The Avenger 4 - The Devil’s Horns by Kenneth Robeson Page B

Wilson’s left wrist.
    The gun fell to the floor. A moment later Public Enemy Buddy Wilson staggered backward and followed suit, with a white welt on his jaw where the bone mallet of the Scotchman’s fist had landed.
    Screeching again, the dancer leaped for Mac. He pushed her out of his way and stepped up to Wilson just as the raging gunman got to his feet, with another automatic in his hand.
    The toe of Mac’s big foot sent that one flying, before it could be used, and then, in a leisurely way, Mac planted a right fist wrist-deep into Wilson’s stomach, and lashed him in the mouth with a straight left.
    “I don’t like rats who masquerade as men,” remarked MacMurdie. So he belted the public enemy three times more.
    He deliberately pulled his punches so that unconsciousness wouldn’t result too soon. He wanted the gunman on his feet for a little while longer.
    The girl was off his hands for a moment. She had flown to the desk and clawed out the .25 automatic. She was snapping it again and again at MacMurdie, cocking it and pulling the trigger and sliding back the barrel again, waiting for a slug to work up from a clip she’d supposed was full.
    Mac smashed the killer’s girlish nose, split his lips again. Then, as the dancer screamed and threw the empty gun at him, he shrugged and ended it with a sock to Wilson’s groggy jaw that seemed to have broken his neck.
    “He’ll get you for this!” screamed Lila Belle, trying again to scratch MacMurdie’s eyes out. “Nobody can do that to Buddy Wilson. You’re a dead man right now! He’ll get you! And if he don’t, I will.”
    MacMurdie was scrupulous even in a pinch. He didn’t hit women, even of Lila Belle’s sort. He held her clawing hands till he could get to the door. Then he pushed her back away from it, leaped out, and went to the fire escape.
    And with him went the most valuable secret picked up so far. Knowledge that five masked men, taking over Groman’s robes of leadership, met to rule Ashton City.

CHAPTER X

Behind Prison Walls!
    Ashton City’s local jail dipped back into the past history of penology about fifty years. There was a half acre or more on the edge of town, surrounded by a high stone wall. There was a two-story building with cells above and offices and mess hall below.
    The prisoners, small offenders, or men, like Smitty, waiting for trial, had just finished lunch. They were out in the snow-covered prison yard for their regular exercise. That consisted of walking around with vicious short steps and cursing fate, the law, and everything else the prisoners could find to curse for their incarceration. Everything except themselves.
    The giant, Smitty, was pacing alone near the wall. On top of the wall, two men with guns negligently paced while the men were out of their cells.
    Three prisoners came slowly up to Smitty. One was a big, hulking man with the scarred features of a prize fighter. Another was as lean and agile as a snake, with a snake’s flat head and dull, baleful eyes. The third was an apish-looking man with an empty grin on his face.
    The three, Smitty had noticed before, were the rulers of the rest of the cell inmates. They were the bullies of the place, and what they said went.
    The biggest man, with the twisted nose and cauliflower ears, stopped truculently in front of Smitty.
    “What’s your name, punk?” he rasped.
    “Smith,” said Smitty, looking thick-witted and slow and good-natured. The big fighter stared at the giant’s bland blue eyes and amiable moonface.
    Easy pickings, he obviously thought.
    “Well, Smith,” the prize fighter growled, “we been talking about y’u, and we’ve decided we don’t like the shape of your mouth. So we’re gonna change it—unless y’u wanta pay the fine.”
    “Fine?” said Smitty, looking perplexed.
    “Yeah! We got kind of a court. See? I’m the judge and my two pals, here, are the jury. Now, we’ve judged y’u, and we’ve fined y’u ten bucks.”
    “Ten