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Even Charlie Dodge thought hitting three banks in a row was asking a lot.
And Charlie Dodge knew a thing or two about robbing banks.
Anyway, it was King Conrad’s plan, and the king hadn’t let the boys down yet. Conrad had good spies, and, so far, the information they provided had never been wrong. All three banks were ripe and ready to be plucked, payrolls and cattle drive deposits and whatnot all hitting in the same week. The plan was ambitious and simple—tear across Texas at lightning speed, hit the banks one, two, three, and then ride like hell until they crossed the Rio Grande into Mexico.
The bank in Waco had been caught completely flat-footed. They’d knocked a sleeping guard in the back of the head, intimidated the tellers, and ridden away without firing a single shot. The posse had been slow to follow, and anyway, Junior Barnes and his boys were even now leading them east while Charlie headed south to the next bank.
Charlie Dodge had started with forty men. He sent half with Junior to kick up a lot of dust and make sure the posse couldn’t possibly fail to see the trail. Charlie and the remainder of his crew had stayed low and quiet and had let the posse go right on by. Junior and his boys would eventually shake the posse and make a slow circle back to the hideout.
And Charlie would head south to the bank in Austin.
They’d stopped for a few minutes in a copse of scrub oak trees about a quarter mile off the road. It wasn’t the best hiding spot, but the horses needed rest.
Charlie kept looking back up the road the way they’d come.
“Relax,” Mitch Baldwin told him. “Junior knows his business. The posse will be halfway to Beaumont before they realize they’ve been buffaloed.”
“You’re right.” Charlie took a drink from his canteen.
Baldwin patted Charlie’s saddlebags. The loot from the Waco bank was inside. “A good haul. Even better than we thought it would be.”
Charlie knew what Baldwin was getting at. It was a lot of money. Even more after they hit the bank in Austin. Enough to set a couple fellas up for life if they were frugal. Baldwin hadn’t said it out loud, but it was easy for Charlie to guess the man’s notion. Once they hit the bank in Austin, another ten men would break off to lead away any possible pursuit. That would leave a relatively small handful. Charlie and Baldwin could take them by surprise, then take the money west and …
He shook his head and sighed. Charlie wasn’t that stupid, and Baldwin should know better. Crossing King Conrad was a bad idea. The sort of idea that could earn a man a bullet in the belly or a knife between the shoulder blades.
Still, if anyone could talk him into it, it might be Baldwin. They’d been partners even before hooking up with King Conrad, going all the way back to the war when Charlie had been a snot-nosed lieutenant and Baldwin had been a crusty sergeant. Baldwin had a dozen years on Charlie but had no ambition for leadership. Instead, he was more than happy to let Charlie be in charge, always ready with good advice when asked. Salt-and-pepper beard, hair thinning on top. He carried a big Colt Walker slung across his belly, a Spencer carbine in his saddle scabbard.
After the war, they’d taken to the outlaw life instead of surrendering.
“A good haul,” Charlie agreed. “King will be pleased.”
This was Charlie’s way of telling Baldwin to forget about taking off with the money.
Baldwin grunted, acknowledging the subject was closed.
Charlie raised his voice so the others could hear. “Check weapons and gear.”
It was something he used to tell them men back in the war right before they moved out. Not strictly necessary, but old habits died hard. He checked his Colt Navy and the Henry rifle in his saddle scabbard.
“Get a bite of jerky or some such,” he told his crew. “We’re eating dinner in the saddle. Lots of miles to go. Now mount up.”
They continued riding south. If they pushed hard, they could be in Austin a few minutes before the bank closed, do the holdup fast, and then sweep out of town like the wind before the local sheriff even knew what happened.
Charlie mistimed it, and by the time they hit Austin, the First Cattleman’s Bank had already been closed for an hour.
He muttered a curse. Now they’d have to spend the night and hit the bank when it opened in the morning. Charlie didn’t want to hang around. Every minute they spent on the American side of the border increased the odds of the law catching up to them.
