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S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S • 55 In 30 years of defending America's wildlife, Ernie Swift battled everybody from hillbillies to Chicago gunmen. Now he's up against his toughest enemy—powerful interests out to steal our public lands. By Ken Smith & John KeatS T he young game warden had known what he was going to find ever since he first spotted the big Lincoln in the forest clearing and saw the machine gun lying across the back seat. After glancing quickly around him, he had moved quietly and carefully through the woods toward the dam, and now, standing on the edge of the riverbank above the rushing water, he could look down and see them. He stood there silently in the shade of the trees, nervously rubbing his hands on his trousers, knowing that only a fool would try to go down there and take them alone. All I have to do is turn around and get the hell out of here, he told himself, and nobody will ever know. With those guns, they could cut me to pieces before I'd gone two feet. His eyes traveled from the automatic rifle that was leaning up against the sign reading CLOSED AREA. FISHING PROHIBITED to the heavy pistol butts that protruded from the pockets of the three fishermen. Why should I get myself shot over nothing but a few lousy fish, Ernest Swift thought. But he knew all along that he had made his decision before he had even seen the Lincoln, he had made it back when he first heard that Chicago mobsters were coming up into his territory in Wisconsin. He had realized right then that sooner or later he would have to tangle with them. "Ah, the hell with it," he muttered impatiently, and stepped out from the protection of the trees and started down the steep bank. One eye on the guns that stuck out of their back pockets, Swift moved rapidly, counting on the noise of the water to drown out his movements. Just as he was congratulating himself for having successfully taken them by surprise, the three men whirled around—guns gripped in their hands. Swift's first reaction, before he noticed the empty belly holsters, was to think that they had been fishing with guns in their hands. "What in hell do you want?" a cold voice demanded. The heavy face behind the voice would have been instantly recognizable to any newspaper reader in those days of 1928; chiefly celebrated as the inventor of the one-way ride, he was known as "Machinegun" Frankie McErlane. Fighting to keep his voice steady, Swift said, "I'm going to have to arrest you. Let me see your fishing licenses." "Jesus, a hayseed cop," McErlane sneered. "Well, whatta you know." He grinned at Swift, somehow amused by the picture of this little shrimp taking on three armed men. The second gunman, an ugly, stupid giant named Frank Novak, stood looking at Swift out of contempt-filled eyes. With his attention on McErlane, Swift did not realize that the third man had GanG Bustin' Game Warden by MORT KÜNSTLER— cOuRTESy hERiTagE aucTiONS/www.ha.cOM