“Let’s say I’ve been informed,” Smith said. “It was part of the plan. We’ll let it go at that. I think you and your family will be safer if you don’t know any more.”
They returned to the front room, Smith setting the lamp down on the table and the guns in a corner. Matt crossed to the stairs and started to climb them, not stopping until Nora cried: “What are you going to do?”
“Smith told me to wake Bud and have him dress,” Matt said, pausing on the third step and looking back at Nora.
She whirled to face Smith. “Why?” she demanded. “Do you have to bring a boy into this . . . this terrible scheme of yours?”
“Yes, I have to,” Smith said. “You will all be safer because I am bringing a boy into it. You might call him a hostage. He’s our guarantee you will cooperate. I admire your courage, Missus Dugan, but not your judgment. As long as the boy is our hostage, you will co-operate. Otherwise, you might be tempted to do something that would bring disaster to all of you.”
Nora’s hands were fisted at her sides; her face was white and drawn, and her temples were throbbing as if the blood was threatening to break out. Matt, knowing the violence of her temper, was afraid she would do something foolish now.
“Nora,” Matt said sharply, and came back down the stairs and crossed the room to her. “Listen to me.” He took her hands and found they were as cold as if she had just soaked them in ice water. “I’ve told Smith I’d kill him if I had a chance to do it without putting my family in danger, but until I get that chance, I’ll do exactly what he tells me. I want you to do the same.”
Nora swallowed, staring at Smith with a venomous hatred. She nodded slowly. “All right, Matt,” she whispered.
Jean had dropped into a chair. She rose and, coming to her mother, put an arm around her. “Let’s sit down on the couch,” Jean said. “Let’s try to do what Dad says.”
Nora let herself be led to the couch. Matt waited till they sat down. When he was sure that Nora had regained control of herself, he turned and climbed the stairs. He found a man sitting at their head, a Winchester across his knees. Matt stopped, surprised that he was there.
that he was there.
In spite of all the talk about Ross Hart, Matt had not fully grasped the fact that the man was actually in the house, or that he had been watching the scene below him in the front room. Now for the first time Matt understood why Smith had been so sure of himself. If Jerry Corrigan had caught on to what was happening and had drawn his gun, Hart would have cut him down at once.
A bracket lamp was burning about ten feet down the hall. When Matt stopped, Hart turned his head and grinned, a wicked grin that mocked Matt. His face was dark, but his eyes were pale blue. They might have been made of glass, there was so little expression in them.
“He gave you the notion I’m a son-of-a-bitch, didn’t he?” Hart asked.
“He’s given me the notion you all are,” Matt said. “Oh, John ain’t,” Hart said. “He’s real polite and he don’t like to kill nobody. Sammy, he’s just an idiot. I’m different. I’m a genuwine son-of-a-bitch from a way back and don’t you forget it.”
Matt went on past him to Bud’s door. He stepped inside and closed the door, discovering that he was shaking as if he were coming down with chills and fever. He fished a match out of his vest pocket, feeling as if he had come into contact with something that was so obscene it was unbearable. He waited until he stopped shaking. Lighting a lamp on the boy’s bureau, he turned to the bed and shook Bud awake.
The boy sat up and rubbed his eyes, asking: “Ain’t morning yet, is it?”
“No,” Matt said. “Get up and dress.”
Bud shook his head to clear the cobwebs away, then rubbed his eyes and swung his feet on the floor. Suddenly he seemed to realize something was wrong. He put on his shirt, staring at Matt. He started to button it, asking: “What’s up, Pa?”
“All hell broke loose,” Matt said. “You won’t believe it when I tell you.”
As Bud finished dressing, Matt told him as briefly as he could what had happened. Bud listened, his face becoming grave. He was a tall boy, almost as tall as his father, but still gawky and leggy from the rapid growth that often hits a boy in his middle teens. He had been working on the ranch since school was out and had come home the evening before for the celebration. Now Matt wished he had stayed at the ranch.
“What do they want me for?” Bud asked as he tugged on his boots.
