East of the River (12 page)

“We found out who the horse belongs to!” Sam announced excitedly.

“Sit down, relax,” Thomas said. “Have some stew, and tell us.”

“You won't believe—” Sam started, but Mort silenced him with a look.

“Sit down, Sammy!”

Sam sat and John put a bowl of stew in front of him. It was a recipe their mother had left behind, and all the brothers knew how to prepare it, except Sam.

“So?” Thomas asked when they were all seated.

“The horse belongs to Clint Adams.”

“Shit,” Thomas said.

“I saw him talkin' to Beau in the saloon right after me,” John said.

“Do you see what he did?” Thomas asked.

“What?” Sam asked.

“He told Beau to let us know.”

“Why would he do that?” Mort asked.

“I don't know,” Thomas said. “We don't know why he's here, but Beau probably told him you were looking for his horse.”

“And what was he doin' out at the farm?” Mort asked.

“We don't know that either,” Thomas said, “but we gotta find out.”

“How?” John asked.

“Somehow,” Thomas said, “and we gotta do it before we do anythin' else.”

“I'm with John,” Mort said. “How are we supposed to do that?”

“Well,” Thomas said, “there's one obvious way to do it.”

“What's that?” Sam asked.

“We can ask him.”

They rolled over, still connected, so that Hannie was on top. Her full breasts dangled in his face, so he had no choice but to bite them. She was sweating, and the smell was exciting him even more.

She rode him hard, grunting each time she came down on him, and soon her eyes were closed and her movements became mindless. He knew she no longer even knew it was him beneath her, she was just bouncing up and down, faster, faster, biting her lip, chasing the orgasm that was just ahead of her, like a carrot on a stick.

He gripped her hips, slid his hands up her strong, bare back, then pulled her down on him and cupped her buttocks, pulling her to him, trying to move even deeper into her. They writhed against each other, and before long he could feel her body trembling, before going taut as a bowstring. Then the arrow was loosed and she was crying out, grinding herself against him until he exploded inside of her with a loud cry of his own . . .

“Can you stay all night?” she asked.

She was lying in the crook of his arm, stroking his thigh with her fingertips.

“I don't see why not,” he said. “If I leave, you'll probably head right for the boardinghouse and draw Doyle out of bed.”

“We only just met and you know me that well?” she asked.

“We only just met and we're naked in bed together?” he asked.

She stretched and said, “I really needed this.”

“I figured.”

She pouted and asked, “Was it so hard on you?”

“If it hadn't been hard, we never would have got to this point.”

“You're funny.”

She moved her fingertips from his thigh to his penis. It flinched, then began to extend.

“Oh my,” she said. “Again, so soon?”

“Why do most women say that?” he asked. “Is it such a surprise that I'm a man and I react when a beautiful woman touches me?”

“I don't know,” she said, “let's see.”

 

“What are you doin' here?” Sheriff Perry demanded.

“Take it easy,” Doyle said. “Nobody saw me.” He closed the back door behind him. He walked to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup.

“So when do you think this woman is gonna come after me?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Perry said with a shrug, “maybe in the mornin'.”

“I'll be ready.”

“Just do me a favor,” the lawman said. “Don't get yourself killed. I can't very well take off the Archers by myself.”

“Yeah, about that,” Doyle said, “you got anybody else to help us?”

“Don't worry,” Perry said. “I'll have a few men. But you're the way in. You ain't heard from John yet?”

“No, not yet,” Doyle said.

“Well, maybe you oughtta get back to the boardinghouse and stay there.”

“Yeah, okay.” Doyle put the coffee cup down. “I just wanted to stretch my legs.”

He went to the back door.

“And when you kill this woman,” Perry reminded him, “make sure it looks like self-defense.”

“Don't worry,” Doyle said, “just do your part, and I'll do mine.”

 

“I could use a drink,” Hannie said. “Do you want a drink?”

“What do you have?”

She got out of bed. He watched her pad naked to her saddlebags and retrieve a pint of whiskey, then pad back to the bed with it.

“Here ya go.”

Clint took a pull from the bottle, then passed it back to Hannie. He watched her long throat work as she swallowed.

“Ah,” she said.

“You want to get some rest now?” he asked.

She stared at him.

“Do you?”

“I think you need it.”

“Do you need it?”

He laughed.

In the morning Clint met Eddie Randle at the Ox Bow, and together they walked to the bank. Randle had his business account there, so they were taken right in to see the bank manager. Once the door was closed behind them, Randle took out his badge.

“Mr. Morris,” he said, “my real name is Deputy U.S. Marshal Eddie Reed.”

“What?”

“This is Clint Adams.”

“W-what?” Morris looked totally confused.

“We need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“A bank robbery.”

Morris, normally red in the face, grew even redder. His mane of hair was as white as snow. He ran one hand through it.

“Bank robbery?” he repeated. “W-what bank is being robbed?”

“Well,” Clint said, “if our plan works, yours.”

Hannie Welch had watched Clint Adams dress and waited for him to go, then got out of bed herself, washed with the pitcher and basin, and quickly got dressed. She strapped on her gun, took a deep breath, and then went out to find Mrs. Buchanan's boardinghouse.

 

Walter Morris finally calmed down long enough to sit and listen to the plan.

“And this would just be known to us?” he asked. “The three people in this room?”

“Deputy Reed is literally putting his life in your hands, Mr. Morris.”

“And you say it's the Archer boys who have been pulling these robberies?”

“No question,” Clint said.

