“I’d say,” said Joseph, “that from this range I could spread your nice white gut all over forty yards of good ground. That is, if n you want to take this matter a whole lot further.”
Joseph laughed and Gideon joined in with him, careful to step back out of range just in case his brother did let fly. He didn’t want to be spread over no forty yards of ground, good or no.
“Way I see it,” Joseph went on, “you been ridin’ Tap over there till you’re fit to bust. Like Gideon just said, wouldn’t hurt none if you was to give your mouth a rest. After all,” Joseph laughed, “anyone can get ’emselves shot in the back.”
Lloyd Majors licked his bottom lip; the muscles in his neck were straining fit to bust. He let his hand slide clear of his gun just the same. Joseph, saying nothing, nodded and set his shotgun on to the ground beside him.
“Okay,” Majors said after a while, “we’re still ridin’ together till we get hold of some spendin’ money. That agreed?”
He looked round the men once more; Levy and Little Kinney glanced at Loughlin and waited for him to say what he thought; as far as they were concerned it was still his show. Baptiste wasn’t about to say anything. The pain that was driving down his spine gave him enough to concentrate on. Loughlin shrugged and sighed and grudgingly nodded.
“And this time,” Majors went on. I’m ridin’ in first time. We don’t want no more accidents.”
Joseph agreed that seemed fair enough. He and Gideon were having their own doubts about Loughlin as a leader, but the way they figured it, the sensible thing was to stick with him until the six thousand from the train was reached. After that, they’d go their own ways. As for Majors, they’d gladly have left him stretched out on the trail if it weren’t for the fact that they needed him when they did hit a place with money worth taking.
~*~
Ozark was on the north bank of the Arkansas River. Ten years back it had been little more than a ferry crossing where the river looped north and the banks were slight enough to allow access. Now it was a pretty thriving place, far enough downriver from Fort Smith to stand on its own feet. Stores and smithies had sprung up to cater for the small farms and the ranches clustered around the fertile land of the river bottoms. Folk came in from south of the Mulberry and west of Piney Creek. Anyone who lived further north than that went to Cass, but that wasn’t so many as to leave Ozark short of spenders.
The Arkansas Mercantile and Banking Company had opened a branch there four years back and the president, one Malcolm Grant, had come out himself to open the place up and see that the manager got the hang of things over the first few days. Steven Cash had worked as an assistant to Grant for several years at the head office in Fort Smith and most of that time he’d been biting back on his tongue and doing what he hoped were the right things to keep in the president’s good books. Now he was his own boss as far as most things went and a life-time’s ambition seemed to have come home to roost. With a name like his, what else could he have aspired to? His folks had joked about it when he’d set his mind on travelling west to make his living, carve a place for himself in the banking business. Now they weren’t laughing, just pleased; more than pleased, according to the last letter he’d had. Delighted. Proud.
Cash had been pretty pleased when the new customer had come in that morning right as soon as Mrs. Chowning had let up the shutters and rolled the green blind up from the glass door front, turning the closed sign so’s it read open.
He was a mild-mannered man, not dressed all that well, but from the way he spoke, he’d bought a good spread to the south and had the money to stock it pretty good. He was making inquiries about the security of the bank for holding the cash he wanted to use on stock and Cash had shown him where the safe was kept and told him how thick it was and how secure the combination system was and things like that. The rancher had asked about guards and Cash had opened his jacket and showed him a derringer set into a nice leather shoulder holster that his wife, Laura, had bought him at the time of his promotion.
“That all?” the man had asked.
Cash had shook his head and pointed out the sawn-off shotgun fixed on pegs underneath the teller’s counter.
“Know how to use it?” the man had joked with the teller.
Buddy Brayfield had blushed and said sure, all you had to do was get it pointed and pull the triggers, wasn’t it?
The potential customer had looked impressed and said, well, yes, he guessed it was.
Cash had called Mrs. Chowning over and asked her to give their new account holder a handout listing all of the bank’s holdings and investments.
“Are you making a deposit this morning?” Mrs. Chowning had asked with a smile. “Mister, er …”
“Mr. Danziger,” the manager informed her.
