Wyatt unbelts the machine gun. “O.K., they’re down there in the grain under us, way down, near that hole by the ladder. We can’t go in after ‘em, they can’t come out on account of us—but they don’t know we’re up here. So what we do, we unload our artillery down that hole—fifty rounds in this tommygun, twelve in your pistols. At an angle, so the rounds hit the cement going down and ricochet every whichway. Sixty-two slugs—odds are pretty good we’ll put some holes in ‘em. Should be like shooting fish in a barrel.”
Bat nods. “You said it. Wonderful. Okeh, gimme the tommygun.”
“Nope. I carried it up.”
“You don’t know anything about it.”
“Neither do you. Besides, you had a hard night last night—I had a dandy. C’mon. You go for the other side of the hole, I’ll take this—we’ll mow those boys down. Now don’t make any noise, and as soon as we’re there, cut loose. I mean cut loose.”
“Well, okeh. That clip wound tight?”
Wyatt tries the turnkey. “Yup.”
Bat unholsters the .45 from his shoulder and unlimbers its mate from his belt. “You sure you can handle that thing?”
“Don’t get funny,” Wyatt deadpans. “‘Smile when you say that, stranger.’”
They tiptoe to the hole, Bat taking the far side, Wyatt the near. Wyatt falls to his knees and shoulders the Thompson and depresses the muzzle into the hole at an angle and pulls the trigger and holds it as Bat, bending over, empties the Colt in each hand at the inside wall of the bin on the opposite side. It’s like shooting blind into a deep dark well. The barrel of the submachine gun, like those of all rapid-fire weapons when on automatic, tends to rise, and Wyatt must exert real effort to keep it down. The sixty-two reports meld into one continuous explosion, the echo of which, when the firing has ceased, booms and booms back and forth from one interior wall of the elevator to the other.
Bat and Wyatt remain in place until, at last, the huge bin beneath them is silent as the grave.
Bat rises, removes his hat, and hangs it solemnly over his heart. “Keno.”
Wyatt rises. “Two more for Harvey.”
“Now by God the money.”
Evidencing not the least terror of height on the trip down the iron rungs, Bat talks a blue streak about the lovely loot and the splash he’ll make blowing his share when he hits good old Gotham again, and when they reach terra firma he hurries ahead of Wyatt and whooshes up the wooden ladder like a Hottentot after a coconut and sticks his head fearlessly through the manhole.
“Well?” Wyatt inquires, leaning the tommygun against the wall and commencing his own climb.
Bat withdraws his head and beams. “Got ‘em. Great shooting— we never miss, do we? Mind if I go first, Mr. Earp?”
“Age before beauty.”
Bat dives through the hole like a twelve-year-old and presently has company. There is ample light inside, provided both by the manhole and the larger aperture on top of the bin through which they have just hurled lightning bolts of lead. They pay scant heed to the two stiffs near the far wall, riddled apparently by ricochet, but begin at once to tromp in circles, ankle-deep in wheat.
“Where in hell!” yelps Bat, his words reverberating in the bin.
“Maybe under ‘em,” offers Wyatt.
They turn the two stiffs over, but there is nothing underneath—coins, currency, bank bags.
“It’s gotta be in here!” cries Bat. “It’s not in the car—I looked! Goddam ‘em—where’d they stash it?” Wyatt rubs his chin.
Then it breaks on Bat. “Oh, no!” he mourns. “They buried it— the bastards buried it!”
He throws himself to his knees and burrows like a badger, emitting a stream of wheat behind him. “Dig, dammit, dig!”
A sober Wyatt goes to his knees to delve with both hands. “Must be a couple thousand bushels in here,” he says. “Like looking for a—”
“Don’t give me that needle crap!” rages Bat. “Just dig, goddammit, dig!”
“Mornin’,” says a face in the manhole.
Startled out of their socks, they look up from their labors. Of all the bum luck, it’s a man in a miller’s cap, a middle-aged hick with the jawbone of an ass and consumed with curiosity.
“Morning,” says Wyatt.
“Morning,” says Bat.
“You boys sayin’ your prayers?”
“Dropped a nickel,” Bat explains.
“Like lookin’ for a needle in a haystack. Who might you be?”
“I might be Bat Masterson. This might be Wyatt Earp. Who’re you?”
“Well, I might be Napoleon Bonapartey. Would you b’lieve that?”
