NO GOOD RATTLESNAKE.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 195, 18 August 1936, Page 19

NO GOOD RATTLESNAKE.

THERE is a snake whose tail terminates in several horny joints, the vibration of which produces a shrill rattling noise. This is some times audible at a distance of twenty yards, and there is no mistaking the note. When he hears it, your dweller in the plains and open spaces of Texas draws his gun and puts u bullet through the serpent's skull, thus making sure that there is one rattler the less in the world. There is 110 good rattlesnake. . . . Jumbo Molony was not a Texan, but a year's farming south of the Colorado River had soon taught him this excellent habit. Furthermore, the specimen which now lay in his path was a diamond-back, which is known to be the most'virulent and dangerous of the species. An ex-Chicago gangster is usually a safe hand with a gun, but Molony missed that snake by a couple of inches. It glided angrily and volubly into the shallow waters of a santly-bottomed creek 011 the left of the trail, every convolution of its body clearly visible 011 the sun-lit bed of the stream. Molony fired again. The bullet plopped into the water and raised a cloud of yellow mud. When it cleared, he saw that the diamond back liad disappeared. With a sensation of having failed in an important .duty, Molony took the trail again and walked swiftly up the sun-baked, sloping path to the house, where his wife greeted him, and a Mexican cook waited with a, masterly cooked meal. Concerning the features of the Mexican, we shall preserve a diplomatic silence, but Linda Molony had clear grey eyes, a tender mouth, and a capacity for loyalty and affection which Jumbo wa<? striving hard to deserve. It is hard to go straight after a lifetime of crookedness, and it is unpalatable to work strenuously for a living when you have been accustomed to picking up easy money at the end of a gun, or holding up guys for their bankroll. Neither does there seein to be much good in a squealer—a crook who gives away his comrades to the police. But if there is, a girl like Linda is needed to bring it out, to put the. squealer on the straight and narrow, and keep him there. When you have talked indiscreetly to the cops, and have sent a man to the "chair," it is advisable to put as great a di6tnce of ground between yourself and his resentful colleagues as possible.

And you do not broadcast your destination to all and sundry. Gangland uses drastic methods with squealers.

Jumbo Molony had left Chicago hastily about a year ago. He was only now beginning to feel secure. For months he had dreamt at nights of the relentless killers who might be on his trail, Scorpio, or Jake Molloy, or The Cherub.

During those days, every sound outside the ranch-house brought him sweating to his feet, sent his hand trenißling to his holster. At nights he slept with a gun,under his pillow. Those months aged him, put faint lines 011 his forehead, and hollows in the firm flesh of his chceks.

He set himself to work hard on the little ranch lie had bought and stocked with cattle. He aimed to bury himself in this remote part of the world, where the great pine belts end. and the low growth of mesquite covers the plains. Luck seemed to be with him. No grim reminder came of the existence of Chicago gunmen. With the swift ebb of time his fears gradually became lulled. And then he found Linda. He married her, and some fool had to take their photograph outside the little church in Beacon City. It was a good photograph, an excellent photograph, a little mirror of life in the far south, and it was reproduced far and wide. Two months later the photo found its way into a Chicago magazine. Such is Fate. Buck Finnigan did not discover the picture for himself, but there weie plenty to bring it to his notice.

The Cherub brought it into Buck' c office. He laid the paper on Buck's expensive roll-top desk, and indicated the photograph with a well-manicured foretinger. "Recognise.' that bird, boss? he drawled. ' Finnigan had to peer closely at it. Ho was short-sighted, wore pince-nez, and looked like a banker or a Senator. "Molony," he said calmly. "Where was that took?' . "Pecan City, Texas," replied ( Tha Cherub laconically. "I guess that's his hide-away all right." "Somebody'll have to go get him, said Finnigan gently. "Who's it gonna be ?" The Cherub looked like a small boy who sees the chance of an unexpected treat. .. . "I cruess I could use a trip like that, boss he grinned. "I'll Ax that dirty rat all right, all right." He tapped his arm-pit meaningly. . "Get going, then, snapped Buck lmnicran, tersely. The Cherub enjoyed the long journey to the Lone Star State. He arrived 111 Pecan City in the early evening, and gravitated naturally to Jeff Quilt a saloon. , . , . Here he stayed for some time diinkin 0 quantities of Jeff's special rye wlifsky, making all his inquiries and findin™ out all he wanted to know about .Tumbo Molony's whereabouts.

