Chapter Twenty- five
It had been a year since Clete Harris, Jim Garon, and Jay Bryans made good their escape from Montana, leaving just before the climactic battle. They had been able to take advantage of the fact that the Indians were preparing to meet Custer, and that the army was preparing to meet the Indians. They were unmolested as they left the territory.
After Potter escaped from the post stockade, he left Colorado and met with Harris and the others in Cheyenne, Wyoming. There, they divided the money, which turned out to be over five thousand dollars, then each went their own way.
High living during the year just past, to include gambling, liquor, and women, had taken all money. It had been Harris who’d gotten three of them together, with a plan that would, in his words, “make us rich again.”
That was one week ago. Now the three were gathered in a thicket of willow trees, just outside the town of Green River, Wyoming. It was still early in the morning and from there, they could not only see the town, they could hear the sounds of a beginning day of commerce.
They watched some men as they hitched up a team of mules to a freight wagon; they listened to the ring of a blacksmith’s hammer as he worked a piece of steel, still red hot from the forge. They heard a couple of cows braying to be milked, and from the Chinese laundry came the singsong voices of the “Celestials” as they went about their daily labor.
“All right,” Harris said. “Do both of you know exactly what to do?”
“What’s there to know?” Garon asked. “We ride into to town, stop in front of the bank, go in, get the money, then ride out.”
“There’s a little more to it than that,” Harris said. “Garon, you stay outside with the horses. I want them there when we come out—and I mean I want them there. If we have to leave fast and I see you ridin’ off, I swear I will shoot you myself.”
“I’ll be there,” Garon promised.
“Bryans, you go in with me. We won’t shoot anyone unless we have to, but if we have to, don’t stand there with your thumb up your ass. If you hesitate, even for a moment, more’n likely you’re the one that’s goin’ to wind up gettin’ shot. Do you follow me?”
“Don’t worry. I know what to do.”
“All right, let’s ride on into town, but let’s not all go in together. I’ll go first. Garon, you wait five or ten minutes, then you come in. Bryans, you come in after that. We’ll sort of meet in front of the bank. That way, nobody will see us all together until it’s too late for anyone to do anything about it. You boys ready?”
“I’m ready,” Bryans said.
“Yeah,” Garon said.
Harris swung up into the saddle, then looked down at the two. “All right, let’s do it,” he said.
Harris rode in first. He saw the proprietor of the meat market sweeping his front porch. A dog lay in the sun on the porch, so secure in his position that, even as the sweeper came toward him, he didn’t move. Several kids were gathered in the yard of the school building while a teacher stood out front, watching over them. Two old men sat in rocking chairs on the porch in front of the general store.
Harris stopped in front of the apothecary, just across the street from the bank, dismounted, then lifted his horse’s left forepaw, pretending to examine the shoe.
Looking up, he saw Bryans and Garon riding into town as well and, though they weren’t exactly together, they were close enough that Harris thought they should be further separated. All three waited at various places up and down the street until the bank opened. As soon as someone inside the bank turned around the sign reading OPEN, the three men came together. Garon remained in his saddle. Harris and Bryans handed him their reins; then both men went inside the bank.
There were no customers yet, and the teller, who had just posted the OPEN sign, was walking around to the teller cage. He smiled at Harris and Bryans.
“Good morning, gentlemen, you are early this morning,” he said.
“Yeah, well, you know what they say,” Harris said. “The early bird gets the worm.” He pulled his pistol and pointed it at the teller. “Or in this case, the early bird gets the money.”
“Oh, my!”
“Empty the safe,” Harris said, waving his pistol.
Bryans went back to the door and turned the sign around so that, once again, it indicated the bank was closed.
The teller was so frightened that his hands were shaking visibly as he opened the safe. He took out a stack of bills and held them out toward Harris.
“Here, Harris, have him put the money in this bag,” Bryans said, handing Harris a cloth bag.
“Bryans, you dumb bastard, you said my name,” Harris replied irritably.
The teller had just finished filling the sack when a new customer came into the bank.
“Hey, Johnny, you forgot to turn the sign around,” the customer said. “It says you are still closed. I turned it back for—” The customer stopped in mid-sentence when he realized what was going on.
“Bank robbery!” he shouted at the top of his voice. He turned to go back outside, but before he could get through the door, Bryans shot him in the back. He fell through the door, lying half inside the bank and half outside.
