Give ‘Em Hell! by C.K.M. Scanlon

Book Details

Give ‘Em Hell! – A trail of murders and kidnappings of young women lead Dan Fowler, ace man-hunter of the F.B.I. to a ‘good town’, a town entirely controlled by criminals.

Give ‘Em Hell! (1937) – Follow the Perilous Trail of the F.B.I. as a City Ruled by the Lawless is Put Under Siege in a Desperate Campaign to Remove the Clutch of Corruption from the Throats of Helpless Victims!
Chapter I – Good Town
Chapter II – Hogan’s Trail
Chapter III – Trial and Tragedy
Chapter IV – At the Controls
Chapter V – Open Warfare
Chapter VI – “Get Franzio!”
Chapter VII – Butch Quirk
Chapter VIII – Larry Trapped
Chapter IX – Gods of Fortune
Chapter X – Dan is Taken
Chapter XI – To the Hideout
Chapter XII – Closing In
Chapter XIII – Gas!
Chapter XIV – Raid
Chapter XV – A Girl’s Story
Chapter XVI – One Chance!
Chapter XVII – The Big Pay-off

C. K. M. Scanlon was a “house name” that Standard Publications used on their Dan Fowler stories as well as others. Give ‘Em Hell!  was written by Edward Churchill which was itself a pseudonym used by Edward C. Off (1902-1960).

Give ‘Em Hell! contains 30 illustrations.

Files:

1. Scanlon-GiveEmHell.epub

Excerpt: Give ‘Em Hell!

Chapter I

Good Town

NIGHT. A radio voice droning in the headlight-pierced blackness.

“Calling all cars. Scarelli and Corfan in dark grey limousine reported heading northeast. Last seen on Highway fourteen just above Keesville. The car’s license is five-three G one-twenty-six. Both men are armed and desperate. Be careful. That is all.” Special Agent Canning’s mouth thinned out until it was hardly more than a scarlet line across his face. “We’re hot, Chuck. Speed it up and we’ll have ’em.”

“Foot’s on the floorboard now,” his companion answered, not moving his wide blue eyes from the road that rushed at him through the windshield. The quivering speedometer needle flickered around the eighty-three mile mark, dropped slightly as, with a great shrieking of brakes, the Government car negotiated a sharp curve, then climbed steadily up again.

A wintry wind knifed the air, cut through the agents’ clothes, and tore icily at their bones, but their foreheads were dotted with tiny beads of sweat. They knew the two men they were after—knew their records and reputations. Wanted by the police of three states, wanted by Uncle Sam on charges ranging from felonious assault on Government operatives to kidnapping and murder. Their trail across the country was marked with blood and violence. They were fleeing for their lives, wild beasts running to cover with the law’s merciless, grim-eyed pack in full cry behind them.

“They’re getting ready to hole up somewhere,” Canning grated.

“What makes you think so?” “When you’ve been on this manhunt job as long as I have, Junior, you get to be able to read the signs. Take it from me, those rats have a nest around here some place.”

“Then they’ll lead us right to it— maybe we’ll catch—”

“Lead is what we’ll more likely catch,” Canning announced flatly.

Silence fell between them as the car rocketed on through the December night. They were whizzing over flatter terrain now as they debouched upon the great plain, mountain-girt, that stretched for miles ahead. The road straightened out—and Chuck Gilman took a freckled hand from the steering wheel to grab Canning’s arm.

Canning nodded. His eyes grew bleak, dangerous, as they stared at the moving red light a mile or so ahead.

“We’re closing in,” he said. “Watch it. They’re slowing down for just one reason.”

Chuck nodded wordlessly. His mouth was too dry for speech. That cold hand twisting in the pit of his belly wasn’t fear, but the cramping, nervous tension that soldiers felt just before clambering out of the muddy trenches in the face of enemy fire. The red light grew ever larger. Central City—10 Miles. The signpost slashed by and vanished behind them.

“Central City,” Canning muttered. “So that’s—”

THE car ahead suddenly slued round, rocked to a halt halfway across the road. Chuck Gilman grabbed the hand brake, jerked madly at the steering wheel. Tommy gunfire screamed a rattling song, belching like hell’s hot breath from the fugitives’ car.

Bullets bit out a row of blackened holes along the hood. Canning ducked instinctively, trained his own gun on the car ahead, began to fire. The Government car, caught in a half spin that Gilman couldn’t steady, rocked and pitched and twisted, ruining the G-man’s aim. Then with a sickening swoop, as the front tires hit the deep-cut ditch, the coupe hurtled end over end, metal crashing and yielding, shards of glass flying through the air.

With a final shuddering smash, it landed on its side beside the road. A raucous laugh sounded as the fugitives, satisfied, ceased fire.

“That’s got it, Scarelli,” Corfan yelled, relaxing his hold on the still smoking weapon. “Let’s blow.”

The red eye winked smaller and smaller, diminishing to nothingness. Through the aching silence, flames crackled from the wrecked car, spiking the blackness with tiny tongues of fire.

An hour later, a line of bluecoats stretched across the road, blocked the passage of a decrepit Model T. One of them in sergeant’s uniform addressed the weather-beaten farmer who sat behind the wheel.

“Seen anything of a grey limousine with two men in it?” he demanded.

“Nope,” the farmer said. “But I dragged these two out of a smash-up up the road a ways.” He jerked a calloused thumb toward Canning and Gilman who were slumped on the back seat. Their clothing was torn, their faces bruised and bloodied, black with smoke and fire. Canning didn’t have any eyebrows at all, and his mouth was more like a bloodstained gash than ever. Supporting his companion, he climbed wearily out into the road.

“We’re Federal agents,” he said in a tired, aching voice. “We trailed Scarelli and Corfan past the last crossroads. They must’ve come through here. There aren’t any side roads.”

“Might’ve doubled back,” the sergeant suggested, coldly. “They didn’t come through here. I’ve had a cordon of men blocking this road ever since we got the first reports.”

Canning looked at the police officer with eyes that were openly skeptical. He knew they hadn’t doubled back. Knew they couldn’t have—he’d been conscious all the time.

“All right,” he said slowly. “They had an airplane in a field down there. They ate their car and flew away. You haven’t seen them, heard them or smelled them.”

“So what? Look. These are the city limits. Scarelli and Corfan didn’t go by me. This is my jurisdiction. For all I know, maybe you guys aren’t Feds at all. What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to get this man to a hospital first and then—” Canning’s thin mouth clamped shut. “Skip it. What did you say this place was?”

“Central City.”

Canning nodded. “Thanks.” With the farmer’s aid, he got Chuck back into the Ford. “On to Central City,” he said with a tight and humorless smile.”

Excerpt From: C.K.M. Scanlon. “Give ‘Em Hell!.”