Two Miles to the Border (A J.T. Edson Western)

by J. T. Edson

  A few seconds’ thought gave Brady the answer.

  It also increased his admiration for the gang’s cool nerves and planning prowess.

  On his way to the bank, he had noticed a tall, gangling, poorly-dressed young man sitting on the hitching rail of the Longhorn Saloon close to where five horses were tied. They were nothing exceptional, but each had had a bed roll lashed to the cantle of its saddle, a coiled rope at the horn and a rifle in the boot.

  From the young man’s cheap garments, which had looked like somebody else’s cast-offs, Brady had assumed that he was a ranch’s wrangler and had been left outside to watch the horses while his companions grabbed themselves a drink. Having held such a menial post in his youth, and carried out similar unrewarding tasks, Brady had attached no significance to the sight.

  Instead of being merely a harmless wrangler, the young man was obviously a member of the gang and carrying out an important function. He was watching over the horses all right, but not while his social superiors relaxed in the saloon.

  Slick figuring again.

  The horses had been left in one of the few places along the main street where they would attract little, or no, attention. That would not have applied had they been standing outside the bank. Nor if they had been hitched to the rail in front of the empty building across the street.

  Behind the counter, perspiring freely, the teller counted the money, tore off the bundles’ wrappers and stuffed the bills into the flour sack that the ‘drummer’ was holding open for him. The sack was marked prominently in red letters, ‘acme premier-grade flour, Acme Bakery, Austin’. It had been prepared for its new function by having holes, through which a draw-string had been passed, punched around its mouth.

  ‘Fetch that one out and rip off the wrapper!’ the ‘drummer’ snarled when the clerk let a bundle of bills fall in without separating them.

  ‘Y—Yes, sir!’ gulped the teller and obeyed, wondering why the man was so insistent on what he would have considered to be a minor, time-consuming point.

  On the scared bank’s official reaching the halfway point in the enforced withdrawal, the ‘drummer’ exchanged sacks. The second was identical to its mate. Accepting the loaded sack, the gaunt ‘undertaker’ secured its neck and knotted the ends of the strings to form a loop. He laid the sack on the counter by his bag, into which he had already placed the sawed-off shotgun, then watched the teller continue to count out the money.

  ‘F—Fifty thousand!’ the teller declared at last, looking scared and worried. He expected to be ordered to hand over the remainder of the safe’s contents.

  ‘There’s still a fair pile in here, Spit,’ the ‘drummer’ commented, indicating the Chubb’s open door. ‘Seems a pity to leave it behind. What say we take it along?’

  Chapter Two – They’ve Just Robbed the Bank!

  For a moment, the gaunt owlhoot did not reply. His eyes went to the open Chubb safe and he seemed to be considering the ‘drummer’s’ words. Then he gave a shrug and said:

  ‘Naw! We’ll do it the way we planned. Bring him out and hawg-tie him, Benny. Tony, wig-wag for Billy to fetch the hosses over.’

  Opening the door briefly, the Mexican waved his hand and closed it again.

  Rising from the hitching rail, the gangling young man looked about him. He gave the impression that he was searching for companions and, having failed to locate them, gave a resigned shrug. Strolling nonchalantly to the horses, he released the reins. Mounting one, he led the others towards the front of the bank. There were a few people on the street, although none close to the building. None of them paid any attention to the young man’s actions. Halting the animals, he remained in the saddle and his right hand rested on the butt of the white-handled Colt Peacemaker thrust into his waistband. A keenly observant person might have noticed the weapon and considered it too fine for such a poorly-dressed individual: however, nobody had given him more than a second glance.

  ‘Billy’s here, Spit,’ the Mexican remarked, as the sound of hooves came to a halt outside the bank.

  ‘Get going then,’ answered the ‘undertaker’. ‘Make it look natural.’

  By that time, the teller was lying face down between Brady and Mrs. Kimber. Having finished securing him, the ‘drummer’ stood up and accepted one of the sacks. The ‘rancher’ took the other and they walked across the room.

