“I’m buying,” Shamrock said.
The man looked toward him, and though no smile ameliorated his almost skeletal face, he did nod.
“Hello, Bodine,” Shamrock said.
“Jefferson,” Bodine replied.
“I’m using the name Shamrock now. How ’bout joining me at my table?”
Bodine picked up the glass and followed Shamrock back to his table, which was now occupied by a young cowboy and one of the saloon girls.
“That’s my table,” Shamrock said.
“You wasn’t here, so now it’s mine.”
“Get up,” Shamrock ordered, letting his hand rest on the butt of his pistol.
The cowboy looked at him for no more than a moment, then he stood up and reached for his drink.
“Leave the drink.”
“The hell I will. I just . . .”
“I said leave it.”
“Come on, honey, we can find another table,” the bar girl said with a frightened glance at the two men who were standing there.
“What do you want?” Lucien Bodine asked.
“I want to do something that’ll make us a little money,” Shamrock replied.
“You got something in mind?”
“No. I was hopin’ maybe you would.”
“Yeah, I got an idea,” Bodine replied.
* * *
Two days later the two men waited behind some rocks that shielded them from the road leading into Wayland, Texas.
“His name is Crites, Garrison J. Crites,” Bodine said. “He’s goin’ into Wayland to buy a prize bull, ’n he’ll have the cash money with him.”
“How much do you think he’ll have?” Shamrock asked.
“I don’t figure he’ll have any less than a thousand dollars on ’im,” Bodine replied. “We’ll split the money fifty, fifty.”
“Five hundred dollars apiece,” Shamrock said. He thought of the $14,000 he had just gone through, and by comparison, $500 was minuscule. On the other hand, compared to the $12 he had now, $500 was a fortune.
“Here he comes,” Bodine said. “Wait till he gets close. We don’t want him runnin’ away. If he’s well mounted, he could get away from us.”
“What if he starts to ride off soon as we call out to ’im?” Shamrock asked.
“We won’t be callin’ out to ’im,” Bodine replied, pulling his pistol.
Crites was well dressed, and riding a golden palomino with a Mexican saddle liberally decorated with silver. As soon as he drew even with them, both Shamrock and Bodine moved out into the road, right in front of him.
“My word, where did you two . . . ?” That was as far as he got before Bodine shot him.
“Twelve hundred ’n eighteen dollars,” Bodine said a bit later, after counting out the money.
“I want his horse and saddle, too, unless you want it.”
“You can have the horse, but leave the saddle.”
“You’re wantin’ the saddle? All right, long as I’m gettin’ the horse. ’N I don’t blame you none, this is a damn fine-lookin’ saddle,” Shamrock said.
“Yes, ’n that’s the problem. It’s too fine-lookin’. It’s the kind of saddle that people might recognize. We’ll leave it here.”
“Oh yeah, that’s most likely right, ain’t it?”
Bodine stuck his $609 down in his pocket, then remounted.
“Where you goin’?” Shamrock asked.
“Not sure,” Bodine replied. “But wherever it is, we’ll not be goin’ together.”
“Yeah,” Shamrock replied. “Yeah, that’s probably right.”
* * *
Three weeks later, in the little town of Duxbury, Texas, Shamrock found himself in the Trail Dust saloon, sitting across the table from Jeb Jaco. Running into Jaco had been by chance, just as it had been when he had encountered Lucien Bodine a little earlier. And like Lucien Bodine, Jaco was a man Shamrock knew from his past, for the two had once joined together to rob a store.
Although Shamrock was more careful with the $600 than he had been with the $14,000 he had netted from the bank robbery in Sulphur Springs, he had managed to spend most of it, and once more, he was in need of cash. Meeting up with Jaco might just be the opportunity he was looking for.
“What are you doin’ now, Jaco? How are you makin’ a livin’?” Shamrock asked.
“I’m ridin’ for the Duxbury brand,” Jaco said.
“Duxbury?”
“J. F. Duxbury. He’s a big rancher here in Fisher County, ’n he’s the feller this town is named after.”
“You like cowboyin’, do you?” Shamrock asked.
“Twenty-one dollars a month and found? What the hell is there to like about that? Hell no, I don’t like it, but it’s three hots ’n a cot.”
“How would like to do a job with me?”
“What kind of job? ’Cause to tell you the truth, that last job we done only got us about forty dollars, ’n it warn’t hardly worth it.”
“That’s because we robbed a store,” Bodine said. “This time we’ll rob a bank.”
“A bank? I don’t know, that seems like a pretty big job for just two men. I figure a job like that would call for at least six men,” Jaco said.
“Do you know where to get four others?” Shamrock asked.
Jaco smiled. “Yeah, come to think of it, I do,” he said.
“Then get ’em.”
Twin Peaks Ranch
After supper one evening Brad Houser sent word to Dooley Carson and Slim Hastings, telling them that he wanted to see them in the ranch office. He had a plan in mind, and of all his hands, he believed that these two were best suited to carry it out.
Houser got out a bottle of whiskey, then put three glasses on his desk as he waited. A moment later, there was a knock on his door.
“Come in!” he called.
It was very unusual for anyone to be summoned to the ranch office for any reason, but it was particularly unusual for someone to be summoned this late in the day. As Dooley and Slim came in, they exchanged nervous glances with each other.
“You . . . uh . . . wanted to see us, Mr. Houser?” Dooley asked, speaking for both of them.
“Yes, I do,” Houser said. He poured whiskey into the three glasses, then picked two of them up and handed one to each of the two men.
“Have a drink,” he invited.
“Yes, sir!” Dooley and Slim replied, a big smile spreading across their faces. They still didn’t know what this about, but if they
