Mankiller, Colorado. William W. Johnstone
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the local law would have to feed them.
The only problem was that being locked up was hell on both of the Texans because of the wanderlust that always gripped them. They might not have anywhere to go, but their nature cried out for them to be free to ride on any time they chose.
“Don’t get a burr under your saddle,” Bo told the liveryman. “I’ll talk to my partner as soon as he gets back from the outhouse, and we’ll figure out what we’re going to do.”
“That’s another thing. You fellas used my outhouse. That ought to be worth somethin’.”
Bo bit back the angry retort that sprang to his lips. The money-grubbing old-timer was damned annoying, but Bo was determined not to let his temper get the best of him.
He unlatched the big double doors at the front of the barn and swung them open. The hour was still early, but people were moving around and folks could show up at the stable to pick up their horses at any time. Bo stood there, watching the rosy glow in the sky grow brighter as the sun climbed above the horizon.
Idly, he looked down the street and spotted a couple of men walking toward a large, redbrick building a couple of blocks away. One of the men wore a town suit and a hat, while the other was dressed in range clothes, including a battered old Stetson, a cowhide vest, and a pair of chaps strapped over denim trousers. The two men made an unlikely pair, and something about the sight caused Bo to frown.
“Say, is that the bank two blocks down?” he asked over his shoulder. “Big building made of red bricks?”
“Sure is. Why do you want to know?” The oldster cackled. “You ain’t got no money to put in it.”
“Is the fella who runs it in the habit of showing up early?”
“Yeah. Frank Mosely’s the president. He usually gets there about this time of mornin’. Says he likes to get an early start on the day. You ask me, I think he goes in there while nobody’s around and throws money on the floor of the vault and rolls around in it, the danged old miser. I never knew anybody to love money as much as that old skinflint does.”
The old saying about the pot and the kettle occurred to Bo, but he shoved the thought aside. “Mosely’s a portly fella about sixty?”
“That’s him.”
As Bo watched, the two men reached the door of the bank. The one in the suit took a key from his pocket and started to unlock the door. He fumbled with it, missing the hole on the lock several times before he was able to insert the key and turn it.
“Is there any reason for some cowpoke to be going into the bank with Mosely?” Bo asked.
The stableman came up beside him. “What the deuce are you talkin’ about? I told you, Frank goes in there alone so’s he can play with other people’s money. He wouldn’t be takin’ anybody in with him. Bank don’t open to the public for a couple hours yet.”
Bo nodded. “That’s what I thought.” Both men had disappeared into the bank building now, and the door was shut forcefully enough that he could hear it a couple of blocks away. Bo turned and walked toward the tack room where he and Scratch had stowed their saddles and gear.
“Hey!” the old man called after him. “What are you doin’? You ain’t fixin’ to run out on me, are you?”
Bo ignored the questions. He went into the tack room and picked up his Winchester, working the rifle’s lever to throw a cartridge into the firing chamber. As he walked down the center aisle of the barn, holding the repeater at a slant across his chest, the liveryman looked at him, gulped, and stepped hurriedly out of the way.
Bo left the barn and started down the street toward the bank, which appeared quiet and deserted. Anyone would think so, if they hadn’t seen Frank Mosely and his mysterious companion go inside a couple of minutes earlier. Bo knew they were in there, though, so he wasn’t surprised when the door opened again and the man in range clothes reappeared, toting a canvas bag in his left hand. The man’s right hand rested on the butt of his holstered revolver.
Bo’s gaze flicked along the street. A couple of storekeepers were sweeping off the boardwalks in front of their establishments. A man came out of a café and paused to pick his teeth. Another man walked along the street, his head down as he packed tobacco into a pipe. A wagon pulled by a couple of mules and driven by a stocky man in a tall straw sombrero was at the far end of the street, rolling slowly toward the center of town.
It took Bo only a split second to assess the situation. It could have been better, as far as bystanders were concerned, but it could have been a lot worse, too. He walked a little faster as the man who had just come out of the bank turned toward a horse tied at a nearby hitch rail.
Before the man could reach the horse, Bo stopped and leveled the Winchester at him, calling in a loud, clear voice, “Hold it right there, mister!”
At that same moment, Frank Mosely, the president of the bank, staggered out of that establishment’s front door, holding a hand to his bloody head as he yelled, “Stop him! Stop that man! He just robbed the bank!”
The bank robber cursed and yanked his pistol from its holster.
CHAPTER 5
Moving swiftly, Bo snapped the Winchester to his shoulder. He fired, getting off the first shot while the robber was still clearing leather.
Fate took its usual capricious hand, though. As the outlaw clawed his gun out, he swung the canvas bag up with his other hand. Bo didn’t know what the hombre intended to do with it, but as luck would have it, the bullet he fired struck the bag and drove it back against the robber’s chest. The man staggered under the impact and let go of the bag. When it fell to the ground at his feet, Bo saw there was no blood on the robber’s shirt. Something in the bag had stopped the bullet.
The robber jerked his gun up and fired. Bo was already moving, so the slug whipped past his ear rather than blowing his brains out. As he darted to the side, he levered the Winchester and fired a second shot, this time from the hip.
The bullet kicked up dust at the robber’s feet and made him jump, but that was all the damage it did. The man whirled around and leaped back up onto the boardwalk.
Mosely was still squalling for help, but he stopped short as he realized that the robber was lunging at him. The man grabbed Mosely and jerked him in front of him, looping his free arm around the terrified banker’s neck to hold him there.
As the robber dragged Mosely back toward the door, he thrust his gun past the hostage and fired two more shots at Bo, who threw himself to the ground and rolled behind a water trough as he felt the wind-rip of the slugs pass his head. He raised up and coolly took aim with the Winchester, knowing that if the robber succeeded in getting back in the bank with Mosely, it would be hard to get him out of there without the banker being killed.
For a split second, Bo had a clear shot at the robber’s left thigh. He took it, stroking the trigger. The rifle cracked, and blood flew from the outlaw’s leg as the bullet ripped through it. The man howled in pain and stumbled.
Mosely seized the opportunity to twist around and put his hands against the robber’s chest. He shoved hard, breaking the man’s grip on him. As soon as he was free, Mosely dove to the boardwalk to get out of the line of fire.
Bo’s rifle slammed out another shot. This one caught the robber in the body and drove him back. The man managed to trigger his gun again. The bullet thudded into the water trough. Bo levered the Winchester and fired again, then again. Both slugs punched into the robber’s chest. They flung him backward against the front window of the bank. The collision shattered the glass. Splinters and shards of it flew in the air as the wounded man fell through the window into the bank.
Bo leaped to his feet and bounded onto the boardwalk. He kept the rifle pointed at the window as he cautiously approached it. Glass crunched under his boots. The robber’s knees had caught on the windowsill. His legs from there down hung motionless outside the window.
When