“I don’t know,” Matt answered, “except to say you’re a hostage. I feel like hell taking you downstairs, but we’ve got to play their game for a while.”
“I could get through the window,” Bud whispered. “You could stay in here and they wouldn’t know I was gone. I could have Jerry back here in five minutes.”
Matt shook his head. “Bud, believe me about this. There’s three of them. They’re killers. I know the kind. We’ve got to take their orders until something happens that gives us a chance. Maybe we’ll all get killed playing it safe this way, but I know we’ll get killed if we jump them before that something happens. Now, come on.”
“You can’t let them rob the bank,” Bud said.
Matt met the boy’s gaze. He said: “I can’t let them murder your mother and Jean, either. At first I didn’t believe they would, but I do now. Come on, I tell you.”
He left the room, Bud following, and went along the hall and down the stairs, ignoring Ross Hart as he passed him.
X
When Matt and Bud reached the bottom of the stairs, Smith motioned for them to sit down. His eyes were thoughtful as he studied Bud. Finally he said: “You’re a good-looking boy. It would be a shame for anything to happen to you.”
Matt and Bud sat down, neither saying anything. Matt glanced at Nora. Her face was pale, her lips squeezed tightly together. He thought she had control of herself now. If he could gain enough time, he was confident he would find a way to escape this trap in which he and his family found themselves.
Smith was smart, but Matt was certain that sometime within the next twelve hours the outlaws would make a mistake, the fatal kind of mistake that would give him a chance to take them or get word to Jerry Corrigan. Or was this only wishful thinking, the kind of wishful thinking that a man does when he has his back to the wall and is waiting for the firing squad to shoot?
He didn’t know. He had worried about Nora’s blowing up in a fit of frustration, but he felt better about her now. He glanced at Jean and decided she was the one he had better worry about. She had an expression he had never seen on her face before.
It was as if she had become a little girl again and was having a dream, a wild and terrifying dream that ran on and on endlessly. If she could not grasp the reality of the danger they were in, she, instead of Nora, might be the one to do something foolish that would endanger all of them.
Smith had been studying the faces of the Dugan family, first the women, then Matt, and finally Bud. He said: “I’m a good judge of human nature. I wouldn’t be in the business I have followed successfully for ten years if I wasn’t. I’m what you good people call a con man, and therefore I live in a sort of twilight zone between the underworld and that of legitimate business. Bank robbing is not in my line, but this looked too good to pass up.”
He drew a cigar from his coat pocket and rolled it between his fingers for a while, then he continued: “It’s been my experience that women are more reckless than men. That’s why I’ve been concerned about you, Missus Dugan, ever since you tried to jump me when your husband came in.”
Irritated, Nora said: “I told you I learned my lesson. I don’t know why I have to keep saying it.”
“Because this is the only time we will all be together,” Smith said. “I want Bud to understand this, too.” He turned to the boy. “There is a possibility in this kind of situation that someone will try to be a hero and upset the apple cart and put everyone in danger. I suppose you might defeat our plan, but you’ll get yourself killed doing it.” He turned b
ack to Matt. “I’m not the kind of gambler who likes a game with the deuces wild. I intend to copper my bet. First, we’ll talk about tomorrow. Dugan, I suppose you go to the bank about eight?”
Matt nodded. “I don’t have a set time, but I get there sometime between eight and nine.”
“They’ll look for you at the usual time in the morning?”
Matt nodded again. “That’s right.”
“I expect you to go ahead with your regular habits.” Smith put the cigar into his mouth and chewed on it a moment, then he said: “Sammy and I may go downtown in the morning and mingle with the crowd. We might even drop into the bank. If we do, you will treat us as if we were your wife’s cousins.”
“I have to be at the hotel at eight to help make sandwiches,” Nora said.
“Keep your date,” Smith said. “Just be sure you don’t say or do anything to make your friends think something is wrong.”
“Jerry Corrigan will probably stop by in the morning,” Matt said. “He often does.”
