by W. L. Heath
Mr. Walker cleared his throat. “Ted, I don’t believe we need to go into all that. Just tell us what happened about the robbery part.”
“Yes, sir. Well, there’s not much to tell. Out came the guns and they went to work. They lined us up along the left side there, facing the windows, and while one of them pointed his gun at us, the other two pulled all the shades and started taking the money. They had a couple of sacks, just like potato sacks, rolled up in their pockets. When they got all the paper money out of the safe, they told us we’d all have to go in the vault. One of them kept saying, ‘Nobody will get hurt. Just do like we say.’”
Ted licked his lips and his eyes widened a little remembering it.
“Go ahead, Ted.”
“Well,” he said, “we started to file into the vault, just like they told us – there wasn’t a thing else we could do, of course – and then all at once we heard somebody at the door. It was Mr. Reeves coming back from the drugstore, and I guess he couldn’t understand why the bank was closed. You see, it still wasn’t quite closing time. Well, everybody just sort of froze again and looked toward the door. I could see his shadow through the blind and I knew it must be Mr. Reeves. ‘Sit tight,’ this one fellow says to the other two. ‘He’ll go away.’ But of course he didn’t. It was Mr. Reeves and he unlocked the door with his key. When they saw the door opening, the one fellow says, ‘Shoot him, Preacher.’ just like that. I swear to God it made my flesh crawl the way he said it. Just as calm and pleasant as you’d say ‘Pass me the salt.’ I remember he called him Preacher. ‘Shoot him, Preacher,’ he said. And he did. He was a tall man and he had one of these little gadgets deaf people wear in his ear. He shot him, I think it was three times. It was a terrible racket – you know how things echo in a bank – and Miss Cotter and Miss Cheek both begun to scream.”
Ted paused and drew a deep breath.
“Well, right about then, before even the last shot was fired, Miz Fairchild jumped at him or tried to shove him or something, and he shot her too. Jake – that’s Jake Pratt – he thought she tried to stab him with a pen off the desk there. But I didn’t see it that way. I think she was just trying to shove him. Anyway, I guess she was trying to save Reeves, but it was too late for that. It was a pointless thing to do. All it did was get her shot.
“They shoved us all in the vault then, and you know the rest of it.”
Shelley didn’t know how long he worked at the ropes with the knife, but he knew it was too long, and a sick feeling of despair came over him.
I’m too late, he thought. By now it’s over with and I’m in more trouble than ever. They may come back any minute. They’ll blow my brains out. I’m a fool to ever have tried this in the first place. I should have stayed where I was and maybe I’d have come out of it in one piece. No, you can’t do that though. You’ve got to try. I never could live with myself if something happened at that bank, maybe to Helen, and me lying up there afraid to move. No, I did the right thing. I had to at least try. A man has to think of something besides himself once in a while, if he’s the man he thinks he is. Now I’ve killed me a man and if I don’t get out of here I’m as good as dead myself, but still it was the only thing to do. Maybe I can still throw a stop in them. If I could just get out to that truck.
He sawed steadily at the ropes, but with his hands behind him and the blade held backward in his hand, it was a slow process. The knife wasn’t very sharp. When he tried to exert pressure on the blade with the heel of his hand it slipped off or turned in his grip, and he knew the only hope was to just keep sawing lightly, trying to keep the bite of the blade in the same place.
If only I could see what I’m doing, he thought.
The rope they had tied him with was heavy cotton cord, the kind used with window weights, and it was brand new and tough. It cut into his wrists like a tourniquet and his hands were numb from the lack of circulation. The tips of his fingers tingled and the nails felt swollen. The wrist of his right hand ached and turned weak because of the way he had to hold it bent far around to reach the cord with the knife blade.
I’ll never make it, he thought. I’ll still be sitting right here when they get back. I’m a dead son of a bitch. When they see what I’ve done they’ll kill me sure as the world.
