Shirley Murphy - The Cat, the Devil, and Lee Fontana

Double-timing back to the truck, he studied his watch, thought a minute, then dragged the body around the truck. He searched Zigler’s pockets but found no identification, false or otherwise. A few dollars, chump change. Lifting Zigler by the shoulders, breathing hard, he managed with a lot of grunting and straining to heave him up into the passenger seat. He rolled up the window halfway, closed the door, and pulled Zigler snugly against the doorframe. He slipped his own straw Stetson from the dashboard, jammed it on Zigler, settled it down over his battered face.

Before getting in the truck he ground Zigler’s blood into the dirt, scuffed it in good. He rubbed the gray behind the ears, talked to him a minute, gave him another flake of hay, and left him happily munching his early supper. If the gray grew alarmed, if some no-good approached and tried messing with him—or if Lee himself didn’t return—Lee figured the gray would jump the four-foot rail easy enough, would take off out of the barn running free.

Inside the truck he rolled up Zigler’s window, and settled the hat a little better. He pulled out with Zigler’s body riding easy beside him. Driving, he lifted the revolver out of its holster and pushed it into his belt at the small of his back. He made sure the bandana around his neck was knotted loosely, as he wanted it. The sun was disappearing in the west and, as he moved out from the stand of salty trees, a cooler breeze eased in from the desert.

30

The old truck entered town looking like many another farm vehicle, rusted and dirty, a ranch hand half asleep in the passenger seat, leaning against the window with his straw hat pulled down, maybe a little drunk, this late in the day. Several times Lee had slowed the truck to make sure no blood had seeped through the straw hat, and to wipe away trickles of the blood that crept down Zigler’s face, using a rag he’d found stuffed behind the seat. The blood had stopped now. As he drove carefully past the post office, a clerk inside was closing the venetian blinds, though lights still shone within as he locked up the front part for the night. Lee guessed the small business operators and the larger companies would pick up their cash from the back office. Two big pickups passed him and turned the corner heading around to the back, new vehicles marked with the names of two local ranches. He heard truck doors slam, heard a muffled knock and then voices, heard the back door open and close. He hoped to hell his timing was right. When he heard the men leave, when no other trucks showed up, he turned left between the post office and the burned bank, left again to the little dirt alley behind, and parked beside the wooden storage building.

He took his hat from Zigler and turned the man’s body so his face was half hidden, propping Zigler’s arm up over the seat back to hide his smashed nose. He wiped Zigler’s blood off the hatband, jammed the hat on his own head, and made sure the red bandana around his neck was loose enough. He stepped out of the truck leaving the door ajar, moved quickly to the metal-sheathed door and thumped on it hard, feeling as edgy as if he trod on hot cinders.

“Yes? Who is it?”

Lee leaned close, speaking loudly but garbling the words. “Placer Mining,” he slurred. This was the weakest point in his plan, that Placer hadn’t already been here and gone, that he could get in and get out again before their legitimate messenger drove up.

“Placer?”

Lee grunted.

“You’re early today.”

Lee relaxed a little. He’d started to say something more when he heard the spring lock turn. He pulled the bandana up over his face and drew the revolver. The instant the door cracked open he hit it with all his weight jamming it hard in the face of the startled guard. The man staggered back snatching for his gun and grabbing at his glasses, but he was already staring into the barrel of Lee’s cocked forty-five.

“If you want to live, do exactly what I tell you.” Lee’s blood surged with excitement at the thought of killing the man, a sensation that shocked him. This poor fellow wasn’t Zigler, who had attacked him and who deserved to be taken out. This was just a soft young bank guard, probably hired at the last minute and obviously not well trained at the job. The frail man gaped at him, his glasses flashing in the overhead light as Lee backed him deeper inside, pulled the door shut behind them, and slid the padlock into the hasp. He had no reason to want the man dead, to envision him bloodied and dead. The sharp thought upset him, yet he found himself shoving the gun hard into the man’s terrified face, taking pleasure in seeing the little man tremble and gasp. This wasn’t Lee’s mode of operation, his robberies were coolheaded and precise, he didn’t set out to abuse the weak and frightened. This was not his thinking, that had turned his blood hot with malice, he didn’t like where this was coming from. Angrily he eased off, pressed the barrel of the gun sideways instead, along the man’s cheek. “Get that empty mail sack, there on the desk. Take it in the vault and fill it, stuff all the money into it. I’m right behind you, you make one dicey move and you’re dead.”

Standing in the door to the vault, Lee watched the frightened clerk retrieve bundle after bundle of big bills from a set of metal drawers, watched him stuff the contents down in the bag. Two more bags stood on the floor against the wall, one full, one empty. Lee watched him fill the empty one, fight it closed at last, and pull the drawstring. The bag that was left, already bulging, was marked PLACER MINING.

“Is that all of it?”

“Yes, sir. You can see there’s nothing left.”

“Set the bags by the door, then bring the desk chair in here.”

Looking scared, the man did as he was told, wheeling the chair inside.

“Sit down, hands behind the back of the chair. Is the vault vented?”

“Yes, sir, but . . . The vent only works when the fan is on. That—that switch inside the vault door.”

“If it’s an alarm, you’re dead.”

“It’s the fan, I swear.”

Lee backed toward the door. He hesitated, watching the man. This was stupid, the damn thing had to be an alarm.

But a plain electric switch? Wouldn’t an alarm look different? Some kind of metal plate and handle or metal button? When he looked up where the clerk was looking, he could see the fan, through a dust-coated grate in the ceiling just above them. He reached for the switch, paused a moment waving the gun threateningly at the guard.

“It’s the fan switch, I swear. I’ve got a wife and two kids at home. Please . . .”

Lee flipped the switch. The fan started sluggishly, thump, thump, then took hold and began to whir. Lee backed out the door, eased to the desk while still holding the gun on his victim. He picked up a hole punch, returned to the vault fishing the roll of tape from his pants pocket. Working awkwardly, one-handed, he taped the clerk’s arms and legs to the chair. Only when the man was secure, did he slide his gun back in his belt.

With the punch he made holes in a long piece of tape, pressed this against the man’s mouth, wrapping it around to the back. That would smart when someone found him and pulled it off, but the little man looked relieved that he could breathe.

“You may be here for a spell,” Lee said. “You want me to take your glasses off?”

He grunted and shook his head.

Lee dragged the mail sacks out of the vault, looked the man over once, shut the heavy door and spun the dial. Turning, he eased the back door open, stood to the side looking up and down the alley. Dusk was falling fast, the sky deepening into gray, but the alley, the buildings and truck and Lee himself were still visible. When he didn’t hear another vehicle coming down the side street he moved on out. He carried the three bags to the truck, dropped them in back, and covered them with the saddle blanket.