by John Glasby
‘In here!’ he said quietly. ‘And no noise.’
One by one, they led their mounts inside. The place had been a storehouse for a variety of goods, including straw and hay and in one corner, they found some which did not seem to have deteriorated and gave the horses a feed.
Once they were settled down, he went over to the opening in the wall that served as a window, peered out into the darkness. Now he waited, leaning on his left side, feeling the cool rush of air against his face and neck. He looked at the black shadow of the street below him and he thought: It looks like a great black rug, waiting to be rolled up.
Turning back to the others, he said curtly: ‘Better get some sleep. We’ll have plenty to do in the mornin’.’
Stretching himself out on the hard floor, with only the curve of the saddle for a pillow, he closed his eyes and was asleep in a moment. He woke once or twice during the night, thinking he heard something in the street outside, but whenever he forced himself to concentrate his senses on it, there was nothing. Cats roaming the darkness possibly, he thought, then drifted back into sleep again.
In the pale grey light of an early dawn, they ate the cold jerked beef they had brought with them, washed it down with cold water from their canteens. The horses remained out of sight but there was no one in the narrow alley in front of the building on any of the occasions whenever Turrell glanced out.
Ten o’clock, and they saddled the horses inside the warehouse. Around them, the town had been awake for some hours and there was the occasional beat of horses’ hooves along the main street somewhere in the near distance. Smoking, Turrell leaned his weight against the upright near the open window, waited while the others tightened the cinches under their mounts’ bellies. He felt the smoke lacing painfully across his good eye, but ignored it. Patch Eye Turrell. He had lasted for more than fifteen years, first down near the Texas border and now up here, more than a thousand miles from where he had first started. Down there, he had been something of a legend. Soon, if he had his way, it would be the same here, and this time, he would not make the same mistakes as he had then, mistakes which had eventually, inevitably, brought about his downfall and the deaths of the men who had ridden with him. The flesh on his face was drawn down tight into his bones, making him look twenty years older than he really was, and his good eye, glaring out at the world, held a terrible expression.
Standing there, he went over the details of the coming raid on the bank in his mind. There had been a time when he had looked forward to such a task with a feeling of trepidation, almost amounting to one of a premonition of disaster. Now, things were different. With success, had come a different outlook on things. He knew that everything had been taken care of, that the chances were all loaded in their favour. The townfolk of Triple Peaks would be thinking that he and his men were holed up somewhere in the hills fifteen miles or so to the east. They would not be expecting them here in town, would not dream that they had been sleeping under their very noses during the night. He smiled grimly to himself. Everything went according to instinct now, he told himself, crushing out the butt of the cigarette on the dusty floor as he saw that the others had finished getting their mounts ready. He went forward into danger like a lobo wolf, scenting it, and actually looking forward to meeting it halfway.
Five minutes later, Kreb rode out into the narrow alley, moved away from the middle of town, vanished around the corner of one of the tall buildings. Cutting through the tangled web of alleys that formed a maze in this part of town, he moved around by a circuitous route to the main street, his hat pulled well down over his eyes, then rode slowly along the dusty main street, reaching the saloon close by the bank, and hitched his horse to the rail, striding purposefully over to the boardwalk and sinking down on to his haunches on the edge of it, legs thrust out in front of him, smoking a cigarette, head bowed forward on his chest, like a man who was half-sleeping there in the growing heat of the day.
Dufray and Tragge rode in from the other direction, cut out of one of the side streets into the square in the middle of town, left their mounts close by and went over to the wooden bench around the bole of the huge cottonwood, where they seated themselves unobtrusively, apparently taking very little interest in anything that went on around them.
They were there for ten minutes before Turrell finally appeared near the end of the main street. He walked his horse forward with a deceptive slowness, reined up almost in front of the bank, sat tall in the saddle for a long moment, turning his head to look about him. It was an all-embracing stare, but for the most part it was directed towards the three men, waiting and watchful in the street. While he sat there, a couple of customers went into the bank, and there was a wait until one of them came out, thrust his wallet into the inside pocket of his long coat and walked over to one of the stores, going inside and closing the door behind him.
