Noose Jumpers: A Mythological Western

by Trevor H. Cooley

  The other two pulled up bandanas of their own begrudgingly. They weren’t in agreement about the necessity of wearing the bandanas. After all, they wanted the Sheriff to know who had robbed him. Tom argued that the red stars clearly gave away who was doing the robbery. The point was that people were more frightened when they couldn’t see the face of the robbers. It was only after a protracted argument that they had finally agreed.

  The front room of the bank was just as sparsely decorated as the outside. The floors and ceiling were bare wooden boards and chairs lined the front wall on either side of the front door. The room’s only decoration were the iron bars that stretched from floor to ceiling, separating the rest of the room from the clerk, who sat at a large oak desk that faced the front door.

  The clerk, an overweight balding man with rounded spectacles and a simpering officious air, was busy arguing with a woman standing in front of the desk. “That is not possible.”

  “Listen, Carl, I’m good for it,” said the woman. She wore rugged riding clothes no different from a man’s and had long red hair that was tied into a pony tail at the back. “You know I wouldn’t dare come to the Sheriff’s bank if I wasn’t able to pay you back. I got a job coming up in a few weeks.”

  “We don’t do loans here, Katie,” said Clerk Carl. “I already told you. If you wish to have a loan, speak to one of the Sheriff’s deputies. I might recommend Deputy Willis. I understand he is quite fond of the . . . ladies.”

  Katie glared. “I ain’t that kind of lady.”

  He looked at her unkempt clothing with distaste. “True.”

  She growled, but didn’t have the chance to let loose her retort. They were interrupted as the three robbers slammed the door shut behind them and drew their guns.

  “Hands in the air!” said Tom, pointing his two pistols at the clerk and the woman. “This is a robbery!”

  Luke and Sandy had their guns trained on the other two men in the room; the guard, Jorge, who sat next to the door, and the local barber, a bored-looking man who sat on another chair waiting his turn to speak with the clerk. The room went quiet, but the barber was the only one to raise his hands.

  Jorge immediately recognized Tom’s clothing and scowled. “You!”

  “He said, hands up!” said Luke with a snarl.

  “Now!” Sandy shouted and everyone’s hands rose, albeit slowly.

  “Back over with the others,” said Tom to the woman. Frowning, she backed over to the chairs and sat down.

  “All of you, place your guns on the ground,” Luke said. “Slowly.”

  “I don’t have one, sir,” said the barber.

  Katie gave him a dull look. “Mine ain’t on me.”

  Jorge looked a bit confused. “But you said to keep my hands in the air.”

  “Have you never done this before?” said Sandy. Jorge just blinked at him and Sandy rolled his eyes. “You can use your hands to put your gun down slowly. Just keep your fingers away from the trigger so I don’t have to kill you.”

  Clerk Carl cleared his throat. “Um, gentlemen, you do know who owns the controlling interest in this bank?”

  “Yeah, we know that traitorous bastard.” Tom replied. “Now open the gate.”

  Katie rolled her eyes. “You realize that this is the worst place you could possibly rob. That ‘traitorous bastard’ you’re talking about will see you dead.”

  “Speak again and I’ll gag you,” Luke promised.

  Tom nodded his head at the clerk. “Open the gate.”

  Carl smiled, unafraid. “I do not have the key to this gate as a precaution in case this sort of thing happens.”

  Tom glanced back at his friends briefly and Clerk Carl took the opportunity to drop to the floor. He wedged himself partially under the desk so that he was shielded from view.

  “Hey!” said Tom. “Get out of there, stupid! I can shoot through the wood, you know.”

  Clerk Carl’s haughty voice responded. “This desk is lined with steel so I cannot be shot. Do what you wish! Kill the others if you must. I shall not move until the Sheriff arrives.”

  Luke and Sandy looked at each other in disbelief. “They really haven’t done this before,” said Luke.

  Tom sighed and turned to the guard. “Jorge, open the gate.”

  “What makes you think I have the key?” Jorge replied.

  “How the hell else is he gonna get in and out of there all day?” Tom said.

  Jorge frowned. “No way I’m letting you in. The Sheriff’s-.”

