For a moment, the gaunt owlhoot did not reply. His eyes went to the open Chubb safe and he seemed to be considering the ‘drummer’s’ words. Then he gave a shrug and said:
‘Naw! We’ll do it the way we planned. Bring him out and hawg-tie him, Benny. Tony, wig-wag for Billy to fetch the hosses over.’
Opening the door briefly, the Mexican waved his hand and closed it again.
Rising from the hitching rail, the gangling young man looked about him. He gave the impression that he was searching for companions and, having failed to locate them, gave a resigned shrug. Strolling nonchalantly to the horses, he released the reins. Mounting one, he led the others towards the front of the bank. There were a few people on the street, although none close to the building. None of them paid any attention to the young man’s actions. Halting the animals, he remained in the saddle and his right hand rested on the butt of the white-handled Colt Peacemaker thrust into his waistband. A keenly observant person might have noticed the weapon and considered it too fine for such a poorly-dressed individual: however, nobody had given him more than a second glance.
‘Billy’s here, Spit,’ the Mexican remarked, as the sound of hooves came to a halt outside the bank.
‘Get going then,’ answered the ‘undertaker’. ‘Make it look natural.’
By that time, the teller was lying face down between Brady and Mrs. Kimber. Having finished securing him, the ‘drummer’ stood up and accepted one of the sacks. The ‘rancher’ took the other and they walked across the room.
Returning his Colt to its holster, the Mexican strolled out of the door in a leisurely manner. He flashed a quick glance in each direction, satisfying himself that nobody was taking undue interest in his doings. Deciding that he was unobserved, or at least unsuspected, he went to the waiting horses. He mounted a big bay which sported a saddle bearing a horn about the size of a dinner plate.
‘See you … ’ the young ‘wrangler’ began, releasing the bay’s reins. His words died off and he stared at the Mexican. ‘You’re supposed to...’
‘I know what I’m supposed to do,’ countered the swarthily-handsome Mexican holding his horse motionless. ‘Only I’d sooner not do it.’
Carrying one of the sacks, the ‘rancher’ crossed the room and prepared to take his departure.
‘Leather that Colt, blast it, Benny!’ snarled the gaunt man. ‘You wouldn’t walk out holding a gun if you wasn’t robbing the place.’
‘Reckon I wouldn’t at that,’ conceded the ‘rancher’, but he paused before dropping the revolver into its holster. ‘It don’t seem right to go walking out empty-handed.’
‘Everything else’s gone all right so far,’ the ‘drummer’ pointed out.
‘Yeah,’ agreed the ‘rancher’, brightening a little, and left.
Hanging the loop of the flour sack’s draw-string over his saddle horn, the ‘rancher’ swung afork his horse. He had thrown a puzzled glance at the Mexican, then towards the ‘wrangler’.
‘I’ll be heading off...’ the ‘rancher’ began.
‘It’s better we all go together, Benny,’ interrupted the Mexican, right hand hovering prominently over the butt of his Colt.
‘You agreed that we’d split up when we made the plan,’ the ‘wrangler’ pointed out.
‘That was before I saw that it would work,’ answered the Mexican. ‘I’ll feel happier if we all go together and in one direction.’
‘So’d I, comes a point,’ the ‘wrangler’ admitted, realizing what the other was implying.
On making his appearance, the ‘drummer’ hurried to the fourth of the horses. He too glared at his companions while mounting and suspending his burden from the saddle horn.
‘Have you bunch forgotten … ?’ the ‘drummer’ commenced.
‘Just changed the plan a mite,’ replied the ‘wrangler’. ‘T’ain’t’s we don’t trust nobody, but...’
‘We thought we’d have a better chance, if it came to a fight on the way out, if we stuck together,’ the Mexican finished, so sincerely that he might have been speaking the truth.
Warning Mrs. Kimber not to start creating a disturbance, the ‘undertaker’ picked up his bag and went to the front door. He plucked the key from the lock with his left hand. Stepping on to the sidewalk, looking back as if concluding a conversation with somebody in the building, he closed and locked the door.
