chapter ONE
A small Texas town can still run into big trouble.
The town of Cactus, Texas, had just opened their first bank; Sheriff Tom Bregman stood by the front door as the townspeople lined up to deposit their hard-earned money.
"This is a wonderful turnout," Fred Hooper, the bank manager, said to Bregman. "I was thinking we were going to have to convince everyone to deposit."
"Looks like folks wanna support the bank, Mr. Hooper," Bregman said. "Those are the kind of people who live in this town. Always ready to step up."
Sheriff Bregman had no idea how prophetic his words would be . . .
Cactus, Texas, was in the Panhandle. It had been founded over thirty years before, but only recently had the population grown to the point where it might be called a real Òtown.Ó
There were only ten people remaining from those who had settled there all those years ago. For the most part they were not happy about the growth of the town. They would rather have lived there, just the ten of them, without all the commotion a larger population brought with it. Buckboards, wagons, and horses on the streets at all times of the day and night, people walking, talking, and yelling, children running around. It was all too much. And now a bank.
Ed Holden and Bill Farris sat across the street from the bank, in front of the hardware store, scowling at the activity.
Holden was seventy-five and Farris was seventy-one. The ache in their old bones bothered them less than the growing pains Cactus was exhibiting.
"Not a good idea," Farris said. "A bank only brings trouble."
"I agree," Ed Holden said. "My money's stayin' right where it is, under the floorboards."
"Mine's under my mattress," Farris said.
A few of the town's women walked by and gave the two old men disapproving looks. Half a dozen boys who looked anywhere from eight to twelve ran by, pretending to shoot each other, making a racket.
"You know," Holden said, "I don't wake up in the mornin' wantin' to hate people, but they just make it so easy."
"I know what you mean. I remember when this town was a mud puddle with a general store," Farris said.
"Them was the days," Holden said, and they both shook their heads.
Another man was standing down the street, watching the activity in front of the newly opened bank with great interest. Hoyt Taylor was an advance scout for the Miller Gang. Dex Miller sent his scouts out to find likely opportunities for the gang to plunder. To Hoyt, this looked like a good one. It might have been a small town, and a small bank, but it sure looked like the whole population was putting their money in the new bank.
He would watch awhile longer, though, before reporting to Dex.
Sheriff Bregman was starting to grow impatient standing there. He wished he had a deputy to give the job to, but at the moment there was only a kid named Wyler, who was enthusiastic, but not ready. HeÕd had a good deputy for a few years, but Nolan had gotten married and given up the badge. Quite a few men tried to step into the deputy job; however, young Wyler seemed to be the only real trainable one.
Bregman was fifty years old, had been wearing a badge of one kind or another-from town sheriff to U.S. Marshal-for many years. When he found the job in Cactus he thought it was a good place to settle down and finish out his peace officer days.
He looked across the street, saw the two longtime citizens of Cactus, and waved at them. They returned the wave, though not with much enthusiasm. Bregman knew he was one of the few people in town Holden and Farris tolerated. It was probably because of his age and experience.
"Sheriff," bank manager Hooper said, "I guess you'll be making a deposit, as well."
Bregman looked at the man. He was tall, slender, in his forties, with wire-framed glasses over watery eyes.
"Mr. Hooper," the sheriff said, "believe me, if I had any money, I would."
Sheriff Bregman ainÕt a bad sort,Ó Holden said as he and Farris returned the lawmanÕs wave.
"That's only 'cause he's an ornery ol' cuss like we are," Farris said.
"Oh, he ain't that old," Holden said. "I wouldn't mind bein' his age, again."
"What'sa matter with bein' our age?" Farris demanded. "I live like I want, eat what I want, drink when I want, and I don't answer to nobody."
"That's only 'cause you ain't got a wife."
"Who needs a wife?" Farris asked. "I'm doin' jus' fine on my own."
"Me too," Holden agreed.
"Letty wouldn't agree with that."
Leticia Moore was another longtime resident of Cactus. At sixty-nine, she'd been married four times, outlived all four husbands, and had set her hat more than once for either Holden or Farris. Both men had managed to avoid marriage, to Letty or anyone else. Marriage, they were convinced, led men to an early grave, and Letty was proof of that.