“Well, no, ma’am, not right now. But I’ll be ridin’ back this way real soon and I’ll be sure to call in. I’m real impressed with the set-up here, I can tell you that.”
Mrs. Chowning smiled and reddened up a little and glanced sideways at Mr. Cash, thinking, as she often did, what a shame it was he was already married. And there so few eligible men around town for a young widow to be interested in.
“Good day, Mr. Danziger,” called Cash as Tap Loughlin moved towards the door. Buddy Bradfield even came round from behind the grille to open the door. Loughlin gave him a friendly grin and stepped out on to the sidewalk.
His horse was tethered to the hitching rail outside the bank and the man standing gazing at it was around twenty-five years of age, wearing an off-white Stetson with a deep crown and a look of suspicion on his clean-shaven face. Loughlin didn’t notice the badge until he was closer still and he’d already made room for his hand to get at his pistol should it come necessary.
“Your horse?”
“Uh-huh.”
Loughlin began to unwind the reins from the rail, taking his time and not seeming at all rattled.
“Had her long?”
Loughlin shook his head. “Couple of weeks, maybe. Bought her down south of here.”
The sheriff looked across the saddle. “You got a bill of sale?”
“Sure.”
The sheriff held out his hand.
“Hold on now,” said Loughlin. “I don’t carry it with me. It’s back at my place, though, if you want to see it.”
“What place is this?”
“Spread down by the Snake.”
“You just stake it out? I ain’t seen you round here before.”
“Bought it,” Loughlin said, gripping the saddle pommel and keeping his right hand close to his gun.
The sheriff set his left hand up against the mare’s bridle.
“Nothin’ wrong, is there, Sheriff Dillon?” It was the bank manager, standing just outside his door, his face earnest and questioning.
“No, Mr. Cash. Maybe not. Had a report of some stock stolen south of here a few days back, that’s all.”
Cash came to the edge of the boardwalk, smiling his professional smile. “Well, let me assure you, Mr. Danziger here is not the kind of man who would knowingly purchase stolen stock. Mr. Danziger’s been visiting today to set up an account with the Arkansas Mercantile. He’s on his way back to his place now that he’s made sure our arrangements for security are satisfactory and he’ll be riding back to town later to make a substantial deposit.” The smile widened. “A substantial deposit.”
The sheriff let go of the bridle and stepped clear. “In that case,” he said, “Mr. Danziger wouldn’t mind bringin’ that bill of sale in with him.”
Loughlin nodded and slipped his boot into the saddle. “That’s right, sheriff. I’ll be sure to do exactly that.”
He set his fingers to the underside of his Stetson. “Good day, gentlemen.”
Sheriff and banker watched him as he rode down the main street, then turned to talk of the town social planned for the coming Saturday.
~*~
“There’s a sheriff who looks a mite sharp,” said Loughlin, “an’ he’ll take a little sittin
’ on. Scott, you can see to that. That apart, it’s goin’ to be easy enough. Damn bank manager’s goin’ to crawl so hard he’s just about goin’ to open the safe an’ throw that money at us.”
“How much d’you reckon?” asked Little Kinney.
Loughlin shrugged. “Anythin’ between a thousand and three or four hundred.”
“That all?” exclaimed Majors.
“It’s enough,” said Joseph. “For now.”
“Split six ways,” said Majors.
Loughlin shook his head. “Seven.”
Majors whirled round and pointed at where Baptiste was stretched out in a blanket. “He ain’t ridin’ with us, he don’t get no share-out.”
“Majors, I told you to keep your mouth out of business as don’t concern you.”
“Well, this does. You want me to risk my neck on account of some lame-brain who gets hisself shot up by a fool old man.”
Loughlin stared hard. “You don’t want to risk your neck, stay out.”
Majors thought for a moment, then threw back his head in a mighty laugh. That’d suit you fine, wouldn’t it? So’s you could ditch me here without a damned thing. I’m comin’ in.”
Loughlin pointed down at Baptiste. “And he gets his cut.”
Majors shrugged. “Okay.”
