Even after lunch, Pete was still chilled through to the bone. “Why don’t you and Izzy stay here.” Pa said. “If you get a chance, take the meat off that turkey so we can have it for sandwiches the next couple of days. Get warmed up and throw a few extra logs on the fire. I don’t want you comin’ down sick from runnin’ an errand for me. You two take it easy this afternoon. You both have been carryin’ quite a load for us.”
Pa took on a serious look. He got the little roll of money the family used for emergencies, and he said, “Ike, get the shotgun and load up with these.”
Pa held out a new box of 25 Remington “Double-Aught (0-0) Shot.” Each pellet of 0-0 shot is the same diameter as a .32 caliber slug. There are 16 pellets to a 12 gauge load. These shells are not for hunting birds. “Are we expecting trouble, Pa?”
“No, but why be unprepared? We don’t really know who killed the man in the Packard or why. Maybe it was to regain the funeral car. Maybe it was over this $70,000. We should have a persuader with us.”
The car fired up pretty easily after lunch. I could tell my arm was not going to like being the starter, though. The engine would fire right at the top of the pull. If I did not keep pulling to get the flywheel past center, it would backfire and yank my arm. It took two good pulls each time to start it. So far, after stopping to refuel in Panama City, that has been seven pulls I put into the engine, and my arm was feeling every one of them.
We got to Bokoshe in about an hour, even counting the time to fill the car with gasoline.. We did a little snooping around town. It didn’t take long to find Mr. Jeremiah Bois D’Arc coming out of the bank. “I am right popular it seems. I heard another gent was looking for me, also.”
Pa was frank about the reason for our visit. “You think I would be stupid enough to steal from Baby Face Nelson?” the Indian asked us.
“Maybe,” Pa said, “if you thought he might spend a long time in jail. We just know one of his gang was nosin’ around our town and got himself killed. If someone else is lookin’ for you, maybe it would be a good idea to ditch the money and get out of this area. We will make sure the money gets back to the insurance companies. If you want, we could send you half of whatever we get for a reward.”
“Hmmmm…” was all the response we got for a few minutes. Then Jeremiah said, “Maybe, I will just pull up stakes and visit some other friends out west somewhere.”
“A good idea,” said Pa, “but the insurance companies will have detectives out after you and Baby Face will be searching for you. If the world knew the money has already gone back to the insurance companies, the number of people interested in you will fall off dramatically. You can plan on a longer life.”
“Look,” Pa said, “stick this postcard in your pocket. If you want to make a deal, just drop it in any mailbox and we will be here in two days.” When it was clear, that was as far as we would get today, we turned to walk back to the car. Just as we arrived at the REO, machine gun fire filled the air. Mr. Bois D’Arc would not have a chance to mail his post card. Apparently, whoever was firing had waited for us to leave the area, counting on us to run when we got to the car.
Jeremiah Bois D’Arc was on his back and blood was running off the curb into the street.
A man in a trench-coat and a straw skimmer and carrying a black machine gun ran over to him and was bent over Mr. Bois D’Arc going though his coverall pockets. He pulled out Pa’s postcard and Bois D’Arc’s wallet and stuffed both into his inside pockets.
I lifted the shotgun off the floor of the backseat, pumped a round into the chamber and leveled at the straw-hat. I was standing behind the door of the car, but I had no illusions that the thin sheet steel would stop a rain of .45’s. When the man heard the shotgun mechanism clatter, he stopped moving. He started to swing the machine gun toward the sound.
“Don’t do it, mister,” I told him. “This is double aught shot, and you are in perfect range. That gun of your’n won’t stand a chance. Just lay it down in front of you and we will both have long lives.” The trench-coated man laid the Thompson in the street. “Now, lay down in the street with your arms stretched out where I can see them.”
[Author’s Note to the Reader: A pump shot gun can, for a short time, out shoot a machine gun. Just hold the trigger pulled and pump the loading arm. While the seven shells last, it will shoot about 3 times per second, each shot expelling 16 .32 caliber balls. In one second, 48 balls will fly at a human target transforming a sealed circulatory system into a sieve.]
“What’ll we do, Pa?” whispered Sam. “Follow your brother, son. He is in charge for now.” Pa had a surprised look on his face.
Sam and I advanced on the prone figure. “When we get there, you take the machine gun. Find the safety and make sure you can work it. Put the safety on and point the gun at the man’s head.” I told my little brother.
