Instead, the man said in an irritated voice, “Your horses ate some of my grain and drank my water. You got to pay me for that. I’ll take a day of roof patchin’ for what you owe.”
“What we owe?” Bo felt anger welling up inside him. He told himself to get a grip on his temper. Losing control with Big John Peeler had cost him and Scratch that job. It hadn’t been a good one, but it was better than nothing, which was what they had now. “We worked until almost midnight cleaning those stalls. That ought to be enough to care of any debt.”
“This is my livery stable, mister. I’ll be the judge of what’s enough and what ain’t. And if you don’t like it, I’ll fetch the marshal and see what he thinks about it. If you ain’t careful, you and your pard are gonna wind up behind bars as vagrants.”
If that happened, it wouldn’t be the first time he and Scratch had been in jail, Bo reflected. In fact, the accommodations would probably be better, and the local law would have to feed them.
The only problem was that being locked up was hell on both of the Texans because of the wanderlust that always gripped them. They might not have anywhere to go, but their nature cried out for them to be free to ride on any time they chose.
“Don’t get a burr under your saddle,” Bo told the liveryman. “I’ll talk to my partner as soon as he gets back from the outhouse, and we’ll figure out what we’re going to do.”
“That’s another thing. You fellas used my outhouse. That ought to be worth somethin’.”
Bo bit back the angry retort that sprang to his lips. The money-grubbing old-timer was damned annoying, but Bo was determined not to let his temper get the best of him.
He unlatched the big double doors at the front of the barn and swung them open. The hour was still early, but people were moving around and folks could show up at the stable to pick up their horses at any time. Bo stood there, watching the rosy glow in the sky grow brighter as the sun climbed above the horizon.
Idly, he looked down the street and spotted a couple of men walking toward a large, redbrick building a couple of blocks away. One of the men wore a town suit and a hat, while the other was dressed in range clothes, including a battered old Stetson, a cowhide vest, and a pair of chaps strapped over denim trousers. The two men made an unlikely pair, and something about the sight caused Bo to frown.
“Say, is that the bank two blocks down?” he asked over his shoulder. “Big building made of red bricks?”
“Sure is. Why do you want to know?” The oldster cackled. “You ain’t got no money to put in it.”
“Is the fella who runs it in the habit of showing up early?”
“Yeah. Frank Mosely’s the president. He usually gets there about this time of mornin’. Says he likes to get an early start on the day. You ask me, I think he goes in there while nobody’s around and throws money on the floor of the vault and rolls around in it, the danged old miser. I never knew anybody to love money as much as that old skinflint does.”
The old saying about the pot and the kettle occurred to Bo, but he shoved the thought aside. “Mosely’s a portly fella about sixty?”
“That’s him.”
As Bo watched, the two men reached the door of the bank. The one in the suit took a key from his pocket and started to unlock the door. He fumbled with it, missing the hole on the lock several times before he was able to insert the key and turn it.
“Is there any reason for some cowpoke to be going into the bank with Mosely?” Bo asked.
The stableman came up beside him. “What the deuce are you talkin’ about? I told you, Frank goes in there alone so’s he can play with other people’s money. He wouldn’t be takin’ anybody in with him. Bank don’t open to the public for a couple hours yet.”
Bo nodded. “That’s what I thought.” Both men had disappeared into the bank building now, and the door was shut forcefully enough that he could hear it a couple of blocks away. Bo turned and walked toward the tack room where he and Scratch had stowed their saddles and gear.
“Hey!” the old man called after him. “What are you doin’? You ain’t fixin’ to run out on me, are you?”
Bo ignored the questions. He went into the tack room and picked up his Winchester, working the rifle’s lever to throw a cartridge into the firing chamber. As he walked down the center aisle of the barn, holding the repeater at a slant across his chest, the liveryman looked at him, gulped, and stepped hurriedly out of the way.
Bo left the barn and started down the street toward the bank, which appeared quiet and deserted. Anyone would think so, if they hadn’t seen Frank Mosely and his mysterious companion go inside a couple of minutes earlier. Bo knew they were in there, though, so he wasn’t surprised when the door opened again and the man in range clothes reappeared, toting a canvas bag in his left hand. The man’s right hand rested on the butt of his holstered revolver.
Bo’s gaze flicked along the street. A couple of storekeepers were sweeping off the boardwalks in front of their establishments. A man came out of a cafe and paused to pick his teeth. Another man walked along the street, his head down as he packed tobacco into a pipe. A wagon pulled by a couple of mules and driven by a stocky man in a tall straw sombrero was at the far end of the street, rolling slowly toward the center of town.
It took Bo only a split second to assess the situation. It could have been better, as far as bystanders were concerned, but it could have been a lot worse, too. He walked a little faster as the man who had just come out of the bank turned toward a horse tied at a nearby hitch rail.
Before the man could reach the horse, Bo stopped and leveled the Winchester at him, calling in a loud, clear voice, “Hold it right there, mister!”
At that same moment, Frank Mosely, the president of the bank, staggered out of that establishment’s front door, holding a hand to his bloody head as he yelled, “Stop him! Stop that man! He just robbed the bank!”
The bank robber cursed and yanked his pistol from its holster.
CHAPTER 5