‘What the hell... ?’ the ‘undertaker’ spat savagely, turning to find all his companions waiting. ‘Why the hell haven’t you bunch split up like we said we would?’
‘It’s safer this way,’ the Mexican explained.
‘Why worry, Spit?’ grinned the gangling young man. ‘It’s gone off smoother than any other chore we’ve ever pulled.’
‘I still reckon we should’ve emptied the safe,’ grumbled the ‘drummer’, as the ‘undertaker’ mounted the last of the animals.
‘This way’s better,’ the gaunt man replied. ‘If we don’t need to use the stuff here, we can pull the same game at another bank.’
While talking, none of the gang glanced at the empty building across the street. A ‘for sale’ sign hung in a downstairs window and the whole place appeared to be deserted. Even the fact that one of the upstairs windows was open at the bottom for a few inches did not attract their attention.
It had been closed when the ‘undertaker’ went into the bank!
Seeing that none of his companions were willing to go along with the original idea of splitting up and meeting at a pre-arranged point clear of the town, the gaunt man mounted his roan and reined it to the west. The sheriff’s office was situated to the east of the bank and he wished to avoid riding by it.
‘Let’s go,’ he ordered. ‘Nice and steady at first, just like nothing had happened.’
Turning their horses, the other men assumed a rough arrowhead formation behind their leader. None of them saw the barrel of a Winchester rifle creeping through the gap under the upstairs window. They became aware of its presence when flame spurted from its muzzle and a bullet flung up dirt in front of them. Three times in as many seconds the rifle spat, its lead churning harmlessly—if in a disconcerting manner—into the surface of the street. Following the shots, a feminine voice rose loudly from the apparently deserted building.
‘Help! Stop them! They’ve just robbed the bank!’
Realizing that all hope of a quiet, undisturbed departure had ended, the gaunt man did not hesitate in his reaction. He wondered briefly how the woman could have known about the robbery, for he was sure that no hint of it could have been detected from the street. However, he did not take time to solve the mystery. Already other voices were being raised, relaying the woman’s information. Soon the street would be bristling with armed men, all eager to help prevent the owl-hoots from making good their escape.
‘Get the hell out of it!’ the ‘undertaker’ yelled, setting the spurs into his horse’s flanks and causing it to leap forward.
No more shots came from the upstairs window. In fact, the rifle had been withdrawn as soon as the woman shouted her warning. Still holding to their flattened V-formation across the width of the street, the gang galloped west towards the edge of town. With the flour sacks suspended from their saddle horns, the ‘drummer’ and the ‘rancher’ could each spare a hand from controlling his mount and drew his revolver. The Mexican and the ‘wrangler’ also armed themselves, but the ‘undertaker’ left his shotgun in the bag.
‘Don’t kill anybody,’ the ‘undertaker’ advised, concentrating on getting more speed from his blaze-faced roan. ‘Not less’n there’s no other way of getting by ’em.’
Thundering along the street, the owlhoots started to throw lead. At first, they found no difficulty in following their leader’s orders. They fired with the intention of causing such of the citizens who were appearing from the buildings ahead of them to return indoors hurriedly.
Still slightly in the lead of his companions, although they were rapidly catching up, the gaunt man watched the people scattering and retreating through the doors from which they had come. Then he became aware of one man who showed no indication of being put to flight.
Every garment worn by the exception gave warning that he was no mild town-dweller, to be run off by a couple of bullets tossed in his general direction. He came forward along the sidewalk like he was all too willing to make a fight of it.
A black J.B. Stetson—low-crowned, wide-brimmed, decorated by an Indian wampum band and tilted Texas-fashion at a jack-deuce angle over the off eye—topped a six foot two length of powerful, work-hardened body. The hat’s fancy barbiquejo chin-strap framed a tanned young face. The nose had been badly broken at some time. There was a gap left by a scar in the centre of the right eyebrow and the left ear was thickened. For all that, his features had a rugged charm that many women found attractive. Right then, they were set in an expression of grim, angry determination.
