The Bank Robber Read online

  THE BANK ROBBER

  by

  Robert Broomall

  Copyright© 2012 by Robert Broomall

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover art: © philcold/dreamstime.com

  Cover by Alan Armrhine

  Books by Robert Broomall

  Death’s Head: A Soldier With Richard the Lionheart

  California Kingdoms

  Texas Kingdoms

  The Lawmen

  The Bank Robber

  Dead Man’s Crossing (Jake Moran 1)

  Dead Man’s Town (Jake Moran 2)

  Dead Man’s Canyon (Jake Moran 3)

  Death’s Head

  K Company (K Company 1)

  Conroy’s First Command (K Company 2)

  The Dispatch Rider (K Company 3)

  Scalp Hunters (Cole Taggart 1)

  Wild Bill and the Dinosaur Hunters

  Murder in the Seventh Cavalry

  1

  One morning in the summer of 1875, two riders drew up before a proudly lettered sign: WELCOME TO TEMPERANCE, CITY OF OPPORTUNITY.

  Swede Burdette eased himself in the saddle of his powerful black horse, Dancer. He tipped his battered hat back on his head, exposing what was left of his dark, curly hair. Once Swede had been handsome, but years of hard living had turned his face craggy. His nut-brown skin was seamed with deep lines. Opening one of his canteens, Swede swished the water inside, while he studied the town that sprawled before him in a haze of West Texas dust. His eyes were gray and deep-set, eyes that were used to staring into long distances— for Indians, for game, for signs of rain.

  Beside him, the Arkansas Kid read the sign and laughed. “Opportunity, huh? I hope so—it took us three days to get here. Wouldn’t want to ride all this way for nothin’.”

  The Kid was shorter than Swede and wiry, with tight blond curls and merry blue eyes. In contrast to Swede’s plain clothing, the Kid was dressed like a Mexican vaquero, with a short jacket, striped pants, and silver spurs. Two pistol belts were crossed at his waist, and he sat a sturdy pinto pony.

  Removing his wide sombrero, the Kid beat the dust from his clothes. “Sure is good to be working again. I like Mexico, but we been hiding out too long.”

  Swede swished the canteen again and drank. “Yeah.”

  A thought crossed the Kid’s face. “Say, today’s August 17, ain’t it?”

  Swede did not know. “If you say so,” he drawled.

  “If it is, tomorrow’s my birthday. I’ll be thirty-two years old.” The Kid laughed again. “Hell, Swede, I’m gettin’ to be an old man riding with you—newspapers won’t be able to call me ‘Kid’ no more.”

  Swede gave his partner an easy grin and looped the canteen next to the two others on his pommel.

  The Kid went on, “I hope the citizens of Temperance have me a nice birthday present—them and the Southwest Texas Railroad, of course. The place looks prosperous enough, and prosperity’s something we could use.”

  The two men drew their pistols. Swede’s .45 seemed lost in his huge hand, while the Kid’s nickel-plated Remingtons flashed in the sun. They checked the loads and sat the weapons lightly in their well-oiled holsters.

  Swede leaned over and tapped the water bag on the Kid’s horse to make sure it was full. Then he straightened and squinted at the sun. “I make it about nine. The bank’ll just be opening. Westland Bank’s in the center of town. We’ll take it straight on, like always. You ready?”

  Nodding, the Kid replaced his sombrero and tightened the chin strap.

  Swede pulled his hat down and kicked his black horse forward. “All right, Dancer. Let’s go.”

  The two men trotted down the long slope into town. Passing an open carriage, they doffed their hats and bowed low to the young lady inside. She smiled demurely from behind her parasol.

  * * *

  Even at this early hour, it was hot inside the bank. Swede’s shirt stuck to his sweaty back. The bank guard and the tellers stood against the wall, Swede covering them with his .45. The only sound was the jingling of the Kid’s Mexican spurs as he moved behind the window, scooping money from the tellers’ desks.

  The bank's lone customer was an old woman in a black dress, who was both thrilled and frightened by her first robbery. She thrust an ancient black cloth purse at Swede. “Don’t forget this.”

  Swede grinned, pushing the purse back gently. “That’s all right, ma’am, you keep it. We got enough. Why don’t you sit on that bench there, you’ll be more comfortable. We’ll just be a minute.”

