The inside guard leapt out and tried to run, gun in hand, blazing wildly. Two raiders rode him down mercilessly, then turned their mounts and rode back over his writhing body. The bank steps were strewn with bodies and there was no one now to stop the raiders taking the boxes of coins.
The red-haired man dismounted, taking a sawn-off shotgun from his saddlehorn and ran to the first iron-bound box. He placed the muzzle against the padlock and blasted it off with a thunderous roar. While other men ripped up the splintered lid and began taking out the stacked canvas bags of coins, the redhead reached into the wagon, heaved the body of a soldier aside and hauled out the next box. He dealt with the padlock the same way as the first. Two raiders began lifting out the sacks of coins and stowing them in their saddlebags while another man, tall, swarthy and with a small jagged scar highlighting his left cheek, walked over and heaved out the remaining two boxes while the redhead reloaded the shotgun.
A bag of coins burst open as the raiders, in their hurry, dropped one and stood on it, splitting the stitching. The swarthy man glared at the man responsible, a blocky fellow whose army tunic would not button across his barrel chest, and the man shrugged and began gathering up the coins hurriedly. The redhead blasted the padlocks off the remaining two boxes and the swarthy man reached in to grab some of the sacks. Whilst gathering up the spilled coins, the blocky man looked up swiftly, saw that each of the other raiders was busy with his own chore, and thrust a handful of coins into the pocket of his army tunic: it was a big, cavernous pocket and held the coins with ease. A swift check and, seeing his sidekicks still busy, the blocky man thrust another handful of coins in, then pushed the remainder into the busted sack and lifted it to dump it into his saddlebag.
By this time, word had spread about the bloody bank raid and the San Francisco law was on its way in the shape of several armed constables and a marshal who commandeered a buckboard for his men, and raced for the scene.
The raiders were mounted and ready to go when the law came careering into Union Street from the north end. The red-headed outlaw fought his prancing horse, turned his gun down towards the raider who had been blasted by the shotgun and triggered, shooting the wounded man through the head, making sure his mouth was closed for keeps.
Then they wheeled their mounts and galloped off down the street with the marshal yelling and cursing and whipping up the buckboard team, while the constables in the back fired over his head. The raiders reached the end of the street before they hipped in leather and returned the gunfire. A constable spun over the side of the buckboard with a wild yell and bounced and rolled and flailed into the gutter. The marshal weaved the buckboard to one side as the raiders disappeared into the main street ahead, around the corner of a building. The buckboard skidded wildly around the bend, tilted and rocked, and the marshal shouted at the constables to throw their weight to the other side. They only just got the vehicle righted and then they tore down through the congested traffic after the raiders.
Guns blazed and folk ran for cover and the constables brought down one of the raiders, the shot knocking him clean out of the saddle, still in a sitting position. He hit hard and smashed into the edge of a boardwalk before flopping back into the gutter. The buckboard tore on, but then the red-haired raider wheeled his mount away from the others, spun fast and rode back towards the lawmen’s buckboard. For an instant they were stunned and held their fire. It was long enough for the redhead to touch a vesta to the stick of dynamite he held and he flung it accurately into the back of the buckboard. The marshal and his constables leapt out in crazy, wild panic, hitting the street and rolling, bouncing to their feet and staggering away, as the vehicle careered on, crashed into a loaded ore wagon and came to rest amidst a tangle of splintered wood and screaming, injured horses.
Then the dynamite blew and the redhead wheeled his mount and galloped off after his fleeing comrades.
There was no more pursuit and they cleared the outskirts of San Francisco and rode hell for leather to San Bernadino, where the night passenger train to Santa Fe and El Paso was already waiting at the depot siding.
Outside the Bannerman First National Bank on the corner of Union and Alameda Streets, hastily-summoned doctors were moving amongst the bodies, looking for someone who still lived.
Two – The Singing Wire
Railroads and horses were major links in communications in the frontier days, but, in the late ’60s and mid-’70s there came another means of speeding messages all over the country: the telegraph, or ‘singing wire’ as the Indians named it.
Western Union led the way, threading the long, thin strand of copper wire in an intricate pattern through the country. It cost a lot of money and a lot of lives, but it also saved a lot of money and many lives. It carried the fate of individuals, and that of giant companies, over its miles with equal impartiality: all it needed was for the sender to pay the fee. One cent a word was all it needed to speed hope or joy or pain and sorrow across the Union ...
And when Yancey Bannerman received the wire from his sister Mattie on yellow, dog-eared Western Union telegraph forms, he knew something serious was up even before he read the opening words. There were three pages, which meant that the sender had spent several dollars to send the message and it must be important to warrant that sort of expense. Even though Mattie had some money of her own, he knew she would not spend it on a wire frivolously.
As soon as he read the first words: ‘Chuck and C.B. seriously injured in bank hold-up ...’ Yancey knew there was only one course he could take: he would have to get leave of absence from his duties as Enforcer for the Governor of Texas so he could get on the trail of the men who had done this to his father and brother.
