Shotgun Charlie

by Ralph Compton

  “Why, how you doing, old-timer? Look at that,” said the face, leaning closer and staring at Muley’s now useless, bleeding shoulder. “I done a right pretty job of that, if’n I do say so.”

  And then the man was gone from sight, leaving only the quavering echo of a rattling laugh. And that was all Muley Timmons knew, for he lost consciousness and then expired, as he was about to deposit another tidy little sum earned shambling about his gold claim four miles east of town.

  “You all see that?” shouted Grady Haskell. “I done for that old man because he was standing in my way.” He waved his brace of revolvers, smoke still dribbling from the snout of one. “Let that be a lesson to you all. We are in the process of robbing the very short pants off this here bank, and not a one of you will argue with me or me and my friends here will lay you low.”

  A woman to Grady’s left, all tarted up in a bustle and some sort of flowery topper with a feather poking out of it, began giving voice to a scream. She looked to be carrying a few extra pounds beneath a corset that rippled as she began squawking.

  Grady reacted fast, like a snake striking, and let his left hand lash out of its own will, snapping hard against the vile creature’s puffy face. Enough force was delivered that her head snapped backward, surprise on her big eyes. Grady saw the whole thing as if time had slowed. The hairy back of his hand mashed into her soft features. Her nose flattened; then something inside it snapped under his knuckles, and her head whipped backward, the hat with it. She dropped, and a wet, gagging sound bubbled up from her face.

  He waved his bloodied backhand at the room in general. “Any other of you all care to taste this delicious recipe, you come on over to my house and I’ll dose you up with a whole heaping plateful.”

  As he spoke he glanced at the other men, all standing where they were supposed to be, guns drawn now—good. At least he didn’t have to instruct them in that. All this was taking much longer than he’d expected. It hadn’t been but a few short minutes since he walked into the bank, but already the ball was rolling faster than he had wanted.

  All these thoughts played out in Haskell’s mind as he snagged a young man behind the counter. The man’s starched collar broke free in front and separated, giving him a comical look. As soon as he’d seen Grady bolt toward him, the young man began blubbering. Then he froze, wet himself, and weakly held up his trembling hands.

  “Where’s my money?” Grady barked hard into the man’s left ear. The man replied with a sound equal parts whipped dog and thrashed child. Grady repeated his request and the young man raised a trembling arm aloft. He pointed toward a door at the far end of the narrow room. It had to be the bank president’s office.

  Grady strode for it, swung the door wide, scanned the room and saw . . . no one. Then he heard a slight scuffing sound, as though a boot toe had been dragged but an inch. And it came from behind the desk. He made for the mammoth piece of mahogany furniture, paused before it, and delivered a hearty kick to its front. The wood cracked and from behind it, he heard a pinched whimper, as if someone had clapped a hand over a sobbing mouth.

  The thief smiled and edged around the desk. He leaned low, his revolver poking between the chair and the space below the desk. “There you are!”

  Haskell reached in and dragged the man out by the collar. “You must be the president of this here fine bank.”

  The man nodded, his tiny eyes wet, his fat face bunching above his string tie.

  Grady thumbed back once on the hammer and pressed the snout of the barrel into the soft man’s temple. “I am about to make a significant withdrawal and I need you to open that big ol’ safe of yours. Hear me?”

  The man swallowed but didn’t acknowledge Grady’s question.

  Grady cranked the hammer all the way back, to the deadly position, and said, slower, “You hear me?”

  This time the fat banker nodded, a string of drool trickling from his mouth, tears leaking from his eye corners.

  “Good. Now, you’re going to cut a trail straight for that vault, right quick. And if you slow down, I am going to kick you in the backside. Got that?”

  Once more the man nodded.

  Grady released the man and kicked him in his wide rump, eliciting a whimper. “You’ll have to move faster than that!” His laughter trailed the fat banker to the safe.

