“Just be easy, gents,” Carmody advised the teller and the manager, one-handing the Winchester, with the hammer cocked, as he strolled into the bank.
Nothing had changed. The bespectacled teller was still fooling with a pile of paper money. The fat manager was still inspecting the pink pages of the Gazette. The manager started to say, “Good morning.” He got as far as “Good.” He added “God” when he saw the rifle pointing at his heart. He started to put up his hands.
Carmody said, “I said rest easy. Be smart, gents—do that.”
“You too, pen-pusher,” he said to the teller. He showed the teller what the muzzle of a Winchester looked like. “Now you take the money you’re counting and bring it over to the fat man’s desk.”
The teller did what he was told. “You, fat man,” Carmody told the manager. “You get up now and open the safe. Then you fill a sack and hand it to me. No tricks, no grief—understand?”
The fat man surprised himself by saying, “No, sir, I won’t do it.” After he said it he let it hang for a while.
Carmody had an answer for that. He put the front sight of the rifle on the fat man’s heart and let him see how the trigger was squeezed tight, with only the pressure of his thumb holding the hammer back. If he let the hammer fly the fat man was dead.
“Think about it,” Carmody said.
Sick with fright, the fat man fumbled in his vest pocket for the key that opened the safe. While he was doing that, the teller clenched and unclenched his big hands. “You turn around,” Carmody ordered him. The teller did what he was told and Carmody hit him across the side of the neck with the rifle barrel. The teller went down. The fat man jumped and Carmody had to calm him down again.
“The safe,” Carmody said.
Carmody watched the fat man filling the money sack. It looked like the gambler hadn’t been telling tall tales. There was at least twenty-five thousand in the safe, maybe more—a nice morning’s pay.
Carmody didn’t have to tell the fat man to turn his back. He was still stuffing the last of the money into the sack when Carmody hit him the way he’d hit the teller. So far it had been a nice clean job. As neat a job of bank robbing as a man could hope to find.
Just as he expected, the key to the street door of the bank was in the fat man’s vest pocket. Carmody pulled down the green varnished-paper shades on the windows and double-door. The sign inside the glass door said OPEN. Carmody turned it around to read CLOSED.
Carmody locked the bank door and put the key in his pocket. Ringgold sure was a quiet town. All the men over fifteen and less than seventy-five had gone off with the sheriff to take a crack at Luke Greenwood and his boys. The few people left in town weren’t showing their faces. After all the stories he’d heard about Luke Greenwood and his killers, Carmody could see how a town could get scared out of sight. He hoped the town would stay that way while he got the rest of his business transacted.
The stable keeper was drunk again by the time Carmody went to claim his new mount. It was a right casual way to get out of town after you had just taken the bank. Carmody didn’t figure to have any trouble in a scared town. “You got my animal ready?” Carmody asked. The rumpot was lying with his bottle in one of the empty stalls.
“Sure thing, mister,” the old man crackled, tight as a tick, waving his bottle like a very old and toothless baby. “Right down there the last crib.”
The animal was there all right, but the saddle wasn’t on straight or tight. Cursing the old bottle hound, he set the saddle on right and tightened the cinch.
“I ought to shoot you, blood bucket,” he said. The old man was asking a hundred dollars for the horse. There was no need to pay a hundred—or anything. Carmody paid anyway, throwing down five twenties he’d held out from the money sack. Saddling the horse had wasted valuable time. Carmody knew he’d better get moving.
The old man started to laugh at some crazy private joke. He made a lot of noise doing it. He made so much noise that Carmody didn’t hear the nine men coming into town from both ends, walking their horses quiet in the thick dust of the main street.
When he rode his animal out of the big livery stable door, there they were! All nine of them with guns in their hands. He was the only human thing that showed in the street, besides themselves, and they didn’t seem any too human. They looked at him.
Carmody had the money sack in his left hand, the reins in his right. He had never seen Luke Greenwood except in stray reward posters nailed up in front of town marshal’s offices. There were no photographs of Greenwood, none that he’d seen anyhow—just what they called artist’s impressions of the famous killer.
