After all these years, I never thought I’d see the Rocky Mountains again. My life growing up here was content. I passed the happiest days hiking around the rugged terrain of the valleys, gorges, alpine tundra, and summits. The occasional waterfall and the panoramic views, while hunting deer, elk, or ptarmigan, gave me unforgettable memories. I spent as much effort trying to avoid an encounter with a cougar or, worse yet, a black bear. I had learned a great deal from and about these magnificent mountains. Things I’ll never forget. Now, in the early winter of 1930, things had changed. This time, I was the prey.
Now, in the early winter of 1930, things had changed. This time, I was the prey.
* * *
A number of years ago, I left this idyllic setting for, as they say, the bright lights of the big city to make my fame and fortune. Chicago had dazzling illumination, but fame and fortune eluded me at every turn. At least at the start. My circumstances finally became bad enough that I fell in with a gang of criminals just so I could eat. A guy whose name you might recognize, if I cared to repeat it, came to head up our mob. I don’t care to mention it.
As time passed, I moved up in the gang’s ranks, gaining the respect of my criminal peers and the trust of the bosses. It seemed I had a knack for felonious practices. Nothing too heavy, mind you, just the talent necessary to plan and to get things done for the organization. A little rough stuff, you know, around the edges, but nothing too malicious. Certainly none inflicted upon anyone who didn’t deserve it. Between the bootlegging, the gambling and clip joints, and the joy girls, my mob pulled in well over a hundred million simoleons a year. Everybody lived the good life. And zero changed, even after Wall Street laid an egg. The bottom line is that the suckers may lose everything else, but they won’t give up their vices. Period.
One of our hangouts during the gravy years had been a two-bit nightclub between Chicago and Cicero. A girl who worked there, a fan dancer named Eve, caught my eye. She was a cutie and didn’t act hard around the edges like the other dames in the place or the molls the mugs in our outfit kept time with. Yeah, okay, Eve was a skirt with something of a checkered past. I say “checkered” cautiously, because who’s traveled a road that doesn’t have a few potholes? I know mine sure as hell did. Even so, she was no round heels, as I learned when we became better acquainted. Eve could be tough when necessary, but she had a soft and sweet nature.
Eve was a skirt with something of a checkered past.
Call me crazy, but over time, I fell hard for the doll. It turned out Eve reciprocated, as the swells say, my feelings. She said we made a perfect couple, what with my first name being Adam. I teased her, wondering who the snake in our little story might be. A while after we started going around together, I talked Eve into leaving the floor show racket and moving into my apartment. The club owner, a mug lower in the food chain of our mob than me, wanted to start a rumpus over her quitting. He changed his mind when I gave him an “attitude adjustment.”
Over time, I learned Eve had a cousin named Richard, a reporter for a reform-minded newspaper in the city. The first meeting between Eve’s relative and me proved to be a little touchy. He understood I worked in the rackets but didn’t like it even a little. The only thing weighing in my favor in Richard’s eyes was the fact that I’d gotten Eve away from fan dancing in nightclubs. He still looked at me suspiciously. We were copacetic, I guess. Because Eve was the only family he had, he frequently hung out at our place.
Richard turned out to be one of those fresh-faced kids who had a rah-rah college look. He always appeared to be on his way from a frat house to the football stadium on a Saturday afternoon. The guy was too much of a goody two-shoes to suit my taste. But I figured, as long as Eve felt contentment, nothing else mattered.
Things were jake until talk filtered down the big boss had come under investigation by the G-men. Word on the street claimed he’d be pinched and brought up on charges. According to the palaver among our mugs, it sounded more and more as if the kingpin of our rackets might go away for a long stretch in stir. But nobody had the guts to talk that way in front of the man himself. Rumors even circulated of a rat in our midst. A few floaters appeared in a branch of the Chicago River when the gang worked to root out the stoolie. The Feds moved forward with their case, which looked pretty strong against the big guy. So the mob believed they hadn’t found the informer.
Things were jake until talk filtered down the big boss had come under investigation by the G-men.
Meanwhile, the way we figured it, if the old man went up the river, chaos would break loose. There’d be a battle between the lesser bosses for his seat at the table and control of the rackets. The mugs backed the boss as long as his hand stayed in play. But they’d turn greedy as hell when it came to getting more power for themselves if the Feds sent him away. A lot of blood was going to be spilled. A few lunatics welcomed a mob war, but not me. Too many “innocent” folks get caught in the crossfire. Besides, in our business, blood is money.