  As the old woman sat, the Kid was emptying the safe, thrusting bound stacks of bills into his saddlebags. “Look at all this! We struck the mother lode! Ha, ha, here comes the hacienda that Maria and me been—”

  At Swede’s elbow, a door squeaked open. A bank guard stood framed in the dazzling sunlight. The guard’s coat was draped over his arm. He scratched his head at the frozen tableau before him. “What the—” Then he realized what was happening, and lowered his shotgun.

  At this distance Swede could have killed the guard, but he shot him in the shoulder instead. The room dissolved in confusion as the other guard dived for his discarded weapon and a teller snatched a pistol from the cabinet. Showing remarkable alacrity, the old woman ducked behind a desk as the first shots rocked the office.

  “Let’s go!” Swede shouted.

  Swede and the Kid backed out of the bank in a hail of gunfire. Swede jumped into the street. He untied the kicking, plunging horses and held the reins securely. All around, people were shouting and running for cover.

  On the sidewalk, the Kid was coming more slowly. Holding his two pistols, he was having trouble stuffing a last wad of money into the already full saddlebags.

  A bullet whistled by Swede’s ear. He squeezed a shot into the open doorway behind them, “Forget the money. Kid! Come on!”

  Beside the bank was a general store. From its doorway stepped a pudgy bald man with thick eyeglasses. The pudgy man carried a shotgun. Somewhat uncertainly, he pointed the shotgun at the Kid.

  Swede yelled, “Look out!”

  The Kid turned. The pudgy man fired.

  The blast slammed the Kid into the bank wall, knocking off his sombrero. The pudgy man waved the second barrel toward Swede. With a cry, Swede shot the man in the chest, and he toppled onto his back.

  The Arkansas Kid leaned against the wall, staring at the gaping wound in his side. Blood was pouring out of it and onto his expensive clothes. “I don’t believe it,” he said stupidly. “I don’t believe it.”

  Pumping another shot at the bank guards, Swede started forward, but the Kid raised a weak hand. “I’m dead. Swede. Get out of here.” He tossed the saddlebags to Swede; then he sank to the sidewalk, leaving a wide smear of blood on the brick wall.

  Swede saw the Kid was telling the truth. He vaulted onto his horse and jerked the reins hard. “So long, Kid!”

  “So long, Sw . . . Sw . . .” The Kid vomited blood and slumped over, dead.

  As the unhurt guard ran from the bank and fired two shots after him, Swede thundered down the deserted street, keeping low on his horse’s neck. “Go, Dancer, go!”

  * * *

  In Swede’s wake, the street was as still as a churchyard. Then the wounded guard emerged from the bank, holding his bloody shoulder. People ventured from cover. They crossed the street, crowding and pushing to see the slain outlaw’s body, admiring his silver spurs. A doctor examined the pudgy bald man and shook his head. Everybody was shouting and talking at once.

  Marshal Frank Ryan came running around the comer, steadying his top hat with one hand, carrying a sawed-off shotgun in the other.

  Over the uproar, the unwounded guard shouted, “It was Swede Burdette, Marshal! I’d recognize his black
horse, Dancer, anywhere.” The guard was shaking from the experience. “They’d have been away clean, but Jerry here was late for work, and he surprised ’em.”

  Ryan stopped, panting. Sweat trickled down his heavy, unshaven jowls. “Swede Burdette?”

  The marshal shouldered his way through the crowd and peered at the robber’s body. “If that was Swede Burdette, this here must be the Arkansas Kid.”

  Excitement buzzed through the crowd. Ryan grew animated, banging a fist on his ample thigh. “Jesus Christ and General Jackson! Think of it, boys—the Arkansas Kid dead on the streets of Temperance. Who’s for finishing his partner, as well?”

  “I’ll go!” someone shouted. “Me too! And me!” They scattered for horses and weapons.

  “Take any horse you find,” Ryan yelled. “Commandeer ’em if you have to. There’s no time to lose.”

  A dark, slender youth of sixteen, wearing a white apron, grabbed the marshal’s sleeve. “Can I go with you, Marshal?”

  Ryan backed off. “No, Harry, you’re too young. Your ma’d skin me alive.”

