by J. T. Edson
‘Come on!’ Brady roared, knowing that all hopes had now ended of taking the owl hoots by surprise.
The Sharps buffalo gun boomed in echo to the words.
‘Got the bastard!’ Briskow whooped delightedly, bouncing to his feet and snapping down the trigger guard-breech-lever to eject a cigar-long brass cartridge case.
Sending their mounts hurtling the last few feet up the slope, Brady and Jeff tore by, one either side of the exultant deputy. What they saw did not come as any great surprise. Except for the Mexican, the owlhoots were already spurring their horses to a gallop. He was sprawled face down, writhing spasmodically, while his bay followed its companions. Starting their horses downwards in pursuit, Brady and Jeff saw that the two men were still carrying the flour sacks suspended from their saddle horns.
Ignoring the sheriff’s screeched request for information, the remainder of the posse tore after Brady and Jeff. They boiled by Briskow as he fumbled to snatch a bullet from his Levi’s pocket and joined in the rump-sliding, reckless descent Having extracted the round and fed it into the Sharps’ breech, the young deputy darted to his horse. He mounted with a flying bound, managed to gather up his reins with his unencumbered left hand, then gave chase.
Instead of continuing across the level ground, then up the other side, the owlhoots swung along the bottom. They were twisting on their saddles, studying the extent of the danger, but did not bother to draw weapons. Instead, they crowded on the pressure and their horses were soon running at top speed.
None of the posse attempted to shoot during the wild plunge to the foot of the slope. They were more concerned with arriving still on top of their horses and content to wait until at a more suitable range.
‘See to the greaser, Ben, Orville!’ Mueller bellowed and the two men obeyed without argument.
After covering about half a mile at a full gallop, Brady and Jeff were considering that a ranging shot or two might be practical. While the red-head no longer held his rifle, Brady had kept the Centennial out of its boot. He set his balance on the saddle, adapting himself to the motion of the galloping gait, and swung up the rifle.
Almost as if sensing the danger, the ‘rancher’ hooked free and let fall the flour sack from his saddle horn. Even as it went bouncing along the ground, the ‘drummer’ also discarded his burden.
Racing up, Jeff grasped his saddle horn in the left hand. He leaned over and snatched the first of the sacks in passing. Showing an equally deft skill, he gathered the second without slowing the pace of his galloping appaloosa.
‘Could be they’ve stuffed them with leaves and want us to think we’ve got the money,’ Brady guessed, refraining from firing. ‘We’d best take a look.’
Slowing down their mounts, they allowed the rest of the posse to catch up. Seeing the sacks, Barnstaple yelled a request that they should stop and examine the contents. Brady had been considering making such a suggestion, but was pleased that it had come from the distinguished-looking and influential man. It carried more weight that way.
Accepting Barnstaple’s suggestion, all but Briskow brought their horses to a halt. Wild with excitement and blood-lust, he plunged on with spurs raking at the horse’s flanks in an attempt to gain greater speed.
‘Here, Mr. Barnstaple,’ Brady drawled, when Jeff offered one of the sacks. ‘You’d best check this out.’
‘I reckon you’d best take a look in the other, Dutchy,’ Jeff remarked and handed the second sack to the owner of the Rocksprings’ livery barn.
‘What’s up?’ asked Minter, arriving late as always. ‘Why’ve you stopped?’
‘They dropped the money,’ replied one of the posse. ‘Your deputy’s still after ’em, happen you reckon it’s worth going to help him.’
‘Well, I...’ the sheriff began, the words floundering away as he realized that he did not know what to do for the best.
‘I haven’t counted it,’ Barnstaple commented at that moment, having opened the neck of the sack and shuffled amongst its contents. ‘But I’d say there’s a fair proportion of the bank’s money in here.’
‘This’n’s near on full,’ Mueller said, having duplicated the distinguished-looking man’s actions. ‘Why’d they drop them do you reckon, Mr. Anchor?’
‘I’m damned if I know,’ Brady replied. ‘Could be they was scared we’d make them run their hosses into the ground and threw us the loot to get us off their trail.’
