The Bank Robber

by Robert Broomall

  Rosie looked down at a jagged scar that ran from just beneath her breastbone to her navel. She lifted the edge of her blouse to show the scar’s full length. “You mean this? Fella tried to murder me one time. Dragged me into an alley, beat me, and ripped off my clothes. Then he brought out a doctor’s scalpel. Said he was gonna cut out my heart; said he’d already killed five girls the same way.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I screamed so loud it rattled the windows. Scared the poor devil out of his wits, and he ran away. He took this slash at me as he left, and I damn near died anyhow.”

  Rosie laughed. It had taken a long time for her to laugh at the incident, but now it came easy. She finished buttoning the blouse. Then she ruffled the hem of her skirt. “There, that’s better.”

  Swede buried the underwear beneath some rocks. After watering Dancer, he handed Rosie the canteen. She took several swallows and gave it back. Swede swished the water inside, then drank, holding the canteen all the way up, letting the last drops fall into his throat.

  He hung the canteen on his saddle. “That’s two empty— just one left. Having you along has complicated things.”

  “Here we go again,” Rosie said.

  Swede rubbed his unshaven chin. “We got two ways to the border, with water on both. It’s been my intent to use Paso San Pedro—it’s hard going, and posses don’t like that.” He paused. “It’s still my intent to go that way, but the spring’s a lot farther off than the one in Sand Canyon. Before I met you, I reckoned I had just enough water to make it.”

  “Somehow I knew you were going to say that,” she said, smirking.

  Swede glared at her. “Long as you know it’s going to be rough.”

  “Look, mister. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. I got enough sense not to waste water in the desert.”

  Swede mollified his tone. “After the water hole, it’s an easy ride to the Rio Bravo. Who knows—we may have lost the posse, or they may have turned back.” He shook his head uneasily. “I don’t think so, though. Kirby will never turn back. Come on, we’ll both of us ride for a while.”

  17

  “Jesus,” whispered Spud. “You’d never even know they was people.”

  Tears welled in Brazos's eyes. “Goddamn Comanches. I’m gonna kill the next one of them sons of bitches I see—I swear I am.”

  Beside them Kirby said, “I don’t use profanity, gentlemen. I’d appreciate it if you’d modify yours in my presence.”

  Kirby’s lean face betrayed no reaction to the sight of the wrecked stagecoach and the five mutilated bodies. He kicked his horse away, following Black George. Spud and Brazos came after. Harry was doubled over in his saddle, retching.

  They watered their horses and chased off the gorged vultures, then Kirby led the men in excavating a shallow grave, using knives and bare hands. They placed the bodies and pieces of bodies in the grave, and Kirby said a few words over them. Afterward, George looked for Swede’s trail, while Kirby searched the wreckage for personal belongings—old letters, some jewelry, a torn photograph of a child—which he placed in his saddlebags. He’d leave them with Marshal Ryan, in the unlikely event that anyone claimed them.

  Harry and the two cowboys scooped dirt on the grave. They covered their faces with kerchiefs, against the dust and the gagging smell. “Whores,” coughed Spud. “That’s what they was. Ain’t no doubt. I seen these coaches plenty of times.”

  “You prob’ly been in ’em plenty of times.” Brazos was pale-faced and sweating. He was joking to take his mind off what he had seen.

  Harry sat heavily. He was still light-headed from being sick. “You mean these were putannas —prostitutes?”

  Brazos turned to him, but before he could speak, George called out. “One of them got away!”

  The braided black man was squatting at the edge of the camp. The sun glinted off his brass amulet. He picked up a handful of dirt and shook it, letting the dirt sift through his fingers while he studied the tracks. “There’s two people on Burdette’s horse now.”

  Kirby bounded forward. The other men left the grave and gathered round. They gave way as George rose and backtracked the prints through the rubbish and wreckage of the camp. “A woman or a child, judging from the extra weight on the horse. I say it’s a woman . . . yeah, here’s her heel prints.”

  Kirby smoothed his mustache. A thin smile crossed his lips.

  “That took guts,” said Spud, shaking his head and looking suddenly old. “Swede must have knowed he was finishing hisself.”

