The Bank Robber

by Robert Broomall

  Then the spell broke. Kirby blinked and scraped his foot. He began unrolling his blanket. “After the war, we came back to Texas, and everything changed. I went my way; Swede went his.”

  “Brazos said he had a good reason.”

  “He broke the law, boy. Nobody has reason for that. The law is what makes us civilized. It’s how we protect the weak from the strong. We don’t choose the laws we’re going to obey, we have to obey them all. There were lots of men like Swede right after the war, men who made their own law. There’s not so many left in these parts, now. We’ve made real progress—that type has to be eliminated if we’re to build this country into something good. They’ve outlived their time.”

  * * *

  “This trip—it will have much danger?” asked the foundry laborer, Anton.

  The scarred deputy, Silas, replied with the confident voice of experience. “Some, maybe. They say this Burdette is good. There’s ten of us, though, and one of him—ain’t much doubt how it’ll turn out.” He laughed.

  The two men, plus Canada, were camped in a hollow, on the south side of a thicket. They had finished their supper; Silas and Canada had given Anton dried beef and com bread to supplement his meager ration of cold beans. Silas took a whiskey bottle from his saddlebag. He popped the cork and took a swig. “I tell you, I don’t like riding with no nigger, though.”

  “It ain’t right,” agreed the drifter, Canada. He took a long drink to ease the pain of his throbbing head, then he returned the bottle to Silas.

  “Here, Polish—wash down dinner,” Silas said.

  Anton looked across the dark camp, where Kirby was just finished talking to Harry. “But Mr. Kirby said ...”

  Silas waved a big hand. “Don’t worry about Kirby.” Nervously Anton raised the bottle, twisting his body so no one could see him. He had once been an honor student at Krakow University, and he felt out of place in this rough company. For that matter, he felt out of place on the posse—as a rule he steered clear of anything to do with the police. He drank the rye whiskey, gagged, and made a face. “Not like Polish vodka,” he said, giving back the bottle.

  Silas drank again, bragging. “No nigger would have come within miles of us in the old days—not with Quantrill and Bloody Bill Anderson around. I’ve told you about Centralia, ain’t I, Canada?”

  Before Canada could reply, Silas went on, looking at Anton. “See, Polish, during the war, about thirty of us took this town in Missouri called Centralia. There was twenty-five Yankees there. They surrendered, but we shot ’em anyway. When the Yank major down the road heard what had happened, he got madder than hell. He chased us with a hundred men— which was just what Quantrill and Bloody Bill wanted. Two hundred of us ambushed ’em in some woods and killed ’em all.” He looked at Canada, laughing. “That was some day. Ole Jesse shot the major hisself, right in the face.”

  Anton heard a familiar name. His soft eyes widened. “That is Jesse James? You know him?”

  “Sure, I know Jesse. You don’t want to fool with Jesse—leastways not when he’s armed. He ain’t so tough without his guns.” Silas took another drink, grinning and revealing his ill-kept teeth. “After the war, Missouri was a little hot for me, so I come to Texas. Got me a job with the State Police. Man, that was good living—money, women, liquor, anything you wanted, there for the taking and nobody to stop you.” Silas did not mention that as a State Policeman he had seriously injured a suspect—whose wife Silas had been seeing—while in custody. The man was later found to be innocent, but nothing happened to Silas.

  “Kirby was in the State Police,” Canada said, taking the bottle for another try at easing the pain in his head. “You know him then?”

  “Knew of him. The boys hated him. ‘Law and Order Kirby,’ they called him. They said you couldn’t make a red cent in his command, and he worked you to death. Hell, if I’d known Kirby would be in charge of this posse and not me, I’d never have come. We don’t need no Ranger for this work.”

  Canada laughed his cackling laugh. “Just ’cause the Rangers wouldn’t let you join ...”

  Silas sat up straight. He leaned forward menacingly. “I don’t think that’s funny—see?”

  “Sure, Silas,” Canada said, backing off. “Sure. I didn’t mean nothing.”

  Silas leaned back, and Canada quickly changed the subject. “Don’t see you around town much, Anton. How long you been in Texas?”