The solicitous owner of the saloon gave him precise directions for finding thp Molony outlit. "'Strike the trail by the creek, and keep "oin\" instructed Jell, "and you li hit the ranch-house." Pie fixed his one sound eye on The Cherub's immaculate necktie and elegantly cut suit "You'll be from New York? he hazaided CU « r <Chica-o," corrected The Cherub, nonchalantly. He took another gulp or Jeff's powerful whisky. Molony san old buddy of mine. We was at college to ®Molony'll be no end bucked to see you agin, then," Jeff remarked placing another whisky in The Cherubs ready lm The other smiled grimly. "He will til at," he agreed. "It's a He don't know I'm coming. Well, 111 be pushing along." he said. "I guess I got your directions all right.

JclT repeated them. "You might meet liirn oil tlie trail, he added.

(SHORT STORY.)

(By W. H. HARLEY.)

"Might I, now ?" asked The Cherub, interested. "Yep," said the bar-tender. "I reckon you will. He'll be getting back for his dinner, see?" "Yeali?" "Always goin' up the trail about eight o'clock, Molony is," chattered tho. loijuacious Jeff. Eight o'clock dinner, see? I reckon you'll run into him, sure!" "Hope I do. Hope I, do!" said The Cherub. "Well, so long!" He left the bar a trifle unsteadily. He felt fuddled, but he guessed the night air would pull him round. Meet him on the trail, eh? He toyed with the idea of an ambush. That would be a good plan. Make sure of getting him alone. Save trouble with Molony's wife. If he missed him on the trail, he could still go up to the house. That was it. He'd do that.

He lurched along Main Street, and left the little town at the far end. It was ton to eight by his gold watch.

Five minutes' walking brought him to the creek and the gently sloping path. He stopped for a moment and listened, still swaying giddily under the poten'. influence of the rye whisky. He could hear nothing. Another hundred yards brought him to a thicket of hawthorn where an arm of the creek curved outwards on to the very edge of the trail. It was an ideal spot. Molony ought to be along any minute now, and he would have to pass within a foot of the hawthorn.

The Cherub drew his revolver from under his arm-pit, and crouched down into the shadow of the bush, lie waited. Any minute now. That cursed whisky. It was making his head swim. He was crouching on his heels, and found it hard to keep his balance. He lurched backwards, and nearly fell. He had to jump to his feet to prevent himself toppling over. A sickening wave of dizziness overcame him. He took three tottering steps backwards before he could recover himself.

• Vaguely he became conscious of an angry rattling noise behind him, and instinctively felt the danger. But he was too bemused to act quickly enough, and. as he tried to spring aside, an eight foot diamond-back rattlesnake reared its ugly head and struck —twice. Molony was a bit late that evening. It was past eight when lie hit the trail, and swung along the side of the creek homewards. fie walked rapidly and eagerly. He was hardly conscious nowadays of that agonising fear which was once so cvcipresent.° Thoughts of Chicago and its ruthless killers were as far from his mind as he passed the dark mass of the hawthorn bush, and he did not sec the crumpled and inert figure lying behind

He did not sec the gun clenched in The Cherub's lifeless outstretched hand. What he did see was an eight-foot dia-mond-back rattlesnake gliding swiftly across the trail, and his gun was out in a flash. . This time he did not miss. The tiling writhed for a few minutes and then lay still. The head of it was smashed to a pulp. „ Jumbo Molony continued his walk home to his wife and dinner with a irrin of satisfaction 011 his brown, happy face. He had a sensation of having succeeded in an important duty. There is 110 good rattlesnake.