Shadow River (20 page)

Montana looked at him and gave a dark chuckle.

“There's nothing like keeping a good attitude toward the boss,” he said.

Burke continued to stare off at Bell Madson, Jon Ho and the other gunmen.

“I'm dead serious, Montana,” he said. “I could shoot him so full of holes he couldn't cast a shadow—take what's left and hand-feed it to stray dogs.”

Montana chuffed and shook his head. He hiked up his gun belt and felt the broad bandana around his neck, making sure it was in place for him to jerk it up over his face when the time came.

“All right,” he said. “Keeping all that in mind, what say we get on out there and help him rob this bank?”

“Yeah, let's go,” said Burke, keeping his eyes riveted tight on Madson's back.

Inside the Banco Nacional, armed
federale
soldiers stood on either side of the wide-open doorway, their rifles rigidly at port arms. Across the tiled floor an ornate wooden counter ran the width of the building. Atop the counter a row of ornate iron bars of a Spanish design caged the young men busily at work behind the counter. Against the wall behind the counter stood a large German-made safe with its thick door ajar. Another armed soldier stood beside the safe door as if at attention.

Three of Madson's gunmen who'd been posted along the street had already entered the bank as Madson, Jon Ho and the other four gunmen approached the front door. One of the first three stood only a few feet from one of the door guards. He held what appeared to be a small bag of coins as he checked a list of figures in his hand. A thick hickory walking cane lay hooked over his forearm.

At a short floor counter near the other guard, Dan Crelo stood with a pair of new and stylish saddlebags draped over his shoulder. He'd taken the saddlebags from his horse after stomping away from Burke and the Montana Kid. He wrote on a piece of paper with a pen he kept dipping in an inkwell. In each saddlebag compartment, he carried a two-pound adobe brick.

Out front, Clyde Burke and the Montana Kid had taken position among the robbers' horses lined along the iron hitch rail. The two drew their Winchesters from their saddle boots.

As Bell Madson brought his five accomplices through the bank's open front doors, he stopped and looked around. Jon Ho walked on past him and the others to the long barred counter. Madson's top gunmen, Atzen Allison, Jaxton Brooks, Manning Wilbert and Clarence Rhodes, spread out casually but remained abreast of their leader.

With a slight nod Madson set the robbery in motion.

At Madson's signal, Dan Crelo hefted the brick-loaded saddlebags from his shoulder. Drawing the bags back, he took three fast sidelong steps toward the unsuspecting soldier nearest him. With merciless force, Crelo swung the saddlebags in a long circle and flattened the hapless soldier to the floor. The other door guard saw the soldier hit the floor and instinctively tried to run to him. But before he could take a step, the gunman, Joe Sheff, standing near him, moved in quick and jammed the tip of a hickory cane into his stomach.

When the soldier jackknifed at the waist with a grunt, Joe Sheff swung a long-barreled Colt from behind his suit coat and brought it down hard on the back of the soldier's head. The young soldier crumpled, his rifle clacking loudly as it hit the tile floor. Sheff looked around and jerked a bandana up over the bridge of his nose. He saw other gunmen doing the same.

Just as the two door guards hit the floor, Jon Ho hurried forward and pulled up his bandana. He raised a Colt from under his duster and leveled it through the ornate iron bars lining the counter. The soldier beside the safe had seen the commotion with the door guards. He tried to raise his rifle and run forward to the barred counter. But one shot from Jon Ho's Colt nailed him in his forehead. The bullet hurled him backward and sent him sliding down the wall, leaving a long smear of blood behind him.

Hearing the shot from out front, Burke uncradled his rifle from his arm and swung it up and stepped sidelong in between the horses at the hitch rail.

“Here we go, Kid,” he said to Montana. The two hurriedly jerked dusty bandanas over their noses.

The Montana Kid moved right along with him. The two quickly gathered the reins to all the horses. To save time, Burke held all the horses, ready to accommodate the gunmen when they ran out of the bank. As townsfolk turned and gazed, and began venturing toward the sound of the gunshot, the other two gunmen on the street, Dale Jenkins and Porter Adams, took position at the far end of the hitch rail and gave them a look.

“Ready them up, boys,” Burke called out to them. He gestured down the street toward two soldiers trotting in the direction of the bank, their pistols out of the flapped black military holsters. One of them had run out of a brothel where he'd spent the night, his shirttails billowed loosely around him. The one in front of him held his officer's cap on as he ran.

