Make Me No Grave

by Hayley Stone

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The bank was the only truly formidable building in town, built out of strong poplar boards, and two stories as opposed to one. A thinly-roofed porch left a solid block of shadow over the doors, while the single-pane windows were covered from within with heavy red curtains, preventing any gawking passersby, or criminals looking to case the joint.

  Almena simply walked in, no fuss.

  There were no guards, no officers of the law standing around providing kind incentive for customers to behave. Heck, I thought. No wonder these places are getting robbed all the time. They’re low-hanging fruit. I wondered where the town’s sheriff had gotten himself off to after reprimanding Jed in the street, but wherever it was, it wasn’t here. That was the important thing.

  While Almena handled the act, I brought the horses around to the alley beside the bank, as agreed upon. It was plain, old-fashioned good luck that the building next door happened to be a feed store. I could mill about without drawing any suspicion. When a gentleman resembling one of those greasy carpet-baggers that plagued the South after the war asked me what my business was in Halverson, I made up some excuse about needing to have my horses shod. He then tried to sell me some kind of saddle polish, but I turned him away with a firm word. The man retreated with a rictus grin and a “good day to you, sir.”

  I stood holding the reins, half-resting my shoulder against the wall of the bank, and waited. Wasn’t much else I could do at this point. I didn’t bother tying the horses to the hitching rack, not wanting to have to untie them during our getaway. One of the animals snuffled, fat lips probing the nape of my neck. I turned around, patting the creature affectionately on the nose. She snorted a warm breath into the palm of my hand, throwing her head a little and inching forward a step.

  “Easy,” I soothed. “Easy now. Shouldn’t be too much longer.”

  Busy keeping an eye on my horse, I didn’t see the man staggering past the mouth of the alley until he started hollering.

  “They’re robbing the place!” Blood coursed down the curve of his cheek from a cut beneath his swollen right eye, and he kept yelling like his leg was on fire. “They’re robbing the bank!”

  Almena! I thought. Along with half a dozen words not meant for polite company.

  Wait. They?

  I tossed the reins over the hitching rack and started for him, but the carpet-bagger met the man ahead of me.

  “What’s that?” he asked, grabbing the injured man by the shoulder to steady him.

  “Men. Robbers!” He was breathless with fear. “In the bank—”

  “Slow down, and tell it to me straight. What men?”

  Before he could reply, the carpet-bagger bent him forward, crushing his stomach onto a knife. The man’s mouth still hung open with a response he’d never be able to give as his body fell towards me.

  Son of a—I’d been mistaken before. He was no salesman, this man with the slicked-back hair and crocodile smile. He was another gang’s lookout.

  Which meant there was already another gang in the bank. With Almena.

  As the injured man collapsed at my feet, the outlaw spotted me. I saw the flash of intention in his eyes, as he surely must’ve seen the same in mine. We drew at the same time, but the knife in his hand slowed him down, and my hammer struck first. I only clipped him in the shoulder, but he howled like a banshee. First time being shot, I wagered. If he was lucky, it’d be his last, but he seemed the type to court misfortune, given his choice of occupation.

  I leaned down to check on the man who had been stabbed, see if there was anything I could do for him. The poor fellow was shaking and clutching himself, as if he could keep his insides from spilling out. A dark spot spread out from his trousers, and I didn’t think it was blood.

  “You’re going to be all right.” I laid a hand on his shoulder to keep him from trying to sit up. “Don’t try to move.”

  “You—you think so?” he asked, blinking erratically. I could tell he wanted to believe me.

  “I’ve seen men recover from a lot worse.”

  “Have you?”

  I didn’t tell him I’d seen men die from a lot less, too.

  “I don’t feel well,” he mumbled. “I’m bleeding something awful, ain’t I? This is an awful lot of blood. I mean, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah.” I gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. I wished I had time to do more for the man, but it didn’t take a doctor to see he was fading fast. The wound was clearly fatal. Wasn’t a whole lot I could do, even to make him comfortable. “I’m going to go fetch the doctor now,” I lied. In truth, I had to see about the bank and Almena.

