Inside the door, Doolin quickly scanned the room. The cashier’s window was to the rear, and beyond that the vault door, which was open. To his immediate left, seated behind a desk, the bank president was engaged in conversation with a man dressed as a farmer. One teller stood at the cashier’s window while the other worked on a set of books.
“This is a holdup!” Doolin announced. “Keep quiet and you won’t get hurt.”
There was an instant of leaden silence. At the desk, the president stared at him with disbelief, and the farmer swiveled around in his chair. The cashier froze, watching him intently, and the other teller paused with his pen dipped in an inkwell. Clifton positioned himself to cover everyone in the room.
“Don’t nobody get stupid,” he said jovially. “Hell, gents, it’s only money.”
Doolin walked to the cashier’s window. He casually wagged the snout of his pistol, nodding to the teller. “Forget your cash drawer. Empty the vault and be quick about it.”
“What’ll I put it in?”
From inside his coat, Doolin pulled out two neatly folded gunnysacks with draw strings. He pushed them across the counter, motioning with his gun, and the teller turned toward the vault. The other teller suddenly dropped his pen and jerked open the drawer of his desk. He stood, panic written across his face, a pistol in his hand.
“No!” Doolin thundered. “Drop it!”
From the door, Clifton sighted and fired. The slug punched through the teller’s head and tore out the back of his skull. A halo of bone and brain matter misted the air, and he stood there a moment, dead on his feet. Then he pitched headlong onto the floor.
“Goddammit!” Doolin shouted. “I had him covered. Why’d you shoot?”
Clifton shrugged. “Bastard shouldn’t’ve pulled a gun.”
“Well, you damn sure put the town on notice.” Doolin turned to the teller at the vault. “Get them sacks loaded. Muy goddamn pronto!”
A roar of gunfire, several shots in rapid succession, suddenly sounded from outside. Clifton glanced through the front window and saw gang members popping shots at merchants who had appeared in doorways along the street. Across the way the town marshal emerged from his office, pistol in hand, and started along the boardwalk. Another volley erupted and his right leg buckled under the impact of a slug. He went down on his rump.
“Hop to it!” Clifton yelled. “We got trouble.”
The teller shoved the loaded sacks across the counter. Doolin grabbed them, backing to the door, and tossed one to Clifton. The gunfire swelled in intensity as they rushed outside and moved toward the hitch rack. On either side of them, the men posted as guards were trading shots with merchants up and down the street. Their horses were wall-eyed with fright as they bounded into the saddle.
A rifle ball opened a bloody gash on Clifton’s forehead. He whirled his horse and fired, dropping the owner of the mercantile store. Across the street, the town marshal rose unsteadily to his feet and triggered three quick shots. One of the slugs sizzled past Doolin’s ear and he wheeled about, fighting to control his horse, and ripped off two shots in return. The lawman staggered backward, crashing into the wall of a building. He slumped to the boardwalk.
All along the street storekeepers were firing from windows and doorways. The other gang members hastily mounted, their pistols barking flame in a steady roar. Upstreet a merchant pitched forward in his doorway, and in the opposite direction, the blacksmith tumbled to the ground. Then, with Doolin in the lead, the gang reined their horses around and spurred for the south edge of town. Behind them, the townspeople peppered their retreat with a barrage of lead.
The Wild Bunch thundered west toward Indian Territory.
* * *
Will Dalton and Jim Wallace dismounted in the alley beside the bank. A few moments later Asa and Tim Knight entered the alley from the opposite direction. After they dismounted, Tim Knight took the reins of the other two men’s horses. Dalton and Wallace walked toward the street.
The town of Longview was the center of trade for farmers and several large logging operations. Located in northeastern Texas, it was some eighty miles south of the Red River, the boundary between the Lone Star State and the Choctaw Nation. A prosperous community, Longview was the county seat, with a stone courthouse dominating the town square.
The First National, the largest bank in town, was located on the north side of the square. Dalton had selected the bank as the first full-fledged job for his newly formed gang. After splitting with Doolin, he had joined forces with Wallace, a small-time bandit who operated out of the Chickasaw Nation. Wallace had in turn introduced him to the Knight brothers, former loggers turned outlaw who were originally from Longview. Their tales of a vault stuffed with mountains of cash had sold Dalton on the First National. He meant to eclipse the record of the Wild Bunch with a single holdup.
Dalton led the way into the bank. He covered the door, his pistol drawn, and commanded everyone to lie on the floor. Wallace collared the bank president, put a gun to his head, and forced him to unlock the vault. The shelves lining the walls, just as the Knight brothers had promised, were stacked with piles of cash. At first overawed, Wallace quickly located the shelves with bills of larger denominations. He produced cloth sacks from inside his coat and ordered the president to get busy.
“Whooee!” he yelled out to Dalton. “We’re gonna be rich. Filthy rich!”
“Tell me about it later,” Dalton said sternly. “Get them sacks filled and let’s get out of here.”
Only a few minutes were required to complete the job. Wallace came out of the vault, struggling with two heavy sacks thrown over his shoulder, and moved to the front of
