The fires, deluged with water, were speedily put out. But the canvas had been ripped from board floors and sides of booths and was strewn about the street, which was a sea of mud and running water. The great brown tent that had housed the Dome Palace bars and gaming tables and layouts had been torn straight across the high ridge. The canvas was in tatters, whipping in the wind; men were lying close to the board side walls and behind the bars to avoid being struck. The framework of the roof had given way and sticks were being hurled in every direction.
All was chaos. Screams of women and children and hoarse shouts and curses of men mingled with the hideous uproar of the storm. The thunder closed in with terrific explosions, rocking the earth, leaving the ears numb. Vivid lightning flashes seared the utter blackness, blinding the terrified victims of this vicious onslaught of the angry elements. Horses broke their halter ropes in the corrals and dashed out, running madly about the plain. Some went into the ditches, there to be shot on the morrow with broken legs. Others plunged into the debris of tents and wooden framework to flounder, go down, and struggle until their breath and strength were gone. Seats were torn from wagons, buckboards overturned. And still the solid wall of water stood between earth and sky, lightning bolts shook the universe, and the wind shrieked its defiance and ridicule to any storm that had ever raged on the north range before.
Bannister raked his mount with the steel, driving the horse into the teeth of the stinging rain. “Florence!” he shouted futilely.
All the events of the day and night were forgotten in his overwhelming anxiety. He came to the hotel. There was light in the lobby but not upstairs. The frame building was swaying with the force of the blast. They had gone to see the fireworks, of course. Had they started back and been caught? Had they taken refuge under the stands? Bannister became frantic—panic-stricken. The stands might go.
The lightning showed him the wide space between the tents where the road led to the stadium. He turned into it, his horse shying and rearing and lunging as it plunged through the debris. Then the plain. The lightning showed hundreds of people lying flat on the ground. It was the only way they could protect themselves.
He rode on, his face whiter than the forked lightning that streaked everywhere. “Florence! Florence!” He shouted and screamed until he was hoarse and his agonized cries were merely croakings in his throat. Dead ahead were the stands. Even as he looked at the largest of them, there came a series of sharp ripping, tearing, splintering sounds, and the stand swung backward and collapsed. Shrieks and screams followed from those who had sought shelter under the flimsy structure. Loose boards were ripped off and went sailing on the wind, glistening in the lightning flashes like demon arrows shot from the black bowstrings of the tempest.
“My God!” exclaimed Bannister with no thought of irreverence or blasphemy. He spurred his horse toward the scene, and the lightning flashes showed him to be the only horseman abroad in that turmoil. He could see men running about the fallen stand, starting rescue work. Then a cry came to his ears on the wind.
“Bannister!”
He jerked his horse to a stop, rising in the stirrups and staring northward with his face to the wind and the slanting downpour. He thought he heard the cry again. Then in a vivid flash of lightning he saw a hand being waved on the plain. He whirled his horse. It must be she. He had been conspicuous on his horse and she had recognized him. He reached the shadowy form on the ground and threw himself out of the saddle.
“Florence!” he shouted joyfully, and gathered her up in his arms. “Where are the others?” he shouted in her ear.
“With John Macy,” she said as he bent over her. “They started back. I lost them in the crowd.” She tried to say more but could not.
Bannister lifted her into the saddle and climbed up behind her. He held her with his left arm, her head on his shoulder, and turned south, riding easily with the wind. He veered off to the west toward town. They came to the wagons, passed along them. The lightning still played incessantly and the rain continued to fall in torrents. It was such a storm as Bannister had never experienced. Florence lay inert against him, her eyes closed. Bannister shielded her face as best he could. He was hatless, soaked through and through, as was the girl. There was a chill in the wind and rain now, too.
