Robert glanced over to the tables that had filled up since he’d started gabbing with the professor. “Not much of a surprise considering the excitement. Speaking of that, I hear you might have some interesting tales to tell since you were at the bank and all.”
“You’re interested in my stories? I thought you already had plenty of your own.”
“More is always good,” he said with a wink. “Gives me some good stuff for the regulars. You know how folks come in to a watering hole like this and expect to hear colorful chatter from the man behind the bar.”
“Yes, I do know about colorful chatter,” Whiteoak replied. The smile he showed to Robert was tired, but genuine. “I’ll be back later. You have my word that I’ll be much more talkative then.”
Holding his fingers like a thin pistol and aiming them at Whiteoak, the barkeep said, “I’ll hold you to that.” After pulling his invisible trigger, he set his sights on the next man at his bar and dug into a fresh conversation.
Whiteoak left the Dove Tail and strode outside, tipping his hat to all the familiar faces he spotted along the way. Not surprisingly, there were more than a few unfamiliar faces who recognized him right away. The professor tipped his hat to them as if they were old friends and moved along.
He hadn’t been in town for long, but was already piecing more of Barbrady together like a map in his mind being sketched and colored bit by bit. No matter how sharp Whiteoak’s eye might have been, he would need to get a closer look if he wanted to get a clearer picture of what had gone on. For that, he needed to return to the Bank of Barbrady.
“Perhaps I should have another drink first,” he muttered as the scent of burnt gunpowder became stronger in the air.
Instead, the professor steeled his resolve and soldiered on.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Now that the shooting had stopped, the street outside the bank was mostly quiet. Folks still went about their business, walking to and from the various businesses nearby. They even entered and exited the bank itself as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. That, along with the whiskey he’d drunk, helped settle Whiteoak’s jangled nerves as he approached the bank’s front door.
“Hello, Professor Whiteoak,” said a young man who stood behind the second teller’s cage in a row of four. “What can I do for you?”
The teller wasn’t really a young man in the strictest sense of the word. He may have been a year or two shy of Whiteoak’s thirty-four, but he was a spring chicken compared to the rest of the wrinkled faces he’d seen that day. Tipping his hat, Whiteoak stepped up to the counter and said, “Looks like it’s business as usual, and on such an unusual day.”
“Not exactly, but we can’t exactly close on the third Tuesday of the month.”
“Ah, yes. Lots of banking to be done, I suppose.”
There was a subtle shift in the teller’s features. While nothing more than a little twitch to the inexperienced eye, a seasoned poker player would pick up on a hint of nervousness.
“What can I do for you, Professor?”
Leaning one elbow on the counter, Whiteoak said, “I’m surprised you remember me.”
“That was an impressive show you put on.”
“Did you purchase any of my tonics?”
“Oh, I meant what happened earlier today. You charged right in to lend the sheriff a hand. Very impressive.”
“Yes. I wish I could have been there for the poor woman who wasn’t so lucky.”
“I wish that too,” the teller said as he shuffled some papers in front of him just a bit too hard. His knuckles whitened and tense lines showed around his eyes. Any man who would have missed that was either blind or dead. “But business moves along.”
“And why is that?” Whiteoak asked.
“We do what we’re told. I’m sure you’ve worked for bosses before.”
“While I run my own affairs now, I know all too well what it’s like to be on someone else’s payroll. They crack the whip and we jump. Am I right?”
“Very true.”
No, Whiteoak thought. The teller wasn’t merely upset with having to carry on like this was a normal day. There was something more. Something else was eating away at him. Every one of Whiteoak’s senses told him as much.
“The owner of this bank must have some important matters today,” Whiteoak pressed.
“He always does.”
“Perhaps I could have a word with him? Maybe a voice from a concerned outsider could open your employer’s eyes to the callousness of his policies.”
A smile tugged at the corners of the teller’s mouth, only to be quickly suppressed. “You might have better luck with that than any of us.”
“And I imagine the owner of this institution was already bent out of shape after what was stolen.”
“Only one of those robbers got away and he didn’t take much with him. Just some of the loose cash from a few of the drawers.”
“Not that,” Whiteoak said. “I mean what was stolen before. You know, from those offices not too far from here.”
“I don’t know about that,” the teller said, even though White-oak could tell the true story was quite different.
“The only reason I ask is because I’d like to know how safe a place like this is before I open an account.”
“I can assure you it’s perfectly safe,” the teller said. “As you saw for yourself after today of all days, the Bank of Barbrady can weather any storm. In fact, I believe you’re acquainted with the Keag family.”
“I am.”
“Byron Keag made a deposit before the robbery occurred and his money is secure in our safe.”
Raising his eyebrows, Whiteoak said, “That is impressive. Even so, I’d like to get a look at that safe.”
“Why?”
“My funds are considerable,” Whiteoak replied. “And I need to be absolutely certain my money will be secure. And, after today of all days, you must see why a man in my position would like to have some assurances before committing to the Bank of Barbrady.”
Glancing over his shoulder, the teller said, “It’s still a mess back there.”
