by Al Lacy
Vincent Wagner set his eyes on the powerful, muscular Chick Barton. “Boss, I don’t know about us buildin’ a fire. Could be a posse from Golden on our tails. The fire would lead ’em right to us.”
Barton rolled his wide shoulders. “This ain’t Kansas, Vince. It ain’t even the plains of eastern Colorado. We’re in the mountains now, and this is October. I hear tell it gets plenty cold at this altitude even in the fall. I figure we can trade off through the night bein’ on watch so’s the other fellas can lay close to the fire. Most towns don’t send posses, but if a posse did show up, whoever’s on watch would hear ’em comin’, wake the rest of us up, and we’d dash into the shadows and cut ’em down real quick.”
“Sounds okay to me,” spoke up Clete Lundy.
“I’ve been in this area before, years ago, and Chick’s right,” chimed in Ed Loomis. “It gets pretty cold here in these mountains even at this time of year. Don’t worry about the fire, Vince. Like Chick says, if a posse does show up, we’ll hear ’em comin’ and make buzzard bait out of ’em.”
Wagner shrugged. “Okay. Let’s get us a fire going and make some coffee.”
There was a small stream nearby. Three of the men moved around gathering wood for the fire while the other two led the horses to the stream and let them drink.
Darkness seemed to drop down swiftly. The unseen wolves around them began their haunting, mournful howls. The stars appeared, and soon grew brighter. The wind moaned through the branches of the pine trees that surrounded the gang.
By the time the fire was crackling, its blaze caused the shadows of the pines to appear as great, looming giants against the dark sky.
The five outlaws sat around the fire, drinking coffee from the pot that Ed Loomis carried in his saddlebag, while eating beef jerky and hardtack biscuits. The increasingly cold wind fanned the flames of the fire, whipping up flakes of white ash.
When the men had finished their meal, they took from their saddlebags the stuffed moneybags they had stolen from the bank in Golden, and sat down once again around the fire.
After counting the loot, they found that they had just over twenty thousand dollars to split among them. Chick Barton always took forty percent of the money from their robberies, and the other four divided up the other sixty percent.
Plenty satisfied with his portion of the loot, Clete Lundy held it in his hands, looked at Barton by the light of the fire, and said with a smile, “Chick, I’m sure glad I hooked up with you!”
The other three quickly agreed.
Barton, who had his two front teeth missing, grinned. “Well, boys, I’m mighty glad we all got hooked up together. And it’s only gonna get better. When we’ve cleaned out some more of the banks here in this part of the Rockies, we’ll move on up north and clean out some Wyomin’ and Montana banks. Time we’ve done that, we’ll be rich enough to retire and live like kings wherever we decide to settle down.”
There was more talk about becoming rich until finally they put more wood on the fire, and four of the gang members lay in their bedrolls while Vincent Wagner took the first watch. He sat near the fire, rifle in hand, tugging his hat down tight and pulling his coat collar up around his ears.
Just before noon the next day, the gang mounted up and rode into Idaho Springs. No posse from Golden had shown up.
Moving slowly along Main Street, they noted that there were many people along the boardwalks, going in and out of the stores and shops, and gathering in small groups to chat.
As they rode past the town marshal’s office, they could see two men at desks inside. A sign that hung over the boardwalk told them that the marshal’s name was Lou Hoffman.
A block and a half farther down the street, they hauled up in front of the Idaho Springs National Bank.
As they were dismounting, Barton said to Bud Finch, “As usual, I want you to stay here with the horses and keep an eye out for lawmen. If you see that marshal and any deputies comin’ this way, come inside and let us know.”
Finch nodded and slipped his rifle from the saddle boot.
There were few customers in the bank when the four men moved through the door. According to plan, Clete Lundy made his way to the small area where the bank officers had their desks. And as usual, at noon there was only one officer there to deal with customers.
The other three casually moved to the tables where customers could fill out deposit slips, write checks, or endorse checks.
As Clete Lundy passed through the small gate in the railing that surrounded the officers’ area, he noted by the nameplate on the desk that the lone officer was a vicepresident, and his name was Lloyd Smith. He looked to be in his midfifties.
