CHAPTER 12
The blast had filled the bank’s lobby with smoke. Coughing, Bart Rome rushed out from behind the counter and waved his hand in front of his face, trying to clear enough of the thick, choking stuff for him to locate Atkins. Rome’s ears rang so much from the explosion that a terrible clamor filled his head.
He spotted Atkins sprawled face-down on the floor where the force from the blast had thrown him. As Rome dropped to a knee beside his friend, the ringing in his ears subsided enough for him to hear the groan that came from Atkins. That told him Atkins was still alive, anyway.
“Sid!” Rome said as he grasped Atkins’ shoulders. “Sid, can you hear me?”
Atkins started to fight as Rome rolled him onto his back. It was too dark and smoky in the bank to tell how badly Atkins was hurt, but he seemed fairly spry as he struck out at Rome in confusion. Rome grabbed his arms.
“Sid, stop it! Damn it, Sid, it’s me, Bart! Come on. We got to get that money out of the vault.”
Atkins stopped fighting. “B-Bart?”
“Yeah. Come on.”
The smoke made both men cough as Rome helped Atkins to his feet. They stumbled toward the vault. Rome got a match from his pocket and lit it. The glare gave the smoke a hellish tint, but the stuff was starting to clear and they could see the vault door through the gaps in it.
Both men groaned in despair at the sight that met their eyes.
“I thought you said it would blow the door wide open!”
“It should have,” Atkins insisted. “I don’t know what went wrong.”
But something obviously had, because the vault door, while showing signs of scorching and pitting around the lock and handle, was intact and still separated the two outlaws from the loot they sought.
Atkins had lost his hat, and the back of his neck was bloody from the flying splinters that had gouged it, the result of the chair being blown to bits. Other than that, he appeared to be shaken up but unhurt. As he stared at the vault door, he muttered, “I can try again—”
“No! Damn it, Sid, there’s no time. We’ve got to get out of here—now!”
“Yeah, you’re right. That blast must’ve woke up the whole town.”
They turned away from the vault. It was a shame that their efforts had come to nothing, but they couldn’t afford to hang around Salt Lick. Even if the marshal was an arrogant little pissant, he still represented a threat. The citizens would all turn out to see what the commotion was, too.
Stumbling runs carried the two outlaws to the back door and out of the bank. The horses were still there, even though the explosion had spooked them, and they tossed their heads nervously. Atkins and Rome jerked the reins loose and leaped into the saddles.
“Head south?” Atkins said. “Back to the gang?”
“We can’t risk it,” Rome said. “When Snake finds out what we did, he’ll kill us for trying to double-cross him, even though we failed.”
Atkins bit off a curse. “Reckon we’d better head for New Mexico anyway, then,” he said. “I’m sorry, Bart—”
“Save it. It was worth a try. Like you said, probably our only chance to ever get rich.”
They hauled their horses around and galloped out of the alley, turning to the left so they could follow the cross street through the center of the settlement and on to the west.
They hadn’t quite reached the corner when a man appeared on the boardwalk to their left, brandishing a Winchester and shouting, “Stop! Hold it right there, you two!”
* * *
Smoke was coming out through the cracks around the bank’s double doors when Marshal Ted Cardwell ran past the building’s entrance. One of the front windows had a big, jagged crack running across it but hadn’t shattered.
That was enough to confirm Cardwell’s hunch that the blast had come from inside the bank. Somebody was trying to rob it, all right. But he didn’t see anything else going on, so maybe Salt Lick wasn’t under general attack from the Snake Bishop gang after all. Maybe the bank was the only target.
Cardwell hesitated long enough to wonder if he ought to kick the doors open. The robbers could still be in there.
But then he heard rapid hoof beats from around the corner. They were trying to get away. He ran to the end of the boardwalk and saw two men on horseback to his right, racing along the cross street as fast as they could.
They had to be the bank robbers. Nobody else would be riding hellbent-for-leather like that. They were trying to escape, and he had to stop them.
He yelled for them to stop and then flung the Winchester to his shoulder. The riders didn’t rein in. They didn’t even slow down.
Instead, they opened fire, muzzle flame from their guns blooming like crimson flowers in the darkness.
Cardwell fired once and heard the Winchester’s wicked crack as the butt kicked back against his shoulder. He worked the rifle’s lever and jerked the trigger again, but the Winchester’s barrel was rising already because slugs pounded into Cardwell’s body and knocked him backward. He felt a couple drive deep into his chest, and another ripped through his guts like somebody had just shoved a huge, jagged pole into his body. Pain the likes of which he had never known rampaged through him as he dropped the rifle and crashed down on his back.
He had enough of a lawman’s instinct left to fumble with the Colt on his hip and claw it out of its holster, but he was too weak to lift it. It twisted out of his fingers and fell on the planks of the boardwalk beside him as he died.
* * *
Smoke drew his gun as he clattered down the steps from the front porch of Jonas Madigan’s house. Windy Whittaker was close behind him, exclaiming, “What in the Sam Hill? Are the damn Yankees invadin’ us again?”