More importantly, I’d found Eve and was ready to settle down and leave this life of crime behind. We wanted to get married and go somewhere and start with a clean slate with the dough I had been able to stash away. We started making plans for a break to the West Coast. If a tangle broke out for control of the outfit, we felt there’d be no better time to dust.
Then, one day while chinning over the big guy’s impending trial, his lawyer came by my place and gave me a package. In conspiratorial tones, he told me it held a hundred thousand dollars in cash. The money was to pay off witnesses, jurors, or even a judge should the case go to court. What with Eve and me getting ready to take a powder, I didn’t want to hold on to it.
The money was to pay off witnesses, jurors, or even a judge should the case go to court.
When I suggested he give it to the mob’s accountant, the shyster explained the guy was under investigation by the Feds, too. He couldn’t take the risk of giving it to him. My duty was to protect it at all costs until the appointed time, when he sent someone to retrieve it. He gave me a code phrase so I’d understand it was okay to hand it over when a mug showed up for it. I didn’t want the responsibility since Eve and I were getting ready to pull the big flit but couldn’t say no without arousing suspicions.
So, I sat on the package for a week, waiting for the chance for us to scram. I never mentioned the bribe money to my girlfriend. She had enough to deal with already. Plus, the less my girl knew, the less she might spill in a pinch. My plan was to drop the thing off at the mouthpiece’s office as a last stop on our way out of town. I didn’t want to be holding anything connected to the mob when we started our new life together.
The night just before we’d planned to leave, Eve called me from a payphone somewhere. The girl was in a lather. She’d gone by the nightclub to see an old gal pal, a chorine, one last time before we blew town. Her friend had excitedly pulled Eve aside and given her grim news. Only a few minutes earlier, the hoofer had overheard a conversation by some of our gang crowded into a booth at the club.
They were grumbling about taking me for a one-way ride to a local cemetery, a favorite stiff-dumping ground at the time for the outfit. Nobody had ever caught on to or found evidence of the dumped bodies at the boneyard because of the way we “laid them in” with recently buried citizens. If we never intended the bumping off to send a message, the departed went straight from a south side icehouse to the graveyard. There it shared a burial plot with a new arrival.
These mugs somehow convinced themselves I was the Feds’ snitch because of my link to Eve’s cousin and anti-mob reporter Richard. If dumb were dirt, these goons could cover over an acre each. Anyway, my girlfriend and I planned to meet at one of the new Riverside Plaza entrances to Union Station. As I hurriedly threw some of our clothes into suitcases, I realized the lawyer’s office had closed for the day. I couldn’t just drop off the bribe money. Staring at the travel bags on the bed, I decided to glom the cash for our nest egg. It served the outfit right. Besides, if the syndicate wanted me dead, I was already behind the eight ball.
These mugs somehow convinced themselves I was the Feds’ snitch …
When I got to Jackson Boulevard, Eve wasn’t there. I waited, anxiously pacing in front of the entrance we’d agreed on, smoking like an old flivver. After half an hour, I saw two heavy-hitting lugs from our rackets headed my way. They wore serious expressions. It may have been just a coincidence, but I didn’t take any chances. Before I thought the pair had seen me through the throng, I dove into a telephone booth, dousing the light. They walked right past my location, as if on a mission. But the goons had no apparent interest in me.. They weren’t searching the crowd as if they had a target in mind.
Relieved, I stepped out of the booth and mingled with the horde. Still no Eve. My concern for her grew, but only slightly. Despite her soft edges, she proved a tough nut to crack. I’d seen how she’d handled mashers at the club. She was the one girl the bouncers rarely had to help with trouble in the form of an unruly patron. Besides, when she telephoned our place, she had reassured me she had safely departed from the nightclub and the mob’s grasp. Eve was plenty savvy.
Some time back, when we’d decided to make our getaway, we’d agreed, if we ever got separated, we’d meet at the post office in a burg near my hometown in the Rockies. Durango was small compared to Chicago, but large enough to get lost in if you played it smart. We had also decided on stops at specific places along the way. There we could receive or leave messages for each other, under prearranged phony names. Aware of nothing more of Eve’s current situation, I determined Durango had to be my destination. I exited the Windy City on the next train for St. Louis, where I bought a used but reliable-looking Plymouth coach for cash, on the cheap. Then I headed west.
During the trek to our rendezvous, I stopped briefly at the planned locations. As arranged, when there was no word from Eve, I left a brief note for her, advising her of my progress. At the third location, a telegram from my girlfriend awaited me. In it, she advised me circumstances had put her in a position of having to lie low for a time before she made her way in my direction. Even more importantly, she let me know about a recent development. The syndicate gave a button man, nicknamed “the Canuck,” a contract to rub me out.
