“Wait,” Terry directed Denver. The latter kneeled by his fuse until Lewison passed far down the end of his beat. Terry stepped to the door and dropped the bolt.
“Now!” he commanded.
He had planned his work carefully. The loose strips of cords which Denver had put into his pocket—“nothing so handy as strong twine,” he had said—were already drawn out. And the minute he had given the signal, he sprang for the men at the table, backed them into a corner, and tied their hands behind their backs.
The fuse was sputtering.
“Put out the light!” whispered Denver. It was done—a leap and a puff of breath, and then Terry had joined the huddled group of men at the farther end of the room.
“Hey!” called Lewison. “What's happened to the light? What the hell—”
His voice boomed out loudly at them as he thrust his head through the window into the darkness. He caught sight of the red, flickering end of the fuse.
His voice, grown shrill and sharp, was chopped off by the explosion. It was a noise such as Terry had never heard before—like a tremendously condensed and powerful puff of wind. There was not a sharp jar, but he felt an invisible pressure against his body, taking his breath. The sound of the explosion was dull, muffled, thick. The door of the safe crushed into the flooring.
Terry had nerved himself for two points of attack—Lewison from the front of the building, and the guard at the rear. But Lewison did not yell for help. He had been dangerously close to the explosion and the shock to his nerves, perhaps some dislodged missile, had flung him senseless on the sand outside the bank.
But from the rear of the building came a dull shout; then the door beside which Terry stood was dragged open—he struck with all his weight, driving his fist fairly into the face of the man, and feeling the knuckles cut through flesh and lodge against the cheekbone. The guard went down in the middle of a cry and did not stir. Terry leaned to shake his arm—the man was thoroughly stunned. He paused only to scoop up the fallen revolver which the fellow had been carrying, and fling it into the night. Then he turned back into the dark bank, with Red and Pat cursing in frightened unison as they cowered against the wall behind him.
The air was thick with an ill-smelling smoke, like that of a partially snuffed candle. Then he saw a circle of light spring out from the electric lantern of Denver and fall on the partially wrecked safe. And it glinted on yellow. One of the sacks had been slit and the contents were running out onto the floor like golden water.
Over it stooped the shadow of Denver, and Terry was instantly beside him. They were limp little sacks, marvellously ponderous, and the chill of the metal struck through the canvas to the hand. The searchlight flickered here and there—it found the little drawer which was wrenched open and Denver's stubby hand came out, choked with greenbacks.
“Now away!” snarled Denver. And his voice shook and quaked; it reminded Terry of the whine of a dog half- starved and come upon meat—a savage, subdued sound.
There was another sound from the street where old Lewison was coming to his senses—a gasping, sound, and then a choked cry: “Help!”
His senses and his voice seemed to return to him with a rush. His shriek split through the darkness of the room like a ray of light probing to find the guilty: “Thieves! Help!”
The yell gave strength to Terry. He caught some of the burden that was staggering Denver into his own arms and floundered through the rear door into the blessed openness of the night. His left arm carried the crushing burden of the canvas sacks—in his right hand was the gun—but no form showed behind him.
But there were voices beginning. The yells of Lewison had struck out echoes up and down the street. Terry could hear shouts begin inside houses in answer, and bark out with sudden clearness as a door or a window was opened.
They reached the horses, dumped the precious burdens into the saddlebags, and mounted.
“Which way?” gasped Denver.
A light flickered in the bank; half a dozen men spilled out of the back door, cursing and shouting.
“Walk your horse,” said Terry. “Walk it—you fool!”
Denver had let his horse break into a trot. He drew it back to a walk at this hushed command.
“They won't see us unless we start at a hard gallop,” continued Terry. “They won't watch for slowly moving objects now. Besides, it'll be ten minutes before the sheriff has a posse organized. And that's the only thing we have to fear.”
CHAPTER 36
They drifted past the town, quickening to a soft trot after a moment, and then to a faster trot—El Sangre was gliding along at a steady pace.
“Not back to the house!” said Denver with an oath, when they straightened back to the house of Pollard. “That's the first place McGuire will look, after what you said to him the other night.”
“That's where I want him to look,” answered Terry, “and that's where he'll find me. Pollard will hide the coin and we'll get one of the boys to take our sweaty horses over the hills. We can tell McGuire that the two horses have been put out to pasture, if he asks. But he mustn't find hot horses in the stable. Certainly McGuire will strike for the house. But what will he find?”
He laughed joyously.
Suddenly the voice of Denver cut in softly, insinuatingly.
“You dope it that he'll cut for the house of Pollard? So do I. Now, kid, why not go another direction—and keep on going? What right have Pollard and the others to cut in on this coin? You and me, kid, can—”
“I don't hear you, Denver,” interrupted Terry. “I don't hear you. We wouldn't have known where to find the stuff if it hadn't been for Pollard's friend Sandy. They get their share—but you can have my part, Denver. I'm not
