“Come on out of there and you won’t get hurt,” Kelly said.
“I . . . I . . .”
“I didn’t say for you to talk. Just do what you’re told or I’ll kill you.” Kelly paused for a second to give his next words the proper dramatic weight. “I’m Gunner Kelly, so you know I’ll do it.”
The bank manager’s eyes widened in fear. Kelly had a reputation, all right. He and his Indian partner had robbed close to a score of banks in New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, and Utah. Kelly was so contemptuous of the law—apparently with good reason—that he never tried to conceal his identity. He announced it every time he and Dog Eater pulled a job.
“D-don’t shoot me, Mr. Kelly,” the manager said as he raised his hands and came out from behind the counter. “Please. I have a wife—”
“That’s your problem,” Kelly said. “Mine is relieving you of all the money in this bank.”
“There’s really not that much—”
“You shouldn’t lie to me.” Kelly struck without warning, slamming the pistol in his hand against the man’s head. The bank manager went down like a poleaxed steer.
Dog Eater pulled a canvas sack from under his shirt and tossed it onto the counter. He grunted as he glared at the tellers.
“What he means is that you boys should start filling up that sack,” Kelly said. “Get everything in your cash drawers, and then all the money in the safe, too. Make it fast. If somebody comes in before we’re finished, there’s liable to be shooting. And we’ll make sure you boys catch the first bullets.”
The tellers didn’t waste any time. The sack was bulging with greenbacks in a matter of minutes. Dog Eater holstered one of his Colts and took the loot. He started to back toward the door.
“I don’t have to tell you what’ll happen if you raise a ruckus before we’re well away from here,” Kelly warned the tellers. “You just tend to your boss there and make sure he’s all right. That way everybody gets to live.”
Kelly backed through the door after Dog Eater. The two of them turned and walked quickly toward their horses tied nearby, but not quickly enough to draw attention.
It might have worked if a hearse pulled by a team of six black horses hadn’t rounded a nearby corner just then, carrying Lucius Vanderslice’s body to the church for his funeral. The buggy right behind the hearse had Mrs. Aurora Vanderslice in it and was being driven by Marshal Cyrus Dunbar, who knew right away what was going on when he saw two men backing out of the bank, one of them carrying a full canvas sack.
“Son of a—” Dunbar exclaimed. He dropped the reins and clawed at the spot on his hip where his gun usually was. But he hadn’t figured he would need it at a funeral, so he hadn’t worn it.
He had his badge pinned to his coat, though, and that was all Kelly needed to see. He turned, flame lancing from the muzzle of his fancy Colt as he opened fire on the lawman.
CHAPTER 5
The Widow Vanderslice screamed as Kelly’s bullet slammed into Dunbar and drove him heavily against her. The marshal was hit hard, but had the presence of mind to shield the elderly woman’s body with his own. He pressed a hand to the hole in his side where blood was leaking out.
Since there was no point in trying not to attract attention anymore, Kelly and Dog Eater raced toward their horses as several more buggies came along the street. Quite a few pedestrians marched in the funeral procession, as well. Kelly had heard talk the day before about some important man in town dying, but he hadn’t expected the funeral to be so early in the morning.
On the other hand, it got pretty hot in southern New Mexico Territory that time of year, so it made sense they’d want to get the old geezer planted while it was still cool. He should have thought of that, Kelly told himself bitterly.
But there wasn’t time for self-recrimination. He shoved those thoughts away and opened fire on the crowd, aiming a little high. Dog Eater followed suit, spraying lead just over the heads of the townspeople. They yelled and screamed and scattered like a flock of spooked chickens.
None of the men returned the fire—too much confusion in the street—and there were womenfolk to protect. Kelly and Dog Eater reached their horses without anybody making an attempt to stop them.
They jerked the reins free from the hitch rail, then swung up into their saddles. With an efficient twist of his wrist, the Apache tied the money sack’s drawstring around his saddle horn. Kelly sent another shot screaming into the crowd as he wheeled his horse.
