The Whispering Bandit

by Franklin D. Lincoln

The early morning sun, not yet far above the eastern horizon promised another scorching hot summer day. It was two minutes to nine when Caleb Gant stepped out of the front door of the Castle Hotel. His eyes squinted against the brightness of early morning as he gazed along the street toward the bank.

  Michael Avery and Pete Stover were walking quickly toward it. Pete still limped a little. They stopped in front of the bank and waited for the door to open. As they gazed about them, their eyes came to rest on the tall frame of Caleb Grant in front of the hotel.

  Even at that distance, Gant could see the hateful expression on Avery’s face. He saw the bank doors open and the two men stepped inside; Avery glancing back over his shoulder one more time to acknowledge Gant was still watching.

  Gant stepped off the board walk into the street and turned toward the bank. He took slow, deliberate, swinging strides.

  As he walked, he could see the town starting to come alive. Merchants were starting to open up for the day. Riders and wagons were beginning to roll into town. He saw Jeanne Harding ride in. She rode right on past him making it obvious she deliberately wasn’t going to look at him.

  He saw Mort Glick and Johnny Leach going into the cafe.

  The two hardcases Caleb thought were the Lowery brothers the night before rode past him heading in the same direction. Caleb didn’t see them until they were well past him. He could only see their backs, but he was sure they were the same ones.

  He watched as the two men pulled up in front of the general store, a short distance beyond the bank. They dismounted, tied their horses to the hitchrail and went inside.

  Across the street, Gib Randall had just stepped out of his office. Callie Parker was with him. They walked passed the Express Office with the waiting Santa Fe stage and four up team of horses sitting in front.

  Caleb drew up in front of the bank and waited; watching the closed door and expecting Michael Avery and Pete Stover to emerge with the money. He hadn’t quite figured out how he was going to get the money without producing a live Dave Bishop and he was hoping on hope that Bart Allen didn’t get to town with the news of Beecham’s and Bishop’s demise.

  The minutes dragged by as Caleb waited. It was only five minutes, but it seemed longer. His eyes kept drifting to the end of the street in the direction Allen would be coming from, if he came. Gant become increasingly wary. His palms were getting sweaty. He told himself it was the rising temperature, but he knew he was just plain anxious.

  As the door of the bank started to open, Caleb’s heart leaped to his throat and his pulse began to race in anticipation. ‘Come on. Come on,’ he thought to himself. Hurry this up. He glanced once more down the street. No sign of Bart Allen yet. But there was no time to waste.

  Avery and Stover came through the door. Avery was carrying a carpet bag. It bulged at the sides. Stover closed the door behind them.

  “You got the money!” Gant said hurriedly, stepping forward as Avery and Stover stepped off the board sidewalk to meet him in the dusty street. It was more of a question than a statement and Caleb was beyond trying to hide his anxiousness.

  “Right here.” Avery held the bag high, almost chest level. “But, you don’t get it until I get Bishop.”

  Pete Stover fidgeted with his pistol butt, sliding it slightly up and down in the leather holster. He had a sneering grin on his face.

  “Alright,” Gant forced a grin. He reached for the bag. “He’s just outside of town. I’ll tell you where you can find him.”

  “Oh, no,” Avery said. “You take us to him. Then you get the money.”

  Gant tried not to show his anxiety. He sighed and said. “All right. Then let’s get to it.”

  ‘Before Allen gets here and lets the cat out of the bag’, he thought to himself.

  The words were barely out when out of the corner of his eye he spotted an advancing surrey. The horses had been whipped to a frenzy and as the vehicle rolled at a fast clip into town, a cloud of dust rose up from thudding hooves and spinning carriage wheels. Bart Allen was driving, Virginia and Angie were in the second seat. A wagon was following close behind with Muley Jones driving. Two bodies wrapped in canvas lie in the back.

  Allen drew the carriage to a sudden halt across the street. Gib Randall and Callie Parker were just strolling by.

  “Randall! Randall!” Allen shouted as the team halted and the braked wheels slid to a stop next to them. “Stop that man! Arrest him!” He was pointing across the street where Michael Avery, Pete Stover and Caleb Gant were gathered. “Caleb Gant! He just shot and killed Dave Bishop and Hal Beecham!”

  “That tears it!” Gant cursed. Almost made it. He had one alternative left.

