Shotgun Charlie (8 page)

Pap felt inclined to do the same, though he had no idea why.

“In truth, Marshal Wickham gave them the best years of his life. Well, perhaps not of his prime, for he is now long in the tooth, as you might put it, but nonetheless he has been a long-standing asset to Bakersfield. And to be treated in such a way . . .” She clucked her tongue and turned her head as if she'd caught a favorite nephew sneaking cookies.

“Ma'am, is he or ain't he around?” Pap glanced out the window. “I got a . . . I need to speak at him right now.”

She looked at him as if he'd suddenly belched in her presence. “What have I been telling you, sir? He's here, in town, but no longer in the employ of the town, though a good many of us still consider him most able to carry out the duties of our lawman should the need arise. And yet he's not here, is he? With his having given himself over to the maniacal dreadfulness of drink, I can only tell you that I think he's unable at present to answer your questions, let alone offer assistance, at least in any professional capacity.”

She cocked her head to the side. The gesture reminded Pap of a little curious little bird. “What is it you know about our town? What do you foresee happening here, sir?”

She had him there, by golly. It was all Pap could do to head on out of there, with those two eyes under those beetling brows piercing his old raw hide. He backed toward the door, afraid she was about to vault the glass countertop and swoop down on him.

She said something to him, told him to “halt!” but then they both remembered at the same time that the town had no one official she might call for assistance. Her appearance had changed so drastically in a matter of moments he was sure she'd been replaced with an angry twin.

Pap reached the door, spun in the open entry, and shouted, “Been a pleasure, ma'am!” He plopped his old battered hat atop his head and hustled on out of there, back to his waiting horses, not quite sure what to do but knowing if anything could be done to stop the robbery, it was up to him to do it.

Pap made it back to his horses and looked up in time to see Mex and Ace, leading their mounts, cut quick across the street, heading from their assigned loafing spot near the saloon over to the bank. They darted behind a barouche and in front of a man leading a mule and wagon with milk cans in the back.

The mule never slowed his pace, but the man, a middle-aged fellow, slowed his gait and lifted his face from staring at the hard-packed earth of the street. He watched them as they loped, hands on the butts of their revolvers, looking left and right as if they were being pursued.

What in the deuce are those two playing at? Pap had never seen them act skittish during a job. Of course any jobs they'd worked had only been small-time and, he always liked to tell himself, had not caused enough bother to anyone for them to land in any real soup.

Pap didn't think Haskell had it in him to make this one work, but by gum, if they all weren't going after it with more dedication than he'd seen them show anything other than their dinner plates, especially when Big Charlie had taken over the cooking from Dutchy.

A smile had begun to creep up on Pap's grizzled maw when two things happened almost at once—Ace and Mex swung hard through the front doors of the bank. As they disappeared within and the doors settled back into place, a muffled slamming sound—could it have been the doors?—paused Pap with one hand on Nub's rump.

He'd been ready to head to the mercantile and see what his meager poke might buy for provisions. To the Devil with the lawman. Maybe the town deserved to be robbed, run as it was by fools, at least that was how that woman at the shop had made it sound.

People were gathering, beginning to stare at the bank. And that was when Pap knew that something had gone wrong. And he knew too that if he didn't get on out of there, as a stranger in town he would be pulled into the mess with the rest of them. All of a sudden Pap regretted not taking Haskell seriously. Up until they went into the bank, he didn't think they'd really give it much of a try. Thought they might see what a big frightening mess robbing a bank was going to be and call it quits before they'd begun.

He realized now that he was fooling himself. Realized too that they really were going after it, hammer and tong.

Pap wanted to get on his horse and get out of that town, tugging Nub behind and hightailing it. Instead he found himself moving out into the street, unsure of the sounds he was hearing, but his convictions becoming clearer with each step forward.

Those fools had opened fire. At least one of them had. And Pap knew his boys. He knew enough about Haskell too to know he didn't trust the man in any situation. He cursed himself for thinking all this would play out harmlessly.

Haskell had the look of a coldhearted killer, sure enough. Pap knew now he should have gone straight to the law, but it was Haskell's words that kept him from doing so. The rogue had said that Pap would be regarded as one of them, no matter how much of a hue and cry he put up, no matter how much he told them that he wasn't one of them. The law dogs wouldn't believe he was innocent, not a man with a long, shadowy past such as Pap's.

