It was darker inside the mission. McCulloch’s eyes had become accustomed to the bright sunshine of late afternoon. The baby cried louder, and the mother tried to hush her infant. They were behind McCulloch. He sure hoped they were on the floor, protected by the heavy pews.
“¡Maldita sea!” Cuervo Villanueva shouted, and spun around.
McCulloch found him in the darkened front entryway. The outlaw was silhouetted by the sun shining through the partially opened door and cutouts of the crosses, and maybe three dozen candles lighted for Mass or prayer intentions. McCulloch’s right knee hurt like blazes, and his shoulder had been jarred by the impact of the pew, but he still held the .44-40-caliber Colt, and it was coming up in his hand.
Although the priest had been kneeling in the aisle, he sprang to his feet, turned, and yelled something that McCulloch could not grasp. McCulloch had to shift his aim, but Villanueva was grabbing a tall, young, slender nun and pulling her in front of his own body.
McCulloch did not hesitate an instant longer. He pulled the trigger. The nun shrieked, the priest fell to the floor and covered his ears, and Cuervo Villanueva stepped backward, releasing the nun, who covered her face with her hands and dropped to the floor. The outlaw’s revolver went off, disintegrating a candle. McCulloch fired again and drove the outlaw against the candles.
The gunshots reverberated throughout the church’s thick adobe walls. McCulloch cocked and fired again, turning the Mexican bad man around as he knocked over more candles. McCulloch’s next two shots caught Cuervo Villanueva in the back and pushed him against the door.
McCulloch considered pulling the trigger once more, but the older nun rose into McCulloch’s line of fire. The revolver was slipping from Cuervo Villanueva’s hand as he started sliding down the heavy door, and the mother of the child somewhere behind McCulloch kept screaming louder than her baby.
CHAPTER FOUR
Harry Henderson couldn’t stop sweating. Of course, it was a hot day, and he was dressed in a suit of black wool, and he had just opened the bank that Monday morning in Sierra Vista, Texas. It had been closed Sunday, and Saturday, too, on account that Saturday was a holiday, Founders Day, so the bank was very stuffy. And, well, everyone in Sierra Vista knew that Harry Henderson, chief teller at the Bank of Sierra Vista, was a very nervous man, prone to sweating. But if the president of the bank, Mr. Jason R. Cox—or for that matter, anyone who knew Harry Henderson—had seen Henderson that morning they would have wondered if he was suffering from a relapse of his malaria. For even by Harry Henderson’s standards, his sweating was extreme.
Someone pounded on the rear door to the bank.
Henderson almost jumped out of his tight-fitting shoes. He pulled the wet handkerchief from his vest pocket, mopped his brow for about roughly the hundredth time, and stumbled from where he was standing, peering through the closed curtains at Railroad Avenue. He heard the pounding on the rear door again.
There was no railroad in Sierra Vista. There were no mountains, either, and most people would recognize the fact that there wasn’t much of a view. But the town’s founding fathers had high hopes for getting a railroad and adding to the booming population. Sierra Vista had some major investors, two powerful ranchers, and one of the most successful whorehouses between San Antonio and Tucson—and they all banked at the Bank of Sierra Vista.
He whispered, “Oh, my,” and wiped his face again, tried to return the white cotton handkerchief into the vest pocket—it took him three times—and hurried across the wooden floor. The echoes of his footsteps almost made him “jump out of his skin,” as his mother might have said—God rest her soul. He pushed through the low wooden gate that separated the lobby from his desk, passed the door to Mr. Cox’s office, and went past the bookcases and the filing cabinets. Turning around the corner, he came to the back door.
Four loud knocks sounded again.
Harry Henderson pulled back the three bolts—one at the top, one at the bottom, and a really big one at the side—twisted the lock on the knob, and opened the door.
Three men practically bowled him over as they rushed inside.
“What the hell kept you, you idiot?” said the biggest of the three, the one wearing the mustache and the hat that would’ve been blacker than Harry Henderson’s suit had it not been covered with alkali dust.
Harry Henderson opened his mouth to answer, but he had no answer. He just tasted salt from his sweat.