He read the long message and immediately sought an audience with the governor, who was already busy preparing an official reception for the Governor of Ohio, presently on a tour of the Lone Star State. He knew it would not be the best time to ask for leave but Dukes was an understanding man and would surely see where Yancey’s duty lay.
He wasn’t able to see Dukes until the afternoon and he fretted away the time impatiently, reading and re-reading the message. He had gotten off a wire of his own, asking for Mattie to keep him posted on the condition of his father and Chuck, and then waited for the governor to be free.
Kate Dukes, the governor’s daughter and aide, met him in the passage outside her father’s rooms.
“Yancey,” she said as she hurried across to him, concern on her face when she saw his own rugged features set into grim lines. “What on earth’s wrong?”
He slowed his pacing and turned to her, handed her the yellow message forms. Kate began to read and snapped her head up as soon as she read the opening words. Then she read the rest of the message and when she was through, slowly handed the forms back and put her hand on Yancey’s arm.
“How terrible for you, Yancey, to be so far away at a time like this. Are you going to San Francisco?”
“Figured I would,” he told her. “At first.”
She frowned. “Now?”
His face was very sober. “I’ll go wherever there’s a lead on the bunch who pulled the raid. To the gates of hell itself, if I have to!”
She tightened her grip on his arm. “You haven’t seen papa yet?”
“Just about to, Kate. Where have you been? I couldn’t find you.”
“Oh, I’ve been at City Hall, making final arrangements for the public reception for the Governor of Ohio. I have to check and double-check everything. I’m sure if pa knew why you wanted to see him, Yancey—”
“He’s got his own problems, Kate. It’s all right. The wait’s done me good, though I didn’t see it that way for a spell. I’ve calmed down some now. First notion was to jump the next train out of Austin for California. Now I can see that wouldn’t do much good. Take me a week to get there. By that time the doctors’ll know whether pa and Chuck are gonna make it or not. I reckon I’ll be better employed getting after the gang.”
“But you’ve
nothing to go on!” Kate said.
“Mattie will get more information to me as it comes to hand,” Yancey said confidently.
Kate opened her mouth to speak but then the governor’s clerk came out and said for Yancey to go in. The big Enforcer strode through the ornate doorway with Kate at his side. Lester Dukes was writing at his desk. When he had finished, he sprinkled sand over the paper and then handed it to the clerk.
“Seven fair copies, Dutton,” Dukes said and the man nodded and hurried out. Dukes turned to Yancey and his daughter and smiled. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, Yance. Is there something I can do for you?”
Yancey handed the governor the telegraph forms and when Dukes had finished reading them he looked up solemnly and shook his head slowly. “Bad news, Yancey. I’m sorry. You want to go to your father, is that it? Well, you leave as soon as you want to.”
He broke off as Yancey shook his head, and Dukes glanced at Kate.
“Yancey wants to go after the bandits, Papa,” the girl said slowly. She glanced at the tall Enforcer. “I guess what he really wants is indefinite leave of absence ...”
Yancey nodded. “That’s about the size of it, Governor. I want time to track down that gang and nail them, one by one, or all together, whichever way I find ’em, but find ’em I will.”
Dukes indicated the telegraph message forms. “Nothing much to go on, Yancey.”
“I’ve wired Mattie for more information. She’ll get it to me.”
“Your sister doesn’t say how much was taken or just what your father was doing on the steps of the bank. Does he supervise the transfer of money personally?”
Yancey frowned. “Not usually. I’ve been wondering about it myself. Chuck being there, too, is a mite unusual, but I guess Mattie’ll let me know. Chuck’s shot through both legs, and I guess he’s tough enough to pull through. It’s C.B. who worries me. Lung shot at his age ...” Yancey shook his head slowly. “Gonna be hard for him to make it, I reckon. I see there was mention of a woman being killed as well as four soldiers and a constable. Must’ve been one hell of a raid, right in the heart of ’Frisco! Can’t figure why any bunch of outlaws would make a raid on the Bannerman First National, when it’s the most secure bank in ’Frisco ...”
“Maybe not anymore,” Dukes said quietly.
Yancey looked at him sharply, then nodded slowly. “Yeah, it’s possible someone got too cocky and overlooked something that gave the raiders a chance. But they’d have to know it was gonna happen in advance. Ah, what’s the use? We could talk and theorize till hell freezes over. I’ll wait till I hear from Mattie again. Meantime, Governor, do I have your permission to take on this chore?”
Dukes tapped his fingers against his desk-edge, his clear gray eyes searching Yancey’s grim face. He had never seen his easy-going, good-natured Enforcer look as grim and unsmiling as this.
“I could use you here, Yancey,” he said slowly, quietly. “That’s for sure, what with the Ohio man coming and all ... and John Cato way up in Canada on assignment.”
Yancey moved his feet awkwardly. “Yeah, Governor. I know, I feel kind of bad about asking, but ... well, this is something I have to do. At whatever cost, to me or anyone else.”
