“And that was all? Yuh’re shore?”
Waiting until he was sure Gleason was out of
town, Big Red rode in. He did not like to do it, but preferred not to trust to anyone else. At the bank he changed some money, glancing casually around. Then his pulse jumped, and he grinned at the teller who handed him his money.
He walked from the bank, stowing away his money.
So that was it! Andof course, it could be nothing else.
The bank stood in such a position that the windows caught the full glare of the morning light, and that sunlight flowed through the windows and fell full upon the mirror that covered the upper half of the door that led behind the wickets where the money was kept.
If that door was opened suddenly, a flash of light would be thrown into the windows across the street! A flash that would run along the storefronts the length of the street, throwing the glare into the eyes of the bartender in the saloon, the grocer and the hardware man, and ending upon the faces of the loafers before the livery stable. One at least, and probably more, would see that flash, and the warning would have been given.
He gathered his men carefully, and he knew the men to get for the job. Yaqui Joe, because when sober he was one lump of cold nerve, then Bronco Smith and the Dutchman because they were new in the Cholla country, and skillful, able workmen. Then he waited until Victorio was raiding in the vicinity, and sent a startled Mexican into town with news of the Apache.
With Sheriff Bill Gleason in command, over half the able-bodied men rode out of town, and Big Red, with Yaqui Joe at his side, rode in. Bronco Smith and the Dutchman had come in a few minutes earlier, and it was Smith who blocked the opening of the mirrored door.
The job was swift and smooth. The three men in the bank, taken aback by the blocking of their signal, were tied hand and foot and the money loaded into canvas bags. The four were on their way out of town before a sitter in front of the livery stable recognized the half-breed.
Under a hot, metallic sky the desert lay like a crumpled sheet of dusty copper, scattered with occasional boulders. Here and there it was tufted with cactuses or Joshua palm and slashed by the cancerous scars of dry washes. A lone ranch six miles south of Cholla fell behind them and they pushed on into the afternoon, riding not swiftly but steadily.
Clanahan turned in the saddle and glanced back. His big jaws moved easily over the cud of chewing tobacco, his gray-green eyes squinting against the hard bright glare of the sun.
“Anything in sight?” Bronco did not look around. “Mebbe we’ll lose ‘em quick.”
“Gleason ain’t easy lost.”
“You got respect for that sheriff.”
“I know him.”
“Maybe Joe’s idea goot one, no?” The
Dutchman struck a match with his left hand cupping it to his cigarette with his palm. “Maybe in Apache country they will not follow?”
“They’ll follow. Only in Victorio’s country they may not follow far. When we shift hosses we’ll be all set.”
“How far to the hosses?”
“Only a few miles.” Red indicated a
saw-toothed ridge on the horizon.
“Yonder.”
“We got plenty moneys, no?” The Dutchman slapped a thick palm on his saddlebags and was rewarded with the chink of gold coin. “Och! Mexico City! We go there and I show you how a gentlemans shall live! Mexico City with money to spend! There iss nothing better!”
Two ridges gaped at the sky when they reached the horses, two ridges that lay open like the jaws of a skull. Red Clanahan turned his horse from the dim trail he had followed and dipped down into the gap where lay a wide space of flat ground, partially shaded by two upthrust ledges that held a forty-degree angle above the ground. Four horses waited there, and two pack mules.
Smith nodded, satisfied. “Those mules will take the weight of the gold off our hosses.
Grub, too! Yuh think of everything, Redffwas
“There’s a spring under that corner rock.
Better dump yore canteens and refill them.
Don’t waste any time.”
“How about south of here?” Bronco stared off over the desert. “Is there more water?”
“Plenty water.” Joe accepted the question. “Latigo Springs tomorrow night, and the day after Seepin’ Springs.”
“Good!” Smith bit off a chew of his own. “I was dry as a ten-year-old burro bone when I got here.”
He needed nobody to tell him what that bleak waste to the south would be like without water, or how difficult to find water it would be unless you knew where to look.
“How much did we get?” Dutch inquired.
“How much? You know, eh?”
“Fifty thousand, or about.”
“I’d settle for half!” Smith spat.
“Yuh’ll settle for a lot less.” Red
turned his hard green eyes on Smith. “I’m takin’ the top off this one. Took me four weeks of playin’ tag with Gleason to get the layout.”
“What do yuh call the top?”
“Seventeen thousand, if she comes to fifty. You
get eleven thousand apiece.”
Bronco pondered the thought. It was enough. In seven years of outlawry he had never had more than five hundred dollars at one time. Anyway, he wouldn’t have stayed that close to Gleason for twice the money. That sheriff had a nose for trouble.
When Big Red first suggested the raid on Cholla, Smith had thought him crazy, but he had to chuckle when he remembered the astonishment on the cashier’s face when he stepped around and blocked the door with the mirror before it could be opened, and how “Big Red” had come in through the door on the other side that looked like it wasn’t there.
The escape into Victorio’s country was pure genius—if they avoided the Apaches. Yaqui Joe’s idea had been a good one, but Red had already planned it in advance, as was proved by the waiting horses. Of necessity a pursuing force would have to go slow to avoid the Indians, and they would have no fresh horses awaiting them at the notch.
Under a hot and brassy sky they held steadily southward over a strange, wild land of tawny yellows and reds, bordered by serrated ridges that gnawed at the sky. Clanahan mopped the sweat from his brow and stared back over the trail, lost in dancing heat waves. As usual there was nothing in sight.
Hours passed, and the only movement aside from the walking of their horses was the wavering heat vibrations and, high under the sun-filled dome of the sky, the distant black circling of a buzzard. On the ground not even a horned frog or a Gila monster showed under the withering sun.
“How much farther to water, Joe?”
“One, maybe two mile.”
“We’ll drink and refill our canteens,”
Red told them, “but we stop no longer than that. We’ve got gold enough to do somethin’ withand we’d better be gettin’ on.”
“No sign of ‘Paches.”
Red shrugged, then spat, wiping the sweat from the
inside of his hatband.
“The time to look for Injuns is when there’s no sign. Yuh can bet the desert’s alive with ‘em, but if we’re lucky they won’t see us.”
Latigo Spring was a round pool of milky-blue water supplied by a thin trickle from a crack in the sandrock that shaded it. The trickle waged a desperate war with the sun’s heat and the thirsty earth. Occasionally, it held its own, but now in the late summer, the water was low.
They swung down and drank, then they held their canteens into the thin flow of the spring. They filled slowly. One by one they sponged out the nostrils and mouths of their horses and led the grateful animals to the water.
Bronco wandered out to where he could look back over their trail. He shaded his eyes against the sun, but then as he started to turn back, he hesitated, staring at the ground.
“Red.” His voice was normal in tone, but it rang loudly in the clear, empty air.
Caught by some meaningful timbre in his tone, the others looked up. They were wary men, alert for danger and expecting it. They knew the chance they took, crossing Victorio’s country at this time, and trouble could blossom from the most barren earth.
Big Red slouched over on the run-down heels of his worn boots. Mopping his face and neck with a bandanna, he stared at the tracks Bronco indicated.
Two horses had stood here. Two riders had dismounted, but not for long.
“Hey!” Clanahan squatted on his heels. “Those are kids’ tracks!”
“Uh-huh.” Bronco swore softly.
“Kids! Runnin’ loose in Apache country.
Where yuh reckon they came from, Red?”
Red squinted off to the south and west. The direction of the tracks was but little west of their own route.