  With a sudden move, Gant lashed out with a right jab against Avery’s jaw. With his left he plucked the carpet bag from the man as he fell, falling backward into Stover.

  Stover was still stumbling when his weapon cleared leather and was just beginning to bring it up to bear on Gant. He was just a hair too slow as Caleb’s pistol came up, spitting flame and belching thunder. Stover took lead high in his chest and was driven to the ground, landing on his back with Avery falling on top of him. Acrid powder smoke drifted over the fallen men.

  Gant whirled around, set to run. He needed a horse. There were several hitched along the street.

  “Gant! Caleb Gant! Halt! You’re under arrest!”

  Gant glanced behind him. Gib Randall was running down the street toward him with his gun out, barrel pointing skyward. He fired once in warning.

  Fleet on his feet and with long strides, Caleb ran as fast as he could. He picked out a bay horse tethered loosely in front of the feed store. It didn’t look as hearty as his own dun, but it would have to do. He was the closest. He had almost reached the horse, when the two Lowery brothers emerged from the general store.

  “Caleb Gant, halt!” They heard Gib Randall shout again from down the street behind them and then looked up the street and saw the man running.

  “That’s him!” Burl Lowery said to his brother Abe. “Now’s our chance to get him.”

  They pulled their guns and ran out into the street after Gant.

  “Off the street! Get out of the way!” They heard Randall shout from behind them, but they paid no heed. They continued on, and began to fire at the fleeing man.

  Terrified townspeople ran for cover, darting into stores and hiding behind wagons.

  Bart Allen whipped up his team and sent them forward getting himself and his family out of the line of fire. Jones followed quickly behind with the wagon.

  Caleb had just loosed the reins from the hitchrail and was trying to climb aboard the bay horse when the first shot whizzed past him, burning a path across the bay’s backside, just behind the saddle. The animal shrieked in pain, reared and shied away. Caleb’s foot missed the stirrup and as the animal darted back, swinging his rump into him, Caleb fell backward into the dust. The carpet bag fell from his hand and rolled a foot away, just as another bullet plowed into the dirt in front of him, spewing a fistful of sun dried dust into his eyes.

  Through the haze of dirt filled eyes , with his chin in the dust, Caleb could see the Lowerys coming after him. Time and time again they fired at him. He rolled to one side and then the other, each time, lead plowing into the dirt next to him, barely missing him.

  Gathering all his strength, Caleb shoved himself to his feet, first in a squatting stance with his pistol firm in hand and blazing away. There was no time to take aim, he fired indiscriminately, fanning the hammer as fast as he could as he rose up and leaning half over, keeping low, he ran into the alley between the feed store and the millinery just as his gun clicked empty.

  Bullets followed his run, lead plowing into the clapboard siding of the millinery, chipping off the corner into shards of splinters. Gant twisted his body around the corner into the mouth of the alley bringing his broad back up against the side wall behind him.

  For a moment, it seemed as if there was a brief respite of firing. He could hear Gib Randall s
houting at the Lowerys. “Put up your guns! This is a job for the la.!”

  Gant peered around the corner just long enough to see the Lowerys turn and fire behind them. Gib Randall went down.

  In that instant Johnny Leach darted out from an alley on the other side of the street. With his pistol out in his right hand, he scooped up the carpet bag of money and darted back into the same alley he had come out of.

  The Lowerys had just turned their attention back to Caleb, practically oblivious to the interloper just now disappearing into the shadows of the alley.

  Caleb, taking advantage of the brief diversion, dumped empty cartridges from the cylinders and shoved new shells in.

  The Lowerys had poured another round of lead into the side of the alley, pushing Caleb back for refuge. They shoved new shells into their own weapons as they ran for cover; Burl diving and rolling behind a water trough while Abe ducked behind a water barrel on the board sidewalk in front of the hardware store.

  Streams of water spouted from both hiding places as Gant poured lead into the trough and barrel. Both Lowerys hugged low, briefly refraining from return fire.

  In the lull, Caleb heard the clatter of horses hooves and rattle of wheels down the street. It only took a brief glance to see the stage rolling away from the Express office. Mort Glick and Johnny Leach were in the driver’s box with Leach handling the reins and Glick beside him, hugging the carpet bag close to his chest.

  The regular stage driver lay prone, either dead or unconscious in the middle of the street.