I put the muzzle of the shotgun in the nape of the man’s neck. “Do not act stupid.” I told him. He had his arm through the machine gun strap. He had planned to retrieve the tethered gun and turn it on us. Coming at him from behind left him with no move but to comply. “Sam, pull that strap off his arm and keep him covered.” I talked like Sam did this all the time. I could see Sam was quivering like a leaf.
“You are going to get up and walk slowly to your car. Keep your hands up. Are you alone?” When standing, I could see the man was tiny, maybe 130 pounds. The trench coat made him look bigger, but when I saw his frame, I was amazed so small a man could handle a machine gun that would have to kick like a mule.
The man didn’t answer the question about being alone. I hoped that it meant he was. “What is your name?” I asked.
“Lester. Call me Les,” he said. “Son, have you ever killed anyone?” Lester asked me.
“No, he hasn’t,” Pa answered for me. “But, I have. It’s not so hard when you have to.” Pa had retrieved the machine gun from Sam. Pa could tell the man was looking for our weakness and would have found it in Sam. Pa pulled the slide cocking mechanism on the machine gun. It ejected a live shell into the street, so we all knew then the gun was ready for use.
"We are going to get a policeman or sheriff and report what we saw and give this nice man a warm place to sleep for the night.” Pa explained what we would to do next.
“What about the postcard?” I whispered to Pa.
Pa lowered the machine gun to Lester’s ear. “Get it,” Pa said.
I retrieved the card, the wallet and felt a gun butt in a shoulder mount. I retrieved the .45 automatic hand gun and handed it to Pa. “You guys are pretty new at this aren’t you?” Lester asked.
“Doesn’t take much practice to pull a trigger,” I bluffed.
“Let Lester drive.” Pa said. “I will navigate for him. You two follow in the REO. Let’s go find the police station.”
“Oh, I know right where it is,” volunteered Lester. “But, I doubt I will be there long.” My left arm was much relieved when the battery started the old REO. We found the police station downtown and handed Lester over to them and reported the crime. Pa explained that he was suspicious our Lester was really Baby Face Nelson. We explained the connection between Baby Face and the Indian and the money. By the time we were finished answering questions, the uniformed police had been to the scene and come back. Mr. Bois D’Arc was certainly dead and had been moved to the morgue at the hospital.
“Can you come to the hospital and identify the Indian?” the police detective asked Pa.
“Sure that’ll be fine,” Pa said.
At the hospital, Pa told the police the man on the morgue’s work table was the man who told us he was Jeremiah Bois D’Arc. His shirt was gone and his coverall bib was folded down at the waist. Seven seeping holes were in the man’s chest and belly and one in his cheek. Most of the blood had been washed away.
“OK,” said the policeman, Thanks for your time and your bravery, Mr. Daniels. Can we reach you at anytime at this address… in Hill Oklahoma?” he asked as he read the information from a little notebook.
“Yep.” said Pa.
It was a quite a ride back. Both Pa and Sam told me they were proud to know me. I joked I would have to spend some extra time in the out-house cleaning my shorts. Pa said I was a brave man and Mom would be proud of me also.
Finally, I asked what we should do next. It was starting to get chilly again as the sun got lower. Most of the snow had burnt away during the day, but it was cold when the sun was not shining on us.
Pa said we would contact the insurance companies and be sure they were willing to pay a reward. Everything was for nothing if they didn’t want to pay to know about their money.
It was getting dark when we pulled up in front of the house. “I haven’t known three people that died my whole life,” I said. “Now, there are three dead in less than a week counting Mom. With people carrying a Tommy guns, there will probably be more. Do you think it’s worth it Pa?”
“I know we will lose the farm if we didn’t at least try. However, the money may be leaving Bokoshe even as we speak. I imagine Lester the machine gun man, has everyone’s attention right now.”
Turkey sandwiches with veggies piled on them made supper. Man, they were good. Of course, anything tastes good when you are hungry enough.
Pete and Izzy had to hear the day’s stories all again. Izzy, who has cried when I shot a rabbit, cried when we told him about Mr. Bois D’Arc.
Pete asked if we thought Lester was really Baby Face Nelson. “He fit the description in the news paper,” I told him. “He was a very small man.
“We will know for sure tomorrow. Every post office has copies of the wanted posters from Washington. If he is Baby Face, Mrs. Corrigan will have a picture of him for us tomorrow.”
We will go to Hackett tomorrow and give our coded message to the sheriff and visit your mother to be sure they did a good job and make sure everything is ready for the funeral on Tuesday.