But now all that lost its meaning, especially when Pap heard shouts, three sharp thudding sounds followed by rising screams. And that was when Pap knew that all hell had busted far beyond loose.

The old man never should have looked at him in the first place, especially not in the way he had—fixed him with those two yellowed old-man eyes, sharp and piercing despite their age. Grady Haskell entered the bank and the man had looked right at him and Grady knew that the old man had somehow known he was there to rob the place. He couldn't say how he knew; he just knew. So Grady did what he had always done in such situations—he relied on his instinct to guide him.

And that little voice inside told him to nip this old dog in the bud right quick. He complied with a fast-pace walk straight to where the old man leaned on the counter, where he'd been glaring Grady down from the second he walked in.

Grady's nicotine-yellowed fingers wrapped around the revolver's grip long enough to heft it aloft. It spun in the air. He grabbed the barrel and in one smooth movement brought the butt to bear on the old man's left temple. He'd tried to shield the deed from prying eyes, but didn't much care who saw. The ball had been opened.

He managed, through his building veil of rage, to give quick thought to whether the others had come in yet. It wouldn't do to kick up much of a fuss if the boys weren't in place.

He glanced toward the big oak-and-glass doors he'd swung on through—looking for all the world like a happy bank customer, a depositor—no, no, make that a man about to make a significant withdrawal—and he spied Mex and Ace coming in, right on time, as he'd told them. And since Simp and Dutchy had come in with him, he felt safe enough about dealing with the old man.

“When we get to town,” he'd said, “you all tie your horses out front, close enough that you can walk fast to them once the commotion's behind us.”

Other than for the money, he didn't really care whether they made it to their horses or not. He had told them that as a way to gauge whether they were as dumb as they looked. They hadn't let him down. Yep, they'd all nodded, we can do that, by gum.

Grady still couldn't believe he'd actually found a handful of willing and able-bodied—if not able-minded—men to go along with his plan of robbing the biggest dang bank in all of California. Or at least that was what he told himself it was. Close enough, he figured. It was big and it got regular deliveries and rarely made any shipment south of town.

And then, to verify his suspicions, he'd bedded down with that woman who'd known all about the comings and goings of the bank, its employees, every buggy or horse that rolled on by the front and back streets, and even the one side street.

“How come you know so much about the bank?” he'd asked her while he lay there building a quirley, wondering if he'd paid her too much. She hadn't been all that good, in his estimation. But maybe that was the way it was with these California girls.

Could be he had to get himself back down South, maybe even all the way back to Tennessee, before he'd find himself a real woman again. Then he remembered those two in Texas the year before and he recalled how they had surprised him at every turn. So he had revised his thinking for the time being.

“I'm a whore,” she'd said, taking his cigarette from him and pulling long on it. He'd almost said something, but he was in a good mood, so he figured he'd let her get away with that business this one time.

“I never wanted to be one and I don't intend to be one forever. And I have a whole lot of hours in a day when I'm as rested as I'm going to ever be and here I am, sitting right across the side alley from a big ol' bank. You tell me what you think I'm going to do.” She hadn't waited for him to respond. Instead she plowed on ahead. “I'm going to up and marry one of those bank men. Or rob the place myself. There's nothing saying a woman can't rob a bank, you know.”

He sighed. Talking to her was confusing, but he liked her. She had spunk. But maybe she was too smart for her own good. “You accusing me of thinking of robbing that bank?”

She'd snorted at that, chuckled. “You think you're the first to ever think of that? I was you I'd get at it right quick before Marshal Wickham sobers up. Once he's back on the job, you won't stand a snowball's chance, you hear me?”

“Who's he? Why should I be concerned about him?”

She'd only sighed and begun tugging on her stockings. But he kept on peppering her with questions. Finally she turned back to him.

“What part of ‘lawman' don't you understand? Look.” She tugged her dress back down over her breasts and sighed again. “I like you. You're . . . strange and kind of exciting. But I don't want to know what you're thinking of doing and I don't want any part of it. As far as I'm concerned, anything you've said to me, and anything I've said to you, is just that . . . talk to be forgotten, and nothing more.”

“Suits me fine,” said Grady. And that was the way they'd left it. He'd not seen her since, but found it curious that he still thought of her now and again.