"Letty can keep lookin' for husband number five, as far as I'm concerned," Holden said.
"I gotta agree with ya there!" Farris spit a wad of tobacco out to the street that just missed two women who were walking by, giving them scowls.
Both men laughed.
By afternoon, the foot traffic in front of the bank had slowed down. Hooper decided it was time to go into his office, and he left Bregman alone at the door, which suited the lawman just fine. He didnÕt like the bank manager very much.
Bregman went into the bank a short time later and beckoned to the bank guard to come over to the door.
"Yeah, Sheriff?"
"I'm leavin' now, so it's up to you," Bregman said. "Give Mr. Hooper the security he wants for his bank."
"Yes, sir," the guard said. "That's what I'm getting paid for."
"There's another shift, right?"
"Yes, sir," the guard said. "He'll be here at three."
Bregman nodded.
"Okay," he said. He took a last look around. There was one teller behind a cage, and one clerk seated at a desk, taking care of the depositors.
Bregman left the bank and walked down the street to the Buffalo Saloon. The bartender/owner, Lance Hendricks, stood behind the bar, wiping it down with a dirty rag. There was no one else in the place.
Bregman walked up to the bar and Lance stopped wiping.
"Sheriff," he said, "how's everythin' at the bank?"
"Like I figured," Bregman said. "Most of the folks in town lined up to give 'em their money."
"Not me," Lance said. "My money's stayin' right where it is, where I can keep an eye on it."
Lance Hendricks was in his fifties, had come to Cactus several years before and built the Buffalo Saloon. Bregman didn't know his background, but from what he did learn about the man he liked, and he considered him to be his friend.
"Folks hereabouts think havin' a bank is gonna help this town grow," the lawman said.
"It's gonna bring trouble, is what it's gonna do," Lance said. "I've seen it before. I got no use for a bank." He turned his head and spit into a spittoon he kept behind the bar. "Beer or whiskey, Sheriff?"
"Just a beer, Lance," Bregman said. "It's a little early in the day for whiskey."
Lance drew a cold one and set it on the bar for Bregman.
"You put your money in that bank, Tom?"
"I'll tell you what I told Hooper, Lance. I ain't got no money, so I didn't have to make that decision."
"Well, you got a badge," Lance said. "The town gives you a house, you eat for free, and drink for free, whataya need money for?"
"Shack," Bregman corrected, "the town gives me a shack. You seen my place."
"That's true."
"In the winter the cold goes right through the walls," Bregman said. "I gotta build a fire in the middle of the room."
"Well, like you said," Lance commented, "the town's growin'. Go talk to the mayor about a raise."
"The mayor's the cheapest man in town," Bregman said. "We only got a bank because the Town Council went around 'im."
"Then go to the council," Lance said, "They'll go around the mayor and raise your salary."
"Not likely," Bregman said, sipping his beer.
"Then give up the badge and come work with me," Lance said.
"Work for you?"
"With me," Lance said. "Partners."
Bregman seemed to think about it for a moment, then said, "Ah, I got no head for business, Lance. You know that."
"You'll learn," Lance said. "Just keep it in mind."
"I will," Bregman said.
Another man came in and bellied up to the bar.
"Afternoon, fellers," Dave Royal said.
"Beer, Dave?" Lance asked.
"You know it," the stocky town gunsmith said. "Looks like traffic thinned out at the bank, Sheriff."
"They turned out early," Bregman said. "I didn't see you there, though, Dave."
"I think you know where I stand," Royal said as Lance set the beer down in front of him. "I was against this bank. It's only gonna bring trouble."
"See?" Lance said. "There are plenty of us in town who think that."
"We're outnumbered by folks who want the town to grow larger and faster," Bregman said.
"You know," Royal said, "I settled here because I wanted small-town life. So what do I do now?" He had come to town five years before, and recently turned forty.
"Make the most of it," Lance said, "or get the hell out, I guess."
"I ain't ready to get out," Royal said, "so I guess I'm stuck for now."