“I might not.”
“Work for the co-op,” says the face. “I’m the scaleman. L.D. Good.”
“L.D.? What’s that stand for?”
“Nothin’. My name is all. L.D.”
There is a lull. Good looks at them and they look at Good and hope he will go away.
“Say, d’you fellers know there’s two dead men out here?”
“You don’t say,” says Bat in despair.
The scaleman sticks his head through the hole. “God Almighty, two more in here.”
“Two and two makes four,” says Bat.
“God Almighty. Thought I was runnin’ a grain bin, not a funeral parlor.”
Wyatt takes over. “They robbed the bank in Dodge this morning.”
“You don’t say.”
“We chased after ‘em and caught ‘em here. They weren’t inclined to give up peaceably.”
“Well, I swan,” says L.D. Good. “I live cross the way, and it sounded like a war so I come over.”
“Thanks a lot,” says Bat.
“Well, now you got ‘em, what d’you propose to do with ‘em? After you find your nickel, that is.”
“Take ‘em back to Dodge,” says Wyatt. “Will you lend us a hand?”
“Sure thing. How?”
Wyatt rises. “First get off the ladder. Then we’ll pitch ‘em out the hole. We’ve got a car at the edge of town. We’ll drive it in and you can help us load up and we’ll be off.”
“Sure thing.” L.D. Good has one last gape at the riddled crooks. “God Almighty,” says he, and disappears.
Bat staggers up out of the wheat. “Take ‘em back to Dodge? Are you crazy?”
Wyatt dusts himself. “I am not. We’re stuck now—we’ve got to brazen it out. We haul ‘em to Dodge, then, when the ruckus has died down, we skin back here and find the cash—it’s got to be in this grain somewhere. Then we keep going and split up in Wichita. You head east and I head west and that’s all she wrote.”
“They won’t believe us in a month of Sundays! What’ll we say?”
“I’ll think of something.”
Bat glares at him.
“Say,” interjects L.D. Good, reappearing. “How many times you expect me to go up’n down this ladder? I ain’t no monkey.”
Ooooo-gah! Ooooo-gah!
Bat pumps the hand-operated brass-belled Klaxon horn on the Ford as they enter Dodge City.
“Why in hell do that?” Wyatt wants to know.
“Blowing our own horn! Masterson and Earp bring home the bacon again!”
“Earp and Masterson!”
Ooooo-gah! Ooooo-gah!
The horn moos and the T chugs and Bat has hit it on the nose—they are indeed bringing home the bad guys as in days of yore. Two of the bank robbers and their weapons they have dumped into the rear compartment. The other two, one of them Baldy, they have draped over the hood of the sedan. And as they fanfare into town with the trophies of the chase, a Chalmers pulls in behind them, then a Maxwell, then a Hudson, then an old lady in an electric, then a Big Bull tractor, then an ice-wagon after these, all honking and hollering, plus a smatter of small boys skipping alongside, and, by the time they roll along Front Street, all they lack to be a parade is a brass band, a couple of clowns, and enough horseshit to require a shovel.
Ooooo-gah! Ooooo-gah!
&
nbsp; The Klaxon clears a way through the milling crowd in front of the Drovers Bank and, riding tall in the saddle, Mr. Earp and Mr. Masterson arrive. A cheer goes up, two men bustle down the steps, and our heroes dismount.
“Great work, boys,” says one of the two men, who wears a tin star. “I’m Jack Sughrue, Sheriff of Ford County— my daughter-in-law works in the bank here. I got here late—been up to Spearville and just got the word. You see anything of Harvey Wadsworth, our peace officer?”
Mssrs. Earp and Masterson remove hats. “Sorry to tell you,” says Masterson. “He came after these mugs and they shot him off his bike. He’s dead. You’ll find him off the road near Garden of Eden.”
A hush falls over Front Street. There is scarcely a dry eye.
“Sorry to hear it,” says the Sheriff. “Harvey was a good boy. Well, we’ll go out and get ‘im.” Sughrue has a closer look at one of the corpses over the hood of the Ford. “Baldy Timms,” says he. “Out of Kansas City—got a record a mile long. They were professionals, all right, this bunch. How’d you stop ‘em?”
“We blew out one of their tires,” says Masterson modestly. “They pulled into Garden of Eden and weren’t inclined to come along peaceably, so we had it out with ‘em. They changed their minds.”
