by Bill Crider
After a brief struggle, he was able to lead the horse away from the fire and around to the front of the stable. Sure enough, old Whistler had gone to sleep in his chair. His eyes were closed, his head was back, and he had no idea that the whole stable was about to burn down around him. His snoring was almost loud enough to drown out the noise of the fire.
Gerald was going to wake Whistler and warn him about the fire. No one would ever guess that Gerald was the one who had started the fire. He would save Whistler and be a hero; no one would suspect his part in the robbery.
“Wake up, Whistler!” Gerald yelled, shaking the man by the shoulder.
Whistler jerked away, looking around to the right and left. “What the hell?” he said. “What’s goin’ on here?”
“Your place is on fire,” Gerald said. “We’ve got to get the horses out!”
Whistler jumped up with surprising vigor. “Goddamn!” he said.
He turned to see the stable filling with smoke. Both men could hear the cries of frightened horses.
“Goddamn!” Whistler repeated. “You sound the alarm! I’ll get them horses out!”
That suited Gerald just fine.
When Gerald spread word of the fire, even most of the customers in the White Dog Saloon responded quickly, leaping up and running for the front door. Even the bartender hustled out, taking off his stained white apron and tossing it on the bar.
O’Grady and his partners stayed in their chairs and watched them go.
“Guess that means it’s time,” Ben said when the last one had left.
“Right you are,” O’Grady said. “So let’s be going about our business.”
The three of them rose and walked casually outside. The street was filled with running men, women, and children, all heading in the direction of the stable, from which orange flames rose and black smoke poured.
The sky was overcast now, making the flames seem even brighter, and thunder rumbled in the north.
“Gonna rain,” Jink said. “Goddammit.”
“Not before our little job is done,” O’Grady said, eyeing the clouds. “Not if we do it now.”
Everyone was concentrating on the fire, and no one paid any attention to the three men who sauntered across the street and into the bank. Three well-dressed men who had no inclination to dirty their suits by fighting fires were standing outside the bank, looking in the direction of the stable. They were talking among themselves and did not seem to notice the three men who entered the bank, pulling bandannas up over the lower halves of their faces as they did so.
Ben closed the door quietly behind them when they were inside. He and Jink already had their guns drawn.
“God save all here,” O’Grady said. His voice boomed off the walls, hardly muffled at all by the bandanna, but there were only two people to hear him, one woman who was standing at the teller’s window and the teller himself.
The woman opened her mouth to scream, but O’Grady said, “Ah, now, that wouldn’t be a good idea, would it. Might cause someone to get hurt. Best be calm, and we’ll be going soon.”
The woman looked at him as if surprised to hear a robber talking so rationally and coolly under the circumstances. She shut her mouth slowly.
“And you, my friend,” O’Grady said to the teller, “you’ll be letting us into the vault, if you please.”
The teller was a scrawny young man with slicked-down hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He was not intimidated by O’Grady. “I can’t do that,” he said. “Only Mr. Wiley can do that, and he’s not here.”
“Sure and that’s a shame,” O’Grady said. “And where might Mr. Wiley be, then?”
The teller clamped his thin lips together and said nothing.
O’Grady glanced at Ben. “Go outside and invite the three gentlemen we saw there to come inside,” he said. “We wouldn’t want them to be getting wet if it rains.”
Ben opened the door and went out. The three men were still talking about the fire, and there was quite a crowd gathered at the livery stable now. Ben figured that just about the whole town must be there, throwing buckets of water at the flames and doing not a damn bit of good.
The wind had picked up considerably, and the thunder was rolling loudly. The rain was going to do more to put out the fire than the townspeople, but there wasn’t going to be much left of the stable when the rain finally fell.
Ben tapped one of the men on the shoulder. “Why don’t you fellas come inside?” he said. “You ain’t helpin’ any with that fire.”
They turned and stepped back in surprise at seeing his face covered. He let them have a look at his pistol.
“Just don’t make no noise,” he said. “Not that it’d do you any good if you did.”
“Here, now,” the man in the middle said. He was stout and red-faced, taller than the other two. “You can’t do this.”
“I’m doin’ it,” Ben said. “Get inside.” He jerked his pistol barrel in the direction of the bank door.
The three men looked at one another helplessly and filed inside. Ben closed the door.
“Welcome to you all,” O’Grady said. “And which of you might be Mr. Wiley?”
None of the men said anything.
“I bet it’s this ‘un,” Ben said, prodding the stout man in the middle of the back with his pistol and causing him to step forward. “He’s the one likes to talk.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wiley,” O’Grady said. “I know you’ll be wanting us to go on our way, which we will as soon as you open your vault for us.”
“No,” Wiley said. “I can’t do that.”
“Ah, but you can,” O’Grady said. “And you will. I know you wouldn’t want anything to be happening to one of your customers, now would you?”
He walked over to the woman by the teller’s window and put his pistol under her chin. When she started to open her mouth, he cocked the hammer.