Carmody knew the thick-waisted man with the cavalry sergeant-major’s mustache and the big loose-ringing Chihuahua spurs was Greenwood. They said that Greenwood, a killer of men and a lover of good horseflesh, never used those spiked and filed rowels on an animal. Luke liked to use his spurs once he got a feller down.
Greenwood was looking at the money sack in Carmody’s hand. There was no use trying to make a run for it. The nine of them, allowing even for the misses, would cut him down before he got ten feet. He dropped the rifle, then the belt gun.
With Carmody covered good, Greenwood turned in his saddle and looked at the closed-down bank. “Damn,” he said. That was all he said. The rider closest to him started to laugh. Tall and skinny, with a long neck and a small head, he looked put together all wrong. The gun belt he wore was buckled up high where his short arms could reach it. He looked funny, but Carmody didn’t feel like laughing.
“Well, ain’t that something,” Greenwood said, looking at the fat money sack in Carmody’s hand. There was mild astonishment in Greenwood’s voice. “We go to all this trouble to knock over a bank and this cowboy near to beats us to it.”
None of the other eight men laughed until Greenwood started to laugh. Greenwood was wearing a new-looking gray Stetson with no creases and he pushed it back and scratched his stubbly, close-cropped head before he did it.
Greenwood looked at Carmody and his wide face cracked open with a grin. He started to laugh and the harder he laughed the louder it got. He snatched off his hat and slapped his thigh with it. Then he whacked the pin-headed rider with it, the one who looked like a physical misfit.
Greenwood called the misfit by name—“Buckie.” He whacked him good and hard across the head and shoulders. Carmody thought there wouldn’t be any soft way out of this one.
“This cowboy here figured to rob us, Buckie,” Greenwood howled.
Carmody didn’t have to guess that Buckie was Caleb Buckland, famous enough in his way. The Army had been fixing to hang Buckland for a rape murder when he broke out of the stockade and joined up with Greenwood. Now he was wanted for a lot of other things.
Luke Greenwood stopped laughing as suddenly as he’d started. The big man looked sad and Carmody decided maybe the stories were true—that Luke Greenwood was crazy.
The misfit said, “I get you a drink, Green, you feel better.” Not getting an answer, Buckland rode his horse down the street, then up the steps into one of the town’s two empty saloons. After breaking a lot of furniture and glass, the misfit came back at an easy canter, with bottles in his hands, bottles sagging inside his greasy shirt.
“Drink up and let’s go,” he said. When Buckland threw the bottle Greenwood’s hands were resting on his fleshy thighs. He caught the bottle, not seeming to move his hands at all.
Carmody, waiting for whatever was about to happen, could have used some of the whisky Greenwood spilled down his heavily corded throat.
When he finished Greenwood said to Carmody, “You shouldn’t oughten try to rob me, friend. Is the same old story every place. Men trying to take what ain’t rightfully theirs. Ought to kill you where you stand.”
Carmody figured there wasn’t much he could do or say. Luke Greenwood was a natural killer, the kind of gun-hot son of a bitch that threw down on a man when there was no need at all.
“Be pleased to kill him for you,” Buckland said. “Love to kill this calf-lover for you.”
“Stop that, Buckie,” Greenwood ordered when the misfit drew his gun. “Throw a rope on the …”
Carmody dived for his guns and the misfit’s pinto, spurred hard, caught him in the back and sent him sprawling in the dust. He twisted around and tried to get at the guns again. The misfit, grinning like a wolf, waltzed the pinto and knocked him down again. When he tried again, the misfit rode down on him again. This time the misfit jerked his boot loose from the stirrup and kicked him squarely in the face.