“Besides,” said Loughlin, going down on to his haunches, “Baptiste ain’t the only one not goin’ into Ozark.”
“What’s your idea, Tap?” asked Levy.
Loughlin waited until he had everyone’s attention. “We ride in heavy-handed, there’s goin’ to be trouble. They’ll spot somethin’ right off. Sheriff ain’t got no more to do as it is than check every horse brand that rides through town.
“Scott, you an’ Gideon there ride down a couple of hours before the rest of us. You take Baptiste with you. He can ride if n you don’t have to travel too fast. The two of you carry on through and wait for us maybe an hour’s journey up the north trail. Gideon, you hang back in case there’s any trouble gettin’ out. Stay where you can use a rifle to snap off any damn posse as might be tailin’. You got that?”
They had. Tap coughed, cleared his throat and went on.
“Kinney, you get into Ozark an hour after them. Take a look around. You see anythin’ unusual like a convention of marshals suddenly hit town, ride back out nice an’ easy and tell us. We’ll skirt Ozark and meet up on the other side. Otherwise, you just get yourself a couple of beers and sit out on the sidewalk, watch the day go by. I’m ridin’ in with Joseph and we’ll head straight for the bank, banker’s expectin’ me so that’s fine. He’ll have a red carpet out on the steps when he sees me headin’ in. Joseph, you stay outside with the horses, keep your eyes skinned up and down that street.”
Tap looked at last at Majors.
“I want you followin’ us into town. No more’n half a mile behind. You want to be in on this, you’re goin’ to be. I’ll stall around inside the bank, passin’ the time of day real pleasant, until you walk in. Then we just stick ’em up and take ’em for all they got.”
He rubbed his hands, one palm across the other. Pointed to the bottle over by Little Kinney, who passed it over. Loughlin wiped his sleeve carelessly across the lip and drank.
“How ’bout this sheriff?” asked Majors.
“Scared?” taunted Loughlin.
“He’s got a fair question,” Levy pointed out.
“Okay. What we do is this. That lawman steps out of his office, appears anywhere along the street while we’re in the bank, Kinney takes him out.”
“Just gun him down?” asked Little Kinney, his uneven-colored eyes uncertain.
“Hell, you can go over an’ talk to him, distract him till you get the drop on him. Get his gun and hammer him over the head with it. I don’t give a damn. Just stop him interferin’.”
“And if he don’t show till we’re on the way out of town?” asked Joseph.
Loughlin smiled quietly. “Then he’s fair game for anyone.” He stood up. “Any more questions?”
Everyone shook their heads. It sounded easy as sneakin’ coffee cake off your maid-aunt’s kitchen shelf without gettin’ whipped for it. Even Lloyd Majors had to admit – though never out loud -that for once it sounded as though Loughlin knew what the hell he was talking about. Come to think of it, he had got them out of that damned pen pretty good, too. And then there was this railroad money that they’d been whisperin’ about amongst themselves, thinkin’ that he didn’t know what was going on. Majors snorted to himself: maybe it’d pay him to stick around with Tap Loughlin longer than either of them had figured.
Chapter Seven
Little Kinney, as you might imagine, wasn’t called that on account of his being small. Neither was he particularly big. Certainly he wasn’t either as tall or as broad as Baptiste and when it came to the two blacks who were now riding with them, well, he didn’t come close. No, the thing was he’d been born with a twin brother, the pair of them difficult to distinguish except for their sizes and Little Kinney’s mixed-up eyes, one blue and the other bright enough green. So when they got old enough not to be crawling around on all fours, Kinney’s brother was called Big Kinney and he was Little Kinney. Had been ever since. It didn’t matter that his twin brother wasn’t around anymore. Hadn’t been since he’d trod on a rattler down near the Texas border.
Little Kinney settled in the rickety wooden chair, one of four that was pushed up against the wall out front of the saloon. Since the boards of the sidewalk were pretty uneven it wasn’t the easiest of tasks to get balanced. But he did and pretty soon he was enjoying the shade from the sun afforded by the saloon’s balcony and the beer, which wasn’t halfway bad. He stretched his legs and yawned a little and thought that he could get used to a life doing nothing much more than this.
