by Max Brand
“Paradise Al Pendleton,” breathed the banker.
“Certainly,” replied the other. “Make the world believe it tomorrow, if you can.” Then he added: “I’ll have to make you uncomfortable for a moment or two.”
As the robber spoke, already he was binding the arms of Taggert behind him, working with incredible speed and surety in the darkness. Then a wadded cloth was jammed into the mouth of Taggert. Having got this done, Paradise Al went back to his work.
There was only the most meager ray of light from his dark lantern, but it was sufficient to show the agile hands of the thief running the mold of soap around the crack of the safe’s door.
As he worked, the safe-cracker said: “You see, Mister Taggert, that a large policy and a big heart are sometimes the best thing. Fifty thousand dollars is not a lot of money. As a matter of fact, I was prepared to come down a long distance. Down to twenty thousand in a pinch. But I wanted something over that. Besides, you would have got your money back. Yes, if I had had to work my hands to the bone. You’ll still get it back, but it may take more time. You or your heirs would have had it, however. And you still will have it. This is only what might be called a forced loan. And I hope that you’ll see the point of that joke one of these days.” As he talked, he was still working like lightning. “This is the soup, Mister Taggert. I hope it runs in and fills the mold well. Otherwise the explosion may be disastrous . . . and you and I are in a very small room with it.”
Suddenly he came back to Taggert. A single ray of light played across the face of the banker, but that ray was sufficiently strong to show, in its reflection, the revolver poised and ready in the hand of the burglar.
Paradise Al removed the gag from the mouth of his victim. “If you want to open that safe for me, Taggert,” said the young man, “we’ll both avoid all risk from the explosion. When you answer, make it a whisper only.”
“Damn you!” gasped Taggert.
“Of course I’m damned,” said Al. “Every evil-doer is damned. But the evil-doing is a lot of fun when the victim is a bloodsucker like you. What will you have? The nitroglycerin or a turn of the combination by the hand that knows it?”
“I’ll get you,” said Taggert through his teeth.
“Very well,” said Paradise Al. “Then we have to go ahead on the old basis.”
And the gag was roughly thrust back into the mouth of Taggert.
A moment later Paradise Al moved across the room, vaguely seen through the darkness. Taggert almost stifled with rage when he saw a spark of light applied to a length of fuse. Up the fuse ran the fire, dancing and sparkling.
Something more than rage invaded the heart of Taggert, unwilling as the heart was to give the feeling harborage. It was a sense of admiration at the deft sureness of this youthful rascal. Suppose that he, Taggert, were gifted with such a surety, would he spend so many dismal hours working in that office, squeezing dollars laboriously out of the hearts of his clients?
The young man glided to him, touched his shoulder. “Over in the corner, and lie down on your face, quickly. Better stuff your fingers in your ears,” was the rapid advice.
Taggert obeyed it, grinding his teeth. Just beside him, Paradise Al slipped to the floor. At that very moment the red eye of the fire disappeared against the face of the safe.
It’s out, thought Taggert. On the heels of that thought he heard a dull, soft, muffled explosion. He felt a pressure over his entire body. The floor seemed to sag and give upward again, like a great spring that has been stepped on. Then he saw Paradise Al leap up and race across the room.
The unsheathed ray from the dark lantern played on the scene and gave it a dull light, by which was revealed Paradise Al, receiving in his arms the door of the safe as it slowly sagged outward.
Oh, fool that Taggert had been not to replace that clumsy old contraption with a new marvel to baffle the wits of the burglars. But what device would have baffled the wits of Paradise Al?
The door of the safe was on the floor. Now the drawers inside were being pried open, with the use of a short crowbar that was far more effective than a mere key. There was a light jingling sound, afterward the grating of steel on steel. Every minute or so a drawer was pulled out and its contents dropped upon the floor.
But where were the four valiant guards? Yes, where were they? Must the city fall about their heads before they stirred?
