DEAD To RIGHTS (Continued from Page 22) "I don't know." "Well, we'll have to take that chance. Let's get out of here." The cab made a U turn and headed back the way it had just come. "Just one thing I don't understand, though," said Joe. "How come you and Nick had to take a cab? Where was Nick's private car?" "After we lifted the jewels, we casually strolled out onto the street. Nick's car and a driver were waiting for us around the corner. We weren't in any hurry because the necklace's absence won't be noticed until tomorrow. Just as we rounded the corner, we saw a couple of Louie Sams' men (Nick recognized them) standing up against a building. How Sams knew about our plans I don't know, they were so well laid out. Everything was so perfect. We knew we would never make it any farther than the curb without having company. We backtracked a few hundred feet and saw your cab coming down the street. You know it from there." Joe was silent for the next mile or so. He was thinking how strange that story was. It was stranger still how his own life had become involved. Joe had been thinking too hard to notice the glare of headlights several hundred yards behind him until a flicker caught his eye. He shot a glance up at the rear-view mirror, then turned around and stared out of the back window. The car was gaining . "Of course," he thought to himself. "How stupid can a guy get? I should have known that the guys in the other car would not want to go back to Louie Sams empty handed. Of course they would still be searching for the cab; and how could they miss once it was sighted." Patricia's face went the same color as her hair. Joe's foot pushed down on the accelerator. The other car was once more gaining on them. Pistol shots broke the steady humming sound of the motor. "They're shooting at us," screamed Patricia. "Get down," shouted Joe. Pow! The car started to swerve and sway. "They got a tire!" Joe yelled. The auto hit the soft dirt at the side of the road and turned sideways. The car rolled over and over and over and came to rest up against a tree. Joe's eyes partly opened up. How his chest hurt! The steering wheel was mashed into his chest. His gaze fell on the woman's crumpled body. She was dead, he could tell. His mind raced ... he, too, was dying. Now he could hear men's voices. They were getting close. He couldn't make out what they were saying. Now they were very close, but he didn't care any more. Everything went black. He came to in the quiet of a hospital room. Presently he sensed he was not alone. "Feeling better?" a man's crisp voice inquired. Joe tried to nod, but could not. He groaned instead. "It's all right, Buddy," the voice went on. "We think we know the main deal. Somebody found Bovero. You had his woman. If you come clean on details, there's a good chance your intentions if any will be overlooked. There might even be a juicy reward for that hunk of jewelry." Joe's head swam. His ears were ringing with the echo of the voice in the room. "Cops," he told himself. His heart leaped. "But how?" His thoughts continued: "Then maybe that wasn't Sams' men on my tail that last time. It was the cops. Sure . . . there's a highway patrol out there, or a sheriff. They knew something was wrong the way I was driving when they were following me." Then another thought came into his mind and brought relief. "It's better this way ... a lot better." CANDY DANCER (Continued from Page 11) There is a momentary exchange of stares before Rocky continues. His experience with gamblers has taught him that something like this has an explanation. The hands had gone around twice now because no one had openers, and the pot is big. The chips cover the worn letters "U. S." on the one-time army blanket which pads the top of the old oak center table. He turns to George, on his left. "You've got the king of clubs and the king of spades. Probably open with them, but you'd be taken because Jim here's got the king of hearts and Pete's got the king of diamonds." As he speaks he reaches for the hands and flips the cards named onto the table top face up. Every man at the table immediately falls to examining the blue bicycle backs of the cards. Everyone except Tiny. Hatred coming out of his eyes, he eases around George toward Rocky. "So you're accusin' me of markin' the deck!" Steve's daughter Peg brings in the new pack. The attractive girl had come to work in her father's establishment a month before with the arrival of the gang. Always her father's right hand since her mother's death years before, she even helped put up the partition for the card room. Now she senses the approach of the inevitable fight. "He didn't mean that, did you, Rocky?" she says quickly and tosses the deck onto the table. "Tiny wouldn't figure out a thing like that. You know ... I think you're the only one who knew about these cards. You're really sharp." Tiny is apparently satisfied with the support he has from Peg and he turns back to his chair. Meanwhile, Peg catches Rocky's eye. She is just in time for even now Rocky is muttering about marking the deck with blood from a cut Tiny has picked to a fluid condition. Rocky settles back. He is glad it has turned out as it has. He really doesn't want to make an issue of it. It is just that his anger gets the better of him. A police raid on a gambling house where he worked and the consequent publicity are enough to last him a lifetime. That is the reason he has come to this isolated part of the country to work with a steel gang. He has enough money. He plays merely to keep fingers and wrists nimble. And the handling of cards gives him a feeling of satisfaction. He is noticeably different from the other gandy dancers. He came into town with a clean shave and a clean shirt. His manner and speech are different, but most noticeable of all is his