  Luke stepped forward and cut him off with a backhand across the face. His eyes became filled with a crazy intensity and he pointed his gun at Jorge’s groin. “You will, or I’ll shoot your walnuts off . . . one at a time.”

  Sandy frowned, but Tom played along. “Again, Luke?”

  Jorge blanched at the intensity of Luke’s expression and swallowed. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  Luke chuckled menacingly and brought the pistol closer.

  “The way he carries on he’s going to depopulate the future state of Texas,” Sandy warned.

  Clerk Carl shouted out from behind the desk. “Go ahead! Shoot his genitals off. I’m not moving!”

  Jorge swallowed slowly. “Okay, okay.” He stood and walked to the barred door, then grabbed a key out of his pocket and fumbled with the lock.

  “What’re you doing, Jorge?” Carl cried. “Where is your loyalty?”

  Jorge grumbled. “You can eat dirt, Carl.”

  The door finally swung open and Luke went inside. He walked over and delivered a swift kick to the portly rear that was protruding from under the desk and dragged the clerk out. Tom followed him in and nodded to Sandy.

  Sandy nodded back and tossed his saddlebags to Tom, then motioned Jorge back to his seat. Once he was sure that the three prisoners weren’t going to be trouble, he looked out the window to make sure the street was clear.

  An unexplainable gust of wind blew through the room. “Not the smoothest of starts,” said Pecos, leaning against the door, his lips twisted with amusement.

  “You ain’t kidding,” Sandy replied under his breath, his eyes returning to the prisoners.

  Tom and Luke pushed the clerk into the second room. It was full of wooden filing cabinets and boxes of papers, along with a strongbox. At the far end of the room was another iron-barred door. Luke held his gun on the clerk and motioned for him to open the door to the vault.

  Clerk Carl pursed his lips irritably. “Isn’t the money in this room enough? There are over five hundred dollars in bills and gold in the lockbox. The Sheriff might let you live if you are satisfied with that. He may even find your plucky aggressiveness amusing and hire you on.”

  Tom snorted. “Open the vault.”

  “If you seriously plan to take that money, you’re suicidal,” said the clerk. “Every gang in West Texas will be after you.”

  Luke smiled behind his bandanna. “All we want is the Sheriff’s safe.”

  Carl’s eyes widened. “You’re crazy.”

  “No more stalling,” Luke said. The clerk hesitated and Luke slammed him against the door, bouncing the man’s head off of the bars. The clerk cried out and clutched at his head and Luke added, “Now open it or I do to you what I promised the guard.”

  “O-okay.” The clerk reached into the neck of his shirt and pulled out a leather thong which held the key. With trembling fingers, he unlocked the vault door. “Y-you two are dead. I warned you.”

  Tom clapped Luke on the shoulder. “Good job.”

  “Let’s just get this done,” Luke replied.

  They entered the vault room and Tom’s eyes widened. He let out a low whistle. A lot of money had been poured into building this room. The walls were lined with sheets of thick metal to prevent someone from breaking in from the outside. He was grateful that he hadn’t considered using dynamite to blow his way in.

  “Holy hell,” said Luke in awe. Bags of gold lined one wall and multiple strongboxes lined the other. This was the combined loo
t of every outlaw gang in fifty miles. Each box or bag was tagged with the name of its owner.

  Tom looked at them and swallowed hungrily, but forced himself to focus on the safe. The Sheriff’s safe sat alone from the rest of the money and it was not what he had expected. It was an old hobnail safe. A strikingly medieval looking design, it had a stout wooden frame covered in straps of metal and held together with hundreds of huge hobnails in a grid-like pattern.

  “You’re not getting that open and it’s too heavy to carry off,” said Clerk Carl, the impenetrable appearance of the safe helping him regain his composure. “The Sheriff has the only key and he carries it on him at all times.”

  Tom licked his lips nervously. “Get him out of here.”

  Luke was staring at the bags of gold. “Maybe we should just grab what we can carry.”

  Tom shook his head. “No. We stick to the plan.”

  “You sure you can open that thing?” Luke said. “Looks like a damn . . . torture device.”

  “Don’t worry about the safe. I’ll get it open,” Tom assured him. “Just leave your saddlebags here.”