. . .

After Grady clubbed the old man, he rummaged behind the teller counter, slamming drawers and shouting orders to the other men. He'd told them he wasn't going to call them by name, but he did the same.

“Ace! Dutchy! Get on up to the front where the money's at.” The two men looked at each other, then strode forward to the front, doing what he bade them. It also became apparent to every customer in the bank that they were there to rob the place.

Haskell felt that worn grip in his hand, comfortable as a broken-in boot, and he regretted that he had only been able to bean the old gent to keep him from squawking. He would have preferred to shoot him, but it was too early in the proceedings to make such noise. He'd tried to club him out of sight, but the old man was quicker than he looked. With the drooped mouth on that old hangdog face of his, Grady knew he'd been about to yelp and spill the frijoles to everyone in the place.

The old man, whom Grady thought he'd laid low with that temple blow, had only sagged back against the counter. The old gent clawed at Grady's gun hand and tried to knock the weapon free. Grady growled, took a step back, and in a single familiar motion, raised the weapon, thumbed back the hammer, and squeezed the trigger, a smile blooming on his face even as the weapon barked a harsh sound and rammed its deadly fist into the old man's shoulder.

The shot caught the old warhorse of a prospector in the right shoulder, plowing a bloody canal, shredding meat and splintering bone, and spinning the veteran around on his feet as if he were engaged in a dervish dance.

“No shooting!” shouted Dutchy. “You said there'd be no shooting!”

Grady turned the gun on him. “You shut up or you're next!”

Dutchy bit down on the angry oaths building inside him.

The old man, who went by the name of Muley Timmons, and had done so since the War of Northern Aggression, had always appeared older than his years. Even when he was a child of seven or eight, his parents had watched in confusion as he would roam the dooryard of their homestead in Nebraska, hunched over as if he were ailing from a bad back, hands thrust in his trousers waistband, a look of seeming concern pulling his little boy eyebrows together.

He'd kept that perpetual overall elderly look his entire life and now that he was actually an old man at sixty-four, near as he could recall, he felt for certain that it was all over. He'd made it through the war all those years before without so much as a sniffle, though the prospect of being shot at any moment had weighed him down, as did most concerns major and minor throughout his entire life.

But feeling the sting and seeing the spraying blood—and feeling that it was his blood, after all that time—why, it made him angry, angrier still that he could do little about it as he lay there on the gleaming marble floor of the Bakersfield Bank, twitching without control.

And as Muley lay there seeing smoke, smelling its sharp edge, and hearing screams of women and outraged shouts of men, a sputtering sound rose from his throat, mixed with the gagging sound he hadn't been aware was his own voice. Then in his fuzzy vision, a long, pockmarked face bisected by an unkempt dragoonish mustache hovered into his sight line, not two feet away.

“Why, how you doing, old-timer? Look at that,” said the face, leaning closer and staring at Muley's now useless, bleeding shoulder. “I done a right pretty job of that, if'n I do say so.”

And then the man was gone from sight, leaving only the quavering echo of a rattling laugh. And that was all Muley Timmons knew, for he lost consciousness and then expired, as he was about to deposit another tidy little sum earned shambling about his gold claim four miles east of town.

“You all see that?” shouted Grady Haskell. “I done for that old man because he was standing in my way.” He waved his brace of revolvers, smoke still dribbling from the snout of one. “Let that be a lesson to you all. We are in the process of robbing the very short pants off this here bank, and not a one of you will argue with me or me and my friends here will lay you low.”

A woman to Grady's left, all tarted up in a bustle and some sort of flowery topper with a feather poking out of it, began giving voice to a scream. She looked to be carrying a few extra pounds beneath a corset that rippled as she began squawking.

Grady reacted fast, like a snake striking, and let his left hand lash out of its own will, snapping hard against the vile creature's puffy face. Enough force was delivered that her head snapped backward, surprise on her big eyes. Grady saw the whole thing as if time had slowed. The hairy back of his hand mashed into her soft features. Her nose flattened; then something inside it snapped under his knuckles, and her head whipped backward, the hat with it. She dropped, and a wet, gagging sound bubbled up from her face.

He waved his bloodied backhand at the room in general. “Any other of you all care to taste this delicious recipe, you come on over to my house and I'll dose you up with a whole heaping plateful.”

