“Stay away from Mister Halstead,” Willis told him. “Junior and Senior.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stay away from any of the rich men in this town.”
“I am a public figure,” Whiteoak said while gesturing toward his wagon. “People frequently come to me and it wouldn’t behoove me to turn them away.”
“You know what I mean,” the sheriff said, punctuating his sentence with a strong poke to Whiteoak’s chest. “I get one more complaint about you, any complaint at all, and I’m running you out of this town. Got it?”
“Most indubitably.”
Rolling his eyes, the sheriff turned and stomped away.
Whiteoak tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat to straighten the nearly imperceptible wrinkles that had been put in the fabric by the sheriff’s hand. “Looks like I’ll have to step things up,” he said quietly to himself.
“What was that?”
Whiteoak turned on his heels to find Byron walking alongside the wagon toward the rear door. “Must you always sneak up on someone?”
“Wasn’t sneaking. Just thought I’d pay you a visit when I saw you were already entertaining.”
“Yes, well my company is gone. What do you want?”
“I’ve been thinking about those things you were saying,” Byron said while placing one hand against the wagon and leaning against the brightly painted wood. “About there being money out there to be made. I think it’d be hard to disagree with that after everything that’s happened.”
“Do you, now?”
“Yes and I want in.”
“In what?” Whiteoak asked.
Byron furrowed his brow and cocked his head at a confused angle. “In . . . please?”
“To what,” Whiteoak said impatiently, “do you want to be included?”
“Whatever you had in mind!”
Whiteoak pulled open the door to his wagon and climbed inside. Before Byron could get overly suspicious or anxious enough to come after him, the professor emerged carrying a small metal box with both hands. Cradling the box like a newborn baby, the professor said, “Let’s start with you acting as a lookout while I take a trip to the bank.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Ahh, Mister Whiteoak,” said the same clerk who’d been there to greet him on his last visit. “So good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” Whiteoak replied, as if to a long lost friend. “I’ve got that deposit I mentioned before,” he said while placing the tin box on the counter separating the two men.
Reaching out through the opening in his cage, the clerk took the box and opened it. There was a good amount of cash inside, but not enough to impress a clerk working in a town full of so many rich old men. “Very good,” he said while shutting the lid. “Would you like to accompany me to the safe?”
After glancing over his shoulder through the front window to make sure Byron was standing outside the bank, he said, “I’d be delighted.”
“You’ll need to remove any firearms or other weapons you might be carrying.”
“All I have is this,” Whiteoak said as he revealed the silver-handled .38.
“On the counter, please.”
Removing the pistol gingerly, Whiteoak set it on the counter where it was accepted by the clerk like he would any other offering from a customer. After that, the clerk stepped over to open the door that would grant Whiteoak access to the rooms further inside the bank.
Some small amount of chitchat passed between them as they made their way to the back of the small building. The bank’s safe was tall and slightly wider than a standard door frame. The clerk and Whiteoak were greeted in there by Adam Bailey who eyed the professor cautiously.
“Mister Whiteoak has a deposit,” the clerk announced.
Bailey took the box, sifted through its contents and asked, “Did you take a count?”
The clerk replied, “I thought you’d prefer to count it yourself since you need to open the safe.” Turning to Whiteoak, he added, “It’s bank policy. For your safety and ours.”
“Of course,” Whiteoak said.
The clerk excused himself from the room, leaving Whiteoak to watch Bailey count up the profits he’d made while in Barbrady.
“You get all this selling snake oil?” Bailey huffed.
“Only some. The rest came from specially prepared tonics and ointments.”
“Yes, well I arrive at a sum of seven hundred and thirteen dollars. Does that sound accurate?”
“That would be my grand total over the last several months. You know, things were quite lucrative in Missouri.”
Uninterested in Whiteoak’s story, Bailey stepped in front of the safe so he could turn the dial of the combination lock without showing the numbers to his audience of one. In a matter of seconds, the dial had been turned the proper amount of times, allowing the heavy door to swing open.
“That’s a lot of money,” Whiteoak mused after having crept up close enough to watch the safe from over Bailey’s shoulder.
While he wasn’t happy about the other man watching from so close, the bank president was no longer as concerned about secrecy. “Yours aren’t the only funds held here. As you can see, your profits will be extremely well protected.”
“What are those little compartments for?”
Inside, the safe was divided roughly in half. The lower portion was open and contained neatly stacked cash. The upper portion was divided into smaller square compartments, each with its own door and its own lock. Bailey set Whiteoak’s box on top of the cash. “They’re for private use,” he said. “There may be one or two open, but there is an additional fee if you’re interested.”
“Not necessary.” Smirking, Whiteoak added, “Too bad I’m not a bank robber. I could take a run at that money right now.”
“Yes,” Bailey replied as he held open his jacket to reveal the .32-caliber pistol hanging under his left arm. “Too bad.”
Whiteoak could tell by the pristine condition of Bailey’s holster that it wasn’t for much more than show. Even so, the bank president displayed it as though he’d stripped it off the corpse of Wild Bill himself. That proud, if unjustified, expression was wiped away by the bullet that carved a messy hole through his neck.