  Gant was still watching them go, when a new barrage of lead from the Lowerys flew in his direction.

  He ducked back, just in time as the rest of the building’s corner disintegrated in the hail of bullets.

  Without exposing himself, Gant reached around the corner with his pistol. He couldn’t see his targets, but he fired twice in the right direction, hoping to keep them pinned down for just a moment.

  The Lowerys both duck low as Gant’s weapon roared. They didn’t see the bullets flying past them; missing them by a mile. Caleb couldn’t see if he had accomplished what he wanted. He just hoped he had. Hoped that he had bought himself enough time to turn and run toward the opposite end of the alley. If he could get behind the street buildings, maybe he could circle around and get the two gunmen from another vantage point. Hopefully, catching them off guard.

  It only took him a few seconds to exit the alley, but that was long enough for the Lowerys to acknowledge a lull in the battle.

  Burl Lowery, from his crouched position behind the water trough, turned around, looking over his shoulder to where his brother hid behind the water barrel. Water was still dripping from the bullet holes, but only slightly now. A pool of wetness covered the board sidewalk. “Think, we got him?” He shouted.

  “I don’t know!” Abe answered, keeping his pistol ready and cautiously trying to peer around the side of the barrel.

  Seconds ticked by and there were no further reports from the alley. “Maybe we did get him,” Abe called, just loud enough for Burl to hear him, but hoping not loud enough for Gant to hear if he was still alive.

  “We’d better wait,” Burl answered. “It might be a trick. He might be playing possum, just to draw us out.”

  A few more seconds ticked by. “Abe,” Burl called. “Go see if we got him. I’ll cover you.”

  “Me go? Why me?”

  “Cause, I said so. Besides, I’ve got the best cover. Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Abe grimaced. “Alright, but I don’t like it.” He rose slowly, just enough to look over top of the water barrel. He let a second go by. There was no response from the alley across the street. Maybe they had got Gant after all. He rose a little higher. Still no response.

  “Hurry up!” Burl shouted. “Go see!”

  Abe came to a full stand. He was fully exposed now and there was still no sign of activity from the alley. He felt a little more confident, now and started to move forward, stepping down into the street and striding forward slowly; his gun arm outstretched and his six gun cocked. He was careful to stay out of Burl’s line of fire, if it was necessary for cover.

  Step by step he moved forward; ever ready for action. Sweat beaded on his grimy forehead and dripped down into the heavy dark beard stubble on his lean face. Closer and closer, he approached the mouth of the alley. Still no movement from inside the shadows. So far, so good, but Abe, shy of brain power as he was, was still alert enough and savvy enough not to let his guard down.

  He was all the way across the street now. He approached the alley at an angle to the side. Step by agonizing step, he drew close. Almost on top of the alley, he quickly stepped into the alleyway, gun ready to fire.

  “What the hell!” Abe oathed as he faced an empty passageway; eyes darting back and forth, sixgun swinging from side to side. No one! There was no one there! He whirled around on his heel and darted back into the street, shouting, “He’s gone! The sumbitch ran out on us!”

  “You sure?” Burl called back. “Keep a sharp eye! He might still be around, just waiting to pick us off.”

  Abe stood in the street, twisting his body around from side to side; his eyes searching for any movement, any sign of their quarry. There was none. “I tell ya, he’s gone!” Abe fumed. “Look for yourself!”

  Burl scanned the street too. There was no sign of Gant. Further down the street to their right, Gib Randall was half sitting up, writhing with pain. His hand was clasped over a gaping wound in his thigh. Blood streaming between his fingers.

  “I guess, you’re right,” Burl conceded. He slowly stood up and stepped out from behind the water trough into the street.

  “I guess you’re wrong!” A voice sounded from down the street to the left. Caleb Gant had just stepped out of the alley between the feed store and the farm implement store and was standing, spread legged; his gun out in front of him and cocked.

  As one, both Lowerys turned. Anger and fear masking their faces. They’d been conned. They triggered their weapons as fast as they could, barely taking time to aim. Like a simultaneous roar of thunder their weapons boomed, mingling with the roar of Gant’s sixgun.

  The Lowerys’ bullets went wild, but Caleb’s didn’t. Each brother took a slug squarely in mid torso. Their guns dropped from their hands, their knees bent and they crumpled into the dirt.

