clothes, and he was just as glad. Just how drunk was he, to have chosen someone like this, last night?
“Wes,” he called. “Big brother, are you still here?”
“Yeah, I’m here. No need to be wakin’ the dead,” Harley called from the room next door, his voice heard easily through the thin walls.
There was an outhouse twenty feet behind the brothel, but Dinkins would have had to go out the single, front door, then walk all the way around to the back. Not willing to do that, he decided to go against the wall.
Just as he stepped up to the wall, Harley came in through the door. He joined Dinkins in peeing on the wall. “What do you want?”
Dinkins shook himself, then put it away. “Let’s have breakfast and talk about our next job.”
“Our next job? Damn, Bill, we just pulled off a job. Don’t you think we ought to hole up for a while and enjoy the money?”
“Tell me, when you are playing cards, and you get a winning streak going, do you quit?”
“No.”
“We hit the bank in Crystal, and got away with a lot of money. I say don’t stop now.”
“All right, you’ve been right so far. I’ll listen to what you have to say. But the best idea now is breakfast. I could eat a horse.” Pushing through the door, Harley started to step down off the porch.
“Don’t you think you ought to get dressed first?” Dinkins asked.
“Oh,” Harley replied, turning around to go back into the crib where he had left his clothes. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Fifteen minutes later the two men were having a breakfast of ham and eggs in a cafe that identified itself only by a big sign that said EATS. Neither Frank nor Travis Slater had awakened yet.
“What you got in mind? Another bank?”
“No, not a bank, a stage coach,” Dinkins said.
“Banks are better,” Harley said. “You know they’ve got money, and they ain’t movin’.”
“Yeah, but they are also in the middle of town. And we lost a man in each of the last two banks we robbed. Putnam in Gothic, and Parnell in Crystal.”
“That’s the chance you take when you are in this kind of business,” Harley reminded him.
“Look at this,” Dinkins said. “I tore it out of the newspaper yesterday.” He took the article from his shirt pocket, then handed it to Harley.
“What is it?”
“Just read it. This is our next job.”
Harley unfolded the article and began to read.
The sum of five thousand dollars is to be transferred from Escalante to Suttle on Friday next, said funds to be used to run the city business. The loan was negotiated by the Bank of Suttle, and will be repaid, it is said, by a series of bonds to be passed by the Suttle City Council.
“You think the money will go by stage coach?” Harley asked.
“That’s the only way it can go. And, since there ain’t but three stages per week between Escalante and Suttle, it ain’t goin’ to be hard to figure out which one it’s on.”
Harley smiled. “It’s nice of them to tell us about the money, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, I don’t imagine the stagecoach people are all that pleased with the article.”
Stan McVey, the driver of the Escalante to Suttle stagecoach, had been making that particular run for the last four years, and he knew every creek, hill, turn in the road, rock and tree along the sixty-two mile route. He stood out in front of the depot for a few moments, watching as the team of six horses was attached to the coach.
“Mr. McVey, I put Ole Dan on the off side like you told me,” one of the hostlers said.
“Thanks, Jake. He tends to pull to the left all the time and if he is on the off side, well, the near horse will keep him going straight. Do you know if Lonnie took a look at the reach?” As McVey asked the question, he knelt down and looked at the bar that connected the rear axle with the front part of the coach. Stretching out his hand, he grabbed hold of the reach and tried to shake it. It felt secure.
“Yes, sir, he said he tightened up the bolts.”
“Good enough,” McVey said.
“I’ll loop the ribbons around your whip,” Jake said.
Looking over toward Burt Conway, he saw his shotgun messenger receiving a canvas bag from Mr. Dempster, the owner of the Escalante Bank. McVey had read in the paper about the transfer of money, which meant that anyone who might have an idea about robbing the coach also read it. He knew that the stagecoach supervisor, Mr. Sinclair, had complained about it, but he was told by G. E. Hastings, editor of the newspaper, that he enjoyed “freedom of the press,” and there was nothing Sinclair could do to prevent him from publishing such information.
Satisfied that all was well with the coach, McVey walked into the depot to address the six passengers—three men and three women. It was an unusual mix of passengers, for none of the men were married to any of the women.
The station manager brought McVey a cup of coffee and he took a couple swallows as he looked at his passengers. The two older women, Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Johnson, were talking. Mr. Evans, a salesman, had made the trip many times. He was making notes of some sort. Mr. Calhoun, a rancher from near Suttle, and Dr. Potter, a local