Tom Bregman finished his beer and pushed the empty mug away.
"I gotta get to my office," he said. "I'll see you fellers later."
As the lawman left Royal leaned on the bar and asked Lance, "How much you think is in that bank now?"
"Enough," Lance said.
chapter TWO
When the sheriff left the bank, Hoyt Taylor walked over to his horse, mounted up, and rode out. He had a long ride to the Miller Compound, at least three days, and he wanted to get started.
The Miller Compound was virtually a small, self-contained town. It had everything essential to survival: a stable, a blacksmith, a trading post, a well, a gunsmith, and folks who saw that everything moved smoothly, caring for the horses, cooking, and raising the children. Most of those folks were MillerÕs eight wives and his twenty-two children.
He also had over thirty men who rode with him when he went out to make his "collections," as he called his raids. And whenever he made those collections he left no witnesses. That was why much of what the Miller Gang did was alleged. The law had never found anyone who would testify against him, or his "flock."
He didn't have a gang, but a flock who was devoted to him. For that reason he never had to share his booty with his men. They didn't do what they did for money; they did it because they were devoted to Miller, and to the way of life in the Compound.
And they were a true flock, as they all attended his Sunday sermons, when he stood up in front of them with his Bible in hand, which he never opened. The point of the Bible was to show it wasn't God the people of the Compound had to believe in, but Dexter Miller. As far as every man, woman, and child were concerned, he was their God.
Miller, at sixty years old, still rode out with his men on every raid, still had his wives-from age sixteen to sixty-waiting impatiently at home for his return. And when he did return they greeted him with smiles and love and a feast. His children, who ranged in age from six to twenty-five-ten girls and twelve boys-always gathered to greet him. Not being there to welcome him home meant a trip to the woodshed, and they had all learned that lesson well.
The Compound was well hidden in a box canyon with only one way in or out, which was always guarded. When Hoyt Taylor rode in he had to make sure he did so carefully, so as not to be shot, especially since he was approaching after dark.
"Stop right there!" a voice growled at him. "Who in hell is that?"
"It's me, Hoyt Taylor! Don't shoot, damn it."
A flame flared and a torch lit the person who was speaking to him.
"That you, Hoyt?" Tim Miller, Dex's oldest, asked.
"'Course it is," Taylor said. "Whatayou doin' out here, Tim?"
"Pa says me and my brothers gotta start takin' our turns on guard duty," Tim said. "You got any good news?"
"I think so, but that's gonna be for your pa to decide."
"Well, I hope he likes it, because the last two who rode in didn't make 'im happy, ay-tall."
"Who was that?"
"Crabtree and Hap," Tim said. "Neither one of them is gonna be walkin' right for a while."
A chill went down Taylor's back. Dex Miller didn't take kindly to his scouts coming back empty-handed. For a moment, he thought about turning his horse around and riding back out, but he decided he'd come too far for that.
"Well, go on in," Tim said. "And tell my brother Dan to get his lazy ass out here to relieve me."
"I'll tell 'im," Taylor promised, and gave his horse his spurs.
The Compound was well lit with torches and campfires. Hoyt Taylor could be seen very clearly as he rode in, and one man greeted him and took his horse.
"Where's Dex?" he asked.
"In his house."
There was one house in the Compound, and many shacks. Dex and several of his wives lived in the house, while his other wives and children lived in several of the shacks. Others were occupied by Dex's men who had wives and families of their own, while the remainder slept either in tents or under the stars. Off to one side was a corral, filled with horses.
Taylor started walking toward the house, but two men stepped into his path.
"Where ya goin'?" one asked.
"I gotta see Dex."
"It's late," the other man said. "Dex is busy."
"I gotta let him know-"
"Whatever you gotta let 'im know, you tell 'im tomorrow," the first man said. "Right now he's with two of his wives. You know what that means?"
Taylor knew. Everybody knew, because when Dex was in the house with his wives, they were never quiet about what they were doing.
"I don't hear nothin'," he said.
"You will," the second man said. "They're just takin' a break. You go on over yonder to the fire and git yerself some vittles."
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