What the hell are you doing this for?” I asked myself as I slid down the last few feet of hill drenched in sweat. I’m not sure I asked the question to myself. Hysteria was a real possibility, and I may have been talking aloud in spite of the potential danger, but it was a good question and one I couldn’t answer.
I sat in a hole at the edge of the woods, panting. Nature had etched on me, using twigs, branches and rocks. A shot from the woods tore into the hills a few feet below the pit where Cooper and Hemingway were holding fort. One of them responded with a shot that came closer to hitting me than any enemy in the woods.
When I could breathe without making as much noise as the MGM lion, I ambled forward through the trees and bushes in a crouch with my trusty.38 in hand. When I hit a small murky clearing, a rifle bullet spat into a tree nearby and a voice shouted, “Stop there.”
Part of the mystery was now settled. It wasn’t a team of Fascists after Castelli. It was Max Gelhorn.
“Gelhorn,” I shouted, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“You know damn well what we’re doing,” he answered. “We’re going to shoot Gary Cooper.”
“And me too?”
“Yes,” shouted Gelhorn.
“And the two others with us?” I went on, trying to see where his voice was coming from.
Apparently he didn’t know that there were four of us. I could hear him conferring with someone before he answered, “Yes. It’s too late for anything else.”
“I see,” I said, moving behind a large rock and resting my pistol on it for support. “Since you’ve already killed, it doesn’t matter how many more you do in.”
“We haven’t killed anybody,” came Mickey Fargo’s voice.
I could make out the two figures now behind a clump of bushes no more than forty yards away.
“It’s kill or be killed,” shouted Gelhorn. “Since I can’t deliver Cooper and Lombardi insists on him, it’s all I can do. You pointed that out.”
I hoped our voices weren’t carrying up the hill. My best tactic in case they were was to change the subject.
“Maybe we can nail Lombardi for the murders and get him off your back?” I said.
“No,” cried Gelhorn, taking a shot in my general direction that came no closer to me than twenty yards. “Don’t try to reason with me,” Gelhorn screamed in anger. “This isn’t a reasonable situation. This is a desperate situation.”
To prove it a few more shots whistled in my general direction. Realizing that time was surely no longer on their side, Gelhorn and Fargo began to move forward in the bizarre belief that they were being hidden by shadows or trees or magic.
“Why not,” I told myself and stepped out from behind the rock. Fargo was the first to spot me. He fired. The bullet hit about midway between us in the clearing.
“That’s enough,” I shouted with as much authority as I could muster. I raised my.38, aimed at Gelhorn’s chest, knowing I’d be sick if I hit him, and fired. There was a scream and Tall Mickey Fargo, who had been standing five yards to Gelhorn’s side, went down.
“I’m shot,” he yelled. “Oooch. My leg. You crazy bastard. You shot me.”
“You’re lucky I decided not to shoot to kill,” I lied. “The next one goes between your eyes, Gelhorn.”
The two had obviously thought that their rifles were at a distinct advantage over my.38, but my fortunate shot had given them pause. The trick now was to keep from shooting again and let them know what a rotten shot I really was.
Gelhorn dived behind a tree, and Mickey hobbled to another one, still screaming ouch and calling me a crazy bastard.
“You’re trying to kill me, and I’m a crazy bastard,” I laughed.
“I’m shot,” Fargo called back.
“That was the general idea,” I said.
Gelhorn unleashed four shots, none of which put me in any danger. Mickey regained enough courage in spite of his knee to take a shot up the hill and one at me. His wound had improved his aim but not enough to make anyone worry. It would probably have been safe to charge right at them, but I wasn’t prepared to take the chance, and I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I got there. Would I really be able to shoot them if they didn’t give up?
As the sun dropped over the hill, the problem was settled for me. At first I thought a wild pig had wandered into the battle. There was a sound like a squeal from the hilltop. My second thought was that we had awakened some historical ghost who was going berserk over our inept battle. A figure came over the hill a few yards from where Cooper and Hemingway were holed up. The figure came shouting down the hill with the sun blazing at its back. Held high in its right hand was the ax that had been imbedded in the log outside of the cabin.
“What the hell is that?” shrieked Gelhorn.
The madly charging figure was now close enough for me to see that it was Luis Felipe Castelli. He was shouting in rage as he charged toward the woods where Gelhorn was standing and Fargo kneeling, transfixed. Castelli was shouting in rapid semi-hysterical Spanish, and I could catch only a few words, one of which was certainly “Fascisti.”
Gelhorn and Fargo both took shots at Castelli but probably came closer to shooting themselves than him. Gelhorn turned to run from this lunatic attack and almost dropped his rifle. Fargo yelped like a stepped-on dog and tried to hobble away as Castelli came crashing through the bushes and trees, swinging the ax.
I holstered my gun and tried to run to beat Castelli to the two terrified would-be killers, but my legs were heavy and tired.
“Luis,” I shouted, “don’t. They are not Fascists.” But I might as well have been talking to a movie. Castelli continued the charge. I got to him as he leaped over a bush, landed in front of Mickey Fargo and raised the ax with a look of glee, ready to split the fat former cowboy into shank steaks. Fargo covered his head with his arms and moaned, “No.” I caught Castelli around the waist and went down with him, rolling over.
“Luis,” I said, trying to keep him from chopping my head off. “It’s me, Toby Peters.
“
I patted him on the shoulder and rolled away. Hemingway and Cooper were making their way down the hill, weapons at the ready. I lay there for about twenty seconds, catching my breath, while Luis rose and walked over to Fargo, who had thrown his gun away.
When Cooper and Hemingway stumbled into the clearing, I got to my knees.
“Mickey,” said Cooper, recognizing the fallen figure clutching the wounded leg.
“Get him back to Los Angeles,” I ordered, getting to my feet. “Call Lieutenant Pevsner in Homicide at the Wilshire district. Give him to Pevsner and Pevsner only, and tell Pevsner I’ll bring in Tillman’s killer by tomorrow.”
“Who is it?” Cooper asked.
“Damned if I know,” I said, slouching after Gelhorn.
“Always carry a lantern in the dark,” Hemingway called cryptically.
Now what the hell is that supposed to mean? I asked myself without looking around as I stumbled into the darkness. At this point my clothes were so tattered that I must have looked like Rip Van Winkle, but I was unbowed. I could have stayed and tried to get some information out of Fargo, but he was more interested in his own pain than conversation, and it was likely he didn’t know what I needed to find out.
I was weary, but Gelhorn was lost. Now I was lost, too, but I wasn’t frightened and he was. A frightened man will make mistakes that can cost him his life. I lumbered after Gelhorn and in about five minutes heard him breathing hard ahead of me. Darkness had just about taken over, and I could have used a real flashlight instead of Hemingway’s pithy metaphor.
“Be careful of the snakes,” I called out. “Rattlesnakes.”
“Snakes?” screeched Gelhorn and fired a shot in what he must have thought was the general direction of my voice. I plunged on, knowing that he was moving more cautiously now, watching the ground, which is probably what I should have been doing.
