The Bank Robber

by Robert Broomall

In front of them, Silas looked over his shoulder, bowler hat cocked low to keep the sun out of his eyes. “You’re chasing Swede Burdette this time, mister. You know he won’t go down without a fight.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” Simpkin said.

  Karl’s grumble was noncommittal. Karl was a practical

  man. He was under no illusions about the outcome of this trip or his reasons for being here. He had been a medical orderly during the war with France; he’d been at Vionville and Gravelotte, and he’d seen everything that shells and bullets could do to the human body. It was his pride that he’d never once flinched.

  Kirby and Black George were in the lead, setting a good pace. This would be Kirby’s last chase. He had promised Sarah he would leave the Rangers this year. He would quit at the height of his career as a lawman. He was getting older, and it was time to think of the future. When he returned from this posse, he would move back to Austin and finish law school. Another five months should do it; with luck he could pass the Texas bar early next year.

  If the war hadn’t interrupted Kirby’s plans, he would have had his practice established before he got married. Instead, he got married and marched off to battle, leaving Sarah seven months pregnant and without money. After the war he had to work to support his wife and children and his parents, who’d been ruined during the conflict. He’d joined the notorious State Police, and when that organization was disbanded in 1873, he’d received a commission as a captain in the reconstituted Texas Rangers, one of the few State Policemen who was allowed to join. He’d returned to school in fits and starts, even done some correspondence work, but he’d never gotten his degree. For years Sarah had begged him to quit police work, but he’d put her off. Part of it was the need for money; but part of it, he had to admit, was that he liked law enforcement. He liked the element of danger. He was going to miss that.

  Kirby nudged his horse closer to George’s. “What do you think?”

  The tracker had put a wide-brimmed black hat over his braids. The sheen of sweat accentuated his heavy muscles. He said, “This trail leads to Franklin, but your man must know we’re bringing extra horses. We’d run him down long before Franklin. He’s got two moves—north to the Guadalupe Mountains or south for Mexico.”

  “What would you do?”

  George waited a second before answering. “Well, if it was me, and I had me a packhorse and supplies, I’d go for the mountains, then to the Indian Territory. But he don’t have none of those things, so if I were in his place I’d go for the border.”

  “So would I.” Kirby had decided that while still on the train.

  “Trouble is, he can turn off this trail any damn number of places.”

  Kirby looked hard at the scout. “And if we miss the sign, we lose him.”

  “We won’t miss the sign,” George said softly. “That’s one thing you ain’t got to worry about.”

  * * *

  By the rock walls of Red Canyon, a cowboy named Spud watched the oncoming dust with eyes that were surprisingly blue in his leathery, brick-red face. It was hard to guess Spud’s age. He could have been thirty-five, he could have been sixty, though the real number lay somewhere in between. He was wiry and rugged and built low to the ground, as though better to withstand the wind and sun of the prairie.

  Spud reached into the deep pockets of his vest and bit a chew off his plug of Henry Clay tobacco, then he turned to his companion, who was dozing in a dark pool of shade formed by some cottonwoods. “Here they come.”

  The younger man, who was called Brazos, stirred. He pushed the big Texas hat back on his head, making sure the brim was turned up just so. He put on his elaborately fringed gauntlets and rose. This Brazos was no more than a kid. Spud thought, but then they all were, these days. So had Spud himself been once. Unlike the others of his era, Spud was still a waddie, an ordinary cowhand. He had never moved on. He reckoned now that he never would.

  The two cowboys saddled their horses. “Never thought to find myself in a fix like this,” Spud drawled. “Sure hope ole Swede makes it.”

  “I ain’t worried,” said curly-haired Brazos with youthful confidence. “Dancer’s more than a match for any two horses we got.”

  “We got Kirby, though.” Spud yanked his cinch tight. “I’ve rode with Kirby before. We killed three men. I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”

  “Well, I ain’t gonna kill Swede Burdette, you can bet on that.”

  “How you gonna get out of it? You’re a deputy. You got to do what Kirby says.”

  “I don’t know.” Brazos looked away, adjusting his pistol belt until the weapon felt comfortable on his hip. “Maybe I’ll just refuse.”

