Two Miles to the Border (A J.T. Edson Western)

by J. T. Edson

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Who had taught Spit Merton to carry out a mighty slick, well-planned robbery?

  Why did Merton and his gang take only fifty thousand dollars from the Rocksprings’ bank when they could easily have emptied the safe?

  What did the dying owlhoot mean when he said that his companions were ‘Going to church, two miles to the border?’

  Figuring that the answers might show sufficient profit to help keep them in a manner to which they had always been too poor to become accustomed, Brady Anchor and Jefferson Trade set out to try to learn them.

  If they had realized that their search for enlightenment would bring them into contact with Widow Snodgrass and her Daughters of the Lord, they would have been a heap less willing to set about it.

  A whole lot of powder was going to be burned before Brady and Jeff learned the truth—most of it to throw lead in their direction.

  TWO MILES TO THE BORDER

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Corgi Books in 1972

  Copyright © 1972, 2016 by J. T. Edson

  First Smashwords Edition: August 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges * Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  For Ernie Goodyer and his Gunslingers

  Chapter One – Don’t Take Any Gold

  ‘Don’t just stand there like a bump on a log!’ Mrs. Kimber told Brady Anchor indignantly, after the tall, gaunt ‘undertaker’ holding the sawed-off shotgun had ordered them to lay face down on the floor with their arms and legs spread wide apart. ‘Do something!’

  ‘Yes’m,’ Brady answered soberly, conscious that the Mexican by the bank’s front door, the stocky feller—who looked like the owner of a moderately successful small ranch—leaning on the left wall and the burly jasper—whose clothing suggested that he was a travelling salesman—standing at the right, all held guns which they looked like they knew how to use. ‘I aim to, right now.’

  Trouble was that every time Brady Anchor and his nephew Jefferson Trade figured they had hit upon a way to gather sufficient money to keep them in a manner to which they had always been too poor—although very willing—to become accustomed, something as sure as hell’s for sinners always went wrong.

  It was early in the summer of 1880 and things had never looked better for their prospects.

  About six months back, the State’s Legislature, looking for a means of reducing expenditure, had decided to cut down the size of the Texas Rangers. Being unmarried, Brady and Jeff had been the first members of their Company to offer to resign. Law-enforcing was not a way to grow rich and they had figured, things going the way they were, there should be more profitable ways a couple of willing fellers could earn a comfortable living.

  The cattle business was rolling high, wide and dollar-handsome. Seeing opportunities to turn a hefty profit, Eastern financiers and speculators had been pouring money into Texas like molasses over a fat man’s flapjacks. To cut down the expense of trailing herds north into Kansas, railroads were being pushed every damned which-ways across the Lone Star State.

  It had been the railroads which figured most prominently in Brady’s and Jeff’s notions for getting rich. They had sunk their savings into a mustanging expedition, i meaning to sell the wild horses they caught and broke to ranchers. While that had not proved to be over-profitable, it had opened the way into another venture for them. While visiting Fort Worth, to sell their catch, they had met up with an elderly kinsman. Uncle Ephraim had set before them a mighty interesting proposition. According to him, four railroads were going to come together and pass through his home town, El Paso. He owned a saloon there and had reckoned that, with some fixing up, it ought to prove a gold mine when they arrived.

  Being fully aware of the possibilities, Brady and Jeff had been willing and eager to accept Uncle Ephraim’s offer that they went into partnership with him. However, he had been short of cash and was hoping that they would put up enough money to make the necessary improvements to the premises. Which ought to have been fine, except that they did not possess sufficient capital to make a partnership worthwhile. After due consideration, they had decided to invest their entire stake in a means of increasing it fast.

  Luck—and a better than fair knowledge of how to play stud poker—had brought their rewards. After two hours’ play, Brady had increased their bankroll by a healthy five thousand dollars. On the next deal, faced by Brady’s possible jack-high straight, an Edwards County rancher had been certain that he would catch the fifth spade he needed to complete his flush. As backing for his belief, he had staked the title deeds of his spread. When a diamond had fallen, Brady and Jeff had found themselves the proud owners of the Rolling K’s lands, buildings and livestock.