“That's shocking,” Morris said. “Those boys seem like nice fellas.”

“Do they have an account here, Mr. Morris?” Randle asked.

“All their accounts are here.”

“And can you tell us what their balances are like?” Clint asked.

“Well . . . that is confidential information.”

Randle leaned forward and put his badge on the bank manager's desk.

“Ah, yes,” Morris said, “of course. Let me get that information.”

 

Doyle rose and came downstairs for breakfast. Mrs. Buchanan was an annoying old battle-ax, but she put out a breakfast he didn't want to miss. He wore his gun to the table, which got him a hard stare from the old woman, but he didn't care. If that other woman showed up for him during breakfast, he intended to be ready.

 

Morris came back in and sat down. He put some paperwork on the desk that he didn't show to either man.

“The figures are not good.”

“So,” Randle said, “unless they have some cash hidden away, they need to pull a job soon.”

“You know, I've seen that farm and the store,” Clint said. “I don't think they'll be able to resist a big score.”

“So let me get this straight,” Walter Morris said. “I just have to pretend we're getting a big deposit, right?”

“Right,” Randle said.

“And we won't actually get robbed?”

“No,” Randle said, “we'll be here waiting for them.”

“When do you want me to let this information out?” the manager asked.

“As soon as possible,” Randle said.

“Today,” Clint added.

“Will you do it?” Randle asked.

Morris leaned forward and squinted at the badge that was still on his desk.

“Can you get me anything in print—”

“I can't send any telegrams, sir,” the deputy said. “That would give me away.”

“Of course, of course,” Morris said.

“Sir,” Clint said, “we won't let anything happen to your bank.”

“We promise,” Randle said.

“Well,” Morris said, “very well.”

Clint and Randle stopped just outside the bank.

“Okay,” the deputy said, “the word goes out today, the Archers hear it, they decide to hit the bank . . . when?”

“They'll figure to hit the day the shipment comes in,” Clint said. “That'll be the end of the week. We'll have to arrange for a stage to come in.”

“What if they hit the stage?”

Clint rubbed his jaw.

“They probably will hit the stage,” Clint said.

“Maybe,” Randle said. “So we're gonna have to cover the stage and the bank.”

“I suppose so.”

“This is gettin' more complicated already.”

“What's the closest town with a telegraph office?” Clint asked.

“There ain't one,” Randle said, “since this town has one, this is where people come to send telegrams.”

“If we could send one and have an empty, guarded armored wagon come to town, then they'd have to wait for the shipment to be moved to the bank.”

“We can't do that,” Randle said.

“Okay,” Clint said. “What if we pass the word that the money is already in the bank?”

“Then folks would wonder when it came in.”

“And they'd figure it came in at night, when everybody was asleep.”

“You think?” Randle asked. “They won't suspect somethin's wrong?”

“I think the number we're putting out there is going to be too big to pass up, Eddie,” Clint said. “Why don't you go back in and tell Morris what else to say?”

“And what're you gonna do?”

“I've got something else to take care of.”

“The woman?”

“Yes.”

“Do me a favor, then.”

“What?”

“Don't get yourself killed.”

“That is always uppermost in my mind, Eddie,” Clint said.

Randle went back into the bank and Clint headed for Hannie's hotel.

 

Hannie got directions to Mrs. Buchanan's boardinghouse and, eventually, was standing right out in front of it. Her options were to storm in with her gun out, or to wait for Doyle to come outside. She didn't know how many other boarders there were, so she decided not to go in and risk a gun battle with innocent people getting hurt. She was surprised to find herself thinking this way. Up to now her anger had been burning so white-hot that she didn't care if innocent people got hurt.

Damn Clint Adams to hell.

When Clint found Hannie's room empty, he ran down to the desk clerk.

“Did you see Miss Welch leave?”

“Welch?” the young clerk asked.

“Room five?” Clint said. “Tall, lots of brown hair, pretty.”

“Oh.” The boy's eyes lit up. “Oh, yes, sir, I saw her leave just a little while ago.”

“Any idea which way she went?”

“No, sir.”

It didn't matter really. He was pretty sure she wasn't going to get breakfast.

“How do I get to the Buchanan boardinghouse?” he asked.

When Doyle finished his breakfast, he decided not to go back to his room. He walked to the front of the house and looked out the window. The tall woman wearing a gun was standing in the middle of the street, waiting.

He turned and went through the dining room, to the kitchen door.

“Mr. Doyle, I don't like my boarders to use the back door!” Mrs. Buchanan shouted.

He ignored her and went out the door.

 

Hannie was out front, getting impatient. She kept her eyes glued to the front door, waiting for it to open. She planned to draw and fire as soon as it did.

 

Clint was running down the street toward the boardinghouse. When he came within sight of it, he could see Hannie standing on the street out front, waiting. Good, at least she hadn't gone rushing in.

He saw movement on one side of the house and quickened his pace.

Doyle snuck along the side of the house, and as he approached the front, he drew his gun. He stopped at the end of the wall and peered around. He had a clear view of Hannie Welch, who was staring intently at the front door.

This was going to be easy.

 

Hannie had no idea that Doyle was looking at her from the cover of the wall of the house. She had no idea that he was aiming his gun at her. She was still staring at the front door, flexing her fingers, waiting to draw her gun, waiting to end it. This would be the last one, and then she'd take off the gun for good.

 

Clint was getting closer to Hannie, and he could see the man with the gun alongside the house. This had to be Doyle, and he was planning to cowardly shoot her from ambush.