  “I’m surprised he did it,” George said.

  “I wouldn’t have—not for a putanna ," added Harry, and Brazos nodded.

  Kirby wasn’t surprised. He remembered Camp Douglas prison in Illinois, remembered the cold and the snow, the huts without heat, the men barefoot and in tatters, ridden with disease. He remembered how Swede had given his food to those worse off, how Swede kept up everyone’s morale with his unstinting defiance of the Yanks, how in the end Swede had to hit the brutal Yank, sergeant Hirschbauer, in order to galvanize the dying men, to make their hatred of their jailers keep them alive. Swede had paid for it, though—a terrific beating with rifle butts and six months’ solitary confinement when the war ended and the other men went home.

  To George, Kirby said, “How far ahead is he?”

  “Two hours, maybe a mite more.”

  Kirby looked at the setting sun. They would not catch Swede today. “How long can he wait before he makes his move!”

  “Almost to the end.”

  Harry spoke up. “If I had a horse like Swede Burdette’s, I’d take Sand Canyon.”

  “No,” said Kirby. “Level ground’s to our advantage now that he’s carrying another person. We’d ride him down. I think he’ll go Paso de San Pedro.”

  “Paso San Pee-dro’s the smart move, all right,” George said. “But Burdette might not have enough water to get him through.”

  Kirby nodded. “And it’s such an obvious choice, he might go the other way on the chance of us not watching his trail.”

  Spud was looking over Kirby’s shoulder. He spit tobacco juice. “Here comes that politician fella and the German.”

  Kirby turned. Simpkin and Karl Reichardt were riding down the hill. “Slow as they are. Swede may beat us yet,” Kirby said. “Ryan never could pick a posse.”

  The two townsmen rode up, looking wilted in the heat, covered with a crusty mixture of dust and sweat. They saw the wrecked camp and the half-filled grave. Karl’s beefy, sunburned face turned ashen; he had never seen anything this horrible in the war with France. Mr. Simpkin dismounted and peered into the grave with an officious air. “Disgusting, simply disgusting. The work of ‘peace-loving Indians,’ no doubt. I’ve been saying for years that we—”

  “Where are Silas and the other two?” Kirby interrupted.

  “Who? Oh, you mean the deputy. I have no idea.”

  “Ja , we lost sight of them,” whispered Karl, trying not to breathe the death-tinged air.

  “They were riding ahead of you,” Kirby said. “Didn’t you pass them?”

  “No,” said Karl.

  Spud said, “Prob’ly one of their horses got bit by a snake and run off.”

  “I better go bring ’em in,” said George, “’fore the Comanches find ’em.”

  George swung onto his piebald pony and took the reins of one of the spare horses. He looked at Kirby, who was pulling on his waxed mustache, deep in thought.

  “How many Indians in this band?” Kirby asked.

  “I make it ten,” George said, “with about eighteen horses, counting the ones from the stagecoach.”

  Kirby arrived at a decision. He was angry with himself, because he knew it was a decision he should have made back at Weirson’s Stables.

  “Make them hurry,” he said to George. “We’ll finish this grave, then I have something to do.”

  18

  Black George rode back along the trail, looking for the missing men.
He relished the idea of the blowhard Silas with a broken-down horse.

  There was no sign of the three deputies. The hills hereabouts were so cut up with steep draws and blind canyons that it was impossible to see for any distance. George began to worry. Had the Comanches gotten them? No, that couldn’t be. Surely men like Silas and Canada would have gotten off a few shots before they went down.

  At last George found where their tracks left the main trail of the posse and turned down a narrow, steep-walled canyon.

  “So that’s it, they got lost.” Easy enough to do, especially for city folks who couldn’t read trail. They had made a logical choice—the route they had taken was wider than the main trail at this point. George knew it led nowhere, though. The Comanches would know it, too.

  George followed the hoofprints down the winding canyon. The bottom of the canyon was choked with brush and cottonwoods; the tracks followed the dry streambed. The canyon turned again, and George saw Silas up ahead. The deputy was sitting on a rock near his horse, calmly smoking a cigarette.