In the meantime, the contents of the safe were made into an astonishing large heap, and through that heap the enchanted hands of the young man were going like magic. A thin, short parcel wrapped in brown paper passed through those fingers, was deposited inside the coat pocket of Paradise Al.
Dizziness seized the brain of the banker. He knew that the sum of $30,000 was in that little bundle. He sat upon the floor, bewildered, unhappy, sick at heart.
Then, sweeter than any music to the soul of Taggert, he heard the footfalls of men entering the bank from the rear. He heard voices. He recognized Murphy, the head night watchman. Those footfalls went straight on to the door of the office. There they paused.
Was the thief deaf? Had the explosion had that effect on him, or was he too intent on his spoils? But on went his hands, rummaging through that pile of treasure, hands that moved rapidly, but not rapidly enough, considering the peril that waited for him only a few steps away.
Just outside the door, Murphy was saying: “Have you got the key? I’m dog-gone’ certain that the noise came from the inside.”
“You’re crazy. I’ll tell you what it was,” said his companion. “It was a bed broke down in the lodging house next door. That’s what made the noise. Kind of muffled and deep, like when the slats slip and the box springs come down with a whang on the floor.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Murphy, “but I took it to be something else.”
“What else could it be?”
“Well, maybe I am crazy, but I thought it was an explosion.”
“Explosion!”
“Yeah. And I’m gonna take a look inside this here room.”
“I’ve got no key. You’re wild, Murphy. Say, you don’t think there could be a crook at work in there, do you?”
“Oh, I dunno. Maybe not. I just had an idea.”
“You make me laugh, Murphy.”
“Maybe I’m a fool,” said Murphy. “Only . . . ”
“Say, you just kidding yourself?”
“I thought the building kind of shook,” said Murphy.
“Stuff and nonsense,” replied the other, laughing.
Taggert could have eaten his heart raw, without any seasoning other than his rage.
“Well, maybe I’m wrong,” said Murphy. “I wouldn’t go and break the door down for nothing.”
“You better not,” said the second watchman. “That old shark would fire you in a second if you spoiled a fifty-cent lock in this joint.”
“You’re right,” said Murphy. “Come along, then.”
The footsteps actually began to retreat. It was too much for nature to endure. A mighty groan burst from the stifling throat of Taggert.
VII
It was a sufficient warning. It was also a sufficient cause, as Taggert suddenly feared, to bring a leaden bullet through his own skull, for Paradise Al swerved toward him at the sound, with the flickering gleam of a revolver naked in his hand.
But the gun was not fired, and, to the incredulous amazement of Taggert, Paradise Al leaned above his work again, sifting through the articles that composed the heap of loot.
Many a time before this, in his long life, Taggert had seen men show consummate coolness under fire, but never had he seen such work as this. At the same moment that he felt the thunder stroke of greedy rage, he felt also a chilly tingle of admiration that went up through his spine and lodged in his brain.
The heavy footfalls of Murphy and his companion watchman had thundered back to the door of the office, Murphy shouting: “Who’s in there? What’s happened? Open the door or . . . ”
As the handle of
the door was seized and shaken, still Paradise Al Pendleton continued to pick over the heaped-up loot, extracting here and there what he seemed to feel was of the greatest value. Every one of those familiar parcels Taggert well knew, and he thoroughly agreed with the cunning of the young fellow that led him with so sure an instinct to the selection of his prizes.
“Open the door or I’ll smash it in! You’re caught, whoever you are. Go around into the alley and watch the window! Here come the rest of ‘em, the deaf men! I thought they’d never have sense enough to know that something’s happening here!” Thus spoke Murphy.
Now was the time for Paradise Al to flee, surely. He could still, perhaps, shatter the glass of the window that gave on the alley, and, slipping through, he might be able to escape from the roused town. He might be able, although there were many doubts of that. For the town of Jumping Creek never slept with more than one eye shut, and it was as readily roused, night or day, as any wild mountain lion.
What a rush of men and horses there would be once it was known that the bank had been raided. Not that they loved the banker, but because Jumping Creek had a peculiar pride of its own about being a town that would tolerate no evil-doers.