Before any more could be said, Orville Masker rode up.
‘The greaser just died,’ he announced.
‘Did he do any talking?’ Mueller inquired.
‘Nothing’s made sense,’ Masker answered. ‘We asked him where his amigos was headed.’
‘He tell you?’ Minter put in.
‘Sure,’ Masker drawled sardonically. ‘He said they were going to church, two miles to the border.’
Chapter Six – There’s Just the Fifty Thousand
‘Well, Dilkes,’ Banker Cuthbertson boomed impatiently, watching his teller counting the contents of the flour sacks. ‘Is it all there?’
The time was eight o’clock in the evening on the day of the hold-up. Once more Brady Anchor was seated in Cuthbertson’s private office. In addition to himself, the banker and Dilkes, Jefferson Trade, Barnstaple, Sheriff Minter and the two deputies were present. The latter lounged on either side of the room’s door. While Haggerty showed little interest in what went on, Briskow scowled and looked sullenly brooding.
After retrieving the money, there had been some discussion upon what would be the posse’s best line of action.
When Briskow had realized that he was alone in the pursuit, he had stopped his horse. Turning on his saddle, he had bawled a demand for the others to follow. Seeing that they were not obliging him, he had rejoined them all a-bristle with indignation. It had been his stated belief that they should keep after and wipe out all the gang instead of being content with the deaths of just two.
Less blood-thirsty than the deputy, the other citizens of Rocksprings were more inclined to be lenient. As Masker had pointed out, nobody was hurt in the hold-up; other than the owlhoots. All the money—or certainly a greater part of it—had been recovered and two of the men responsible were dead. It had seemed a fair exchange for the inconvenience caused to the victims and good payment for the few broken windows that would need repairing. Already the posse’s horses had been hard-pushed, so the other citizens had shown support for Masker.
It had fallen upon Barnstaple to put up the major argument in favor of an immediate return to Rocksprings. He had said that, in his considered opinion, they should deliver the money to the bank as quickly as possible. Agreeing with Masker’s points concerning the comparatively harmless nature of the robbery, he had declared that going back would meet with the approval of the Texas Bankers’ Protective Association. His organization would rather have the money safely in the bank’s safe than being carried along during a lengthy hunt for the gang. Neither revenge, nor glory-hunting, was the objective of the posse, he had finished, eyeing the deputy coldly.
Never one to shoulder responsibility willingly, Minter had been delighted to have such strong backing and for the decision to be practically taken out of his hands. With Barnstaple’s influential support as an argument against future criticism of his conduct, he could return to Rocksprings covered with glory for his astute handling of the affair. So he had announced that they would go home. There would, he announced solemnly, be plenty of other peace officers in the neighboring counties looking for the gang and he did not doubt that news of their arrest would soon be forthcoming.
Going by the mutters of annoyance, the decision and comments had not been to Briskow’s satisfaction. Still hot and eager for blood, he had wanted to go on with the hunt. He had had no desire to let outside law enforcement agencies reap the benefits for capturing the gang. A triumphant return to Rocksprings with prisoners—or, better still, corpses dangling across their saddles—would have been more spectacular than merely taking back the
money. Especially if he had been able to boast it was his shrewd judgment, in taking along the Sharps buffalo gun, that had brought about the mission’s successful conclusion.
On Briskow having made his feelings obvious, Mueller had remarked that the deputy was responsible for the gang’s escape. If he had followed orders, instead of dashing over the rim and throwing lead, they might have been able to take the owlhoots by surprise and capture the whole bunch.
There had been plenty of agreement for Mueller’s statement. To cool down the heated tempers, Barnstaple had repeated Minter’s comments that other peace officers would be searching for the gang. With their attention directed mainly to the rear, watching for the Rocksprings’ posse, the owlhoots might walk into a trap laid ahead of them.