“I can take the first one from here,” Montana said, leveling his rifle at the soldiers. Farther back along the street more men in uniforms began appearing from doorways and on balconies, all of them staring toward the bank.

“Take him, then, Kid,” Burke said, all business now, his drunkenness suddenly gone. “I've got the one behind him. It'll slow the rest of them down some.” He gathered the horses' reins in his left hand, supporting his rifle barrel atop the wad of leather.

Montana steadied his leveled Winchester. He took close aim on the running soldier, drew a normal breath, held it and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked against his shoulder. Silver-gray smoke rose around the tip of the barrel following the loud blue-orange explosion. The running soldier turned limp and awkward and melted down onto the street.

Burke's rifle resounded as the next running soldier veered over to see about his fallen comrade. The rifle bullet sliced through his chest from the side. The soldier buckled down and clutched at his ribs like a man stricken by an angry hornet. He twisted and swayed painfully in place before collapsing over onto his back, his arms outstretched. The horses, spooked by the rifle shot, tugged at their reins in Burke's hand.

“Got him,” Burke said, relevering a round into his rifle chamber and settling the nervous horses.

Yet even as the two soldiers lay dead or dying, other soldiers were gathering up, running along the street toward them, rifles and pistols in hand. One officer carried a long saber raised high over his head.

“We ought to both shoot him,” Montana said, already taking aim on the shouting running man.

But Burke looked over at Jenkins and Adams, who stood watching the soldiers advance, running along the street. They had not yet covered their faces.

“Hey!” Burke called out. “Feel like shooting somebody today?” he asked in a bemused tone.

“Go to hell, Clyde,” Jenkins shouted in reply, the two giving him a hard look. They turned quickly and began firing at the oncoming soldiers.

Burke jerked his head around toward the bank doors at the sound of two more pistol shots. A woman screamed; a man shouted loudly. Then a third gunshot resounded. Burke saw gray gun smoke begin to waft out through the open door.

“Come on, Madson, damn it to hell,” he said under his breath. “Get the gold and let's cut! These cayuses are ready to leave without us.”

Return fire began slicing through the air from the soldiers, some of them still running, some close enough to drop down on one knee and fight back.

“
Whoooieee!
We've got us a
whing-dinger
going now!” Montana shouted, firing four rapid shots in a row.

As bullets tore past the horses, Burke pulled the scared animals around the edge of the hitch rail.

“Fall back, take cover with us, Kid,” he shouted at Montana. He pulled the bunched horses up the stone steps onto the big porch and ducked behind a large stone column. Bullets pounded against the wide columns and whistled past on either side. Burke gave a dark laugh, seeing Montana duck for cover behind the next column fifteen feet away. “What did you say to make them so damn mad, Kid?” he called out.

Montana began unsnapping bullets from a bandolier across his chest and reloading his Winchester.

“Looks like Jones might have got the best job here, setting up relay horses,” he shouted above advancing gunfire. Two columns away, Dale Jenkins had dragged Porter Adams out of the gunfire. He stooped beside him and examined a blood-gushing hole in the wounded gunman's chest. Burke looked over and saw Jenkins look up from Adams and shake his head.

“Damn it, Madson, come on,” Burke said beneath the heavy gunfire.

As if in answer to him, Burke and Montana heard Bell Madson's voice from the open doors.

“Get the horses inside here. We'll cover you,” Madson shouted through his bandana mask.

“I don't mind if we do,” Burke said aloud to himself.

“I'll come over there, Clyde, and take half the horses,” Montana called out.

“Huh-uh,” said Burke. He saw Montana getting ready to bolt over and join him. But he stopped him with a raised hand. “Stay over there! Fall in behind me, keep these horses covered!” he shouted over the gunfire and the sound of bullets breaking chunks of stone off the columns and kicking up sprays of adobe dirt from the front of the building.

“Get ready!” Madson shouted from inside the bank. He turned toward Jenkins. “Drag Adams in here. We need both your guns!”

“You heard him, Porter,” Jenkins said to Adams. “Are you able to run if I get you on your feet?” He stuffed a wadded-up bandana onto the bleeding wound and pressed Adams' hand on it.

“Get me up . . . I'll go,” Adams managed to say in a wheezing wet voice.