He reached the end of the wagons and saw implements ahead. Behind some huge dump wagons he descried a small shack that he took to be a tool house. The big wagons broke the force of the blast and prevented the shack from being blown over. It was an excellent refuge, but there was a ditch just ahead. Bannister hesitated a few seconds, then sank his steel, and the horse leaped ahead, straight for the ditch. Bannister tightened his hold on the girl in his arms, then the splendid black left the ground and soared gracefully over the menacing gash in the surface of the plain.
“Good boy!” affirmed Bannister, patting his mount’s neck.
He rode to the shack, dismounted, and lifted Florence from the saddle. The wind howled past on either side, but they were sheltered here in the lee of the shack and wagons. Florence stood bravely in the downpour while Bannister ascertained that the door of the shack was padlocked. He cast about him and found a heavy bolt on the ground. With this he smashed the hasp and kicked open the door. He drew Florence inside. The lightning illuminated the place, showing a big assortment of tools and piles of empty cement sacks. He knocked over some sacks and Florence sat down upon them. Then he went out and tied his horse and took his slicker from the rear of the saddle. The man who had stolen his horse had emptied the pack that had been wrapped in the oiled slicker, but had tied the slicker back on the saddle. Evidently took a fancy to my things, Bannister thought to himself. And well any rustler might, for everything Bannister possessed was good. All this time, he had never stopped to think, until now, of the coincidence of his horse being behind the bank. The man who had stolen the animal was, of course, a member of the gang who had planned the bank robbery. He wondered how much they had gotten away with. Tommy had seen the man come for Bannister’s horse, had secured his own mount, and followed him. He had seen Bannister alone in the street by chance, just as Florence had seen him as a lone rider in that fearful storm. After all, an element of luck had favored him, as against the attack of those other elements that made the night one of horror and madness.
He hurried inside with the slicker, shook it out, and, as it was dry inside, he wrapped it about the girl.
She grasped one of his hands in both of hers. “Bannister!” she cried above the tumult. “People have been killed tonight!”
He sat down beside her and her arms went about his neck. He held her close as she gave way to her emotions and wept on his shoulder. His hand caressed her hair. Then he remembered something and slipped his hand into the right pocket of the slicker. There he found a bandanna handkerchief, as he had expected, and it was dry. It had been protected by the oilskin.
He dried her face and hands and hair and put the handkerchief on his shoulder so her head would not lie on his wet coat. She snuggled up to him and lay, still and silent. His heart beat wildly. She was his girl. And because of that other—that mistake haunting the shadow of his past—was he to lose her? He wanted her—wanted all of her for his own, wanted her heart, her love, her respect . . .
The wind shrieked and screamed overhead, the rain pounded upon the roof, the shack quivered to the deafening crashes of thunder, lightning played with the intensity of celestial fires rampant and uncontrolled. Sheltered from the storm’s furies, save for the dreadful sound, Bannister and Florence sat in the tool shack. She opened the slicker and insisted that he draw it about them both, for the wind had become colder and they were soaking wet. Alone in their snug retreat, they seemed thousands of miles from other human beings—in another world. Bannister forgot everything save the warmth and sweetness of the girl in his arms. The specter of that thing that would thrust them apart was far, far away. He drew her face up to his and kissed her.
Then came the magic of the storm, as Bannister kne
w it would come, as it had always come before. The violence of the wind began to abate as suddenly as it had burst from the clouds. The rain eased off. The lightning ceased and the thunder rolled away with grumbling reverberations to southward. Lighter and lighter the rain fell until it merely beat a light tattoo upon the tin roof of the shack. Then wind and rain subsided altogether, and a great silence fell over the land.
Florence’s arm tightened about Bannister’s neck. She was the first to speak. “I feel so safe with you, Bob Bannister,” she said softly—and raised her lips.
Bannister’s supreme moments of joy and happiness were akin to pain. “Florence, girl, I love you,” he said brokenly. “I love you better than life. I love you, and love you, and love you . . . oh, I can’t tell you how much.”
Her hands were on his cheeks, over his lips and eyes, in his hair. Tender, loving hands that thrilled him until he trembled as they gently conveyed their message.