  “If you say so.” Luke dragged his eyes away from the loot. He shrugged the saddlebags off of his shoulder and grabbed the clerk. Luke shoved the man back through the door to the file room. He pulled down his bandanna. “Now let’s talk about that lock box.”

  The clerk found that Luke’s wolfish grin was far more terrifying than the bandanna.

  Tom stood in front of the hobnail safe, chewing his lip. The Kid was suddenly sitting cross-legged on top of it, his appearance filling the room with the smell of cloves. He was now wearing his sombrero again, though he still had his confederate jacket on.

  Tom shot him a glare. “How can you sit up there? Doesn’t it hurt?”

  The Kid chuckled and stretched out his legs. He laid back, draping himself over the top of the safe, ignorant of the protruding heads of the knobby nails digging into his insubstantial flesh. “Tommy, I don’t think you prepared for this.”

  Tom scowled. “What is the Sheriff even doing with this old thing?” He walked forward and inspected the door. He pulled a set of lock picks out of his jacket pocket, but froze, unsure how to proceed. “Where is the keyhole?”

  The door of the hobnail safe looked to be without a locking mechanism of any kind. It was just a bunch of interwoven metal bands and knobby nail heads. Tom yanked on the small handle but the door wouldn’t budge.

  The Kid yawned and rolled over so he was facing Tom. He peered down over the edge. “These old safes had hidden locks. One of these hobnails is fake, covering the keyhole. You’ll have to push the fake one aside to find it.”

  Tom frowned and started manipulating the different bulging nail heads, trying to get them to move. “Stupid things went out of style before I was born. I was sure he’d go for something fancy. Why couldn’t it have been one of those new combination locks?”

  The Kid snickered. “Poor Tommy. All that wasted practice.” He pointed. “Just try moving ’em to the right. It’s usually one near the center of the door.”

  “You’ve cracked one of these before?” Tom asked, grunting as he kept trying new knobs.

  “Ain’t you figured out by now that I’m older than I look?” the Kid replied.

  One of the nail heads finally slid to the side, exposing a keyhole. Tom smiled. “There it is.”

  “Don’t get too excited. This uses a big fancy key and heavy tumblers.” He shook his head. “Those lockpicks are a long shot. Good thing you’re unnaturally lucky.”

  Tom leaned in close and peered into the keyhole as he inserted the picks. “I’ll trust my skill. Besides, you’re gonna help me.”

  “Naw, that would be cheating,” the Kid said. “If you’re gonna become a legend you gotta do some things yourself. You need skills to back the tales. Or more likely that luck I mentioned.”

  The Kid hopped down from the safe and walked over to the rest of the loot. He rubbed his hands together mischievously. “Besides, there’s other fun to be had here.” Chuckling to himself, the Kid started switching the labels on the outlaw loot.

  Luke stood in the second room, his gun drawn on the clerk. Sighing, Clark opened the lockbox and stood back. Luke moved forward and looked inside. There were several banded stacks of bills and two small bags of gold. His grin widened.

  “I don’t like the look of that clerk,” said the Stranger, appearing behind Luke. His one eye glowed ominously. “He’s twitchy.”

  Luke glanced over at Clark, who was sweating profusely, one hand probing the goose egg that the iron bars had left on his forehead. The clerk gave Luke a fake smile.

  “He’s fine,” Luke said dismissively. He reached into the box and started taking out the cash.

  “Who?” said the clerk nervously.

  “That’s what Bobby Estrella told me when I warned him about Jeb Wickee,” the Stranger pressed. “You should shoot this man.”

  Luke growled at the specter. “I’ll shoot who I want.”

  The clerk swallowed and began edging towards one of the cabinets. “What was that, sir?”

  Luke ignored him and shoved the banded bills into his pockets. Clerk Clark continued to move towards the cabinet. Luke lifted one of the small bags of gold out of the lockbox. It was fairly heavy and as he attempted to place it into his jacket pocket, he let his gun hand drop.

  Seizing his opportunity, the clerk pulled a hidden shotgun out from behind the cabinet. Luke heard the barrel of the shotgun scrape against the wall and looked back as Clark lifted the gun, his eyes desperate. Luke fired.

  The piercing sound of the shot filled the bank, startling everyone.

