“I’m taking a trip, Mr. Hampton, and I need to make a withdrawal.”
Orville Hampton frowned.
“I wasn’t aware that you had an account with the bank, Sheriff,” the older man said. He was in his late fifties, at least fifteen years older than Moran, a stocky man who wore three-piece suits.
“I don’t,” Moran said, “but I’m making a withdrawal anyway.”
“You mean you want a loan?” Hampton said in an effort to understand what the sheriff was driving at.
“No, I mean I’m making a withdrawal.”
“I don’t understand,” Hampton said, confused. “How much—”
“Just take a sack and fill it up, Mr. Hampton,” Moran said. He drew his gun, pointed it at the bank manager and added, “Now.”
“W–what—what are you doing?”
“I just told you. I’m making a withdrawal.”
“B–but you can’t. You’re the sheriff!”
“Not anymore. I got bored, and I need some travelling money.”
“This town has treated you good, man! How can you do this?”
“This makes it easy,” Moran said, waving his gun. “Now tell your teller here to fill up a sack. The rest of you just stand easy.”
The customers, a middle-aged woman and an older man, watched in shock as their sheriff robbed the bank.
“I won’t,” Hampton said.
“Mr. Hampton—” the teller said.
“This is outrageous!”
“Mr. Hampton—”
“Don’t make this hard, Mr. Hampton. It’s a simple transaction.”
“I won’t do it!” Hampton said firmly.
Moran took two steps forward and smacked the barrel of his pistol against the bank manager’s head. Hampton slumped to the floor, barely breathing.
“What about you, sonny?” Moran asked the teller.
“I’m filling a sack, Sheriff, I’m filling a sack.”
“Good boy.”
When the canvas sack was filled the teller handed it to Moran, who backed towards the door.
“I’d advise you people to stay inside for a while after I leave.”
He went out the door, mounted his horse and rode out.
Heading for the next town that badly needed a sheriff.
The people in the bank were all thinking the same thing. Their bank had been robbed, the bank manager pistol-whipped, and what they would normally do in that instance would be to send for the sheriff, who would then get up a posse.
Only their sheriff had just robbed their bank. Once, Red Moran had been an honest sheriff in a Wyoming town, but eventually he had gotten tired of having the townspeople look down on him. For the most part they considered him their elected servant, and they treated him as such. He got a free meal here and a free drink there, and when things went right everybody was happy, but let just one thing go wrong, and they were ready to kick him out of office.
Well, one day he just up and kicked himself out of office. He had gone over to the bank, robbed it, rode out and never looked back.
Five more times he had done that, finding five towns who needed a sheriff very badly. Moran’s biggest weapon was his innocent face, and he used it to his best advantage.
He still had all six badges that he’d worn, for he always kept the badge as a souvenir.
Now he’d take the money from the Pemberton bank, ride on down to Mexico, piss it away on food and booze and whores, and then come back over the border and find himself another town.
It was as easy as that.
Prologue II
Decker paused in front of the Hastings, Kansas, sheriff’s office to read the posters that were affixed to the oustide wall. There were a few possibilities, but the one that caught his eye was a poster for a man named Moran.
The poster also called him “The Lawman.”
It explained that Moran had ridden into six different towns, gotten himself appointed sheriff and then within anywhere from two weeks to two months he would up and rob the bank and leave town. The latest case in point was a town called Pemberton, in the Colorado Territory, and that had been a scant week ago. The poster was very recent.
The drawing on the poster showed a man with a face that was easy to trust. It was smooth and youthful, even though the poster gave his age as thirty-five.
This one would be interesting, he thought. He pulled the poster down off the wall and studied it.
What irony, he thought, a bounty hunter tracking down “The Lawman.”
“Does that one suit your fancy, bounty hunter?” a voice asked.
Decker looked up and saw the sheriff of Hastings, Kevin Randle, a man he knew well enough to call by his first name—which by no means meant that they were friends.
“This fella is sure giving you and yours a bad name, Kevin.”
“Go after him, then.” Randle reached over and tapped the poster with his forefinger. “This is one time I wouldn’t mind seeing you make some money.”
As the sheriff went into his office Decker looked at the poster again. The reward was twenty-five hundred dollars, because in Pemberton “The Lawman” had made one big mistake.
He had hit the bank manager too hard, and the man had died.
So added to the bank robbery charges in six territories was the charge of murder in one.
Decker took the poster with him and went into the sheriff’s office.
“That the one you’re takin’?” the sheriff asked from behind his desk. He had poured himself a cup of coffee, but he did not offer Decker one.
“This looks like the one. How much do you know about him, Kevin?”
Randle shrugged. He was a youngish man—early thirties or so—and had worn a badge in this town for about three years. Before that he’d been a deputy in several other places.
“Just what every other lawman in the country knows. He hits a town and then lays low for a while before hitting another one. Rides in, becomes sheriff, stays anywhere from two weeks to two months, then robs the bank and rides out again. Boom, disappears for weeks, months at a time.”
“Spending the money.”
“Most likely. He sure as hell don’t seem to be saving it.”
“That kind never does. What about the badges?”
Randle frowned.
“What about ’em?”
“Does he leave them behind?”
“Damned if I know that. Why?”
“Just wanted to know all the facts before I took out after him.”
“I do know one thing about him.”
“What?”
“He’s a pretty arrogant sonofabitch!”