  “Please, Marshal. All the money from Momma’s restaurant was in that bank.”

  The dark-haired boy was determined. Ryan gave in. “Oh, all right. Get mounted.”

  “Thanks, Marshal!” Harry yanked off the apron and sprinted away.

  The posse was ready in minutes. Besides Harry Ferrante, there were a trio of clerks, a straw-hatted farmer, a Mexican, and Schwartz, the butcher. The air in front of the bank filled with dust as their horses pranced and wheeled.

  Marshal Ryan rode up, crying, “There’s no time for an oath—you’re all deputized.” He waved his shotgun. “Come on!”

  He galloped out of town, followed by his new deputies.

  * * *

  As the posse was riding out of Temperance, the telegraph began chattering at the State’s Attorney’s office in Agua Verde, forty-five miles up the railroad line. The men in the paneled office—all of whom wore rolled-up shirt sleeves because of the heat—stopped what they were doing and looked up.

  These men were investigators for the state, and they knew Morse code. They deciphered the message even as the young telegrapher jumped into his chair and began scribbling it down. “Westland Bank in Temperance has been robbed! By Swede Burdette and the Arkansas Kid! The Kid’s dead—but Burdette got away with the money!”

  Everyone was on his feet now. The office was alive. “Westland,” said a pale young man in an ill-fitting collar. “Trust Swede Burdette to hit the railroad’s bank.”

  From an inner office strode two men, and the investigators quieted. The first man was the bushy-bearded State’s Attorney Gideon Seward. The second was a captain of Texas Rangers named John Kirby—lean, bespectacled, with a fierce mustache.

  “What’s this?” asked Seward in his clipped eastern accent. “Swede Burdette in Temperance?” He smacked his fat fist into his palm. “That’s only an hour away by train. This is the best chance we’ll ever have to catch that unreconstructed rebel.”

  Seward scanned the duty roster on the wall, and his ponderous glee dissipated. “Bradshaw, it’s your turn, I believe."

  There were moans as Seward looked at the pale young man in the ill-fitting collar. The young man turned even paler. “Yes, sir.”

  John Kirby removed his glasses. He spoke in a low voice that commanded attention. “Beg your pardon, Gideon. I know I’ve just come out of the field, but I’d like this case.” Kirby was forty-two, with thick fair hair combed straight back. He looked crisp and cool in his linen suit, but there was a furious intensity in his narrowed eyes.

  Seward hesitated. “Well, you are my best man, Kirby, but this is a big opportunity for young Bradshaw. I can’t force him to—”

  “Oh, it’s all right with me, sir,” Bradshaw interjected hastily.

  Seward looked relieved. “Then the job’s yours, Kirby. Will you take your Rangers?”

  Kirby hurried back to his desk and began putting the report he’d been writing into a folder. “I’ve dismissed them. It would take half a day to find them. I’ll pick up some deputies in Temperance.”

  Seward remembered something he’d heard when he first came to Texas after the war. “Say—you know Swede Burdette, don’t you?”

  Kirby straightened. His chiseled features were as rigid as an ax blade. “He was my best friend. I haven’t seen him in nine years.”

  “Your best friend?” said Seward. “Then why in God’s name do you—”

  “For me, it’s all the more reason. There was a bond between Swede and me. Swede broke that bond when he broke the law.”

  Kirby adjusted a framed daguerreotype of his wife and two children, and he sighed. “Gideon, I’d appreciate it if you’d inform Sarah I won’t be home for a few days. Don’t tell her about Swede.” He picked up his bowler hat from the rack. “Telegraph Temperance. Tell Marshal Ryan I’ll be on the ten-thirty work train. Tell him to raise some men and get two good horses for each of them.”

  Kirby started for the office door. The bushy-bearded State’s Attorney took a step after him, hand raised. “Kirby!”

  Kirby stopped and turned.

  “Try to bring this one in alive. It looks better.”

  Kirby’s green eyes narrowed even further than usual. “Swede Burdette will never come in alive. You know that.”

  He clapped his bowler hat on his head and strode out the door.

  2

  The chase was over level country. The posse was enthusiastic—shouting, hallooing, and firing revolvers in the air. They got Burdette in view, but they were unable to draw closer.

