Kitabı oku: «Mason of Bar X Ranch», sayfa 10
CHAPTER XIII – THE COUNTERFEITERS
The firing ceased abruptly, each side fearing to hit one of its own men. The next instant Mason was grasped from behind and thrown violently to the floor. His assailant seemed possessed with superhuman strength and ferocity while he breathed with a peculiar whistling sound through his teeth. Mason’s brain worked like lightning as the belief flashed through his mind that he was struggling with the demon hunchback dwarf.
The beast’s bony hands were at his throat and Mason fought desperately. He realized that he was being slowly strangled. His left arm was wounded and lay useless at his side. As he vainly tried to bring his knee into the pit of the dwarf’s stomach his hand touched his own revolver. With his remaining strength he managed to work it free from the holster and brought the butt crashing down on the dwarf’s head.
The bony hands relaxed about his throat and he rolled the thing off his body with a shudder. He realized how close he had been to death.
He had stood near one of the windows when he had been attacked, and as he lay there quietly getting his strength back he heard voices whispering outside the window. There was not a sound from inside the room, each man being afraid to move or make a sound for fear of betraying his location to the other.
He listened eagerly to the whispering, and to his joy discovered that it was two of Bud’s men trying to figure out how they could thrust a lighted lantern through the window without getting shot.
Evidently they had found a way, for there came a crash of broken glass and the lantern passed rapidly over Mason and stopped close to the center of the room. The cowboys had found a long pole and had tied the lantern to one end of it. At the appearance of the lantern a number of bullets passed over Mason, and he was glad he had not attempted to get on his feet.
The light showed a strange scene. Ricker lay on the floor with his hands and feet shackled.
Trent Burton was bending low over him, the two deadly automatics still in his hands. Scotty and Jim Haley stood facing each other with their guns on a level, but neither dared to fire.
“Stick that gun away, Jim, and be nice,” drawled the Marshal. “I’ve got you covered and so has Bud there near the door.”
Jim’s gun wavered a bit as he half turned his eyes towards the door.
Mason had been watching Scotty and Jim from where he lay on the floor and fired the instant Jim’s gun wavered. Jim’s gun fell to the floor, while he grabbed his wrist with a curse. Mason quickly leveled his gun at the dwarf, who was crawling up on him again.
“If you come one inch farther, you beast, I’ll blow your fool head off. This is the second time you have tried to murder me.”
He was in an ugly fighting mood, and his arm was beginning to give him considerable pain. The rest of Ricker’s gang, seeing Jim Haley put out of action and their leader lying on the floor with his feet and hands shackled, lost heart and surrendered.
Bud sent some of the men scouting around for an extra lamp.
“I wonder who shot the lamp out,” the Marshal queried, “it wasn’t done by anybody in this room.”
“I did,” the dwarf spoke up, grinning exultantly. “I was in the cellar and fired through a hole in the floor. Then while the fight was going on I crawled through the window.”
“And well I know it,” Mason said ruefully, “he crept up on me and had me nearly strangled before I knocked him on the head with my gun. He must have a skull like iron.”
The Marshal after a brief struggle snapped a pair of handcuffs on the dwarf’s wrists.
“You are too dangerous a person to be at large, my most excellent engraver.
“This dwarf,” he continued, “was Ricker’s chief engraver.”
Then, noticing Mason’s wound, he called Jean Barry, his deputy, to examine his arm. Jean made a thorough examination.
“Your arm isn’t broken, luckily; as near as I can tell the bullet just grazed the bone in the elbow,” he announced cheerfully, as Mason had winced as he handled the injured arm.
“Well, it felt as though it was broken, I can’t raise it up,” Mason said grimly.
The Marshal was keenly interested. He seemed worried about Mason’s injury, and watched Jean as he put a crude bandage around the injured member.
“Bud,” the Marshal spoke up, “I propose we take a general inventory of our men and see how many wounded we have and how bad their injuries are. In the meantime we will send to the Post for a doctor. Who will volunteer to go?”
“I will,” Scotty spoke up eagerly; “young Mason here did me a good turn when he nailed Jim Haley, and I want to return the favor.”
“All right, Scotty, go ahead,” Bud agreed; “isn’t far to the Post, and while you’re gone we’ll look this ranch over.”