“Well,” said the man in black. “Shut the door, you idiot.”
Harry Henderson made himself speak. “I thought there were four of you.”
“Galloway’s holding the horses.”
“Oh.” Henderson closed the door, but he just twisted the lock on the knob. He didn’t bother with the bolts. He wanted to wipe the sweat from his face, but he couldn’t get his hands to cooperate.
“Henderson,” the man in black said, “do you want to wait for the bank to open to make our withdrawal?”
Harry Henderson blinked. He did not understand until the two men standing beside the man in black chuckled.
“Oh,” Henderson said, realizing that Jake Hawkin had just made a joke. “Oh.” He tried to smile, but could not.
Jake Hawkin glared. The man’s eyes were blue, pale, and cold. Even as hot and as stuffy as it was inside the bank, Harry Henderson felt chilled. Jake Hawkin, he knew, was a very dangerous man. He was tall, solid, and wore two holsters carrying two guns, the one on his right hip with the revolver’s butt facing the back and the one on his left hip with the butt facing forward. Harry Henderson had read enough dime novels to understand that such an arrangement likely meant that Jake Hawkin was right-handed.
The man in the tan clothes and Mexican sombrero—though he was not Mexican, but a white man—turned his head and spit tobacco juice onto the floor. He missed the spittoon. Maybe he hadn’t seen it. Probably, he just didn’t care. That man carried a Winchester repeating rifle, and he wore two holsters, too, one on his right hip, butt to the rear, and one on his belly, the butt toward his right hand.
Harry Henderson did not know that man’s name. He probably didn’t want to know.
He did know the third man. That was Jake Hawkin’s kid brother, Billy. Billy looked a lot like his big brother, only thinner, with no mustache, and eyes that were the same color but did not have that look of death about them. It was Billy Hawkin whom Harry Henderson had met while on a business trip to El Paso about four weeks back.
They had been gambling, not really speaking to each other, but then had seen each other at a café on Front Street, where Harry had met up with Catherine Cooper for supper. He loved Catherine Cooper. Especially now that she told him she was expecting a baby in six months, he was the daddy, and he damned sure was going to marry her pretty quickly. He wanted to marry her, but, well, the thing about it was that he already had a wife, Prudence, and two kids—neither of whom liked him one whit—from her dearly departed first husband. He also had a wife in Dallas, but he hadn’t seen her in six or seven years after she had found out about the wife he had in Fort Worth, and as far as he knew, neither of those wives had divorced him, although the one in Dallas had threatened him with a shotgun.
He didn’t want Prudence or Catherine to know about any of his wives, so he told Catherine he would marry her as soon as he returned from Sierra Vista—he needed to settle up his affairs—and then they would be married, travel to San Francisco, and start all over. Catherine always said she really wanted to live in San Francisco. Henderson had said he did, too, although all he knew about San Francisco was that it was in California. He never really knew if it was in the southern part of the state or if that was the city called Los Angeles and that San Francisco was up north, or maybe in the mountains where they had found gold. Or was that some other place?
Billy Hawkin had been eavesdropping and had to have really good hearing because Henderson and Catherine had been whispering. He turned around in the booth behind Henderson and said, “So . . . you work at the bank in Sierra
Vista . . . ?”
Now, inside that very bank, Billy Hawkin put his hand on Harry Henderson’s shoulder and said, “Show me the vault, Harry. And stop shaking. We’ll be done in a jiffy. Just relax.” He slapped Henderson’s shoulder. “Everything’s gonna be fine, pard.”
Henderson let Billy Hawkin guide him through the low gate and behind the counter to the vault. Billy would take care of him. With his share of the money they were about to steal, Henderson could get to El Paso, marry Catherine, and head down to San Francisco. Or . . . well . . . maybe he wouldn’t have to marry Catherine. With his share of the money they were about to steal, he could find him a pretty señorita in Vera Cruz or wherever he decided to disappear.
He stopped at the vault.
“Why didn’t you have that thing opened before we got here?” Jake Hawkin demanded.
