Black Jack - Max Brand (top 10 most read books in the world TXT) 📗

class="calibre1">“Sit tight!” he ordered them in a cutting whisper. “Not a move, my

friends!”

 

There was a convulsive movement toward a gun on the part of the first

man, but the gesture was frozen midway; the second man looked up, gaping,

ludicrous in astonishment. But Terry was in no mood to see the

ridiculous.

 

“Look down again!” he ordered brusquely. “Keep on with that game. And the

moment one of you goes for a gun—the minute one of you makes a sign or a

sound to reach the man in front of the house, I drill you both. Is that

clear?”

 

The neck of the man who was nearest to him swelled as though he were

lifting a great weight with his head; no doubt he was battling with

shrewd temptations to spring to one side and drive a bullet at the

robbers above him. But prudence conquered. He began to deal, laying out

the cards with mechanical, stiff motions.

 

“Now,” said Terry to Denver.

 

Denver was through the opening in a flash and dropped to the floor below

with a thud. Then he leaped away toward the wall out of sight of Terry.

Suddenly a loud, nasal voice spoke through one of the front windows:

 

“What was that, boys?”

 

Terry caught his breath. He dared not whisper advice to those men at the

table for fear his voice might carry to the guard who was apparently

leaning at the window outside. But the dealer jerked his head for an

instant toward the direction in which Denver had disappeared. Evidently

the yegg was silently communicating imperious instructions, for presently

the dealer said, in a voice natural enough: “Nothing happened, Lewison. I

just moved my chair; that was all, I figure.”

 

“I dunno,” growled Lewison. “I been waiting for something to happen for

so long that I begin to hear things and suspect things where they ain’t

nothing at all.”

 

And, still mumbling, his voice passed away.

 

Terry followed Denver’s example, dropping through the opening; but, more

cautious, he relaxed his leg muscles, so that he landed in a bunched

heap, without sound, and instantly joined Denver on the farther side of

the room. Lewison’s gaunt outline swept past the window at the same

moment.

 

He found that he had estimated viewpoints accurately enough. From only

the right-hand window could Lewison see into the interior of the room and

make out his two guards at the table. And it was only by actually leaning

through the window that he would be able to see the safe beside which

Terry and Denver stood.

 

“Start!” said Terry, and Denver deftly laid out a little kit and two

small packages. With incredible speed he began to make his molding of

soft soap around the crack of the safe door. Terry turned his back on his

companion and gave his undivided attention to the two at the table.

 

Their faces were odd studies in suppressed shame and rage. The muscles

were taut; their hands shook with the cards.

 

“You seem kind of glum, boys!” broke in the voice of Lewison at the

window.

 

Terry flattened himself against the wall and jerked up his gun—a warning

flash which seemed to be reflected by the glint in the eyes of the red-headed man facing him. The latter turned slowly to the window.

 

“Oh, we’re all right,” he drawled. “Kind of getting wearying, this

watch.”

 

“Mind you,” crackled the uncertain voice of Lewison, “five dollars if you

keep on the job till morning. No, six dollars, boys!”

 

He brought out the last words in the ringing voice of one making a

generous sacrifice, and Terry smiled behind his mask. Lewison passed on

again. Forcing all his nerve power into the faculty of listening, Terry

could tell by the crunching of the sand how the owner of the safe went

far from the window and turned again toward it.

 

“Start talking,” he commanded softly of the men at the table.

 

“About what?” answered the red-haired man through his teeth. “About what,

damn you!”

 

“Tell a joke,” ordered Terry.

 

The other scowled down at his hand of cards—and then obeyed.

 

“Ever hear about how Rooney—”

 

The voice was hard at the beginning; then, in spite of the levelled gun

which covered him, the red-haired man became absorbed in the interest of

the tale. He began to labor to win a smile from his companion. That would

be something worthwhile—something to tell about afterward; how he made

Pat laugh while a pair of bandits stood in a corner with guns on them!

 

In his heart Terry admired that red-haired man’s nerve. The next time

Lewison passed the window, he darted out and swiftly went the rounds of

the table, relieving each man of his weapon. He returned to his place.

Pat had broken into hearty laughter.

 

“That’s it!” cried Lewison, passing the window again. “Laughin’ keeps a

gent awake. That’s the stuff, Red!” A time of silence came, with only the

faint noises of Denver at his rapid work.

 

“Suppose they was to rush the bank, even?” said Lewison on his next trip

past the window.

 

“Who’s they?” asked Red, and looked steadily into the mouth of Terry’s

gun.

 

“Why, them that wants my money. Money that I slaved and worked for all my

life! Oh, I know they’s a lot of crooked thieves that would like to lay

hands on it. But I’m going to fool ‘em, Red. Never lost a cent of money

in all my born days, and I ain’t going to form the habit this late in

life. I got too much to live for!”