“That wasn’t artillery,” Smoke said. He reached the gate in the picket fence and threw it open. “Sounded more like a stick of dynamite going off to me.”
“Dynamite! What in blazes—”
“You’ve got a bank in this town, don’t you?”
Smoke gazed toward the center of Salt Lick. He didn’t see anything on fire.
“I’d better go and find out—”
Windy gripped his arm. “Look there! Couple o’ riders comin’ fast!”
Smoke caught a glimpse of the men on horseback, silhouetted against a few faintly glowing windows behind them. Then, a heartbeat later, tongues of flame lashed out from their guns as they opened fire on someone. Smoke heard a rifle crack and saw a muzzle flash from the boardwalk at the corner.
In the reflected glow of that flash, his keen eyes recognized the face of Marshal Ted Cardwell. The lawman was trying to stop the fleeing riders, and they were equally determined to escape past him.
Cardwell was outgunned. Smoke’s grip tightened on the Colt in his hand as he saw the young marshal go down under the onslaught of lead from the two horsemen. Smoke knew Cardwell must have been hit hard, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now.
The two riders flashed past the intersection and pounded on toward Smoke and Windy.
“Get back inside,” he snapped at the old-timer, but Windy ignored the order.
“The hell with that!” he said. “I got an old horse pistol in the wagon!”
The wagon Windy had used to deliver the firewood was still parked in front of the house, with a couple of mules standing stolidly in their traces. Windy ran to the vehicle and thrust an arm over the sideboards into the back.
Smoke moved behind the wagon, as well, to use it for cover. He didn’t know who those riders were, but he had watched them gun down Marshal Cardwell, so he was certain they belonged to the owlhoot breed and he didn’t want them to get away. He lifted the Colt and called in a loud, clear voice, “Stop and throw down your guns!”
Instead, more red eyes winked in the night as the two men tried to blast their way past. Smoke had called on them to surrender and they’d ignored that chance, so as bullets thudded into the wagon, he lined his sights and triggered twice.
One of the riders screamed and flung his arms out to the sides. He went backward out of the saddle and landed in the street with a sodden thump.
At Smoke’s side, the old cap-and-ball pistol Windy had gotten from the back of the wagon went off with a boom like a cannon. The second outlaw jerked under the impact of the heavy lead ball, but he kept coming, and the gun in his hand continued to spout flame.
Smoke fired while Windy reloaded and fired, too, and this time the attacker lifted up out of leather and turned a backward somersault to land face-down behind the galloping horse. Both mounts charged on past the wagon where Smoke and Windy had taken cover.
Their former riders lay motionless in the street.
“Jonas, wait! You can’t go out there!”
Smoke looked over his shoulder to see Miriam Dollinger struggling to keep Madigan from charging out onto the porch in his night clothes.
“Blast it, woman, let go of me,” the former lawman roared. “I’ve got to see what all that shootin’ is about.”
“Windy, go give Mrs. Dollinger a hand,” Smoke said. “Jonas doesn’t need to be rushing around out here in the cold.”
“What about those varmints?” Windy asked as he jerked his whiskery chin toward the men lying in the street.
“I’ll check on them and make sure they’re dead.”
“I . . . I seen ’em shoot somebody there in town. I think it was Marshal Cardwell.”
“Looked like it to me, too,” Smoke said, “and I’ll see about him once I’ve made sure those men are no longer threats.”
Windy swallowed, nodded, and hurried up the walk toward the house. Smoke kept his Colt leveled in front of him as he stepped out from behind the wagon and approached the fallen men.
The closest one lay face down. Smoke kicked away the gun the man had dropped, then hooked a boot toe under his shoulder and rolled him onto this back. The way the man’s arms flopped loosely as he went over told Smoke that he was indeed dead, just as expected.
Smoke moved on to the other man and confirmed that he was dead, too. As he was finishing that grim task, he saw Windy coming toward him. The old-timer held a lit lantern in his upraised left hand. His right still clutched the long-barreled old cap-and-ball pistol.
“Are both of the varmints done for?” Windy asked as Smoke joined him near the other body.
“That’s right. I guess you and Mrs. Dollinger were able to get Jonas back to bed?”
“Yeah, he didn’t much want to go, but—Holy jumpin’ horned toads!” Windy burst out as the circle of light from the lantern he carried washed over the dead man’s face.
“What’s the matter? You know him?”
“No, I . . . I just . . . He’s an ugly varmint, ain’t he?”
Smoke looked down at the angular face, frozen now in a grimace of pain and death. Although all the features were different, this man reminded Smoke of scores of other hardened outlaws he had encountered. The unmistakable stamp of the owlhoot trail was on his visage.
“Let’s take a look at the other’un,” Windy suggested.
He took the lantern over to where the second outlaw lay and gazed down at him for a moment.
“How about this one?” Smoke asked.
“Never seen him before, but you can tell he’s a bad one just by lookin’ at him.”