  Their satisfaction at having become men of property lasted until their arrival at Rocksprings, the seat of Edwards County. While their possession of the deed had been accepted as valid and legal, its previous owner had inconsiderately forgotten to mention that the local Cattlemen’s Bank held a mortgage against it. Calling on the bank’s president, they had been informed that the sum of five thousand dollars was due in three days. Either Banker Cuthbertson collected the full amount, or he would have to foreclose. Something in his attitude had suggested to Brady that he would have preferred the latter alternative.

  Being tolerably shrewd in business matters, Brady had realized that a banker—especially one of Cuthbertson’s kind—would only hand out a mortgage of five thousand dollars if the ranch was worth at least half as much again. So, after leaving the banker with the impression that they intended to think things over, but would most likely refuse to pay, Brady and Jeff had ridden out to take a look at their property.

  To be honest, they had never considered the ranch as their future home. Their idea had been to take possession and, as quickly as possible, find somebody who would buy it from them. Range land was in great demand all over the State, so they had not envisaged any difficulty in disposing of their holdings. With what the place was sure to bring, added to their original stake, they ought to have a tidy sum to sink into Uncle Ephraim’s saloon. That was necessary. The fancier the place looked, the better—and richer—would be the quality of customers it attracted.

  Arriving at the ranch, wearing their working clothes and pretending to be a couple of cowhands in search of employment, they had found the whole of the crew—a couple of leathery old timers—mighty hospitable. Over a meal and a sociable evening’s cribbage game, they had learned that the spread was wanted by two of its neighbors. More to the point, either of them would willingly pay far more than the place was worth to keep it out of the other’s hands. Apparently the previous owner had taken the mortgage with the Cattlemen’s Bank before he had learned about his neighbors’ mutual interest. He was supposed by his employees to be out of the county, trying to raise enough money to pay off Banker Cuthbertson.

  The old timers’ stories had caused Brady and Jeff to reach a decision. If each rancher was eager enough, the Rolling K ought to bring them at least ten thousand dollars. So they could afford to pay off the mortgage and sell to the h
ighest bidder.

  Having spent the night at the ranch house, Brady and Jeff had returned to Rocksprings the following morning. Being a smart businessman, Brady had insisted upon looking at his best before calling at the bank. Word would soon get out that there were new owners at the Rolling K and the two interested parties were sure to come calling. Prospective buyers would pay a higher price to fellers who looked so rich they did not need to sell. Never one for getting all duded up, Jeff had elected to take care of their horses while Brady went to the hotel and, having washed and changed clothing, made the visit to the bank.

  Up to then, everything had been going as smoothly as two deserving fellers could desire.

  It was shortly after noon when Brady had strolled along the practically deserted main street to the bank. On entering, he had found the Mexican—whose charro clothes had given an air of respectability—‘rancher’, ‘drummer’ and the plump, well-dressed Mrs. Kimber present. The chubby, bespectacled clerk had warned Brady that Mr. Cuthbertson was at lunch, would not be back before one o’clock at the earliest and that the other gentlemen were also waiting to see him. Stating that he would make a deposit, then return later in the afternoon, Brady had just started to count out his and Jeff’s money when the front door had opened to admit another man.

  Tall, gaunt, with a lean, clean-shaven face, the newcomer had been somberly attired. His black stove-pipe hat and clothing were of the style frequently adopted by undertakers as their professional dress. Crossing to the counter, without as much as a glance at the other occupants of the room, he had set on it the kind of black leather bag doctors usually carried.

  Opening the bag, the ‘undertaker’ had asked the teller for assistance. After apologizing to Brady, the bank’s official had walked by the open door of the big Chubb safe and waited to discover what was desired of him. Reaching into the bag, the ‘undertaker’ had produced a sawed-off shotgun and told the teller that he wished to make a withdrawal of fifty thousand dollars.

