It was past one, the hour scheduled to wake Peter Macy for his turn to take the watch. The marshal was in no hurry to do so, however. He still wasn’t ready to go to sleep. It seemed a waste to deprive someone else of their slumber when all he’d do was lie on the cot with his mind churning, wondering if tonight was the night the Sanders gang was going to make their move. Or another time. Or if he was wrong about it all and they’d already fled the territory, aiming for greener pastures.
The steady hiss of the rain and the frequent growl and boom of thunder had dragged on for so long any sense of them being something out of the ordinary was nearly numbed. Still, some of the thunderclaps were sharp enough and loud enough to—
Wait a minute.
A new sound was throbbing through the turbulent night. Was that . . . a bell?
* * *
In the alley beside the Blue Bird Café, Libby Sanders shivered violently and cursed Vernon Brock. She needed a drink and she needed warm, dry clothes . . . but if she backed out of the plan she’d agreed to, she didn’t know where she would get either one.
Her spare clothes and money were in her carpetbag Brock had packed on the getaway horses. She was in too deep with him to back out. Apart from being separated from her belongings, if she double-crossed him and he ever caught up with her . . . She shuddered to think what he would do to her.
As she shivered and waited, questions plagued her mind. Why hadn’t she just gone ahead and used the little derringer she brought with her? Why hadn’t she secreted it in her dress and then shot Arlo through the bars of his cell like she’d intended? The marshal might have shot her, too, right there on the spot, or he would have arrested her and put her in her own cell. Either one would have been better than ending up half-drowned and freezing in the alley.
She heard the warning bell start to ring and took faint hope. The bell meant they were closer to wrapping things up, as far as freeing Arlo from his cell. All she had to do was wait for the marshal and his men to rush by on their way to answer the bell.
It was up to her to get past the deputy Brock was sure would be left behind at the jail. She didn’t much like the thought of what she’d have to do next, using her derringer on a complete stranger, but it was what she’d agreed to and, once again, she didn’t have the guts to cross Brock.
* * *
Vernon Brock had just given his final yank on the bell rope when somebody started shooting at him. He never heard the sound of the first gun report, not above the din of the storm, and might never have known somebody was throwing lead his way at all if the slug hadn’t hit the bell just above his head. Brock ducked low, thinking what the hell!? when a second bullet smacked into a soggy crossbeam only inches from his shoulder.
* * *
Hearing the bell, Bob jumped to his feet, a jolt of heightened alertness coursing through him. Ready to call his deputies into action, he started for the door when yet another new sound tore apart the night. It was a powerful, rumbling roar. But it wasn’t thunder.
* * *
Brock turned as a monstrous roar of sound, louder and somehow different from the thunder, ruptured the night. As he reached the corner of Bullock’s Saloon, with no more bullets chasing him as far as he could tell, he turned his head to look back. A pulsing glow flickered momentarily behind the hulking Starbuck Bank structure and then, in a flash of lightning, he saw a column of smoke boiling up and he knew what he’d heard. Somebody was blasting their way into the bank!
Brock cursed. The most likely culprits were the Sanders gang. He didn’t give a damn what they did with the bank, but would their attack also include an attempt to bust Arlo out of jail? That he did care about.
Questions ran quickly through Brock’s mind. Would this new development rattle Libby? Would she run and hide after the sound of the explosion? Would she even realize what was going on? He shook his head at that one. The simple, sorry answer was no telling what the drunken slut would think or how she would react.
Damn! More questions rattled his brain. Why had he saddled himself with her anyway? How could he have thought it was a good idea?
No more questions, he thought. With no time to cry over spilled milk, he’d have to make the best of it and that meant, for starters, get down to where the horses were stashed.
The street would soon be filling with lawmen and brave citizens rushing to the defense of their town, the same as he’d meant to accomplish by ringing the warning bell. The fact that they’d have bullet-spewing bank robbers to deal with might actually be a good thing for his purposes. It would certainly engage the townsmen more thoroughly than standing around wondering who’d rung the bell and what the problem was.