As most of the injured had received only slight flesh wounds, the Marshal and Bud undertook to examine the cellar and premises. The Marshal paused as they were about to commence their search and watched Jean Barry, who was dressing the men’s wounds.
“Jean, after you get the men’s wounds dressed, you had better go and bring in Ricker’s guard,” he said reflectively.
“I’ve got Tug Conners bound securely,” he added, “but I had to tap him on the head first, and he may be suffering.”
Ricker had been jerked to his feet none too gently by one of Bud’s men and placed on a table with his back to the wall. The look of fear in his eyes had died out, and he was regarding the Marshal with a look of hate.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” he burst out savagely. “I’ve seen you before, somewhere in the East.”
The Marshal turned to the counterfeiter with a grim smile.
“Right, you are, my counterfeiting friend,” he answered suavely, “perhaps I can refresh your memory.”
Into his eyes came a look of reminiscence.
“Follow me back ten years,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Ricker, “to a little den on the East Side in New York. There had been a gang of counterfeiters shoving the queer, and they were operating around New York and neighboring cities.
“I was called in from another case I had been working on, and after long search succeeded in tracing the counterfeiters to this little den I speak of. In making the capture of the ringleader, part of my disguise was torn off, and that is the reason you remember me. In the excitement of the struggle you escaped, and I sent one of my men after you.”
Ricker was regarding the Marshal sullenly, his face working in violent spasms mingled with fear with hate.
“He trailed you to Baltimore,” the Marshal continued relentlessly, “and as he was attempting your arrest you sent a bullet through his head. After that, you disappeared and all efforts of my men failed to locate you.
“A short time ago, however, and through the efforts of my deputy, Jean Barry, I learned that you had headed for the West. As there has been a quantity of counterfeit money circulating in the East, I sent Jean Barry, who had at one time been a cowboy, out here to look you up.
“In the course of time, Jean Barry had evidence enough against you to warrant my suspicions, so I came out here and worked with him. This is your last attempt at counterfeiting, Ricker, for you will be tried for the murder of my detective.”
“Trent Burton,” Ricker ground out the name with an oath, “I’ll never be tried for that murder, and only for this traitor, Jean Barry, you would never have got the goods on me for this counterfeiting business. Only a few of my own men knew I was making the queer; the rest I kept in ignorance as they are only cattlemen.
“I owe my discovery to Jean Barry’s trickery; he came to me and hired out as a cowboy, and I didn’t suspect him of being a detective, but I’ll promise you this much,” the counterfeiter brought his shackled hands down on his knee with an oath, “there isn’t a jail made that will hold me. I’ll escape and get revenge on Jean Barry, and I’ll get you too, Mason.
“Your father helped to get the evidence against me and I’ll get you if I have to strike you through your sweetheart, Josephine. Ha, that’s a tender spot, isn’t it?”
Mason had jumped to his feet, startled by the counterfeiter’s vehemence. What if the man should make good his threat and do some injury to Josephine? The thought made a chill run through his frame.
“Come, Ricker, stow that kind of talk. You’re not in a position just now to make threats,” the Marshal cautioned him roughly.
The counterfeiter lapsed into a moody silence and further questions by the Marshal brought no response from him. Bud invited Mason to come with them while they made an inspection of the cellar, after he had first seen that the guards were placed to his satisfaction. In the cellar they found a complete plant for making counterfeit money. They had been there but a few minutes when they heard a commotion above them. They were relieved when they heard Scotty’s voice calling down to them. He wanted Mason to come up as he had brought a doctor.
The doctor put a bandage on Mason’s arm and soon his wound was feeling much better.
“Scotty, you made good time in getting the doctor here,” Mason said gratefully, grasping his hand.
Then a sudden inspiration seized him.
“The Marshal and Bud are in the cellar breaking up the counterfeiting press and apparatus,” he told Scotty. “Do you remember how we had our men drawn around this ranch the night that Pete Carlo, the Mexican, slipped through our lines and got back to the mountains without being seen?”
“Shure,” Scotty nodded eagerly.
“Well, let’s see if we can find out how he got past us. There must be a secret passage leading out of this cellar,” Mason cried enthusiastically.
“I’m game,” Scotty agreed readily.
They started for the cellar, but had they seen the look of dismay and fear that had come into the counterfeiter’s face while they were talking, they would have been puzzled.
