In a low, menacing
voice he said, “Don’t make a sound. Where are your keys?”
Deer
ing pointed to a coat rack nearby. Fogarty said, “Get them, but be careful.” Deering did as he was instructed and handed the keys to Fogarty with a trembling hand. Without speaking, Fogarty grasped him by the shirt collar, pulled him through the door, and quietly closed it behind him. Looking in all directions, seeing no one, Fogarty took the reins of his horse and held them in one hand with the gun in the other, walking behind Deering as they traveled the short distance to the bank.
They entered the bank through the back door. Once inside, Fogarty re-locked the door, leaving the key in the lock.
“Find me a candle,” he ordered.
Deering found a candle and Fogarty lighted it.
“Open the safe,” barked Fogarty.
With sweaty, trembling fingers, Deering tu
rned the cylinder several times, pulled the lever, and the heavy steel door of the safe swung open. Inside, sitting atop bundles of money was a small pistol—the kind a banker would use, thought Fogarty contemptuously. He picked up the pistol and threw it across the room where it clattered on the floor.
Handing Deering two cloth
sacks, Fogarty ordered, “Fill them with money.” Deering began putting the money in the first sack. The gold coins went in first, followed by bundles of bills. As he loaded the sacks, Deering’s trembling increased. He had always feared this man, but now he could not think of a single reason why Fogarty should leave him alive.
Fogarty backed away from him, moving toward the window to check the street. He kept the gun pointed at Deering and warned the banker, “I
’m watching you; just keep filling those bags.”
The safe was nearly empty when the
second bag was full. Only three bundles of money were left; two in the safe and one on the floor where Deering’s fumbling hands had dropped it, and where it lay, unnoticed by Fogarty, who was at the moment looking out the window.
Turning quickly back to Deering Fogarty said, “You done?”
Deering nodded. His mouth was too dry to speak, his breathing was hard.
Fogarty approached, lifted the bag
s and said, “Fine work Willard.” Noticing the two bundles of bills still in the safe, he grabbed them and stuffed them in his trouser pockets. “Now turn around.”
D
eering turned away from Fogarty with knees so weak they would scarcely hold him. Now, Fogarty would kill him. The quivering muscles of his back anticipated the impact of the bullet, but no shot came. Presently Fogarty said, “Turn around again.”
Deering turned around slowly, moder
ately reassured; if Fogarty was going to kill him, he thought, he would have done so when his back was turned. He faced Fogarty apprehensively and saw the gunman smile. He glanced down. The pistol was in the holster, but . . . He had not been thinking clearly; the killer could not risk the noise of a gunshot.
Fogarty thrust the knife deep into Deering
’s abdomen and stood face to face with the banker, savoring the look of shock and agony on the man’s face as the strength left his body and he slumped to the floor. As Deering went down Fogarty savagely jerked the knife free. After wiping it on the leg of Deering’s pants, he returned it to its sheath. He left the bank through the back, leaving the door open. He tied the sacks of money onto the saddle horn, mounted up and rode back to the clump of trees to wait for Stewart.
Deering lay motionless on the floor for a time,
moaning in unconscious pain. Presently he stirred and regained consciousness and became aware of an unbelievable pain in his abdomen. For a moment he could not recall what had happened to him. He wondered where he was. Then he remembered. Lying on his back, he tried to rise and, the pain was worse. He saw the open back door. Fogarty was gone, would he be back? What if the gunman knew he was not dead? What if he planned to return to finish the job? Deering gasped in terror at the thought. He remembered the gun Fogarty had flung on the floor. It was on the other side of the room. Enduring enormous pain, he used his heels to push himself along the floor, pulling with his elbows, inch by inch. Finally he reached the gun and felt its cool steel. Clutching it tightly in his hands he held it to his chest and closed his eyes. He was very sleepy.
