The Bank Robber

by Robert Broomall

  “My ribs!” Silas cried.

  “Easy, partner,” said Canada. “You’ll be all night.”

  While Canada held Silas’s horse, Anton helped the battered deputy into the saddle. Silas lay across the horse’s neck, blood from his face flecking the animal’s dark mane. Under Kirby’s watchful eyes, Anton and Canada fetched their concealed mounts and led Silas forward to rejoin the posse.

  With a handkerchief, Kirby wiped more blood out of his eyes and from his face and torn nose. He smoothed back his thick, fair hair. He was still keyed up from the fight. His skull was ringing from the rock and the head butt, and he wondered if it was cracked. No—he wouldn’t be standing if it was cracked. He saw George cutting a bandage with his bowie knife, and he said, “Here, let me.”

  He led George beneath one of the stunted cottonwoods and sat him down. He wet a cloth from his canteen and began cleaning the blood off the black man’s forehead. “These cuts aren’t quite as deep as they might be. You’re lucky. You’re going to look beautiful tomorrow, though.”

  As George held his head back, Kirby stanched wounds with the bandage. He gave a rare laugh. “I won’t look bad, myself.” Silas had hit Kirby’s head with the point of the rock; the wound was deep, but it had not bled much. His forehead would need stitches, though. He had to wipe the trickling blood from his eyes again.

  George saw no humor in the situation. He looked disgusted with himself. “It was my own damn fault, getting caught by a fool trick like that.”

  Kirby cut more bandage from a roll in his saddlebags. George sat patiently while Kirby wrapped the flannel around his head. Pushing through George’s braided hair, Kirby discovered an ancient wound. It must have healed without being sewn; the scar was long and jagged.

  George read Kirby’s thoughts. “Got that back in '56, up on the Salt Fork of the Brazos. Comanche war lance done it. That was before I lived with the Comanches.”

  “You lived with them?”

  George nodded. “Three years. They captured me, liked me, and decided to adopt me. They made me a warrior, let me go on raids—even let me lead a couple. Then I ran away. Now I’ve got a blood feud with them. If one of ’em sees me, he’s bound to try and kill me.”

  Kirby’s voice lowered. “You raid against whites?”

  George shrugged, but as he did so he looked Kirby in the eye. “Why should I care about white people? Hadn’t been for white people, I wouldn’t have been a damn slave.”

  Kirby wrapped the bandage strips tight. “How old are you, George?”

  “Forty, near’s I can make out.”

  “How long you been in the West?”

  George laughed. “Long time—ever since I run away from my so-called ‘owner.’ ’Course back then the West started at the Miss’ssippi. I’ve trapped beaver on a keelboat up the Missouri, I’ve fought Indians and hunted buffalo from the Pecos to the Yellowstone. I’ve guided settlers. I even tended cows once. I done anything I could to make a few dollars and keep going—just like I’m doin’ now.”

  Kirby knotted the last bandage around George’s head and helped him to his feet. They walked to the horses, and George said, “Yes, sir, them was some days. All gone now, though—too many people comin’ in. Reckon it’s time to be movin’ west again.”

  “You keep moving west, you reach an ocean,” Kirby said as he mounted. “Then what?”

  George swung onto the piebald pony and grinned. “Time I get that far. I’ll be too old to worry about it.”

  Kirby grinned in return. Then he said, “Speaking of time— that’s something we’ve lost far too much of here. Let’s go.”

  20

  The grave had been filled in, and a rude cross was placed at its head. The posse stood in a half-circle around Kirby.

  “I’m going on with George and the two ranch hands,” Kirby announced. “The rest of you are heading back to Temperance. I’m tired of you people slowing me down. You’re the only thing that can stop me getting Swede Burdette, and I’m not going to let you do it. Take your time and keep together, and you should make it back all right.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Some of the men were not unhappy to hear the news. The drifter Canada was all in; the fight and the heat had taken the spirit out of him—the reward money was no longer worth it. The freighter, Karl Reichardt, was actually glad to be going back. Karl was fed up—fed up with Kirby, with the posse, with Al Weirson’s damned horses. Cutting one’s losses was good business; it was proper business. Silas stood to one side, leaning on his horse for support and looking sullen. The big deputy’s ribs were bandaged; his face was cut and swollen.

