‘Well, Dilkes,’ Banker Cuthbertson boomed impatiently, watching his teller counting the contents of the flour sacks. ‘Is it all there?’
The time was eight o’clock in the evening on the day of the hold-up. Once more Brady Anchor was seated in Cuthbertson’s private office. In addition to himself, the banker and Dilkes, Jefferson Trade, Barnstaple, Sheriff Minter and the two deputies were present. The latter lounged on either side of the room’s door. While Haggerty showed little interest in what went on, Briskow scowled and looked sullenly brooding.
After retrieving the money, there had been some discussion upon what would be the posse’s best line of action.
When Briskow had realized that he was alone in the pursuit, he had stopped his horse. Turning on his saddle, he had bawled a demand for the others to follow. Seeing that they were not obliging him, he had rejoined them all a-bristle with indignation. It had been his stated belief that they should keep after and wipe out all the gang instead of being content with the deaths of just two.
Less blood-thirsty than the deputy, the other citizens of Rocksprings were more inclined to be lenient. As Masker had pointed out, nobody was hurt in the hold-up; other than the owlhoots. All the money—or certainly a greater part of it—had been recovered and two of the men responsible were dead. It had seemed a fair exchange for the inconvenience caused to the victims and good payment for the few broken windows that would need repairing. Already the posse’s horses had been hard-pushed, so the other citizens had shown support for Masker.
It had fallen upon Barnstaple to put up the major argument in favor of an immediate return to Rocksprings. He had said that, in his considered opinion, they should deliver the money to the bank as quickly as possible. Agreeing with Masker’s points concerning the comparatively harmless nature of the robbery, he had declared that going back would meet with the approval of the Texas Bankers’ Protective Association. His organization would rather have the money safely in the bank’s safe than being carried along during a lengthy hunt for the gang. Neither revenge, nor glory-hunting, was the objective of the posse, he had finished, eyeing the deputy coldly.
Never one to shoulder responsibility willingly, Minter had been delighted to have such strong backing and for the decision to be practically taken out of his hands. With Barnstaple’s influential support as an argument against future criticism of his conduct, he could return to Rocksprings covered with glory for his astute handling of the affair. So he had announced that they would go home. There would, he announced solemnly, be plenty of other peace officers in the neighboring counties looking for the gang and he did not doubt that news of their arrest would soon be forthcoming.
Going by the mutters of annoyance, the decision and comments had not been to Briskow’s satisfaction. Still hot and eager for blood, he had wanted to go on with the hunt. He had had no desire to let outside law enforcement agencies reap the benefits for capturing the gang. A triumphant return to Rocksprings with prisoners—or, better still, corpses dangling across their saddles—would have been more spectacular than merely taking back the money. Especially if he had been able to boast it was his shrewd judgment, in taking along the Sharps buffalo gun, that had brought about the mission’s successful conclusion.
On Briskow having made his feelings obvious, Mueller had remarked that the deputy was responsible for the gang’s escape. If he had followed orders, instead of dashing over the rim and throwing lead, they might have been able to take the owlhoots by surprise and capture the whole bunch.
There had been plenty of agreement for Mueller’s statement. To cool down the heated tempers, Barnstaple had repeated Minter’s comments that other peace officers would be searching for the gang. With their attention directed mainly to the rear, watching for the Rocksprings’ posse, the owlhoots might walk into a trap laid ahead of them.
Although Brady had kept the thought to himself, he had felt that Briskow had robbed the outside peace officers of their best means of identifying the gang. The continued presence of the Mexican would have been of the greatest value, for he could not conceal his race as easily as his companions might change their clothing. Wishing to avoid open conflict with the deputy, who was getting more angry by the second, Brady had kept the conclusion to himself. Silently, he had agreed with Jeff’s earlier summation of Briskow’s character.
Brady and Jeff had been in agreement with the majority of the posse on their line of action. Maybe the humiliation Brady had suffered at the hands of the owlhoots had still rankled, but he was rarely vindictive. More to the point, his and Jeff’s money was in the flour sacks. He had no desire to leave it unclaimed in Banker Cuthbertson’s hands for any length of time.
Having rested their horses, the posse had set off on the return journey with a sense of satisfaction at a job well done. It would be a very long time, several of the citizens had declared, before owlhoots would dare pester Edwards County with their presence.