The rain spattered over the tin roof of the barn, and the warm musty smell of manure and hay and harness leather hung heavily on the damp air. A big brown rat darted out of a stall, saw Shelley and darted back again.
I used to like a barn, Shelley thought. When we were kids we used to play in the barn and I used to like it fine. I don’t like it now, brother. I hope I never see another barn. Look at that Negro, he’s not dead. Look at that shoulder though. Christ Amighty, I can’t look at that shoulder, it must be in a hell of a mess. Look at that hand there how it’s beginning to swell. His whole arm must be swelling up like a sausage. Jesus.
Shelley looked away and shook his head, still sawing steadily at the rope. The sweat ran down his face and into his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He blew it out of his mouth and tried to blink it out of his eyes.
Yeah, up in the barn loft, he thought. I used to like that, didn’t I? I used to like it what we did up in the loft. Me and Johnny Stringer and that cousin of his that used to come to visit. What was her name? Mildred somebody, wasn’t it? That’s a hell of a thing to think of now, but I’ve got to think of something. Up in the barn loft. I used to like it how she talked. I guess I learned plenty from that little gal all right. That’s a hell of a thing to think about at a time like this. I’ve got to think of something though, I’m shaking like a leaf. I wonder if Helen ever went up in the loft with anybody. I wonder if she got out of that bank, is what I really wonder. Chances are, though, that nobody was hurt. Nobody would try to resist them, surely. Wouldn’t it be nice if Helen forgot to go to the bank today? She wouldn’t though, not Helen. This is one time I wish to God something would slip her mind. Probably she’ll enjoy it, once it’s all over. She’ll get a kick out of telling about it. “I was in the bank when it was robbed.” Women are like that. I imagine she got out before it happened though. If they left home when they said they were, they would have been through at the bank by two-thirty. Unless they stopped somewhere first for a coke. Lord, please don’t let her be in that bank. Please let everything go smooth and without any trouble, because I’m too late now to help. Too goddam late.
He gave an angry jab with the knife. It turned in his grip and he dropped it.
“Dammit!” he said aloud. “Now where did it go?”
He groped over the ground behind him, touched the end of it and strained to pick it up. When he did, he felt the rope break. A warm flush of relief went over him.
I made it, he thought. By God, she broke!
He fumbled nervously at the loose rope, unwinding it and shaking it off over his hands. In another minute his hands were free. He brought them around in front of him and felt a sharp pain run through both shoulders and down the length of his arms. He rubbed his wrists and flexed his fingers and worked his arms and then he cut the rope around his ankles. His hands were trembling.
He got up and ran out of the barn and down the muddy clay path toward the truck, not stopping to use the gate but crawling through the barbed wire. He hung his sleeve on the wire and ripped it open to the cuff, but he didn’t even look down. He yanked the door open on the truck and climbed in. Then he noticed the key was not in the ignition.
What’s the matter with me? he thought. I must be panicked. I’ve got to think about what I’m doing. The key’s probably in the man’s pocket. I should’ve thought of that before I came out here.
He got out and started running back toward the barn. Then all at once he stopped and looked up the road. A car was coming. A green Ford. He stood paralyzed for a moment watching the car. It stopped some fifty yards away and the doors breeched open on both sides at once. One of the men, the one in the Panama hat, got out and raised his pistol in both hands and held it at arm’s length. He
was taking a good aim. Shelley ducked and started for the barn again just as the first bullet slammed into the fender of the truck. The second shot hit the ground behind him as he ran and kicked up a splatter of red mud. The man tried again as Shelley was going through the fence, but it was a wide miss, and now they were all three running down the road toward him in the rain.
The shotgun was lying under the Negro’s left leg, partially covered by loose hay, and Shelley had to roll him over to get at it. He dodged into the door of a stall and got ready. He heard the men come through the fence and heard them running toward the barn, but then there was silence suddenly. Shelley knelt at the door of the stall, his heart pounding, and tried to watch both ends of the barn at once.