  Others reacted differently. Young Anton’s bearded face fell. He was devastated at losing his share of the reward. He did not protest, though; he knew he was getting what he deserved. He had sinned by helping this man Silas; now God was punishing him. Still ... he had pledged that reward money against his bills, and he did not even have the money to pay the foreman for letting him off work. He thought of Sofia and the children, and a tear came to his eye.

  The bony lawyer, Simpkin, stepped forward, waving his sweat-stained silk hat and looking fit to be tied. Dismissed for incompetence—he would be a laughingstock. He could see his political career vanishing, his life’s work going for nothing. He thought of what his shrewish wife would say. “Kirby, you can’t do this.”

  “I just did,” Kirby said.

  “Did you? Did you, by God? Well, let me tell you this, Mr. High-and-Mighty Kirby. I’m likely to be elected District Attorney next year, and if I don’t get—if these men don’t share the reward, your career with the State of Texas is finished.”

  Kirby turned away, but Simpkin moved in front of him, insistent. “We’re officers of the City of Temperance, Kirby. We have jurisdiction in this case. You don’t have the authority to put us off this posse.”

  “I have the authority to put a hole a foot wide in you, if it pleases me. And that’s exactly what I’ll do if I catch you following us.”

  Kirby waved toward the horses. “You men will take the used-up horses with you, except for two—one for Swede, one for the girl.”

  He turned to George and the cowboys. “Now, let’s get—”

  “Mr. Kirby?” It was the kid, Harry. "Let me go with you, Mr. Kirby.”

  Kirby looked at him. “Please,” Harry said, his big brown eyes pleading. “I’ve kept up. I’ve done whatever you said.”

  After a second, Kirby jerked his thumb. “All right. Get your horse.”

  Harry could barely restrain a whoop of joy. He turned and started off with a grin. Over to one side, Spud watched him and shook his head.

  Running to his horse, Harry stopped by his friends. “Goodbye, Mr. Reichardt,” he said, shaking hands. “Goodbye, Mr. Simpkin. Thanks for everything.”

  Karl looked worried. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Harry?”

  “I’m sure. Tell Momma I’ll be all right.”

  “Take care of yourself,” Simpkin warned.

  As Harry led his horse up, Kirby said, “We have a lot of hard riding in front of us. Let’s get at it.” He unhitched the sawed-off shotgun from Karl’s saddle. “I’m borrowing this scattergun.”

  The beefy German was horrified. “No, no, that gun cost me—”

  “Oh, stop bellyaching. You’ll get it back.”

  The men who were going home—Anton, Canada, Simpkin, Karl Reichardt, Silas—watched as the posse mounted and rode out, past the wrecked stagecoach, heading deeper into the broken hills. Black George was in front, with Kirby just behind, looking supremely confident. Harry Ferrante was behind Kirby, and the cowboys Spud and Brazos brought up the rear, leading the two spare horses and a packhorse.

  “Only five of us left,” Brazos said to Spud. “Every gun counts twice as much. You’ll have to make a decision now.” Spud looked grimly at the younger man and said nothing.

  21

  Swede and Rosie got down to stretch their legs. It was late afternoon, but the weste
ring sun had lost little of its power. Rosie grimaced as her muscle-sore body made the adjustment to walking again. The swish of her shredded skirt contrasted with the heavy clumping of Dancer’s hooves.

  “What did you do before the war?” she asked.

  With insatiable curiosity she’d been pumping Swede about his life. He’d gotten used to her talking; it didn’t bother him anymore. It would seem funny if she stopped now.

  “We did some cotton farming, then some ranching. My folks was old, and I reckon I should have helped them more than I did. Most years we was lucky to keep our heads above water. We was just starting to make money off cattle when the war came along.”

  He perked up, thinking of the old days. “Cattle business wasn’t like it is now—all these big spreads, and fighting over range. Back then the cows run wild—if you wanted to stock a ranch, you just went out in the brush and hunted up a herd. Problem was what do with ’em after that. Then in ’59 some of the ranches formed a trail herd, and I led ’em to St. Louis, to sell ’em at the railhead there. My pa was real proud of me. . . .” Swede’s voice trailed off.