Scotty had borrowed the Marshal’s flash lamp and took the lead, with Mason following close on his heels. They carried their revolvers ready for instant use, and as they stole cautiously through the darkness they were amazed at the length and width of the cellar. There were numerous casks strewn around and Scotty stumbled over one of them with such force as to bring a muttered oath from his lips.
“Whisky casks,” Mason said softly, smiling at Scotty’s discomfiture. “Evidently Ricker’s men held wild orgies in this cellar-like cave, but we don’t seem to be finding the underground passage very fast.”
They could still hear the vigorous blows from the Marshal and Bud’s hammers as they kept at their work of demolishing the counterfeiter’s plant.
“You wait right here, laddie, and I’ll get you a lantern. We will stand a better show of finding the underground passage if we each have a light,” Scotty whispered.
This was good logic and Mason readily agreed to the plan, after cautioning him to hurry.
“Keep your gun handy in case you are attacked, laddie,” the good-natured Scot warned him. “When you see two lights coming this way you will know I am coming back. We were damn fools not to think of another light when we started, but I guess I can get one all right.”
Mason sat down on an empty cask and pressed his hand wearily over his forehead as he listened to Scotty’s retreating footsteps. He was beginning to feel exhausted. The past few hours of excitement had told heavily on his nerves. He caught himself nodding several times and, rose to his feet in disgust.
“This won’t do,” he said angrily to himself, “you’ve got to pull yourself together, Jack Mason. We’re going to find that secret passage when Scotty comes back, old top, dontcherknow, as Percy would say.”
He tried to figure out how long Scotty had been gone. It had seemed like hours since he went for the lantern, and Mason began to chafe with impatience at the delay. It was so dark in the cellar that he could not see the hands on his watch, but he knew in all reason that Scotty had not been gone longer than ten minutes at most.
Suddenly he started up violently, his overtired nerves tuned to the highest pitch.
His tense ears had caught a sound like the clicking of some instrument. He strained forward in the inky darkness, his body rigid and revolver drawn.
Had his tired nerves played him a trick? No, the thing was clicking again, but very faint, and he reasoned from the sound that it must be at least thirty feet from him. Was somebody signaling from the far depths of the cellar to Ricker?
He was sure that was the reason for the clicking sound. Abruptly the noise ceased. His heart was pumping furiously as he silently turned around and peered into the darkness. To his great joy two lights were coming his way. Scotty was returning at last.
“Don’t speak above a whisper, Scotty,” Mason cautioned him in a low voice as the Scot attempted to explain his delay. “While you were after the lantern I heard a strange tapping noise, something like a telegraph instrument. It sounded to me like someone was trying to signal from this cellar to Ricker. We had better go slow as we may get shot from ambush.”
In the dim light Scotty’s face showed his astonishment. “I supposed we had all the gang as prisoners upstairs,” he said, gazing at Mason in wonder.
“Just the same, I’m sure there is somebody in this cellar besides ourselves,” Mason whispered impatiently; “you take the lantern and I will carry the small flash light. I can tuck it under my left arm and that will give me a chance to use my good right arm. I can handle my revolver all right if I am attacked. You take one wall and I the other, and we will circle this cellar and look for the secret passage.”
This plan was followed out at once and Mason could hear Scotty at intervals as he stumbled over some object while groping his way along the cellar wall. It was a dangerous undertaking, as both carried lights, and they took a chance of drawing a shot from some hidden foe. Mason was closely examining the wall when he heard a sharp exclamation from Scotty.
“Come out of that! what are you skulking down here for?” he heard him say in forceful tones.
Mason straightened up in surprise.
“What have you found, Scotty?” he called.
“Come over and see,” the Scot answered wrathfully.
Mason crossed rapidly to the opposite side and beheld Scotty holding his lantern in the face of the blackest negro woman he had ever seen. The eyes of the negress were rolling in abject fear and her limbs were trembling violently.
Whether her fear was assumed or not, he couldn’t tell, but remembering the signaling noise, he regarded her with suspicion.
“Woman, what position do you fill in this house, and what were you hiding in the cellar for?” Mason questioned her sharply.
The negress looked at him mutely.
“She must be a little deaf,” muttered Scotty.
“Come, tell me the truth,” Mason continued in a louder voice. “We won’t hurt you.”