  He stared up sightlessly, gaze soaring past me to the clouds, all those grey crumbs left by the storm. His expression began to sag.

  “Robbers in the bank,” the man murmured, and promptly expired.

  Wasting no time, I rounded the corner, and in my haste caught the toe of my boot on the lip of the porch. That inconvenient stumble ended up saving my life. Just as I started to regain my balance, a bullet cracked into the thin wooden pillar near my head, where I’d been not a moment before. I leaned back, turning and firing—somewhat haphazardly—at the outlaw who’d managed to reach his piece again. He kept his barrel pointed at me with one eye shut, tongue between his teeth in concentration, but couldn’t seem to hold it steady with his shoulder hurting him something fierce.

  I missed. He fired again, but the shot went wide.

  With the thin pylon at my back—poor cover was still better than no cover—I turned over my shoulder and gave him another round. This time, I didn’t miss. The lookout slumped to the ground, and though his gun remained pointed at me, there was no longer any life in his fingers to pull the trigger.

  I retrieved the weapon, anyway, to be on the safe side. Quickly opened the cylinder to check how many shots were left, and snapped the gate shut before tucking the gun safely into my belt.

  By that time, another robber was emerging from the bank. He shuffled forward, a sleepwalker with bulging eyes, clutching his throat. An unmistakable gush of black flowed through the canyons between his fingers, telling me everything I needed to know about his condition. He was precisely the figure in mind when one referred to someone as a dead man walking.

  I heard shouting and cursing in the brief moment before the door slipped closed again.

  A few seconds later, the man fell down, dead.

  My mind raced. It was possible Almena had managed to get a shot off at him in all the commotion—but then, it was just as likely Almena had suffered the wound and simply passed it on to him. My stomach dropped, the same feeling I’d experienced when I’d tripped. Imagining Almena taking one to the throat—the searing pain of that—

  Nothing hurts anymore. Not for very long, anyway.

  I remembered being shot. The initial agony felt like a small eternity. How many of those small eternities had Almena experienced in her lifetime? How much of her memory was merely flashes of pain?

  Can you feel this?

  Only a little. Feels nice, though.

  Couldn’t think about that right now. Couldn’t think about her. In there. With them. Almena Guillory may have been one of the most capable persons I’d ever met, but even capable people suffered bad luck. I once knew a fella could shoot the hat off a nit and ride with the best of them. He ended up shot and killed by a boy of nine who’d been playing with his pa’s loaded Seventeen. All it took was one lucky shot.

  The urge to go in guns blazing surfaced in me like an old childhood injury acting up. I dragged in a breath. Told myself to slow down. Think.

  Think.

  There were probably hostages inside, innocent folk caught up in all this. Not to mention the unknown number of bandits. Experience told me I could expect at least a two-man team, if not more. Much as I wanted to burst through the front door and make a quick end of it, I knew doing so would be likely to get me killed. But I couldn’t just stand around and do nothing.

  “What’s all
the commotion out here?” This from an elderly gentleman emerging from the feed store. He wore a faded green apron and was still in the process of wiping his hands off on it. He also had on the smallest spectacles I’d ever seen, like two coins balanced across his nose. “Thought I heard some gunshots…” His eyes settled on my piece, but he didn’t look terribly surprised, or afraid. “Shit, son. You planning on doing something with that?”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, but I’m a U.S. Marshal. I’m afraid your bank’s being robbed.”

  He squinted toward the bank. “Is it? Looks all right to me.”

  “Why don’t you go on back inside, sir? Better yet, would you mind fetching the sheriff and a few boys? Tell ’em the bank’s being robbed and they should bring guns.”

  “Sure can. Martha!” he hollered back into the store. I glanced anxiously over my shoulder at the bank, but no more ruffians had come out since the dying one. “I’m going to get the sheriff!

  “The sheriff? Why?” returned a scratchy female voice.

  “The bank’s being robbed!”

  “The bank’s being what?”

  “Being robbed!”

