Dutch stopped beside him. “Don’t worry about them, Considine. That old man is no fool.”
“You saw those tracks.”
“He’ll see them, too.”
The Kiowa led the horse to the trough for water, then to the corral. Considine watched him gloomily. The Kiowa was lucky, for he never seemed to think about things or to have any worries beyond the moment—but that might be an illusion. “The trouble with me is,” Considine said aloud, “I think too much.” Dutch nodded his big head. “You’re the best in this business, Considine, but you ain’t cut out for it. I never knew a man who was less cut out for it. To me this comes natural and easy, but not to you. The very thing that makes you good at this business shows you don’t belong in it. You’ve got an instinct to watch out for the other fellow … you don’t care how much grief you shoulder yourself as long as you can keep others out of trouble. That’s why you plan so carefully. That’s why you’re worrying about Spanyer and his girl now.”
“Maybe.”
Perhaps it was true, yet if so, his presence here was a contradiction, for his only reason for being here would be that bank in Obaro. The only obvious reason … Part of it was that everything about Obaro rankled, and it was not only Pete Runyon and the girl he’d married—it was the town, all of them. He glanced around at Chavez. “You been to town lately?”
“Two weeks ago … maybe three.”
“You’d better go in and have a look around.”
Chavez rubbed his fat hands on his pants and shifted his eyes uneasily. In a way, he was afraid of Considine, for the big, quiet man was very sure of himself, and was known to be a dangerous man with a gun. But Chavez was afraid of Runyon, too.
Chavez did business with the wild bunch. Any outlaw could stop off here, buy supplies, pick up information, and never worry about anything being said. It was a safe place—as safe as any man living beyond the law can find; but Honey Chavez was no fool, and he had been careful not to cross Sheriff Pete Runyon. “It’s your business … but have you thought about this?” His big round eyes searched Considine’s face. “There will be much trouble.” Irritation showed in Considine’s face. “Are you riding in? Or do I go myself?” “It is time for me to go. They will expect me to come about now, for there are supplies I must get.” He hitched up his sagging pants. “I will see what I can find out.”
He walked to the flea-bitten roan at the hitch rail. Sure, he reflected, Considine can pull this holdup and ride on, but I have to stay here, and Runyon will come looking for me.
Runyon would close him up, drive him out. At the very least. Honey Chavez swung into the saddle and rode away … a very thoughtful man. Considine went into the store and the others followed. Picking up a newspaper, he dropped into Honey’s chair. Where was it a man made the switch? Had it really been back there in Obaro when Mary chose Runyon instead of him? Or had he actually made the switch even before that?
Coming here was a fool thing, but they needed money and the money they needed was in Obaro. With a few sacks of gold they could run for the border; and with the Apaches out, there was small chance of pursuit. That was one of the things on which he was counting. Obaro was an exposed town, and the good family men who lived there would not want to run off into the desert and leave their wives, children, and property unprotected.
There must be no killing. He would like to rob the bank of Obaro to get the money and to taunt them, but he wanted no killing. Aside from the fact that he hated no one there, there was a practical side. Take their money and they might come after you; but kill a friend of theirs and they would follow you through hell.
It had come to his attention that men with money in the bank rarely rode in posses. Or maybe his viewpoint was sour.
Nobody knew better how tough Obaro could be. As such towns went, it was an old town … fourteen years old, to be exact. And it might even last another ten. In the first year of the settlement’s existence the Apaches had raided it nine times, and the second year fourteen times. They had driven off stock, burned outlying buildings, and in the first few years of the town’s existence had killed twenty-six men and a woman within three miles of the town. Considine knew how eagerly the town awaited an attempt at bank robbery. Unless there was an Indian attack—which was considered a normal part of the day-to-day life—the only excitement they had was a robbery attempt, and Considine himself had helped to handle one such.
He grinned at the thought of outwitting Runyon and carrying off the robbery. Runyon was the only man who had ever whipped him in a stand-up and knock-down fight, and until the last minute it had been close. Both of them had been knocked down half a dozen times, both were bloody, and then Runyon had caught him with that right-hand punch.
Pete Runyon was somewhat heavier, but a fast man for his weight, and he knew how to scrap. They had fought before that, with honors about even, but that last fight had not been for fun or over a minor grudge. They had, in effect, been fighting over Mary. And Runyon had whipped him. Considine knew what he really wanted was to fight Runyon again, but there would be no time for that. They would have to plan this one with infinite care. Once they had the money they could make a run for the border, but this time there would be no boozing in the cantinas. At least, not for him. He would buy a small ranch and hire some Basques to work for him, for they were good, steady men and hard workers, and they would make money for him. The store smelled of dry goods, of calico and gingham, of new leather and gun oil, of tobacco and spices. There was a rack of new Winchesters, a couple of second-hand Spencers, a case containing some new six-shooters, and the usual odds and ends of gear and supplies to be found around any frontier trading post. Dutch cut off a piece of cheese with his jack-knife and walked over to where Considine was seated. He hitched himself up on a barrel. “It should be rich,” Dutch said, “but this is a tough one.”
Dutch had thought about this before. Months ago he had come into Obaro and stopped there briefly. No one knew him there, and he had loafed about town listening to the gossip. He had even gone into the bank to change some money, and had glanced at the safe. It was not too tough. It could be done. There was still much talk in the town about the great fight between Runyon and Considine, and there were many who thought that if it happened again, Runyon would not be so lucky.
Of the four of them, only Considine would be known in town, so if necessary the others could ride in and be located about town before anything was suspected. That depended on whether they wanted to take the bank in broad daylight or in darkness.
Considine got up. “You boys talk it over, then I’ll lay it out for you.” He went outside and stood at the end of the porch looking down the trail. It was very hot. A dust devil danced in the distance, the sky was wide and empty, the bunch-grass barrens stretched away to the mountains. Far down the trail among the dancing heat waves he saw two riders, unbelievably tall in the mirage made by the shimmering heat.
That would be Dave Spanyer and his girl. What had he called her? Lennie… When she had looked at him there had been something very wise, very knowing in her glance, but it was that unconscious awareness such girls sometimes have, old as the world, old as time.
But this was no time to be thinking of a girl, especially when her father was a tough old coot like Dave Spanyer. They said he had been a gunman for the big cattle outfits, and had killed eleven men. That might be an exaggeration, for many such stories were exaggerated, but he was no man to fool around with. Considine went to the pool and dipped up a bucket of water, and then went back among the trees and stripped off his clothes and bathed, dipping another bucket to complete the job. He discarded his old shirt, and went back to the store for another.