Can’t be helped. Guess we just have to make the best of it.
“Gather ’round,” he shouted to his crew.
They pulled their horses into a circle around Charlie.
“Looks like we’re spending the night,” he told them. “So let’s ride into town and make the best of it, but I don’t want all twenty of us riding in as a big mob. That’ll only draw attention. We’ll go in paired up. Get a late dinner or pass the time however you see fit, but don’t get too drunk. We’ve got work tomorrow. Get a room somewhere and get some sleep. Bank opens at nine, so I’ll see you in front of the livery stable at a quarter to.”
He sent the first couple into town, then sent the others in pairs about fifteen to twenty minutes apart. Charlie and Baldwin were the last to go.
“You want a meal?” Charlie asked.
Baldwin shook his head. “Filled up on jerky. A sip of whiskey would do me.”
“Okay then.”
They handed the horses over to the boy at the stable then found a saloon called the Stone Goat. The saloon was dim and simple and crowded, most of the tables and chairs taken. Men played cards, swapped jokes, and drank. The polished mahogany bar along the back wall was just as crowded as the rest of the place, but they squeezed in and ordered a bottle of whiskey.
They drank in companionable silence. That was the mark of a solid, long-standing friendship in Charlie’s opinion. He and Baldwin didn’t feel the need to fill the air between them with mindless chatter. They knew each other’s stories ten times over.
A few minutes later, Baldwin nudged Charlie in the ribs. “Look at that.” Baldwin lifted his chin in the direction he wanted Charlie to look. “This gonna be a problem?”
Charlie glanced over his shoulder.
Gene Cousins and Ned Crosby occupied a table in a dark corner across the saloon. Apparently, a few of Charlie’s crew had also discovered the Stone Goat. Normally, Charlie would have taken the bottle over and joined them, but they were trying not to all be seen together.
Then he saw Baldwin’s concern.
Crosby had a tight grip on the wrist of a pretty little saloon gal who’d been working the room. She didn’t look happy about it.
Charlie had no qualms about Gene Cousins. The man was a solid member of Charlie’s crew and had never caused trouble.
Ned Crosby was a different kettle of fish.
A snide, unpleasant man, unshaved and unwashed, Crosby’s black shirt was wrinkled, vest stained. The only thing shiny and clean about him were the twin Smith & Wesson Model 3 revolvers that hung from his gun belt. They were nickel-plated and gleaming with pearl handles. Garish guns like that were a lot to live up to. Charlie had never seen the man shoot but suspected he was all show and loud talk. He couldn’t abide men who tried to get by on flash and boasts and bullying.
The girl Crosby had a hold of was nearly as flashy as his guns. She had a pile of corn-yellow hair on top of her head, long white legs, and assets overflowing the top of her bodice. For a gal who earned her living pleasing men, she seemed right keen to get away from Crosby, who still held her wrist in a tight grip.
Baldwin tossed back his whiskey, then set his empty shot glass on the bar. “Want I should handle it?”
Charlie sighed. “I reckon I should. I’m supposed to be boss of this crew, after all.”
He emptied his own shot glass, then ambled through the crowd to Crosby’s table.
Crosby looked up, spotted Charlie, and grinned. “Well, if it ain’t the boss man himself.” He sounded a little drunk.
“Maybe let the lady go, huh, Ned?” Charlie said calmly.
Crosby smiled crookedly. “What’s a matter, boss, don’t you like girls?”
“More like she don’t seem all that keen on you.”
Crosby’s sneering grin widened. “I’m winning her over. I don’t mind when they play hard to get.”
“Let her go, Ned,” Charlie told him. “Now.”
Crosby’s grin hardened into a tight line across his mouth. His eyes narrowed, never leaving Charlie’s. There was a moment when they all froze—Charlie, Crosby, Cousins, the girl. Then Crosby’s grin returned slowly, calculated.
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Crosby let go of her.
She jerked her hand away, shot daggers at him with her eyes, and left.