  Returning his Colt to its holster, the Mexican strolled out of the door in a leisurely manner. He flashed a quick glance in each direction, satisfying himself that nobody was taking undue interest in his doings. Deciding that he was unobserved, or at least unsuspected, he went to the waiting horses. He mounted a big bay which sported a saddle bearing a horn about the size of a dinner plate.

  ‘See you … ’ the young ‘wrangler’ began, releasing the bay’s reins. His words died off and he stared at the Mexican. ‘You’re supposed to...’

  ‘I know what I’m supposed to do,’ countered the swarthily-handsome Mexican holding his horse motionless. ‘Only I’d sooner not do it.’

  Carrying one of the sacks, the ‘rancher’ crossed the room and prepared to take his departure.

  ‘Leather that Colt, blast it, Benny!’ snarled the gaunt man. ‘You wouldn’t walk out holding a gun if you wasn’t robbing the place.’

  ‘Reckon I wouldn’t at that,’ conceded the ‘rancher’, but he paused before dropping the revolver into its holster. ‘It don’t seem right to go walking out empty-handed.’

  ‘Everything else’s gone all right so far,’ the ‘drummer’ pointed out.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed the ‘rancher’, brightening a little, and left.

  Hanging the loop of the flour sack’s draw-string over his saddle horn, the ‘rancher’ swung afork his horse. He had thrown a puzzled glance at the Mexican, then towards the ‘wrangler’.

  ‘I’ll be heading off...’ the ‘rancher’ began.

  ‘It’s better we all go together, Benny,’ interrupted the Mexican, right hand hovering prominently over the butt of his Colt.

  ‘You agreed that we’d split up when we made the plan,’ the ‘wrangler’ pointed out.

  ‘That was before I saw that it would work,’ answered the Mexican. ‘I’ll feel happier if we all go together and in one direction.’

  ‘So’d I, comes a point,’ the ‘wrangler’ admitted, realizing what the other was implying.

  On making his appearance, the ‘drummer’ hurried to the fourth of the horses. He too glared at his companions while mounting and suspending his burden from the saddle horn.

  ‘Have you bunch forgotten … ?’ the ‘drummer’ commenced.

  ‘Just changed the plan a mite,’ replied the ‘wrangler’. ‘T’ain’t’s we don’t trust nobody, but...’

  ‘We thought we’d have a better chance, if it came to a fight on the way out, if we stuck together,’ the Mexican finished, so sincerely that he might have been speaking the truth.

  Warning Mrs. Kimber not to start creating a disturbance, the ‘undertaker’ picked up his bag and went to the front door. He plucked the key from the lock with his left hand. Stepping on to the sidewalk, looking back as if concluding a conversation with somebody in the building, he closed and locked the door.

  ‘What the hell... ?’ the ‘undertaker’ spat savagely, turning to find all his companions waiting. ‘Why the hell haven’t you bunch split up like we said we would?’

  ‘It’s safer this way,’ the Mexican explained.

  ‘Why worry, Spit?’ grinned the gangling young man. ‘It’s gone off smoother than any other chore we’ve ever pulled.’

  ‘I still reckon we should’ve emptied the safe,’ grumbled the ‘drummer’, as the ‘undertaker’ mounted the last of the animals.

  ‘This way’s better,’ the gaunt man replied. ‘If we don’t need to use the stuff here, we can pull the same game at another bank.’

  While talking, none of the gang glanced at the empty building across the street. A ‘for sale’ sign hung in a downstairs window and the wh
ole place appeared to be deserted. Even the fact that one of the upstairs windows was open at the bottom for a few inches did not attract their attention.

  It had been closed when the ‘undertaker’ went into the bank!

  Seeing that none of his companions were willing to go along with the original idea of splitting up and meeting at a pre-arranged point clear of the town, the gaunt man mounted his roan and reined it to the west. The sheriff’s office was situated to the east of the bank and he wished to avoid riding by it.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he ordered. ‘Nice and steady at first, just like nothing had happened.’