“Jesus!” Whiteoak yelped as he dove for the floor. As soon as he dropped, he scurried around the safe to get behind the open door. He may have looked like a cockroach running for cover that way, but at least he was a living cockroach.
Before he could collect his thoughts, Whiteoak’s ears were assaulted by another trio of shots that hit the layer of metal in front of him. The iron door swung toward him and sparks flew as hot lead met cold iron. Now that he was behind the safe, Whiteoak could see that it wasn’t as large as he’d imagined. More of a free-standing cabinet, the safe had enough room behind it for a man to shimmy between it and the back wall of the room. It would have been easier for a slightly skinnier man, but he wasn’t about to split hairs.
“You want to hide back there forever?” asked the man who’d fired the shot that had ended Bailey’s life. It didn’t take more than a few words for Whiteoak to recognize the voice as belonging to the teller that had escorted him back there. Deliberate footsteps echoed through the little room, along with the metallic scraping sounds of fresh bullets being slid into a pistol’s cylinder.
“I’m armed!” Whiteoak warned as he continued to scoot toward the edge of the safe.
“No you’re not,” the clerk replied. “Unless you managed to sneak that thirty-eight away from me when I wasn’t looking.”
Whiteoak’s lips curled in a silent curse. He was almost to the edge of the safe when he heard those footsteps making their way around the iron box to meet him. The clerk was still reloading and taking his time. Obviously, the young man knew White-oak was all but pinned to the wall and felt no need to rush the job of dispatching him. Using that to his advantage, Whiteoak changed direction and began shuffling in the direction from which he’d come.
His progr
ess was a little better this time, mostly due to all the dust and cobwebs that now coated the professor like a layer of dry grease. One side of his face was pressed against the back of the safe, causing every little imperfection in the iron surface to snag his skin and pull like tiny fishhooks. His hands worked furiously to pull him along and when they reached the edge of the safe he gripped it with his fingers for additional traction.
At that moment, the scant bit of light coming from the other side of the room was eclipsed by the teller’s head and shoulders as the younger man peeked around. Whiteoak didn’t need to look backward to know what was coming next. He pulled himself out of the cramped quarters, fully expecting to feel a bullet or two drill through him at any second.
Whiteoak emerged halfway from his untenable position, only to hear the first shot he’d been dreading. The bark of the gun was amplified within the tight space into which the teller had fired. Whiteoak grimaced, but felt nothing since the first round had dug into the wall with a muted thunk. Another shot followed quickly after that one, panging against the back of the safe to clip the professor’s jacket as he plastered himself against the wall.
Once he popped out from the cramped space, Whiteoak couldn’t help but count his blessings. It was no miracle that the clerk’s hurried shots had missed. Considering how tight the space was, it would have taken considerable skill to line up such a straight shot without the ability to see more than a sliver of his target. The ricochet that had clipped him did more damage to Whiteoak’s clothing than to his body. He didn’t waste more than a second on those reflections, opting instead to scramble around the safe to get to the gun in Bailey’s holster.
“Damn it,” the clerk muttered as he rushed around the other end of the safe.
Whiteoak listened for the other man’s steps which were quickly converging on his side of the safe. When he judged the moment to be right, he sent the safe’s door moving with a mighty heave. The heavy piece of cast iron swung less than halfway shut before thumping against an obstruction. The obstruction cursed loudly, giving Whiteoak barely enough time to move around the door where he finally had some room to maneuver.
The teller staggered backward, holding his bruised face with one hand. He was already bringing his gun up to fire again as Whiteoak dove for the body of the deceased bank president. The professor landed in a less than graceful manner, hitting his stitched ribs against the floor. Not only was Bailey’s pistol still holstered under his arm, but it was held there by a leather thong securing it against the hammer. Whiteoak rolled Bailey over and was about to tear the gun loose when a loud crash came from the bank’s lobby.
“Are you working with the law?” the teller demanded. Lowering his hand to reveal the bloody spot where his head had met the vault door, he roared, “Tell me!”
Unable to free Bailey’s pistol, Whiteoak said, “No! The law’s been after me since I got here.”
“Why?”
Whiteoak sensed he was quickly running out of time and made one last attempt to soothe the younger man. “Just put the gun down so we can discuss it.”
“Professor?” Byron hollered from the lobby. “Where are you?”
Already on edge, the teller raised his pistol and tightened his finger on the trigger.
Whiteoak brought both legs up in a thrashing kick. One of his boot heels caught the teller’s shin while the toe of his other foot knocked the pistol upward. The bullet that had been meant for Whiteoak drilled into the wall, giving the professor enough time to make his final lunge for Bailey’s shoulder holster.
The instant Whiteoak closed his fingers around the pistol’s grip, he pulled it free and rolled onto his back to fire a quick shot. Two more shots followed hot on the heels of that one, but didn’t come from the pistol in Whiteoak’s hand. After that, the room became still.