“This your idea of not attracting attention?” Charlie asked.
“Lighten up, will ya?” Crosby said. “Chasing after ladies is what men do in a saloon, or didn’t you know?”
“Chase ’em on your own time,” Charlie said. “In the meantime, you’ll do what I say and like it.”
Crosby’s eyes went hard. Charlie glared right back at him and waited.
Gene Cousins rose from his chair and nudged Crosby. “I’ve had my fill of whiskey anyway. Let’s find a place to get some shut-eye.”
Crosby hesitated, then stood. “Fine.”
Both men filed out, and Charlie took over the table. He waved Baldwin over, who arrived with the bottle and two glasses and sat.
“Crosby didn’t look too happy,” Baldwin said.
“Long as he does what I tell him, happy don’t enter into it.” Charlie grabbed the bottle and filled his glass. “Still, I’ll be glad when this job is over. I’m going to ask Conrad not to stick him on my crew again.”
“A lot of men work for the king,” Baldwin said. “I reckon all of them can’t be angels.”
“Ain’t none of us angels.” Charlie sipped his whiskey. “I’ll settle for reasonably agreeable.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Baldwin said.
And they did.
“You think he’ll be trouble?” Baldwin asked.
“Crosby?” Charlie thought about it. “Whatever Ned Crosby thinks of me, he’ll be crossing King Conrad if he does something to mess up this job. Not even Crosby is that stupid.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” Baldwin said. “Another bottle?”
“I think I’d better take my own advice and go easy,” Charlie replied. “There’s a hotel down the street. Didn’t look too shabby. Let’s see if they got any beds left.”
They rose early and found a greasy little hash house for bacon, eggs, and coffee. Then Charlie and Baldwin met the rest of the crew at the livery stables.
“You all know what to do,” Charlie told them. “But let’s go over it again to be sure. Travis, where you gonna set up?”
The one called Travis was lanky with sharp features. “I got a spot picked a street over. My boys and I will head out northwest. We’ll make sure they see us.”
“You got your pink?”
Travis reached into his vest and pulled out a bright pink neckerchief. “Ugly, ain’t it?”
“And memorable,” Charlie said.
Charlie had an identical pink neckerchief, which he’d put over his face when it was time to rob the bank. Eyewitnesses didn’t always have the best memories, especially when they had guns pointed at them and things were happening fast. But if something stuck out or seemed out of place—like a garish pink neckerchief—then it would often stick in the memory. There was a good chance a panicked bank teller would see a completely different man in a pink neckerchief riding away fast and shout, “There they go!”
Anyway, it was worth a shot.
Charlie shifted his gaze to Cousins. “Gene?”
“There’s a dry goods store across the street from the sheriff’s office,” Cousins said. “Me and Ned will browse around inside and watch through the window.”
“Sounds good,” Charlie said.
The only bad thing about the First Cattleman’s Bank was its unfortunate proximity to the sheriff’s office, which was across the street and half a block down. If things didn’t go exactly as planned, the law could come down on them a lot faster than expected. Better to have a couple of the boys ready to gun down anyone that came out of the sheriff’s office before things got out of hand.
Charlie just wished one of them fellas wasn’t Ned Crosby.
But if Crosby wasn’t with Cousins across from the sheriff’s office, then that would put him with Charlie inside the bank, and Charlie liked that option even less. He supposed he could send Crosby with Travis and the diversion crew, but any change now might just cause an unneeded fuss. Crosby’s attitude was bad enough already. Making him feel insulted wouldn’t help.
“Okay, get to your places,” Charlie told them. “Bobby, you got the horses.”
Bobby Vance was barely nineteen and had probably shaved a total of five times his whole life. Charlie wondered how somebody with such a young, open, eager face had gotten into the outlaw business, but he reckoned that was none of his concern. When the kid was older, Charlie would give him more responsibility, but until then, minding the horses in the alley behind the bank was about as far as he’d trust him.
