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  “Ha! Here it is!” he shouted triumphantly. He held up one of the dirt-encrusted shirts. “I told you that he couldn’t have come back for the money, not without me know . . .”

  Calhoun stopped in midsentence as he saw the expressions on the faces of the people in whose hands his fate now rested.

  “You—you knew he hadn’t come back for the money, didn’t you? You just said that to trick me in to showing you where the money was.”

  “Aye, lad, ’twas a bit of chicanery,” Duff admitted.

  “You bastard!” Calhoun shouted. Moving quickly and unexpectedly, he stepped toward Meagan, who had, with the arrival of Duff and Elmer, let her guard down.

  Calhoun stepped around behind her, put his arm around her neck, and began to squeeze.

  Duff saw Meagan’s eyes begin to flutter, and he realized that Meagan could be gone in seconds, choked to death.

  Then, Meagan, who was still holding the pistol, found the strength to point it at Calhoun’s leg and pull the trigger. Calhoun went down, screaming in pain.

  Meagan returned to Chugwater in the same buckboard that had taken her out of town, but this time she was driving it, and the person who was tied up in back was Clay Calhoun.

  “We’ll stop at the jail,” Duff said.

  “Jail! I need a doctor!” Calhoun complained. “You can’t take me to jail before I see a doctor!”

  “We’ll send for the doctor after we get you in jail,” Duff promised.

  “That ain’t right,” Calhoun said. “It just ain’t right.”

  When they reached the jail, Elmer continued on down the street to the doctor’s office, while Duff ordered Calhoun out of the buckboard and into the jail.

  “I can’t walk,” Calhoun said. “Can’t you see I’ve got a bullet hole in my leg? That damn woman shot me in the leg.”

  Marshal Ferrell, who was in the office then, came out when he saw and heard all commotion. He arrived just in time to hear Calhoun complain that the woman had shot him in the leg.

  “You are the one that shot him, Miss Parker?” Marshal Ferrell asked, surprised at the revelation.

  “I am,” she said.

  “Why did you shoot him in the leg?”

  “Because I couldn’t get the gun high enough to shoot him in the head.”

  Duff, Marshal Ferrell, and Deputy Pierce, who had also come outside, laughed.

  “Come on, Calhoun, inside with you.”

  “I can’t hardly walk on this leg,” Calhoun said. “It’s hurtin’ somethin’ fierce.”

  “Well, I can fix you right up,” Deputy Pierce said. “I’ve got a crutch inside that I’m hardly using anymore. I’ll lend it to you just so’s you can walk far enough for us to throw you in jail.”

  “Clay! What the hell?” Emile said. “What are you doing here? Where’s my brother?”

  “Where’s your brother? I’ll tell you where he is. He ran out on us, that’s where he is. You, me, and him, we are the only three left alive. And he is the only one who is still free.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Johnny will get us out. I know he will.”

  “You are a fool, Emile. We all were to trust him.”

  “He’ll get us out. He told me he would, and I believe him. And if he can’t get us out one way, he’ll get us out another. He said if it came to it, he would hire the best lawyer he could find.”

  “How is he goin’ to pay for that lawyer?”

  Emile smiled. “What do you mean? I didn’t get to see any of the money, but I’ve done heard that we got over forty thousand dollars from the bank holdup. There ain’t a lawyer in the country you couldn’t hire for two hundred dollars.”

  “Yeah? Well, we ain’t got the money no more,” Calhoun said.

  “What do you mean we ain’t got the money no more? What happened to it?”

  “We hid the money out, but it got found,” Calhoun said without further elaboration.

  “So you mean we done all this for nothin’?”

  Schumacher chuckled. “Looks like you boys have been left suckin’ hind tit.”

  “What’s he doin’ in jail?” Calhoun asked.

  “They thought he had somethin’ to do with you boys takin’ the dress-makin’ woman.”