They had carried the Mexican’s body across the rump of the smallest man’s horse. Before helping to load it, Brady had searched the pockets. He had found nothing to suggest in which direction the gang were heading. Nor had the Mexican’s dying comment about ‘Going to church, two miles to the border,’ been any more enlightening. Masker and his companion had both insisted they were the exact words, but nobody could hazard a guess at their meaning. It had been Barnstaple’s belief that they were nothing to do with the destination of the dying owlhoot’s companions. Being a Mexican, he was most likely a Catholic and had been requesting that he be taken to some suitable church for the last rites of his faith. Lacking any better answer, the posse had accepted the distinguished-looking man’s summation. It had not solved the mystery entirely, for it had left unexplained the piece about ‘two miles to the border’. However, it had done all that was necessary right then.
On arrival at Rocksprings, the posse had been greeted by a welcoming committee of almost the whole of the grown-up population. There had been much cheering and numerous expressions of gratification when it was announced that, although some of the gang had escaped, most—if not all—of the money had been recovered. Few of the people felt cheated or that the posse should have kept on after the remainder of the gang.
Before taking the money to the bank, Barnstaple had insisted upon delivering the dead Mexican to the undertaker’s establishment. While the posse had been away, the undertaker had attended to the body of Jeff’s victim. The deceased owlhoot’s pockets had yielded little and, on the face of it, nothing of use in locating his companions. The most puzzling item had been a much folded and dirty handbill. It had hardly seemed to be the thing a hardened bank robber would be carrying on his person. ‘widow snodgrass and her daughters of the LORD SAY REPENT ALL YE SINNERS, THE END IS NIGH!’
The rest of the message had been what could be expected on such a document. In addition to the grim warnings of punishments to come and exhortations to give up such evil pursuits as drinking, gambling, infidelity and womanizing, it had offered a list of the towns in which the Widow and her Daughters of the Lord had been, or would be, visiting. According to the undertaker, with confirmation from the sheriff, the party had made its call on Rocksprings. They had won acclaim among the God-fearing section of the community by their sincerity and devout, Christian behavior.
‘Banker Cuthbertson was real impressed,’ the undertaker had commented. ‘He invited them to his house for dinner and all.’
Apparently, Brady and Jeff had assumed, such an invitation ranked around Rocksprings as the equivalent to being the honor guests of the President of the United States at the White House.
Knowing that many owlhoots had moments of remorse and tried to reform, Brady had attached little significance to the handbill. Jeff had figured that the young man he had killed was not a likely candidate for repentance; but was forced to admit that their acquaintance had been, of necessity, a very brief one. So he had not been able to draw a definite conclusion on the state of the other’s soul.
Cuthbertson had arrived soon after the men entered the undertaker’s shop. Hovering in the background and showing no desire to see the remains of the dead owlhoots, his whole body had appeared to be a-quiver with eagerness to lay hands on the bank’s money. So Barnstaple had suggested that, having carried out their Christian and legal duties, they could attend to more mundane matters.
That had raised a problem for Brady and Jeff. Under normal conditions, not even the extreme urgency of their business would have caused them to neglect the welfare of their horses. So they had been torn between two desires—to see the animals settled after the hard travelling of the day and to watch Cuthbertson while their money was being counted along with the rest of the loot. Mueller had solved their dilemma by offering to tend to the appaloosa and the bayo-tigres. It had been a tribute to the respect in which Brady and Jeff held him that they had agreed. Satisfied that their mounts would be in good hands, they had set off with the interested parties to the bank.
‘It is, sir,’ the teller declared, in answer to his employer’s question. ‘All fifty thousand dollars.’
Nobody spoke for a moment. A crafty, delighted glint crept into Cuthbertson’s eyes. Then he flashed a knowing glance at Minter. Barnstaple had heard of Brady’s and Jeff’s loss and he studied the pair with interest. They in turn exchanged looks, but as usual Jeff left his uncle to do the talking.
‘Only fifty thousand dollars?’ Brady inquired, looking like a slightly puzzled stone cherub.
‘Yes, sir,’ Dilkes confirmed flatly.
‘There should be fifty-five thousand,’ Brady pointed out. ‘They took the money belonging to my nephew and me with them.’
‘There’s just fifty thousand, sir,’ Dilkes insisted. ‘No more, no less. Exactly as I put it into the sack.’
‘Five thousand of it still belongs to Uncle Brady and me,’ Jeff put in, goaded to the comment by Briskow’s mocking, triumphant leer.