  Letting the money slip from his hands to the counter, Brady had started to move his left fist slowly and apparently casually towards the front of his jacket. There was, he had realized, probably a joker in the deck. If not, that mournful-faced cuss was either new to robbing banks, or enjoyed taking suicidal chances. Way he was acting, he might have been alone with the teller. Even if he discounted the pompous townswoman and was making the same mistake others had where Brady was concerned, he ought to have been worried by the other three jaspers.

  It had right soon become apparent that he did not need to worry on their account!

  Each of the trio had drawn his handgun. The Mexican and the ‘rancher’ had thrown down on Brady and the ‘drummer’ lined his stubby Merwin & Hulbert Army-Pocket revolver at the startled Mrs. Kimber.

  It had been, all things considered, a mighty slick piece of work. There was no hint- of the proposed robbery until that moment; not even to Brady Anchor’s alert and experienced eyes. Nothing had suggested that the Mexican, ‘rancher’ and ‘drummer’ had known each other, or that they were all in cahoots with the gaunt undertaker.

  With less at stake, Brady might have admired the owl-hoots’ smooth precision and smart planning. Nothing he had seen outside or inside the bank had served to warn him of what was going to happen. Having his and his nephew’s whole assets in plain view, he felt less inclined towards silently applauding good workmanship.

  On the whole, however, Brady considered that it was lucky Jeff had not come along. Like most Rangers, his nephew was a regular snake when it came to handling a gun. Trouble was that he tended to be a mite headstrong and tolerable quick to temper when anybody tried to impose on him. If he had been in the bank, he might have done something real rash. Brady considered that Jeff was better off out of the deal right then. Later they could team up, take out after the owlhoots and make a stab at recovering their money.

  Besides which, Brady had concluded that he stood a better chance alone if things did happen to break right. Folks who did not know him were apt to draw erroneous conclusions from his appearance. There were plenty of things he looked like; but little to suggest that he had been a sergeant in the Texas Rangers and was a real tough hombre to boot.

  Five foot eight inches in height, Brady Anchor was a red-faced, smooth-shaven, cherubic-looking man in his early forties. There was an air of guileless innocence about him that—as many a sharper had discovered just too late—was more obvious than actual. Even when hawg-dirty and dressed in well-worn range clothes, he contrived to convey an impression of well-fed, corpulent naiveté that was very misleading. What did not show was that, under the apparently soft exterior, he was all hard flesh and powerful muscle.

  Attired in a wide-brimmed, low-crowned white ‘planter’s’ hat—perched on the back of his head to display a thatch of thinning, curly brownish hair—a gray suit, white shirt, sober blue cravat fastened in the fashion of a bow-tie and Hersome gaiter-boots, he looked like a product of the more civilized southern States; or at least of an East Texas county that had long since left behind the ways of the frontier. The fact that he did not have a gun belt strapped to his waist, and displayed no trace of carrying a weapon on his person, aided the deception. A close observer might have noticed and drawn conclusions from the fact that his jacket buttoned from the left instead of the right.

  ‘Just what’re you fixing to do, feller?’ challenged the ‘rancher’.

  ‘This,’ Brady answered, halting his surreptitious movement with the left hand now that the woman had drawn too much attention his way.

  Slowly he reached up his right hand and removed his hat. He laid it in a casual-seeming manner on top of his money on the counter. Then he turned, keeping both hands in plain sight, knelt and assumed the required posture. Once he lay face down, he extended his arms and spread his lower legs wide apart in a way that made rapid, or undetected, movements impossible.

  ‘Now you, lady,’ prompted the ‘undertaker’.

  ‘Me?’ yelped Mrs. Kimber. A pillar of Rocksprings’ society and, in her own opinion anyway, a person of considerable influence and importance, she had imagined that she would not be subjected to such an indignity. ‘How dare y...’