  “Silas!” George straightened and rode forward.

  Silas looked up. The cigarette dangled from his mouth.

  “You’re heading the wrong way,” George said. “Where’re the others?”

  Silas said nothing, and George frowned impatiently. “Hurry up—Kirby wants you quick. There’s Comanches around; they attacked a stagecoach up ahead.”

  The deputy stood with exaggerated slowness, pulling down his bowler hat and hitching up his shell belts. “Is that so?”

  “What the hell’s the matter with you, Silas? Where’re the others?” George repeated.

  Silas took the cigarette from his mouth. He tossed it away, grinning. “They’re around.”

  A sixth sense made George tum. The bearded immigrant Anton had appeared from behind the brush to his right. The jackal-like Canada was advancing into the clearing from his left.

  Too late, George realized the trap. He dug in his heels and yanked the reins.

  “Get him!” yelled Silas, leaping forward. He grabbed the reins, stopping the horse.

  Canada fastened onto one of George’s arms, and Silas got the other. The piebald pony reared as George fought to stay on. The tracker flung Canada away and with his free hand punched Silas in the face.

  The big man shook but did not let go. George hit him again. He staggered and George swept up the reins.

  “Polish!” yelled Silas.

  The young laborer hesitated, then threw himself at George, grabbing him around the ribs. The guide pounded his back as the horse kicked, but Anton was strong and did not let go. Then Silas was on George again, and Canada, too. The three men hauled George from the saddle, and they all collapsed in a heap on the ground.

  They rolled in the dirt, punching and scratching and clawing. George pushed them off and regained his feet. He kicked Anton in the face and turned for his horse, but Canada tackled him and they fell back in the dust.

  At last Canada and Anton pinned George’s arms behind him, while Silas sent two powerful punches into the pit of the black man’s stomach, bringing bile to his throat and taking the fight out of him.

  George hung limp between his two captors, retching, his strength drained. Anton and Canada forced him to his knees. George shook his head, trying to come around. The four men were puffed and bloody, and their clothes were torn. George’s bear-tooth necklace had come off.

  Silas stood over the plainsman, breathing hard in the dust-clogged air. “Well, well, I figured Kirby’d send you. Tricked you right good, didn’t we?”

  The big deputy smiled. He drew a long-barreled Colt from his belt and ran his thumb lovingly over the filed-down sight. “You could shave with this edge.”

  Anton said, “Silas, why do you need that?”

  Canada laughed. Silas ignored the question. George said nothing. Silas tapped the pistol barrel on George’s bare shoulder. “Georgie, boy, I got to tell you—you are one uppity nigger.”

  Canada planted a boot in George’s back and yanked his long braids, jerking his head up. Silas went on, “You know what we do with uppity niggers where I come from?”

  George glared at him. Silas lashed the pistol barrel across his face. “Answer me when I talk to you, boy!”

  George cried out, blood flowing from a deep gash above his eye. Silas whipped the pistol barrel across the other side of George’s head. “You hear me?”

  George slumped forward, blood pouring over his chest. “Silas, wait!” pleaded Anton. “You said we would only scare him—”

  “Shut up!” Silas said. To George, he said, “You know how to speak to a white man now, nigger?”

  George arched his back, reared his head, and spit blood into Silas’s face.

  Silas was enraged. He managed to control himself, smiling grimly and wiping his face. “There’s gonna be a disappearance offn this posse, nigger—and it’s gonna be you. They ain’t never gonna find you. You gonna be one of the great unexplained mysteries of the West.”

  Silas chuckled and hefted the revolver, gripping it firmly. He took measured aim at George’s skull and raised his arm high.

  “That’s enough,” said a low voice.

  19

  Kirby sat his horse at the bend of the canyon. His Henry .44 rifle was aimed at Silas.

  Slowly, the big deputy lowered his arm.

  “Put him down,” Kirby ordered.

  Anton released George’s arm gratefully. The hatless Canada hesitated, blinking as though the strong sunlight hurt his ferret like eyes. Then he dropped George’s other arm, and the black man fell to his hands and knees in the dirt.