  “What the hell made them think that? He didn’t have nothin’ to do with it.”

  Marshal Ferrell returned then and, going straight to Schumacher’s cell, opened the door to let him out.

  “Sorry, Francis,” he said.

  “You were listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Marshal, you are short a man without Frankie Mullins. I’d like to come work for you again, if you’ll have me.”

  “No more roughing up the prisoners?”

  “No more, I promise.”

  “All right, stop in the office. I’ll swear you in again, and pin the badge back on.”

  “Thanks.”

  When the two returned to the office, Marshal Ferrell opened the middle drawer of his desk, pulled out a badge, and pinned in onto Schumacher’s shirt.

  “Welcome back, Francis,” Deputy Pierce said.

  “Thanks, Willie. It’s good to be back.”

  Within half an hour after Johnny left the canyon, he heard the gunshots. Thinking perhaps a posse had located his men, and not wanting to get caught up in the gun battle, he waited until he saw the buckboard heading back to town. The woman was driving the buckboard, and he recognized the two flank riders as MacCallister and Gleason.

  Where were the others?

  He waited until the buckboard was out of sight before he went back. Even before he got there, though, he knew what he was going to find. The buzzards circling overhead told him that.

  As he got farther down into the canyon, the number of circling buzzards increased. Now, many of the big, black birds were diving toward something on the ground, and as he approached Needle Rock, Johnny saw what it was. There, drawn together so that they were lying side by side, were the bodies of Blunt, Thomas, and Harper. He didn’t see Calhoun.

  For a moment, Johnny was angry. His entire gang was gone!

  Then, as he thought about it, he realized that if everyone was gone, the money they had taken from the bank was his, all his. He was rich!

  With no more than a cursory glance toward the macabre scene of the three bodies, Johnny moved quickly to the base of the Needle to dig up the money.

  As soon as he got there, though, he could see that there had been digging. A lot of purposeful digging.

  “What the hell?” he said aloud. “What is this? Who has been digging here?”

  With a feeling of anxiousness, Johnny dropped to his knees and began digging. He threw the rocks aside, and dug like a man possessed. His hands became bloodied and bruised, but that didn’t slow him down as he slashed through the soil, tossing the dirt aside.

  He knew within the first few minutes of digging that he wasn’t going to find anything. He knew, and even as he could feel the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, he refused to tell himself the truth.

  The money was there, it had to be! All he had to do was dig a little faster.

  Then, when he was much deeper than he knew they had gone, he stopped digging. It was now obvious, even beyond his own irrational hope. The money was not there.

  “No!” he shouted, the angst-ridden word echoing and reechoing through the canyon.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The night creatures called to each other as Johnny stood looking out toward Chugwater. A cloud passed over the moon, then moved away, bathing in silver the little town that rose up like a ghost before him. Several dozen buildings, half of which were lit up, fronted First Street, the main street of the town. The biggest and most brightly lit building was Fiddler’s Green.

  Someone was playing a guitar in one of the houses, and Johnny could hear the music all the way out in the hills. Johnny hobbled his horse, then walked into town. He didn’t want to be seen and he decided his arrival would be less noticeable if he arrived on fo
ot. He checked his pistol. It was loaded and slipped easily from its sheath.

  As he started into town, he caught the smell of beans and spicy beef from one of the houses, and realized that it had been a couple of days since he had eaten well. His stomach growled in protest.

  A dog barked, a high-pitched yap that was quickly silenced. A baby began to cry and a housewife raised her voice in one of the houses, launching into some private tirade about something, sharing her anger with all who were within earshot.

  The sights, smells, and sounds reminded Johnny that there was another world, a world different from his own. There was a world of wives and kids, dogs and home-cooked meals—the world of his youth. His father had been a meat cutter in a meat-processing plant in Chicago, and had come home at night exhausted and reeking of the smell of blood and offal.

