up as the five men came in, because they more than doubled the number of customers in the place.
The barkeep slid down the bar toward them.
“What can I get you gents?”
“Whiskey,” Ebersole said. “Leave the bottle.”
“What kind?”
“The cheapest. We want to get drunk, not give a party.”
The bartender took a bottle from beneath the counter. There was no label on the bottle and the color was dingy and cloudy. He put five glasses alongside the bottle, then pulled the cork for them.
“There it is,” he said.
Ebersole poured himself a glass, then took a swallow. He immediately had a coughing fit, and almost gagged. He spit it out and frowned at his glass.
“Damn!” he said. “This tastes like horse piss.”
“We just put in a little for flavor,” the bartender said with a smile.
“What?” Ebersole shouted angrily.
“Take it easy, friend, I was just foolin’ with you. You said you wanted the cheapest whiskey, and that’s what you got. There ain’t no horse piss in it. That’s pure stuff. I don’t even use a rusty nail for color and flavor.”
Taylor took a smaller swallow. He grimaced, but he got it down. Dewey had no problem with it at all.
“How the hell can you drink that?” Ebersole asked.
“It’s all in the way you drink it,” Dewey explained. “This here whiskey can’t be drunk down real fast. You got to sort of sip it.”
Ebersole tried again, and this time he, too, managed to keep it down.
“You boys just passin’ through?” the bartender asked.
“Ain’t none of your business what we’re doin’,” Ebersole said. “Only thing you got to do is serve us whiskey when we ask.”
“I was just tryin’ to be friendly,” the bartender replied.
Ebersole took in the other four men with him, with a gesture of his hand. “I got all the friends I need,” he said.
“I see that you do,” the bartender said, somewhat chagrined by the surly response.
After a few more drinks—they were limited by the amount of money they had—Ebersole and the others left the saloon. Without being too obvious, they checked out the bank, then rode on out of town to find a place to camp out for the night.
It was nearly noon of the next day when the five men rode back into town. Even though it was mid-day, the town was quiet, and festering under the sun. A few people were sitting or standing in the shade of the porch overhangs. A game of checkers was being played by two old men, and half a dozen onlookers were following the game intently. One or two looked up as Ebersole and the others rode by, their horses’ hooves clumping hollowly on the hard-packed earth of the street.
A shopkeeper came through the front door of his shop and began sweeping vigorously with a straw broom. The broom raised a lot of dust and pushed a sleeping dog off the porch, but even before the man went back inside, the dog had reclaimed its position in the shade, curled comfortably around itself, and was asleep again.
Peters and Taylor stayed outside the bank, holding the reins of the horses, as Ebersole, Hawkins, and Dewey went inside. There were no customers in the bank; just one teller. He looked up at them with a smile as they came in, then, realizing that he didn’t know any of them, instinctively knew that this wasn’t going to be good.
“You know what we are here for, don’t you, Mister?” Ebersole asked.
The bank teller nodded.
“Let’s have all the money you’ve got.”
“We don’t have much,” the teller said. “This is a very small town and a very small bank.”
“How much do you have?”
“One thousand, seven hundred and twenty-six dollars,” the teller said.
Ebersole smiled. “Well ain’t that just fine, now, because that’s just exactly how much money we wanted,” he said.
As the bank teller was handing the money over to Ebersole, two men came into the bank.
“I told Joe, ‘son, you’ve just learned a lesson. Never kick a horse apple on a hot day,’” one of them was saying.
The other man laughed, then both of them stopped, realizing what they had walked in on.
“What the hell is going on here?” the first man asked.
“I believe they’re robbin’ the bank,” the second said.
“You ain’t gettin’ my money!” the first man said, going for his gun.
Dewey, Taylor, and Hawkins turned their pistols on the two men and began shooting. Both of the customers went down before they could even clear leather.
“You shot Mr. Simmons!” the bank teller shouted.