  ‘It’s this way, lady,’ the ‘undertaker’ interrupted. ‘If you do like I told you, nobody’ll get hurt and we won’t rob you. It’s not your money we’re after, we only want it from the bank.’

  Easing his head around, Brady could see that the man’s words were having the required effect upon Mrs. Kimber. With a sense of relief, he watched her follow his example. She scowled at him, but that did nothing to lessen his sense of equanimity. If she had refused to obey, or continued to provoke the owlhoots, things might have turned very unpleasant. Instead, possibly because they had promised not to rob her personally, she had obeyed. The men seemed satisfied and were content to continue with the robbery instead of abusing their victims.

  ‘How’s the street, Tony?’ asked the gaunt man, setting his shotgun on the counter and producing two white flour sacks from his bag.

  ‘Quiet enough,’ answered the Mexican. ‘You want for me to signal Billy so’s he can fetch the horses?’

  ‘Not until we’re ready to pull out,’ the ‘undertaker’ replied. ‘Here, Rupe, go ’round and watch that feller count out the fifty thousand.’

  ‘Sure, Spit,’ agreed the ‘rancher’, walking over and lifting Brady’s hat from the counter. ‘I’ve never yet seen a teller who wouldn’t short-change a man given but half a chance. I’ll take this here. We can allus reckon we wanted to put it on the collection plate. Us being honest, hymn-singing churchgoers ’n’ all.’

  ‘Stick it in the sack,’ the ‘undertaker’ agreed.

  ‘I—I’d better warn you that these premises are under the protection of the Texas Bankers’ Protective Association,’ the teller quavered, but decided against mentioning how the president was at that moment lunching with an important member of the same organization.

  ‘We’ll keep it in mind,’ the ‘under
taker’ promised. ‘Don’t take any gold or silver, Rupe. It weighs too heavy on the hosses’ backs.’

  ‘Sure thing, Spit,’ confirmed the ‘drummer’, passing around to the rear of the counter. ‘Start taking it out and shoving it in, hombre?

  ‘Make him split open the bundles of money,’ the ‘undertaker’ reminded. ‘We don’t want the bank’s wrappers to show where we got it from happen the law catches us outside Edwards County.’

  ‘Sure, Spit,’ said the ‘drummer’, in the tone of one being reminded of something which he had already committed to memory. ‘You heard the boss, hombre. Get to counting and tearing off the wrappers.’

  Tend to these folks, Benny,’ the gaunt man ordered, taking pigging thongs and pieces of clean cloth from his bag. ‘Lady,’ he went on, ‘happen you promise to stay on the floor and not scream until you’ve heard us moving off, we’ll not tie or gag you.’

  ‘I—I promise,’ Mrs. Kimber stated immediately.

  ‘Should you start yelling afore we’re on our way,’ the ‘rancher’ growled, ‘folks could get hurt bad trying to stop us. You wouldn’t want that on your con—concuss—now would you?’

  ‘No,’ Mrs. Kimber admitted, realizing that the man had meant ‘conscience’. ‘Of course I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Put your arms behind your back, feller,’ the ‘rancher’ continued. He had already dropped Brady’s money into one of the flour sacks and was selecting two pigging thongs.

  Knowing that he had no other choice, Brady crossed his wrists behind his back. The ‘rancher’ deftly lashed them together, then showed his victim that the rag was clean before fastening it around his mouth.

  Lying on the floor, Brady could do little other than use his eyes and think. There was little enough for him to see, in such a position, but he had plenty of material upon which to exercise his mind.

  The gang had been smart, Brady conceded. They had selected styles of clothing so diverse that no hint of their connections with each other had showed. Nor had they permitted one particular sign of an impending hold up to be seen. More than one bunch of owlhoots had come to grief through having their horses waiting outside the premises which they were robbing. The men in the Rocksprings’ bank had not been guilty of such an error. Yet they must have their mounts close by, in case things went wrong and they had to leave in a hurry.