  Turning their horses, the other men assumed a rough arrowhead formation behind their leader. None of them saw the barrel of a Winchester rifle creeping through the gap under the upstairs window. They became aware of its presence when flame spurted from its muzzle and a bullet flung up dirt in front of them. Three times in as many seconds the rifle spat, its lead churning harmlessly—if in a disconcerting manner—into the surface of the street. Following the shots, a feminine voice rose loudly from the apparently deserted building.

  ‘Help! Stop them! They’ve just robbed the bank!’

  Realizing that all hope of a quiet, undisturbed departure had ended, the gaunt man did not hesitate in his reaction. He wondered briefly how the woman could have known about the robbery, for he was sure that no hint of it could have been detected from the street. However, he did not take time to solve the mystery. Already other voices were being raised, relaying the woman’s information. Soon the street would be bristling with armed men, all eager to help prevent the owl-hoots from making good their escape.

  ‘Get the hell out of it!’ the ‘undertaker’ yelled, setting the spurs into his horse’s flanks and causing it to leap forward.

  No more shots came from the upstairs window. In fact, the rifle had been withdrawn as soon as the woman shouted her warning. Still holding to their flattened V-formation across the width of the street, the gang galloped west towards the edge of town. With the flour sacks suspended from their saddle horns, the ‘drummer’ and the ‘rancher’ could each spare a hand from controlling his mount and drew his revolver. The Mexican and the ‘wrangler’ also armed themselves, but the ‘undertaker’ left his shotgun in the bag.

  ‘Don’t kill anybody,’ the ‘undertaker’ advised, concentrating on getting more speed from his blaze-faced roan. ‘Not less’n there’s no other way of getting by ’em.’

  Thundering along the street, the owlhoots started to throw lead. At first, they found no difficulty in following their leader’s orders. They fired with the intention of causing such of the citizens who were appearing from the buildings ahead of them to return indoors hurriedly.

  Still slightly in the lead of his companions, although they were rapidly catching up, the gaunt man watched the people scattering and retreating through the doors from which they had come. Then he became aware of one man who showed no indication of being put to flight.

  Every garment worn by the exception gave warning that he was no mild town-dweller, to be run off by a couple of bullets tossed in his general direction. He came forward along the sidewalk like he was all too willing to make a fight of it.

  A black J.B. Stetson—low-crowned, wide-brimmed, decorated by an Indian wampum band and tilted Texas-fashion at a jack-deuce angle over the off eye—topped a six foot two length of powerful, work-hardened body. The hat’s fancy barbiquejo chin-strap framed a tanned young face. The nose had been badly broken at some time. There was a gap left by a scar in the centre of the right eyebrow and the left ear was thickened. For all that, his features had a rugged charm that many women found attractive. Right then, they were set in an expression of grim, angry determination.

  He had wide shoulders, a lean waist and long, powerful legs. A fringed buckskin jacket hung open. Under it was a dark blue shirt and a long, tight-rolled yellow bandanna. His Levi’s pants looked new and hung outside high-heeled, fancy-stitched Justin boots to which Kelly spurs were strapped.

  However—and the gaunt man noticed this first—the exception did not appear to be armed. At least, there was no recognizable gun belt about his lead midsection.

  For all that, his actions implied that he might be carrying a concealed weapon.

  ‘Watch that feller, Billy!’ the ‘undertaker’ requested, selecting the rider most advantageously positioned to deal with the potential danger.

  Having already noticed the tall, broad-shouldered, rusty-red haired young man starting to run along the sidewalk in their direction, the ‘wrangler’ was prepared to deal with him.

  More than just prepared!

  Billy was eager to do so!

  Longing to acquire the cherished title ‘killer’, the ‘wrangler’ had not been in favor of his leader’s instructions—although the reason for them had been thoroughly explained—regarding the advisability of avoiding gunning down any of the citizens during their escape.

  So far, the rusty-haired jasper had not drawn a gun. Nor, in Billy’s considered opinion, could he do so quickly enough to save himself. Swiveling his hips slightly, to make the right side of his fancy buckskin jacket swing open, he had thrust his off hand underneath at waist level. The knuckles had been outwards, which meant that he was not making a high cavalry twist-hand draw. No other method of toting a gun with which Billy was acquainted allowed speed when the gun was placed so high.