‘I’m afraid I can’t agree with you on that, young man,’ Cuthbertson boomed, sitting back with a complacent air and his right hand casually drew open the desk’s drawer. ‘I lost fifty thousand dollars and that sum was placed into the two flour sacks which my teller has just checked. They are the same sacks, aren’t they, Dilkes?’
‘The very same, sir,’ Dilkes agreed, indicating the drawstrings and red lettering. ‘I’m not likely to forget them in a hurry.’
‘I’m not arguing that they’re the same sacks,’ Brady objected.
‘Then you’re saying that my teller hasn’t counted correctly?’ the banker challenged, dropping his right hand into the drawer and directing another conspiratorial look at the sheriff. ‘You can check it yourself....’
‘I’m satisfied that your man counted correctly,’ Brady stated.
‘Then I would like to know what you’re implying,’ Cuthbertson declared.
‘I’m saying that the gang took five thousand dollars belonging to my nephew and me—’
‘In those two sacks?’
‘That’s what the one who looked like an undertaker said to do with it.’
‘Did you see the money put in?’ the banker inquired.
‘That’s not real likely, seeing’s how I’d been made lie flat on my face,’ Brady replied. ‘How about you, Mr. Dilkes?’
‘I couldn’t say for sure what happened to your money, sir,’ the teller quavered, not meeting Brady’s eyes.
‘Couldn’t,’ Jeff growled, making as if to move towards the scared-looking Dilkes. ‘Or daren’t?’
Although Minter had seen Cuthbertson’s signals, his brain lacked the ability to read them correctly. He knew that his cousin wanted him to do something, but had no clear notion of what it might be. Already he had forgotten the suggestions made by the banker during their private conversation before the posse had set off.
Equally observant, but more intelligent, Briskow had guessed that something was going on. He had also formed a fairly accurate assessment of what was wanted and believed that he could provide the service required by the banker. If he did, he would gain a most influential ally in his campaign to become sheriff.
With that in mind, Briskow had attracted Haggerty’s attention and nodded towards Brady. Then the younger deputy had ambled leisurely towards the desk. Showing an unusual amount of intelligence, Haggerty had advanced in a surreptitious and—he fondly believed—unobserved manner to stand behind the stocky man. Having attained that position, Haggerty dropped his right hand to the butt of his holstered Remington.
‘Hold it!’ Briskow barked, catching Jeff’s right arm with his left hand and reaching for his Colt with the right.
The response was far swifter than the young deputy had anticipated. Up to that moment, Briskow’s main targets had been the local cowhands. Carrying a load of liquor, none of them had been capable of serious resistance. Nor were they highly trained fighting men; certainly not up to Jefferson Trade’s standards.
Frowning a little, Barnstaple tensed as he stood not far from where Cuthbertson was seated behind the desk. He glanced into the drawer, then at the peace officers.
With a sudden, sharp jerk, Jeff plucked his arm free. All the antipathy he had formed against the young deputy came boiling up. He swung on his heel, right hand folding and driving upwards. Rock hard knuckles collided with the bottom of Briskow’s jaw. Back snapped the deputy’s head and he was flung across the room. He landed on his rump with a thud and his eyes took on a glassy expression.
As soon as Briskow had commenced his move against Jeff, Haggerty prepared to draw his Colt. He expected no trouble, nor difficulty in quelling the stocky man. Which proved to be one hell of a mistake.
Brady had caught the interplay of signaling glances between Cuthbertson and the sheriff, as well as observing Briskow’s suggestive look at Haggerty. He had drawn an accurate conclusion as to their meaning and was prepared for trouble. So the older deputy’s ‘unsuspected’ taking up a position to his rear had not gone unnoticed. That Jeff should have triggered off the trouble came as no surprise. While he had many good qualities, his temper tended to be quick and explosive if he felt that he was being put upon.
With the uncanny-appearing—yet vitally necessary—instincts of a man who had lived dangerously for most of his life, Brady had sensed Haggerty’s reactions. Guessing what the other was planning to do, he had formulated what he considered ought to be a good move to counter the threat.
Pivoting fast, Brady saw that—as he had expected—Haggerty was drawing the Colt from its holster. No gun fighter, the man still had enough sense not to cock the hammer before the barrel was pointing away from him. So it was in a harmless position when Brady made his play.
Flashing forward, Brady’s left fist clamped hold of the deputy’s right wrist. An instant later, his right hand grasped the forearm just above it. Gliding closer, he snapped up the trapped limb with a jerk that carried the revolver out of alignment. Then Brady made an outwards turn, carrying the arm over his head.