  Johnny had turned his back on that world long ago, and though he had no intention of ever returning to it, there were times, such as this, when he had reflective moments. Pushing the contemplations aside, he continued on through the town, keeping as close to the fronts of the buildings as he could in order to stay in the shadows.

  Reaching the block in which the jail was located, Johnny went between two buildings, then came out in the alley behind. He knew where he was because he had been here before, the last time he had come to see his brother.

  Moving down the alley Johnny stopped behind the jail, then threw a rock in through the window into Emile’s cell. A moment later, Emile’s face appeared in the window.

  “Johnny! I know’d it was you soon as you throw’d that rock in.”

  “Shhh,” Johnny said. “Don’t give me away.”

  “When are you goin’ to get me out of here?”

  “I’m comin’ up with a plan.”

  “Yeah? Well, there ain’t none of the plans worked yet, have they?”

  Calhoun’s face appeared in the window of the cell next to Emile’s. “You comin’ to get us out?” Calhoun asked.

  “Clay, what happened after I left? Who kilt the others?”

  “You won’t hardly believe it, Johnny. They was all kilt by MacCallister. And he was shootin’ from near a mile away.”

  “There can’t nobody shoot someone from a mile away.”

  “He was damn near a mile, I tell you. Half a mile, anyway. He was so far away that you couldn’t hear the gun he was shootin’. I mean one minute Harper was standin’ there, and the next minute he was kilt, without even a sound. Same was for Blunt and Thomas.”

  “You wasn’t kilt.”

  “No, I was lucky. I was shot in the leg, though.”

  “Where is the money?”

  “What money?”

  “What money?” Johnny repeated, almost yelling the word out before catching himself. “The money from the bank job. We left it buried there, remember? Where is it?”

  “They got it,” Calhoun said.

  “They who? Where is it?”

  “MacCallister and Gleason. They got it, only they give it to the marshal so more ’n likely it’s been put back in the bank by now.”

  “How did they get it? It was hid, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, yeah, but . . .”

  “How did they get it, Calhoun? How did they know where it was?”

  Calhoun was quiet for a moment. Then, with a deep breath, he began to explain.

  “They tricked me, Johnny. They told me you had took all the money and was goin’ to run off with it. They said you already had the money. So I . . .”

  “You dumb shit. You dug it up, didn’t you?” Johnny said.

  “You don’t understand, they tricked me.”

  Johnny pulled his pistol and shot Calhoun in the forehead. Then, as every dog in the neighborhood erupted into a chorus of barking, Johnny turned and ran away, disappearing into the dark.

  “What happened?” Deputy Schumacher shouted as he ran into the back of the jail. He saw Calhoun lying on the floor with one leg still up on his bunk. There was black hole in his forehead.

  “It was someone from town,” Emile said. “You remember how they was goin’ to lynch me. They just come here and shot through the back winder. You got to protect me, Schumacher. I might be next.”

  From the Chugwater Defender:

  CLAY CALHOUN SLAIN

  KILLED IN HIS JAIL CELL

  Assailant unknown

  On the very night Clay Calhoun was brought in to jail, he was killed. Clay Calhoun was one of six men who robbed the Chugwater Bank and Trust on Clay Avenue between First and Second Streets.

  Deputy Schumacher, who was on duty at the time of the shooting, reported that a shot awakened him in the middle of the night. Determining that the shot came from the back of the jail where the cells are located, he was confused as to how such a thing could happen, as he knew that neither of his two prisoners had a weapon.

  Upon reaching the jail cell area, Deputy Schumacher saw Clay Calhoun lying on the floor, having been dispatched by a ball fired into his forehead by assailant or assailants unknown.

  Emile Taylor, who was occupying the adjacent cell, testified that someone had fired from the darkness of the alley, but he could offer no description.