  “What happened?” asked Tom from the vault room.

  Sandy, who had been keeping an eye on the prisoners while Pecos watched the street, cursed and ran past the bars to the second room. He arrived to see Luke standing there with a bag of gold in one hand and a smoking gun in the other. The clerk was slumped to the ground. Blood was splattered across the wall behind him and there was a hole in the center of the goose egg on his forehead.

  Luke looked at Sandy, a grimace on his face. “Sorry.”

  Tom’s voice echoed from the vault again. “What happened?”

  “Luke shot the clerk!” Sandy snapped.

  “He grabbed a gun, Sandy,” Luke said and there was pleading in his voice. He pointed to the shotgun, still loosely clutched in the clerk’s hands. “I had no choice.”

  Pecos’ voice echoed from the front room. “You got a runner, Sandy!”

  “Blast it!” Sandy ran back into the front room. The door was hanging open. Katie and the barber were still sitting in their chairs, but Jorge was gone. Sandy reached the door and looked outside just in time to see Jorge disappear around the corner of a building.

  “You know he’s going straight for the Sheriff,” said Katie calmly. “And there are other folks around that probably heard that shot too. You three don’t got much time.”

  Sandy shut the door and stepped back. “Aw hell.”

  Luke watched from the doorway. “You had one job.”

  “I don’t want to hear you speak right now,” Sandy said, glaring back at him. “Tom! You got that safe open yet?”

  “Not just yet!” Tom called. His jaw was clenched and he was grinding his teeth, sweating profusely while he tried to manipulate the lock. He lowered his voice to a whisper and addressed the Kid. “Can’t you be any more help?”

  “Oh, you’ve almost got it,” the Kid replied. He looked at the rearranged labels and giggled, pleased at his handiwork.

  “What do you mean, almost?” Tom grumbled. “I-.”

  There was a click. Tom excitedly pulled the door open. The safe was packed full of loot. A laugh escaped his lips. “It’s open!”

  Luke and Sandy rushed in to see Tom pulling out stacks of cash and bags of coin. Hooting in excitement, they started stuffing loot into saddlebags.

  “Look at this!” Tom said. He moved aside a small bag of gold
and pulled out a familiar shiny gun with a pearl handle. “It’s Bobby’s.”

  Luke’s eyes widened. “That bastard kept it.”

  Sandy held one of the saddlebags open. “Just put it in here. We need to leave now, Tom. The guard got away.”

  Tom winced. “Let’s get out of here then.”

  They continued unloading the safe. Cash and gold went into the saddlebags, stuffing them full. Finally, Luke reached into the very back of the safe and pulled out a stack of folded documents. “What about these?”

  Tom grabbed the documents and rifled quickly through them. He laughed. “Land deeds!” His face fell slightly. “But they won’t do us any good. Not unless we can find someone gullible enough to buy them off us. Most of the property’s here in Puerta Muerte. I’d bet the Sheriff owns the whole town.”

  Sandy shrugged and a grin spread across his lips. “Burn ’em.”

  Luke chuckled. “Oh he’s going to be mad at us.”

  8: They Say He Can’t be Hit by Bullets

  An excerpt from The Tale of The Red Star Gang

  “Don’t go doubtin’ the things that folks believe. One thing about tales, son. They almost always end up bein’ at least partially true.” – Old Jim, town drunk and soothsayer in a vague but lucid moment, summer, 1860.

  When the three members of the Red Star Gang returned to the front room of the bank, they discovered that their two remaining prisoners still hadn’t fled. In fact, to the boys’ surprise, they seemed determined to remain. The barber had been tied to his chair with stout rope and the rugged red-haired woman was in the midst of tying herself up. Her feet were bound to the chair legs, but she was struggling to bind her wrists.

  Katie looked up into their curious faces. “Well? Someone help me with this.”

  “Why, exactly, are you doing that?” Luke asked.

  “It occurred to us that the good ol’ Sheriff is bound to be pissed once he finds out what happened,” she replied irritably. “Since we don’t want him to think we just let you stroll through here and since y’all weren’t nice enough to tie us, we decided to take it upon ourselves.” Katie gestured with her partially bound hands. “So?”