“But it can’t be,” he said hopelessly. “It just can’t be, sweetheart of mine.”
“Why can’t it be, Bob?” she asked in a whisper.
“Because . . . because . . .” The words choked in his throat.
Her lips caressed his cheek. “Because you’re The Maverick?” she said gently. “Oh, Bob, I know. And I don’t care! I love you, and that’s all I care about. They can’t drive you away from the Half Diamond, Bobbie boy. They can’t do that. And you’re not afraid of them. You didn’t lie to me and tell me you weren’t The Maverick, dear. You just refused to answer when I asked you. And I love you for that. You know, Bob Bannister”—her voice softened until it barely reached his ear—“I need you.”
It seemed to Bannister that the whole world was alive with light, a great, pure, white light that shone with sublime brilliancy. He would not have been surprised to see angels floating in the firmament. It was heaven there in that rough shack, with tools scattered about, with rusty shovels and picks with earth clinging to them leaning against the board walls, and chalky cement sacks beneath them.
“You don’t understand, Florence girl,” he said slowly. “I . . . I have given my word. I can’t tell you now. But maybe . . . maybe, if it could be.”
He clasped her tightly against him and kissed her fiercely—her lips, her eyes, her hair. And then he released her. “We must go,” he said in a voice strangely stern.
They went out into the open air to find the miracle of the storm accomplished. The clouds had hurried on southward and the stars were out. The moon rode among them like a bright, new silver coin flung into the skies by some superhuman hand.
Crowds were moving on the plain and lights were showing in the direction of the street. Florence and Bannister mounted and rode slowly along the ditch until they reached the crossing. They picked a way through debris and mud and water between two buildings and gained the street, where the scene of devastation caused them to catch their breath. They continued up the street—filled now with a bewildered, shivering crowd that knew not where to turn—and finally reached the hotel. The lobby, stairs, rooms, and halls were packed with people, as was every other building in town. They made their way upstairs, Bannister parting the jam, and found the others of the party in one of the three rooms that had been reserved for them. The others had started for the hotel as soon as the storm began to slacken.
Bannister did not stay to answer questions. He left that to Florence and hurried back downstairs to his horse. He rode a few doors up the street to the bank building. It was aglow with light. He dismounted and pounded heavily on the door, which was locked, wondering what the bandits had reaped in plunder. When the door was opened, he saw Sheriff Campbell before him. He entered quickly, noting that several other men, including Van Note, the deputy, were there.
“Grab him!” came a shrill voice. “He was with ’em! Don’t let him get away. Grab him quick . . . he’s tricky.”
It was Cromer, his eyes snapping with vicious fire, his whole body trembling with excitement. Sheriff Campbell had locked the door. Now he stood, as did the others, staring keenly at Bannister, who appeared amused.
“Why don’t you act, Sheriff?” Cromer demanded angrily. “He was with ’em, I tell you. When I ran back there, he was coming in. I shot at him but missed him. Then I slammed the door in his face. He was the ringleader and I know it!”
Bannister looked casually around at the sober faces about him. Then he walked close to Cromer and looked straight into his eyes. “Your bullet went through my hat,” he said in a voice of ice, “and, if you hadn’t slammed that door, you never would have touched a gun again except in the land of Kingdom Come.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
For a brief space Cromer’s eyes burned into Bannister’s. Then he turned his gaze on Campbell. “You hear, Sheriff?” he said stridently. “He intended to kill me. Now what do you think?”
“I think you’re pretty much excited,” said Campbell with a trace of irritation. “Suppose you let me do the investigating.” He turned to Bannister. “How did you come to be here at the time of the robbery?”