“They sure did,” says the Sheriff. “Two against four— how ‘bout that, folks?”
Loud huzzahs from the admiring throng, after which the portly well-dressed gent who’d accompanied Sughrue introduces himself with a ham hand.
“William J. Beanstone, gentlemen. President and Cashier. Bill Beanstone to you—I am honored and privileged to shake your hands. One thing I’m bound to ask, though— begging your pardon—no offense meant—where is the blessed money?”
This one Mr. Earp, who’s been cogitating, takes it upon himself to answer. “No sign of it anywhere. My hunch is, after I blew out their tire, and they knew the jig was up, they threw it out along the road somewhere—got rid of the evidence.”
“Just out of curiosity,” inquires Mr. Masterson, “how much did they grab?”
All and sundry are all ears.
“Ahem.” Bill Beanstone speaks with a gravity suitable to his subject. “We’re insured, of course. Ahem. By our best accounting, in the neighborhood of fifty to sixty thousand.”
“That’s a nice neighborhood,” nods Mr. Masterson with a glance at Mr. Earp. “A damn shame, sir. Well, you look along that roadside, you’ll break an ankle on it.”
Overhearing this, the fringes of the crowd fall away, and the affairs of a large number of solid citizens seem to require their presence elsewhere.
“For God’s sake, Jack,” says banker to Sheriff behind his hand, “will you get your ass out on the road while that money’s still there?”
“Oh. Sure will, Bill.” Sheriff Sughrue mobilizes himself. “We’ll pick up Harvey, too.”
“The cash first.”
“Sure.” He waves at the four criminal corpses, two in the car, two over the hood. “What’ll I do with this meat? Undertake it?”
“Later. Leave ‘em be for now. Be a great thing for the tourists.” He turns to Mr. Earp and Mr. Masterson. “Now gentlemen, step into the bank, if you please. We have business to transact.”
He leads the way, they follow, as does half the throng, up the steps and into the marbled hall of the Drovers Bank of Dodge City. “Excuse me a moment, I have to make a long-distance telephone call,” says he, and betakes himself into his office.
Mr. Earp and Mr. Masterson are surrounded by well-wishers and hero worshippers, and little wonder. Every soul present has been brought up on blood and thunder. Dodge had been the “Cowboy Capitol of the World.” Dodge had been the “Beautiful, Bibulous Babylon of the Frontier.” Dodge has been determined to profit from its past while it could. The catch is, the blood has run a trifle thin, the thunder has shrunk to a hiccup, and the past is irrecoverably past, so that for too many decades now the town has rocked on the front porch of the West like a painted crone, cackling lore, gumming memory, and existing on the charity of brave men long departed. Thanks to these two strangers, however, this day of 5th May in 1916 is a whangdoodle. Every denizen of Dodge appreciates in pulse and pocketbook what they have done.
Whoever they may be, the out-of-towners have turned back the clock, God bless ‘em, and made of Dodge a naughty girl again. Why, the sound of the six-gun has again been heard! There are four fresh kills on Front Street! Why, this may even call for four new headboards on Boot Hill!
Mr. Masterson spots Millie Sughrue at a teller’s window, tips his hat, and is repaid with roseate cheeks. A stringbean, a callow lad of twenty or so in a straw boater with a “Press” card in the band, moves in on the guests of honor with pad and pencil and an earnest expression.
“Yessir, gents, I’m Dudley Robison of the Dodge City Daily Globe—like to ask you a few questions.”
“At your service, Dud,” says the amiable Mr. Masterson. “Always glad to cooperate with the press.”
“What I want,” says the stringbean, pencil posed, “is the gory details of the shoot-out. What a story! Nothing like this around here since the old Earp and Masterson days. ‘Showdown in Garden of Eden!’ ‘Dodge City Alive And Kicking!’ It’ll make the front page everywhere—even New York City!”
“Sounds swell,” says Mr. Masterson.
“But I’ve gotta know how you did it, and where. Oh, yes, and your names and addresses, and what you’re doing in town, and—”
“Tomorrow,” says Mr. Masterson. “Let’s make it tomorrow morning, shall we?”
“Sorry, sir, my deadline’s tonight. Now let’s get to the facts. First off, who are you?”
“Tomorrow,” smiles Mr. Masterson, delivering a swift kick to Dudley Robison’s shins as banker Beanstone emerges from his office with a broad smile.