The syndicate gave a button man, nicknamed “the Canuck,” a contract to rub me out.
Though I’d never even spoken to the lug, I had seen him once in passing at the Chicago hotel where our big boss maintained his headquarters. His cold black eyes, thin lips, and slicked-back hair hid a purely evil character. The entire gang was aware of the Canuck’s reputation as a highly brutal assassin. However, his true identity was unknown to anyone. His nickname had nothing to do with his ethnic background or country of origin. In fact, he was out-of-town talent the bosses sometimes brought into our territory from Detroit to handle “delicate” matters. They hung the moniker on him because, much the same as the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, he always got his man … or woman, for that matter.
Rumor had it he never been involved in the rackets or with violence until Uncle Sam called on him for the Great War and taught him to kill. The lessons took. During his time in Europe, he discovered that not only was he superb at it, but he also enjoyed it a great deal. When he returned stateside to the chaos of Prohibition, he decided to make a career of it. Now, the man’s weapon of choice was an ice pick–they said he liked to watch a target’s dying eyes up close–though he improvised when necessary. One story of his capers told around was he’d once beaten a goon who’d been blabbing to the coppers and his moll to death with a frying pan. His brutality knew no bounds.
* * *
Not until I had driven well into the eastern slope of the Rockies did I realize just how close the man hunting me was on my heels. One morning, I was getting ready to leave Pueblo, Colorado, where I’d stopped overnight. As I threw a suitcase into my Plymouth sedan, a familiar specter caught my eye. The Canuck climbed out of a new Cadillac Sixteen and loped up the front steps of my hotel across the street.
The Canuck climbed out of a new Cadillac Sixteen and loped up the front steps of my hotel across the street.
I ducked behind my crate’s rear door and watched as he disappeared inside. He hadn’t seen me. I clambered into my heap and burned rubber as much as possible along the winding, narrow mountain roads out of town. But I felt my nemesis at my back. I knew the Plymouth couldn’t outrun that V-16 of his. The irony of being chased through the Rockies by an American city slicker called Canuck struck me. The problem: I wasn’t in the mood to laugh.
Going to Durango was out of the question in the event Eve got there some way. I didn’t want to put her in jeopardy. This issue with the Canuck had to be resolved first. But how? I carried a gat, as usual, with which I was fairly handy but certainly no match for a hired killer, especially one as skilled as the man trailing me. So, instead of traveling southwest toward our rendezvous point, I headed in the direction of Mount Elbert, climbing steadily.
Eventually, found my heap running on fumes, requiring a quick stop for gasoline in Canon City. At a junction outside the burg, I turned off the road I’d been on and traveled toward Fairplay. I only hoped the Canuck took the wrong route and gave me the opportunity to lose him. Unfortunately, my pace slowed as the roads became more hazardous because of increasing snowfall and high winds.
After another couple of hours driving, I glimpsed the Canuck’s Cadillac on a cutback down the mountain. He’d made good time despite the road conditions. On that stretch of highway, turnoffs were few and far between. The only ones I’d seen led to ranch houses or to God knows what. Aside from a house not providing a suitable hiding spot, I didn’t see putting strangers at risk in my predicament. I pressed on.
A short time later, the sudden explosion of a rear tire shook the Plymouth, causing the back end to swing to the left, then from side to side. As I tried to reduce the fishtailing effect, I overcorrected, setting the car into a spin. Despite her best efforts, my bucket finished with the passenger side buried in a snowbank just off the roadway. I cut the motor and checked my rod in my shoulder holster. When I crawled out of my machine, it crossed my mind that the Canuck had gotten an angle on me and had shot out the tire.
I cut the motor and checked my rod in my shoulder holster.
So I kept my head low and scanned the area as carefully as possible without giving the mug a target. The heavy, blowing snow didn’t make my effort any easier. But, as best I could tell, he was nowhere in sight. Nothing was in view except spruce and fir growing up the mountainside to a point, and a rocky landscape covered by snow beyond. Unless the Canuck had somehow overtaken me and had used a high-powered rifle from a distant hiding spot I hadn’t seen, his shooting out the tire didn’t figure.
Then I heard it: the low, powerful hum of the V-16 somewhere behind and below me, echoing over the wind gusts through the mountains. I was still too far from Fairplay to make it there on foot. As I gazed up the mountainside, an idea took shape in my head. A risky play, sure, and requiring a lot of luck, but my situation was desperate. With the button man hot on my tail, I couldn’t waste time. Despite not being dressed for the outdoors in this weather, I started trudging up the mountain through the deep snow. The going was rough.