“I’se de cook,” she faltered, gaining courage from Mason’s reassuring smile. “And when dem gemmen’s done come heah and begins a fighting and shooting, why I done runs into de cellah fo mah life.”
“Sounds good, Belinda, or whatever your name is,” he said, his face growing stern again, “But what were you signaling to Ricker for?”
Her face took on a blank look.
“Signaling,” she repeated in wonder, “’deed I wasn’t making signals to anybody, I was keeping just quiet as a mouse awaiting fo dem mens to leave.”
Mason was inclined to believe the negress was telling the truth.
“Scotty, you had better take her to Bud and the Marshal and let them question her,” he said after a short pause. “I will continue the search until you come back, and it would be a good idea to bring the Marshal back with you.”
From the look on Scotty’s face it was evident he didn’t relish his task, but he complied with the request with fairly good grace and hustled the negress along while she continued to protest her innocence of any wrong. Left to himself, Mason again began a systematic search.
Before the interruption by the negress, he had noted that one portion of the wall appeared to have oak beams running from top to bottom. He now went to this part of the wall and was feeling over one of the oak supports when his hand accidentally touched a knot which projected suspiciously out from the surface. He pressed hard on it, and to his delight that part of the wall began to swing slowly inward! Something was moving on the other side of the wall and he held his breath while waiting for an attack. Standing to one side he snapped his flashlight out and held his revolver pointed into the opening. Unable to resist a sudden impulse, he flashed on his light and found himself looking into the muzzle of a revolver and the villainous face of Pete Carlo, the halfbreed Mexican!
Mason realized his helpless position, and a sneering smile came into the halfbreed’s face.
“So,” he taunted, showing his wolfish teeth, “Ze brave American dog, he walk into a trap, ha?”
“I settle first with the dog of a Gringo, then I steal the fair Josephine again, and she shall watch me torture you, Gringo dog.”
His baleful eyes were looking gloatingly at his victim. Mason’s blood boiled at the mention of Josephine’s name. He held himself in check, however, as his only hope now was to gain time and give Scotty a chance to rescue him. He figured at the worst he would make a sudden attack on the halfbreed and chance taking him by surprise.
“Don’t be too sure of your game, you yellow cur,” he said scornfully, hoping to anger the halfbreed. “I’ve sent for two of our men and they will be here any minute now, and I want to warn you if you ever harm Josephine, I will kill you like I would a rattle snake.”
He raised his voice purposely as he made the assertion.
“Silence! dog of a Gringo!” the halfbreed hissed, “you talk more, I shoot you dead.”
Mason wondered why the halfbreed didn’t attempt to close the door and take him out through the secret passage. He had just made up his mind to risk an attack on the halfbreed when he heard a slight noise behind him. He turned swiftly, but too late. He heard the swish of some object as it fell with crushing force on his head, and he sank to the floor unconscious.
CHAPTER XIV – THE FIGHT IN THE SECRET PASSAGE
When Mason regained consciousness, Trent Burton the Marshal was bending over him supporting his head and holding a flask of brandy to his lips. The brandy and muffled reports of revolver shots sounding through the secret passage revived him instantly.
“Get Pete Carlo the Mexican halfbreed!” he gasped, staggering weakly to his feet. “The halfbreed was holding me up when I was struck down from behind,” he continued, “and there must be another cut-throat working with him. Where’s Scotty?”
Trent Burton’s two automatics appeared like magic in his hands.
“Scotty is having it out with the halfbreed,” he answered rapidly. “We caught sight of the Mexican just as we came up to you, and thinking you were badly wounded I ordered Scotty to round him up while I examined your wound. You have been roughly handled this night my lad, and you had better report to Jean Barry while I go after this other desperado. He must be somewhere between Scotty and us this very minute. I had no idea there was more than one of them and they may be trying to work Scotty in between them.”
They could hear an exchange of shots at intervals, but the firing seemed to be getting farther away and more faint each time.
“I’m not going back until I find out how Scotty is faring with those cut-throats,” Mason declared firmly. “My head is feeling much clearer now, and I know my hand is steady enough to shoot straight, besides I want a chance at the man that knocked me out. Bud and his men won’t hear any of this shooting down here and we can’t expect any help from them. The halfbreed and his pal will try to get Scotty in between them to finish him off and make their escape.”
“You’re a brave lad,” the Marshal said in admiration.