“Let him in,” Smith said. “Give him a cup of coffee. Act normal. Jean, you will stay in the house until we leave at noon tomorrow. If Corrigan wants you to go to the celebration with him, tell him you have a headache.”
“I never have headaches,” Jean said.
“You start tomorrow morning,” Smith said.
“I’m not going off and leave Jean in the house with you and Sammy,” Nora said sharply. “If you go downtown, she’ll be alone with Ross Hart and you say he’s a terrible man.”
“He’s terrible only when you fail to co-operate,” Smith said. “Now then, Dugan, I can read your mind. You have been thinking about how you and the sheriff will take us when we leave the house with the dinero. You think we will be vulnerable at that time. No, we won’t be, because Sammy is taking Bud to a soddy a little ways from town. He will be a prisoner until we’re safe. Then he will be released.”
“I won’t let you,” Nora cried. “I’ll co-operate here in town and we’ll promise not to do anything about capturing you for as long as you say, but I won’t let you take Bud and maybe murder him.”
Smith looked at her as if suddenly he was very tired. “Missus Dugan, I have gone over this with you until it has become monotonous, and yet you still talk about what you will let us do. All I can tell you is that he will not be murdered if you co-operate, in town and everywhere else.” Smith turned to Bud. “This works the other way, too, son. Your folks’ safety depends on the way you act. If you make trouble, or manage to escape and spread the word, you will be the cause of at least your sister’s death and probably your parents, too.”
“I don’t aim to make any trouble,” Bud said.
“Good.” Smith nodded at Sammy Bean. “Take him along.”
Sammy motioned for Bud to get up. “Come on, kid. I’m getting a little boogery about this deal, so, if you kick any dust into my face, I’ll twist your damn’ neck just like I would a rooster for Sunday dinner.”
Bud rose. He glanced at his mother who had folded her hands on her lap so tightly the fingers were white, then he looked at Matt. “You’re right, Pa. We’ve got to play their game for a while.”
He crossed the room and disappeared into the back of the house. Matt didn’t move as he heard the screen door bang shut. Smith had read his mind and read it accurately. He had not fully understood what Smith had meant by saying he was using Bud as a hostage, so he had thought he could play it out until the men left tomorrow noon, then he and Jerry Corrigan could capture them and recover the money.
Now for one long and terrifying moment he pictured Bud lying on his back on the dirt floor of some deserted soddy out in the sandhills, a bullet in his head. Bud was his only son. Nora was young enough to have more children, but she couldn’t. The doctor had made that plain enough when Bud was born.
Matt knew, then, in this moment of black despair, that he could not as much as lift a finger to save the dam and ditch project that meant so much to everyone in Amity.
XI
Bud stopped on the back porch when Sammy Bean said: “Wait. You got a lantern around here?”
“There’s one hanging beside the door.”
“Light it,” Sammy said.
Bud took the lantern off the nail, jacked up the chimney, and, scratching a match to life, held the flame to the wick. He blew out the match and eased the chimney back into place. When he looked up, he saw that Sammy was watching him, his right hand on the butt of his gun.
For the first time in his life fear hit Bud so hard that he was sick in the pit of his stomach. He moistened his lips, then he began to tremble. He called himself a fool, but he couldn’t control his body.
He’d had several narrow escapes from death. Once he had been caught in a blizzard and had almost frozen before he’d stumbled into a ranch house. Another time, when he was hunting with his father in the mountains, he had wounded a bear that had nearly killed him before he finished the animal.
There were other cases like these, but he had never been one to worry about death. He didn’t know why this wild fear hit him the way it did now. Maybe it was the hard, brittle expression on Sammy Bean’s face.
Staring at the young outlaw in the murky lantern light, Bud knew beyond the slightest doubt that Sammy could and would kill him if he were given an excuse, that John Smith would kill Jean if anything went wrong tomorrow. This was the one horrible fact that controlled what he did, the outlaws’ capacity for murder.
“You’re fixing to kill all of us before you’re done, ain’t you?” Bud whispered.
Sammy Bean laughed. Bud hated him and he hated himself for his weakness. He had not been able to lift his voice above a whisper; he was not able to control his hands, which were shaking. Sammy recognized the fear that possessed Bud. It was probably what amused him.