beauty of physique resembling a Greek god. He had tossed the barbells about regularly at Tanny's gym in Santa Monica. They made him powerful and symmetrical in build. He looks much younger than his twenty-eight years. It is small wonder that Peg's interest in Rocky grows steadily. The gang has worked rapidly and is now laying the new 115-pound rail near the town. About 10 on this par- Twenty-six ticular morning, Nick, the foreman, goes to the station to get the correct time, and while there he also has the agent check with the dispatcher on the mail train arrival. "Right on time," says the agent. Knowing the train is due at 10:53, Nick goes out to his men to begin closing up the track. He lines the track with a dozen men. Two are gauging and eight are spiking. Rocky and Tiny are with the spiking crew. At 10:35 the track is put together in plenty of time for Nick to signal the flagman, about a quarter mile down the track, that everything is clear for the mail train. Finished, Tiny and Rocky are walking toward the next place of work when Tiny remarks, "That girl of yours sure likes the men, don't she?" He whistles and Rocky throws a side glance toward the board walk leading to the depot. Peg is approaching the place with a handful of letters. She is walking with poetry of motion that indicates joy in living, health and perfection of body and movement that few women attain naturally. Tiny adds, "Look at her swinging her hips for the agent." "Keep your damn mouth shut!" The words are spat out with the violence that means fight in any language, if a man is a man. Tiny seems not to hear them. "I think I'll shave tonight and go see Steve," he continues. "Stay away from Peg." Rocky's tone is quiet, deadly. "Well now, sarge, is that an order?" They stop walking abruptly. Their suppressed anger from many other times in which fights have been avoided returns with full intensity. They drop their spike molds. Their fists slash out, seeking in blind rage to maim, to kill. They fight for some moments before the other gandy dancers realize the situation. Tiny connects with several powerful blows to Rocky's face, but most of his wild punches miss. Rocky changes tactics and begins to box with calmness and control. He blocks some of Tiny's swings and dodges others. He gets his fist deep into Tiny's breadbasket but the blow does not seem to affect the lubberly giant. Tiny lunges at him like a charging bull. A lucky punch finds Rocky's midsection. The smaller man gasps. His hands drop and give his opponent the chance for a crashing right to the jaw. Rocky topples backward. He falls in a heap. George and Pete rush forward to observe at ringside the redblooded struggle that men invariably consider the greatest spectacle. But the battle seems over. "Okay," says Pete, "you've settled the score now. Hold it, Tiny." "Get the hell out of my way. I'm not through yet." Rocky is getting up. He shakes his head to clear away the fog. He sees Tiny rushing him. He kicks up a cloud of cinder dust as he sidesteps. As his brain begins to register once more, he forgets about boxing and meets this mountain of brute force with brute force alone. The men flail at each other, body almost to body. Rocky feels himself beginning to tire. He seems to do no damage that is decisive. Tiny has a cut on the left side of the mouth and swollen lips and a slit for a left eye. Rocky's bleeding nose makes him look even worse. His lips too are swollen. "I'm getting nowhere fast," he thinks. "If I am going to save myself a drubbing and Tiny jumping on me when I'm down, I've got to act but soon." He shifts to a change of pace. He lets Tiny swing for a miss. He waits for an opening to get in a solid punch. Two minutes of windmill swinging on top of his previous rushing attack leave Tiny panting. He hesitates, stops for a moment, his hands drop. Rocky throws his full weight into a right, landing squarely on the big fellow's nose. The nose flattens and the blow gives off a cracking sound. "I've broken his nose," Rocky thinks as his own breath heaves and the world seems to go round this way and then that. His right hand sends a stab of pain up the wrist. "Broken hand?" he wonders. He hears a familiar voice cry, "Stop it! Why don't you cowards stop it?" That must be Peg, his mind tells him dully. Tiny, his mangled face grinning hideously, rushes once more. Rocky grits his teeth and swings with his left, again with his full weight behind the blow. The punch catches Tiny on the side of the jaw and he falls face down in the cinders. Rocky turns away. "The mess is finished," he thinks foggily. Peg grabs his arm. Tiny tries to struggle up, coughing and spitting. He rises to his knees. Then as he reaches his feet he staggers back toward the rails. A roar of sound descends upon the crowd as the mail train, brakes screeching, suddenly enters the consciousness of the tense group along the right of way. Pete grabs for Tiny, but the dazed fellow, still angry, says thickly, "Get away from me." Only Pete hears it in the racket of the locomotive. But Tiny jerks free, then falls sprawling across the tracks. The cowcatcher catches his great bulk, rolling him over and over. Women shriek, the men yell, but there is nothing they can do. Rocky shudders and groans helpless too. The girl beside him sobs, "It was an accident You could not help it. Let's get away from it. It's awful!" As her grasp on his arm tightens, a new strength flows into Rocky despite the tragedy. The old feeling of uncertainty and dishonor leaves him. He hears himself speaking. "Go with me," he is saying. "This place is not right for you. Your father will get along now. We will make a go of it together." As they stand close and their lips cling, what he has said seems like eternal right to both of them. "What da ya mean, cut in?" Twenty-seven