Smith looked up at the stranger, smiled, and said, “May I help you, sir?”
Lundy whipped out his revolver, and pressed it against the vice president’s forehead. He looked at him with eyes like a snake. “Yeah, you can help me.”
Smith’s eyes were suddenly wide with the horror of a sleeper awakened from a nightmare to find it real.
“See those three men headed for the tellers’ cages, Mr. Smith?”
The terrified man gulped. “Y-yes, sir.”
“Holler over there and get the tellers’ attention. Tell ’em if they don’t hand over all their money, I’ll blow your brains out. And tell one of ’em to take the big guy into the vault with him and give him all the money in there.”
Lloyd Smith quickly obeyed. The four customers who were in the bank stood frozen in place, eyes wide.
Moments later, with their free hands full of moneybags, and cocked revolvers in their gun hands, the three robbers headed toward the door.
Clete Lundy hurried away from the vice president’s desk to join them. Lloyd Smith took a revolver from a desk drawer, aimed, and fired.
The slug hit Lundy in the back of the head, and he fell to the floor facedown.
Barton saw the bank officer standing there with the smoking gun in his hand. He fired at Smith, hitting him in the chest, and Smith went down.
As the gang headed toward the door, two tellers pulled guns from drawers.
Outside, Bud Finch heard the gunfire inside the bank, and his nerves went rigid. At the same time, he saw the marshal and a deputy running down the street toward the bank, their badges flashing in the sunlight. People on the street looked on fearfully. Finch raised his rifle and took aim at the lawmen just as Barton, Loomis, and Wagner came running out of the bank, moneybags in hand, firing back at the tellers inside. When they saw Finch shooting at the lawmen, who were firing back, they also opened fire on the lawmen.
People were scattering for cover as the thunder of gunfire rocked the street and ear-stabbing echoes clattered among the buildings. Women were wailing and screaming.
Bullets flew.
The two lawmen jumped behind a wagon for cover. The outlaws took advantage of it to mount their horses.
Marshal Lou Hoffman and his deputy once again opened fire.
In their saddles, the outlaws fired back. In the exchange of gunfire, the deputy went down. The marshal was hit in the upper left arm just after he put a bullet in the upper chest of Bud Finch, who doubled over in the saddle, but managed to stay on his horse as they galloped out of town to the northwest.
People rushed up to the marshal as he fired the last shot left in his gun in the direction of the fleeing bank robbers, then dropped to one knee. Others knelt over the fallen deputy, and one of the men called out, “Marshal, your deputy is dead!”
The Barton gang rode away from Idaho Springs with Bud Finch holding desperately onto the pommel of his saddle. After several minutes, Chick led them down a trail into a canyon and stopped beside a creek.
The three men dismounted, and Wagner and Loomis eased the bleeding Bud Finch from the saddle while Barton took a tin cup from his saddlebag and dipped it into the creek.
When Barton moved to the spot where Finch lay on the ground, Wagner said, “Chick, the slug hit him high enough that it couldn’t have hit his heart or punc
tured a lung, but he’s gonna bleed to death if we don’t get him to a doctor. I just packed my bandanna against the wound to help slow the bleedin’.”
Barton knelt down and placed the cup of water to Finch’s dry lips. “Sip it slow-like, Bud. We lost Clete. I sure don’t want to lose you.”
Finch took a couple swallows, then asked in a weak voice, “Clete’s dead?”
“Yeah. Bank officer shot him in the head.”
Chick gave Bud more water, then looked up at Ed Loomis. “You’re the only one of us who’s been in this area before. You got any idea where we can find a doctor? Other than where we just were, I mean.”
“The nearest town is Central City. It’s about eight or nine miles to the northwest. There was a doctor there when I was in these parts before.”
Barton nodded. “Now we’ve got to do some thinkin’. It’s too dangerous to just take Bud into a doctor’s office. The doctor will want to know how he got shot, and no matter what we tell him, he might be suspicious and insist on the law bein’ brought into it.”
