He Couldnt Beat

The Law

By
MORTON L. BENNET

ov

Stillwater Lake, a Pleasure Resort in Montana, Is the Scene of a Triple
Tragedy—Murderer Escapes into the Wilds of Canada—Storekeeper Recog-
nizes Customer Buying New Outfit as Fugitive—British Columbia Police Are
Notified and Effect Clever Capture—Returned to the United States for Trial.

ON THE night of August 24th, 1930, red
murder flamed from the wicked muzzle of
a 30-30 and before the echoes of the shots
died away three lives had been snuffed out
by the tearing soft-nose sporting bullets.
Lake House, a tavern on the shores of
beautiful Stillwater Lake, Montana, the
rendezvous of pleasure seekers from the
surrounding country had suddenly become
a charnel house.

There was no mystery about who fired
those deadly shots. George Wandervich,
better known as George Van, had ap-
parently gone insane. In less time than it
takes to tell he had emptied his ever ready
rifle into his defenseless victims and had
fled into the night. That trail, which had
its start in a tavern, was destined to end
in a Canadian Pacific Railway roundhouse.
The capture was credited to the B. C.
Police.

George Van, as these events will show,
was no ordinary killer. He did not shoot
in the heat of passion and then suffer
sudden remorse. Nor did he essay a half-
hearted flight. He was, if a parallel is
needed, on a par with Albert Johnson, the
Mad Trapper of Arctic Red River. Cunning
and resourceful, hardened to the trail, he
was more than a match for the officers
of the law he had so brazenly flouted.

The first news of this stark tragedy
flashed across the telephone wires to the
ofice of Sheriff Ripke of Kalispel, Mon-
tana. Only a few moments before, Lake
House had been a blaze of light, music filled
the warm air of a perfect night. Dancers
swayed to the music of radio orchestras.
Merrymaker’s laughter rang out across the
calm waters of the lake. It was a night
designed for pleasure,—not death.

Gus Wehr, son-in-law of Mr. and Mrs.
Haldorson, proprietors of Lake House, saw
George Van come into the building. He was
carrying his 30-30 rifle. Gus thought
nothing of this. Van never went anywhere
without the weapon. He set the rifle in a
corner and sat down at a table to play
poker with Oscar Haldorson. Gus started
back to the kitchen. He was just in the
doorway when he heard a commotion.

“Don’t touch that gun!”

Gus whirled. His father-in-law had
shouted at Van who was now moving to-
wards his rifle with catlike speed.

“TIL show you whether I'll touch it or
not.”” Yan shouted back.

SUMMER EDITION

Van swept the rifle into his grasp with
astonishing speed. He slammed the wea-
pon’s butt against his hip. The hammer
came back swiftly. Oscar Haldorson,
staring death in the face, opened his mouth
to speak. There was a wicked crash. A
soft nose bullet smashed into his body,
struck a bone and spread, tearing a ragged
hole in his vitals. He plunged to the floor,
stone dead.

Mrs Haldorson, looking fresh in a new
summer dress, saw the sudden tragedy. She

George Vandervich

started to scream. Horrified the woman
ran towards the open door seeking to escape.
Van spun around just as the woman cleared
the door. His deadly rifle spoke again.
Three bullets tore into her soft flesh. Mary
Etta Haldorson was dead before she col-
lapsed into her own flower beds.

Van raced outside. He saw Gus Wehr.
Mrs. Wehr, stricken by the horrible fate
that had so swiftly overtaken her parents,
was sobbing. Van cursed and fired a shot
over her head. He heard a sound close by.

He turned and saw Fred P. Smith, a
travelling salesman, getting something out
of his car. Van flung his rifle up and fired.
Smith fell, his thigh shattered by a soft
nose bullet which practically exploded
when it hit the thigh bone. Blood gushed
from severed arteries and there was no-
one to stop it.

WoRK FOR THE SHERIFF

That was the startling story which poured
into Sheriff Ripke’s ears when Gus Wehr
got on the telephone. The sheriff im-
mediately rounded up Undersheriff Harry
W. Adams and Deputy Sheriff S. I. Rap-
son and left at once for Lake House.

It was as Gus Wehr had said. The
tavern was a shambles. In the cold light
of coming day its garish illuminations
looked tawdry, casting a sickly yellow glare
over the ghastly scene.

Sheriff Ripke stopped at the garden
where he saw a pitiful bundle of humanity
clothed in a once gay print dress that was
now soaked in blood that had poured
through jagged tears made by high velocity
bullets. There was no need for him to
examine the body. He knew that Mrs
Haldorson was beyond all earthly aid.

Before he had a chance to make any
further examinations Gus Wehr raced up.

“Van got away in a car. He went to-
wards Olney!” he burst out.

Sheriff Ripke and his men left at once.
A short distance from Olney, the sheriff
ordered Deputy Rapson to stand guard on
the road and stop all cars that came along.
Undersheriff Adams said he knew where
Van's cabin was so he ‘and the sheriff
went on. They stopped at a side road and
Adams went into the bush. The sheriff
continued his trip to take up a position
near the railroad station in Olney.

Sheriff Ripke was standing directly op-
posite the house of Otto Livingstone, the
Olney station agent. He had been there a
few moments when Adams appeared and
said he had lost his way in the darkness
and could not find Van’s cabin. They were
about to discuss other angles when they
heard the hum of an approaching car.
Sheriff Ripke’s hand went to his pistol.

The car was coming in an opposite
direction from Lake House. Adams and
Ripke saw Deputy Rapson step out into
the road and hold up his hand to halt the
car. It slowed down but did not stop.

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