“So?” Tilghman said as Steeldust turned and loped across the corral. “What brings you over our way?”
Zoe rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!”
“Forgotten what?”
“The dance in town tonight. Have I lost a day somewhere? This is Saturday, isn’t it?”
“Let me think.” Tilghman feigned confusion. “No, by golly, you’re right. Today’s definitely Saturday.”
“See!” she teased. “You needed reminding after all.”
“Then it’s good you dropped by. I’ll make it a point to be at your place on time.”
“Actually,” she paused, gave him a minxish look, “I came by to invite you to Sunday dinner.”
Tilghman cocked one eyebrow. “You could’ve done that tonight.”
“Yes, but this gave me an excuse to see you.”
“I get the feeling there’s something missing here. What’s the rest of the story?”
“Well,” she said coyly, “as long as you’re coming for Sunday dinner—”
“Now I get it,” Tilghman broke in, wagging his head. “Why not make a day of it and escort you to church, too. That the idea?”
“How gracious of you to ask. I accept.”
“Accept, my foot! You tricked me into it.”
“A little religion never hurt anyone, especially you. God loves a heathen.”
“Heathen!” Tilghman appeared wounded. “I’m as good a Christian as the next man.”
She patted him on the cheek. “Then I’m sure you’ll enjoy tomorrow’s sermon. See you tonight.”
When she drove off, Tilghman turned back to the corral. He stood watching Steeldust, wondering at the ways of women. A few moments later Brown walked up from the stables.
“You’re a goner,” he said ruefully. “That little lady’s got the look in her eye.”
“You think so, Neal?”
“I’d bet on it and give you good odds.”
Tilghman smiled. “No bet.”
Steeldust pawed the ground, fierce eyes fixed on the stables. His nose to the wind, he scented his mares.
CHAPTER 15
The men rode into town in three groups. Doolin and Dick Clifton entered by the farm road from the south. Charley Pierce, Jack Blake, and Red Buck Waightman appeared on the road north of town. Bill Raidler and Little Dick West rode along a sidestreet from a westerly direction.
Located in the southwest corner of Missouri, the town was aptly named Southwest City. A farm community with a population of less than a thousand, it lay some five miles east of the border with the Cherokee Nation. Hardly a center of commerce, it was nonetheless a thriving hamlet built on the trade of the area’s farmers.
Southwest City, like most farm towns, was bisected by a main thoroughfare. The business district, small but prosperous, consisted of four stores, a saloon and a blacksmith shop, and one bank. There were few people about and little activity on a Monday afternoon. Typically the slowest time of the week, it accounted in part for the seven strangers. Their business was better conducted without crowds.
A week past, Doolin had assigned Jack Blake to scout the town. Blake had returned with a crudely sketched map after stopping for a drink in the saloon. He reported that the bank was manned by only the president and two tellers. Law enforcement consisted of the town marshal, who operated without regular deputies and rarely patrolled the streets. The townspeople, apart from shopping and the usual errands, were seldom about on weekdays. All in all, Southwest City looked like easy pickings.
Doolin had selected the farm town for just that reason. He needed a simple job, and one that would give his men a decent payday. After the Ingalls shootout, he’d been roundly criticized by Will Dalton for poor leadership. Dalton blamed him for keeping the gang in Ingalls too long, creating a situation that fairly begged for a raid by the law. The argument became heated, with Doolin prepared to kill in order to hold the Wild Bunch together. Dalton wisely avoided a showdown, for he was no match for Doolin with a gun. Instead, he’d quit the gang and taken off on his own.
The others had elected to stick with Doolin. He had persuaded them to scatter throughout the Nations and stay in deep cover until he felt it was safe to resume operations. When the heat died down, he’d promised them, there would be more and bigger paydays. With money in their pockets from the last robbery, the men had kept out of sight for the past four months, all of them still somewhat spooked by the close call at Ingalls. But finally, short on money and tired of hiding out, they seemed on the verge of splitting apart. Doolin had no choice but to plan another raid.
From a personal standpoint, Doolin was no better off than his men. He was nearly broke, and his foot wound had healed poorly, leaving him with a pronounced limp. Even worse, his wife was with child, and given the circumstances, there was no way for them to be together. Every few weeks he’d managed to sneak into Ingalls, always under cover of darkness, and visit her for a night. But she was afraid and dispirited, and constantly badgering him to quit the outlaw life. For that he needed a stake, and he’d decided to resume operations with a job that offered quick escape into the Nations. Southwest City appeared to fit the bill.
The men held their horses to a walk. Travelers converging from different directions, they proceeded toward the center of town. Outside the bank Doolin and Clifton wheeled to the right and halted before the hitch rack. Upstreet, the three men approaching from the north stopped in front of a mercantile store. Down from the bank, Raidler and West reined in on the same side of the street.
There was a military precision to their movements, smooth and coordinated, somehow practiced. The riders on either side of the bank dismounted and took positions to cover the street in both directions. Some checked their saddle rigging, others dusted themselves off, and to a man