All of these things poured through the mind of the banker. He was in the strangest emotional crisis of his life. While one part of his being clamored for the capture and the destruction of this bold thief, there was also a perverse devil of instinct working in his brain that desired the escape of the robber, and that wanted the gag from his mouth only in order to shout out advice, instructions as to how he should flee.
There was not to be much time left to this rascal, however. One man had run around to the alley, and, as though to announce his presence there, had fired a bullet straight through the window. The fool, thought Taggert, breaking an entire pane of glass over a job of capture that was almost as good as completed! Or, perhaps, the man in the alley was wishing, on the one hand, to frighten this thief, and on the other hand to rouse the town. In that case he was a wise and clever fellow, and Taggert must reward him. He must reward all of these fellows. $1,000 apiece?
A pain took hold upon the vitals of Taggert—not $1,000 apiece, considering that it was only a moment in the work of the night. Would not $500 apiece be enough, with a speech in praise of the four heroes?
He was pondering these thoughts at the same time that he marked, far away beyond the bank, the rousing of the uneasy town of Jumping Creek. It was living up to its active name, its very active past.
He heard shootings far away, and the slamming of doors near at hand.
“We’ll break down the door,” said Murphy, just outside. “Come on, together, now.”
And the weight of a strong shoulder beat against the door, sending a sound of brittle thunder through the room. The end was coming.
At last Paradise Al moved. Partly with a savage hate, partly with a vast, instinctive relief, the banker saw the young man stand up and move, with guiltily bulging pockets, toward the door at which Murphy and the other two were thrusting with their shoulders. Murphy was counting now, so that their movements would be synchronized.
Standing inside the staggering, bending door, the lock was turned between two movements of the guards by the hand of Paradise Al. That done, the young fellow stepped to the side.
Taggert, watching with desperate eyes that probed at the gloom, saw the idea and tried to shout, but gave out only a stifled roar. Then, hitting the door with a united effort, Murphy and his first helper dashed it open at the next movement, of course, and floundered headlong into the office.
As they fell in, Paradise Al was out at their heels and flickering off into the darkness.
“Stop, thief!” howled one of the watchmen.
Then guns barked with a sudden, terrible, deep-coughing sound that went to the heart of the banker.
Men would die for money. He had known that well enough. For his own part, he had always thought that it was the only thing worth dying for, but now he changed his mind just a trifle. The life of that cunning vagabond, that desperately calm and cool robber, that Paradise Al—well, it was a pity, in a sense, that it should be flung away in this manner.
Perhaps the young fellow would be sent to prison—fifteen years, at least, for a job like this. Faster than light, the mind of the banker darted into the future.
In the meantime a lantern was unhooded and flared upon him. Murphy howled with surprise. The gag and the bonds were removed.
“Murder! Robbery!” thundered Wallace Taggert. “You four worthless devils have let a robber in here that’s cleaned out my safe. You see what’s happened there! Now every damn’ one of you oughta be hung, unless he was snagged in that fracas out there. Somebody fell. Find out who it was!”
They were already pouring, shouting, into the long outer room of the bank, and there they stumbled over a figure that was writhing on the floor.
It was not the robber. No, it was only Jemmy Weeks, the newest and the youngest among the force of night watchmen who had charge of the bank’s precious treasures. He was also the worst blackguard of the lot, a tried and proved gunman, and a cheating rascal to boot, who had been employed by the banker only because he felt that one rascal with teeth might be a good thing in his body of four resolutes. But now Jemmy Weeks was lying on the floor, grasping his left thigh with both hands, and writhing back and forth, cursing through his teeth.
When they leaned over him, Murphy asked excitedly: “Are you hurt bad, Jemmy?”
Jemmy Weeks did not answer. He merely glanced up at the face of the boss watchman with a concentrated fury of hatred in his eyes. He would not speak. He would rather tear out the throat of this man who asked the foolish question. Words were not what Jemmy Weeks wanted, but a good opportunity to murder the whole of Jumping Creek. And all of this pleasant emotion showed very clearly in his eyes.
