The Big Showdown Page 8

  “Find another room up here,” he advised her. “One that isn’t being used.”

  She stopped screaming, swallowed, nodded, got her limbs working, and climbed off the bed and ran out, grabbing the robe from him and flashing full, dimpled buttocks as she did.

  York quickly checked the room.

  On the floor, spilled from the chair that had been propped against the door, were the dead man’s clothes. Two hundred dollars, cash money, were in his Levi’s. A closet held only the girl’s red dress and white peasant blouse, plus some underthings and sandals.

  He left the room, noting the three pocks in the adobe wall, holes that might have been in him. Out on the landing, in cool air under the stars again, he was about to holster his .44 when he saw them coming around from in front of the cantina, Pruitt and Hoake, their guns in hand, Colt .45s like Johnson’s. Still time for York to get holes punched in him tonight.

  They were aiming up at him but by the time they started shooting, standing side by side at the foot of the outdoor steps like a two-man firing squad, he was halfway down the steps, their rounds flying over him, shattering the night but nothing else, his gun raised hip-high but aiming down. He fired four times, hitting them only twice, one each, Pruitt in the left eye and Hoake in the forehead.

  Not bad, considering the frantic circumstances.

  He paused two-thirds of the way down as the two men staggered on dead feet, then fell together, propping each other up for a moment, almost comically, before tumbling to the ground in an awkward embrace of lifeless arms and legs. A good deal of what had been in their heads had sprayed out the back and onto the dusty ground, like a spilled plate of cantina chow.

  He stepped over them and that.

  Horses were getting unhitched and patrons were getting the hell out, some on foot, as Cesar came around the corner and took in the carnage with disappointment.

  “I guess I close up for the night,” he said.

  “Do that,” York said, sliding the hot handgun into its home. “Then go down and wake up Perkins.”

  This was the one part of town where the undertaker’s hearing was less than keen.

  Cesar sighed and trundled off, swearing softly to himself in Spanish.

  York looked down at the dead saddle tramps, who were staring into eternity with dumb expressions, tangled together like lovers, and felt a pang of regret. Not for killing them, or for their loss to the family of man.

  No.

  But he would rather have taken them into custody and seen what he could get out of them, before turning them over to a judge and, in the case of Johnson anyway, a hangman.

  While he waited, he went around to the Morgan horse and checked the saddlebags. They were empty but for one thing: half-a-dozen empty pouches marked FIRST BANK OF TRINIDAD.

  Bill Johnson tracked down and dead, but only two hundred to show for it.

  And of all places to hide, of every place the robber might go, why double-back to Trinidad?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Caleb York knew that, no matter what the dime novels might have you believe, bank robberies in the West were not an everyday thing. If anything, they were rare. A bank was usually the most solidly built structure in town, and the redbrick First Bank of Trinidad was no exception.

  Like most banks in Western communities, First was right on Main Street, in the center of town. Nighttime robberies almost never happened—blasting through reinforced walls was hard, noisy work. Robbers riding up in daylight, going in with guns out, and coming back with saddlebags full of loot often faced citizens—whose financial lifeblood the robbers had just drained—with guns ready to shoot, not to mention lawmen ready to do the same.

  And in the day before yesterday’s robbery, that very thing had happened—citizen Caleb York had shot and killed two of the thieves, and Sheriff Ben Wade had been in the thick of it, too. Only Wade had died, and the bandit with the greenback-stuffed saddlebags had made his escape.

  The bank opened at nine A.M., but Caleb at eight-thirty knocked on the glass and was let in one of the double doors by clerk Herbert Upton, a weak-chinned, clean-shaven, bespectacled little man in a dark gray jacket, black tie, and black pants.

  The single-room interior of the bank was modest in size but elaborate in appearance, fine wood, brass fittings, marble floor. All this implied wealth on the banker’s part and suggested stability and permanence for his facility . . . though men with guns had recently challenged that notion. The three brass-barred cashier windows were plenty for Trinidad’s needs, and the big rectangular iron safe against the back wall, by a map of the New Mexico territory, had a formidable heft.