  Gant immediately holstered his pistol, turned and ran the opposite direction, heading for the livery, now only a short distance away. He knew he couldn’t stick around, even though Randall was wounded. He had no time for trouble with the law or for explanations. His battle with the Lowery brothers had lasted long enough. Mort Glick and Johnny Leach were probably already miles away with the stage and the money. His money. He had no time to waste. He had to get after them, now. He could see his copper dun tethered to a corral rail and standing out in front of the livery.

  Just a few strides and Caleb was swinging into the saddle, pulling reins from the corral rail. He neck-reined the dun sharply, turning toward the outskirts of town. This was the opposite direction from the one Glick and Leach had taken, though. He couldn’t risk riding down the street after the stage for he would have to ride past Randall. And there were already two deputies in the street trying to assist the wounded lawman. No way did he want to engage in a shooting spree with the law. That meant he would have to circle around town before heading out after his quarry.

  Putting spurs to the dun’s flanks, Gant rode off at a gallop, in a cloud of dust.

  Johnny Leach snapped the whip over the heads of the four-up team urging them to keep up a fast pace. They had made good time and had put Gila Bend some miles behind them. The empty stage had been a help. Not as much of a load for the horses to carry, however it was only a four-up team and not a six-up. The shortage of another team balanced out a lighter load, and it was easier for Leach to handle than a full complement of horses, and so far, the teams were not yet faltering with the constant speed.

  Mor
t Glick still clung to the carpet bag and even with the jolting and constant rocking of the stage, he was able to manage an examination of the contents. He was pleased to find a good amount of money, but was disappointed that there was not more. Oh well, can’t be choosers. Take what they could get. There was still a fair amount in there. Glick’s guess was fifty thousand or so. He smiled to himself in satisfaction, thinking of Caleb Gant back in town shooting it out with tough gunslingers. If all went well, Gant would probably be dead already and he and Leach were in the clear. Hopefully, they would eventually find some riding horses and they would ditch the cumbersome stagecoach.

  The trail had wound through the flats and the stage rolled on; leathers slapping, trappings chinking, wheels humming as they churned the clay bottom trail, spewing up a cloud of red dust, and thundering hooves pounding monotonously onward.

  It seemed clear sailing. No pursuit could be detected on their back trail. But as they rounded a bend in the road, the flats turning into a more hilly terrain, Johnny Leach glanced to his right. Panic took hold. “Look, Mort!” he shouted. “Up on that ridge!”

  Glick turned in his seat and followed Leach’s gaze. A rider wearing a black hat, black hooded mask and long black duster, riding a big black stallion had just appeared out of a stand of pine trees.

  “It’s that Whispering Bandit, we heard about. He robs stagecoaches.” Glick moaned. “And we had to pick a coach to get away on. Speed it up, Johnny! We’ve got to get out of here!”

  Leach snapped the whip out again and whipped up the reins, lashing the animals across their necks and back, urging them to greater speed. “Heeah!” Leach shouted repeatedly

  Hooves dug in and the teams raced onward, but having already run for miles, it was obvious the teams were beginning to falter and slow. Their stamina quickly subsiding. Only Leach’s constant whippings kept them at full performance.

  “Faster, Johnny! He’s coming after us!”

  Glick could see the rider in black descending the incline from the ridge. He pulled his sixgun, The bandit was still too far back for pistol range, but if he got close, Mort wanted to be ready.

  He could see the black clad rider emerging onto the flat of the trail behind and putting the black into a full gallop after the coach.

  “Faster, Johnny! Faster.! He’s gaining on us!”

  The black was coming like a bolt of lightning, churning up trail and closing the distance behind the rolling vehicle. The rider drew a pistol, outstretched an arm and pushed the weapon far out in front, riding hard and pushing the big stallion closer. Almost pistol range, but not quite.

  Glick panicked and fired his own weapon back at the attacker. He was premature. Not quite pistol range yet. He fired a second time. This time he saw the bandit duck low to avoid flying lead. Pistol range at last. He fired again, but the bandit kept on coming.

  The horses were really starting to give out now. Leach urged them on, but to no avail. Despite the whippings, the animals were playing out. The coach’s wheels were turning slower now and the bandit was only yards behind. Glick fired again, but the bandit swerved the black off to the side, partially shielded by the corner of the rear boot.

