Shotgun Charlie

by Ralph Compton

  Pap wasn’t sure if there was paper on him in California, but if he had to guess he’d say it was likely. He found himself well along the boardwalk, getting more anxious by the minute. He reckoned, as unpredictable as Haskell was, that he might open the ball any second instead of waiting for nine o’clock, the time Haskell had told them he would kick off the robbery.

  LOFTON’S DRY GOODS was painted on the small sign tacked to the right of the glass-pane door. The sign itself had been painted by someone who knew their craft. And the decorations of dresses and hats set up in the windows looked like headless people. Always struck Pap odd that women might want to see a particular store-bought outfit even though it was draped on a dress dummy.

  He reached for the glass doorknob, paused, pulled off his hat, and ran a hand over his wiry thatch of gray hair. He caught quick sight of himself in the glass door and shook his head. Didn’t do a lick of good. In fact, he thought he looked better with the hat on, but he’d be jiggered if he could bring himself to enter a shop, and especially a women’s finery store, with a hat on his head. But he had no time to waste—he had a niggling feeling that something was going to happen soon at the bank.

  “Hello?” he said too soon as the brass bells rang and rattled above the door.

  A woman looked up from behind the counter, pince-nez forking the end of her slender nose. She was a long-faced old girl, hair pulled back in a bun, forming a topknot that made her look even taller than she was. She wore a dark dress, maybe burgundy, with puffy sleeves. Pap couldn’t be sure of the color, as the store itself was dimly lit.

  “Yes? May I help you?” Her eyes settled on Pap and they narrowed.

  He decided right then that while she might be a handsome thing in certain ways, there was little possibility he’d ever make any inroads with her or any women of her kind. Class and status and station meant all to such women, and he carried none of those things in any amount. So it was little problem for Pap to ignore her arched eyebrows and cut to the quick of the matter.

  “I’m looking for the law in this town. I . . . uh.”

  Her eyebrows arched even higher, like dark wings of a raven. Looked as if they might take flight any second.

  “Yes, you were saying?”

  “I . . . uh, well, I need the marshal, ma’am.”

  “Oh, really? What is it you’ve done?”

  “Oh no, ma’am. I . . .” He spun his hat in his hands, gnawed his lower lip, stretched his lips over his teeth. Nothing. Couldn’t remember a thing he was going to say. Been that way his entire life around the ladies. “Confound it, ma’am, I . . . I ain’t done nothing yet. I mean, nothing’s been done yet.”

  “Then this is purportedly for a crime you expect to commit?”

  Pap looked up, eyes blazing and chin set. “Now, looky here!” He was set to light into her, but caught the beginnings of a smile on her face.

  “Calm down, sir. I’m having a little fun with you. I’ve never been called ‘ma’am’ so many times in my life. It’s amusing, maybe even flattering.”

  Uh-oh, he thought. Here’s a pretty kettle of fish I didn’t see settin’ there before me. “I’m looking for—”

  “Yes, an officer of the law. As you said.” She sighed. “It so happens that we are between lawmen. That is to say our usual town marshal has seen fit to leave service in a snit. We are high and dry, as it were.”

  Pap wasn’t sure what she was going on about, but he took a stab at it. “You’re saying your law dog, er, marshal, has up and vamoosed on you?”

  “That is exactly what I’m saying, sir. Oh, he’s still around, but there’s no telling what condition he’s in. When he’s sober he’s without reproach. But when he’s in his cups, he’s useless. And since that fool, McCafferty, that’s the head of our illustrious city council, decided to all but lynch the old law dog, as you so quaintly put it—and behind closed doors at one of his silly meetings, to boot—why, there’s been nothing but a steady stream of hand wringers and teetotalers howling for his head because they claim he’s forsaken them.” She leaned over the counter.

  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 m
ess 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.

  Chapter 17

  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.

  Chapter 18

  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.