As he spoke he glanced at the other men, all standing where they were supposed to be, guns drawn now—good. At least he didn't have to instruct them in that. All this was taking much longer than he'd expected. It hadn't been but a few short minutes since he walked into the bank, but already the ball was rolling faster than he had wanted.

All these thoughts played out in Haskell's mind as he snagged a young man behind the counter. The man's starched collar broke free in front and separated, giving him a comical look. As soon as he'd seen Grady bolt toward him, the young man began blubbering. Then he froze, wet himself, and weakly held up his trembling hands.

“Where's my money?” Grady barked hard into the man's left ear. The man replied with a sound equal parts whipped dog and thrashed child. Grady repeated his request and the young man raised a trembling arm aloft. He pointed toward a door at the far end of the narrow room. It had to be the bank president's office.

Grady strode for it, swung the door wide, scanned the room and saw . . . no one. Then he heard a slight scuffing sound, as though a boot toe had been dragged but an inch. And it came from behind the desk. He made for the mammoth piece of mahogany furniture, paused before it, and delivered a hearty kick to its front. The wood cracked and from behind it, he heard a pinched whimper, as if someone had clapped a hand over a sobbing mouth.

The thief smiled and edged around the desk. He leaned low, his revolver poking between the chair and the space below the desk. “There you are!”

Haskell reached in and dragged the man out by the collar. “You must be the president of this here fine bank.”

The man nodded, his tiny eyes wet, his fat face bunching above his string tie.

Grady thumbed back once on the hammer and pressed the snout of the barrel into the soft man's temple. “I am about to make a significant withdrawal and I need you to open that big ol' safe of yours. Hear me?”

The man swallowed but didn't acknowledge Grady's question.

Grady cranked the hammer all the way back, to the deadly position, and said, slower, “You hear me?”

This time the fat banker nodded, a string of drool trickling from his mouth, tears leaking from his eye corners.

“Good. Now, you're going to cut a trail straight for that vault, right quick. And if you slow down, I am going to kick you in the backside. Got that?”

Once more the man nodded.

Grady released the man and kicked him in his wide rump, eliciting a whimper. “You'll have to move faster than that!” His laughter trailed the fat banker to the safe.

Grady followed close behind, sticking to his task. He trusted that Mex was doing his appointed job, keeping the other two tellers—and any other bank employees—in sight, and preventing them from hauling out bravado guns from secret spots under the counter.

Grady had said he'd get the bank's big safe opened while Ace and Dutchy made their way around back and emptied the tellers' drawers into the flour sacks Grady had provided them all with. While all this ruckus went on, Simp was posted at the door, standing to the side, peeking through the ample glass toward the outside. He kept his own double scattergun leveled low but ready to swing.

Grady had told him not to worry about being vocal should anyone on the outside look as though they suspected a disturbance within the bank. But he also told him to let in anyone who looked as though they were headed in to conduct business. It would also be Mex's job to make sure any and all within the bank emptied their pockets and watch pockets into a flour sack.

And all that looked as if it might be happening. Except for the halfhearted shouts from Simp at the door. “Hey . . . boss . . . people outside. They's . . .”

“They're what? Speak up, you jackass!”

“Well, they're . . . fixin' to come in, I'd say.”

“Great—the more wallets the better.” Grady's words were interspersed with the sound of hard slaps he was delivering to the bank president's jowly face. He didn't want to cut the fat man yet. He still had to open the vault door.

“Don't think I won't gut you like a fresh-caught fish, fat man, but you can make it easier on yourself by opening that big black safe! Now!”

Whack! He drove a half punch to the man's neck, but all that did was double Fatty over and make him gag. Then Simp shouted from the door, “Yeah, boss. They definitely got wind of something. They're milling out there like ducks on a pond. I expect they're waiting on the marshal.”

“Simp . . . ,” Grady growled, spittle flecking from his wide-spread, tight lips. “Stop telling me bad news!” He drove another fist to the president's head that dropped the chunky man to his knees. “I told you I want you to open that there big safe with all my money in it!”

“What?” shouted Simp from the doorway.

“Shut up, you idiot! I am talking to this here banker!”