  Spud twisted his jaw and spat a stream of brown tobacco juice. “Let me give you some advice, son. You run foul of Kirby and you’ll do time in prison. And don’t think Mr. Henderson will get you out, neither.”

  Brazos looked rueful at the mention of his employer. “‘Only reason I’m here is ’cause Henderson found me asleep on picket last week. Why’d they pick you?”

  Spud shrugged. “Had to pick somebody, I reckon. Didn’t none of us want to come after Swede.”

  The ground rumbled as the posse drew close. Spud and Brazos mounted, taking the ropes of their spare horses. They rode out to meet the line of men, who came to a grateful halt in the shade of the cliffs.

  As the two cowboys drew close, Kirby’s face brightened with recognition. “Your name’s Spud, isn’t it? You were with me before—you did good work, too.”

  The cowboy spat more tobacco juice. “That’s right, Kirby. Six years ago it was, out of Alma—we was after the Carson gang.”

  “Carson—that’s it. Funny, I remembered your name but couldn’t remember theirs. You haven’t changed.”

  “Reckon you ain’t, neither. I’m at the Bar M now. This here is Brazos, from Henderson’s.” Spud indicated his young companion, who was still adjusting his pistol belt.

  Kirby wasted no more time with formalities. “Brazos, relieve that kid with the horses. Spud, fall in behind me.”

  Brazos cantered down the line, head high, conscious of the envious townies staring at him. To Spud, Kirby said, “I run a posse the way I always have. I expect you remember.”

  Spud nodded, and Kirby looked away. Under his breath. Spud added, “I remember, all right.”

  6

  Late afternoon found Swede at a water hole.

  “Dry,” he said disgustedly. He took off his hat and wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. “Well, it’s no more than I expected, hot as it’s been.”

  While Dancer snuffled and pawed the dirty bottom of the water hole, Swede got on one knee at its edge. He traced a finger along an unshod pony print, over some broken blades of grass. He looked up, scanning the countryside. “Indian sign. Dancer, and it’s fresh. We’ll need a snug campground tonight.”

  Still watching the land around him. Swede rose. “Wonder who’s leading the posse? I know who I’d send.”

  Swede knew Kirby was stationed at Agua Verde. He’d always been careful to stay away from Kirby. For both their sakes, he didn’t want to put their friendship to the test. This time he’d had no choice, though. The Southwest Texas Railroad’s money was in Temperance; it would be there for the foreseeable future. If Swede wanted to strike at the railroad, Temperance was where he must go.

  He stroked Dancer’s muzzle. “Whoever it is, he’s got his work cut out for him—right, boy?”

  Dancer tossed his black head, whinnying, and Swede grinned. Then he grew serious. “Might be close, though.” He patted the horse again and mounted.

  * * *

  Black George lay full length in the dry streambed. He stared along the ground line, noting the slant of the shadows, trying to get a feeling—a sense—of something out of place, like the Comanches had taught him when he lived with them.

  Behind him, his dun-colored mount chomped a patch of buffalo grass.

  Kirby had halted the posse some distance ba
ck, waiting for stragglers. George had gone ahead, marking the outlaw’s path. He’d ridden half a mile before he realized Burdette had slipped off the trail. George had doubled back to the streambed, since that was the obvious place to turn.

  Now he didn’t know. He had found no buried droppings, no congealing pools of urine. Had these rocks been turned over? Hard to say—the sun dried the tell-tale dampness from them so quickly. Had Burdette made it this far up the streambed? Had he been in the streambed at all?

  George rose, brushing sand and pebbles from his sweaty chest. “He’s good. Real good.”

  George retrieved his horse and continued slowly on. Just then the angle of the sun’s rays highlighted something on a nearby slab of rock. A metallic scratch, like that made by a horseshoe.

  Smoothing his heavily waxed mustache, Kirby watched George ride up the hill toward him. Behind Kirby, the stragglers had caught up. The foundry laborer, Anton, splashed water on his sunburned face. His drunken friend, Canada, was vomiting into some bushes. Karl Reichardt lay exhausted on the ground. He seemed to be praying.