“And it’s a mess in here,” Whiteoak said while gesturing to the fresh bullet holes in the wall to his right. “But business must go on.” Sensing that he was falling out of the teller’s good graces, Whiteoak added, “After putting my neck on the line and witnessing the demise of that poor soul today, I want to speak to the owners of this bank about a few things. I’d like to do so, not only as a concerned and upstanding businessman, but as a nigh-deputized member of this town’s law and an account holder as well.”
“You were deputized?”
“Not yet,” Whiteoak pointed out. “Nigh. I am nigh-deputized.”
“What’s that mean?”
Normally, it was a safe bet that people wouldn’t admit to being lost by a fancy turn of phrase. Losing that bet, on the other hand, put Whiteoak at risk of looking foolish as well as ignorant. “It means, almost,” the professor said, fairly certain he was correct. “Anyway, I have considerable funds and don’t think my request is out of line, even considering the circumstances.”
There was just enough ire in the professor’s tone to push through the awkward moment he’d created. The teller nodded and quickly shut the drawers beneath his section of the counter. “Of course. Although, I can’t guarantee much more than a glimpse.”
“That should be more than sufficient.”
Whiteoak was led around the counter to a narrow door that nearly came off its hinges when it was opened. A quick inspection was all Whiteoak needed to verify the door had recently been busted open. On the other side of the cracked frame was another, much sturdier, door.
“There,” the teller said while motioning to the tall, cast-iron door of a large safe. “As you see, our safe is still quite formidable.”
“Yes, formidable indeed,” Whiteoak said. “Let’s get a look at the inside.”
“The inside?”
“Yes. Inside the va
ult. Let’s have a look.” When all he got was confused silence, Whiteoak asked, “Isn’t that a fairly common request?”
“Not really, no.”
Another customer entered the bank and loudly cleared his throat to catch the teller’s attention. Whiteoak tapped his foot and stared at the man in front of him as though they were the only folks in town.
“I’m not asking for a peek into every nook and cranny,” the professor assured him. “Just for reassurances that this isn’t some ruse to gain the confidence of large depositors like me.”
“A ruse?”
“You know. A trick.”
“Yes,” the teller snapped. “I know what a ruse is. After everything you’ve seen and all that’s happened, you think I would want to deceive you by showing some sort of trick vault?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Whiteoak said with a shrug he knew wouldn’t be well received.
The teller reacted even better than Whiteoak had hoped. All of the anger, fear and frustration that came along with being put through an ordeal like the one that had transpired earlier that day built to a head and promptly exploded. For a second, the professor felt a little bad about how easy it had been to push the other man over that edge.
“You think this is a trick?” the teller growled. “You think we have nothing more important to do than build stage dressing to impress the likes of you? One of us was killed today and you think it was all to protect some sort of lie to make this bank look good?”
Whiteoak ignored the disdain in the teller’s voice as well as the aggression in his movements so he could focus all his attention on that safe. According to every instinct at his disposal, he wouldn’t have very long.
The heavy iron door would most certainly require some bit of effort to open. The hinges looked sturdy and the manufacturer was difficult to determine from where he was standing.
“Looks like there’s some wear and tear,” Whiteoak said.
“We were just robbed,” the teller huffed.
“What’s going on here?” asked a man in a voice that sounded almost as well polished as the cedar trim in the lobby.
The teller straightened up quicker than a cabin boy in the presence of his captain while Whiteoak turned as though he’d barely heard the stern voice. It would have taken a deaf man, on the other hand, to miss the sound of dress shoes knocking against the floorboards. “I’m here as a potential depositor,” the professor said while turning on the balls of his feet. “My name’s—”
“I know who you are,” the other man said, ignoring the friendly hand Whiteoak offered. He was in his late sixties with the tough, weathered skin of someone who’d spent every one of those days under an unforgiving sun. His thick white hair was combed back into a mane and the spectacles he wore were attached to the bridge of a sharp, angular nose. “Everyone knows who you are, Professor Whiteoak.”
“I’m honored.”
“Why are you here?”
Retracting his hand, Whiteoak asked, “Does a customer need a reason to be in your bank?”
“To be this close to the safe on such a trying day, yes.”
“Mister Bailey,” the teller said nervously, “I was showing him that our safe is still intact.”
“Of course it is,” Bailey said, staring so intently at Whiteoak that he nearly fogged the lenses of his spectacles. “The men who thought otherwise are dead and buried.”
“All of them?” asked the professor.
Somehow, Bailey poured even more consternation into his gaze when he said, “Enough of them. You happened to be in the vicinity and somehow fought back the urge to turn tail and run. That’s not exactly the heroic story I’m sure you’ve been telling anyone who’ll listen.”
“Then you must not have been wearing your eyeglasses, sir,” Whiteoak said tersely. “All I wanted was to open an account.”
“Where’s your money?”
“I’d rather bury it in a hole than put it in this place,” the professor replied.
With a sneer, Bailey said, “Then get out of my sight and find yourself a shovel.”
