lot of people on the ground at the foot of the steps looking on with great curiosity. The man Bender had shot was stretched out on the floor on his face and there was another man slumped in the corner with blood pouring from his head.
"Get downstairs," Bender told Patton. He said to the taxi driver: "Take him to the car and if he tries any monkey business let him have it."
"Sure," the driver said.
"----!" Patton swore and then erupted a stream of obscenity.
Bender stooped down and picked up the dead man. He worked him over his shoulder, followed Patton and the driver to the car. He flopped the dead man in the back.
Bender went back to get the other man. The driver had beaten him into unconsciousness and Bender couldn't tell how badly he was hurt. As he came back to the car the people surged around him and headlights flooded the road as all the traffic stopped. There were shouts and murmurs and the discord of excitement.
Bender paid no attention. He put the other man in the back and told Patton to get in front. Patton swore again and crawled in. The driver put the gun in his pocket and got under the wheel.
"Just what the hell is this raid?" Patton gritted.
"Nothing," Bender said. "You tried to get funny—that's all. Now you're going to jail."
He got in the back and spread the men out so he could sit down.
On his right side was a dead man, on his left an unconscious man and both heads were down with their chins on their chests.
Patton swore again and said: "You killed a man, you big—" and Bender reached around with his hand and slapped him on the side of the head."
"Pipe down," he said; "or I'm liable to bump you."
The driver grinned and cut on the switch. "He's piped," he said.
"What'd you hit that guy with?" Bender asked.
"A spring leaf," the driver said. "I was mad and I guess I hit him too hard."
"Yeah," Bender said dryly. "I guess I owe you a dinner for that. Let's be rolling."
The crowd gathered around the car. One man came in close, stuck his head under the top, saw the men in the back seat and said:
"Well, I'll be—! Looks like a cyclone hit 'em."
"You said it, brother," the driver clipped over his shoulder.
The car jerked away down the road, rolled a few hundred feet and pulled into a dirt road. The driver reversed it, turned around and started back.
A puff of smoke vomited from the Fishtail Club and a roll of flame pushed out and licked its way upward.
"-----!" Patton cried. "The place is one fire! The place is on fire!"
Bender looked out and nodded.
"Yeah," he said; "the cook must of left in a hurry."
Patton kept raving like a mad man and would have jumped out of the car but he knew that would be exactly what Tom Bender wanted for the big Ranger was waiting for a chance to mow him down.
When he returned to the hotel forty-five minutes later the main street was nearly deserted. The great wide glow that had spread over the heavens had attracted everybody and the fire had become the chief interest.
Bender went to sleep with his automatic under his pillow.
But his sleep was fuddled and semiconsciously he knew why. He had gone to bed wound up and taut and that was bad business. It had happened before and he had had bad dreams but even while he was having the dreams he was conscious of the reason. He always told himself the next time he got in a fight he would sit around and cool off before he went to bed but always in the morning he had forgotten.
Only half asleep, he heard noises. Somebody was raising the windows.
He lay still and prized his eyelids up a little and saw two shadowy forms coming through from the fire-escape. In a moment they were still and he lay there, hardly breathing, until the white beam of a flashlight struck him in the face.
He had the impulse to jump up and cover them but he had sense enough to fight that back because he knew they were waiting for him and ready and he wasn't.
They slowly walked over and he could tell from the way they held the light that they were nervous too.
They came close by the bed and he could hear them breathing. They were snorting like horses after a run and making enough racket to wake the dead. Whoever it was certainly was overanxious. When the light went out this time Bender opened his right eye and saw a man above him big as all outdoors and got a gleam of something steely in his hand.
The man was fixing to knife him.
Like a flash he slid out of bed backwards, pulling his automatic out from under the pillow with him and when his foot struck the floor he knew this was no time to play around.
He flicked his gun down and squeezed the trigger a couple of times and in the light of the explosion he saw an agonized face and imagined he could hear the bullets thud home with a soft plunk like he had shot a piece of liver.
He dropped down quickly to use the bed as a barricade but before he could hide himself or fire at the second man there was another crack, sharper and more staccato than his, and a finger of flame reached out and went through his right arm and he knew he was shot.
He fell to the floor and tried to push his gun over to his left hand but his right hand wouldn't respond. He had a frantic moment and his arm was numb and dead and somehow he got the crazy idea that he had been sleeping on it and that it was asleep. Then he knew that couldn't be ... so he reached over with his left hand and got the automatic and stuck his hand up to rub out the other assailant.
The assailant could see better than he could and he fired again over the bed, the bullet singing by Tom Bender's head and biting off a lot of plaster behind him.