  “In Texas, one year,” said the young man slowly. “In Temperance, eight months.”

  “Poland—that’s a helluva way to come. You hiding from the law or something?”

  Canada had said it as a joke, because the bearded immigrant looked so innocent, so eager to please. But Anton’s round face paled, and his voice grew strained. “Please, I only come to this country for a chance to live and work in peace.”

  “All right, all right—no need to get worked up about it. Damn, everybody sure is testy tonight.”

  Beside them, Silas took another drink and rose, smiling mischievously. “Come on.”

  Canada got to his feet. Anton followed his new friends. “Where we going?” said Canada.

  “To talk to the nigger,” Silas said.

  * * *

  Black George finished brushing his horse. He had paid no attention to the fight between Harry and Brazos. White men’s quarrels were nothing to him; he hoped they killed each other.

  He threw a deerskin shirt over his muscular upper body and stepped beyond the picket line, breathing deeply of the night air. In his years of living in the West, George had learned to smell when Indians were about, but tonight his senses told him none were near. To his right, the cowboy Spud walked with his Winchester ready. George felt safe with Spud on guard, but he didn’t know about some of these other people.

  Returning to camp, George found his path blocked by the hulking form of Silas, shadowy in the weak moonlight. The deputy’s bowler hat was tipped way back, and his hands were in his pockets. Behind Silas was that rat-faced fellow, Canada, with the foreigner, Anton, off to one side, as if undecided whether or not to join in.

  Silas rocked back and forth on his heels, grinning with exaggerated politeness. “Evenin’, Mr. George.”

  George nodded. He smelled whiskey on the deputy’s fetid breath; smelled his sweat and cheap hair oil.

  “Say, Mr. George, we was wondering—me and the boys, here—was you ever a slave?”

  The slumbering fire in George’s eyes stirred. “That’s right, mister. I was a slave.”

  Silas tsked sympathetically. “What was it like? Awful

  bad, I reckon. Get whipped a lot?” Silas winked at his friends. Canada giggled.

  George had been through this kind of thing many times. “Oh, it wasn’t so bad—just boring, is all. Ole Massa, he was poor as a church mouse and drunk most of the time. Without I worked, that fool would have starved to death.”

  Silas stopped rocking on his heels. His voice took a sharper edge. “All the same, I reckon it was lucky ole Abe Lincoln come along and freed you.”

  “Abe Lincoln didn’t do nothing for me, mister—I escaped.” George spit the words out, standing straight.

  Silas removed his hands from his pockets.

  George said, “That’s right—escaped. Run away when I was thirteen. Wasn’t hard—not only was Massa poor, he was just about the stupidest damn white man I ever seen.” George peered at Silas closely. “He was just about as stupid as you.”

  Silas was furious. George knew he’d never heard a black talk this way before—where he came from, it wasn’t allowed. George gave the three white men his smile and sauntered away.

  From beneath his checkered vest, Canada drew a small pistol and pointed it at the retreating tracker, but Silas stepped over and pulled Canada’s arm down.

  Canada looked at his friend in surprise. Silas was grim; his fleshy lips were unusually compressed. “Later,” he said. “When Kirby’s not around.”

  Gap-toothed Canada understood. He relaxed and grinned. Youn
g Anton looked worried.

  9

  Kirby could not sleep.

  Why did Spud and that kid Harry have to keep going on about Swede? Why did they have to dredge up memories that Kirby had worked so hard to bury?

  * * *

  The first time the boy had ridden up to his father’s store was in the autumn of ’44, back in the days of the Texas Republic. Kirby was twelve then; he was behind the counter doing his schoolwork. Little Jeff was—what?—four, playing in the yard with his gray terrier, Ben. Mother was out back.

  The tall boy rode across the yard on a dappled gray. He wore a fringed, thigh-length hunting shirt and a black slouch hat, both of which had seen much service. A long rifle was cradled in his arm, and a huge bowie knife hung from his belt. Leggings, moccasins, and a carved powder horn completed his attire.