Anne had worked late and had just finished turning
out the lamps before locking up when she saw Stewart ride past. She saw him glance at the shop, but considering the darkness and the lateness of the hour, she was sure he did not suspect she was within. But where was he going? Her heart pounded and she prayed softly under her breath. Her greatest fear was that Stewart would take her child away from her.
Her
mother had stopped by for a visit and had just left. Audrey had come to town for a meeting of the women’s club, and Everett, who had accompanied her, had been socializing in the saloon while his wife was at the meeting. After the meeting, Audrey, having nothing to do, stopped by to see Anne, and they had a short, uncomfortable visit.
Stepping out of the shop
, Anne closed the door behind her, not bothering to lock it. She looked up the street and saw her mother in the buggy sitting across the street from the saloon, waiting, no doubt, for Everett. For a change, Anne was glad to see her mother. She ran up the street to the buggy and said breathlessly, “Mother, I need your help. Tom’s in town. He’s riding south.”
Audrey said,
“You don’t suppose . . .”
“I
don’t know, but Sarah isn’t there. Mrs. Walker couldn’t baby-sit tonight, because she went to the meeting so I took Sarah over to Rosie Dayton’s. Rosie’s taking care of her for me, but Tom may know that she sometimes does. Take me over there, mother, and take Sarah home with you and dad.”
“Of course,” assented Audrey, and Anne climbed into the buggy.
Stewart wasn’t at the Dayton’s, and Anne could tell immediately by the smile on Rosie’s face that all was well. The baby was asleep, and Anne quickly wrapped her in a blanket and laid her on the seat of the buggy beside Audrey. “On second thought, mother, go straight home; it’s too dangerous to go pick dad up. When Ted comes home, I’ll have him take a horse up to dad. Don’t drive down Main Street: Tom will recognize your buggy. Take the alley.” Audrey agreed and she touched the whip to the horse’s rump.
Anne watched as h
er mother drove away. Thanking the bewildered Rosie, she walked quickly to the corner, turned south on Main Street, and made her way home, keeping in the shadows whenever possible and staying completely out of sight when any horseman was in view.
Audrey did as Anne had instr
ucted, and after crossing Main Street, she cut between two buildings and headed north, up the narrow dirt alley. As she passed the rear of the bank, something caught her attention and caused her to rein in. The rear door of the bank was open though the bank’s interior was dark, and there seemed to be no one around. Not sure what to do, she sat for a moment, trying in vain to pierce the darkness behind the open door with her eyes. Then, from inside the bank, she heard a low moan. She set the hand brake on the buggy, laid Sarah, who was still asleep, on the floorboard and tiptoed up to the door. She looked around, both inside and outside the bank and saw no one. Again she heard the moaning.
“Hello,” she sa
id, “is anyone here? Willard?” The sound came again. Bolder now, she stepped inside. Her eyes had grown more accustomed to the darkness and she was able to make out the form of Willard Deering, lying on the floor. She went to him and knelt beside him. Quickly she stood up, realizing he was lying in a pool of blood.
She spoke to him
, but his reply, if it was one, was incoherent. He was holding his hands on his abdomen, and she reached down and pulled one of them away and felt the stickiness of blood. Gasping in horror, she stood up and backed away. What if Deering’s assailant was still around? Quickly she spun to look behind her. No one was there. She saw outlines of desks and chairs and a coat rack, but that was all.
Then
she noticed the safe with its door hanging wide open, and she realized the bank had been robbed. She thought of calling for help, but the open accessibility of the safe intrigued her and drew her to it. She walked over and stood in front of it, fascinated. She had seen the safe before, but never open, and certainly never unattended. A thought came to her: What if . . . her foot touched something and her attention was drawn to the bundle of bills on the floor. She picked it up. It was thick, and quite heavy for just a bunch of paper. She looked over at Deering. The bank had been robbed, Deering was dying. She should call for help, she knew, but if she left now, no one would know the bank robbers had missed one bundle of bills. The entire loss would be attributed to the thieves. Deering was obviously going to die anyway; no one could help him. She held the money up close to her eyes and riffled the bills, excitedly sucked in her breath and slipped the bundle inside her blouse.