  Kirby dismounted. “I should have known right away that you were up to something, Silas, but it didn’t occur to me until after George rode off. I must be losing my touch.”

  Silas took a step backward, defensive. “That nigger had no right to talk to us the way he done.”

  Kirby started forward, his finger on the trigger of his rifle. Anton backed off as Kirby passed him. Canada slipped his hand inside his checkered vest.

  “Move one more inch and I’ll kill you,” Kirby said without looking, and Canada froze.

  Kirby kept walking toward Silas. The deputy was worried. “What you meaning to do, Kirby?”

  There was no answer, and Silas’s voice rose an octave, “I got witnesses!”

  Kirby stopped. He tossed his rifle to George, who was now standing. “Cover these two. I don’t need a gun; it wouldn’t be fair.” He looked at Silas. “All through the war I ran into men like you, men named ‘Hoo-raw’ and ‘Earthquake.’ Back then I had someone to keep them in line. This time I’m going to do it myself.”

  Kirby balled his fists, and Silas seemed to receive a sudden infusion of confidence. He stopped moving backward and bared his stained teeth. “That’s your mistake, nigger lover. I been wanting a piece of you for two days now.”

  Silas rushed in. Kirby jabbed him twice, hard. Blood flowed from Silas’s nose, and he sniffed it away.

  The two men circled. Silas looked confident, moving his hands in and out like a wrestler. Silas might be clumsy, but he had great strength; if he could come to grips with Kirby, the fight was over.

  Kirby stepped forward. He feinted with his left hand, then unleashed a tremendous right that caught Silas flush on the jaw, knocking him down.

  “Get up,” Kirby said.

  Silas lumbered to his feet. At the same time he picked up a large, jagged rock. The rock must have weighed ten pounds. Silas held it high, thwarting Kirby’s next attack.

  They shuffled back and forth, Silas feinting with the rock, Kirby looking for an opening to strike. It occurred to Kirby that, except for their clothing, they could be cavemen, fighting over the bones of some animal. Then Silas moved close and threw the rock. Kirby ducked, but the heavy rock crashed off the top of his head, and he saw a blinding light.

  Before Kirby could recover, Silas rushed in and butted heads. Kirby felt his skin tear open, and he stumbled backward with the
force of the blow.

  Silas seized Kirby’s head, crushing it in his powerful forearm. With his free hand, he raked his fingernails across Kirby’s face, ripping open his nose, trying to gouge out his eyes.

  Kirby could not breathe, but he fought down panic. He punched Silas’s ample stomach—once, twice—but Silas did not let go. Kirby’s vision was going black. He grabbed the back of Silas’s shirt for leverage. Then he reached down and put all his strength into one last punch. The uppercut caught Silas square in the stomach and lifted him off his feet. The deputy grunted, and his grip relaxed just enough for Kirby to grab his thick leg and throw him onto his back.

  The two men caught their breath. Then Silas went for the rock again, but Kirby picked it up and tossed it away. Wiping blood from his eyes, Kirby let Silas stand. The lawman moved forward, coldly efficient. He threw two jabs to Silas’s face, followed by another big right to the deputy’s mutilated ear.

  Silas staggered. Kirby punched him twice in the stomach, and he bent over. Then Kirby grabbed Silas by the hair and thrust his head down, at the same time swinging his knee into the deputy’s face. Silas sank to the ground, moaning, “Oh, oh, God.”

  “Get up!” Kirby said. His chest was heaving.

  Silas did nothing. Kirby kicked him in the ribs. Silas cried out, and Kirby kicked him again. Silas doubled up and tried to cover his body without exposing his mangled face to more punishment. “No! No more, Kirby! Help me, somebody!” Kirby gave him one last kick, the most vicious yet.

  “A-ah, you’ve broke my rib!”

  Silas huddled on the ground, crying. Kirby picked him up by the collar. He dragged him to his friends and threw him at their feet. “Get him on his horse and get out of here.”

  Anton and Canada looked from Kirby to each other. They did not want a fight. Anton picked up his flat leather cap, beat out the dust, and put it on. He and the surly-looking Canada put their hands under Silas’s shoulders and lifted him gently.