If any of Arlo’s men splintered off to make their own try at springing Sanders, well, that would be too bad for them. Brock didn’t intend to let anything or anybody interfere with getting his hands on the bastard he’d hunted for so long.
* * *
The sound of the explosion startled Libby, instantly creating more questions. Where the hell did that come from? That wasn’t part of the plan . . . was it? Had she forgotten something? Was Brock was right and she shouldn’t have downed so much tequila?
Before she had time to fret over exactly what the explosion meant, she heard the sound of gruff voices and running feet as three men—the marshal and two of his deputies—came running up the street and past the mouth of her alley, toward the sounds of the bell and the explosion.
That was her cue. She didn’t have to understand everything, all she had to do was play her role and do her part to free Arlo and deliver him into the hands of Brock . . . and herself.
Libby pushed out of the alley and turned toward the jail.
Chapter 33
Bob, Fred, and Vern went running up Front Street. At Bob’s signal, they slowed upon reaching the intersection with First, the northwest corner of which was dominated by the looming Starbuck Bank building.
In the slicing rain and bursts of lightning, Bob quickly assessed the situation. “There’s nothing going on in front, so they must have set their blast at the rear. They’re bound to have shooters posted to hold off anybody who shows up so keep to cover and be damned careful.”
As if to emphasize the need for his cautionary words, a pair of rifle shots cracked from the roof of the bank building, the slugs cutting down and tearing gouges in the middle of the muddy street just ahead of their slowed advance.
“Fan out!” Bob ordered. “Fred, you take the west side of the street. Vern, stick with me.”
Everybody scrambled accordingly. Fred ducked into the recessed doorway to the Shirley House Hotel, Bob and Vern wormed in behind a watering trough out front of Bullock’s Saloon.
The sound of more gunfire was all but swallowed by claps of thunder, but there was no mistaking the whack! of bullets hitting the building fronts or kicking up geysers of water out of the trough. In addition to the gunman on the roof, another shooter opened fire from the alley running along the north side of the bank.
Bob snapped off a pair of return rounds, as did Vern. Fred leaned out of his recess and triggered a couple more.
Townsmen had started showing up in answer to the bell and the sound of the explosion. Wanting to make sure they understood they were entering a shooting scene, so they’d proceed with necessary caution, Bob rapid-fired the rest of his cylinder and drew a return volley from the two shooters guarding the robbery in progress.
Ducking back down as slugs zipped just above his head or slammed against the heavy-walled trough, Bob quickly thumbed fresh cartridges into his .44. At the same time, he hollered across the street to his chief deputy. “Fred! Get out of there and use Second Street to maneuver farther to the west. You should meet some men responding from that direction—Herb Beckus and Rob Dilmore, to name a couple. Gather them up, work your way around to the rear of the bank, and come at the robbers from that direction. If they’ve managed to break into the vault, don’t let them make a getaway!”
“I’ll make sure they d
on’t get past us, Marshal,” promised Fred.
With Bob and Vern providing cover fire, he shoved out of the doorway and ran to the south side of the building, disappearing around the corner. Some of the other just-arriving men quickly moved up and two of them scrambled into Fred’s former position in the recessed doorway.
More and more townsmen were showing up. The crackle of gunfire began to fill the street, rivaling the peals of thunder that continued rolling back and forth across the sky. The new arrivals, just like Bob and Vern, were being held at bay, unable to close in on the bank due to the strategically placed shooters buying time for those going after the money.
“That hombre up on the roof is the one really raising hell,” Vern said to Bob. “Shooting back at him from ground level is getting us nowhere fast.”
“You got any ideas?” Bob said.
“Yeah, I think I might. I think I can shinny up the back side of that tree alongside Bullock’s building and make a jump onto the saloon roof. That will put me level with the high shooter across the way. All things being equal, I figure I’d have a good chance to pick him off.”
