barber shop, and a hotel with a soft mattress—plus it was on the way to Purgatory City. The hotel, café, livery, and saloon were what Jed Breen needed for the time being. He had boarded his horse for the rest of the day; he had gotten a bath, shave, and a haircut from the barber; had asked the waitress at the café if she could bring a steak, pot of coffee, potatoes, and that last slice of cake to his room; had treated himself to two whiskeys at the saloon; and was heading to that hotel. A good meal, a soft bed and . . .
Deep Flood had a bank, too, Breen noticed for the first time, but not much of one. From the size of the town, he didn’t know how a banker could make any money, unless he charged outrageous interest, but it was indeed a bank. That’s what the sign said that was bending with the wind. Breen tugged down the brim of his hat and leaned against the wooden column in front of the general store—Deep Flood had one of those, too, but it was closed for some reason, likely the lack of business.
What interested Jed Breen was the fellow swinging out of the saddle of a dun horse in front of the bank. He looked at Breen, who snapped his finger, and turned toward the door to the store. It didn’t open, of course, but he pulled the handle a couple of times, then cursed loudly, and stepped back and stared at the window, as though those lace-up Creedmoor shoes were exactly what his wife needed. Breen didn’t have a wife, but he rubbed his freshly shaved chin and focused on the reflection in the window.
The man with the dun horse studied Breen’s back several seconds and then moved to his saddlebags. He pulled out a couple of sacks—wheat, grain, something like that—but one of them wouldn’t hold much meal. Holes had been cut out near the bottom. The man also unbuttoned his coat, looked at Breen again, and finally moved to the door of the bank.
Breen turned, began whistling, and bounded down the boardwalk, crossed the dusty alley, climbed up the next boardwalk, whistling even louder, and pushed open the door to the hotel, letting the door slam, and stopped long enough to tell the hotel clerk, “There’s a gal from the diner bringing me some food upstairs. Don’t worry. She’s just dropping off my supper and then going back to work. I know a classy place like this would frown upon overnight visitors of the friendlier sex.” He made it to the stairs and said as he took the steps three in a bound. “Don’t mind the shooting you’ll likely hear in a few minutes from upstairs. If the girl makes it inside, tell her to take cover behind the stove there, and try not to spill my coffee. And if I were you, buster, I’d drop down behind that counter right now and stay there until the ruckus is over.”
By the time he finished, he was at the top of the stairs, racing down the hallway, and kicking open the door to his room. He didn’t have time to wait for that bumbling clerk to find his key. He slid to his knees and quickly pulled the leather scabbard from under the bed, slipped out the .45-70 Sharps rifle—the one with the brass telescopic sight—and thumbed out four heavy cartridges from the holder on the scabbard. By the time Breen reached the window, the Sharps was loaded, and the other shells laid perfectly on the floor. He looked out the window, amazed at his luck.
He’d stopped in Deep Flood because he didn’t want to bake in the sun any more, and it happened to be on the way to Purgatory City. On a whim, he’d decided he did not want to eat in the town’s café, and the waitress who doubled as cook decided that she could manage to bring him some supper to his hotel room as he had offered to add fifteen percent to the regular price for his order. He would tip her, of course.
And, bless the saints, he’d been walking back to his room, minding his own business, when Hans Kruger decided to show up to rob the First Bank of Deep Flood.
Well, it might not be Hans. It could be the bank robbing fiend’s twin brother, Otto. A man—even a judge, coroner, or county sheriff—would be hard-pressed to identify one from the other. Not that it truly mattered. Both Hans and Otto were posted for five-hundred dollars each, dead or alive, in Texas and three territories. Breen didn’t think the constable at Deep Flood would mind which Kruger it was.
One little matter concerned Breen as he adjusted his rear sight. He had seen only one of the Kruger boys. Granted, warrants had been issued for a Kruger here, a Kruger there, another Kruger for some crime—one burglary, one horse theft, one murder. Sometimes they did not work together, and often split up. A robbery of a bank in a town of this size could possibly be handled by one man, but Breen had trouble recalling any banks that had been robbed in Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, or Colorado in which only one of the Krugers had been seen—and charged. Not that he was an expert on the Krugers. A horse theft or two, and the time Hans Kruger—or was it Otto?—had gotten upset at losing at a faro layout in Laredo and had robbed the entire gambling parlor of a little more than nine hundred dollars and put a bullet through the faro dealer’s elbow were the types of documented crimes attributed to just Hans or Otto, not both.
Breen peered down the streets, checking for a horse or a man paying too much attention to the bank. No one was on the street that he could see. He didn’t have much of a view for the street below him. He studied the rooftops, such as they were, and found no one.
Well, he couldn’t wait anymore. Breen carefully slid the window up about halfway and then moved back, taking the Sharps with him. He lifted the heavy weapon and aimed at the front door to the bank, making sure that the barrel did not poke out of the window. If someone saw that—especially if the bank robber’s pard saw it (if the robber had a pard) looking out for his well-being—then things might get a bit ticklish, and Breen would have no reward to cash in.
Breen’s plan was simple. When the robber stepped out for his horse, Breen would blow a fist-sized hole through his middle. Hell, bank robbery was a crime no matter if it were being committed by Hans Kruger, Otto Kruger, or some out-of-work cowboy who made the mistake of robbing his first bank and looking too much like one of those Huns. If Hans, or Otto, saw Otto, or Hans, lying in the dirt, most likely the surviving Kruger brother would ride over to assist his dead or dying brother, and even more likely to ride over to get the sack filled with the bank’s money. By that point, Breen would have reloaded the Sharps and after taking quick, deadly, careful aim, he would see the button on the last Kruger brother’s shirt and shoot that bank robber dead, too.
Simple enough. Breen relaxed, controlled his breathing, made himself as comfortable as possible, and stared through the telescopic sight at the bank’s front door.
A church bell in Deep Flood, Texas began ringing five long, drawn out, drowning out, drones that echoed. Finally, the last of the ear-splitting noise ended. Breen sighed. Five o’clock. The bank would be closing. The robber had timed his job perfectly, knowing few people would be inside at this time of day. Well, Deep Flood didn’t have more than a few people living and working in town anyway.
The door to his room—the one he had kicked open and broken the lock—pushed open.
Breen did not look back, but he cursed the bit of poor timing. He should have ordered his steak well done, and his potatoes peeled before being boiled, and a fresh pot of coffee, and maybe even a slice of cake that hadn’t been on the counter, uncovered and attracting flies most of the day.
“Sweetheart,” he said without looking back, “If you would be so kind as to just leave the food on the dresser and leave, I’ll be with you shortly. And then, please, just wait out in the hallway. Things are apt to get a little hot in here. Don’t worry. I’m a lawman, sweetheart. Your bank’s about to be robbed.”
He wasn’t a lawman exactly. He just helped lawmen out. By bringing in outlaws, for which he was generally paid a pretty decent reward. Folks called him a bounty hunter, and though that was a fairly correct description, Breen liked to think of himself as a . . . professional.
He smiled at what one of the newspapers had called him. A jackal. Well, yeah, you could argue that point, but the newspaper had also called a former Texas Ranger named Matt McCulloch and a hard-drinking Irish
