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.
They circled in a broad detour and slipped onto the back porch of the
blue house; the guard at the rear of the bank was whistling softly as he
walked.
"Instead of watchdogs they keep doors with rusty hinges," said Denver as
he turned the knob, and the door gave an inch inward. "And I dunno which
is worst. But watch this, bo!"
And he began to push the door slowly inward. There was never a slackening
or an increase in the speed with which his hand travelled. It took him a
full five minutes to open the door a foot and a half. They slipped
inside, but Denver called Terry back as the latter began to feel his way
across the kitchen.
"Wait till I close this door."
"But why?" whispered Terry.
"Might make a draught--might wake up one of these birds. And there you
are. That's the one rule of politeness for a burglar, Terry. Close the
doors after you!"
And the door was closed with fully as much caution and slowness as had
been used when it was opened. Then Denver took the lead again. He went
across the kitchen as though he could see in the dark, and then among the
tangle of chairs in the dining room beyond. Terry followed in his wake,
taking care to step, as nearly as possible, in the same places. But for
all that, Denver continually turned in an agony of anger and whispered
curses at the noisy clumsiness of his companion--yet to Terry it seemed
as though both of them were not making a sound.
The stairs to the second story presented a difficult climb. Denver showed
him how to walk close to the wall, for there the weight of their bodies
would act with less leverage on the boards and there would be far less
chance of causing squeaks. Even then the ascent was not noiseless. The
dry air had warped the timber sadly, and there was a continual procession
of murmurs underfoot as they stole to the top of the stairs.
To Terry, his senses growing superhumanly acute as they entered more and
more into the heart of their danger, it seemed that those whispers of the
stairs might serve to waken a hundred men out of sound sleep; in reality
they were barely audible.
In the hall a fresh danger met them. A lamp hung from the ceiling, the
flame turned down for the night. And by that uneasy light Terry made out
the face of Denver, white, strained, eager, and the little bright eyes
forever glinting back and forth. He passed a side mirror and his own face
was dimly visible. It brought him erect with a squeak of the flooring
that made Denver whirl and shake his fist.
For what Terry had seen was the same expression that had been on the face
of his companion--the same animal alertness, the same hungry eagerness.
But the fierce gesture of Denver brought him back to the work at hand.
There were three rooms on the side of the hall nearest the bank. And
every door was closed. Denver tried the nearest door first, and the
opening was done with the same caution and slowness which had marked the
opening of the back door of the house. He did not even put his head
through the opening, but presently the door was closed and Denver
returned.
"Two," he whispered.
He could only have told by hearing the sounds of two breathing; Terry
wondered quietly. The man seemed possessed of abnormal senses. It was
strange to see that bulky, burly, awkward body become now a sensitive
organism, possessed of a dangerous grace in the darkness.
The second door was opened in the same manner. Then the third, and in the
midst of the last operation a man coughed. Instinctively Terry reached
for the handle of his gun, but Denver went on gradually closing the door
as if nothing had happened. He came back to Terry.
"Every room got sleepers in it," he said. "And the middle room has got a
man who's awake. We'll have to beat it."
"We'll stay where we are," said Terry calmly, "for thirty minutes--by
guess. That'll give him time to go asleep. Then we'll go through one of
those rooms and drop to the roof of the bank."
The yegg cursed softly. "Are you trying to hang me?" he gasped.
"Sit down," said Terry. "It's easier to wait that way."
And they sat cross-legged on the floor of the hall. Once the springs of a
bed creaked as someone turned in it heavily. Once there was a voice--one
of the sleepers must have spoken without waking. Those two noises, and no
more, and yet they remained for what seemed two hours to Terry, but what
he knew could not be more than twenty minutes.
"Now," he said to Denver, "we start."
"Through one of them rooms and out the windows--without waking anybody
up?"
"You can do it. And I'll do it because I have to. Go on."
He heard the teeth of Denver grit, as though the yegg were being driven
on into this madcap venture merely by a pride which would not allow him
to show less courage--even rash courage--than his companion.
The door opened--Denver went inside and was soaked up--a shadow among
shadows. Terry followed and stepped instantly into the presence of the
sleeper. He could tell it plainly. There was no sound of breathing,
though no doubt that was plain to the keen ear of Denver--but it was
something more than sound or sight. It was like feeling a soul--that
impalpable presence in the night. A ghostly and a thrilling thing to
Terry Hollis.
Now, against the window on the farther side of the room, he made out the
dim outline of Denver's chunky shoulders and shapeless hat. Luckily the
window was open to its full height. Presently Terry stood beside Denver
and they looked down. The roof of the bank was only some four feet below
them, but it was also a full three feet in distance from the side of the
house. Terry motioned the yegg back and began to slip through the window.
It was a long and painful process, for at any moment a button might catch
or his gun scrape--and the least whisper would ruin everything. At
length, he hung from his arms at full length. Glancing down, he faintly
saw Lewison turn at the end of his beat. Why did not the fool look up?
With that thought he drew up his feet, secured a firm purchase against the
side of the house, raised himself by the ledge, and then flung himself
out into the air with the united effort of arms and legs.
He let himself go loose and relaxed in the air, shot down, and felt the
roof take his weight lightly, landing on his toes. He had not only made
the leap, but he had landed a full foot and a half in from the edge of
the roof.
Compared with the darkness of the interior of the house, everything on
the outside was remarkably light now. He could see Denver at the window
shaking his head. Then the professional slipped over the sill with
practiced ease, dangled at arm's length, and flung himself out with a
quick thrust of his feet against the wall.
The result was that while his feet were flung away far enough and to
spare, the body of Denver inclined forward. He seemed bound to strike the
roof with his feet and then drop head first into the alley below. Terry
set his teeth with a groan, but as he did so, Denver whirled in the air
like a cat. His body straightened, his feet barely secured a toehold on
the edge of the roof. The strong arm of Terry jerked him in to safety.
For a moment they stood close together, Denver panting.
He was saying over and over again: "Never again. I ain't any acrobat,
Black Jack!"
That name came easily on his lips now.
Once on the roof it was simple enough to find what they wanted. There was
a broad skylight of dark green glass propped up a foot or more above the
level of the rest of the flat roof. Beside it Terry dropped upon his
knees and pushed his head under the glass. All below was pitchy-black,
but he distinctly caught the odor of Durham tobacco smoke.