He was close to the bottom of his beer and considering whether it was worth disturbing his own comfort to fetch another, when the sheriff appeared in the corner of his vision. Little Kinney held his breath, teeth knocking against the rim of the glass. Under the lowered brim of his brown, sweat-stained hat, out of this green eye, he could see the lawman walking slow and easy up the street, leading a horse. Kinney carefully adjusted himself so that he could see with both eyes. The animal was a high-stepping bay, and from the state of its coat it had that minute come from the livery stable where it had been curried and combed. The sheriff was looking pretty damn spruce, too. Clean-shaven and his shirt white and uncreased, even a little starch around the collar. His pants were thick denim and his gun belt shone more than the bay’s mane when it took the sun. The off-white Stetson was pinched deep at the crown; the badge on the fresh shirt shone not a little itself.
Little Kinney wondered just how good he was, prancing up the high street looking like something out of a rodeo at county fair. He didn’t figure a lawman who was any damn good for real would show himself off that way.
Least, he hoped that to be the case.
He stayed where he was, boot heels hooked round the rung of the chair, while the sheriff walked slowly past. Sheriff Dillon gave him no more than a glance, and that was all Kinney would have expected. He wasn’t any kind of an exceptional man to look at. Finally, the lawman tied up his horse outside the building advertising itself as the sheriff’s office and town jail and, with a final look both ways along the street, went inside out of the sun.
Little Kinney waited a few minutes and then lowered the chair down on to all four legs and got himself another beer.
~*~
Tap Loughlin was wearing a cream alpaca coat he’d taken from the farm they’d robbed after breaking out of the penitentiary. His pistol was tucked down into his belt; he never had liked wearing a proper holster much and never usually did. Baptiste had told him some story about a feller who carried a .45 like that and shot his balls off one day reaching fast for his gun. As a yarn it hadn’t done a lot for Tap’s stomach, but he didn’t see that he was going to be so foolish. He didn’t see himself as any kind of quick-draw specialist anyho
w. Simply liked the butt of his weapon close to hand. Where it was now.
He glanced over at Joseph and was glad that the two Negroes had thrown in with him and the rest of the bunch. They were strong and didn’t seem to mind taking orders, either. God knows, they needed replacements and plenty after that fool business at the train.
Jesus damn!
He pushed back his hat and wiped his arm across under the brim.
“Hot, ain’t it?” grinned Joseph, his face wet with sweat.
Loughlin nodded. “Sure is.”
But he was still running his mind over the debacle of the train. The one thing that didn’t occur to him was that it was in any way Sara-Lee’s fault. She’d been the one who’d put him up to it, persuaded him that it would be a better thing than all those little banks they’d been robbing, and eventually he’d gone along. Her insistence had pushed him into it, but that didn’t matter. He should have got it right, had got it right, but for those damned railroad people sneaking extra men in there and then blasting all hell out of his bunch without giving them a chance.
It weren’t right.
Weren’t right that he hadn’t seen Sara for so long either.
She came back to him now as he rode down towards the ferry that would carry Joseph and himself across the Arkansas and into Ozark. Hair dark as a raven’s wing and spectacles she wore from all that reading - and when she took them off and the light caught the dark brown of her eyes!
“Terry’s over here an’ waitin’,” called Joseph.
“Yeah,” mumbled Tap, as if from a dream. “Yeah, sure. Okay.”
~*~
When they grounded on the north bank of the river, the substantial figure of Lloyd Majors was waiting back on the bottom shore. Everything was going according to plan; like it had the time they were taking the bank money from the AT&SF. Only that thought didn’t occur to Loughlin. There was nothing, as he rode along the broad main street, to trouble his mind.
Joseph was half a length behind him. There were few others around. An old timer sitting on the left-hand side of the street, Little Kinney instantly recognizable to Loughlin down opposite, his chair leaning back against the saloon wall. Out front of the sheriff’s office there was a handsome looking bay. A mule-drawn high-sided wagon was coming down in the other direction, a one-armed man holding the reins, a skinny kid of around eleven or twelve up there beside him.
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