“Well, now, that depends, kid,” Sammy said, “but I’ll tell you one thing. If you decide to make a run for it, I’ll kill you.” He motioned toward the barn. “Go ahead of me and saddle your horse.”
Bud stepped off the porch and strode to the shed, Sammy staying two paces behind him. He opened the door and, going inside, hung the lantern on a nail. He saw that three strange horses were in the barn. One, a buckskin, was saddled. Sammy stepped into the stall and tightened the cinch, then backed the buckskin into the runway. He waited while Bud saddled the sorrel.
Bud’s fingers were all thumbs and it took him twice as long as usual to saddle the horse. When he finally finished, he led the sorrel outside, Sammy following. He blew out the lantern, closed the door, and turned to Bud who stood waiting, the reins in his hand.
“While we’re riding, you’re staying beside me,” Sammy said. “We’ll head a little west of north. If we run into anybody who asks you what you’re doing this time of night, tell ’em you’re taking a new cowhand to your dad’s ranch.”
“How did you know our ranch was in this direction?” Bud asked.
“Why, we’ve been informed,” Sammy said. “Now, remember that it don’t take me long to get my gun out of leather. The first jump that sorrel makes will get you a slug between the shoulders. Savvy?”
“I savvy, all right,” Bud said in a “Then let’s ride,” Sammy said.
“Then let’s ride,” Sammy said.
Bud stepped into the saddle and rode down the alley beside Sammy to the street that ran north and south along the west edge of the courthouse block. In the moonlight the platform from which the governor would speak tomorrow looked like a gallows, or so it seemed to Bud.
A moment later they were out of town and riding up the gentle slope that lay north of Buffalo Creek. The road to Burlington was somewhere to the west. Bud glanced at Sammy and saw that his right hand was resting on the butt of his gun. He looked straight ahead at the long rise in front of him and felt the icy prickles race down his spine.
Once more fear took possession of Bud so completely that it was all he could do to keep from digging his heels into the flanks of his sorrel and making a wild das
h through the sagebrush. The wind that raced across the prairie was hot, but Bud was actually chilled.
A soddy loomed ahead of them. Sammy said: “Here we are.” He reined up and whistled twice. Suddenly Bud realized where they were. This was Uncle Pete Fisher’s soddy. He had built it years ago when he’d first proved up on his homestead. He still owned the land and kept the soddy in livable condition. He stayed in town most of the time, coming out here to spend a night when, as he put it, he needed to hear the coyotes howl and feel the wind in his face.
Most folks said he wanted to get away from his overbearing wife once in a while. This was the only property he had left after he lost the bank, and, although the land was practically worthless, it was his.
Bud’s dad thought that the reason the old man came out here was to stand on land that belonged to him. He had told Matt that, when he was in town, he guessed that even the air he breathed belonged to his wife.
Bud had heard all of this from his father more than once. Now the notion struck him that Uncle Pete must have been the one who had planned the whole thing. After being the most important man in the county for years and then losing everything except this quarter-section of range land, he must have gone crazy and thought up this scheme for robbing the bank without being involved personally.
“So it was Uncle Pete,” Bud said.
“Who’s Uncle Pete?” Sammy asked.
“Pete Fisher,” Bud answered. “He owns this soddy.”
Sammy laughed softly. “Sure, Fisher is the one.” He whistled again.
This time the door opened and a woman stepped outside, a shotgun in her hand. “I see you got him,” she said.
“Get down,” Sammy said. “I’ll put your horse in the shed. This is where you stay till noon tomorrow.”
When Bud was inside the soddy, he saw that the windows were covered by blankets. The woman pulled the door shut, the shotgun still in her hands. She was a big woman, not fat, but raw-boned and muscular. Bud guessed she was as strong as the average man. She wore high-heeled boots, a dark green riding skirt, and a tan blouse. Her blonde hair was pinned on the back of her head. She was clean, and right now at least she seemed pleasant enough.
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