  Something wasn’t right to Rosie. "If your folks were so old, and you were so worried about them, why’d you go off to fight in the war?”

  “I didn’t want to go,” Swede said. “John Kirby and some fellas from the neighborhood talked me into it.”

  The slender girl looked at him askance from under her long eyelashes. “This the same John Kirby . . . ?”

  “Same one. The county was formin’ a company of volunteer cavalry, and they wanted me to be their captain. I told ’em I was through with war, told ’em I’d seen too much of killing and men dying, told ’em I’d learned it wasn’t worth it. They didn’t listen—I don’t even think they believed me.’’ Swede hesitated. “I still wouldn’t have gone, but Kirby begged me, and . . . well, it hit me that Kirby’d only signed on ’cause he thought I’d be leading the outfit. So’d some of the other boys. That’s a heavy responsibility. So I figured, what the hell. I’ll prob’ly get caught in this thing sooner or later, I might as well get it over with.”

  He laughed briefly and shook his head. “The Comal Texas Rangers, we called ourselves—as fine a bunch of men as ever set off to war. All of ’em my friends.” After a second, he added, “Far’s I know, they’re all dead now, ’cept me and Kirby.”

  Swede stopped and halted Dancer. He unlooped the canteen from the pommel of the saddle and handed it to Rosie.

  The slender girl’s cheeks and nose had been burned red during her ordeal in the rocks, and they’d burned even more under the tom straw hat. They would be blistered tomorrow. She shook the canteen. There wasn’t much water left.

  “You having any?” she asked, squinting.

  Swede shook his head.

  She returned the canteen. “Then neither am I.”

  Swede replaced the canteen and looked at Rosie with grudging admiration. “You know, you’re all right—for a woman.”

  Rosie snorted derisively. “Damn, mister, you call this hardship? This ain’t nothing. You should see Cross Street in Boston on a Saturday night.”

  Swede grinned at her. Then he said, “Sorry if this is rough on you. I’d like to take a break here, but I just ain’t got the time.”

  They remounted and rode on. Rosie was tired; she rested her head on Swede’s broad shoulders. It seemed a perfectly natural gesture. Swede smelled the burned flesh of the girl’s face, smelled the tumbled, sweat-stiff hair that brushed his skin, and felt the girl’s warm breath on his neck.

  Swede’s back ached. He tried to ease it without disturbing the girl. This march was proving tougher than he had expected. He must be getting old.

  The hills grew eerily quiet and mysterious in the long shadows of late afternoon. Despite the blanketing heat, Rosie shivered and sat up straight. In a whisper that would have been more appropriate for church, she said, “Swede, you got a funny feeling?”

  Swede’s eyes never stopped moving. “Yeah.”

  "Me, too,” said Rosie.

  22

  Swede and Rosie camped high, protected by a jumble of boulders. They could barely see each other in the thin moonlight. Swede tried to feed Dancer, but the horse’s mouth was so dry that the oats fell out.

  Wishing she had saved her underwear, Rosie sought shelter among the rocks, out of the wind that whistled around the hilltop. The temperature was not low, but the darkness and the wind on her sweaty body made her cold. Swede handed her a piece of pemmican, and she bit on it without enthusiasm. As Swede unrolled his blanket, Rosie hugged herself nervously. “It’s freezing up here,” she said through chattering teeth. “Did we have to come so high?”

  “It’s safer this way,” Swede told her. Like Rosie, he could not shake his jitters. A tingling feeling ran up and down his spine. “Our backs are covered by these rocks. There’s only one way up this hill.”

  He placed the blanket over her shoulders. “Put this around you. Try to get some sleep. We have to be out of here early.”

  Rosie wrapped the worn blanket around her, getting her feet well under it. Swede took a hitch at his galluses. His jeans had grown loose; he must have lost weight from all the walking. “Wish I had a drink of whiskey,” he said.

  “I’m partial to gin, myself,” said Rosie.