 

And he went on his way muttering.

 

“Ready!” said Denver.

 

“Red,” whispered Terry, “how’s the money put into the safe?”

 

The big, red-haired fellow fought him silently with his eyes.

 

“I dunno!”

 

“Red,” said Terry swiftly, “you and your friend are a dead weight on us

just now. And there’s one quick, convenient way of getting rid of you.

Talk out, my friend. Tell us how that money is stowed.”

 

Red flushed, the veins in the center of his forehead swelling under a

rush of blood to the head. He was silent.

 

It was Pat who weakened, shuddering.

 

“Stowed in canvas sacks, boys. And some paper money.”

 

The news of the greenbacks was welcome, for a large sum of gold would be

an elephant’s burden to them in their flight.

 

“Wait,” Terry directed Denver. The latter kneeled by his fuse until

Lewison passed far down the end of his beat. Terry stepped to the door

and dropped the bolt.

 

“Now!” he commanded.

 

He had planned his work carefully. The loose strips of cords which Denver

had put into his pocket—“nothing so handy as strong twine,” he had

said—were already drawn out. And the minute he had given the signal, he

sprang for the men at the table, backed them into a corner, and tied

their hands behind their backs.

 

The fuse was sputtering.

 

“Put out the light!” whispered Denver. It was done—a leap and a puff of

breath, and then Terry had joined the huddled group of men at the farther

end of the room.

 

“Hey!” called Lewison. “What’s happened to the light? What the hell—”

 

His voice boomed out loudly at them as he thrust his head through the

window into the darkness. He caught sight of the red, flickering end of

the fuse.

 

His voice, grown shrill and sharp, was chopped off by the explosion. It

was a noise such as Terry had never heard before—like a tremendously

condensed and powerful puff of wind. There was not a sharp jar, but he

felt an invisible pressure against his body, taking his breath. The sound

of the explosion was dull, muffled, thick. The door of the safe crushed

into the flooring.

 

Terry had nerved himself for two points of attack—Lewison from the front

of the building, and the guard at the rear. But Lewison did not yell for

help. He had been dangerously close to the explosion and the shock to his

nerves, perhaps some dislodged missile, had flung him senseless on the

sand outside the bank.

 

But from the rear of the building came a dull shout; then the door beside

which Terry stood was dragged open—he struck with all his weight,

driving his fist fairly into the face of the man, and feeling the

knuckles cut through flesh and lodge against the cheekbone. The guard

went down in the middle of a cry and did not stir. Terry leaned to shake

his arm—the man was thoroughly stunned. He paused only to scoop up the

fallen revolver which the fellow had been carrying, and fling it into the

night. Then he turned back into the dark bank, with Red and Pat cursing

in frightened unison as they cowered against the wall behind him.

 

The air was thick with an ill-smelling smoke, like that of a partially

snuffed candle. Then he saw a circle of light spring out from the

electric lantern of Denver and fall on the partially wrecked safe. And it

glinted on yellow. One of the sacks had been slit and the contents were

running out onto the floor like golden water.

 

Over it stooped the shadow of Denver, and Terry was instantly beside him.

They were limp little sacks, marvellously ponderous, and the chill of the

metal struck through the canvas to the hand. The searchlight flickered

here and there—it found the little drawer which was wrenched open and

Denver’s stubby hand came out, choked with greenbacks.

 

“Now away!” snarled Denver. And his voice shook and quaked; it reminded

Terry of the whine of a dog half-starved and come upon meat—a savage,

subdued sound.

 

There was another sound from the street where old Lewison was coming to

his senses—a gasping, sound, and then a choked cry: “Help!”

 

His senses and his voice seemed to return to him with a rush. His shriek

split through the darkness of the room like a ray of light probing to

find the guilty: “Thieves! Help!”

 

The yell gave strength to Terry. He caught some of the burden that was

staggering Denver into his own arms and floundered through the rear door

into the blessed openness of the night. His left arm carried the crushing

burden of the canvas sacks—in his right hand was the gun—but no form

showed behind him.

 

But there were voices beginning. The yells of Lewison had struck out

echoes up and down the street. Terry could hear shouts begin inside

houses in answer, and bark out with sudden clearness as a door or a

window was opened.

 

They reached the horses, dumped the precious burdens into the saddlebags,

and mounted.

 

“Which way?” gasped Denver.

 

A light flickered in the bank; half a dozen men spilled out of the back

door, cursing and shouting.

 

“Walk your horse,” said Terry. “Walk it—you fool!”

 

Denver had let his horse break into a trot. He drew it back to a walk at

this hushed command.

 

“They won’t see us unless we start at a hard gallop,” continued Terry.

“They won’t watch for slowly moving objects now. Besides, it’ll be ten

minutes before the sheriff has a posse organized. And that’s the only

thing we have to fear.”