By now, several people were hurrying along the street toward them. As they came into the light, Smoke recognized a couple of them: Edward Warren, from the SALT LICK TRIBUNE, and Rufus Spencer, the burly, bearded liveryman and blacksmith. Spencer carried a shotgun, and some of the other men were armed with rifles or handguns, as well.
“Mr. Jensen,” Warren said, “what’s happened here? Who are these men?”
“I don’t know,” Smoke replied, “but we saw them shoot down Marshal Cardwell.”
A big man with curly dark hair and a high-pitched voice said, “We know. We found poor Ted back up yonder on the boardwalk.”
“Is he . . . ?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead,” Warren said in reply to Smoke’s unfinished question. “He had a number of bullet wounds.” The newspaperman shook his head. “He never had a chance.”
Smoke’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t particularly liked Ted Cardwell and thought he was handling the job of marshal the wrong way, but with experience, Cardwell might have learned how to be a decent lawman. He’d certainly had a good example to follow in Jonas Madigan. Smoke was sorry that Cardwell would never get that chance.
“Do any of you know what it was about?” he asked. “What was that explosion?”
“We’re, uh, not sure,” Warren said. “Some of us thought it came from the bank. We were about to check when we saw you and Windy down here.”
Smoke nodded. “Let’s go take a look.” He headed in that direction, and the other men came along. He wasn’t trying to take charge, necessarily, but people recognized his naturally commanding personality.
And with Cardwell dead and Jonas Madigan in no shape to step back into the role, somebody had to take the lead.
When they reached the bank, they found a man wearing a nightshirt over a hastily pulled on pair of trousers bobbing up and down agitatedly on the balls of his feet.
“Have you been inside, Mr. Hawkins?” Edward Warren asked him.
The man shook his head. “No, I was worried that some of the robbers might still be in there.”
“You’re the president of this bank?” Smoke asked.
“That’s right, sir. Abner Hawkins. And who might you be?”
“He’s Smoke Jensen,” Warren said. “The famous gunman and adventurer.”
Hawkins stared at Smoke for a second, then said, “I’ll unlock the doors, and some of you men can go inside if you want. I . . . I can smell smoke, but I’m not sure the place is on fire . . .”
“That’s dynamite you smell,” Smoke said. “I’ve had occasion to use the stuff before.” He nodded toward the doors. “Go ahead and unlock them, if you don’t mind, Mr. Hawkins.”
The banker hesitated, and Rufus Spencer said, “I know Mr. Jensen’s new in town, but he’s got more experience with trouble than all the rest of us put together, so he’s sort of running things right now. Go ahead and unlock ’em, Abner.”
“Very well.” Hawkins thrust a big key into the lock and twisted it. He stepped back out of the way while Smoke, Windy, Spencer, and a couple of other armed men went inside.
It was obvious this was where the explosion had taken place. A few wisps of smoke still drifted in the air. The banker’s desk was lying on its side, pushed over by the force of the blast. Papers and smaller pieces of debris were scattered around the lobby. As the light from Windy’s lantern reached the vault door, they all saw the blackened area around the lock.
“The varmints tried to blow the door,” Windy exclaimed.
Outside, Hawkins heard that and rushed in. “Did they get into the vault?” he asked excitedly. “Did they take the money?”
“You can rest easy, Mr. Hawkins,” Smoke told him. “Your vault door held up to the blast.”
“Thank heavens,” Hawkins muttered. “It should have. It cost enough.” He looked around. “There aren’t any more of the outlaws in here?”
“Looks like there was just the two of ’em,” Windy said. “And they won’t rob no more banks, thanks to Smoke and me.”
“They won’t gun down any more marshals, either,” Warren added. “Poor Ted.”
The men drifted back outside, except for Hawkins and one of the others who worked as a teller in the bank, Windy explained to Smoke. The two of them started cleaning up the mess inside the lobby.
A few yards away, just before the boardwalk ended at the corner, someone had spread a blanket over Ted Cardwell’s body, but it was still lying there, a grim reminder of the violence that had erupted on this chilly night.
“Does anybody know who those killers were?” a man asked.
“I do,” the man with the high-pitched voice replied. “They came into my saloon earlier today and had a drink. Friendly enough fellas. You could tell they were saddle tramps, but they seemed like decent sorts.”
“You think anybody’s decent who’s buying your whiskey, Apple Jack,” Spencer said.
“Now, that ain’t exactly true!”
As if he hadn’t heard the saloonkeeper’s objection, Spencer went on, “Since you mention it, I remember them, too. They came in just before that poker game I was playing in broke up.”
“And Marshal Cardwell mentioned something about running a couple of drifters out of town,” Smoke said. “That had to have been the same pair. I guess they didn’t like what happened, and came back to settle the score by robbing the bank.”
“Could be,” Windy said. “But what’s got me worried is this. How do we know they was by theirselves?”
That was an odd question to ask, Smoke thought, and as the group of men began to break up, he put a hand on the old-timer’s shoulder and said, “Why don’t you come down to the marshal’s office with me, Windy? I think we need to have a talk.”