“Now, now,” he told her. “No talking.” He looked back at the banker. “Well, Mr. Wiley?”
“All right,” Wiley said.
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” O’Grady told him.
FIVE
Gerald Crossland wiped his eyes with the back of his grimy hand and tried to cough the smoke out of his lungs.
He didn’t know how he’d gotten roped into helping fight the fire, but he couldn’t very well have refused. It would have looked bad and might have cast suspicion on him. Though he had done as little as possible, he was hotter than he’d ever been in his life, and dirtier. He found himself actually wishing that the rain would begin to fall and end his misery.
There had been only three horses boarded in the stable, along with two that Whistler rented out now and then, and Whistler had gotten them all out before Gerald had been pressed into service, not that Gerald gave a damn about any horses. He just wanted to get away from there. He’d never heard so much yelling or seen so much frenzied activity in his entire life.
Things were calming down, however, because everyone had realized that there was nothing they could do to save the stable. It was clear that no matter how much effort they put into rescuing it, the stable was going to burn to cinders and ashes, so rather than risk getting hurt or overcome by the smoke, everyone was just standing around at a safe distance and watching it burn.
It seemed to Gerald that the whole town must be there, and he was sure that the robbery had been completed successfully by now. He tried to will himself to relax and enjoy the spectacle of the burning building.
Whistler walked over to him and put a friendly hand on his shoulder.
“Good thing for them horses that you happened by, son,” he said.
Whistler was even older than Gerald’s father, practically toothless, and totally bald. He wore a battered hat that Gerald wouldn’t even have put on a mule.
“Needed a few things from the store,” Gerald said to explain his presence. “I’m glad I could be of help.”
“Musta come the long way round,” Whistler s
aid.
Gerald looked at the old man sharply, but there was nothing in his face or in his voice that seemed threatening.
“Just enjoying the ride,” Gerald said. “I don’t get out much these days, what with my father suffering so.”
“How is Mr. Crossland?” Whistler said. “He gettin’ any better?”
Gerald shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid not.”
“Mighty sorry to hear it,” Whistler said, before walking off to talk to someone who wanted to commiserate with him about the loss of his stable.
Nosy old bastard, Gerald thought, but then the roof of the stable fell in with a whoosh and a crash, scattering sparks into the air and causing the crowd to back up in a rush of gasps and yells.
The collapse of the roof was followed by a brilliant flash of lightning and a boom of thunder from overhead, and all eyes turned to the sky.
The clouds opened up, and the rain began to fall.
Burt Taine rode hard, paying no attention to the gathering clouds, the lightning, or the thunder. He was thinking only about finding the men who had raped Ellie, and about what he was going to do if he found them.
It was always possible that they wouldn’t be in Blanco at all, that they’d merely been passing by that way and not intending to stop, but somehow Burt was sure that wasn’t the case.
He knew they would be there, and he knew that he would find them.
He couldn’t have said how he knew, but he felt it with a certainty that went beyond explanation. It was as if all his life had been leading him to this point and that he had been living all along for the confrontation that he was sure was about to occur.
He could feel the Colt at his side, bouncing against him as he rode. He reached down his right hand and caressed the leather of the holster.
The fire that had burned inside him was gone now, replaced by something that felt like a lump of ice, hard and cold. Whatever was going to happen, he was ready for it.
The rain began just he rode into town. It came in hard, stinging drops as big as two-bit pieces. They hit the dusty street and soaked into the ground. They were widely spaced at first, but then they fell faster and harder, and the street was turning to mud before Burt had even reached the center of town. He pulled his hat lower, and water ran off the brim and onto the saddle.
Through the rain he could see a crowd gathered at the other end of the street, down where the livery stable should have been. He couldn’t see the stable, however, and he wondered whether it was obscured by the curtain of rain or if something had happened to it.
Then he heard the shots from the bank.
At first, things had gone exactly as O’Grady planned. Wiley opened the vault without any further argument, and O’Grady ushered him inside.
“Hold this for me, if you please,” O’Grady said, pulling a burlap bag from under his shirt and handing it to the banker. “I’ll not be taking too much more of your time now.”
Wiley took the bag and spread it open at the top while O’Grady began tossing in the stacked bills. When he was finished, he looked around the vault and said, “Sure and there must be more than this.”
“You have it all,” Wiley said. “Except whatever small amount there might be in the teller’s drawer.”
O’Grady had not bothered to count, but he was afraid that the money he had put into the bag could not possibly add up to the sum mentioned by Gerald Crossland, not unless there were some awfully big bills. Maybe that was the case.
“Very well,” he said. “We’ll call it a day, then.” He took the bag from Wiley and twisted the top closed. He tied it shut with a piece of rope from his pocket. “You just stay here and rest. We’ll be sending in your friends.”
“You can’t lock us in here,” Wiley said, looking afraid for the first time. “No one but me knows the combination to the vault; we’ll never get out.”
“Come now,” O’Grady said. “No banker would be so careless as to leave no escape for himself in such a situation. I’m sure there is someone in town who can set you at liberty sooner or later.”