Bob craned his neck to look around at what Vern was talking about. “Might be easier to gain this roof from inside.”
“Maybe. But not as quick. I can do it, Marshal. Back home, Peter and me used to race up silos taller and slicker than that tree, just for fun. All I need is a little cover fire from you, like we gave Fred a minute ago.”
Without waiting for a response, Vern got his feet under him and sprang away. He dropped into a low crouch as he raced toward the tree. A bullet chipped away the corner of Bullock’s building in his wake and another chewed bark as he slipped behind the tree trunk. Bob poured lead in return, diverting any effort to concentrate fire on his young deputy. Several of the townsmen saw what was going on and joined in, making it too hot for the outlaw shooters to do anything but pop their heads up momentarily and trigger hastily aimed rounds.
On the back side of the tree, Vern shoved his Winchester down through his belt at the small of his back, securing it so his hands were free. True to his word, he shinnied up the tree and onto the roof with all the agility of a squirrel.
“I’ll be damned,” Bob muttered under his breath.
A moment later, Mike Bullock burst out the front door of his establishment, clutching his snub-nosed. 38. With his mouth twisted into a grimace, he dropped heavily down behind the watering trough next to Bob. “Well, I see your hunch was right about the Sanders gang making a return visit,” he said, puffing a little.
“Don’t pile the congratulations too high,” Bob responded bitterly. “I was right about ’em paying a visit, but I sure as hell missed the mark on where they were gonna hit.”
Bullock raised up to take a shot, then dropped back down. “Don’t beat yourself up too bad. They haven’t got away with anything yet.”
Bob squeezed off a couple more rounds himself and added, “And by God they ain’t gonna, either!”
* * *
Prowling back and forth in the marshal’s office like a caged wild beast, Peter Macy understood that it was only smart for somebody to stay behind and guard the lockup and the prisoner in case whatever was going on outside was another ruse, but it was frustrating that he’d been the one chosen for the job. He’d much rather be out where the action was, where they’d heard the sound of the explosion and gunfire was popping. Given that Marshal Hatfield was the boss, and Peter had nothing but respect for him, he stayed as instructed.
At first, the sounds of the gunshots from up the street had been faint and intermittent, often drowned out by the thunder. But more and more guns were going off and their part of the noisy night was becoming more and more distinct. A hell of a shoot-out was clearly taking place, making Peter agonize all the more over not being part of it.
The first time the pounding came at the front door, he almost mistook it for thunder or more of the shooting noise. Stepping closer to the heavy, barred door, his right hand drifting to rest on the grips of the Colt holstered at his hip, he was in position to make no mistake about the sound when it came a second time. Somebody was definitely on the other side knocking, pounding insistently. A faint voice was accompanying the knocking.
“Help me! You have to let me in, I’m frightened and in trouble. Men with guns are running around out here, shooting up everything!”
It was a woman’s voice . . . or somebody doing a darn good imitation of one.
“Bolt the door and don’t open it for anybody until we get back!” Those had been Marshal Hatfield’s last words as he rushed out with Fred and Vern.
But a woman was on the other side . . . a badly frightened woman out there alone in the howling night . . . and for damn sure men were running around and shooting things up out there.
Peter hated what he had to say next, but he had to at least try to follow orders. “I can’t unlock this door for fear of allowing the trouble to get in here,” he called back. “Run and hide. Find safety somewhere else.”
“They were right outside my hotel room window, cursing and shooting. I was so frightened I ran out into the night. I don’t know where else to go . . . You have to help me!”
Knowing the small barred window with a hinged cover about five feet from the bottom of the bolted door was for peering out in times of trouble, Peter reckoned the circumstance fit . . . if anything did. He stood off center of the window and swung down the cover. “Stand in the light where I can see you,” he ordered the woman.