  Grady followed close behind, sticking to his task. He trusted that Mex was doing his appointed job, keeping the other two tellers—and any other bank employees—in sight, and preventing them from hauling out bravado guns from secret spots under the counter.

  Grady had said he’d get the bank’s big safe opened while Ace and Dutchy made their way around back and emptied the tellers’ drawers into the flour sacks Grady had provided them all with. While all this ruckus went on, Simp was posted at the door, standing to the side, peeking through the ample glass toward the outside. He kept his own double scattergun leveled low but ready to swing.

  Grady had told him not to worry about being vocal should anyone on the outside look as though they suspected a disturbance within the bank. But he also told him to let in anyone who looked as though they were headed in to conduct business. It would also be Mex’s job to make sure any and all within the bank emptied their pockets and watch pockets into a flour sack.

  And all that looked as if it might be happening. Except for the halfhearted shouts from Simp at the door. “Hey . . . boss . . . people outside. They’s . . .”

  “They’re what? Speak up, you jackass!”

  “Well, they’re . . . fixin’ to come in, I’d say.”

  “Great—the more wallets the better.” Grady’s words were interspersed with the sound of hard slaps he was delivering to the bank president’s jowly face. He didn’t want to cut the fat man yet. He still had to open the vault door.

  “Don’t think I won’t gut you like a fresh-caught fish, fat man, but you can make it easier on yourself by opening that big black safe! Now!”

  Whack! He drove a half punch to the man’s neck, but all that did was double Fatty over and make him gag. Then Simp shouted from the door, “Yeah, boss. They definitely got wind of something. They’re milling out there like ducks on a pond. I expect they’re waiting on the marshal.”

  “Simp . . . ,” Grady growled, spittle flecking from his wide-spread, tight lips. “Stop telling me bad news!” He drove another fist to the president’s head that dropped the chunky man to his knees. “I told you I want you to open that there big safe with all my money in it!”

  “What?” shouted Simp from the doorway.

  “Shut up, you idiot! I am talking to this here banker!”

  The bank president’s trembling hands eventually found the correct combination. A few metallic clicks and pops, a couple of spins on what looked to Grady like a ship’s wheel, and the door slowly opened outward, tugged on by the sobbing, sweaty fat banker.

  “Much obliged,” said Grady, jerking the man’s black boiled wool suit coat downward by the collar so it fetched up around the man’s arms and rendered him unable to defend himself.

  A scuffle broke out among the customers stretched facedown on the floor.

  “You hush up,” growled Mex. “I warn you this one time only. Then I shoot—and I do not miss.”

  “Nobody’s going to do any shooting,” shouted Haskell. “If they keep on with that foolishness, drag your skinning knife across their throats.” As he rummaged in the safe, Grady winked down at the bleary-eyed, wobbly-headed bank manager. “Got to keep them rowdies down, don’t we?”

  “You’re insane! You’ll never get away with this!”

  “The Devil you say! I believe I will, and what’s more, I believe I about did.” He dragged the fat man forward into the vault, then headed for the young teller, who howled when Haskell did the same with him.

  “No! No!” the young man screamed, then simpered, sagging as if giving up.

&
nbsp; “Oh, shut up,” said Haskell as he swung the pistol butt down hard on the whining young man’s pate. There was a flat, slapping sound, blood geysered up in a sudden spray, and the teller collapsed. His chin smacked the floor and his head continued to spray blood, speckling Haskell, the inside of the open vault door, and a couple of canvas sacks Haskell had been stuffing with loot.

  “By gaw,” shouted Haskell, dancing sideways, trying to avoid the unconscious man’s blood. “It’s getting so a man can’t leave his house of a morning without someone bleeding all over him!” He let out a quick bark of laughter, and shouted to Dutchy to lend him a hand. “Too much dang loot here for me to truss up all on my own.”

  Within half a minute the pair had finished and began dragging the sacks to the front door.

  “Boss,” said Simp, still at his post, peeking around the doorframe through the window at the slowly gathering crowd of confused, curious townsfolk outside. “I think they’re catching on to what’s going on in here.”