Whiteoak’s heart was pounding but he didn’t think he’d been hit by any of the rounds that had been fired. The teller, on the other hand, wasn’t so fortunate. He stood like a marionette dangling from its strings, head drooping and arms hanging limp from his shoulders. A small hole had been punched through his upper chest and an even larger one was slightly below it. When the teller dropped, Whiteoak could see Byron standing behind him with a smoking pistol in hand.
“What the hell took you so long?” Whiteoak asked as he scrambled to his feet.
“The front door was locked,” Byron said while looking down at the carnage on the floor. “The place was closed up a little while after you went in. When I heard gunshots, I tossed a rock through the window and came inside.”
“Thankfully you armed yourself.”
“After everything that’s happened since you got to town? I’d be a fool to be anywhere near you without being armed. Who are they?” Byron asked while staring at the two bodies. “Nash’s men?”
“Not as far as I know,” Whiteoak replied. “One is the teller who works at the front window and the other . . .”
“Adam Bailey?” Byron gasped. “Oh my god! He was working with Nash?”
“I highly doubt it since he was the first one shot in this exchange. That other fellow was the one who killed him so if anyone was working with Nash, it’d be him.”
“And he’s not alone.”
Picking up on Byron’s nervousness, Whiteoak asked, “What makes you say that?”
“There were some men riding toward the bank before I broke that window.”
“Was Nash one of them?”
“Maybe,” Byron replied. “But they were all armed.”
“You know something? I believe this bank is cursed!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“We really need to get out of here,” Byron said as he disappeared into the lobby, only to quickly reappear within the small room containing the bank’s safe. “Did you hear me, Whiteoak?”
“Of course I heard you,” the professor replied. “I’d have to be deaf not to.”
“Then why are you still messing around with that damn safe?”
“I came here to get a look at it, which is precisely what I’ll do. Something about this strikes me as familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
Twitching at the sound of gunfire outside, Byron rushed to the lobby. “It’s Nash, all right. And he’s with one of his other men that we’ve seen before.”
“Only one?” Whiteoak asked as he examined the interior of the vault.
“One that I recognize. Oh, Christ, here comes the sheriff.”
“Good.”
“Good?” Byron snapped. He stuck his head into the smaller room so he could look directly at Whiteoak. “How the hell is any of this good?”
“Because that means Nash won’t be long for this world. I assume the town’s protectors have taken their stations?”
“There were some men looking out through the windows, yes.”
“See? That’s good!”
“What are you doing, anyway?”
Whiteoak was hunched over so he could more closely examine the little square doors inside the safe. “Whatever the prize is that all these men are after, I doubt it’s just this money. There’s something else. Your sister mentioned some numbers.”
“Numbers? Do you hear that? The sheriff’s already giving his speech outside and I doubt it’ll last as long as it did the first time around. We don’t have time for numbers!”
“Three, four, seven, nine, twelve and sixteen,” Whiteoak recited with his eyes closed as if reading the figures from the inside of his skull. “Those were the numbers Lyssa mentioned. They’ve got to mean something.”
“You mean the numbers on the paper I was carrying?”
Wheeling around to face Byron, Whiteoak said, “Yes! Do you know what they mean?”
After letting out a pained sigh, Byron said, “I should have gone with my first instinct and taken the money that was inside that damned belt they made me wear.”
Outside of the bank, voices were raised and the first couple of shots were fired. “You’re right,” Whiteoak said as he
shifted his attention back to the safe. “The sheriff wasn’t wasting any time.”
Byron peeked out of the small room and through the lobby so he could catch a glimpse of what was happening through the front window. “They’re headed this way,” he warned.
“Who is? Nash or the law?”
“All of them!”
“Who do you think will get here first?” Whiteoak asked.
As if in response to his question, gunshots outside the bank rose to a deadly crescendo. A few stray bullets found their way into the bank through what was left of the window amid the shattering of the final shards of glass remaining in the frame.
“Get in here with me,” Whiteoak said. “And keep your mind on the task at hand.”
Although he was grateful to be out of the lobby, Byron was barely able to stay on his feet. Every part of him was trembling and he was sweating hard enough to have soaked through nearly every article of clothing he wore. “What task?” he asked.
“Figuring out those numbers,” Whiteoak said. “I think it’s got something to do with these compartments.”
The professor’s finger tapped the small square doors inside the safe. There were twenty of them in all and each was locked tight.
“How do you know the numbers have anything at all to do with those doors?” Byron asked.
“Because this bank seems to be at the heart of all the trouble in this town. And at the heart of this bank is this safe. Check the pockets of the bank manager over there, will you?”
Wincing, Byron approached Bailey’s body. “What am I looking for?”
“Keys to these compartments.” As Byron gingerly searched the dead man’s pockets, Whiteoak asked, “Did you see anyone else inside this place? Customers or maybe any other tellers?”
“No. The place was cleared out and locked up soon after you went inside. One of them looked like he might work here but I couldn’t be certain. The place seemed empty except for the three of you when I came back in.”
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