Black Jack by Max Brand (short story to read TXT) 📕

money would lead. The leader knew every inch of the mountains, it seemed. His memory was better than a map; in it was jotted down every fallen log, every boulder, it seemed. And when his mind was fixed on the best spot for the holdup, he sketched his plan briefly.

To this man and to that, parts were assigned in brief. There would be more to say in the morning about the details. And every man offered suggestions. On only one point were they agreed. This was a sum of money for which they could well afford to spill blood. For such a prize as this they could well risk making the countryside so hot for themselves that they would have to leave Pollard's house and establish headquarters elsewhere. Two shares to Pollard and one to each of his men, including Sandy, would make the total loot some four thousand dollars and more per man. And in the event that someone fell in the attempt, which was more than probable, the share for the rest would be raised to ten thousand for Pollard and five thousand for each of the rest. Terry saw cold glances pass the rounds, and more than one dwelt upon him. He was the last to join; if there were to be a death in this affair, he would be the least missed of all.

A sharp order from Pollard terminated the conference and sent his men to bed, with Pollard setting the example. But Terry lingered behind and called back Denver.

"There is one point," he said when they were alone, "that it seems to me the chief has overlooked."

"Talk up, kid," grinned Denver Pete. "I seen you was thinking. It sure does me good to hear you talk. What's on your mind? Where was Joe wrong?"

"Not wrong, perhaps. But he overlooked this fact: tonight the safe is guarded by three men only; tomorrow it will be guarded by six."

Denver stared, and then blinked.

"You mean, try the safe right in town, inside the old bank? Son, you don't know the gents in this town. They sleep with a gat under every head and ears that hear a pin drop in the next room—right while they're snoring. They dream about fighting and they wake up ready to shoot."

Terry smiled at this outburst.

"How long has it been since there was a raid on McGuire's town?"

"Dunno. Don't remember anybody being that foolish"

"Then it's been so long that it'll give us a chance. It's been so long that the three men on guard tonight will be half asleep."

"I dunno but you're right. Why didn't you speak up in company? I'll call the chief and—"

"Wait," said Terry, laying a hand on the round, hard-muscled shoulder of the yegg. "I had a purpose in waiting. Seven men are too many to take into a town."

"Eh?"

"Two men might surprise three. But seven men are more apt to be surprised."

"Two ag'in' three ain't such bad odds, pal. But—the first gun that pops, we'll have the whole town on our backs."

"Then we'll have to do it without shooting. You understand, Denver?"

Denver scratched his head. Plainly he was uneasy; plainly, also, he was more and more fascinated by the idea.

"You and me to turn the trick alone?" he whispered out of the side of his mouth in a peculiar, confidentially guilty way that was his when he was excited. "Kid, I begin to hear the old Black Jack talk in you! I begin to hear him talk! I knew it would come!"

CHAPTER 34

An hour's ride brought them to the environs of the little town. But it was already nearly the middle of night and the village was black; whatever life waked at that hour had been drawn into the vortex of Pedro's. And Pedro's was a place of silence. Terry and Denver skirted down the back of the town and saw the broad windows of Pedro's, against which passed a moving silhouette now and again, but never a voice floated out to them.

Otherwise the town was dead. They rode until they were at the other extremity of the main street. Here, according to Denver, was the bank which had never in its entire history been the scene of an attempted raid. They threw the reins of their horses after drawing almost perilously close.

"Because if we get what we want," said Terry, "it will be too heavy to carry far."

And Denver agreed, though they had come so close that from the back of the bank it must have been possible to make out the outlines of the horses. The bank itself was a broad, dumpy building with adobe walls, whose corners had been washed and rounded by time to shapelessness. The walls angled in as they rose; the roof was flat. As for the position, it could not have been worse. A dwelling abutted on either side of the bank. The second stories of those dwellings commanded the roof of the bank; and the front and back porches commanded the front and back entrances of the building.

The moment they had dismounted, Terry and Denver stood a while motionless. There was no doubt, even before they approached nearer, about the activity and watchfulness of the guards who took care of the new deposit in the bank. Across the back wall of the building drifted a shadowy outline—a guard marching steadily back and forth and keeping sentry watch.

"A stiff job, son," muttered Denver. "I told you these birds wouldn't sleep with more'n one eye; and they's a few that's got 'em both open."

But there was no wavering in Terry. The black stillness of the night; the soundless, slowly moving figure across the wall of the building; the hush, the stars, and the sense of something to be done stimulated him, filled him with a giddy happiness such as he had never known before. Crime? It was no crime to Terry Hollis, but a great and delightful game.

Suddenly he regretted the very presence of Denver Pete. He wanted to be alone with this adventure, match his cunning and his strength against whoever guarded the money of old Lewison, the miser.