  Upton relocked the door and said in a mid-range reedy voice, “Congratulations, Sheriff. On getting that scalawag, I mean.”

  That sounded like York had brought in a kid who’d stolen laundry off a line. But what the scrawny clerk referred to, of course, was Bill Johnson.

  “Thanks, Mr. Upton.”

  Though the morning had barely begun, everyone in town surely knew about Johnson’s demise, since undertaker Perkins already had the corpse propped up in the funeral parlor window, with a sign that read KILLED BY OUR FINE SHERIFF. York had taken a look himself, and thought Johnson looked pretty fair, considering the extra nostril.

  The president and owner of First, Thomas Carter, had no private office, just a big, impressive desk with a lot of fancy scrollwork on its edges, a barge that had dropped anchor behind a low wooden railing with a gate. Carter had been seated, going over a ledger, when York came in, but was on his feet now, though still at the desk. He issued a business-like smile and motioned for York to join him.

  The large-framed banker’s black, narrow-lapel cutaway coat revealed a gold-and-black embroidered vest with a gold watch chain; his trousers were black as well, though bearing a bold white vertical stripe. His collar was high and his bow tie was black. Like his lobby, he looked suitably impressive.

  Before taking the customer’s chair opposite the banker, York dropped his hat on the desk and also five empty First Bank canvas pouches with drawstrings, as deflated as dead balloons. Also before sitting, the sheriff withdrew from a pocket of his black trousers a wad of folded-in-half cash, a fairly thick bankroll consisting of various denomination bills.

  “That’s two hundred dollars,” York said, “taken from Bill Johnson’s pants shortly after he departed this life.”

  “Glad to have it,” the banker said in that resonant baritone, though his single raised eyebrow was reflected in his tone. “I’ll write you a receipt before you go.”

  The curling bills sat atop the closed ledger on the desk blotter like an accusation of incompetence—but whose?

  “It’s a start,” York said, nodding at the money. “Not much of one. But a start.”

  The banker gestured magnanimously. “At least you set an example for others of this Johnson’s kind.”

  “You’ve never been robbed before?”

  “Not once in twelve years.”

  York shrugged. “Well, stagecoaches are easier prey. Railroads used to be, before Pinkerton started riding along armed to the teeth. Were all three of your clerk cages open during the robbery?”

  A curt nod. “They were. And, as I’ve said, all of my clerks have revolvers at the ready. But we had two customers in the bank at the time, and the robbers came in waving guns. I raised a hand toward my clerks, as if to say, ‘The better part of valor is no resistance.’ Money can sometimes be recovered. Human lives cannot.”

  “The two dead men in the undertaker’s window yesterday, and the fresh one this morning, can testify to that. As for recovering the money, I’m hopeful.”

  Both eyebrows went up this time, and the banker leaned forward. “Are you? That’s balm to my ears, sir. How do you arrive at this opinion?”

  York leaned back in the hard chair, put his right ankle on his left knee, folded his arms. “An educated guess. The un–dearly departed William Johnson had several possibilities for escape. He was close to Las Vegas an
d the train, for example. And had he headed south, and made it over the border, he’d be livin’ high on the Mexican hog right now—not serving as a warning in a window.”

  The banker was frowning in thought. “But he did neither of those things.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Carter. He returned to Trinidad. From a standpoint of strategy, that has some appeal, chiefly how unexpected it was.”

  “I should think, sir.”

  York put both feet on the floor and sat forward. “But doing so carried considerable risk. Johnson may have figured he could get lost in that barrio with a pretty señorita. But considerin’ that part of town is across from the sheriff’s office, I would say his choice was ill-considered.”

  The banker cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. “Why ever would that villain come back to town, Mr. York?”

  “Perhaps to meet up with an accomplice.” Very quietly he said, “I’m considering the possibility that the robbery was an inside job.”