When Carmody got up again, bleeding from his nose and mouth, the misfit had a rope on him. He got his hands on the rope and pulled and the misfit swayed in the saddle. Then the misfit got a good hold on the rope and reared his horse, heeling in the rope fast, Carmody went down again. “Teach him good, Buckie,” he heard Greenwood say, and he was up again and down again and then he was down, tasting blood and dust. And the rope was starting to pull.
The rope pulled harder and Carmody began to slide. The dust in the street was thick and there was no pain at first. The misfit’s rope was short and the way the pinto was moving it tautened up fast and Carmody grabbed the taut rope and almost got back on his feet before the pinto moved faster and instead of getting a hold with his heels his toes began to drag. Then the misfit left-headed the pinto, letting up on the strain, and Carmody tasted dust again. He got up again—half got up—and by then the misfit had looped out a lot more rope and rode the extra rope out hard and tight, yanking it, moving it easily with one free hand.
“Ride the calf-lover right out of town, is that what you want, Green?” the misfit screeched, pleased as piss with himself. “Could be a nice ride in the country’d do this feller a heap of good.”
Greenwood finished the bottle and threw it through the window of the bank. “What’s the hurry, Buckie,” he roared.
Carmody tried to get up again and the misfit tumbled him in the dust. It didn’t mean a goddam thing, but he wanted to be on his feet when they got tired of the rope game and shot him to death.
“No hurry a-tall, Green,” the misfit cackled, playing the rope like a champion steer roper.
“Then show the man the town,” Greenwood yelled. “Don’t leave nothing he don’t see.”
The rope hummed tight. Carmody grabbed and held on hard, trying to keep his body off the ground. The misfit must have dragged more than one man in his time. He did it like an expert. He jerked sideways on the rope and flipped Carmody over on his back. The dust boiled up, choking his mouth and stinging his eyes, and then the whole gang was riding behind him and on both sides as the misfit’s horse broke out of a canter into a gallop. The top-dust in the street was soft but underneath there were rocks and old roots. The misfit had wound the rope around his saddle horn. As long as the misfit was holding the rope there was a thin chance that Carmody could topple the crazy son of a bitch off his horse. With the rope tight on the horn, there wasn’t a thing he could do but suffer. His body bumped and tore over the rutted street. Carmody cursed himself instead of the misfit. Half blind, he saw the hot sky twisting crazily overhead. His shirt burned through with friction was torn from neck to belt by a sharp rock that threatened to rip the spine out of his back. Then a lot of six-shooters started banging and Carmody hoped to Jesus one of the sons of bitches would get careless and kill him.
When the rope started to slack up, Carmody rolled over fast. Grinding his teeth, he choked back the pain. The misfit was exhausted with the good time he was having. “Sweet Jesus,” the misfit gasped as the rest of them rode up behind. The misshapen bastard clawed his hat off his head and started to fan himself. With his chicken chest heaving, he flipped Carmody over on his back.
Carmody rolled over again and the misfit was too winded to bother with him. Dusty sweat thickened with blood was starting to cake over Carmody’s eyes. Both eyes were bad and one was worse than the other. Carmody thought maybe the damn thing wasn’t going to be much more use.
Carmody raised himself on his elbows. One of the bastards jumped his horse over his back, then wheeled the animal and went over him again. That set the sons of bitches laughing, and Carmody swore—oh creaking Jesus how he swore—that if by some knacker-busting chance he got out of this, he’d give Luke Greenwood and his boys something to laugh at. He’d give the dog-eating, piss-drinking, cootie-ridden, double-hernia’d sons of bitches something to laugh at.
“You are a caution, Buckie,” he heard Luke Greenwood say. There was a popping sound as strong teeth uncorked a bottle. The man who opened the bottle spat out the cork. It hit Carmody in the back of the head. Lying where he was, with his eyes caked up, all he could see was a lot of horse legs kicking and stamping. He knew Luke Greenwood was in back of him, the misfit up front, the rest of them reined in close on both sides.
Greenwood drank some of the whisky. “You get to drink later, boys,” Carmody heard Greenwood say. “Them’s my rules, as you do surely know.”