  Haskell grunted as he lugged the last sack over to the door. “Well, Simp, let’s not keep them waiting any longer. You and Ace each grab a couple of sacks. Keep a gun in one hand. I’ve tied ropes around the necks of the sacks, so lug it on up and over your shoulder.”

  “That is it? That is all the bank has?” Dutchy looked at the sacks with wide eyes.

  “Wait till you heft them, boy. They’re right heavy. Plenty of money in there to go around.”

  “What all else was in that big vault?”

  “Papers and deeds and such. Nothing we can easily spend south of the border.”

  “South of the border? You never said we was going in that direction.” Dutchy stared at Haskell as if the boss man had clucked like a chicken. “You said—”

  “Another word, Dutchy, and I will let my revolver carve you a new eye socket. Right twixt the others.”

  “Oh. . . .”

  Haskell waited until the other three men followed what he did. Then he hefted the last two sacks. “Now, Mex, you get all the watches, wallets, rings, and such from these sad little nest of fools?”

  “Yeah, boss. Like you said. I got it tucked in my shirt, safe and sound.”

  Haskell wagged a hand at him. “Well, give it here.”

  “What?” Mex looked as if he’d been slapped. “You don’t trust me?”

  “Not that. I don’t trust anyone. My own mother was here, I wouldn’t turn my back on her. Give it here.”

  Mex pooched out his lower lip. “I’m not so sure I will.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mex, give him the damn sack full of trinkets, if it means that much to him.” Dutchy looked at Grady, his eyes narrowed. He continued talking to Mex without taking his eyes from Haskell. “He is the boss, after all. At least that’s what you all have been calling him.”

  “Ain’t got time right now to talk to you about your attitude, but we’ll get down to it when we get to where we’re headed.” Haskell broke his gaze from Dutchy, and noticing movement to his right, he spun, clawing at his right holster. As if conjured, his right revolver appeared in his hand. Equally as fast, without thinking, Haskell cocked the hammer and shot the man who was trying to rise.

  Immediately Dutchy barked at him, “What are you doing? We said no shots—and no one was to get hurt. Now you go and kill another? This has become too much . . . too much!” He began walking forward, pushing past Haskell.

  “Where are you going?” said Haskell, ignoring Simp’s frenzied entreaties from the doorway.

  “Oh boy . . . they’re coming up the steps. That shot definitely told them something was up in here.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Haskell spoke to Dutchy.

  “To see if the old man needs help.”

  “I don’t think so, Dutchy.” Haskell cranked back on the hammer once more. “You take another step and I’ll make sure you land right on him.”

  Dutchy stopped, his back to Haskell. He sighed, then said, “You’re the boss.” He looked down at the motionless old man. The force of the shot had slammed him back against the floor, and now a puddle of dark red blood thickened and widened around him. From the vault, a man’s voice moaned.

  The three people still lined up on their bellies in the front of the room snuffled and tried not to attract attention to themselves. But the ringing echo of the shot seemed to pull fear from them. Mex knew it was raw, rank fear because he felt it too.

  “Now let’s get going before that rabble out there coaxes a few shots from my revolvers.” Haskell moved toward the door, stopped, and glanced at Dutchy, who was adjusting his sacks over his left shoulder. “Unless you have something to say about it, Dutchy?”

  Dutchy glared at Grady but said nothing.

  “Thought so. Now let’s git gone. And remember what I told you. Ain’t no splitting up, none of that foolishness. You all stick close by me and we’ll have ’em licked.” He glanced downward. “I tell you any more and I’ll have to plug these plump town turkeys on the floor.”

  That set off a fresh round of sobs and muffled squeals from them.

  “Simp,” said Haskell, chuckling at the effect his words had on the people on the floor, “you swing that door wide and head on out to your horse, no fooling around. Straight to it. Same goes for the rest of you.”

  “What if someone follows us, boss?” Simp said, worry pulling his eyebrows tight.