Seeing the assault upon his deputies, Minter let out a strangled squawk and made an unscientific grab at his Colt. Suddenly he realized the golden opportunity which had been presented to him. He could carry out his cousin’s instructions by arresting the two men and having them held in jail until it was too late for them to pay the mortgage on the ranch.
A sly grin had twisted at Cuthbertson’s piggy features when Briskow had laid hands on Jeff. Being a shrewd judge of character, the banker had known that, of the two, the redhead was the more likely to play into his hands. Then, realizing that things were not going according to plan, he moved his hands towards the Smith & Wesson Schofield revolver which he kept in the desk’s drawer for similar emergencies. There was so much at stake that he was willing to kill one, or both, of the newcomers to Rocksprings if doing it would achieve his ends.
Being unarmed and a naturally meek man, Dilkes backed hurriedly out of the way. He let the second of the sacks fall from his hand, retreating until his shoulders rubbed against the wall on the opposite side of the office to where Briskow was hurtling.
Completing his turn so that he stood to the rear of the startled deputy, Brady transferred his right hand from the lower forearm to the elbow of the captured limb. By bending the forearm across the man’s back, Brady obtained a hammerlock that was both painful and effective. So much so that Haggerty let out an agonized squawk and released his still uncocked revolver.
With the deputy disarmed, Brady thrust him towards the sheriff. Propelled with considerable force, Haggerty collided with Minter before the latter had managed to clear his gun from leather. They stumbled backwards for a few feet, with the sheriff flailing the air and forgetting his Colt in his efforts to remain on his feet.
Stepping along the side of the desk, Barnstaple bumped the banker’s chair hard with his hip. At the same instant, his right hand dipped into the drawer. Shoving Cuthbertson’s flabby fist away from the Smith & Wesson, the distinguished-looking man appropriated it for his own use. Once again, he displayed a deftness that implied he possessed considerable knowledge of firearms and their use.
‘Hold it!’ Barnstaple commanded, lining the revolver at Jeff.
Although the red-head’s right hand had passed underneath his jacket, he refrained from drawing the Colt. His head swung towards Barnstaple, taking in the calm, capable manner in which the Smith & Wesson was aimed in his direction. Deciding that the other would squeeze the trigger and operate the double-action mechanism if necessary, Jeff concluded that obedience was the wisest course.
One quick glance at his uncle confirmed Jeff’s conclusions. Brady gave a quick, warning and negative head-shake to the unasked question. While the stocky man did not know why Barnstaple had taken cards, he was willing to accept that it had been for a very good reason.
‘All right, you pair!’ Minter yelled, shaking himself free from his deputy and hauling his Colt from its holster. ‘You’re under arrest for...’
‘Threatening behavior to a citizen,’ Cuthbertson supplied for his kinsman. ‘And assaulting officers of the law.’
‘That’s it!’ the sheriff boomed, hoping that he would not have to repeat the charges. ‘I’m taking you both to jail.’
‘You reckon you can do it?’ Jeff challenged, and his right hand moved slightly in the direction of the jacket’s front.
‘He’s a duly appointed and sworn peace officer, Mr. Trade,’ Barnstaple pointed out, making a small yet significant gesture with the Smith & Wesson. ‘If you resist, he would be within his rights to shoot you down. So would any private citizen, in helping him against you under the circumstances.’
Then Brady saw it all and so did Jeff. Despite his hot temper, the red-head had a shrewd brain.
Seeing that Cuthbertson had the revolver available and was clearly planning to use it, Barnstaple had intervened. The distinguished-looking man was acting to save Jeff—and most likely Brady—from being shot down under the pretence that they were resisting arrest.
‘And that’s the legal law,’ Minter declared, then wondered why the banker glowered savagely at him.
‘It is,’ Barnstaple confirmed. ‘While you might think that your conduct was justified—’
‘That’s just what I think...’ Jeff put in angrily.
The point is that you have assaulted a peace officer, Barnstaple interrupted firmly but in a friendly manner. ‘So the sheriff has no other course but to arrest you. I’d advise you to go along with him and not to cause any trouble. It would be the wisest line to take.’
‘How about it, Uncle Brady?’ Jeff asked. ‘Do we do it?’
‘I reckon we do,’ Brady decided, without hesitation, and his right hand curled back under the right side of his jacket. It tugged forward to emerge holding the butt of the short-barreled Colt Thunderer, but his forefinger was not inside the trigger guard. ‘Give him your gun, nephew, and we’ll go quietly.’