The misfit was getting back his wind and a second helping of pure meanness. Soaked in pain and blood, Carmody thought he’d surely do a little something extra for the misfit, if he managed to squeeze out of this. It didn’t look much like he’d get that chance. Just thinking about it helped.
Carmody squinted with the good eye. They were out near the edge of town. When he heard a horse coming in from where the street ended, he tried to see what it was. It could be the lookout from that end coming back to report.
“Less get on with the tour, Green,” Carmody heard the misfit say, yanking on the rope a little.
“You god damned bastard,” Greenwood roared. “Can’t you hold up a minute.”
The lookout was talking now. Carmody couldn’t see him, but he knew what he looked like. He knew what they all looked like. Even if they killed him, blew his guts all over the street, he would remember what they looked like in hell.
“Riders coming this way,” he heard the lookout say.
“How many?” Greenwood asked.
“Five,” the lookout said. “Might be law. Might not.”
The misfit sounded mad. “We ain’t going to ride out, is we, Green?” he complained. “We can do them just like we done the sheriff.”
“Let’s go, boys,” Greenwood decided. “We got the money, so let’s ride.”
Greenwood might have been drunk, but he didn’t sound like it. “Kill the cowboy, Buckie,” he said.
“Just another little ride, Green,” the misfit pleaded. “Then we kill him.”
“Shit, Buckie,” Greenwood laughed. “Have your fun only make it quick. Now let’s go.”
This time there was no time for Carmody to do anything. The rope jerked tight and the dragging started again. This time the rest of them were out in front and the misfit, with the dead weight pulling on his animal, was behind. Carmody could hear Buckland yelling at his mount. This was about the last chance he was likely to get before the misfit dragged him till he was dying, then rounded on him to finish the job with a gun. Carmody knew the big Bowie knife was still in its sheath on his left hip. He thought he knew the big knife was still there. If the blade was still there, there was still one last chance to walk away from this.
The misfit yelled louder at his horse, spurring the animal deep, slapping it across the withers with his hat. The animal whinnied with fright and started to run faster. Carmody started to yell too, grabbing at the stretched-out rope, twisting and rolling, screaming with pain and screaming to scare the misfit’s hard-running animal. Suddenly, off to one side of the street a shotgun roared, both barrels together. The buckshot missed the misfit and peppered the horse. The horse started to scream. It reared back on its hind legs. The rope slacked up and Carmody heard a six-gun banging three times. The horse’s screams were mixed with those of a dying man. Carmody got a tighter grip on the rope with his right hand and reached around for the Bowie knife with his left. Up at the other end of the rope the misfit was cursing. Carmody slashed through the rope and rolled over, changing the big knife to his right hand.
A bullet hit the street and spat more dust in his eyes. The misfit shot again and missed again, but not by more than inches. There was one more bullet left in the misfit’s gun. Unless he had a hideaway gun, all he had was one more shot.
Carmody was up on his feet, more or less, staggering like a Jimson weed-poisoned steer when the misfit got off his last shot. He shouldn’t have shot so fast at a man who didn’t have a gun.
Carmody, still dabbing at his eyes, felt the bullet heat the air alongside his neck. With his last loaded bullet gone, the misfit didn’t feel so brave. The rest of the gang were riding out fast. He felt less brave every minute. He yelled, “Hey, Green,” rounding his horse hard. He rounded the scared and wounded animal too hard and it threw him.
By the time the misfit hit the street and bounced up again, Carmody had sleeved some of the shit out of his damaged eyes. His eyes felt bad, as bad as they could feel. The misfit was yelling, “Hey, Green,” but it wasn’t doing him any good. There was a fast-moving blur that Carmody felt rather than saw. He tried to get out of the way, but it wasn’t fast enough. A gun barrel cracked him on the side of the head. As it did, Carmody’s big hand reached out and closed on Buckland’s skinny neck. Carmody, starting to black out, stabbed upward with the great wide blade.
Carmody didn’t hear the dying scream.