  “It’s Mexico,” George said, reining in. “He did a hell of a job disguising it, but that’s where he’s headed.”

  The burly deputy, Silas, who had hung a dirty handkerchief from the rear of his hat for shade, hawked noisily. “So you say.”

  “Shut up, Silas,” Kirby snapped. To George he said, “Now what?”

  George swung off his horse from the off side, Indian fashion. He dripped water into his hand and gave it to the thirsty animal. “There’s two ways he can go. Paso San Pee‑dro’s shorter, but it’s tough going. Sand Canyon’s long, but it’s an easy ride. If we knew which one, we might could cut him off—there’s some back paths I bet he don’t know about. Can’t do nothing till he makes his move, though.”

  “How long before he has to do that?”

  George wrinkled his forehead. “Quite a ways.”

  “Blast.” Kirby kicked the ground with the toe of his boot. “Any sign of Comanches?”

  “No, but that don’t mean they ain’t there.”

  The lawyer, Simpkjn, shuffled forward anxiously. His elegant riding jacket was white with alkali dust, and sweat showed through the silk band of his hat. “Would Indians attack an armed party of this size, Mr. Kirby?”

  “I doubt it. They might try to steal some of our horses, though—maybe pick off a straggler.”

  Simpkin swallowed. “Under those circumstances, isn’t it a bit unwise to allow ourselves to become so strung out?”

  Kirby didn’t answer. He peered at the lowering sun. He brushed by Simpkin on the way to his horse. “We’ll go on while it’s still daylight.”

  7

  It was after dark when Kirby let them stop. By the light of the half-moon, they saw rolling desert, dotted with scrub brush. There was no water.

  The wiry drifter, Canada, slid off his horse. The effects of too much beer had whitened his pasty complexion even further. “My head is killing me,” he moaned. His foreign companion Anton looked little better.

  The weary men picketed their horses in the scrub and dragged off the saddles. “Make sure those picket ropes are secure,” Kirby told them. “You won’t like walking back to Temperance.”

  After feeding and watering their horses, the townsmen flung themselves down to rest. “This quarry promises us all the sport we can handle,” gasped Mr. Simpkin, gingerly touching a saddle-worn spot on the inside of his thigh. “At least the way Mr. Kirby conducts the hunt, it does.”

  Beefy Karl Reichardt pushed off his pith helmet and poured half a canteen of water down his dry, cracked throat. “Me, I am not used to so much riding. A little bit around town maybe, but Mr. Kirby wants us to ride all day, like wild Indians.”

  Beside them, young Harry Ferrante opened a tin of bran- died peach halves. With his fingers, he began stuffing the contents into his mouth. Harry was still standing. He looked like he wanted to keep going.

  Temporarily sated with water, Karl flopped onto his back. “Harry, you have grown so, I don’t believe it. It seems like yesterday you wore short pants and came to my stables to pet the horses. And your energy! I don’t see how you young people do it.”

  “Oh, I’m enjoying this,” Harry said pleasantly. “What do you think—will we take Burdette alive? If we do, will we hang him on the spot? That would be something. I’ve never—”

  “Hey, you—shut up!”

  Harry turned. The curly-haired cowboy named Brazos was coming toward him, pointing. “I heard about enough of your shit today, boy. I won’t hit these old men, but I’ll sure as hell take a lick at you.”

  Harry, whose pride was every bit the equal of Brazos’s, stiffened at the remark. “Mind your own business, plowboy.”

  Brazos’s fist flashed out. He hit Harry on the jaw, knocking him several steps backward and onto the seat of his pants. Harry threw away the tin of peaches and scrambled up, squaring himself.

  Everyone was on his feet. The grizzled cowboy Spud ran up and grabbed Brazos’s arm. “Come on, son, this ain’t the—”

  Brazos struggled, pulling Spud forward.

  “Let ’em fight!” laughed the deputy, Silas.

  Then Karl Reichardt grabbed Brazos’s other arm and pinned it behind him. “Easy, young man.”

  Brazos thrashed and kicked, trying to get at Harry, but his struggles lessened as it became apparent he would not get loose. His anger was little abated, however. “All day they been talking about Swede Burdette like he was some kind of animal. What do you damn townies know? I bet you ain’t even from around here, are you?”