“I followed two men who tried to pick trouble with me over by the corrals, just at dark,” Bannister replied. He had no intention of mentioning Tommy Gale, and was thinking rapidly about the best way in which to avoid it. “I knocked them down when they bumped into me and set their mouths loose. One of ’em pulled a gun and I shot him in the right arm. He dropped it. They went to the hospital, and then around to the back of the Dome Palace tent.” He paused to flash a look at Cromer, who was standing behind him with a sneering expression on his face. “Two men joined them behind the tent, coming out of the Dome Palace. The four of them went to a room under the big stand over east and laid their plans for the robbery. The time was set for the moment the first rockets went up. I came back into town and looked around the street and in the Palace, but I didn’t see anyone I wanted to see. Time had passed quicker than I thought, as I was slower getting back than the others. I was in the street when the first rockets went up, and the storm broke at the same time. I ran around to the rear of the bank.”
He had looked at Cromer frequently during this slow recital and saw the sneer leave the man’s face, to be followed by a gleam of frowning interest. At first he had thought that Cromer himself might be in on the deal, but now he changed his mind.
“I got there as a man ran out the rear door of the bank,” he continued. “He shot at me and I dropped him. Did you find a wounded man out there?”
Campbell shook his head. “No, we found a dead one,” he said.
“So much the better,” observed Bannister coolly. “I thought there were more of them inside and started in just as Cromer came running to the door and fired in my face. In a way, he can thank me for his life. I could have got him when he reached for the door, but held my fire when I saw he didn’t intend to shoot again. All this happened in a space of seconds. I leaped away from the door and a riderless horse came along. I caught it and swung into the saddle.”
He stopped talking, as if he had said all that was necessary.
“Did you follow these men?” the sheriff asked sharply.
“I didn’t,” Bannister replied. “The cloudburst came down at that moment and a piece of a tent hit me. My horse got tangled in the canvas and went down. I went over his head, but kept the reins. When I got back in the saddle, it was too late to follow them in that storm, even if I had wanted to. I came into town with Miss Marble and her cousin from the Half Diamond. I was concerned about her safety. I started out to find her and by pure luck I did. I guided her to shelter, and, when the storm was over, I brought her into town and took her to the hotel. John Macy, his daughter, and some others had gone with her to see the fireworks, and they were already back when we got in. Then I came straight here.”
There was a period of heavy silence when he had finished. Then: “Do you believe that?” Cromer exploded, addressing the sheriff.
“Well, yes . . . I do,” said Campbell slowly. “Yes, I’m inclined to believe it. Th
ere was a man treated at the hospital tonight for a bullet wound in the right arm, although that in itself doesn’t prove anything. It will be easy enough to substantiate the last part of Bannister’s story through Miss Marble. You say he was the ringleader. If he had been the ringleader, don’t you think he would have gone into the bank in the first place and not have attempted to enter after the robbery?”
“Rubbish!” snorted Cromer. “He might have been coming back for more. He probably wasn’t satisfied with the few thousand they got and intended to try and make me open the vault. And he might have been there in the first place. They were masked when they came in.”
“But why would he want to throw away his mask and come back without it and be recognized?” asked Campbell shrewdly.
“How the devil do I know?” cried Cromer angrily. “I haven’t had any experience in robbing banks.”
“Well, I’ve had to deal with men who have had experience in robbing banks,” the sheriff retorted, “and I don’t think the dumbest of them would pull a fool stunt like that. And I can’t see yet how that back door came to be unlocked.” He looked searchingly at Cromer, who threw up his hands in genuine disgust.
“For the last time,” he said harshly, “I’ll tell you that I don’t know, either. There were a few in here making deposits when the doors closed at ten. I had kept the back door locked and bolted all day. Somebody must have slipped back there and unlocked it and shot back the bolts. Again I tell you, I was in the rear of the cage and knew nothing until a gun was shoved in my face and three other masked men were holding the customers and cashier at bay and scooping up all the money in sight. There was a shot out there in the back that scared them away before they could make me open the vault. And according to this Bannister, he didn’t fire a shot until he saw the men running out the door.” The sneer was on his lips again.
Marble Range Page 18