"Stay here," he whispered in the ear of Denver. "Keep quiet. I'm going to slip over there and see what's what. Be patient. It may take a long time."

Denver nodded.

"Better let me come along. In case—"

"Your job is opening that safe; my job is to get you to it in safety and get you away again with the stuff." Denver shrugged his shoulders. It was much in the method of famous old Black Jack himself. There were so many features of similarity between the methods of the boy and his father that it seemed to Denver that the ghost of the former man had stepped into the body of his son.

In the meantime Terry faded into the dark. His plan of approach was perfectly simple. The house to the right of the bank was painted blue. Against that dark background no figure stood out clearly. Instead of creeping close to the ground to get past the guard at the rear of the building, he chose his time when the watcher had turned from the nearest end of his beat and was walking in the opposite direction. The moment that happened, Terry strode forward as lightly and rapidly as possible.

Luckily the ground was quite firm. It had once been planted with grass, and though the grass had died, its roots remained densely enough to form a firm matting, and there was no telltale crunching of the sand underfoot. Even so, some slight sound made the guard pause abruptly in the middle of his walk and whirl toward Terry. Instead of attempting to hide by dropping down to the ground, it came to Terry that the least motion in the dark would serve to make him visible. He simply halted at the same moment that the guard halted and trusted to the dark background of the house which was now beside him to make him invisible. Apparently he was justified. After a moment the guard turned and resumed his pacing, and Terry slipped on into the narrow walk between the bank and the adjoining house on the right.

He had hoped for a side window. There was no sign of one. Nothing but the sheer, sloping adobe wall, probably of great thickness, and burned to the density of soft stone. So he came to the front of the building, and so doing, almost ran into a second guard, who paced down the front of the bank just as the first kept watch over the rear entrance. Terry flattened himself against the side wall and held his breath. But the guard had seen nothing and, turning again at the end of his beat, went back in the opposite direction, a tall, gaunt man—so much Terry could make out even in the dark, and his heel fell with the heaviness of age. Perhaps this was Lewison himself.

The moment he was turned, Terry peered around the corner at the front of the building. There were two windows, one close to his corner and one on the farther side of the door. Both were lighted, but the farther one so dimly that it was apparent the light came from one source, and that source directly behind the window nearest Terry. He ventured one long, stealthy pace, and peered into the window.

As he had suspected, the interior of the bank was one large room. Half of it was fenced off with steel bars that terminated in spikes at the top as though, ludicrously, they were meant to keep one from climbing over. Behind this steel fencing were the safes of the bank. Outside the fence at a table, with a lamp between them, two men were playing cards. And the lamplight glinted on the rusty old safe which stood a little at one side.

Certainly old Lewison was guarding his money well. The hopes of Terry
disappeared, and as Lewison was now approaching the far end of his beat,
Terry glided back into the walk between the buildings and crouched there.
He needed time and thought sadly.

As far as he could make out, the only two approaches to the bank, front and rear, were thoroughly guarded. Not only that, but once inside the bank, one would encounter the main obstacle, which consisted of two heavily armed men sitting in readiness at the table. If there were any solution to the problem, it must be found in another examination of the room.

Again the tall old man reached the end of his beat nearest Terry, turned with military precision and went back. Terry slipped out and was instantly at the window again. All was as before. One of the guards had laid down his cards to light a cigarette, and dense clouds of smoke floated above his head. That partial obscurity annoyed Terry. It seemed as if the luck were playing directly against him. However, the smoke began to clear rapidly. When it had mounted almost beyond the strongest inner circle of the lantern light, it rose with a sudden impetus, as though drawn up by an electric fan. Terry wondered at it, and squinted toward the ceiling, but the ceiling was lost in shadow.

He returned to his harborage between the two buildings for a fresh session of thought. And then his idea came to him. Only one thing could have sucked that straight upward so rapidly, and that was either a fan— which was ridiculous—or else a draught of air passing through an opening in the ceiling.

Unquestionably that was the case. Two windows, small as they were, would never serve adequately to ventilate the big single room of the bank. No doubt there was a skylight in the roof of the building and another aperture in the floor of the loft.

At least that was the supposition upon which he must act, or else not act at all. He went back as he had come, passed the rear guard easily, and found Denver unmoved beside the heads Of the horses.

"Denver," he said, "we've got to get to the roof of that bank, and the only way we can reach it is through the skylight."

"Skylight?" echoed Denver. "Didn't know there was one." "There has to be," said Terry, with surety. "Can you force a door in one of those houses so we can get to the second story of one of 'em and drop to the roof?"

"Force nothing," whispered Denver. "They don't know what locks on doors mean around here."

And he was right.