Bobby led the horses a roundabout way to his spot behind the bank as Cousins and Crosby moved off to the feedstore to keep watch on the sheriff’s office.
Charlie and Baldwin headed toward the bank with five more of his men trailing behind—enough space between them not to draw attention. Seven men for a bank job like this was more than enough, which was the idea. They wanted the guard and the tellers to know right away cooperation was their only choice.
They walked in about ten minutes after opening. A couple of the tellers were still getting their drawers organized. No other customers in the place. Charlie and Baldwin strolled to the table in the center of the bank lobby where there were pens and deposit slips. Charlie took a slip and pretended to write on it. So far, nobody had given them a second look.
Two more of Charlie’s men entered and moved aside slowly, keeping it casual as they cleared the space in front of the doorway for two more to enter a few seconds later. Now one of the tellers looked up. He noticed it was getting crowded and frowned, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
The security guard in a blue coat sat reading the paper. They needed to get this party started before he started paying attention.
The rest of Charlie’s men entered the bank, locking the door behind them, and that was the signal.
Charlie pulled up the bright pink neckerchief to cover the lower half of his face. The rest of the men did the same. Charlie drew his Colt Navy and thumbed the hammer back.
The guard dropped his newspaper, eyes going wide when he saw the men, faces covered, pistols drawn. He came halfway out of his chair, reaching for his own weapon.
But Baldwin was there in a flash, shoving his six-gun into the guard’s face. “Sit down and keep shut up.”
All the bank employees put their hands up without being told.
Charlie was already crossing the room, pointing his Colt at the head teller.
The rest of his men spread out, covering the other doors and the other two tellers.
Charlie looked past the head teller at a door behind him. “Anyone in there?”
“The bank manager,” the teller said.
“Fetch him,” Charlie said. “Nice and normal like everything’s just fine. Tell him there’s an important new customer that wants to open a big account. Understand?”
The teller nodded, went back to the door, and knocked. There was a muffled voice from the other side. The teller opened the door and stuck his head inside. After a brief conversation, the teller backed away and a middle-aged man emerged from the office, shrugging into a pinstripe jacket and straightening his tie. He had thick gray hair and long sideburns and was otherwise clean-shaven. He was dapper but not overly so.
He plastered an ingratiating smile on his face as he approached the head teller’s window. He took in the situation and the smile fell. “Oh.”
Charlie leveled the Colt Navy at the manager’s face. “Open the safe.”
The manager licked his lips nervously, eye flitting to the small safe in the corner. One of Charlie’s boys had already pushed open the waist-high, swinging door that led to the area behind the teller’s counter. He stood next to the safe and made a get-over-here gesture with his revolver. The bank manager hesitated.
“I know what’s in there,” Charlie said. “And I know you have the combination, so don’t pretend you don’t. I’m in a hurry to do something. It’s up to you. Do I hurry out of here with the money? Or do I start blazing real fast with this six-gun? Either way, it starts happening soon.”
“Okay, okay.” The manager headed toward the safe. “Just let me work the combination. Let’s not get all trigger-happy.”
Two more of Charlie’s crew had come forward to toss empty flour sacks at the other two tellers. “Empty them cash drawers.”
The tellers scrambled to obey.
The manager had the safe open now and was hurriedly filling a larger bag with the contents. Everyone was moving quickly and quietly. Just like with the last bank, it all seemed to be going according to plan. In another minute, they’d be out the door, no fuss and no shots fired, which suited Charlie right down to the ground. Few things motivated a posse more than dead civilians, and avoiding bloodshed was exactly what the outlaw had in mind.
But then two things happened.
First, the gunshots. They came from outside. Best Charlie could tell was down the street a block or so. One shot and then two quick ones.
That was enough to make everyone in the bank turn toward the front windows and wonder what the gunfire was about.
Then the second thing happened.
A man emerged from a side door wearing the same blue security guard jacket as the man in the chair. He cradled a double-barrel shotgun in one arm. He was biting into a cold chicken leg, oblivious to what was going on in the bank lobby.