Although Brady had kept the thought to himself, he had felt that Briskow had robbed the outside peace officers of their best means of identifying the gang. The continued presence of the Mexican would have been of the greatest value, for he could not conceal his race as easily as his companions might change their clothing. Wishing to avoid open conflict with the deputy, who was getting more angry by the second, Brady had kept the conclusion to himself. Silently, he had agreed with Jeff’s earlier summation of Briskow’s character.
Brady and Jeff had been in agreement with the majority of the posse on their line of action. Maybe the humiliation Brady had suffered at the hands of the owlhoots had still rankled, but he was rarely vindictive. More to the point, his and Jeff’s money was in the flour sacks. He had no desire to leave it unclaimed in Banker Cuthbertson’s hands for any length of time.
Having rested their horses, the posse had set off on the return journey with a sense of satisfaction at a job well done. It would be a very long time, several of the citizens had declared, before owlhoots would dare pester Edwards County with their presence.
They had carried the Mexican’s body across the rump of the smallest man’s horse. Before helping to load it, Brady had searched the pockets. He had found nothing to suggest in which direction the gang were heading. Nor had the Mexican’s dying comment about ‘Going to church, two miles to the border,’ been any more enlightening. Masker and his companion had both insisted they were the exact words, but nobody could hazard a guess at their meaning. It had been Barnstaple’s belief that they were nothing to do with the destination of the dying owlhoot’s companions. Being a Mexican, he was most likely a Catholic and had been requesting that he be taken to some suitable church for the last rites of his faith. Lacking any better answer, the posse had accepted the distinguished-looking man’s summation. It had not solved the mystery entirely, for it had left unexplained the piece about ‘two miles to the border’. However, it had done all that was necessary right then.
On arrival at Rocksprings, the posse had been greeted by a welcoming committee of almost the whole of the grown-up population. There had been much cheering and numerous expressions of gratification when it was announced that, although some of the gang had escaped, most—if not all—of the money had been recovered. Few of the people felt cheated or that the posse should have kept on after the remainder of the gang.
Before taking the money to the bank, Barnstaple had insisted upon delivering the dead Mexican to the undertaker’s establishment. While the posse had been away, the undertaker had attended to the body of Jeff’s victim. The deceased owlhoot’s pockets had yielded little and, on the face of it, nothing of use in locating his companions. The most puzzling item had been a much folded and dirty handbill. It had hardly seemed to be the thing a hardened bank robber would be carrying on his person. ‘widow snodgrass and her daughters of the LORD SAY REPENT ALL YE SINNERS, THE END IS NIGH!’
The rest of the message had been what could be expected on such a document. In addition to the grim warnings of punishments to come and exhortations to give up such evil pursuits as drinking, gambling, infidelity and womanizing, it had offered a list of the towns in which the Widow and her Daughters of the Lord had been, or would be, visiting. According to the undertaker, with confirmation from the sheriff, the party had made its call on Rocksprings. They had won acclaim among the God-fearing section of the community by their sincerity and devout, Christian behavior.
‘Banker Cuthbertson was real impressed,’ the undertaker had commented. ‘He invited them to his house for dinner and all.’
Apparently, Brady and Jeff had assumed, such an invitation ranked around Rocksprings as the equivalent to being the honor guests of the President of the United States at the White House.
Knowing that many owlhoots had moments of remorse and tried to reform, Brady had attached little significance to the handbill. Jeff had figured that the young man he had killed was not a likely candidate for repentance; but was forced to admit that their acquaintance had been, of necessity, a very brief one. So he had not been able to draw a definite conclusion on the state of the other’s soul.
Cuthbertson had arrived soon after the men entered the undertaker’s shop. Hovering in the background and showing no desire to see the remains of the dead owlhoots, his whole body had appeared to be a-quiver with eagerness to lay hands on the bank’s money. So Barnstaple had suggested that, having carried out their Christian and legal duties, they could attend to more mundane matters.
That had raised a problem for Brady and Jeff. Under normal conditions, not even the extreme urgency of their business would have caused them to neglect the welfare of their horses. So they had been torn between two desires—to see the animals settled after the hard travelling of the day and to watch Cuthbertson while their money was being counted along with the rest of the loot. Mueller had solved their dilemma by offering to tend to the appaloosa and the bayo-tigres. It had been a tribute to the respect in which Brady and Jeff held him that they had agreed. Satisfied that their mounts would be in good hands, they had set off with the interested parties to the bank.