  The general store occupied the front half of the Kirbys’ log cabin. The boy dismounted and strolled inside with an air of self-confidence far beyond his age. He was about a year older than Kirby, but it seemed much more. He was rangy and handsome, with dark wavy hair. His eyes laughed, but in their depths was a hint of something else—of great violence. He looked like a fellow who was capable of good and bad in equal measure.

  The boy looked around the store like he owned it. Then he flashed Kirby a good-natured grin. “Heard there was a store up here now,” he drawled. “My pa sent me for a look-see, and to pick up some sundries—that is, if you ain’t too busy readin’ them books.”

  He grinned again. Kirby cleared his throat, sliding off his stool, for some reason feeling self-conscious about his citified coat and string tie. The tall boy stuck his hand across the counter. “Name’s Andy Burdette—but folks mostly call me Swede.”

  “John Kirby. That straw-haired urchin you passed in the yard is my brother, Jeff.”

  “Where’s your pa?”

  “In San Antonio, on business. He’s away a lot.”

  “Kinda dangerous, ain’t it?”

  At first Kirby didn’t understand. Then he said, “Oh, you mean Indians. Dad says we don’t have to worry about them.”

  “Don’t believe it,” Swede said, and for the first time in his life Kirby found himself questioning something his father had told him.

  Swede’s order was not large. While Kirby placed the goods in Swede’s morral—a Mexican fiber saddlebag—the tall boy looked across the counter at what Kirby had been reading. “This book about Indians?”

  “It’s Caesar’s Gallic Wars” Kirby said. “It’s in Latin.”

  “What’s Latin?”

  “An old-time language. Nobody speaks it anymore.”

  Swede digested this information without expression. Then he shrugged. “Well, how a fella spends his time is his own business, I reckon.”

  This frontier boy had a way of getting under Kirby’s skin; he made Kirby feel embarrassed about being educated. “Most of these other books are in English,” Kirby said, indicating a stack beside his counter stool. “I have to learn them all if I want to get into a good school back east.”

  This last bit explained it all to Swede. “Oh, fixin’ to be a schoolmaster, huh?”

  “Lawyer,” Kirby corrected.

  Swede paid no mind. “Well, Schoolmaster, I reckon you and me is gonna be friends. Reckon we don’t have no choice— you bein’ the only fella my age in forty miles.”

  Kirby did not know what to say. It was not often in his city-bred life that boys smelling of woods and horses and even danger walked up to him, proffering their friendship. Outside, Jeff squealed with laughter and the terrier barked merrily.

  “So tell me, friend,” Swede said, “where do you hail from?”

  Swede’s grin put Kirby at ease, even as he felt ridiculous at being made easy in his own house. “Charleston,” he said. “There’s a business depression back in the States. My dad got wiped out, and he brought us here to start over. We’ve been here nearly six months now.”

  “What do you think of Texas?”

  “I haven’t had time to see much of it,” Kirby admitted.

  Swede said, “I usually go camping in late October. You’re welcome to come along.”

  “Sure!” Kirby said. Then his face fell. “No, I guess not. I have the store to look after, and the farm and my brother, Jeff, and I have these books to do. . . His voice trailed off.

  “Scared?” Swede asked.

  Kirby’s temper flashed. He was big and strong for his age, and he didn’t stand aside for anybody. “Listen, friend— anything you can do, I can do,” he said, wishing he could have thought of a retort that sounded less childish.

  Swede spread his long arms. “Then do it.”

  Kirby smacked his hand against his thigh angrily. “All right,” he said at last. “All right. I’ll ask Dad. Maybe he’ll let me. Maybe he’ll be at home for a change.”

  As it turned out, Kirby’s father was going away again—for two months—this time to Washington, D.C., and he was taking his wife with him. The children and farm stock would stay at Pat Worth’s place on Buffalo Creek. This Washington mission was important for Kirby’s father. The farm and store—neither of which had been doing well anyway—would have to go fallow. Under these circumstances, it was perfectly all right if his elder son absented himself for a while. Kirby’s heart soared.

  The boys took a rifle and two single-shot pistols each, Swede insisting on the pistols as a precaution against Indians. Kirby wore a new hickory shirt and a new felt hat. They spent two weeks moving up the Guadalupe River, hunting and fishing. The skies were deep blue and cloudless, and from the ridge tops you could see fifty miles in the crystal air. Swede showed Kirby a world of forest and prairie, overflowing with game—antelope, deer, wild turkey, and a musty herd of buffalo that stretched as far as the eye could see in any direction, a herd that took Swede and Kirby from morning till sunset to ride through.