“That's what I thought,” said Jenkins, lifting the wounded man to his feet and leaning him back against the column, awaiting Madson's signal.

•   •   •

Burke stood holding the horses, hugged against the column, looking over at Montana, who stood watching the front door, waiting to hear from Madson. The
federale
gunfire seemed invincible. Yet in a split second the battle turned. A heavy barrage of rifle and pistol fire erupted from the windows, upper-level balcony and roofline of the bank. The only opening that had no fire flashing from inside it was the wide-open front doors. Suddenly Madson appeared there and waved them in before disappearing from sight.

“In we go!” Burke shouted at the horses, running for the doors, pulling the frightened animals along with him. As he ran, Montana fell in behind him, moving along backward, firing his Winchester shot after shot at the soldiers hunkering down behind whatever cover they had found.

Burke kept the horses together long enough to get inside the bank. Once through the open doors, Madson and Jon Ho grabbed some of the horses from him and pulled them out of the raging gunfire. Montana charged inside a moment behind Burke and ran across the tile floor, leaping over the backs of terrified townsfolk lying facedown. From the windows the robbers kept up a steady barrage of return fire. Allison and Brooks began swinging tandem bags of gold across the horses' backs.

“What now, Bell?” Burke shouted at Madson from five feet away as bullets pinged off the iron work and bars along the wooden counter. Chinks of wood and splinters flew.

“We're heading out the back door,” Madson shouted in reply. “I had two men in the livery barn scattering their horses before we came in.”

Jenkins and Adams hobbled through the front door and collapsed, both of them wounded now. Three men ran over and dragged them off to the side. Seeing the shape they were in, Madson looked Burke and Montana up and down.

“Get ready to make a run for it.”

The two watched Madson run over to Adams and Jenkins, who stood supporting themselves against the floor counter where blood and ink spilled down from the counter's marble edge.

“We're done for, Bell,” said Dale Jenkins in a pained voice. “Me and Porter both.”

“I see you are,” Madson said. “We've got to leave you behind here.”

“I . . . can ride,” Adams rasped, leaning on the floor counter that was now covered and dripping with his blood.

But Jenkins shook his head. He gestured down at his bloody belly, where two bullet holes had punched through his shirt.

“We didn't make it. Arm us up, and get out of here,” he said to Madson. “We'll hold 'em down for you.”

“That's the way,” Madson said proudly. He started to pat Jenkins on his shoulder, but he saw the gesture might knock him off his feet. “Allison, Wilbert, get over here,” he shouted. Running from their position at the edge of the front doors, the two gunmen came to a halt at the floor counter.

“Yeah, boss?” said Wilbert to Madson, looking Jenkins and Adams up and down, seeing all the blood spilling from them both.

“Get them bound up as much as you can, and help them load up. Then get ready to haul up out of here,” Madson ordered.

“You got it, boss,” said Wilbert. He and Allison helped the two mortally wounded gunmen away from the counter to one of the smoke-filled front windows.

Madson ran back to where the last of the bags of gold were being tied down atop the nervous horses.

“We've got to get out of here quick before they figure us for the back door,” he shouted. He gestured toward some customers lying trembling on the floor. “Grab a few of them, just in case.”

Montana stepped over among the townsfolk on the tile and began pulling two of them to their feet.

“You heard the man,” he said. “Who wants to take a little ride with us?”

While Montana shoved two men and a woman to the horses, Dan Crelo ran in a crouch beside Burke.

“Don't think I forgot you, Clyde,” Crelo said acidly. “We get away from here, you'll answer to me.”

Burke gave him a bemused look.

“Did you go bite a dog turd like I said?” he replied, his Colt hanging readily in his hand. He gave Crelo a goading stare.

But Crelo was having none of it right then.

“Ornery son of a bitch,” Crelo growled at Burke as he grabbed his horse by its reins and pulled it away toward the rear of the large bank building. Two bags of gold hung down behind the horse's saddle.

“Get on your horses when you see they're ready,” Madson said above the hard-pounding gunfire. Next to him, Jax Brooks and Clarence Rhodes hurriedly hefted bags of gold up onto the horses and tied them down behind the saddles.

Grabbing the reins to his horse, Montana looked around at Burke.

“See you outside?” he asked.

“Yeah, you bet, Kid,” said Burke, with a short, tight grin, “else you'll see me in hell.” He grabbed his horse by its reins as Rhodes finished tying down the gold.