Ralph Compton - Bluff City

“Damn,” Baine said. Instead of mounting, he hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and crossed the street to the general store. A tiny bell tinkled as he opened the door. The interior was cool compared to outside and filled with tantalizing scents. Baine idly surveyed the many items for sale. A display of spruce gum caught his interest. So did an assortment of wine bottles. He was regarding a stack of canned goods when someone lightly coughed.

“May I be of service, sir?”

The proprietor was a bantam rooster whose clothes and apron were immaculate. His smile was genuine enough.

“Carry any Saratoga Chips?” Baine asked.

“Sure do. Follow me.”

The section devoted to food rivaled general stores in much larger towns. There were the usual staples: butter, cheese, eggs, coffee, tea and molasses. In the rear were vegetables and fruits. Baine was tempted by the beer and salted fish but did not give in to the craving.

“Here you are.” The man held out the Saratoga Chips. “Just got in a shipment last week. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Baine shook his head.

“Passing through, are you?”

“I thought I was.”

“If you plan to stay the night, I can recommend a boardinghouse where the sheets are clean and the food is hot,” the man offered.

“I am only staying until six,” Crooked Nose Baine said.

Chapter 2

At ten minutes to six, Jesse Stark and his four partners in greed and mayhem ambled from the Cocklebur and strolled along Fremont Street. They joked and laughed, giving the impression they did not have a care in the world.

Whistler’s Flat was about to roll up the boardwalk. The bank, the general store, the feed and grain, the millinery, the butcher; they all shut their doors at six. The owners and employees were busy getting ready to close.

It was also the hour when most of the town’s womenfolk were busy making supper, and their children were helping or doing other chores.

Fremont Street was practically deserted.

The puppy came from behind the rain barrel and yipped at the five men filing by.

“Shut up, you mangy cur,” Jesse Stark said, and delivered a well-placed kick that sent the pup yelping.

“That’ll learn him,” chortled the scruffiest of the outlaw fraternity. “Were it me, I’d have blown his brains all over creation.”

“And have everyone in town fit to ride us out on a rail?” Stark said. “The idea is to not attract attention.”

Another of the five stopped at a hitch rail they were passing. Five horses were tied to the rail. He unwrapped the reins. Then, folding his arms, he leaned against the rail and shammed an interest in the cloudless sky.

Only three of the remaining outlaws entered the bank. The fourth stopped in front of the large front window and fiddled with a spur.

Jesse Stark held the door for the other two. He scanned the street a final time before following them in. Only the teller and the bank president were present.

The teller was tallying the money in his drawer and asked without looking up, “What can I do for you?”

Stark unbuttoned his shirt and pulled out a folded flour sack. “You can start by filling this. Then we’ll move to the safe.”

The clerk glanced up in alarm. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you hard of hearing?” Stark’s Remington cleared the counter. The click of the hammer was ominously loud. “The bank is being robbed.”

His Adam’s apple bobbing, the teller blinked ten times in five seconds. “Robbed, you say? My word. You can’t mean it.”

“Does this hogleg look like I’m joshing? Start filling the sack, you goose-necked simpleton.”

Instead of complying, the teller turned and bleated, “Mr. Randolph, sir. This gentleman says we are being robbed.”

“What’s that?” The white-haired bank president rose from his desk and came over. He had large jowls that quivered as he walked. “It must be a jest. No one would rob us. We don’t have enough money to make it worthwhile.”

Jesse Stark pointed the Remington at him. “Let me be the judge of that, you old goat. Now fill this, or else!” He wagged both his revolver and the flour sack to emphasize his demand.

“What do I do, Mr. Randolph?” the teller asked.

“Perhaps we should do as he wants, Horace,” the bank president said. “These three strike me as rough characters.”

“Quit jawing and fill!” Stark was growing red with anger. “I swear, the bank in Ellsworth wasn’t half the bother this one is.”

“We are a small bank,” Randolph said.

“So you don’t know how to be robbed?” Stark barked. “It’s easy. You give us the money. Then you lie on the floor and don’t let out a peep.”

“All I am saying,” Randolph said, “is that since we have never been robbed, we are not familiar with the etiquette involved.”

“If it ain’t chickens, it’s feathers,” Jesse Stark said, and shot the bank president in the head. The clerk squealed and turned to run, and Jesse shot him, too, square between the shoulder blades. “Goddamn stupid people! You tell them to fill a damn sack and they prattle on about eti—whatever it was.” He stormed around the counter and into the teller’s cage, bellowing, “One of you check the safe. The other keep an eye out. Folks will have heard the shots.”

The man who ran to the safe yanked on the metal handle. “It’s locked! Damn it, Jess. That itchy trigger finger of yours will leave us as broke as when we came in.”

Hurriedly stuffing coins and banknotes into the sack, Stark responded, “Not quite. I’ve got pretty near sixty dollars here.”

“Sixty? That’s twelve dollars apiece! Hell, I lose that much at cards in an hour. You said we would each get a hundred.”

Over at the door the other outlaw warned, “The butcher has come out of his shop and is looking this way. The same with the runt who runs the general store.”

Stark opened another drawer, but all it contained were a ledger and pencils. Swearing viciously, he wheeled and kicked the bank president in the ribs. “Eti—whatever be damned!”

“Mills is bringing the horses,” the man at the door reported. “No one is trying to stop him.”

“They better not,” Jesse Stark said.

“Maybe we should tree the town,” suggested the man over by the safe. “With the marshal gone, it will be as easy as licking butter off a knife.”

“These yokels might not scare,” Stark noted, “and there’s a heap more of them than there is of us.”

“It’s worth a try,” the other argued. “We can take what we want. Make this worth our while.”

“Breathing dirt isn’t much to my liking,” Stark said. He vaulted over the counter. “Come on. We’re lighting a shuck.”

They burst from the bank ready to sling lead, but the town was as quiet as when they entered. “See?” said the man in favor of treeing. “They’re mice hiding in their holes. Whatever we want is ours.”

“Your yearnings always did outstrip your common sense, Warner,” Stark criticized. To the man bringing their mounts he bellowed, “Hurry it up, Mills! Those are horses, not turtles!”

Down the street the butcher cupped a hand to his mouth and yelled, “What’s all the ruckus? Who are you men and what are you doing?”

“Minding our own business!” Jesse Stark shouted. “You should do the same.” He moved to the middle of the street. He still had his Remington out, and he brandished it at a farmer who stepped from the feed and grain. The farmer scurried back in.

The butcher, his apron spattered with blood from the day’s work, was advancing on them, a meat cleaver clenched in his right fist.

“Will you look at this,” Warner marveled. “What does that idiot think he’s doing?”