Moving slowly, Turrell got down from the saddle, moved towards the hitching post and tied his mount to the rail. It was the signal for the others to move. Unobtrusively, they converged on the bank. To a casual glance, it appeared as though they were completely disconnected entities, moving along paths of their own, having nothing in common. Kreb dropped his half-smoked cigarette into the dirt in front of the bank, ground it into the dust with his heel, paused for a moment, scratching the back of his head as though perplexed at something.
While this had been going on, Turrell had walked into the bank with Dufray and Tragge close on his heels. Once inside the building, they split up. Tragge stayed close to the door, while Dufray went across to the window and leaned his back and shoulders against the wall, surveying the scene through narrowed eyes. His thumbs were stuck into his gunbelt and he appeared an innocent bystander, having no interest at all in what was happening there.
Near the teller’s cage, Turrell stopped, thrust a cigarette between his lips and made to strike a match. His head was lowered as he did so, his one eye taking in all that was happening; the two tellers behind the wire, a woman standing near the other counter and the customer they had seen go in, but not come out, moving slowly away from the cage.
Lowering his hands, Turrell jerked the twin Colts from their holsters and fanned them out. In a loud voice that carried to every corner of the bank, he said ‘All right, everybody. This is a hold-up. All of you — flat on the floor with your arms out in front of you and nobody gets hurt.’
The woman screamed thinly, a faint sound, then slid in a faint to the floor in front of the teller’s cage. Turrell knew that he would not have to watch her any further. The customer obeyed with alacrity, dropping flat on to his face, arms in front of him. The guns in the hands of the other two outlaws rapidly convinced the tellers that resistance was useless. Turrell moved forward to one of the cages, thrust the barrel of the Colt between the bars and said thinly: ‘Don’t try anythin’, I don’t want to have to kill you, but if you don’t do exactly as I say, you’re dead. Understand?’
‘Yes.’ The teller nodded quickly, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his scrawny throat. He backed away from the cage, then moved forward as Turrell ordered: ‘Now open up this thing.’
The other hesitated, threw a quick glance over his shoulder, then flicked his gaze back to Turrell, but not quick enough. Out of the corner of his eye, Turrell saw the man near the back of the bank, close to the vaults, a man who had a shotgun cradled in his arms, who was, at that moment, levelling it on him, his finger tight on the trigger. The Colt in Turrell’s fist blasted, the sound oddly loud in the confining space of the bank. The slug took the man full in the chest, hurled him back against the front of the vault, arms outspread, his body hanging there as if in a state of crucifixion, the gun dropping from lifeless fingers, to crash on to the floor. For several incredible seconds, the other remained in that position. Then his legs gave and he slid slowly down on to the floor, his whole body utterly limp and lifeless.
‘Come on,’ Turrell snarled at the teller, who stood stricken, his face numbed with shock. ‘Open up and h
urry!’
With shaking fingers, the other hurried to obey. Unlocking the mesh cage, he moved back, arms lifted high over his head, features ashen and bloodless, as the outlaw leader vaulted the gate and dropped lightly down on the other side. Scooping up the handful of bills on the counter, he thrust them into the bag he carried, then motioned to the vaults. ‘All right. Through there and bring out what gold you have.’ He pushed the other in front of him, twisting his arm savagely behind his back to urge him forward. Stumbling, the other moved towards the vaults, opened them up, pausing instinctively to stare down at the twisted body of the dead man on the floor, the front of his shirt stained with a widening patch of red.
‘Put it all in there,’ Turrell said, holding out the wheat sack. He did not turn his head to make sure that everything was under control in the bank itself, leaving that up to Dufray and Tragge. Outside, Kreb would be watching the horses, and be ready for any trouble. Once that shot was heard, there might be some citizens who would come running to see what was wrong. He knew he could rely on Kreb to hold them off until they all got clear.