“Come, follow me. I have a plan to trap the halfbreed’s pal, at least I think we can draw his fire, and that is our only chance to get him in this darkness.”
He bent swiftly over, and Mason could hear him searching about the floor with his hands. Presently he straightened up and thrust a piece of broken table leg into Mason’s hand.
“What’s this for?” the latter whispered in astonishment.
“Just you hand that piece of wood to me in a hurry when I call for it,” came the surprising answer. “We will make all possible speed through this secret passage without using our lights, and for the love of Mike, don’t make any noise!”
“When we get to where that revolver duel is going on you will see something happen.”
Mason followed after the strange and fearless detective with great difficulty. The latter’s speed was terrific, and at times when Mason lagged behind he would find the detective crouched against the wall waiting for him. It was a hazardous undertaking as they might at any moment plunge into some unknown pit or trap. They had traveled some hundred feet when they came to a turn in the passage and now could hear the revolver shots plainly.
The Marshal was moving slowly and with great stealth now. Presently they could see the flash from the muzzle of the men’s guns as they fired. Each time the flashes came from different positions, showing the men had changed their location after firing.
The Marshal was crouched low and huddled against the wall. Mason was sure he had his two deadly automatics trained on one of those flashes.
Suddenly to his horror he saw the flash from a third gun, and it came from a different position from the first two.
He thought he heard a groan follow this last shot and bent low to whisper to the silent being at his feet.
“Hand me that piece of wood and when I throw it, train your gun on the next flash, and shoot to kill,” the Marshal hissed in a thrilling whisper. “Lie flat on the ground. I’m going to draw that murderer’s fire.”
Mason felt the Marshal’s arm grow rigid as he hurled the piece of table leg with great force against the opposite wall about twenty feet ahead of them.
Immediately the third gun began to flash again and Mason could hear the bullets as they pattered on the wall above his head. Before he could return the shots the Marshal’s guns were in action, and a perfect stream of fire leaped from their muzzles.
The third gun was silent! Suddenly the shrill note of a whistle pierced the silence of the secret passage. Bud was coming to join in the fight.
The Marshal sent back an answering call, and Bud, leading four cowboys, came up to them with a rush.
“Keep going, boys,” the Marshal’s voice rang out sharply. “Rush this passage; Pete Carlo, the halfbreed, is hiding just ahead of us and he’s got somebody with him.”
“Watch out for their guns and fire at the first flash. I think they got Scotty, the poor fellow, but if not he knows we are here now and he won’t shoot in our direction.”
All this was said as they almost ran through the secret passage, their lights searching every nook and corner.
They were braving the chance of drawing a shower of bullets from the hidden foe, but the Marshal was determined to clean out the secret passage at any cost.
Rounding a sharp turn in the passage they came upon Scotty huddled in a niche against the wall. He was clutching his revolver tightly between his knees while his head was sunk forward on his chest. A tiny stream of blood was trickling down his cheek, showing where he had been hit. Mason dropped quickly down beside him and felt over his heart.
To his great relief there was a little heart action.
“Quick! the brandy!” he cried in an overjoyed voice. “He’s alive, I think the bullet only stunned him.”
The Marshal, producing his flask, bent over and forced a small portion of the liquor down Scotty’s throat. They had the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes and stare about in a dazed way. His gaze finally rested on Mason and he rose to his feet with alacrity.
“I’m all right,” he said almost savagely, shaking off the Marshal’s detaining hand. “The bullet only creased my head and knocked me senseless. It takes more than a dirty greaser to kill this canny Scotchman. Have you looked for the half breed? I think I got him in that last exchange of shots, then a third gun cut in from a different direction, and I went to sleep.”
They were startled at this point by a cry from one of the cowboys who had pressed on through the secret passage.
“I guess I can answer for your third gunman, Scotty,” the Marshal said tersely. “Come, let’s see what the men have found.”
Rapidly making their way to where the men were flashing their lights, they came upon the form of a man stretched on the ground. It was the halfbreed’s pal, and he was dying. He was still breathing, but with great difficulty. Trent Burton’s guns had cut short his villainous career, and forty feet from him lay the halfbreed. Bud made a hasty examination of the latter’s wound, and to his surprise he discovered that the bullet had not reached a vital spot.
The halfbreed had been hit in the right side just above the hip and was unconscious from loss of blood.