“You’re right about that, Chick,” said Vincent Wagner. “Doctors are supposed to report any suspicious bullet or knife wounds to the local law.”
“Best thing to do is hole up in some store where there are people we can hold hostage. We’ll threaten to kill them unless a doctor comes in and tends to Bud’s wound. After Bud is taken care of, we’ll take a couple of the hostages with us for insurance. We’ll threaten to kill them if lawmen or anyone else follows us.”
The gang leader gave Bud Finch the last of the water in the cup, and rose to his feet. “All right, boys, let’s get Bud to Central City.”
They mounted up, with Vincent riding on Bud’s horse with him. Ed was leading Vincent’s horse as they rode out of the canyon.
In Central City at ten minutes after two o’clock, a group of ladies were gathering in front of the town hall for a quilting bee. They were chattering happily, anticipating the joy they always experienced when they got together for a bee.
Betty Anderson, the mayor’s wife, was always in charge of the sewing bees. Almost half of the women in the group were members of the church where Mark Shane was pastor. Betty inserted a key in the lock of the door, and told the ladies to go inside the building. She added that Mayor Anderson had already come into the building an hour ago and built fires in both stoves.
At the same time the ladies were filing into the town hall, Chick Barton and Ed Loomis were riding into town, looking for just the right store in which to carry out their plan. Vincent Wagner had stayed at the edge of town with Bud Finch, hiding in a grove of trees.
As Barton and Loomis rode along Main Street with people moving up and down the boardwalks and light traffic busying the dusty thoroughfare, Chick pointed off to the side and said, “Look over there, Ed.”
Loomis immediately saw the sign beside the front door of the building that read: DANE LOGAN, M.D.
Barton said, “There’s our doctor.”
Ed grinned as he noticed a man and a woman coming out of the doctor’s office. “Sure enough. Dr. Dane Logan doesn’t know it, but he’s about to get a new patient.”
Suddenly Barton pointed up the street a half-block and said, “Look up there, Ed. See the town hall sign?”
“Yeah.”
“Take a gander at all those women filin’ into the buildin’.”
Ed nodded. “Looks like some kind of women’s meetin’.”
Barton’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, it’s perfect! Let’s go get Vincent and Bud. There’s gotta be a back door. We’ll go in that way and surprise ’em!”
Inside the town hall, Betty Anderson stood before the group of forty-seven women who were now seated at long tables with their quilting material spread out before them, needles and thread at hand.
“Ladies, it’s nice to see such a good turnout today,” Betty said. “May I remind you that this is a charity bee. We’ll be donating these quilts to the less fortunate families who live in those shanties on the east edge of town. As I told you at our last bee, I know those poor folks could certainly use some extra bedding for winter, which is not far off.”
The ladies nodded their heads. Betty sat down at the head table with Peggy Shane and two other women, and soon all the ladies were busy with their heads bent over the colorful material, their needles flashing in and out as they made their quilting stitches.
There was happy chatter as they worked, and everyone was having a good time.
Suddenly there was the sound of glass breaking at the back door of the building. A man’s hand reached through a broken windowpane, grasped the knob, and flung the door open.
What had been happy chatter a moment before was now gasps and screams as the frightened women saw three men come in with guns drawn. One of them was also holding up a bleeding man who was leaning against him.
“Quiet, all of you!” roared Chick Barton, his voice cruel and menacing while waving his revolver. “Sit still! Don’t move!”
The frightened group sat stock still, afraid to breathe.
“Who’s in charge here?”
Betty Anderson lifted a hand. Fighting to subdue a quiver in her voice, she said, “I am, sir. My name is Betty Anderson. I am the wife of Mayor Mike Anderson.”
“Mrs. Anderson, I want you to go right now to Dr. Dane Logan’s office and tell him we have a wounded man here. He has a bullet in his chest and is bleeding bad. You tell the doctor I demand that he come instantly!” Barton glanced up at a large clock on the wall. “If that doctor isn’t here in fifteen minutes, Mrs. Anderson, one of these women will die! You come back here with the doctor, too, or I’ll still shoot one of these women!”