  “By who?” Martha finally appeared on the threshold of Marl’s Feed and Animal Supply, one hand on the doorframe for support. She wore a matching apron, though hers was decorated with little white frills on the hem.

  “Hell if I know, woman,” the elderly man—presumably Marl—answered, untying his apron and hanging it over the banister. “I’m just letting you know so you don’t wonder where I’ve up and gotten off to. Tell Tim to mind the counter.”

  “I can mind it myself, thank you. Who’s this?” Her gaze swung to me.

  “Says he’s a marshal.”

  “Is he? Did you tell him about the trouble we’ve been having with Arnie refusing to pay his bills?”

  “Sir; ma’am,” I interjected, already five steps into the alley. “The sheriff, please.”

  I maneuvered around the back of the building with my piece out and ready, searching for an unlocked window, or better yet a rear exit. Most banks had one, allowing the employees a quick escape should a robbery occur. If I found such an entrance, I could get the drop on the bandits. Maybe force them to release any hostages and surrender peaceably. The dream of every lawman—except for maybe Prough. Wade liked it when they tried to throw down on him. I told him he’d like it a lot less the day they actually succeeded in killing him.

  The door was there, all right, but it was locked tight. For good measure, I gave the knob a few turns and tugs, but I could tell it wasn’t going anywhere unless forced. I didn’t need to put my ear to the door to hear inside either; two voices were going at it, talking over each other.

  The door was designed to open out, not in, meaning it was hopeless trying to bust it in. Still, I had to try something. I kicked at the area nearest the jamb, hoping to meet some wretched wood, but the door was solid as a boulder, gave not even a little, and I damn near broke my foot in the attempt.

  On the bright side, I heard footfalls as someone approached the door. I stepped back, raising my gun. There was a pause. More yelling. The tumblers clicked in the lock.

  The door creaked open a crack. “Jimmy?”

  I aimed low when I fired, wanting to injure, not kill, whoever stood on the other side. The usual cussing ensued, followed by the sound of boots tottering backwards across the wooden floor. Yanking the door open, I slammed the butt of my gun into the man’s head, knocking him out cold and clearing my way inside.

  Somewhere, farther into the bank, I heard Almena laugh. “I guess it wasn’t Jimmy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My hands sweated against the cold iron of my gun as I stepped over the body of the unconscious doorman and entered the back of the bank.

  I emerged behind the teller’s cage, protected by a half inch of cheap steel fencing and its splintering wood frame. Never before had I given thought to how frankly useless the cage was as a defense against crime, but I considered it now. That tiny grate had suddenly become the only thing between me and a reception of bullets.

  I led with my gun, coming around the door. “Federal marshal!” I announced. There was no point in being subtle now.

  “Marshal!”

  Who should be on the other side of the teller’s desk but my dear ole friend Dante Casella, pacing near the windows. He greeted me with the feral grin of a cat, but I’d have to have been some kind of stupid to believe that smile meant he was happy to see me. He peeked at me from one open eye behind the sights of a Winchester. “We must stop meeting like this. It is uncivil.”

  “Almena,” I called to her. “You all right?”

  “Just shoot him,” she called back from behind the counter at the far end of the bank, where the teller’s cage made a hard right turn into the wall.

  Casella shook his head, flinging two sweaty strands of hair from his eyes. “Is that any way to talk to an admirer, Miss Guillory? You know, I have followed your career for some time. All I ever wanted was the chance to ride with you.” There was an actual note of disappointment in his voice, enhanced by his accent—Italian, I suspected. “I suppose it was not to be.”

  “You sure have a strange way of showing admiration, holding the lady hostage,” I said.

  “She killed two of my men. One, she did in with a pistol. Fair enough. She is quite a capable marksman, is she not? But the second…” His cheek twitched. Nerves. “He made the mistake of shooting her, you see.”

  “And she didn’t take kindly to it, I assume.”