He had wide shoulders, a lean waist and long, powerful legs. A fringed buckskin jacket hung open. Under it was a dark blue shirt and a long, tight-rolled yellow bandanna. His Levi’s pants looked new and hung outside high-heeled, fancy-stitched Justin boots to which Kelly spurs were strapped.
However—and the gaunt man noticed this first—the exception did not appear to be armed. At least, there was no recognizable gun belt about his lead midsection.
For all that, his actions implied that he might be carrying a concealed weapon.
‘Watch that feller, Billy!’ the ‘undertaker’ requested, selecting the rider most advantageously positioned to deal with the potential danger.
Having already noticed the tall, broad-shouldered, rusty-red haired young man starting to run along the sidewalk in their direction, the ‘wrangler’ was prepared to deal with him.
More than just prepared!
Billy was eager to do so!
Longing to acquire the cherished title ‘killer’, the ‘wrangler’ had not been in favor of his leader’s instructions—although the reason for them had been thoroughly explained—regarding the advisability of avoiding gunning down any of the citizens during their escape.
So far, the rusty-haired jasper had not drawn a gun. Nor, in Billy’s considered opinion, could he do so quickly enough to save himself. Swiveling his hips slightly, to make the right side of his fancy buckskin jacket swing open, he had thrust his off hand underneath at waist level. The knuckles had been outwards, which meant that he was not making a high cavalry twist-hand draw. No other method of toting a gun with which Billy was acquainted allowed speed when the gun was placed so high.
Satisfied that he was in no danger, Billy thrust forward his Colt. He meant to make sure that he achieved his desire to kill a man. So he stared along the barrel and waited for the broken-nosed face to be framed in the sights. When it came into view, he started to press the trigger.
Pure chance had brought Jefferson Trade into that perilous predicament.
While attending to his horse and Brady Anchor’s—a real fine pair of animals—at the livery barn, Jeff had struck up an acquaintance with its owner. Like barbers, most proprietors of livery barns were good sources of gossip. Dutchy Mueller had proved to be no exception. He clearly enjoyed talking to strangers as a means of increasing his fund of news. In any case, there had been an added bond between them.
A former bronc-buster, Mueller had recognized a kindred spirit. Which had been mighty shrewd figuring on his part. Jeff was a better than fair hand when it came to catching, riding and taming unbroken, mean, or just ornery horses. The various injuries to his face had been caused by taking falls and not, despite his considerable ability in a rough-house brawl, through fist-fighting. So they had had a common bond upon which to start their conversation.
In his time as a Ranger, Jeff had learned how to gather information without its donor being aware of having given any. After chatting for a time about matters of general interest, he had eased the talk into a subject of more pressing importance.
Without realizing the true identity, or purpose, of his visitor, Mueller had confirmed the two old ranch hands’ story. What was more, the barn’s owner had claimed that he did not expect the rancher to return. Apparently the story of the mortgage was public knowledge in Rocksprings.
‘I reckon he took that money so’s he could light out and make a fresh start someplace else,’ Mueller had declared cheerfully. ‘And I don’t say’s I blame him entirely. Whichever of them fellers’s don’t get the spread’s going to be real riled at whoever’s sold it.’
‘He will, huh?’ Jeff had said, in a gentle drawl which seemed out of place when taken with his broken-nosed pugilist’s features. ‘That seems a mite hard on the banker.’
‘How come?’
‘Well, seems like he was good enough to make the loan—’
‘Good enough, hell!’ Mueller had snorted. ‘Cuthbertson’s knowed all along about them boys wanting the spread. That’s why he give the mortgage. Why d’you reckon it’s hard on him?’
‘Happen he has to foreclose, that’ll make him the owner—’
‘You seen our sheriff?’
‘Can’t say’s I’ve had that pleasure.’
‘It ain’t no pleasure, believe me. Happen you had seen him, you’d know he’s only in office ‘cause somebody important wants him there—Which Cuthbertson’s mighty important around these parts. And the sheriff’s his kissing cousin.’
‘Sheriff’s a good man with a gun, huh?’ Jeff had asked.
