Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol.69, No. 5, August 13, 1932

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Lying in the road with bullets whining over him, Bradley swore he’d follow his assailants to hell itself to get them.

There were three men in the low-slung red roadster with the New York license plates, grim-mouthed men who took the state trooper’s measure with hard eyes as his motorcycle came coughing into Sam Witherspoon’s filling station below Barlows with hardly a gill of gas left in the tank.

Old Sam had been afraid of them. That showed in his face when the light over the pump fell upon the gray uniform behind him. Relief was in his voice, too. He called over his shoulder:

“ ’Lo, Bradley. Be with you in a minute.”

Trooper Bradley, one foot on the ground, the other long putteed leg dangling over the saddle, was returning the stares from the roadster with interest. From his angle of vision, the light wasn’t so good. It didn’t give him as clear a look at the faces of the three in the New York car as he could have wished.

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