  Casella glanced toward Almena. “You hear rumors about the Grizzly Queen. That she once clawed a man to death. That, like a bear, she consumes the flesh of her victims.” I wondered if Almena had heard that last one. I surely hadn’t, and I couldn’t imagine she’d started it herself. Knowing her as I did, the story seemed unlikely. Not the least on account of her being more of a cornbread-and-beans gal. “And, of course, the rumor that she cannot be killed.”

  “Casella, are you holding anyone else in here?” From where I stood, there were a couple blind spots, places he could be hiding more men or hostages. I needed an answer, not a lengthy monologue about Almena’s peculiarity.

  But Casella seemed lost in his narrative, face straining with incredulity, and he ignored my question. “Jude shot her through the throat. She merely touched him, and his neck exploded as if he’d turned the gun on himself. I ask you, Marshal: how is such a thing possible?”

  “Almena, is there anyone else with you?”

  “He’s got one man crouched behind the counter there—”

  “Shut up!” Casella barked at her.

  “And a teller and his boy with him,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “There was another teller, but he got away.”

  Casella gritted his teeth, but didn’t try reprimanding her again. Seemed he couldn’t decide whether to be afraid of Almena, frustrated with the woman’s stubbornness, or impressed by her grit. I knew the feeling.

  “Afraid he didn’t get away, after all,” I said, recalling the waiting gaze of the dead man lying in the alleyway. Then, to Casella, “Your lookout stuck him, but don’t go thinking you have help coming neither. I took care of him.”

  “Meaning you shot him,” Casella said.

  “He gave me no choice. I’m hoping you’re a more reasonable sort.”

  “Make me an offer.”

  “Put your gun down, and have your man do the same. Let Miss Guillory and the teller go, and maybe I don’t let the good folks of Halverson string you up.” Regardless of how this went, if he came out of it alive, I’d do my best to prevent a lynching—but he didn’t know that. Didn’t need to. Better he think the hat I wore was a shade of grey.

  The outlaw gave a dry, scratchy laugh that made me want to fetch him a glass of water. “That’s not an offer, Marshal. That sounds like an ultimatum.”

  “You killed a man and tried to rob a federal bank. It’s the best I can do under the circumstances. Now, throw down your w
eapon.”

  “I didn’t kill him. You said it yourself, Jimmy did. And you killed Jimmy.”

  “That don’t make things square, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “You’re responsible for what your men do when they ride for you,” Almena added. “You know that, Casella. Don’t play dumb.”

  I took a step forward. “I’ve already sent for the sheriff. In a few minutes, this place is going to be surrounded by some very angry men with guns. If you and your man lay down your weapons now, I can bring you out, under the protection of the United States government…”

  “Is that right?” I wondered if Casella’s arms were getting tired, holding up that rifle. Beads of sweat rested in the crunch of his brow, and he licked his lips. “I don’t see a badge. How am I supposed to be sure you are even a lawman anymore? I was there in Coffeyville when you put the hurt on that boy.”

  I took another subtle step forward. I hoped to reach the door separating me from the service area, if only to put something more tangible between myself and the outlaw. Backward letters showed through the opaque glass at eye level: Employees Only. If I put a round through the glass, would it slow the bullet down? Chances were good it’d still be a killing shot—though that was true whether the bullet in question was going or coming.

  “Ah!” Casella shook his rifle at me. “Ah, ah. Stay where you are. You, too.” The look he threw Almena, dirty as a barn rag, made me wonder how many times she’d tried to pull one over on him before I arrived. In fact, I wondered why she wasn’t making an attempt to escape now. Surely it wasn’t getting shot she was afraid of.

  A teller and his boy.

  Someone banged on the door of the bank, causing Casella to flinch and almost turn around. He straightened out, but not before I’d taken another two steps toward the door. The knob was now within reach, but I wasn’t sure how fast I could pull it open, line up a shot, and fire. Maybe not fast enough.

  “Whoever’s in there, come out right now,” came the sheriff’s voice. He sounded a little more awake than when I’d met him earlier in the day. Maybe he’d found the body of the poor teller in the alley. He surely couldn’t have missed the lookout I’d left on the street.