She did as he said and, when Peter got a good look at her, his heart sank. She was a middle-aged woman who might still have been rather attractive if not for her drenched, bedraggled condition and the mournful, terrified expression on her face. All she had on was a soaked blue dress of some thin material with one sleeve torn away at the shoulder, and she was shivering badly from a combination of being cold and frightened.
He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t keep her locked out after seeing her like that. “Okay. I’m going to let you in. When I open the door, you hustle in quicklike.”
“D-Don’t worry. I w-will,” she said through chattering teeth.
True to her word, as soon as Peter threw the bolt and swung the door open, the woman rushed in. A gust of cold wind and lashing rain also entered before he could get the door closed and locked again.
Tuning to her, he said, “It’s warmer over there by the stove. I’ll get you a cup of hot coffee and a blanket you can wrap—”
Libby Sanders produced the two-shot over-under derringer and fired both barrels into the chest of the young deputy. He staggered back two steps, buckling slowly at the knees as a red stain began spreading outward on the front of his shirt, then he toppled and fell heavily to the floor.
She didn’t pause to look at the deputy after he went down, just as she hadn’t looked at the face or into the eyes of the trusting fool who showed her a kindness when he let her in out of the storm and the gunfire. She’d feared that if she looked at him, she might not have been able to pull the trigger. Even though that part—the worst part—was over and there could be no turning back, she didn’t want to dwell on him or what she’d done.
Shoving the derringer back into the pocket of her dress, Libby stepped to the front door and threw the bolt back so it was unlocked once more, then hurried over to the door of the cell block. Hooking the ring of keys hanging on a peg beside the door, she took them with her as she pulled open the door and entered the cell block.
Arlo was on his feet inside his cell, gripping the bars, looking out anxiously. At the sight of her, his face split with a wide smile. “I knew it! I thought I heard your voice. But then I heard the gun going off and I feared . . . Oh, thank God it’s you and you’re all right!”
“I told you we’d be coming for you,” said Libby with a false bravado.
As she began trying different keys in the lock to the cell, Sanders said, “Where are the boys? Aren’t they with you?”
“Didn’t you hear the explosion a little wh
ile ago? And all the shooting out there? Yeah, the boys are around—but they’re just a little busy with some other things right now.”
Sanders beamed all the more. “You mean they’re finishing the job on the bank, too? Hot damn! I love those crazy bastards!”
Libby finally found the right key and as it turned in the slot she said, “Don’t get too excited. We’re not in the clear yet. Part of all that shooting you hear is the marshal and his backup crew of deputies and townsmen doing a little protesting about what’s going on.”
“Let ’em protest all they want,” Sanders said, baring his teeth. “They ain’t gonna stop us again this time!”
The lock clicked open and the door swung out with a metallic groan. Sanders stepped out eagerly and immediately pulled Libby into an embrace. “Oh God, you can’t imagine how good you feel in my arms again. You don’t know how good it is to have you back, to have you willing to help me after the way I treated you. I’m so sorry, and so grateful I just can’t—”
“Save it for later, baby.” Libby managed a smile as she pulled gently but firmly away from him. “There’ll be plenty of time for that in a little while.”
“Right, right,” Sanders agreed. “Let’s get out of here.”
Libby led the way out of the cell block and into the office area.
Vernon Brock was waiting for them. He sat on the corner of the marshal’s desk, his .45 drawn and ready, aimed casually in the direction of Sanders. A wide, taunting grin was plastered on his face. “Howdy there, Arlo. You grateful to see me, too?”
Chapter 34
At the rear of the bank, Reese Modello and Ace Greer were working feverishly to gain entry into the money vault. The explosion had blown away a high, wide portion of the outer brick wall and had torn a split along a riveted seam of the vault’s thick iron shell just within. Exactly as Salt River Jackson had feared, the force of the blast hadn’t been sufficient to rupture a big enough tear in the iron shield for a man to fit through. It was so agonizingly close—Greer could squeeze his head and one arm and shoulder through, but nothing more—and yet so discouragingly far.
Rattlesnake Wells, Wyoming Page 19