Willard Deering was
in the desert. He was alone and lying on his back. A huge rock had fallen on his stomach and rested there still. The sun was blazing hot. It had been a long time since he had had a drink of water and he was terribly, terribly thirsty. Someone spoke to him. Who was it? Would they hurt him again? He tried to speak to them, to plead with them for water, but he couldn’t speak. He knew he had to try, he knew he had to open his eyes. He needed to see; to wake up. Summoning what little remaining strength he had, he forced his mind to clear and opened his eyes. It was dark. Where was he? He looked around and knew he was in the bank. Suddenly he remembered Fogarty. Fogarty was here; Fogarty had stabbed him. But he wasn’t dead. Not yet. But Fogarty would make sure he was. He remembered the eyes of the killer when he had felt the knife penetrate his body. Fogarty liked killing. He thought of the gun. Where was it? He had it, it was right here—he remembered retrieving it—and there was Fogarty, over by the safe, a shadow in the gloom. He remembered too, that Fogarty had made him put all the money in the sack. Fogarty turned to look at him, holding up a bundle of bills. Deering knew it was the last bundle; he had put all the rest in the sacks. Now Fogarty would finish him off. Fogarty was walking toward him now. Deering raised the pistol and fired, and Fogarty uttered a frightened, high pitched scream and fell to the floor.
Deering lowered his hand
s slowly, relaxed, and closed his eyes. Outside, on the floorboard of the buggy, the baby began to cry.
Fogarty was getting nervous. He wondered why Stewart had not returned. It had been too long.
When he heard the gunshot, he thought of just riding away alone; after all, he had all the money from the bank. But Stewart had promised him something he wanted more than money—something he had wanted for a long time.
He waited for a few minutes, wondering about the significance of the gunsh
ot. Apparently no one had heard because all was quiet. But where was Stewart? And where was the woman? He knew he should ride away, but he thought of Anne, and his malignant hungers, never far from the surface, were aroused. If Stewart had failed; if he had been shot, then he, Fogarty, would find Anne. And he would take her with him.
Riding through
the darkness, Fogarty approached the alley that passed the rear of the bank. There were no sounds of people shouting or moving about, no drumming of horse’s hoofs or any other indication of alarm. He had planned to follow a route that did not take him past the bank, but he heard the sound of the baby crying and it rang significantly in his ears. Riding closer, he saw Audrey Hammond’s buggy, the horse standing patiently in front of it. He recognized the animal and the buggy, having seen them a few times at the ranch when Anne still lived there, but their presence now behind the bank mystified him. Was Stewart inside? If the baby was here, maybe Anne was too. Dismounting, he drew his gun and quietly slipped through the door into the bank. What he saw there was totally unexpected.
Willard Deering was
lying on his back across the room from where Fogarty had left him. Audrey Hammond was a few yards away, apparently dead. No one else was around. Fogarty walked over and kicked Deering. Satisfied the banker was dead he slipped out the back door, lifted the baby from the floorboard of the buggy, and went to his horse. Mounting up, he rode back to the rendezvous point, holding the baby on the saddle in front of him. At first the baby’s crying worried him, but soon, with the gentle rocking of the horse’s gait, she went back to sleep. In order to keep the child from waking, Fogarty kept the horse moving in a circle as he waited for Stewart.
Now he
had everything Stewart wanted: The money and the baby. Stewart had better not let him down.
It was only a few minutes later that Stewart arrived. He was alone.
“Where is she,” Fogarty demanded.
“I can
’t find her anywhere, we’ll have to . . .” Abruptly Stewart stopped speaking as he noticed the bundle Fogarty held on the saddle in front of him. The baby moved and made a soft sound, but did not awaken.
“How did you get
her?” asked Stewart in astonishment.
Briefly, Fogart
y explained. Then he said, “Deering must have killed the Hammond woman—who knows why?” He grinned, “Maybe he thought she was me.”