  “Oh, I got a plan for that. You never mind. Now let’s go!

  “You all on the floor, count to a hundred, slow as a hard winter, before you raise your heads. Else I’ll be forced to open up on you like I done for the old man.”

  A fresh round of squeals from the people on the floor, then whispered counting, all at differing intervals, brought a smile to Haskell’s face as he pounded on out the doors following Simp, Ace, Mex, and Dutchy.

  True to his word, their horses had not been interfered with in the least. He’d told them that no one would think oddly of strangers’ horses standing at the hitch rail out in front of the bank, especially on a workday morning. At the most they’d looked like drovers headed into town to cash their pay chits.

  “Where’s Pap?” shouted Ace as he leaped off the boardwalk.

  “Who cares?” said Haskell, looking around at the folks looking at them. He was pleased to note it was but a few folks who’d taken an interest in them. But he could see realization dawning on their faces, of mounting understanding. Their previously impregnable fortress of a bank had finally been breached. And all they could think to do was stare at the small group of brazen thieves.

  The five men wasted no time in mounting up, adjusting the well-tied sacks once more, this time draped around their necks. Faster than the others, Haskell danced his horse ahead. He drew a revolver, aimed it in the general direction of the puzzled onlookers, no more than ten, perhaps a dozen people. But already heads were poking out of nearby shop doorways, and other people were cautiously advancing toward the end of the street anchored by the impressive bank building.

  “You kind folks don’t need to come any closer. Want to let you know we have relieved your impressive bank here of various deposited funds that are needed elsewhere. You might say we are relocating them.”

  A few men, the truth dawning on them, advanced, anger marking their eyes, jaws set hard. Only one of them wore a visible sidearm. He looked like a dandy to Haskell.

  “You come any closer, mister, and there’s going to be a mess in the street.”

  “Come on, boss,” said Simp. “You talk too much.”

  Haskell ignored him, jerked his reins hard to the left and straight at the throng of people. “Follow me, boys!” As he carved a path for them through the growing crowd, he cranked off two shots over the townsfolks’ heads, the bullets heading toward the fronts of buildings lining the main street. Screams mingled with the sound of shouts and the thumping, drumming of hoofbeat
s.

  Dead ahead of him stood a little girl in a blue dress, a bonnet flopped back on her shoulders. But Haskell didn’t see her. His horse knocked her to the ground, and shouts bubbled up from the crowd, from others witnessing the scene from afar.

  Mex, whose horse was last in line, saw what happened to the girl. He slowed his horse, a clot of regret lodged in his throat. “No!” he shouted, but his voice was drowned out by shouts from the enraged crowd.

  Haskell rammed his horse hard with his spurs, carving deeper through the fast-approaching crowd. The sounds of rage and fear rising higher, screams at something, he knew not what, began to drown out the other sounds. All was beginning to haze in his sight, like when he’d done for his old grandpappy, like so many others since then.

  When it came right down to it, there was only one man whom he cared to blame should all this planning go to seed with no fruit born from it. And that man was fast approaching, off to his left, covering ground with his bony old man’s legs. Pap Morton came at him fast, anger pulling his face into a tight mask, his old stubble-covered mouth shouting oaths, he was sure. And Haskell knew the old dog was going to do his best to lay him low.

  As he saw the old man reach for his own sidearm, Haskell swung his right arm around, already having slipped his revolver into its sheath. In a swift, practiced movement, he lifted free his single-barrel coach gun, a lightweight single-shot shotgun he liked to have on his person for close-in work. Just like this.

  Haskell didn’t even have time to smile as he thumbed the hammer. He swung the shotgun up, wedging the butt under his shoulder. The old man came up fast, cranking back on his own hammer. Grady let him have it, right in the chest, and the force of the blast lifted the thin old chicken of a man up off his feet, sent him sprawling a good ten feet back against the street.

  Pap Morton lay twitching in the dust, blood seeping outward from what seemed a hundred holes in his old but oft-mended red-and-green flannel shirt.