  Harry lowered his fists a bit. “I’m from Philadelphia, originally.”

  “See? Well, Swede had reasons for what he done, but you wouldn’t know nothing about that, you carpetbagging sonofa—”

  Harry frowned. “What reasons?”

  Brazos was about to reply, when Kirby shoved through the press of men. “All right, all right. That’s enough.”

  Spud and Karl let go of Brazos. Kirby rounded on the two combatants, seething. “If you weren’t so young, I’d break your heads for you.”

  Brazos and Harry forgot their anger at each other and backed away.

  With a finger, Kirby jabbed Brazos farther backward. “And you. I got tired of these Robin Hood stories about Swede Burdette a long time ago. I don’t want to hear any more of them from you.”

  Spud moved forward, defending his fellow cowboy. “Lots of fellas ’round these parts sympathize with Swede, Kirby— you know that. Swede’s a hero. Has been for a long time. Hell, you was with Swede when he killed his first Comanche. If anybody—”

  “You live within the law, or you live outside it,” Kirby said. “There’s no middle ground. Swede Burdette is a thief and a murderer, and he’s going to pay.”

  Brazos was angry again. “How ’bout what the railroad done to Swede—and to lots of other folks besides?”

  “Don’t talk to me about the railroad. My parents were storekeepers east of here, in Comal County. They just about starved before that railroad came through after the war.”

  “Ja . Mr. Kirby is right,” Karl Reichardt said. “The railroad is the making of this country. You will see that.”

  “It’s going to put Temperance on the map,” Mr. Simpkin added. “In the future, power and wealth in the United States will radiate from the West—and it is the railroad that will make it all possible.”

  Simpkin took a deep breath, preparing for some impromptu electioneering, but Kirby cut the conversation short. “Am I going to have trouble with you boys. Spud?”

  The old cowboy held up both hands, shaking his head. “We’ll do what you tell us, Kirby. Swede took his chances when he went wrong. He knowed what the end would be.”

  Kirby’s shoulders relaxed. The taut lines around his eyes softened. “All right. Brazos, you and the kid here, shake hands. Then get some sleep. We’ll be in the saddle early tomorrow.”

  Harry hesitated, then he wiped his hand on his whipcord
trousers and extended it. “Sorry, Brazos. I didn’t mean anything personal.”

  The cowboy licked his lips. Swaggering a bit, he took Harry’s hand in his own gloved one. “Sure. Reckon I got hot under the collar. Happens sometimes.”

  The posse broke up. Kirby turned away. He saw Simpkin hobbling about, gathering dried brush. “No fires, Mr. Simpkin. We don’t wish to advertise our presence.”

  Kirby walked on. Simpkin looked at Karl, whose thick

  fingers were frozen in the act of unlacing his canvas gaiters. “No fires?” breathed the German. “Such a man.”

  Simpkin said, “!’m going to write the governor about that fellow the moment we get back. You mark my word.”

  8

  Next to his saddle Kirby placed a small layer of brush, to protect him from the ground cold. Over that he laid his ground sheet. He was reaching for his blanket when he realized someone was behind him. It was that kid with the silly mustache, all eager like a puppy dog.

  “Mr. Kirby, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, kid—say, what is your name, anyway?”

  “It’s Harry, Mr. Kirby, Harry Ferrante. My mother runs the Italian Gardens Restaurant on 4th Street.” Harry ended on a note of hopeful optimism.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “That cowboy said you know Swede Burdette. Is that true?”

  Kirby paused before answering. “I’ve known Swede Burdette for thirty years.”

  “Thirty years! Why, that’s a lifetime!”

  Kirby’s eyes drifted off into some middle distance that only he could see. “Swede’s parents were farmers; they came to our store to trade. We used to go camping together. During the war, Swede and I were in the same company, later the same prisoner-of-war camp. At first Swede was my captain. Later he was my sergeant and I was his commanding officer.”

  “He’s such a famous outlaw. What’s he really like? They say he’s frightful mean.”

  “Mean?” Kirby seemed to stop breathing. “No, not mean. He was the best man I ever knew.”