  Satisfied that he was in no danger, Billy thrust forward his Colt. He meant to make sure that he achieved his desire to kill a man. So he stared along the barrel and waited for the broken-nosed face to be framed in the sights. When it came into view, he started to press the trigger.

  Pure chance had brought Jefferson Trade into that perilous predicament.

  While attending to his horse and Brady Anchor’s—a real fine pair of animals—at the livery barn, Jeff had struck up an acquaintance with its owner. Like barbers, most proprietors of livery barns were good sources of gossip. Dutchy Mueller had proved to be no exception. He clearly enjoyed talking to strangers as a means of increasing his fund of news. In any case, there had been an added bond between them.

  A former bronc-buster, Mueller had recognized a kindred spirit. Which had been mighty shrewd figuring on his part. Jeff was a better than fair hand when it came to catching, riding and taming unbroken, mean, or just ornery horses. The various injuries to his face had been caused by taking falls and not, despite his considerable ability in a rough-house brawl, through fist-fighting. So they had had a common bond upon which to start their conversation.

  In his time as a Ranger, Jeff had learned how to gather information without its donor being aware of having given any. After chatting for a time about matters of general interest, he had eased the talk into a subject of more pressing importance.

  Without realizing the true identity, or purpose, of his visitor, Mueller had confirmed the two old ranch hands’ story. What was more, the barn’s owner had claimed that he did not expect the rancher to return. Apparently the story of the mortgage was public knowledge in Rocksprings.

  ‘I reckon he took that money so’s he could light out and make a fresh start someplace else,’ Mueller had declared cheerfully. ‘And I don’t say’s I blame him entirely. Whichever of them fellers’s don’t get the spread’s going to be real riled at whoever’s sold it.’

  ‘He will, huh?’ Jeff had said, in a gentle drawl which seemed out of place when taken with his broken-nosed pugilist’s features. ‘That seems a mite hard on the banker.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Well, seems like he was good enough to make the loan—’

  ‘Good enough, hell!’ Mueller had snorted. ‘Cuthbertson’s knowed all along about them boys wanting the spread. That’s why he give the mortgage. Why d’you reckon it’s hard on him?’

  ‘Happen he has to foreclose, that’ll make him the owner—’

  ‘You seen our sheriff?’

  ‘Can’t say’s I’ve had that pleasure.’

  ‘It ain�
�t no pleasure, believe me. Happen you had seen him, you’d know he’s only in office ‘cause somebody important wants him there—Which Cuthbertson’s mighty important around these parts. And the sheriff’s his kissing cousin.’

  ‘Sheriff’s a good man with a gun, huh?’ Jeff had asked.

  ‘He ain’t good with nothing’ Mueller had replied. ‘Got him a deputy, Sonny Briskow, who reckons to be a regular snake. But that’s not important. A county sheriff can call in the Rangers happen he needs their help. And neither of them ranchers wants fuss with the Rangers.’

  Figuring that his Uncle Brady would be interested in the latest pieces of information, Jeff had completed his work of settling in the horses. Then he had arranged with Mueller to leave the saddles and other gear in the office at the barn. Recollecting his uncle’s comments on a correct appearance being important when talking business, he had tidied himself up before setting off towards the bank.

  On reaching the main street, Jeff had seen the five riders gathered in front of the bank. Nothing about them had aroused his suspicions. Maybe they looked an oddly assorted bunch to be travelling together, but their leisurely behavior had prevented him from drawing the correct conclusions. There were a number of innocent and legitimate reasons for the variety of their attire. Cowhands were notorious for dressing up a mite fancy when visiting a town; even if the somber clothing of an undertaker was not a usual choice. Could be that the black-dressed feller was a for-real undertaker and accompanying the others on business.

  Whatever might have brought the quintet together outside the bank, Jeff had not considered them to be of special interest. Nor had he thought that they might be intimately connected with his and Uncle Brady’s affairs.