“Gentlemen, I have splendid news!” He lays ham hands on their shoulders. “Just telephoned Topeka—the State Banking Association. We offer a reward for the apprehension and conviction of bank robbers in the fair state of Kansas—well, you’ve apprehended ‘em all right—and we won’t need to convict ‘em! Therefore it gives me great pleasure to inform you that I am authorized by the Association to remit the reward immediately—now!”
“Much obliged,” says Mr. Earp.
“How much?” says the blunt Mr. Masterson.
“Five thousand dollars!”
The bank buzzes. Mr. Earp and Mr. Masterson appear to be highly gratified.
“I assume you’ll share and share alike,” says Bill Beanstone. “Now if you’ll just give me your names, I’ll issue checks at once.”
“Our names?” asks Mr. Masterson.
Mr. Earp again steps into the breach. “Beanstone, you have us up a tree. The fact is, we are Wells-Fargo agents, on assignment hereabouts. We’re not allowed to use our real names. The company—”
“You wouldn’t have the cash, would you?” Mr. Masterson asks the banker.
“The cash? Well, matter of fact, I do. The thieves overlooked one box in the vault—twelve thousand in it. If you’ll chance carrying five thousand—”
“We’ll chance it,” declares Mr. Earp.
“Very well, if you say. Just one moment.” And the banker heads for the vault.
“Wells-Fargo agents?”
This is Dudley Robison, the newshawk.
“That’s right, my boy,” says Mr. Masterson.
“Well, that’s a corker, too!” exclaims the pestiferous youth, poking pencil behind ear. “Let’s talk about that for a minute!”
“Tomorrow, Dud,” smiles Mr. Masterson.
“What time?”
“Shall we say six ayem?”
“In the morning?”
“I’m an early riser.”
“Six o’clock!”
“Early to bed, too.”
“Here we are, gentlemen!” William J. Beanstone plows into the humanity and presents each of the honorees with a crisp packet of currency. “Would you care to count?”
&
nbsp; “No, sir,” laughs Mr. Masterson.
“No, sir,” says Mr. Earp, and then, with a bee in his bonnet. “By the way, sir, did the late Harvey Wadsworth leave a family?”
Beanstone lengthens his face. “I regret to say, he did. A lovely wife, a little girl.”
“Ah,” says Mr. Earp. “In that case, my friend and I would like to contribute five hundred apiece for widow and child.”
“We would?” says Mr. Masterson.
“Your generosity overwhelms me, gentlemen!” Beanstone extends both hams for the C-notes as they are counted out. “I assure you, sirs, the Drovers Bank will do its part as well.”
Hearts are touched. Murmurs of approbation linger over the marble.
“Now, sirs, if you’ll just sign these receipts.” Bill Beanstone bustles a space for them at a high table.
“Sign?” asks Mr. Masterson.
“A mere formality. For the Association—proof I’ve paid the reward so we’ll be reimbursed. Here you are—here are pens, too.”
Mr. Earp and Mr. Masterson look at each other, then belly up to the table, sign with a flourish, and turn over the receipts. Beanstone inspects one signature, guffaws, inspects the other, guffaws, and holds the sheets aloft.
“You’ll never believe this, folks! Got a real sense of humor, these gents—but the joke’s on us, I guess. This one’s signed— ‘W.B. Masterson!’”
Laughter.
“And this one ‘W. Earp!’”
Laughter.
“Why in hell shell out for Harvey?” yells Bat over the four- cylinder frenzy of the Ford.
“Conscience!” Wyatt yells. “For that sheepshit shoot-out you pulled at the Knickerbocker Bar!”
“Five hundred’s too much!”
“Be a big spender! We’re on our way to sixty thousand!” An hour later this is a different, debonair Wyatt, now that he has a large sum in long green in his poke. He sits at ease, foot cocked up on the dashboard while his chauffeur glues himself to the steering wheel. Spark and throttle levers are fully advanced, and the T tears along at 40 mph. There is considerable clanking in the rear seat compartment as two new shovels collide with the old Sharp’s rifle. These they’ve purchased at a hardware store in Dodge on the theory that they can move wheat a hell of a lot faster with shovels and elbow grease than with bare hands. It’s a hair after two o’clock. They intend to be all done and buttoned up and back in Dodge at the station with time to spare.
The Old Colts Page 17
