He swung down and tied his horse with a slip knot. He removed his hat and then put it back on, and in the moment of settling it on his head his eyes went toward the bank. Nobody stood in front of it … nobody seemed to be coming or going.
He did not see Mary Runyon run to Mrs. O’Beirne’s, where the words rushed from her. “Have you seen Pete? Considine is looking for him!” Mrs. O’Beirne merely glanced at her. “Now don’t worry your head about Pete!
He’ll know what to do … he’ll do what he did before!” Considine had stopped next door to the office of the sheriff. The clock in the bank window said it was eleven-thirty. He was really sweating it out now. Things had to happen fast … the worst of it was, Pete was a slow man to anger. Somewhere a horseshoe rang against an iron peg. That might be Pete … he was a man who liked to pitch horseshoes, and was good at it. Suddenly, from the area back of the sheriff’s office, he heard Mary’s voice.
“Pete! Pete, Considine’s in town!”
“Is he now?”
“Pete, he wants trouble … I just know he does!” Her voice grew strident.
“Pete, don’t fight with him! Just put him in jail!” Pete’s laugh was deep, rich, amused. “Now, Mary, you know nobody could put Considine in jail without a fight. What do you expect of me?” Then Pete Runyon came around the corner of the building and their eyes met. Considine had to fight back an impulse to step up and thrust out his hand. He liked this man. He had always liked him … but he needed that stake, he needed that money in the bank—or did he?
He shook off his doubts, angry with himself. Of course he needed it!
“What do you want, Considine? I take it this isn’t a social call.”
“Not unless you think getting your noggin beat off is social.” Men were gathering around, eager not to miss a word, or a blow. Involuntarily, Considine’s eyes strayed up the street. He could see a man dismounting from a horse up near the bank. The man was Dutch.
“Did you have to come back?” Pete asked.
“Sure … to push your face into the mud of Jensen’s stable yard!” Mary was behind Pete, and so he added, wanting to get started, “And I want to show your wife how her pretty boy looks with his face all mussed up!” Pete Runyon flushed, but he was puzzled, trying to grasp what lay behind this. Considine was worried. If Runyon started thinking … He was canny and moreover he knew Considine too well … if he had time to think he would figure this out, and there would be hell to pay.
“What’s the matter, Pete? Has marriage slowed you down? Don’t tell me you’re getting fat in the belly as well as the head?”
Runyon’s features settled into hard lines. “I never backed out of a fight in my life, and you damned well know it!”
Considine chuckled tauntingly. “Not before you got married. Has she trimmed your horns, Pete?”
Runyon’s face darkened angrily. He took half a step forward, his fist cocked. Considine backed away. “Not here, Pete. Down where we fought before—on the same ground. You were lucky there, and you’d better be lucky this time!” Considine turned to the crowd. “I’m going to lick your sheriff, unless he’s too scared to fight.”
Wheeling, he started down the street toward the corral. The clock said eleven-forty.
A man stood in the door of the bank wearing a green eyeshade and sleeve garters.
That would be Epperson. Trust Epperson not to miss a good fight. Considine hung his jacket over his saddle-horn and led his horse off down the street, the crowd following. He could hear Pete arguing with Mary, but he did not stop. It had to work now … it must work.
Turning into Larson’s feed lot, he put his horse where he could easily get to it, and faced around to meet Runyon. His mouth was dry and his stomach felt empty.
Watch that right, he warned himself. Watch his right and keep moving. Don’t let him get set.
Mrs. O’Beirne stood on her steps talking to Mary. “Now don’t you worry your head. I’ll not deny it will be a fight, and I’ve been looking forward to seeing it.”
“But Pete …” Mary started to protest 65
“A fight never hurt a man, Mary Runyon. Now don’t you worry.” Mrs. O’Beirne looked at Considine. “That boy! And he came from such a fine family! I’ve always said that things would have been different if the Apaches hadn’t wiped them out when he was a youngster.” Pete Runyon had taken off his coat and his guns and hung them on the fence. He turned now and moved toward Considine, but he was still puzzled … worried about something.
Considine fixed that. He stepped in quickly and slapped Pete Runyon across the mouth.
Dutch had dismounted in front of the saloon, and he looked like any big, lazy, rather fat man as he walked into the bank, brushing by the banker and the cashier who stood in the door, looking toward the corral. Not a man was in sight this side of the corral, anywhere along the street. Dutch pulled out a twenty-dollar gold piece. “I’d like some change for this, mister.”
Reluctantly, the cashier turned from the door and walked back into the bank. Two riders on dusty horses drew up before the bank just then and one of them got down. Through the window Dutch saw Hardy starting for the door. The banker turned from the door. “Damn it, if I wasn’t a businessman, I’d—“ Hardy put the gun in his back just as Dutch produced his gun on the startled cashier. Leaving both men to be guarded by Hardy, Dutch went behind the wicket, avoiding the glass door.
With swift, practiced movements, he picked up the neat stacks of eagles and swept the gold into his sack. From down the street came the sound of shouts and wild cheering.
There was no waste motion, no hesitation. As swiftly as he had stripped the counters and safe of the gold, Dutch came around the counter, put down the sack, and bound and gagged the banker and the cashier. Then he picked up the sack and the two men went out into the street, where the Kiowa waited. “Dutch,” Hardy said, “I’d sure like to see that fight!”
“So would I. Come on!”
They walked their horses for the first block, turned down the chosen alley and trotted through the dust, then turned into the hills, and began to ride swiftly. Once, topping out on a ridge, they looked back. There was no pursuit.
“I hope he makes it,” Hardy said. “I surely hope he does!”
“He’ll make it.”
The Kiowa said nothing at all. He liked the weight of the sack he was carrying, and he was already thinking of Mexico.
Dutch indicated a far ridge. “Smoke,” he said. “Well need all the breaks we can get to reach the border.”
By rights Considine should be leaving town about now. He had the fastest horse and should catch them.
On the rim of the distant ridge the smoke lifted a questioning finger, and somewhere farther toward the west another replied. Dark-skinned warriors riding their shaggy ponies came down out of the draws of that distant ridge like hawks sailing from the high rocks and they scattered in a ragged rank, heading toward the west.
The finger of smoke talked of two people riding one horse … it would be easy, almost too easy. Their faces were wide across the cheekbones and dark, their eyes like slits of obsidian. Knees clutching the lean flanks of their horses, they rode west.
CHAPTER VII
That slap across the mouth had just the effect Considine had known it would, for nothing is so calculated as to drive a man to fury. Whatever had been worrying Runyon was gone. He moved in swiftly, his fists cocked. Considine watched him coming, and stabbed suddenly with a left that caught Runyon coming in. It was a jarring blow, but Pete kept coming, and ducking suddenly he swung a high overhand right. Considine saw it coming, but it was fast, faster than any such punch had a right to be. It caught Considine on the side of the head and staggered him. The crowd yelled, and the two men went into each other slugging. Considine’s foot rolled on a stone and he reeled. Runyon caught him with a wicked left that exploded lights in Considine’s brain, and he tried to clinch, but Runyon moved carefully around, and swung a hard right to the stomach. Considine clinched, and quicker with his feet than Pete, he back-heeled him into the dust, then stepped back with an elaborate show of courtesy to allow him to rise.