Just above him through a small aperture in the roof the stars were faintly shining.
A thorough search proved this to be the outlet for the secret passage, and it was evident the halfbreed was about to make his escape when a bullet from Scotty’s gun had laid him low.
Under Bud’s order the two men were carried out of the secret passage and taken to the ranch, where they were placed under the doctor’s care. The man of medicine quickly pronounced the one that had fallen under Trent Burton’s guns to be past all earthly aid, and set vigorously to work to revive the halfbreed.
An hour later, his wounds properly dressed, the halfbreed was placed under guard.
He sat glaring sullenly at his captors, and his eyes gleamed savagely whenever they rested on Mason or Scotty. It was Scotty’s gun that had laid him low and gotten him into his present trouble while he was attempting to escape. He cherished a bitter hatred for Mason since the time the latter had tumbled him out of his saddle with a well placed shot when the rescue of Josephine was accomplished.
The bullet wound had nearly cost him his life and caused him to take to the mountains in hiding, save for an occasional visit to the Ricker ranch, which was made possible by his almost superhuman knowledge of the mountains and the existence of the secret passage. The halfbreed’s shifty eyes finally turned in the direction of the chief of counterfeiters, who sat staring moodily into space.
A slight cough from the halfbreed succeeded in attracting his chief’s attention and a series of signals passed between them by means of an almost inaudible sound made by a light tapping of their bootheels.
Mason had left the room in answer to a call from the Marshal, and on returning to watch the captives his sharp ears instantly caught the sound, faint as it was. Remembering the signals he had heard in the cellar he regarded the sound as of deep significance. He promptly made the Marshal and Bud aware of his suspicions that the two were signaling each other, with the result that the halfbreed was taken into another room and put through a grilling third degree. At the end of an hour of this sweating process he was taken out, and Jim Haley, the foreman, was given the same treatment. Others that were close to the operations of the chief of counterfeiters were taken in turn. Through the answers wrung from the captives they learned that the secret passage had originally been the bed of a creek that had long ago changed its course or had become dried up. As the bed of the creek ran close to the ranch, Ricker conceived the idea of using it as a means of exit to and from the ranch. He had it tunneled deeper and roofed over with extreme care. The work had been accomplished so cleverly that none but the men who were in on the counterfeiting deal knew of its existence. Even Jean Barry, the Marshal’s deputy, had been among the counterfeiters and had not become aware that the secret passage led out of the cellar. A telegraph instrument, cleverly concealed and partly muffled, was found in the room where the fight had taken place, and tracing the wires out they found they led to the secret passage.
In the secret passage another telegraph instrument was found, showing that Ricker had been in communication with the halfbreed. All the wires and instruments were destroyed by the Marshal, and the halfbreed was again taken away from the other prisoners and given a more severe grilling.
This time he broke down completely and under promise that he would be given a shorter prison sentence he told in broken English how he and his pal had entered the secret passage just as the fight was taking place at the ranch. Knowing Bud’s men to be there in force he had signaled to Ricker that he would bide his time and wait for a chance to rescue his chief.
He had intended to pick up some more men of his own kind, and if necessary cut his way through Bud’s men by a sudden dash and rescue his chief.
He had planned all this with his pal, and they were about to leave the secret passage when they heard Scotty and Mason moving about close to the hidden door of the wall. The sharp ears of the halfbreed heard one of them say he was going for a light and listening closely he discovered that the man who was to wait was Mason. Prudence told the halfbreed to leave at once and bring help to his chief, but his burning hate for Mason caused him to linger with the hope of getting the latter in his power.
As the reader already knows, Mason had succeeded in finding the way to open the secret door and had played right into the hands of the halfbreed, while his pal had crept cautiously behind him and dealt the vicious blow that had robbed him of his senses until revived by the Marshal. The sudden coming of the Marshal with Scotty had caused the halfbreed to change his plan to make Mason a prisoner and he had fled, with Scotty in close pursuit, but the latter had the halfbreed’s pal to reckon with, a fact that nearly cost him his life.
The work of the Marshal with Bud’s aid in breaking up the power of Ricker’s evil gang of gunmen was a notable performance. This man, chief of the counterfeiters and outlaws, had long held the country in awe of his desperate gang of gunmen, whom he controlled with an iron hand.