I’ve got just about half a chance, he thought. It’s a matter of who sees who first, I guess. All right. I’ll get one of them. If it’s the last act of my life, I’ll get at least one of them.
“Hello in there!”
Shelley listened with surprise, not knowing whether to answer or not.
They may be trying to locate me by the sound of my voice, he thought. I’ll keep my mouth shut and let them guess. I’m in a hell of a mess now. Why didn’t I get out of here while the getting was good? Why didn’t I think to just drive away in the damn truck?
“Slick?”
Shelley smiled angrily. “Slick hell,” he whispered. “Slick don’t hear you.”
He looked at the man lying at the foot of the ladder with his hands twitching feebly. There was a long silence and then Shelley thought he heard somebody walking around the south end of the barn. He eased the safety off the gun and got set. Nothing happened. Through the open doors of the barn he could see nothing but a rainy empty stretch of pasture and distant trees.
They’re wondering what to do, he thought. I’ve got them bluffed, I do believe. The first one that steps in that door is a dead man, and they know it. I’d hate to kill a man, but I’m a son of a bitch if I won’t do it. The first one in. He’s it. He’s as good as dead when he makes up his mind to try it.
There was another long silence and Shelley’s hands sweated against the metal of the gun. After a while he heard the truck door slam shut.
They were checking on the gun, he thought. They sent one of them down there to make sure I had it. Now they know they’re stymied. Now’s when the fun begins.
“Hey, you in there!”
“Come on in!” Shelley called.
Another silence.
“Throw the key to the truck to us and we’ll leave you alone!”
I bet, Shelley thought.
“You hear us?”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“We’re coming in after it, if you don’t throw it out!”
“Come ahead!”
Silence fell again. The rain rattled on the roof. The man moaned and his hands twitched in the hay.
I’ll shoot you too, Shelley thought, looking at him. I got nothing to gain and everything to lose now, brother. I’ll fix that shoulder up for you with some buckshot.
“You want us to take your own car?” one of the men called to him. “We’ll leave your car and let you alone if you’ll throw out the key to us!”
He’s probably telling the truth, Shelley thought. They want out of here bad. But I’ve come this far, I may as well stick it out. They won’t come in this barn. They’re not that stupid. I’ve got them where I want them now and I’d be a woman to give in, just to save my own hide.
Suddenly a shot smashed through the wall of the barn and kicked up a fountain of loose hay. Shelley jumped and his knees went weak.
“Missed me a mile!” he yelled back angrily. Then he thought, you better keep your mouth shut or they won’t miss next time.
But there was no more shooting, only silence and the rain falling on the tin roof.
He heard a murmur of voices, then a new voice shouted, “We’ll burn you out, if you don’t throw us that key!”
I’d like to see you try it, Shelley thought. In this rain you’d have to be inside to set this barn on fire. And the first one inside is a dead man, in this barn.
But then he thought of something that gave him a sinking feeling. What if they brought up gas from the truck and poured it under the walls? They could start it then all right. No, he thought, they haven’t got time for that. Time is running out on them. They’re bound to be after them by now. They’ll try and make it in my car before they’ll waste that much time. I’ve got them stymied all right. All I have to do is sit tight. I’ve got the drop on those boys.
Then through the cracks along the left wall, he saw someone moving. He could see a dark flicker along the cracks and that could mean only one thing: someone was walking by out there. He got ready again, and all at once something hit the wall of the barn just inside the rear door. He whirled around and saw a big rock roll out across the hall of the barn; then somebody shot at him from the other side, and when he looked back the tall man was standing there framed in the big open doorway, shooting at him, and the bullets were hitting the planking of the stall above his head with a sound like heavy nails being driven up. He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger and pumped out the smoking hull and fired again, feeling the heavy gun kick against his ribs. The second charge hit the man in the knees and knocked his legs out from under him so that he flopped forward on his face. When Shelley shot him the third time he took aim at the crown of his Panama hat and then turned away so he would not have to see what it had done to him.