Bender turned the nose of his automatic down and got the bead and then crack—crack came from the window sill. The man across the bed spun around like a toy top and fell with a loud noise and somebody jumped down off the sill and ran into the room.
Bender crawled up saying: "Who is it? Who is it?"
"Cap'n? Cap'n?" the man said.
Bender switched on the light on the table by the bed and there stood the taxi driver, gun in hand, his cap on side-wise and excitement in his eyes.
"For ----	sake!" Bender rasped. "Where the hell did you come from?"
"I saw 'em, I saw 'em," he said. "I knew they were up to something so I followed 'em up the fire-escape. When Botchey shot at you I located him and gave him the works."
Bender swore and grinned.
"By ----!" he said in a nasty bass, "you're the	guardian angel I ever had."
The taxi driver came over and said: "Look—you're shot!" Blood was pouring down Bender's forearm and the upper part of his pajama sleeves was stained crimson.
"Yeah," he said. "Call a doctor or something for these guys."
The taxi driver went to the telephone and Bender went around the bed.
Botchey Miller on his side on the floor, a hole in his temple and one in his neck, but he was still breathing. Bender had to pull the other man off the bed to identify him, and he slid to the floor in a heap.
It was Jim Lovell, the chief of police. His right hand relaxed and stretched out and came close to a six-inch stiletto that lay gleaming on the floor. Lovell was hit once below the right eye and the bullet had ranged upward and come out at the back of his head.
Bender pitched his gun on the bed and sat down and looked at the men. Then he picked up the stiletto and held it up. The taxi driver came over and Bender said: "They was fixing to park that in my back."
The taxi driver nodded. Bender squinted his eyes and stared at him. He wrapped his left fingers around his right arm just below the shoulder and squeezed hard to try to stop some of the pain.
"Say," he said; "what the hell is your name?"
"Rusty Minton," the driver said. "Why?"
Bender winced as a surge of pain rolled down his arm.
"Nothing," he said; "only 1 thought it was about time you and I got acquainted."
VI
THE NOON WHISTLES blew and Rondora paused for lunch but the Grand Jury did not adjourn because they were looking at records and listening to a Ranger captain tell them plain facts about organized crime and boom towns.
Tom Bender sat there in a long room of dim coolness, his right arm bandaged from shoulder to elbow where a .38 bullet had plowed through a muscle, and explained how the keys he had found in Botchey Miller's pocket fit a safety deposit vault that had contained the records now before them.
Those records made the Grand Jury gasp. They revealed how Lovell, the former chief of police, who now lay in the morgue, had been taking money from Miller and also how lesser officials were involved. Bender told them he had looked for these lesser officials but couldn't find them and it was his guess they had blown for good. . . .
The Grand Jury indicted Pack Patton and no-billed Tom Bender and Rusty Minton, a taxi-driver. It adopted a vote of thanks for the latter pair and everybody shook hands and dispersed.
They asked Bender to remain over so they could throw a banquet or something but Bender told them he was still sleepy and that now that everything was quiet he thought he'd run over to Amarillo and hit the hay.
They thought he was too modest and said so but Bender laughed and told them so long.
He went back to the hotel and asked the clerk to get him transportation for Amarillo on the one o'clock bus. At five minutes to one he came downstairs and scores of persons crowded around the pointed him out and said flattering things. Bender got hot under the collar and quietly told a couple of them to get the hell away from there.
It seemed that the bus would never come. He felt that his hands and feet were unaccountably large and that in a minute or two . . . and then the big gray bus poked its ugly nose around the corner and drove up.
The crowd moved and from its midst came the taxi driver. His face was flushed, his eyes were wide but his attitude was one of mingled happiness and confusion.
"Say, Cap'n," he babbled; "guess what—the mayor's just appointed me chief of police!"
"That so?" Bender asked. "Well," he went on seriously; "you been a machine-gun sergeant in France and you got guts. Just keep these crooks in line and stay honest. Don't shoot until you have to, but when you do, try to hit something." He grinned. "That way, you may get to be mayor."
Rusty Minton gulped.
"I can handle it all right," he said, "but the mayor comes to me out of a clear sky. I didn't ask for this job."
"Well, you want it or not?"
"Sure—I'm tickled to death. But how'd he come to me?"
Bender's eyes twinkled.
"Search me," he said.
"All aboard," shouted the driver.
"So, long," Bender said.
Rusty Minton's mouth popped open as the truth broke over him like a rainbow. He would have gone after the bus but it was out of sight.
"Ugh!", he said to himself. "Wottaguy!"