THE DOUBLE BANK ROBBERY.
For a moment the sheriff stood like a man stricken suddenly dumb. Jesse
faced him with a mocking smile on his face.
"You--you are--Get out of here! Vamoose quicker'n a streak of greased
lightning. Don't you know I'm an officer of the law?" exclaimed the
gamey little sheriff suddenly turning his back on Jesse and Frank.
And the latter two with a laugh walked from the scene of carnage and
disappeared in the night.
"Well," snarled Frank, "you have put your foot in it this time
everlastingly."
"Oh, I don't know. We'll see," was his laconic answer.
The two men walked across a vacant lot, picked up their horses,
mounted and rode out to a mountain gulch nearby, where they joined
their fellows. It was no unusual thing for horsemen to be seen on the
streets of Silver City, and therefore it excited no comment when seven
men rode in from different directions on the following morning. The
uniform quality of their horseflesh, however, did attract the attention
of the mountaineers, but though each carried a Winchester in his saddle
holster, the men excited no more than ordinary interest.
So changed in appearance were the notorious outlaw and his brother
that it would have been a keen eye indeed, that would have been able
to discover, under their disguises, the men whose guns had done such
deadly work in the Golden Arrow on the previous evening.
None of the newcomers appeared to be traveling together. Now and then
one would drop from his horse and visit a saloon, two visited the
postoffice and others took in a general store below in which was the
second bank.
But had one been suspicious he might have noted a certain method in the
actions of these newcomers who seemed to be everywhere at once, and yet
acting without any apparent motive.
After a time the band seemed to have formed in two sections--one at the
north end of the main street and the other at the south, the latter
section consisting of fewer men than the northern group.
On the north might have been found the great outlaw, his brother having
cast his lot with the band to the south.
Jesse sauntered carelessly into the postoffice and asked if there was
any mail for Jim Howard.
While the postmaster was looking over his letters Wild Bill slipped
behind the case and dealt the postmaster a terrific blow with the butt
of his revolver.
While the act was in plain view of the street through the large front
window, there chanced to be no one passing at the moment, and neither
was the brutal assault observable to those in the bank on the other
side of the partition.
"Who are you?" demanded Jesse as a fellow, hideous in his hunchbacked
deformity leered up into his face.
"I reckon I don't know you either?" was the enigmatical reply.
"You're Jake Fowler. I know you."
"But you ain't Sagebrush Sam. What do you want here?"
"S-h-h," whispered Jesse. "He sent me here. How many men are over there
behind the counter of the bank?"
"Two, the owner and the cashier," informed the other, his eye twinkling
with intelligence.
"Call them over here. Tell them the postmaster has been hurt. They
won't see me, but my pard here will cover them the minute they get
behind the case, and we'll hold you in here till we get through. No
tricks or I'll shoot you full of holes," hissed the desperado, dropping
behind a barrel and motioning to Bill to make himself scarce, as Jake
ran to the bank counter in great excitement.
"Come quick!" cried Jake. "The postmaster has been hurt or else he's
fallen in a fit."
"What--where?" cried the two bankers excitedly.
"Over here. Hurry."
Jake was playing his part as if he had been studying it for months and
Jesse grinned approvingly.
The three had stooped to raise the body of the prostrate man when they
were startled by the sudden command:
"Move an inch and you're both dead men."
The owner of the bank started to utter an exclamation, but the words
froze in his mouth as looking sideways he found himself gazing along
the black, menacing barrel of a heavy "Colt's."
Jesse, not wasting the time to go around into the enclosure, had leaped
the counter and was down on his knees in front of the large open safe
whose doors were swung wide, displaying their glittering contents to
his avaricious gaze.
Gold, bills, little sacks of precious dust were swept with ruthless
hand into the yawning gunny sack like meal from a miller's hopper.
Meanwhile two mounted men in front had dismounted and were busily
engaged in tightening their saddle girths, apparently oblivious to
anything that was going on around them.
Not a soul save those directly connected with the daring robbery had
been disturbed.
With a sweeping glance around him, Jesse, observed with a grin that the
coast was clear, and came around the counter with the bag of precious
loot in his hand.