Now the other two were running, trying to get back to the car. Shelley scooped up a handful of shells from beside the Negro and went through the rear door of the barn on the run, trying to head them off. He loaded the gun as he ran, dropping half the shells in his haste; and then suddenly he stopped. The heavy-set man with the undershot jaw was hung in the fence. He had tried to go through without putting down the sack he carried, and that was a bad mistake. The top wire had dragged his hat off and snagged the shoulder of his coat, and now he was working to get the coat off, straddling the second wire and bent far over, stuck like a pig in a fence. Shelley walked deliberately toward him, gritting his teeth, and at the last minute the man turned his head and raised one hand the way a man might do to ward off a snowball. Shelley shot him again and again until the gun was empty and the shell cases lay all around him on the wet ground.
The other man was gone now, running through the cornfield across the road and into the big sycamore swamp that faced the barn.
The fat man hung in the fence, one arm still swinging loosely from the impact of the last shot charge, as Shelley walked past him toward the gate. Shelley dropped the gun and leaned against the fence in the rain. Then after a minute or two he bent forward weakly and vomited over his shoes.
The Carringtons and Fairchilds had been taken into the hospital annex where Dr. Clemmons and his wife lived, to wait for news of Emily’s condition. They were all there except Mr. Fairchild, who had not yet been reached in Birmingham, and Boyd, who had stayed in the emergency room with Emily. Uncles and aunts and cousins of both families were there, some standing in little groups along the hall, others crowded discreetly into the small living room. Several friends were there too – Mrs. Byjohn and Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, and Emily’s friend Madge Whittaker. Madge was the only one to cry. She sat far back in a corner near the canary’s cage and sniffled into her handkerchief. Mr. Shallowford, the Baptist minister, was standing with his hands clasped behind him, gazing out the window at the falling rain. From time to time he would rock back and forth on the balls of his feet.
Mrs. Carrington was the predominant figure though, because her anguish was the greatest. She was lying pale and still on the couch, like the principal character at the opening of a play, and Judge Carrington was sitting close beside her with his raincoat still on, holding her hand. They had been like that, without speaking, for nearly half an hour.
At ten minutes till four Dr. Clemmons came walking quietly down the hall. He was wearing neither a coat nor ve
st, and the collar of his shirt was turned under, as if he had been about to shave. His face glistened with sweat. When he saw how many there were, he stopped and asked one of the men to go in for the Judge.
Judge Carrington came out and looked at him. Dr. Clemmons put his arm around the Judge’s back, and together they went slowly away up the hall.
“She’s gone, Judge. I’m sorry. There was nothing we could do.”
Chapter Nine
At seven o’clock that evening Sugarfoot was out at West End in a cafe called Rebecca’s, eating his supper. Saturday was his night off, and he was dressed for it. He had on the two-tones Mr. Kober had given him, a black pin-stripe suit, a pink satin shirt and a yellow tie, and a wide fuzzy gray hat with a red feather sticking up from the band. The two-tones were a trifle small, and he’d had to make a couple of razor slits along the sides where the little toes pressed, but they still looked as good as new. Mr. Kober couldn’t wear the shoes because they rubbed his heels. They rubbed Sugar’s heels too, but he could put up with it whereas Mr. Kober couldn’t. Sugar had ordered a catfish sandwich and a bowl of chili and he was talking to Nish and Jim Calloway as he ate. There was only one topic of conversation in West End that night – in all of Morgan, for that matter.
“Well, it was a awful thing,” Nish said. “I declare, that poor Miz Fairchild.”
“Ain’t it the truth?” Sugar said. “And you know one thing? I come right by in front of that bank not five minutes before it all happen. I could just as easy of got in the way and got shot up some myself. If I’d been a minute later, good-by Sugar.”
“You lucky,” Jim said. “I understand that colored man they had with them got a broken neck out of it.”