  As The Whispering Bandit swung around the boot, he reached high and out, grasping the rear of the roof’s top rail, dropping reins and lifting out of the saddle to swing aboard.

  As the bandit’s black hat appeared above the roof, Glick fired hurriedly;’ panic overcoming him and shaking violently. The bandit ducked back low, falling and hanging by one hand to the top rail, dangling down the side of the coach. The shot went wild with the rocking and jolting of the stage.

  The bandit’s body twisted and swung back and then with a mighty heave swung forward lunging upward and purchasing a foothold against the side of the rear boot and lifted upward to once again rise to the roof of the vehicle.

  Again as the bandit came into view, Glick fired again. Again, missing. He squeezed the trigger again and the weapon clicked on empty. Glick’s eyes widened in terror. He tossed the useless gun overboard.

  The bandit rolled up onto the roof, came up on one knee, drawing the pistol and earing back the hammer.

  Glick clutched the carpet bag closer to his body, leaned sideways and let himself fall from the box, just as the bandit’s pistol spat flame and thunder.

  He fell into the dirt, still desperately clutching the carpet bag and rolling on his shoulder, feeling pain racking his whole body.

  Meanwhile, Johnny Leach had twisted in his seat and saw the bandit in black directly behind him with pistol splayed. Dropping his right hand from the reins, he grabbed for his sixgun. Too late. The bandit had already sprinted forward, swinging the pistol and crashing the barrel into the side of Johnny’s head. He lifted in his seat, eyes crossed and glazing. With a shove the bandit pushed him off the box. He fell heavily.

  The bandit quickly scooted to the driver’s seat holstering the sixgun and taking up the reins before they could fall free of the box and drag beneath the horses’ hooves.

  Leaning far back in the seat and pulling hard on the reins, the bandit drew the teams to a slower pace which they quickly accepted. They were blowing hard and their bodies were foamed with lather.

  Back along the trail, Mort Glick had composed himself and had managed to force himself to his feet. His first thought was to find a hiding place before the bandit came back for him. Hopefully, Johnny Leach would have already dealt with the bandit in black, but he doubted that.

  He looked around him, searching for a hiding place, but first he had to retrieve the carpet bag which had fallen from the stage first. He saw it lying in the middle of the road about thirty feet back along trail. He ran toward it as fast as his pained body would allow him and as he drew near, he spotted a horse and rider advancing fast toward him.

  It only took a glance to realize that the tall rider, sitting straight in the saddle, was none other than Caleb Gant. “Damn!” Glick muttered under his breath to himself. He darted forward the two steps it took to retrieve the carpet bag. He turned and ran, clutching the bag to his chest. He was breathing heavily and his legs were feeling like lead. It seemed like he could barely lift his feet off the ground.

  Above the sound of his pulse pounding in his head, he could hear the galloping horse approaching closer. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw Gant almost upon him. He was bending low, leaning out of the saddle, his arms outstretched reaching for him.

  Eyes forward, stumbling one foot in front of the other, Glick pushed forward but the wind was knocked out of him when he felt the weight of Caleb’s body thudding into his back as he pitched out of the saddle, grasping Glick with both arms around his middle. Both men fell to the ground, entwined as the empty saddled dun raced by and drifted off to a meandering halt.

  Gant came to his feet first, his left hand clutching Glick by the back of the collar and pulling him up with him. He spun the man around to face him and then burying his fist in Glick’s face, hit him with a thudding roundhouse blow.

  Glick’s eyes crossed, then closed as his knees buckled and he slumped unconscious into the dust.

  Caleb smiled to himself as he gazed down on his handiwork. “Thanks for getting the money out of town for me,” he quipped wryly, although Mort Glick couldn’t hear him.

  He stooped, picked up the carpet bag, looked inside and fingered a few bundles of cash. He smiled to himself with satisfaction.

  “I’ll take that.” A raspy, whisper like voice said from behind him.

  Caleb turned, bag still in his arms. A masked rider, clad in black sat in the saddle on a black stallion. Pistol was drawn and aimed at Gant. Gant looked up at the bandit. “Now how did you know about this?” He asked, not expecting an answer. There was a hint of amusement in his voice.

  “Hand it over!” The Whispering Bandit ordered, left arm outstretched, reaching for the bag.

  Without a word, Gant handed it over. He kept his eyes steady, but there was a glint in them.