… I started trudging up the mountain through the deep snow. The going was rough.
After making certain my would-be killer could easily see and follow my path leading away from the Plymouth, I kept to rock surfaces as much as possible. In this way, I increased my pace and slowed him while he located my next set of tracks. Hopefully, this would put distance between us. Periodically, I’d ease back into the snow and leave enough of a trail to keep the Canuck in the race. As I climbed, I constantly scanned for a special type of terrain, with certain conditions I recalled from my youth.
I stopped and watched from behind a boulder when I heard the Cadillac pull to a stop next to my jalopy. The Canuck’s form was barely visible through the driving snow as he piled out of the car and looked around. Then, he reached into the seat area and retrieved what appeared to be a hunting rifle before following my trail. I turned and continued upward, watching the terrain carefully.
After what I estimated to be a couple thousand feet climb, I saw ahead of me what I’d hoped to find. To set it up, I had to make a wide detour to my left, which meant crossing in the Canuck’s line of sight for a few minutes. The play was a risky one, but it seemed my only chance. I kept low as I hustled so the mug below me didn’t get a clear shot.
When I’d moved far enough to the left, I turned back to my right and continued to climb. I reached a stand of spruce and stopped and waited, taking the time to break a dead branch from a tree. The activity kept my mind off the fact that I was exhausted, freezing my ass off, and my stomach was as empty as last year’s bird’s nests. As I prepared, two automobiles passed our boilers below, slowing as they did.
In time, the Canuck appeared, following my path through the snow. As I had hoped, he made the long, sweeping movement to his left along my tracks. Just as he started back to his right and in my direction, I stepped out from the copse of trees to be certain he saw me. He raised the rifle. He was too proficient a shot for me to make myself a target for long. So, just as quickly, I ducked behind the safety of a big spruce. My intended assassin then lowered his weapon. I hurriedly removed my overcoat and draped it over the branch I’d broken off. Then I eased the coat out from the evergreen and moved it up the incline slightly, careful to keep the enormous tree between me and him.
… I stepped out from the copse of trees and made certain he saw me. He raised the rifle.
The Canuck hastily raised his weapon to his shoulder again and got off two shots. The rounds tore harmlessly through my coat. From the steep, open slope above and to the Canuck’s left came a sharp crack. It sounded much like a rifle blast. As I’d hoped, the accumulated snowpack there released and descended rapidly toward my adversary. It fanned out and brought with it large rocks, boulders, and more than a few uprooted trees.
If my pursuer screamed, I lost it in the avalanche’s roar. He turned to run, but the speed of the mass of snow and debris quickly caught up to and enveloped him. He disappeared. Easing into my coat, I waited in the safety of my location to make sure the danger had passed before moving down the mountain toward the automobiles. I searched the snow slide as I descended, but didn’t find a sign of the Canuck anywhere. Both our crates were far enough back on the road to escape any damage from the avalanche.
He turned to run, but the speed of the mass of snow and debris quickly caught up to and enveloped him. He disappeared.
I moved my travel bags, one of which held the bribe money, between the Plymouth and the Canuck’s Cadillac. Then I slid behind the enormous car’s steering wheel. His car was a far cry from the Plymouth. I had to give the button man credit. He knew how to live. Maybe I’d chosen the wrong profession. Chuckling, I shook the crazy thought out of my head and teased the motor to life.
Now, to continue on to Durango and find Eve. But first, I had to make a quick stop in Fairplay. I needed to notify the authorities in case a do-gooder citizen in one of the two cars that had passed earlier reported the wreck they’d seen. My story would be simple. While traveling along the highway, I saw a Plymouth that had apparently skidded off the road into a snowbank. When I stopped to see if I could help, no one was around the car. As I got back into my Cadillac, I noticed two men farther up the mountain. Just as I was about to yell to the pair, a loud crack reverberated. An avalanche broke loose above and swiftly overtook them. The onrushing snow and rubble buried both men deep. Neither survived as far as I could tell.
My early life in the Rockies taught me the authorities wouldn’t find the Canuck’s body until spring, if then. They’d chalk up the “second man” to being lost forever in a crevice somewhere or disposed of by a mountain lion or another carnivorous inhabitant of this beautiful country.
Yeah, I’d learned a lot from these magnificent mountains. Things I’ll never forget. ©