The teller filled the wheat sack with the bars of gold, shaking like a leaf as he did so, occasionally throwing fearful glances in the direction of the dead man.
Grimly, Turrell told him: ‘Just keep on shovelling that gold in there and hurry, and you won’t go the same way as he did. If he’d done as he was told, he’d still be alive now. Don’t do to be a hero at a time like this. Especially when it ain’t your money we’re taking.’
The other said nothing, but continued to haul the gold blocks out of the vaults until the sack was full. Turrell took it, moved back to the teller’s cage, handed it over to
Tragge, then took the empty one which the other had brought with him. When this was full, the vaults were empty.
‘Now get down on the floor like the others and don’t try to do anythin’ funny,’ Turrell ordered harshly. ‘If you put you head up within the next five minutes, you’ll get it blown off by one of my men standing by the door. You understand that?’
The teller nodded his head quickly, stretched himself out on the floor, arms and legs out-thrust. Turrell watched him for a moment, then climbed back over the counter, moved away towards the door.
‘Hurry!’ said Dufray. ‘There’s trouble outside. Somebody must’ve heard that shot. What the hell happened back there?’
‘Somebody tried to be a hero,’ Turrell said grimly. He turned to look over the prone bodies of the customers and the tellers, then jerked the barrel of his gun in the direction of the street. ‘Let’s get movin’. If we hang around here any longer, there may be a reception committee waitin’ for us along the street. You know what to do if there is.’
The two men nodded, raced for the door. Carrying the heavy wheat sack, filled almost to the brim with the gold blocks, Turrell moved after them. In the doorway, he paused, glanced back. Everyone hugged the floor closely, obviously not wanting to take any chances, possibly knowing that one man had tried it and now he was lying dead with part of his chest ripped away by a heavy slug.
There came a scattered volley of gunshots as they raced out on to the boardwalk. Kreb had the horses ready, was waiting for them, occasionally throwing shots towards the far corner of the square. Turrell peered through the strong sunglare, made out the figures of the men crouched down behind a couple of rain barrels and the horse trough. Bringing up his gun, he loosed off a couple of shots, saw some wood fly in chips where the bullets struck. There was a vivid orange blast of flame from the shadows and at his back, the window of the bank went in with a resounding crash as the buckshot struck it. Glass shards fell into the dust beside him as he moved for his horse, tied the wheat sack behind the saddle and swung himself up. A slug whined through the air close to his head with a vicious hum of metal cutting wind and he ducked instinctively in the saddle, head low over his horse’s neck. Kicking spurs into the animal’s flanks, he drove it forward along the street, the other men thundering along at his back.
Switching his gaze from side to side, he saw the door of the sheriff’s office jerk open, saw the big shape of Sheriff Jessup step out on to the boardwalk and then jerk back in again, caught the sungleam of blued metal in the lawman’s hand a second before Jessup fired. There was a loud yell from immediately behind him and he knew that one of the others had been hit, but how bad he did not know. There was no time now to stop and find out. If whoever it was couldn’t keep in the saddle and stay up with them, then it was just too bad. It would mean one less to share the gold when they got to the hills.
More revolvers were firing on both sides of them as they raced their mounts along the length of the main street. The shotgun from behind them roared again, but the slugs went wild, although from along the boardwalk, other men began shooting methodically at them as they raced out of town.
As his horse came abreast of a group of men crouched behind the window of a grocery store, Turrell swung slightly in the saddle, holding the Colt in his left hand. He sent several shots in through the glass, heard it crash under the impact. The firing from inside the store lessened and then stopped altogether as he rode on. Leaning forward in his saddle, he led the others out of Triple Peaks.
Once they were clear, giving their horses their head, riding hell for leather to put as much distance between themselves and the town as possible, before Jessup got a posse collected and came after them, Turrell had time to think. The fury of the opposition had been greater than he had anticipated. It must have been that shot when he had been forced to kill the bank employee at the vault that had given them away and given the townsfolk sufficient time in which to organise themselves in spite of all the efforts that Kreb had made to scatter them.