“If you feel as strongly as that, Yancey, there’s only one thing for me to do,” said the governor. “You have my permission.”
“Much obliged, Governor,” Yancey said with a curt nod. “But I didn’t mean that to sound like any kind of a threat. Like you say, I just feel so strongly about this that right now it’s just about all that matters to me.”
Kate said slowly, “What is your next move?”
“Wait for Mattie to send me more information, and then ...”
There was a perfunctory knock on the door and then it opened swiftly and the clerk came hurrying in apologizing for the interruption as he handed the governor a yellow envelope. Yancey stiffened as he recognized it as a Western Union telegram. The clerk left as Dukes opened the envelope and took out several yellow message forms. It was obviously a wire of some sort and Yancey caught the quick glance Dukes gave him as he read swiftly. When he had finished reading, the governor eased back in his chair and stared at Yancey and Kate.
“Yancey, you have my blessing to take all the time you want to on this chore of tracking down those bandits who shot your father and brother.” He indicated the pile of message forms. “I have the full story here ... from the President of the United States himself.”
Yancey and Kate both looked startled.
“He has asked for our cooperation in tracking down these outlaws as quickly as possible. What they stole was no ordinary gold ... But, here: read it for yourself.”
He handed Yancey the message forms and the big Enforcer began to read, Kate looking on at his side.
~*~
Curtis Bannerman and Chuck had both been taken to the West Coast Infirmary after the shooting, C.B. lung-shot and coughing blood, Chuck with bullets through both legs and pale from blood loss. The best doctors were called in and worked on them both, calling on all the infirmary’s facilities, which were considered to be the best around.
Two days later, when the crisis for both had passed, Mattie arranged to have Chuck and C.B. moved back to the mansion on Nob Hill. Here, she made arrangements for two doctors and two full-time nurses to live in so that her loved ones had medical attention twenty-four hours a day. It was a matter of convenience more than snobbery, for Mattie was handling the business end of things as well as she could, facing interviews with C.B.’s deputies and advisers, unable, in many cases to make a decision and having to put her faith and trust in men who knew the financial side of things. Three soldiers had survived the raid and Mattie made it a point to see that they had the best of care, also.
There was chaos in the San Francisco financial world, and the law-enforcement agencies were under fire from the newspapers because they were not on hand to help prevent the robbery and shooting. One matron on the street had been killed and the other was in a state of shock and near-hysteria for a couple of days and so was not much use to the investigating lawmen.
Then the federal marshals arrived, six of them, grim-faced, hard-eyed men with guns, and they rounded-up every eyewitness still breathing and nagged at them with harsh questions until they had every possible piece of information about the raiders. Unfortunately, it amounted to very little.
The witnesses had seen a bunch of soldiers riding in and, like the sergeant, had mistaken them for reinforcements for the guard while the gold was transshipped from the wagon to the bank. The man with bright red hair stood out in everyone’s mind, especially his cold-blooded shooting of his wounded comrade. The swarthy man with the scar was also described by several people, as was the blocky man who had pocketed some of the gold pieces—seen to do this by a couple of cowering citizens huddled down behind the bank’s portico pillars. The rest seemed to be nondescript ‘soldiers’ according to the witnesses.
Then the marshals wanted to speak with C.B. and Chuck, but that was out of the question for the time being. Chuck had some lucid moments on the third day and the marshal who had been waiting day and night at the Nob Hill mansion for just such an opportunity, hurried in to ask his questions. But Chuck, having been one of the first to be shot down as he ran to help his wounded father, could tell the lawman little. He had only an impression of a group of men in uniform he had surmised were soldiers, coming in shooting, led by a man with bright red hair. That was, virtually, all Chuck could tell the marshal. After that he was shot through the legs and he had hit his head on the stone steps when falling, knocking himself unconscious.
It was night, after ten o’clock, when the marshals came again to the mansion on Nob Hill. Mattie herself opened the door, a robe over her nightgown, crystal-bowled lamp held high so that the light washed over the two sober-faced lawmen on the doorstep. She looked at them and the tallest one, with the gray-streaked longhorn moustache, touched a hand to his hat brim as he spoke.
“Sorry to tro
uble you, ma’am, but you did say you wanted to know about anythin’ new we found out.”
Mattie nodded, stifling a yawn. It had been a seemingly endless vigil while she waited for some change in the condition of her father and Chuck. She gestured for the men to enter and led the way down to the parlor, where she offered them seats.
“Now, gentlemen, what is this latest information you have about the robbery?” she asked after they had refused her offer of whisky.
“We’ve arrested an army captain, man named Allard, ma’am,” the tall marshal told her. “He was in charge of the detail that was to supervise transshipment of the gold from the wagon into the bank. Matter of fact, we arrested him the same night of the robbery ...”
Mattie glanced at him, surprised.
“Well, we figured it was kinda coincidental that he should suddenly decide the West Coast Trust needed more guards, just at the time gold was to be delivered to your father’s bank.”
Bannerman the Enforcer 14 Page 2