  “Better I have i
t instead of you,” There seemed to be something softer in the whisper. The bandit hooked the carpet bag’s handle over the saddle pommel. Eyes peering through the holes in the mask drifted to the prone form of Mort Glick lying on the ground.

  “He’s out for a while,” Caleb said. “I decked him good. Can’t hear anything. What happened to the other one?”

  The bandit looked away and then holstered the pistol.

  With a sweep of the hand, the bandit tossed the black Stetson back to fall and hang by its strap between the shoulder blades and with a continuing motion grasped the bottom of the mask and peeled it up off the face and over the head. Jeanne Harding shook her long, dark hair out and it cascaded down on her shoulders. She shook her head letting the locks billow out framing her face.

  “I left him down the road. He’s okay, but he’ll have a big headache for a while.”

  Caleb smiled with a tight lip. There was no look of surprise on his face. He had already guessed the bandit’s identity. That day at the bandit’s hideout when he was watching from above, he had noticed that the bandit did not walk like a man. The slight build and the smaller stature seemed to support his theory.

  Finally, he said. “Doc told you.” Sort of a question, but not really. He knew the answer.

  She nodded. “You’re right, and yes I know Paul Black is Doc Kittridge. I’ve known for some time now,” she said. “And you’re also right that with Dave Bishop or whoever he was, dead, there is no longer any reason to keep up this vendetta. The ranch, what’s left of it, isn’t worth paying off the mortgage and staying around. As for Bart Allen, I’ll let things fall where they may for him. He deserves whatever happens from here on out. Justice doesn’t always come from the law. I’m giving it all up and taking what I have to start over somewhere else. Doc’s going with me. And, The Whispering Bandit is going to disappear forever.”

  “That’s a very wise decision, Jeanne. And no one will ever hear from me who The Whispering Bandit really was.”

  “So how did you know it was me?” She asked.

  “It had to be someone with a grudge against Bishop. That made you prime suspect. He cheated you out of half your ranch and was working to drive you off the rest of it. But, worst of all, you felt he played you for a fool and you wanted to get back at him. You left him and Angie Allen stranded in the hot sun. On their honeymoon, no less. You could have killed them, but that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted to humiliate him. You were quickly on hand when I found the stolen loot in your line shack. I figured you were the one who clobbered me and then hid the money elsewhere. Juan Morales had been able to borrow Bart Allen’s black while I had your horse and you probably had the boy Pablo deliver my horse back to me while I was in church. But, one thing I couldn’t figure. Why did you help me out on Sunday when I was trailing Doc and Hal Beecham?”

  “I was following them to make sure no harm came to Doc. It just happened that I came along while you were being attacked by Muley Jones and Dirk Bennett.”

  “Dirk was supposed to be working for you.”

  “Yes,” she said with a little regret in her voice. “I feel bad for Dirk. He was being used by Beecham, but I was using him too.”

  “Oh, how was that?’

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s all over now.” she lifted the reins and started to turn the black.

  “One more thing,” Caleb interjected. “How did you happen to be here after these two.” He indicated Glick on the ground.

  “I was in town. I passed you on the street, remember. When I saw what was happening with Michael Avery and when these two swiped the carpet bag and headed out of town, I figured it was full of money. I had been keeping my black horse hidden at the church ever since you found my hideout. I didn’t have time to fully change into The Whispering Bandit costume, so I just put on the hat, mask and black duster. I took a shortcut overland to overtake the stage here. I was right about the money, wasn’t I?”

  “Yes, you were,” Caleb grinned. “You are going to give it back to me, aren’t you?”

  “I told you. It’s better off with me.”

  With a flourish, she neck-reined the black, spinning around in a tight circle and kicking up dust. Then with heels to the stallion’s flanks, she rode off back down the trail toward Gila Bend.

  Caleb stood silently, watching until rider and horse were just dark shadows that disappeared into the distance .He glanced toward Mort Glick still lying in the dirt. He was starting to move a little. He groaned.

  Well, Caleb thought, I’ll just leave these two out here to fend for themselves. There’s nothing more for them to get and he was sure they wouldn’t want to try to return to Gila Bend, after the stunt they had just pulled. After all, as The Whispering Bandit had said, “Justice doesn’t always come from the law.”

  ****

  Chapter Twenty One