‘He ain’t good with nothing’ Mueller had replied. ‘Got him a deputy, Sonny Briskow, who reckons to be a regular snake. But that’s not important. A county sheriff can call in the Rangers happen he needs their help. And neither of them ranchers wants fuss with the Rangers.’
Figuring that his Uncle Brady would be interested in the latest pieces of information, Jeff had completed his work of settling in the horses. Then he had arranged with Mueller to leave the saddles and other gear in the office at the barn. Recollecting his uncle’s comments on a correct appearance being important when talking business, he had tidied himself up before setting off towards the bank.
On reaching the main street, Jeff had seen the five riders gathered in front of the bank. Nothing about them had aroused his suspicions. Maybe they looked an oddly assorted bunch to be travelling together, but their leisurely behavior had prevented him from drawing the correct conclusions. There were a number of innocent and legitimate reasons for the variety of their attire. Cowhands were notorious for dressing up a mite fancy when visiting a town; even if the somber clothing of an undertaker was not a usual choice. Could be that the black-dressed feller was a for-real undertaker and accompanying the others on business.
Whatever might have brought the quintet together outside the bank, Jeff had not considered them to be of special interest. Nor had he thought that they might be intimately connected with his and Uncle Brady’s affairs.
That situation had changed abruptly!
A rifle had started to crack from an upstairs window of the house opposite the bank. On the heels of the shots had come words which drove into Jeff like a red-hot branding iron burning its mark of ownership on the rump of a freshly-caught mustang.
Whoever the woman doing the yelling might have been, she had possessed a tolerably powerful set of lungs. Her voice carried along the street and, taken with the shooting, had left no lingering doubts as to the five men’s true purpose outside the bank,
After a moment’s surprise, realization had flooded over Jefferson Trade. The riders, now charging along the street in his direction and firing off their revolvers, had just completed a successful robbery of the bank. Which meant that Brady Anchor must have been one of the victims.
Not that Jeff had felt any anxiety over his uncle’s well-being. From the way they had been acting, the owlhoots had reckoned that nobody suspected them. That implied there had been no shooting, or other disturbance, to attract the attention of the people outside the bank. Knowing his Uncle Brady, Jeff had concluded that he must have been taken by surprise and covered before he could get his Colt Thunderer into action.
Faced by the owlhoots’ weapons, Uncle Brady could have been counted upon to act in a sensible manner. Unless he had seen an almost certain opportunity to resist, he would have remained passive and gone along with the gang’s demands.
Jeff was willing to bet that his uncle was alive and well. Hog-tied and gagged most likely, certainly madder than two boiled owls, but not injured in any way.
One thing was obvious to Jeff. No matter how the owl-hoots had left Brady Anchor, they were certain to be toting off his and his nephew’s money along with the rest of the loot.
Being aware of how the loss of the money would affect their plans for a prosperous future, Jeff had felt disinclined to let it slip away without making a damned good stab at retrieving it.
Bending along the sidewalk towards the approaching riders, he had studied them. The white flour sacks swinging from the ‘drummer’s’ and ‘rancher’s’ saddle horns would hold the loot. So they had struck him as being the jaspers to go after.
Unfortunately, the choice of victims had been taken out of his hands.
The black-dressed cuss in the lead had seen Jeff and clearly considered that he would be a tougher proposition than the town’s folks. All the people ahead of the gang were getting the hell under cover when lead started to whistle in their direction.
Not that Jeff had blamed the citizens for their caution. If there had been less at stake, he might have done the same. He was no longer a Texas Ranger, paid to lock horns with gun-toting, bullet-throwing owlhoots as part of his day’s work.
Sure enough, the ‘undertaker’ had yelled to the skinny runt closest to the sidewalk, telling him to take cards. What was more, the gangling owlhoot had looked right pleased at being told to take Jeff out of the game. There was a cuss just itching to become a killer, hot and eager to send lead into another human being. A man was worse than a fool if he took chances with that kind.
Instinctively, Jeff swung his hips in a manner that cleared the way for his right hand to go under the buckskin jacket. Even as his fingers closed around the staghorn grips of the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker, he saw the gangling owl-hoot drawing a careful bead on him.
Something had to be done!
And fast!