Not a word was spoken as he passed around to the rear of the Postoffice
case.
Raising his gun by the barrel he brought it down with terrific force,
first on the head of one and then on the other of the bankers. They
fell forward groaning.
"Follow me and guard the rear," announced Jesse to Wild Bill. "Here's
a drunk for you baby," he added, tossing a thousand dollar bill to the
hunch-back. "Better mosey or they'll be stringing you up before the sun
is over the gulch. You'll get drunk and that'll be the end of you."
"Can't I go with you?" leered the outlaw. "I ain't no tenderfoot."
"Not unless you are ready to die," retorted Jesse
"Then I'll peach," was the sudden and unexpected reply.
A sudden rage leaped into the eyes of the outlaw.
Throwing his gun down on the horrible dwarf he pulled the trigger. "I
guess that'll hold him a while," decided the outlaw with a cruel smile,
as the dwarf fell over dead.
"Shall I get the money you gave 'im?" asked Bill
"No," snapped the desperado. "Jesse James does not rob dead men's
pockets. It's his. Let him have it."
Strangely enough to the outlaws the shot had attracted no attention.
And mounting they rode leisurely up the street toward the store where
the second bank was located. He could see the remaining members of the
band lounging recklessly about in the street in front of the place, and
wondering at the delay.
"Something must have gone wrong," he muttered, urging his horse along a
little faster.
Just then the ground under them was shaken by a dull heavy explosion.
People came flocking from shop and saloon and curious scared faces
appeared at the open windows of upper stories.
"Dynamite," he growled.
"It's the bank!" was the startling cry, taken up from mouth to mouth
and passed along down the village street, as a shouting, gesticulating,
yelling mob rushed to the store where the second bank was located.
The desperado saw his men coolly swing themselves into their saddles
and face the mob with leveled Winchesters.
A rain of scattered shots began to patter about those in front of the
bank. But the men held their fire, ordering the people back on the pain
of instant death.
A thirty-two stung Comanche Tony in the cheek.
Throwing his Winchester to his shoulder he shot the man who had wounded
him, dead.
The citizens answered with a volley. At that the desperadoes pumped
their magazines, into the crowd, until they were emptied and then
released their revolvers from their holsters began fanning the mad mob
with deadly effect.
Jesse, having secured the gunny sack firmly to his saddle, and so that
it might not impede his movements, rode still leisurely along.
Suddenly he espied Frank running down the steps of the store. Like
his younger brother, Frank also bore a gunny sack and from the manner
in which Frank was carrying it, Jesse understood that his brother had
succeeded in his mission of plunder.
Frank swung into his saddle under a perfect storm of bullets.
With a wild whoop and a savage yell the great desperado and his
immediate companions dug the rowels of their spurs into their horses
and charged down on the crowd.
The mob taken suddenly by surprise at this attack on their flank,
ceased firing and fell swiftly back.
"Forward!" roared the great desperado.
Frank and his men heard and understood.
Their horses sprang away under the pressure of the cruel spurs.
Now Jesse and his companions thundered down on the crowd in the wake of
the first line of fleeing desperadoes.
All at once a slight, wiry figure sprang out into the middle of the
street.
"Halt! I know you, Jesse James."
But the desperado threw himself suddenly forward on the neck of his
horse as the sheriff's bullets sang over him so close to his head that
he could feel the hair on the top of his head, slightly pulled back by
the sudden suction of air from the leaden pellets.
Both his revolvers flashed up on either side of the horse's neck. They
barked in unison and the sheriff fell dead.
The outlaw's horse leaping over the body of the fallen officer of the
law, sped away.
Jesse rose in his saddle and sent a volley of shots from his Winchester
into the crowd in his rear. Then he was obliged to cease firing because
of the fear of hitting one of his own men, whose bodies were now
between him and the mob. The men had swung half way round in their
saddles, reins on their horses' necks, and were pumping lead into the
mad mob with deadly effect.
Jesse fired a signal shot high into the air.
Their fusilade suddenly ceased.
With a wild, blood-curdling yell, the desperadoes dug their spurs deep
into the sleek sides of the sensitive thoroughbreds and sped off like
the wind headed for the protection of the mountain fastness.