‘Slow down, Turrell,’ called Tragge from behind him. ‘I’ve been hit. I can’t keep up at this pace.’
Cursing under his breath, Turrell jerked hard on the reins. Tragge was slumped forward in the saddle, his face white, lips pushed tightly together in a grimace of pain.
‘Where are you hit?’ he asked harshly, moving his horse over to the other.
‘In the shoulder.’ Tragge bit the words out through tightly-clenched teeth. He forced himself to sit straight in the saddle. There was a patch of blood on his shirt and, reaching forward, Turrell tore it across with his strong fingers, glanced at the wound. It was evident that the slug was still in the flesh, probably lodged against the shoulder blade. But there was nothing they could do there and the longer they delayed here, the more they increased the chances of being captured by the posse which must surely be getting formed back in town. Whatever Jessup might feel about things, he could not stand by and do nothing, now that the outlaws had hit the bank there. He had been elected to the post of sheriff and he would have to form a posse and follow their trail, however reluctant he might be to do it.
‘We’ll have to get back into the hills before we can take a look at that wound,’ Turrell said sharply, his tone hard and devoid of any feeling. ‘Think you can make it there? Once we get under cover, I’ll take that piece of lead out. But we can’t stop here.’
Tragge swallowed thickly, then nodded his head with an effort. ‘I’ll make it,’ he said tautly. ‘Ain’t nobody goin’ to get my share of that money.’ It was almost as if he had divined their thoughts.
‘Then let’s get movin’,’ Turrell snapped, as if he had not heard what the other had said. ‘That damned posse will be on our trail any minute now. And they’ll have too many men ridin’ with them for us to take on, especially with a wounded man.’
With Tragge clinging precariously to the saddle, they rode at full speed along the dusty trail, heading east, away from Triple Peaks, towards the tall range of mountains that loomed high in front of them across the smooth prairie. They were long, drawn-out hours during the rest of the morning and afternoon. No clouds touched the blue-white mirror of the heavens and the sunglare beat down on them with an almost physical pressure, like the smack of a mighty hand against the ground and anyone who dar
ed to travel on it during the time of the full, blazing heat. Sickened by the glare that was reflected at them from the burnt ground, nauseated by the bitter smell of the sage, they at last came to the narrow stream over which they had ridden the previous day on their way into Triple Peaks.
Climbing the steep trail, they made their way slowly to the top, the sweat soaking into their shirts so that they chafed their bodies with every movement they made. Angrily, Turrell wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, then reined up his mount and turned, staring back along they way they had come, shading his eyes against the sun. Far off, in the distance, he made out the tiny cloud of white dust, no bigger than a man’s hand. It marked the position of the hard-riding posse which had been on their trail since they had pulled out of Triple Peaks. He smiled grimly to himself. They would never find them now. Here in the hills, there were too many trails, too many smooth, stony patches where their horses left no prints, where not even a coyotero could track them.
‘What do you think, Patch Eye?’ asked Kreb. He inclined his head towards the bunch of riders.
‘Forget ’em,’ Turrell said quietly, with conviction. ‘They’ll never find us in here and I reckon they know it. They may try to search a little ways into the brush and then they’ll head back to town, their conscience satisfied. They did their best and it wasn’t their fault they didn’t catch up with us in time, before we’d slipped into the hills.’ He uttered a sharp bark of a laugh, motioned to Tragge, leaning limply in the saddle. ‘Reckon you can manage it the rest of the way, Tragge?’
The other’s voice was weak as he muttered: ‘I think so. But don’t waste time. This shoulder hurts like hell. It’s as if there’s a red hot poker being twisted in the flesh.’
‘We’ll get that lead out of you as soon as we get back to camp,’ Turrell affirmed. ‘In the meantime, just stick there in the saddle. Not much further to go now.’