  Swede reached in his saddlebag and took out his blue wool shirt. He put it on and then hunkered down in the lee of the rocks, next to Rosie, throwing his horse blanket over his legs for warmth. He made sure his rifle was close to him.

  “Don’t you have another blanket?” Rosie asked.

  She watched him for a moment as he lowered his head to his knees and closed his eyes. “Swede?”

  He looked up from under the wide brim of his hat. Tentatively Rosie opened the top of her blanket. “You can have me, if you want. It’s the only payment I can give for what you’ve done.”

  Swede thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I reckon not.”

  Rosie’s emerald eyes seemed to flash like lightning in the darkness. “Why? Because of what I am? Afraid you’ll catch something?”

  Swede sat up straighter. “Why . . . why, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that . . . well, you’re a lady, and—”

  “Oh, come on, we both know that ain’t true.”

  Swede was tight-lipped. “I was raised up to treat all women the same. I ain’t one to be makin’ judgment on people’s characters.”

  Rosie stared at him, then shook her head. “I’ve met some strange people out west, mister, but damn if you don’t beat all of ’em. Most outlaws I’ve known would have raped me half a dozen times by now.”

  Swede said, “I didn’t take up the profession because I wanted to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Swede hesitated. He looked around, as if expecting to see something, as if something was not right. Then he sighed and picked up a stick with his big hand. Slowly he began snapping pieces off the end of the stick. “My folks come to Texas back when it was still part of Mexico. They went deep in what was then Indian country and found them a piece of land that nobody else wanted.

  “They took that land. They fought Comanches and Mexicans and swarms of locusts to hold it. They baked in the summer, and they froze in the winter to scrape out a living, and gradually—with hard work—they turned that land into something worth having, something a man could call his own.”

  He spoke in a low voice. The only other sounds were the wind and the relentless snapping of the stick. “Then come Mr. Bailey, superintendent for the Southwest Texas Railroad. I was still in prisoner-of-war camp, so there was nothin’ I could do. Mr. Bailey said the railroad needed our land. Couldn’t go nowheres else, he said. Had a piece of paper from the Yankee government said he could take the land if he paid the owners a fair price.”

  Swede snapped another piece off the stick. “When my folks wouldn’t sell, Bailey threw them off. He cursed them, told them they was being turned out for progress. When Pa tried to
protest, Bailey beat him.

  “Well, Ma and Pa was too old and too sick to start over. Anyways, they couldn’t buy no land with the little bit of money Bailey give ’em. They was both dead within a year, buried in a pauper’s field without even a preacher to read over ’em. Bailey murdered them, Rosie. He murdered them as sure as if he pulled a trigger on them.”

  “What did you do?” Rosie asked.

  “Killed Bailey and robbed his payroll.” Swede turned the remnant of the stick over in his fingers, looking at it. Then he tossed it away. “I been on the run ever since.”

  “You ever regret killing this Bailey?”

  “Sure I regret it. I don’t like killin’ people. I only meant to beat him, like he done Pa, but he pulled a gun. Still, it was a fair fight, and—”

  “And you’d do it again, if it came to that.”

  “Prob’ly. That’s how I was raised.”

  There was a pause, then Rosie spoke softly. “You don’t think you have much of a chance, do you?”

  “No, not if Kirby’s leading the posse.”

  “What if you do get away. What then?”

  Swede shrugged. “Rob another bank, I reckon.”

  “Another bank! Aren’t you ever going to stop? Don’t you want to settle down?”

  Swede shifted uneasily among the rocks, looking around again. “Reckon I never had no reason to settle down, nobody to settle down with. Now Arkansas, he met himself a real nice senorita . Planned to marry her and raise up some kids. If I get out of this, I gotta go tell her what’s happened, give her the Kid’s share of the money.”

  Swede was quiet for a moment. “You know, I never talked like this with no one before—not even the Kid.” He looked at Rosie, and an idea lit his face that made him eager and shy at the same time. “You could come with me, Rosie.” He hesitated, then went on. “We could buy us some

  His face fell, and he looked away. “Hell, what’s the use even thinking about something like that?”