A second security guard.
Who wasn’t supposed to be there.
Not that one additional security guard should have given Charlie and his crew any trouble, but they were all distracted momentarily by the gunshots outside. The sitting security guard must have thought this was his chance. He dropped the newspaper and came out of his chair, one hand dropping to his six-gun.
Baldwin turned and shot him in the chest before the security guard had his shooting iron halfway out of his holster. The Walker’s thunder shook the crowded bank lobby.
The other guard swung the shotgun around, raised it, the chicken leg still clamped between his teeth. He fired. The scattergun bucked in his hand and belched fire.
Buckshot shredded the chest of one of the men who’d been watching the front door. Charlie didn’t know Fred Bolger very well, and now he never would. Bolger slammed back against the door, blood oozing through his shirt in a dozen places as he slid to the floor.
Charlie spun and fanned the hammer of his six-gun three times. The guard went down, chicken leg dropping from his mouth when he hit the floor.
Then three sharp pops. One of the tellers had produced a little revolver. It sounded like a .32 to Charlie. Compared to the booms of the Walker and the scattergun, the .32 sounded almost comical, but it turned Lucas Simms into a dead man all the same. Charlie had been better acquainted with Simms than he’d been with Bolger. An affable fellow, but he’d known the risks. He had two sisters in Omaha who’d take the news hard.
The man Charlie had sent behind the counter to empty the safe lifted his revolver and shot the teller in the back of the head. The blast erupted from the teller’s mouth in a spray of blood and teeth. He pitched forward, head bouncing off the counter as he went down.
Charlie waved his gun at the remaining bank employees. “Everyone get on the floor right now, or we’ll gun down the lot of you!”
The employees hastened to comply.
Charlie felt a stab of frustration. This was all taking too long, and the gunshots would attract unwanted attention.
“Get the money!” Charlie shouted at his crew. “And snap to it!”
His men scrambled to clean out the teller drawers and empty the safe.
“Now let’s get out of here!”
Charlie hated to leave Simms and Bolger behind, but dragging along a couple of corpses was a surefire way to slow down an escape.
They dashed out of the bank and saw some sort of ruckus down the street but didn’t pause to gawk. They rounded the corner and rushed back to the alley where Bobby Vance waited with the horses. Charlie quickly pulled off the pink neckerchief and stashed it inside his vest.
He glanced back around the corner just in time to see Travis and the decoy crew rushing past, firing six-guns in the air, their horses at a full gallop. Travis had his pink neckerchief over his face. They whooped and hollered as they rode in the opposite direction Charlie intended to make his escape.
“There they go!” Charlie heard someone shout.
Charlie grinned and went back to the horses. “Let’s go. Travis will take the posse in the other direction.”
They led the horses, walking with purpose but without haste or panic. Nobody gave them a second look. At the edge of town, they mounted and rode hard.
As had been prearranged, they met Gene Cousins and Ned Crosby on the banks of Bullrush Creek about eight miles out of town. They intended to splash south along the creek bed for a few miles to throw off any trackers on the chance Travis hadn’t drawn them all away.
Charlie reined in his horse in front of Cousins and Crosby.
“What was that shooting about?” Charlie asked.
Cousins and Crosby looked at each other. They didn’t need Charlie to explain what he was asking.
“The sheriff came out of his office,” Crosby said. “So I gunned him down like I was told.”
“Was he in a hurry?” Charlie asked. “Did it look like he was heading for the bank?”
Cousins looked away. Crosby would get no help there.
Crosby’s face hardened. “How do I know where he was going? He came out, so I shot him.”
Charlie sighed, trying to cling to his last shred of patience. “If he was strolling out to get a cup of coffee, then you killed him for no reason. Maybe Lucas Simms and Fred Bolger would still be alive if we hadn’t been distracted.”
Crosby looked over the rest of the crew as if just noticing there were men missing. “You can’t pin that . . .
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