Betty rose to her feet shakily, fear showing in her eyes, and headed for the front door.
Barton called after her, “Mrs. Anderson, if you or the doctor bring the law, we’ll spill blood all over the place! Do you hear me?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
When Betty stepped out of the town hall, she was shaking like an aspen leaf in a cold winter breeze. “Dear Lord,” she muttered, breathing heavily, “don’t let those evil men hurt any of the ladies.”
As Betty hurried along the boardwalk, people noticed the frightened look on her face and asked if she was all right. She hurried on without a reply, leaving them staring after her.
When Betty stepped into the doctor’s office, Tharyn was at her desk. The waiting room was almost full.
“Betty, are you ill?” Tharyn said.
Betty bent over Tharyn’s desk, and in a trembling whisper, said, “I’m not ill, but I must see Dr. Logan in private at once. It is a matter of life and death.”
Tharyn studied Betty’s eyes and said in an undertone, “Something really is very wrong, isn’t it?”
Betty nodded. “Like I said … life and death.”
Tharyn rose to her feet, rounded the desk, and put an arm around Betty’s quivering shoulder. “Come with me,” she whispered, and led her into the back room under the watchful eyes of the people in the waiting room.
Dr. Dane was working in curtained section number three on the broken arm of a ten-year-old boy. The curtain was not closed.
Tharyn seated Betty on a nearby wooden chair, patted her shoulder as if to say she would be right back, and stepped into the section.
The doctor had the boy’s arm in a cast, and was just finishing tying the sling.
Tharyn said, “Doctor, Betty Anderson is here. She has an emergency she must tell you about.”
Dr. Dane cinched the knot on the sling. “All right. I’m finished here. Would you take Raymond out to his mother while I talk to Betty?”
“Sure will,” she said, extending a hand to the boy. “Let’s go, Raymond.”
As Tharyn and the boy headed for the door, Dr. Dane stepped up to Betty where she sat on the chair. At once he could see that she was very pale, and her forehead was clammy. Her eyes stared at him in horror. “Betty, what is it? What’s wrong?”
She uttered a choked cry, strain
ed to speak, and finally got it out. “There’s real trouble at the town hall.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Betty hastily told Dr. Dane about the four men who broke through the back door of the town hall and interrupted the quilting bee. “One of them has a bullet in his chest, Doctor, and the leader wants you there no later than six minutes from right now, or he is going to shoot one of the women! He warned me that if we brought the law in on this, they’d spill blood all over the place.”
Dr. Dane dashed to the medicine cabinet, grabbed his black medical bag from a shelf, and hurried back to her. “I’ll leave you here.”
Betty stood up and shook her head. “No, Doctor! The outlaw leader said if I didn’t come back with you, he would still shoot one of the women!”
The doctor shook his head. “I hate to let you go into danger again, but I guess there’s no way around it.”
“None. I can’t let someone else die because I disobeyed that awful man.”
When Dr. Dane and Betty entered the office, they paused at the desk. The doctor said in a low voice, “Honey, I can’t explain anything right now. This is definitely an emergency, and we must go quickly.”
With that, the doctor and the mayor’s wife hurried out the door, leaving the patients in the waiting area looking on in bafflement, and Tharyn with a puzzled look on her face.
Again, people on the boardwalk saw the anxious looks on the faces of the doctor and the mayor’s wife, and asked if something was wrong. Neither Dr. Dane nor Betty replied. They kept their hasty pace on down the street.
As they drew near the town hall, Dr. Dane prayed aloud, “Dear Lord, please help us. Don’t let any of those ladies get hurt.”
Betty was praying the same thing in her heart.
Unnoticed by the doctor and Betty, Deputy Marshal Len Kurtz was across the street. His attention was on them as they dashed into the town hall with Dr. Logan carrying his medical bag.
“Hmm,” Kurtz said to himself, “something must’ve happened to one of the ladies at the quilting bee. I’d better go see if there’s anything I can do to help.”