For a few seconds, both men eyed each other. They sized up one another like two boxers circling a ring after already having traded several testing blows. In the middle of that, the teller squeaked, “This really is my fault, sir. I shouldn’t have brought him here.”
“Nonsense,” Bailey said. “We have nothing to hide from our customers. Once Mister Whiteoak decides to be a customer, he’ll be more than welcome to see where his assets will be kept. Until then, he surely realizes this is not the time to come in here and harass our tellers.”
“You’re right, of course,” Whiteoak said. “Forgive me. It seems we’re all a bit wound up. I’ll come back with my funds and discuss opening that account.”
“And it will be our pleasure to help you with that.”
Some lies were smooth, floating through the air like a slip of paper. Mister Bailey’s was a blunt instrument wrapped in spiteful disrespect.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The frosty reception he’d gotten from the manager at Barbrady’s financial institution stuck with Professor Whiteoak for about three minutes. That was the amount of time it took him to walk down Trader Avenue all the way to Second Street where he’d spotted a nice barber shop. Whatever hostility he carried with him during that short journey would be washed away by warm water and fragrant lather. A few swipes from a straight edge in the hands of an old man who weighed less than the smock he wore would put the professor right back into his cordial frame of mind.
“Tell me something, Salvatore,” Whiteoak said while stretching out in the barber’s chair. “Why is everyone in this town so old?”
“We’ve all lived long lives, I suppose,” the fossil of a man replied. “Isn’t that how it works?”
“I suppose so, in general, but why do so many old folks live here? Did Barbrady drop off the map as far as new settlers are concerned? Is there some kind of ill effect from the sun in this particular region of Kansas?”
“This is just a quiet town where important men come to enjoy their twilight years.”
“Important, you say?” Whiteoak asked. “How important?”
“Well, let’s see,” Salvatore mused while snipping at Whiteoak’s sideburns. “I can think of at least three cattle barons, one timber baron . . .”
“Never heard of a timber baron.”
“If there’s money to be made in something, there’s a man out there who makes enough to become a baron.”
“What about medicine?”
Salvatore shrugged. “I suppose so.”
Whiteoak’s gaze drifted to the large mirror taking up most of the wall directly in front of him. “Baron Whiteoak. Now that has a ring to it.”
Like any good barber or someone working for gratuities, Salvatore nodded sincerely and said, “That, it does.”
“So, all these important gentlemen just decided to come out to the middle of Kansas. Why not someplace near the ocean or close to some mountains?” Whiteoak asked.
“I’ve lived here all my life. Seems like a perfectly good spot to me. Better than Saint Louis, anyhow.”
“I’ve been to Saint Louis and there are some fine eateries out there.”
“If you say so.”
“So all these rich fellows come together,” Whiteoak said, veering sharply back to the previous topic, “and they all put their money in the bank.”
“Where else would they put it?”
The professor fell silent as he thought about everything he’d heard and seen throughout the day. He liked taking time to contemplate while in a barber’s chair because he could say anything at all and most barbers would roll with the verbal punches. Or he could not say a word at all and be left in peace. Whiteoak got the same results talking to his horse and always the option of talking to nobody at all, but that would be crazy.
“So,” Whiteoak said, “these upstanding businessmen decided to live the quiet life out here. Makes sense I suppose. Lik
e-minded people frequently make good neighbors. Many a town has sprung up that way.”
“Upstanding?” the barber snorted. “I guess.”
And there was the nibble for which Whiteoak had been hoping. “You don’t agree?” he asked.
Whiteoak could see Salvatore shrug in the mirror as he muttered, “Who am I to say? I suppose they’re friendly enough.”
“Some of the most despicable men I’ve met have been friendly,” Whiteoak pointed out. “Even the devil wore a smile when he offered his fruit to Eve.”
“Got a point there. Eh, I don’t know much. Just what I hear around this shop and most of that’s got to be rumor.”
“Are you finished with my haircut?”
“Yes.”
“What about a shave?”
“I could start on one if you’d like,” Salvatore said hopefully.
“Shave away, my good man. And since we have time, regale me with these salacious rumors you’ve heard.”
Between the additional fees he’d be collecting for the shave and the chance to gossip with a willing customer, the barber’s face lit up in the mirror like a flash of reflected sunlight. “The main fellows around here are the group of men who put Barbrady together. We call ’em the Founding Four.”
“As in the Founding Fathers? Very prestigious.”
“Between them, they’re responsible for plenty of jobs all over the country and a few others as well. There’s Jeremy Christian who made his fortune digging whatever he could out of the ground or scrape off a rock. Copper, gold, silver, guano, whatever could be put on the open market, he delivered. Then there’s Michael Davis. He runs more lumber mills than I can count between here and Oregon. Also, there’s Adam Bailey.”
“Mister Bailey and I have met.”
“Sounds to me like you ain’t too happy about that.”
“Granted, it has been a rough day for him with the bank being robbed and all. Even so . . .”
“He was a prick?”
“I was searching for a more diplomatic turn of phrase,” Whiteoak chuckled, “but yes. That about covers it.”
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