Spinning around, Henderson held up his hands, thinking he had heard the gunman drawing his pistol, but realized that the white man with the Mexican hat was pulling wheat sacks from the back of his waistband. He thought they’d put the sacks over their faces, but the man just shook the sacks.
“I asked you a question, bub,” Jake Hawkin growled.
Oh, Henderson thought, the sacks are for the money. He smiled, then frowned, and looked at the outlaw leader. “I-i-it’s a . . . t-t-time. . . ummmm . . .”
“Lock.” Billy finished the sentence.
“You might have let us know that before,” Jake Hawkin said.
Henderson looked at the Regulator clock on the wall. “Five minutes.” Man, it’s ticking really loud this morning.
Jake Hawkin cut loose with a string of curses.
They watched the clock, counted the seconds, and Henderson thought he had sweated enough water to fill the cistern in the center of town.
The clock chimed, and he almost jumped out of his skin. Shoved from behind by Jake Hawkin, he went to the vault and began working the dial. He prayed that he wouldn’t suffer amnesia and forget the combination. He heard a click, stepped back, and pulled the lever. The heavy iron door barely budged.
“Here.” Jake shoved Henderson aside and pulled open the door. Only then did he smile.
“Wait here.” Billy patted Henderson’s back and followed his brother inside the vault.
The other man with the sacks and the rifle followed.
Henderson listened to the clock. For a moment, he even thought of something completely insane. He could shut the vault. They couldn’t open it from inside. He could picture his name in all the newspapers. He’d collect the reward on not only Jake and Billy Hawkin, but the other outlaw as well. Of course, there was the man outside holding the horses. He might come in and kill Henderson. Or worse, all those woodcut engravings of Harry Henderson’s likenesses would appear in newspapers in Fort Worth and Dallas. And maybe even in Cincinnati. He hadn’t married that girl, but he had left her in the family way.
Henderson decided he would just have to live with his share of fifty thousand dollars. Ten thousand. He could buy a lot with that much money, even in San Francisco. He could buy even more, he realized, in Mexico.
That’s when he heard the clicking. He looked at the watch, and then at the vault door, and finally understood exactly what he was hearing.
The front door opened, and Mr. Jason R. Cox, president of the Bank of Sierra Vista, stepped over the threshold and stopped, his left hand still on the doorknob.
Henderson turned and looked at the Regulator clock on the wall.
“Harry,” Mr. Cox said. “You’re early this . . .”
Henderson looked back at his boss. Jason R. Cox never arrived until five minutes before the bank opened. The bank didn’t open until 8:30.
“Harry?” Mr. James R. Cox was looking at the open vault.
The man with the wheat sacks, the Mexican sombrero, and the Winchester repeating rifle stepped through the doorway of the vault and brought the Winchester to his shoulder. “Inside. And be damned quick about it. Then close the door.”
James R. Cox swallowed. His left hand left the doorknob, and he spun around and stepped out onto the boardwalk. He yelled, “Robbery!”
That’s when the Winchester roared. Henderson felt the muzzle blast and his ears began ringing. He saw the burst of crimson appear in the center of Mr. Cox’s tan jacket, and he saw Mr. Cox stagger out but stop himself from falling into the dusty street by using both hands to catch himself on the hitching rail.
The man with the Winchester worked the lever.
“Robbery!”Mr. Cox managed to cough as he lifted his head. “Murder.”
The rifle roared again, and Harry Henderson saw the back of Mr. Cox’s head just disappear. Then Mr. Cox was draped over the hitching rail.
People outside were taking up the cry.
“Robbery!”
“By thunder, the bank’s being robbed!”
“Cox! Mister Cox! Get your guns, boys, they’ve shot Mr. Cox dead!”
Billy Hawkin came out of the vault first, holding the wheat sacks filled with money. The man with the Winchester and the two revolvers still holstered ran to the open front door. The curtains to the bank windows were closed, but not-small holes began appearing. Even though his ears kept ringing, Harry Henderson managed to hear glass shattering and bullets thudding against the wall of the bank. A moment later, the man with the Winchester began returning fire.
Jake Hawkin stepped out of the vault holding wheat sacks, too. “What the hell happened?”