  Carter frowned. “An inside . . . that’s impossible, sir. Simply out of the question. Everyone on my staff—all three clerks, and even the janitor—has been here since we opened.”

  “Eight years ago.”

  “That’s right. You’re not a native, Sheriff, so you don’t know the history of this institution, or my role in it, but I would be happy to illuminate you.”

  “Don’t think that’s necessary,” York said, leaning back, folding his arms again. “My guess is you rolled into town with a bankroll, maybe saved from working in big-city banks and learning the ropes for, say . . . five years? So you came to Trinidad and opened not a bank, but some other business. To establish yourself as a citizen, trustworthy and upright.”

  A little surprised, Carter said, “Yes, the mercantile store was originally mine. I moved here with my wife, rest her soul, from Albuquerque. I sold out to Harris when I had saved sufficient funds to back and open this bank. With so much ranching in the area, it was needed.... Ellis was getting all that business. One of my clerks . . . Mr. Upton, the gentleman who let you in the door? . . . was with me at the mercantile.”

  “What kind of money does Upton pull?”

  The banker frowned, perhaps offended. “Aren’t you wading into waters that are none of your concern, Sheriff? Shouldn’t my people, shouldn’t any good citizen, have a certain amount of privacy?”

  “Your bank was robbed. Men died. How much, Mr. Carter?”

  He harrumphed. “Well, I recently promoted Mr. Upton to chief cashier. Really, his position hasn’t changed, but I felt he deserved a share of . . . prestige. For his years and his loyalty.”

  “You haven’t answered my question, sir.”

  He kept his voice low, his manner confidential. “Of course, you must keep in mind that we don’t work the normal sixty-hour week. It’s around forty. Bankers’ hours, as they say. So Mr. Upton’s ten dollars a week is, I would say, generous.”

  York and the banker had differing definitions of the word “generous.” But he did not press that.

  Instead, York said, “These empty bank pouches that I found in Johnson’s saddlebags. How much do they hold?”

  Carter turned over a hand. “Well, obviously, such bags can accommodate various amounts, depending upon whether it’s cash or coin, and what the denominations might be. There’s no standard answer, Sheriff.”

  “What did they hold the day Johnson and his amigos knocked over this bank?”

  The banker’s tongue came out and caught his mustache, as if he were trying to taste it. “Five thousand dollars.”

  “Total?”

  “Each.”

  York gave a slow whistle. “Five thousand dollars. Five bags. Was that the take, then? Twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  He nodded. “They didn’t bother with the cash drawers, or the coin. They wanted the money pouches.”

  “Why the hell did these bags have so much cash in them?”

  With the patience of a father explaining something to a slow child, Carter said, “Trinidad’s a ranching center, Sheriff. You know the kind of money that comes through those doors and into that safe. Periodically we send bags of cash to the Union Bank in Denver. A Wells Fargo run was scheduled for later this week.”

  “So those bags of money were just waiting here for Johnson and his boys.”

  The banker’s eyes widened and quiet indignation came into his voice. “Sheriff York, what you’re implying is irresponsible.”

  “Maybe. But I’ve been in this bank before, Mr. Carter. I had an account here I closed out last week, you’ll recall, when I believed I’d be leaving.”

  “Yes. We can put that back in effect anytime you like, of course.”

  York waved that off. “That big safe back there—mighty impressive. But every time I came in here, I noticed it was standin’ open. Isn’t that awful risky?”

  Now something like embarrassment was crawling up the high collars. “It had never proved so before. In retrospect. . . ”

  “Then why do it?”

  “Sir, it’s a common practice in Western banks. Folks of pioneer stock don’t trust a safe with its door closed.”

  “That’s funny. I’d think just the opposite.”

  The banker shook his head. “To the contrary. The depositors prefer a full view of their money stacked within, and the sight of that metal door, many inches thick. It provides the appearance of safety.”

  “Appearance is right.”

  Carter’s voice grew cold. “Sheriff, your manner is beginning to grate upon me.”