The banker even shivered a little, almost forgetting that instant that the thief had probably managed to get away—not clear away, but beyond the bank. They would not need to do any trailing, the heavens be praised. They merely had to ride at full speed for the place of Paradise Al.
Now he found his voice. So, shouting out his tidings, Wallace Taggert ran out through the back of the bank. In an instant, or so it seemed, whole throngs of armed riders were there about him, he was mounting a horse, and Sheriff Timothy Drayton was there to lead the posse.
How glad the banker was of the enmity that had flowed for so long and so bitterly between the Draytons and the Pendletons, for now the sheriff would follow this trail with passion, and to the death. There was not the slightest doubt of that.
First, however, Timothy Drayton laid both of his powerful hands upon the shoulders of Taggert and exclaimed: “Once before I was made a fool of by this same Paradise Al! What he done then seemed clear enough. But him going now to rob a bank, him letting his face be seen, throwing away everything just when he was on the point of marrying . . . that ain’t likely.”
“I tell you,” cried Taggert, “that I didn’t see his face! He was masked, all right, but I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’d been in the bank, asking for a big loan . . . fifty thousand dollars. That’s what he was asking for. And I had the sound of his voice in my ears. He acted funny, too, when he was in the bank. It was remembering him that got me out of bed and started me down to the bank here in the middle of the night . . . and a damn’ lucky thing that I came, because I found the young scoundrel at his work.”
“Did he know you recognized him?” asked the sheriff.
“He knew it! He talked to me. He said that no matter what I said, he’d outface me tomorrow when the posse came.”
“He knew that you’d recognized him, did he?” said the sheriff. “And still he didn’t take and bash in your head with a gun butt? Maybe he’s too decent to be a robber. But now we’ll ride hard. He’s sure to have Sullivan under him tonight. And that means that we’ll have to fly to catch up with him.”
; VIII
Now, when young Paradise Al had flickered through the midst of the night watch and come to the rear of the building, he went right on sprinting through the back yard, jumped the seven-foot fence by catching the top of it and swinging himself up like a pole vaulter. He landed on the other side on top of a woodpile, rolled off of this with a crashing of wood, in the midst of which he landed on hands and feet, cat-like, and then raced on.
Out of the starlight a voice called to him. He made no answer, but increased his pace. Three revolver shots in rapid succession, so rapid that they indicated the practiced skill of a man able to fan a gun, whistled about his ears, but with the third one he entered a small clump of young poplars, and on the other side of this he found his mustang waiting.
Ordinarily it would have been easy going from this point. There was plenty of broken country, plenty of draws, groves of trees, thickets of high brush, through which he could have laid a trail problem that all of the frontier wits of Jumping Creek even could not have unraveled easily. But now his problem was different.
He regretted, almost, that he had not smashed in the skull of Wallace Taggert with the butt of his revolver. It would have been no loss to the world. Rather, it would have been a wiping out of a poisonous influence. Instead, he had allowed the man to live, and Wallace Taggert would tell the crowd the name of the robber and send them headlong in pursuit.
There was nothing for it now except to outride the men of Jumping Creek to his cabin in the hills and to appear to be sound asleep in his bed when they arrived. After that he must outface them. That was all.
Outface that bloodthirsty posse with the cunning of the despoiled banker to lead them? Well, there was nothing else for it, unless he chose to take his stolen money and ride out of the community, to disappear, to leave behind him Molly Drayton and his hopes of honest happiness.
However, for one thing, he had prepared a quick return to his cabin. He swung the mustang out of the brush and gave her the whip and spur. She was a long-legged mare with a valuable dash of hot blood in her. She had no wind to speak of, and she was not overly intelligent in working cattle, but she could speed up as long as her strength and her wind kept those legs of hers working. He raced at full, breathless speed for two miles of straight sprinting.