Henderson blinked. He pointed. “He wasn’t . . . he never. . . .”
“How many are out there?” Jake Hawkin yelled at the man firing the Winchester.
The big man worked the lever, ducked against the wall, and spit more tobacco juice onto the floor. “Looks like half the whole damned county.”
“Keep us covered,” Billy said. “We’ll pick you up out front.”
Jake was already making for the back door. “Galloway!” he yelled. “We’re coming out!”
“Come on, pard,” Billy Hawkin gave Harry Henderson a gentle nudge. “Come on. ’Less you want to hang.”
Henderson had stopped sweating. He just couldn’t stop blinking.
“Keep your head down.” Billy shoved Henderson forward.
He swallowed and blinked, blinked and swallowed, and began moving past the tellers’ counters, past the late Mr. Cox’s office, and toward the bookcases and filing cabinets.
“Billy!” the big man with the Winchester called out, and his voice did not sound like it had earlier.
Billy Hawkin and Harry Henderson turned to see the man stagger away from the door, drop the Winchester, and put both hands on his belly.
“I’m kilt, Billy,” he said, and blood began to seep out of the corners of his mouth. “Damn it all to hell, I’m kilt dead for sure.”
Harry Henderson did not hear the gunfire, but more slugs must have slammed into the man’s back, because he fell to his knees, grimacing with the impact. One bullet tore off the robber’s left ear.
No, Henderson corrected himself. That was the right ear, because the killer was facing him and Billy Hawkin.
Another bullet grazed the man’s right arm, and a moment later, he shuddered. A waterfall of blood erupted from his mouth as he pitched onto his face and shuddered.
“Move!” Billy shoved Henderson to the door, then pushed him out of the doorway and into the alley.
“Where’s MacMurray?” Jake Hawkin was mounted on a big black stud horse. Another man was at the edge of the alley, his horse stepping this way and that as he fired a rifle while sitting in the saddle.
“Dead!” Billy Hawkin told his brother.
Jake swore. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“He’s my pard, Jake. We’re taking him with us.”
“Are you daft?”
“MacMurray’s got no need for his horse!”
The elder, meaner Hawkin swore again, reached out and took the sacks from his brother, and spurred his horse out of the alley. The man named Galloway followed
.
Billy Hawkin helped Henderson into the saddle. The stirrups were too long. Henderson blinked. He started sweating again. Then Billy Hawkin pulled off his hat, slapped the pinto’s rear, and Harry Henderson felt himself being carried away, out of the alley and into the street. The street where half the county was filling the bank with lead.
“Which way . . . ?” Harry Henderson managed to call out.
“There’s only one place we’re going,” Billy Hawkin said. Amazingly, he was on his gray dun right behind Henderson. “Hell.”
* * *
Harry Henderson sat in the private parlor of Miss Matilda’s House of the Divine, the most successful brothel, people said, between San Antonio and Tucson. He still had trouble believing it. After all, Miss Matilda’s House of the Divine was in Sierra Vista—on the edge of town, of course, and on the wrong side of the street—which meant he was still in the town he had galloped out of that morning. He could still hear the bullets whizzing past his head. One had even cut a hole through his black suit coat.
He sipped the brandy one of Miss Matilda’s girls had given him. He tried to put together everything that had happened. Maybe he was dreaming. He took another taste of brandy. Maybe he was dead. In Hell.
The girl sat on Henderson’s lap and pulled his face tight against her ample bosoms. “You poor, poor thing,” she whispered.
No, Henderson figured, he was not dead. At least he was not in Hell.
He tried to remember.
* * *
They rode west out of town, into the little arroyo where the two Hawkin brothers, the man named Galloway, and Henderson met up with maybe ten or twelve other men.
“Where’s MacMurray?” one of the cutthroats demanded.
“Shaking hands with the devil,” Jake said as he dismounted, handed the reins to one of the men, then noticed Henderson was still on his horse. “Get down.”
“What?” Henderson mouthed, before looking down to see that Jake had stepped out of his saddle and the man named Galloway was walking into the mesquite thicket.
The Jackals Page 5