A young man dashed toward the bank robbers, intent on grabbing Kelly and pulling him out of the saddle. The outlaw swung the gun toward the kid and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Kelly cursed. He pulled his right foot out of the stirrup and kicked the young man in the chest as he lunged at him. The kid flew backward and landed in a dusty sprawl.
Dog Eater urged his horse into a gallop and raced past Kelly as he headed toward the edge of town. Kelly booted his mount into a run and leaned forward in the saddle to make himself a smaller target in case any of the townsmen decided to take a potshot at him.
The sound of gunfire roused Luke from sleep. He groaned as he lifted his head. He hadn’t had much to drink the night before, so he wasn’t hungover, but the time he had spent with Magdalena had been exhausting . . . in a good way, of course. But still, he wasn’t as young as he used to be.
The shooting was in the street somewhere. It wasn’t any of his business. He was tempted to roll over and go back to sleep.
Then he heard the screaming, and knew he wouldn’t be able to do that. He sighed and climbed to his feet, wearing only the bottom half of that set of long underwear. He drew one of the Remingtons from its holster where the gun rig lay coiled on a chair. As he slid up the pane in the room’s lone window and threw a leg over the sill and onto the balcony, he heard hoofbeats drumming in the street. Two men were riding past the hotel.
Kelly didn’t hear any guns go off behind him, but as he and Dog Eater rode past the hotel, a man with a gun in his hand stepped out onto the second floor balcony. Kelly glanced up and saw him. The man had a craggy, hard-planed face, a thin black mustache, and slightly curly black hair.
He had a good shot at Kelly, too, and Kelly’s gun was empty.
All it took was a glance for Luke to recognize them. He had never laid eyes on them in the flesh, but had seen plenty of reward posters for Gunner Kelly and his Apache partner Dog Eater. The lumpy canvas sack tied to Dog Eater’s saddle horn was more than evidence for Luke to feel certain the sack was stuffed full of money the two men had just stolen from the Rio Rojo bank.
He lifted his gun, but before he could draw a bead, Dog Eater opened fire on him. The first shot screamed past Luke’s right ear and thudded into the wall behind him. He felt the hot breath of the second slug against his left ear. Dog Eater had him bracketed, and Luke felt confident the next shot would hit him right between the eyes.
He flung himself backward through the open window, and that quick reaction was all that saved his life as Dog Eater triggered again and the bullet sizzled through the space where Luke’s head had been an instant earlier.
Diving out of the line of fire, Luke wound up sprawled on the floor inside the window with his legs hanging out. By the time he recovered from that awkward position and looked out the window again, he caught just a glimpse of the two riders disappearing around a corner.
He bit back a curse. Kelly and Dog Eater would be long gone before he could get dressed and have his horse ready to ride. From the looks of the confusion Luke had seen in the street, nobody was going to be mounting a posse any time soon, either.
It appeared the bank robbers had made a clean getaway.
For now, Luke told himself. Only for now.
He pulled on his clothes, buckled his gun belt around his hips, and hurried downstairs. The clerk’s eyes seemed big around as saucers as he said, “My God! Did you hear all that shooting?”
“I heard it,” Luke replied. He went out to check on the afte
rmath of the robbery.
Now that Kelly and Dog Eater were gone and lead had stopped flying around, people were emerging from the buildings where they had taken cover and converging on the vehicles that had stopped in the middle of the street.
Luke recognized a familiar figure in the first buggy and headed in that direction.
An elderly woman in a black hat and mourning dress perched on the seat, crying as she tugged on the sleeve of the man next to her. “You have to go after them, Marshal. They’ve ruined poor Lucius’s funeral. You have to go after them!”
Marshal Cyrus Dunbar didn’t say anything. His face was pale, and he was holding himself like he was hurt.
As Luke came up to the buggy, he saw blood trickling over the fingers of Dunbar’s hands. “Madam, I believe the marshal has been shot.” His voice was loud and urgent enough to break through her hysteria.
“But poor Lucius—”
Luke figured she was the widow of the late Mr. Vanderslice. He didn’t want to be rude to her, but he said, “Your husband is beyond harm, ma’am. The same can’t be said for the marshal here.”