  For Kirby’s part, he lived up to the pledge he had made in the store. He might lack Swede’s experience, but he learned quickly, and he always kept up.

  “I reckoned you would,” Swede told him.

  Those days were a boy’s delight—running foot races and horse races, having shooting competitions and sleeping late, laughing and playing pranks on one another. Sometimes Kirby felt guilty about leaving young Jeff at the Worths’, but he managed to force it from his mind. At night, they roasted venison or grouse over a roaring fire, and they swapped tales about life on the frontier and in Charleston.

  One evening Swede produced a little jar of whiskey that he’d stolen from his father, and they passed it back and forth. Swede had drunk whiskey before, but Kirby did not like the burning taste or the light-headed feeling the liquor induced.

  Prompted, perhaps, by the whiskey, Swede told Kirby how he’d been born in Texas, in what was then called Austin’s Colony. Swede’s father, James, and his uncle Matthew had come to Texas from Tennessee in 1830, seeking land and freedom. When the Texas Revolution erupted in ’36, James and Matthew drew lots to see who would fight the Mexicans and who would stay behind to protect the families. Matthew won.

  “I was four then,” Swede said. “Only recollection I have of Uncle Matt is a tall man in a fringed shirt, riding off to join Fannin at Goliad. Three months later he was dead. Fannin’s whole force was . . . massacred by Santa Anna when they surrendered.”

  Swede sipped some more of the clear-colored whiskey, and Kirby caught the liquor’s harsh smell. Swede went on. “Rest of us started running. We run for two hundred miles, with General Gaona and the Mexican army one step behind us all the way—nothing with us but the clothes on our backs. My pa near killed hisself keeping us together, keeping us fed and on the road. Then Houston whipped the Mexicans at San Jacinto, and the war ended. We came back to our place. The Mexicans had destroyed everything—property, stock. They even poisoned the wells.”

  “What did you do?” Kirby asked.

  “Started rebuilding the same day. ‘This is our land,’ Pa said. ‘Ain’t nobody gonna run us off of it
.’ I’ll never forget that.”

  “Your father sounds like a special kind of person,” Kirby said.

  Swede looked at him funny. “No, he ain’t. Lots of people ’round here went through worse in them days. My pa did what any Texian would do.”

  Kirby tried to think of something to lighten the somber mood. “My father’s working in the movement to make Texas a state. He’s been on some of Houston’s committees. That’s why he’s in Washington right now.”

  To Kirby’s surprise. Swede was not impressed. “Some folks don’t see no need for Texas to be a state,” he said in a quiet voice. “Some of us—some that’s been here from the beginning—likes Texas just the way she is, an independent country.”

  Kirby changed the conversation. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “Used to be some, I heard, but they died of some disease or other back in Tennessee. My folks had me kinda late in life.” Swede looked tired of talk. He extended the jar. “Here, have some more firewater.”

  Next day, the boys turned for home. Swede said the weather was going to turn bad; but how he could tell, Kirby did not know. If anything, it was even more beautiful than before. The late autumn heat hung drowsily in the air. Kirby was glad to be going back. He felt a strange urgency to see Jeff again.

  On their last night out, they camped in a forest of pin-oak and cedar, thick with undergrowth. Dinner was long finished. Swede reclined on one arm; Kirby sat cross-legged, staring into the fire. Swede had grown especially quiet the last few days. Kirby knew the other boy didn’t want to go home. Kirby was thinking about all that he had learned on the trip, about how easily he’d grown used to sleeping on hard ground.

  He was wondering what Mrs. Worth would have for supper tomorrow, when Swede abruptly spoke. “Reckon you could learn me how to read?”

  Kirby was taken aback. He tried to get his jumbled thoughts together. It had never occurred to him that Swede could not read—though it should have, for illiteracy was common on the frontier. “My mom does some teaching part-time,” he said at last. “She’d be better at—”