The bank president's trembling hands eventually found the correct combination. A few metallic clicks and pops, a couple of spins on what looked to Grady like a ship's wheel, and the door slowly opened outward, tugged on by the sobbing, sweaty fat banker.

“Much obliged,” said Grady, jerking the man's black boiled wool suit coat downward by the collar so it fetched up around the man's arms and rendered him unable to defend himself.

A scuffle broke out among the customers stretched facedown on the floor.

“You hush up,” growled Mex. “I warn you this one time only. Then I shoot—and I do not miss.”

“Nobody's going to do any shooting,” shouted Haskell. “If they keep on with that foolishness, drag your skinning knife across their throats.” As he rummaged in the safe, Grady winked down at the bleary-eyed, wobbly-headed bank manager. “Got to keep them rowdies down, don't we?”

“You're insane! You'll never get away with this!”

“The Devil you say! I believe I will, and what's more, I believe I about did.” He dragged the fat man forward into the vault, then headed for the young teller, who howled when Haskell did the same with him.

“No! No!” the young man screamed, then simpered, sagging as if giving up.

“Oh, shut up,” said Haskell as he swung the pistol butt down hard on the whining young man's pate. There was a flat, slapping sound, blood geysered up in a sudden spray, and the teller collapsed. His chin smacked the floor and his head continued to spray blood, speckling Haskell, the inside of the open vault door, and a couple of canvas sacks Haskell had been stuffing with loot.

“By gaw,” shouted Haskell, dancing sideways, trying to avoid the unconscious man's blood. “It's getting so a man can't leave his house of a morning without someone bleeding all over him!” He let out a quick bark of laughter, and shouted to Dutchy to lend him a hand. “Too much dang loot here for me to truss up all on my own.”

Within half a minute the pair had finished and began dragging the sacks to the front door.

“Boss,” said Simp, still at his post, peeking around the doorframe through the window at the slowly gathering crowd of confused, curious townsfolk outside. “I think they're catching on to what's going on in here.”

Haskell grunted as he lugged the last sack over to the door. “Well, Simp, let's not keep them waiting any longer. You and Ace each grab a couple of sacks. Keep a gun in one hand. I've tied ropes around the necks of the sacks, so lug it on up and over your shoulder.”

“That is it? That is all the bank has?” Dutchy looked at the sacks with wide eyes.

“Wait till you heft them, boy. They're right heavy. Plenty of money in there to go around.”

“What all else was in that big vault?”

“Papers and deeds and such. Nothing we can easily spend south of the border.”

“South of the border? You never said we was going in that direction.” Dutchy stared at Haskell as if the boss man had clucked like a chicken. “You said—”

“Another word, Dutchy, and I will let my revolver carve you a new eye socket. Right twixt the others.”

“Oh. . . .”

Haskell waited until the other three men followed what he did. Then he hefted the last two sacks. “Now, Mex, you get all the watches, wallets, rings, and such from these sad little nest of fools?”

“Yeah, boss. Like you said. I got it tucked in my shirt, safe and sound.”

Haskell wagged a hand at him. “Well, give it here.”

“What?” Mex looked as if he'd been slapped. “You don't trust me?”

“Not that. I don't trust anyone. My own mother was here, I wouldn't turn my back on her. Give it here.”

Mex pooched out his lower lip. “I'm not so sure I will.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Mex, give him the damn sack full of trinkets, if it means that much to him.” Dutchy looked at Grady, his eyes narrowed. He continued talking to Mex without taking his eyes from Haskell. “He is the boss, after all. At least that's what you all have been calling him.”

“Ain't got time right now to talk to you about your attitude, but we'll get down to it when we get to where we're headed.” Haskell broke his gaze from Dutchy, and noticing movement to his right, he spun, clawing at his right holster. As if conjured, his right revolver appeared in his hand. Equally as fast, without thinking, Haskell cocked the hammer and shot the man who was trying to rise.

Immediately Dutchy barked at him, “What are you doing? We said no shots—and no one was to get hurt. Now you go and kill another? This has become too much . . . too much!” He began walking forward, pushing past Haskell.

“Where are you going?” said Haskell, ignoring Simp's frenzied entreaties from the doorway.

“Oh boy . . . they're coming up the steps. That shot definitely told them something was up in here.”

“Where do you think you're going?” Haskell spoke to Dutchy.