“I’m shot,” Dunbar croaked. “But it ain’t too bad. I got to raise a posse and go after those varmints.”
Luke lifted Dunbar’s hands and saw the hole in the lawman’s coat where the bullet had gone in. He pulled the coat and shirt aside to get a better look at the wound. The bullet had penetrated Dunbar’s body, but the wound wasn’t much more than a deep graze. Messy, but probably not life-threatening. Dunbar would be off his feet for a while because of it, though.
Rapid footsteps pounded up beside the buggy. Luke glanced over and saw the undertaker, Calvin, who announced, “I’ve brought the doc.”
Luke was glad to step back. He had patched up plenty of gunshot wounds in his time, including some he had suffered, but he was better at inflicting damage than repairing it. He let the spare, white-haired physician take over.
He asked Calvin, “Does the marshal have a deputy?”
Cyril Dunbar, the liveryman who was Marshal Dunbar’s twin brother, stepped forward from the gathering crowd. “I helped out Cy whenever he needed a hand. I ain’t exactly what you’d call a lawman, though.”
A young man who was rubbing his chest edged forward and said, “Mr. Dunbar—”
“Now hush up, Hobie, you ain’t no deputy, either. And that was a damned fool stunt you pulled, runnin’ out there to try to stop those fellas. You’re lucky that one just kicked you and didn’t kill you. I saw him point his gun at you and pull the trigger. You’d be dead now if he hadn’t run outta bullets when he did.”
“But you know your brother promised he’d take me on as a deputy one of these days, at least part-time,” Hobie protested. “He said I could work for you as a hostler durin’ the day and he’d make me night deputy.”
Cyril Dunbar snorted. “And when would you have slept if he’d done that?”
Luke didn’t see that the wrangling was accomplishing anything. The end result was that Rio Rojo didn’t have any real law except Cyrus Dunbar, and the marshal wasn’t going to be chasing any outlaws for a while.
That left it up to him. Gunner Kelly and Dog Eater each had a price on his head, and Luke wasn’t going to pass up a chance to collect those bounties.
First, though, he had business to finish. He turned back to the buggy and asked the doctor, “How’s he doing?”
“He’s passed out from loss of blood,” the doctor replied, “but I think he’s going to be all right.”
Luke nodded. He had wanted to ask Dunbar a question, but supposed he would have to handle things himself.
Calvin had helped the Widow Vanderslice out of the buggy and was awkwardly patting her on the back while she leaned against him and sobbed. He said, “We’re gonna have to go on with the funeral, Doc.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” the doctor replied. “I’ll take Cyrus down to my house in this buggy. You can load Mrs. Vanderslice in one of the others and continue with the service and the burial.”
Luke left them to sort out the details and walked down the street to the telegraph office. He found the telegrapher standing on the porch, watching the commotion in the street.
“The marshal sent a telegram to Texas yesterday afternoon,” Luke said to the man. “Has a reply come in yet?”
The telegrapher frowned. “I can’t hardly tell you that, mister. It’s against the rules.”
“But Marshal Dunbar sent the telegram on my behalf,” Luke argued. “I’m Luke Jensen. The telegram was to confirm that I’m entitled to collect a reward on an outlaw named Monroe Epps.”
“I know who you are, Mr. Jensen. I reckon just about everybody in Rio Rojo knows you’re the bounty hunter. But I still can’t reveal the contents of a message intended for somebody else.”
“Then you have gotten a reply from Texas.”
“I didn’t say—Ah, hell. I guess I can tell you that a reply came in for the marshal a little while ago. I was going to give it to him as soon as Mr. Vanderslice’s funeral was over. Do you know if the marshal is gonna be all right?”
“He should be.”
“Tell you what. I’ll get the telegram, and we’ll go down to Doc Pritchard’s place. If the marshal’s awake, I’ll ask him if it’s all right to give the wire to you.”
Luke was tempted to go inside the office and rummage around until he found the telegram, but supposed he could go along with the plan the telegrapher suggested. He was very aware of the fact that Kelly and Dog Eater were getting farther away with every passing minute, though.