‘It is, sir,’ the teller declared, in answer to his employer’s question. ‘All fifty thousand dollars.’
Nobody spoke for a moment. A crafty, delighted glint crept into Cuthbertson’s eyes. Then he flashed a knowing glance at Minter. Barnstaple had heard of Brady’s and Jeff’s loss and he studied the pair with interest. They in turn exchanged looks, but as usual Jeff left his uncle to do the talking.
‘Only fifty thousand dollars?’ Brady inquired, looking like a slightly puzzled stone cherub.
‘Yes, sir,’ Dilkes confirmed flatly.
‘There should be fifty-five thousand,’ Brady pointed out. ‘They took the money belonging to my nephew and me with them.’
‘There’s just fifty thousand, sir,’ Dilkes insisted. ‘No more, no less. Exactly as I put it into the sack.’
‘Five thousand of it still belongs to Uncle Brady and me,’ Jeff put in, goaded to the comment by Briskow’s mocking, triumphant leer.
‘I’m afraid I can’t agree with you on that, young man,’ Cuthbertson boomed, sitting back with a complacent air and his right hand casually drew open the desk’s drawer. ‘I lost fifty thousand dollars and that sum was placed into the two flour sacks which my teller has just checked. They are the same sacks, aren’t they, Dilkes?’
‘The very same, sir,’ Dilkes agreed, indicating the drawstrings and red lettering. ‘I’m not likely to forget them in a hurry.’
‘I’m not arguing that they’re the same sacks,’ Brady objected.
‘Then you’re saying that my teller hasn’t counted correctly?’ the banker challenged, dropping his right hand into the drawer and directing another conspiratorial look at the sheriff. ‘You can check it yourself....’
‘I’m satisfied that your man counted correctly,’ Brady stated.
‘Then I would like to know what you’re implying,’ Cuthbertson declared.
‘I’m saying that the gang took five thousand dollars belonging to my nephew and me—’
‘In those two sacks?’
‘That’s what the one who looked like an undertaker said to do with it.’
‘D
id you see the money put in?’ the banker inquired.
‘That’s not real likely, seeing’s how I’d been made lie flat on my face,’ Brady replied. ‘How about you, Mr. Dilkes?’
‘I couldn’t say for sure what happened to your money, sir,’ the teller quavered, not meeting Brady’s eyes.
‘Couldn’t,’ Jeff growled, making as if to move towards the scared-looking Dilkes. ‘Or daren’t?’
Although Minter had seen Cuthbertson’s signals, his brain lacked the ability to read them correctly. He knew that his cousin wanted him to do something, but had no clear notion of what it might be. Already he had forgotten the suggestions made by the banker during their private conversation before the posse had set off.
Equally observant, but more intelligent, Briskow had guessed that something was going on. He had also formed a fairly accurate assessment of what was wanted and believed that he could provide the service required by the banker. If he did, he would gain a most influential ally in his campaign to become sheriff.
With that in mind, Briskow had attracted Haggerty’s attention and nodded towards Brady. Then the younger deputy had ambled leisurely towards the desk. Showing an unusual amount of intelligence, Haggerty had advanced in a surreptitious and—he fondly believed—unobserved manner to stand behind the stocky man. Having attained that position, Haggerty dropped his right hand to the butt of his holstered Remington.
‘Hold it!’ Briskow barked, catching Jeff’s right arm with his left hand and reaching for his Colt with the right.
The response was far swifter than the young deputy had anticipated. Up to that moment, Briskow’s main targets had been the local cowhands. Carrying a load of liquor, none of them had been capable of serious resistance. Nor were they highly trained fighting men; certainly not up to Jefferson Trade’s standards.
Frowning a little, Barnstaple tensed as he stood not far from where Cuthbertson was seated behind the desk. He glanced into the drawer, then at the peace officers.