a moment, time stood still as they stared at each other, the air between them charged with unspoken questions and apologies and explanations. Then Roy turned to face forward, dug his heels into the flanks of the buckskin and shot down the street. Behind him came the girl’s frightened scream. “Papa! Papa!”
Your father is fine, Roy thought with a trace of irony. I took the bullet meant for him.
He couldn’t understand what had happened, why Curtis had fired at the teller, unless it was a random act of violence. Some men went crazy with the outlaw life, got into the habit of using gunplay as a means to demonstrate their power, or simply to alleviate the boredom of being shut away in the hideout for months on end, with little to amuse them apart from gambling and drinking and brawling.
A rifle shot cracked through the air. The rancher who’d burst out of the saloon must have fired, and soon others would fetch their hunting weapons and start shooting. Roy heard the bullet whizz by, chasing him. He squatted low in the saddle and urged Dagur on. One hole in his hide was enough.
As he left the town behind, the sun in the sky seemed to grow hotter and hotter. His vision wavered, making the landscape hazy. Pain rolled over him in waves that appeared to swallow him up. Sweat coated his skin, mixing with the stream of blood from his shoulder.
In the distance, he could see a cloud of dust where his associates were making their escape. He twisted awkwardly in the saddle to survey the trail behind him. A burning pain sliced through his side at the motion, but he saw no sign of anyone chasing him.
He slowed his pace, teetered in the saddle. He was losing too much blood. Unless he attended to his wound and got some rest, he’d never survive the long ride north, to the maze of canyons where the law didn’t reach.
The gang had arranged to regroup at an abandoned mine, to inspect the haul and to retrieve the provisions they had stored there for the return journey to the hideout. However, Lom Curtis might feel that leaving behind an injured man posed too great a risk. He had a cast-iron rule that any man who joined the Red Bluff Gang could never walk away or be left behind, and in his weakened state Roy would be no match for the outlaw boss—not with fists, not with guns, nor in terms of outwitting him.
Taking a sharp turn into an outcrop of boulders, Roy pointed the buckskin toward the west, along a trail overgrown with sagebrush and creosote. Unlike Saldana and Davies, who’d spent their idle hours gambling, Roy had roamed the surrounding hills. He’d come across an abandoned homestead, with a log cabin and a spring.
If he could make it that far, the cabin would offer a place to hide, a refuge from both a posse and the outlaw leader who placed no value on loyalty.
* * *
Celia shook herself free from the trance she’d tumbled into when she’d recognized the man with mismatched eyes in his Indian disguise. She jumped up the front steps of the bank, shoved the door open with both hands and hurtled through.
“Papa! Papa!” She could hear the shrill ring of terror in her voice, could feel her heart hammering in the confines of her chest.
She raked a frantic glance around the room, divided by a polished oak counter and a glass partition above. Her father and the manager, Mr. Northfield, sat sprawled with their backs against the wall on the customer side. Celia rushed up to them, sank to her knees in front of her father.
“Papa! Are you all right? Are you all right?” With searching hands, she patted his freshly laundered shirt and the suit coat that hung on his emaciated frame. No blood. No blood. But a glazed look filled her father’s eyes and beneath her searching palms Celia could feel his frail body trembling with fear.
While she completed her examination, her father sucked in a calming breath and expelled it on a sigh. “I’m fine, Celia girl,” he reassured her. “Just a bit shaken up.”
She turned to the manager. From an affluent Baltimore family, Mr. Northfield had employed her father on a recommendation from shared acquaintances. In his sixties, cool in manner, trim in appearance, with neatly clipped graying hair and a pencil moustache, the manager kept himself aloof from his employees. Celia possessed no fondness for him, but she was grateful for the opportunity he had extended to her father.
“Mr. Northfield, are you all right?”
“I am unharmed, if that is what you mean.” The manager sat upright on the floor and tugged at the lapels of his broadcloth suit. “But I am far from all right. They emptied the vault, all of it. Forty thousand dollars’ worth of gold, the most we have ever held in the bank.”
Her panic receding, Celia twisted on her knees to survey the disarray. A crack ran across the glass partition and ugly scratches marred the front of the oak counter. Behind the partition, the vault stood open, empty coin trays scattered about. Overturned chairs and papers strewn about completed the scene of destruction. In the air, the acrid smell of gunpowder mingled with the familiar scents of beeswax polish and lemon cleaner.
Anger flared in Celia, the edge of it dulled by a sense of guilt and shame. In her bitterness toward the townspeople, she had secretly welcomed the disaster, had gloated over having figured out what no one else seemed to have the brains to suspect.
Now, regret flooded her conscience. Her father loved his job. It gave him dignity, a position in the community. During the robbery, his place of business, the citadel of finance in which he took such pride had been violated, equipment damaged, order and precision replaced with chaos and lawlessness.
She turned back to the men. “I heard a gunshot.”
Her father swallowed, his thin throat rippling. “That’s the damnedest thing, Celia girl. One of the outlaws, the gang leader, pointed his gun at me. I believe he was going to shoot me, but another one of the robbers got in the way. The Indian, with long black hair. I think he got hit.”
Celia’s thoughts reverted to the stranger with mismatched eyes. She’d been waiting for him to return, and for the briefest of instants out there in the midday sun, as she jumped down from the boardwalk and her eyes locked with one brown eye and one blue, the thrill of recognition had made her forget everything else.
Just as she had suspected, the stranger had come back to rob the bank. And he had protected her father. Why had he done it? Was it to rule out the prospect of being hanged for murder if the gang got caught? Or had he known the teller was her father? Had he done it for her, to protect her from the loss of a parent?
“He got hit?” she asked, urgency in her tone as a new worry seized her mind. Such concern for one of the robbers might appear unwarranted, but she had to know. “The man with long black hair who stepped between you and the gunman got hit?”
Her father nodded. “A bullet in the shoulder. He walked out on his own steam, but he was in pain. I could tell.”
As her mental processes sprang back to their normal clarity, Celia recalled hearing rifle shots out in the street while she’d been kneeling to examine her father for injuries. In her mind, she played back the image of the man with different-colored eyes. He had struggled to get on his horse while his companions were already making their escape. The last one to get away, he’d have been the target for those rifle shots.
Fear closed around her, startling in its intensity. She jumped up to her feet and spoke in a breathless rush. “I need air. I have to go outside.”
As she whirled about and darted toward the exit, she noticed Mr. Northfield studying her father with a sharp, assessing look. Perhaps the