  Murder Trial To Take Place

  Emile Taylor on Trial for His Life

  GALLOWS BEING BUILT

  The indictment handed down, Emile Taylor must now face justice before the court of Judge Thurman J. Pendarrow. Judge Pendarrow is known as a “no-nonsense” judge whose decrees have sent many a murderer to that higher court where one day we all must be judged for our actions here in this temporal domain.

  Taylor was one of six men who held up the Chugwater Bank and Trust on Clay Avenue. Of those six men, four are known to be dead. Only Johnny Taylor remains at large. Thanks to Duff MacCallister and Elmer Gleason, the money, except for two thousand eight hundred and twenty dollars, has all been recovered, and the bank is functioning, once more, at full capacity.

  Marshal Ferrell says that this should be a warning to any other outlaw who might have designs on holding up the Chugwater Bank and Trust. The Chugwater Bank and Trust, located on Clay Avenue between First and Second Streets, is known by all to be one of the finest banks in all of Laramie County.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Emile Taylor was in shackles, and handcuffs as Deputy Schumacher escorted him from the jail to the city courthouse, where the trial was to be held. They walked by the gallows, which was under construction.

  “What is that?” Emile asked.

  “It’s a gallows. What does it look like?” Schumacher said.

  “What are you buildin’ a gallows for? Ain’t I supposed to be tried before you start thinkin’ about hangin’ me?”

  “It’s just a matter of convenience,” Deputy Schumacher said. “If you are found guilty and Judge Pendarrow sentences you to hang, there’s no sense in waitin’ around for a gallows to be built. We’ll already have it done, so we won’t have to wait.”

  “What if I ain’t found guilty? Ain’t I supposed to be innocent until found guilty?”

  Deputy Schumacher laughed. “In that case, it won’t be any trouble to tear it down. It’s always easier to tear somethin’ down than it is to build it up.”

  “Francis, how much money would it take to bribe you to let me go?” Emile asked.

  “You don’t have enough money,” Schumacher replied.

  “Don’t be fooled by the fact that the money we stole has been took back to the bank. Me ’n’ my brother can get more money. Lots more money. How much will it take for you to let me go?”

  “You don’t understand,” Schumacher said. “When I say you don’t have enough money—I mean no matter how much money you might have, it isn’t enough. The marshal took me on and give me back my pride. I don’t intend to do anything to betray him.”

  “I thought we was friends,” Emile said.

  “You thought wrong.”

  The courthouse was packed with people. So many had come for the trial that the courtroom spilled over and th
ere were dozens waiting outside.

  “This many people comin’ to the trial?” Emile asked in surprise.

  “Oh, yes. Danny Welch was a very popular man. He was a husband, father, a Sunday school teacher. You couldn’t have made a bigger mistake than to kill one of our finest citizens.”

  Schumacher smiled. “On the other hand, look at it this way. These folks are all going to have to stand outside during the trial, but you will have the best seat in the house.”

  Schumacher opened the door, then pushed Emile in, in front of him. “Go on down to the front,” he said. “There is a table and chair, just waiting for you.”

  As Emile started toward the front of the packed gallery, he could hear some of the comments from the spectators.

  “I don’t know why we’re wastin’ time holdin’ a trial for the son of a bitch. We should go ahead and just hang him now.”

  “Why? He won’t be no more dead than he’ll be when we hang him after the trial.”

  “I reckon that’s right.”

  Robert Dempster was setting at the defendant’s table, and he stood up as Emile approached.

  “I’ve got you again?” Emile said.

  “I’ve studied your case.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I ain’t got no choice, seein’ as I don’t have the money to hire me a real lawyer.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Taylor, I am a real lawyer,” Dempster said.

  “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! This here trial is about to commence, the Honorable Thurman Pendarrow, presidin’,” Marshal Ferrell, who was acting as the bailiff, shouted. “Everybody stand.”

  The Honorable Thurman Pendarrow came out of a back room. After taking his seat at the bench, he adjusted the glasses on the end of his nose, then cleared his throat.

  “Would the bailiff please bring the accused before the bench?”