  Marshal Ryan, young Harry Ferrante, and the straw-hatted farmer were in the lead, with the rest of the deputies strung out and dropping farther behind every minute. The posse members were red-faced, their horses lathered white and struggling, while ahead of them the bank robber’s black horse galloped easily, with long powerful strides, seemingly as strong as ever.

  At last Ryan signaled a halt. The lawmen collapsed on their horses’ necks, gasping and reaching for their canteens. The stragglers came riding up to join them.

  On a distant hill they saw Burdette, who had stopped as well, watching them. “Look at him,” wheezed the butcher Schwartz, who was still wearing the bloodstained apron of his profession.

  “He’s laughing at us,” said a young railroad clerk.

  As they watched Burdette dismount, Ryan untied the dirty bandana that held his top hat in place. He removed the hat and mopped his bald head and sweating face. His gruff voice still bore a slight inflection of his misty, long-abandoned homeland. “We’ll not catch Burdette today, not on that horse of his. It’ll need a proper expedition, with spare mounts and plenty of water.”

  The hard ride had dampened the posse’s ardor, save for dark-haired young Harry, who greeted the marshal’s words with dismay.

  A second clerk, an older fellow, spoke up. “I agree, Marshal. I’ve been thinking—I’ve got a wife and kids. I don’t want to lose my pension going against Swede Burdette.”

  There was exhausted approval of this statement. “Besides,” added the sturdy farmer, “there’s Comanches on the prowl. Murdoch’s farm got raided last Tuesday, and that ain’t far from here.”

  Ryan, who had entertained fleeting hopes of being the man to bring in Swede Burdette, nodded grimly. “You’re right, boys,” he said, replacing his hat. “We’ve done our job. We’ve winded his horse some. Now it’s up to whoever they send from Agua Verde. Let’s go home.”

  As the posse turned off the low rise, the Mexican pointed. “See there. See what the devil does.”

  Burdette was waving his hat at them. Harry, the last man off the rise, hesitated. Then he took off his own low-crowned wool hat and waved back—in defiance, not recognition. With a little flourish, the distant figure bowed. Harry watched for a second, amazed at the outlaw’s brazenness. Then he turned his horse and followed the posse.

  * * *

  On the far hill, Swede stuck on his hat an
d let his broad shoulders slump. He stroked his horse’s muzzle. “Well, Dancer, we’re safe for now, but there’ll be another bunch after us soon enough.”

  Swede looked at the sun and loosened the horse’s girths. "We’ll take us a rest here. Even if you don’t need one, I sure as hell do. It’s two days’ ride to the border—rough country, too.”

  Swede eased his once lanky frame onto a smooth rock, stretching his back and shoulders and rubbing his stomach, which was paunchy with age and too much whiskey. He drew the still-warm Colt .45 from its holster and began reloading it.

  He’d owned the .45 less than a year. He’d bought it off a down-and-out Georgia veteran in Piedras Negras. It replaced the old Army .44 he’d carried since the Mexican War, back when revolving pistols were still a novelty. When young Sam Walker’s company of Texas Mounted Rifles—everyone called them Texas Rangers—landed at Vera Cruz in ’47, they were each issued two of the pistols, which Walker had helped design. They were the best weapons Swede had ever had—accurate, powerful, and heavy enough to use as a club when the chambers were empty. Swede lost one of them years later at Shiloh, but he had hung on to the other with grim determination. He had hated to part with it at last, but the mainspring was broken, and he couldn’t fix it. Anyway, the new Colts were easier to load than the old cap-and-ball, a quality that might prove vital someday.

  Swede finished loading the pistol. The Mexican War—that seemed like another lifetime, another century. Swede had been full of promise then. At fourteen, and already known for an exploit against the Comanches, he’d been the youngest volunteer in the Regiment of Rangers. He was one of the ten men who accompanied Sam Walker on his famous ride through the entire Mexican Army to deliver a message to besieged Fort Brown. He fought at Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma; at Monterrey he was first man into the Soldada on Federacion Hill, carrying a Texas flag. Then Walker’s Rangers were shipped hundreds of miles south, to fight the guerrilleros who were ambushing American supply lines on the road from Vera Cruz to Mexico City.