The man went in the office and came back out a moment later. The funeral procession had gotten underway again and was approaching the church at the other end of town.
“I’m a little surprised that the bank and the telegraph office and all the other businesses are open this morning,” Luke commented as he and the telegrapher walked toward the doctor’s house. “If this fellow Vanderslice was as important as everybody seems to think he was, I would have thought the whole town would close down for the funeral.”
“Mr. Vanderslice wouldn’t have wanted that, especially for the bank to close. He owned it, you know.”
Luke shook his head. “No, I didn’t know that. I thought he owned the hotel.”
“Oh, yeah, that, too. And the general store. He really was an important man. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he liked to squeeze every dollar he could out of his businesses. His widow’s like that, too. She’s a real skinfl—I mean, she’s very thrifty and a canny businesswoman.”
Luke chuckled. “I get your drift, my friend. She probably gave orders for all the businesses to stay open.”
“I’m sure she did.”
They reached the whitewashed frame house where the doctor’s office and residence were located. When they went inside they found Marshal Cyrus Dunbar sitting up in a bed while Dr. Pritchard wound bandages around his midsection. The marshal’s brother was there, too.
“Jensen!” Dunbar said when he saw Luke. “I should’ve known you’d have something to do with me gettin’ shot.”
“Not at all, Marshal. I’m innocent of that charge. I was sound asleep when the shooting started. I did try to stop the robbers as they galloped out of town, but all I got for my trouble was to come uncomfortably close to having a bullet part my hair.”
Dunbar grunted, then winced as the doctor pulled the bandages tighter. “Bullet hole or no bullet hole, I still got to breathe, Doc.”
To Luke, he went on. “You got a look at the varmints?”
“Gunner Kelly and Dog Eater,” Luke told him. “I’ve never crossed trails with them before, but I’ve seen posters on them.”
“Yeah, so have I. Everything happened so fast out there on the street I never had a chance to take a good look at them, but I know bank robbers when I see ’em. The Indian had a bag full of money.” Dunbar frowned at the telegrapher. “Hank, what are you doin’ here?”
“Got a reply to that message you sent yesterday, Marshal. Mr.
Jensen here wanted to take a look at it, but I told him I couldn’t let him do that without your say-so.”
“Give it here.” Dunbar held out his hand.
The telegrapher handed him the yellow telegraph flimsy he had brought along from the office.
“Where the hell are my spectacles?” Dunbar asked as he squinted at the piece of paper in his hand.
Luke tried to suppress the growing feelings of impatience and frustration inside him.
The doctor handed Dunbar a pair of glasses. The marshal settled them on his nose, peered intently at the telegram for a moment, and then looked up at Luke. “Looks like you get your reward, Jensen. This authorizes the bank to pay it out to you. Only . . . wasn’t the bank just robbed?”
Luke’s eyes widened in the realization that Dunbar was right. He knew he should have thought of that earlier. The time he had spent with Magdalena must have taken more of him than he had thought.
Dunbar went on. “Cyril, consider yourself deputized again. Go with Jensen to the bank and find out just how bad things are.” He held out the telegram. “Take this with you.”
“All right, Cyrus. Take good care of him, Doc.”
Luke was seething inside as he and Cyril headed for the bank. The street was mostly empty, although knots of people stood here and there in front of the buildings, still talking about the excitement that had gripped the town earlier. When Luke and Cyril reached the bank, they found the front door locked.
Cyril banged a fist on it, and a minute later one of the tellers came to open it. He looked pretty shaken. “Mr. Bellford told us the bank was closed for the time being.”
“Well, I’m the law for the time being,” Cyril said, “and I got to talk to him. My brother sent me to find out just how bad things are.”
“Bad,” the teller said. “Really bad.” He stepped back to let them into the bank.
Bellford, the manager, sat at a desk with his face in his hands. He had a bloody lump on his head where one of the robbers had pistol-whipped him. He looked up with a bleak expression as Luke and Cyril approached him.
Luke Jensen Bounty Hunter Dead Shot Page 4