“No,” Wiley said, though in truth he had written the combination down on a piece of paper and hidden it in his desk at home. His wife had been told of the location of the paper and would know what to do.
“Well, isn’t that too bad, then?” O’Grady said, backing out of the vault. “You can be sending the others in now,” he called to Ben and Jink.
The woman and the two men who had come in with Wiley went in calmly enough. It was the teller who caused the trouble.
When the young man refused to move, Jink moved over and prodded him in the back with the pistol. When the barrel touched him, the teller turned quickly, trying to grab the pistol and snatch it from Jink’s hand.
The pistol went off, and the bullet plowed into the wooden floor. The teller and Jink sprang apart. Neither of them was hurt, but the teller made the mistake of jumping for Jink a second time.
Jink jerked up the pistol and shot him in the chest.
The clerk stumbled backward and fell into the vault at the feet of the woman, who began to scream shrilly. No threat could have stopped her.
“Jesus!” O’Grady said. “I told you not to shoot!”
“You never did,” Ben said. “Now hurry up and shut that vault.”
O’Grady shut the door and spun the handle, cutting off the sound of the woman’s screams.
“Let’s get outta here,” Jink said.
Burt Taine saw the three of them come out of the bank, looking both up and down the street, bandannas pulled up to cover their faces, pistols in their hands.
He knew the first two at once, even in the pouring rain.
One big, with a bit of beard sticking out over the top of the bandanna; one skinny, with beady eyes between the brim of his hat and the handkerchief that covered the lower part of his face.
The third man was behind them, and Burt had no idea who he might be. But he was as sure about the other two as if he had seen them in the wagon with Ellie, tearing her clothes away, kneeling over her.
With pressure from his left knee, he turned his horse to face them; with his right hand, he reached for his pistol.
He got it out, but he didn’t get a chance to fire it.
Ben shot him first, the bullet hitting him high on the left side of his chest, throwing him back in the saddle. He held on to the reins and didn’t fall from the horse.
Because his head was back and because his horse reared up, Jink’s shot took him right under the chin.
The bullet went up through the roof of his mouth and, deflected slightly, through his brain and out the upper back of his skull, blowing off his hat and part of his head.
Burt fell back off the rearing horse. His fingers jerked in a reflex action, and he fired the pistol, but the bullet went harmlessly into the mud of the street. The fingers of his left hand released the reins, and he landed hard in the street, making a splatting noise in the mud. He lay there on his back, unmoving, dead before he fell.
“Jesus,” O’Grady said. “Sweet Jesus.”
Ben and Jink were already across the street and mounting their horses.
O’Grady followed, lugging the money bag. He looped the rope with which he’d tied it over his saddle horn and mounted up. By then, Ben and Jink were headed out of town.
There was nothing for O’Grady to do but go with them.
Sheriff Rawls Dawson heard the shots and turned in time to see the man falling from his horse into the street. He also saw the three men mount their horses and ride away, but by that time he was running up the street, kicking up mud and water, headed for the bank.
The rest of the crowd, those who had not sought shelter from the rain, followed him, leaving the rain to sizzle into the ashes of the livery stable and complete the job of extinguishing the fire. There looked to be more exciting things going on.
Gerald Crossland watched the crowd surge up the street and went along behind, though he didn’t exert the energy to keep up with th
em. He had not run in many years, and he was not going to start now.
He wished that he could think of some reason to leave town, but he couldn’t. And he knew that if he did leave, people would wonder why. He didn’t want anyone to do that.
His clothes were soaked and stuck to him all over—wet, heavy, filthy, and uncomfortable. He had been hot before, but he was getting cold now and the rain showed no signs of letting up anytime soon.
As he walked, Gerald cursed silently.
Robbing the bank had been a risk, admittedly, but a small one. It was a risk Gerald had been willing to take. Even if the men were caught and gave his name, there was no real evidence against him, nothing more than the word of criminals. Even if things went so far as a trial, Gerald was sure nothing bad would happen to him.
But not now. Now there was a dead man. Things would never get back to normal. Gerald should never have trusted that damn MacLane, who swore there would be no killing.
Things could be worse, however. At least O’Grady and his men had gotten away. Most likely they would never be caught. Gerald consoled himself with thoughts of the money that would soon be his.
Sheriff Dawson looked down at the dead man. There was a circle of others gathered around and the rain streamed off their hats and shoulders.
“Goddamn, his face is a mess,” someone said.
“Looks like Burt Taine, though,” another man said. “What the hell was he doin’ in town?”
“That don’t make a damn,” someone else said. “What the hell happened to him?”
Dawson had already figured that out. “He got in the way,” he said. “Some of you men get him off the street. Take him down to Fowler’s.” Fowler was the undertaker.
As the men bent to pick up the body, Dawson headed for the bank, afraid of what he might find inside.
O’Grady knew that there would be a posse after them soon, and that was one good thing about the rain. No one was going to be able to track them. The rain would take care of any trail they might leave.