  “You and the rest of the Citizens Committee didn’t ask me to stay on because of my charm. Don’t you also have bars of gold and silver in that safe?”

  “We do. Those and the cash and coin in the cashier-window drawers were all that remained. Not enough to stay solvent. With my own infusion of funds, however, and what Mr. Zachary Gauge intends to deposit . . . well, let us just say we had a very narrow escape, sir.”

  York gestured toward the safe, whose door today was very much closed. “Why didn’t they take those bars of precious metal?”

  “Too heavy.”

  “Or too much trouble.” York nodded toward the safe. “If they knew those bags of cash were sitting there in an open safe, the thieves could risk a daring daylight robbery. Knowing they could pull it off in probably a minute.”

  The banker shrugged. “I would say your time estimate, at least, is correct.”

  “Then do you understand why I suspect an inside job?”

  The man’s chin came up. “I do not.”

  York shook his head. “Your top clerk, your ‘chief cashier,’ makes ten dollars a week. You don’t think twenty-five thousand presents a temptation? What do the other two clerks make?”

  “. . . Eight dollars a week.”

  “And the janitor?”

  “Five.”

  “I want to speak to all of them. We can do it here or at my office.”

  Alarm widened the banker’s eyes. “Oh, not at your office, Sheriff. People would talk.”

  “I kind of think people are already talking, Mr. Carter.”

  The banker shook his head firmly. “You’re wrong, Sheriff. You may be a man of sharp instincts and shrewd insights, but you misjudge this town. In a few moments, our doors will open. You’ll see no run on this bank. I dare say no one will take me up on my offer, either, of paying out twenty-five cents on the dollar for those who wish to close out their accounts.”

  Not after Zachary saved your bacon, York thought.

  “But I do understand your need,” Carter said, with strained patience, “to speak to my employees. The janitor is only here afternoons and evenings, so we will have to arrange that for another time. But you can talk to my clerks here at my desk. I’ll fill in for them at their windows as needed.”

  York talked to the three clerks, individually.

  Eldon Howe—his features regular, his build slender—was in his thirties, lived in a boardinghouse, and was dating the preacher’s daughter. He liked working
with numbers, enjoyed people, and said with a shy smile, “The money is good here—and it’s indoors and clean.”

  Plump, pleasant Wilburn Glascock was in his twenties, and he and his wife had a new baby boy. His wife had inherited a little money, and they owned a small house in town. Glascock seemed happy with his lot in life, and called the bank president “a fine man and fair to work for. We all get an extra five dollars at Christmas.”

  Each man acknowledged having a revolver in his cash drawer, but said that Carter and Upton had signaled not to use the weapons. With two customers in the bank at the time of the robbery, both men found this a prudent reaction.

  The bank’s new chief cashier, Upton, sang a similar song.

  “He’s a fine man, our Mr. Carter.” His eyes were dark blue and set so close together near a knob of a nose, the round lenses of the wire glasses nearly bumped. “Trinidad is lucky indeed to have such a conscientious guardian of its treasure.”

  This voluntary endorsement struck York as trying too hard, so he pressed the issue.

  “You don’t think some of the practices here at the bank are suspect?”

  “Suspect? What do you mean . . . ‘suspect’?”

  “Bagging that money up days before it was to be transferred. Safe doors standing open, where all of that cash was just begging to be stolen.”

  The clerk was shaking his head. “Customers get nervous, if they can’t see the insides of that safe, piled with cash.”

  “But it wasn’t piled with cash. It was piled with bags of cash. Easily transported. No withdrawal could have been quicker or easier.”

  Sweat pearled the man’s high forehead, and it wasn’t at all warm in the bank. “Just what are you implying, Sheriff?”

  York gave the man a lazy half-smile. “Am I implying something? Other than perhaps ill-advised procedure?”

  Thin lips twitched a frown. “Leaving the safe doors open has been standard practice since we opened. In eight years, there’s never been a problem.”

  “You’ve been here since the start, I understand. And you worked at the mercantile before that, also for Mr. Carter?”