“I didn’t think you would,” Smoke said. He turned to Max. “Thank you for the shave.”
“Hastings,” Sheriff Cooper said, speaking to one of his deputies. “Get Gustafson up here to take care of this body.”
“Yes, sir,” Hastings answered.
“Sheriff Cooper, I wonder if you could tell me anything about the Slater brothers?” Smoke realized he had an advantage over the sheriff. He was positive Cooper not only knew Bates was shaking down strangers for tax money, but that he was probably behind it. Whereas Cooper might be reticent to talk about the Slater brothers under ordinary circumstances, he would welcome the discussion as a diversion from his own crooked dealings.
Cooper had photographs of Travis and Frank Slater. “These here pictures was took by Fred Dysart. He runs the picture shop here.” Cooper handed the first photograph to Smoke. “This one is Frank Slater. He is the oldest.”
Frank had a high forehead, thin hair, beady eyes, and a handlebar mustache.
Cooper gave Smoke the second photograph. “And this one is Travis.”
Travis had his head tilted to one side. He was clean shaven, and his hair was neatly combed.
Smoke studied the pictures for a couple of minutes, then handed them back.
“Marshal Jensen, about Bates and the tax,” Sheriff Cooper said. “We are collecting taxes as a way of raising money, but I don’t know why he tried to shoot you. I ain’t never authorized nothin’ like that.”
“You reap what you sow,” Smoke said.
“Yeah, well, I think we’ve raised enough money now, I’m probably going to stop it.”
“Alvin Marsh, the state attorney general, is a friend of mine,” Smoke said. “I’m sure that when he sends some of his people down here to have a look around, he will appreciate that you have stopped taxing strangers.”
Crystal, Colorado
The Crystal River, a fast flowing stream that broke white over the rocks, set up a roar that could be heard, twenty-four hours a day, all over the town of Crystal. It was impossible for the streets to run parallel, or at right angles to each other. The result was a swath, cut by the river through the pass, along which a couple roads had been fashioned. On either side of the roads the buildings stood as if hanging on to the side of the mountain.
An industrious town, supported by the silver that was extracted from two producing mines, the citizens were sure that someday Crystal would be one of the largest communities in Colorado, if not in the entire West.
Thaddeus Walker, Raleigh Jones, and Emerson Teasdale were having breakfast together at Wilson’s Café. Businessmen, they were vocal advocates of the town, and so convinced of its future they were about to engage in a new venture. They were going to build a hydroelectric plant on the Crystal River. Bringing Crystal into the modern age of electricity would, they believed, not only bring about growth, but insure it would survive far into the future, even if the silver played out.
They had calculated it would cost ten thousand dollars to build the plant, and they were putting in two thousand dollars each. As soon as the bank opened, they were going to present their plan to the loan officer at the Bank of Crystal, to secure the rest of the money.
A year earlier Thaddeus had visited his brother in Appleton, Wisconsin, where the first hydroelectric generator had been put in use. He convinced Jones and Teasdale they could not only put in an electric power plant in Crystal, they could sell “electric subscriptions” for enough money to pay them back for their investment, then continue to make money for years to come.
It had not been a hard sale. Jones, who owned the dairy, and Teasdale, a partner with Walker in a silver mine, were entrepreneurial enough to see the benefits. They walked into the bank to take the final steps to bring it about.
Unfortunately, Walker, Jones, and Teasdale were not the only entrepreneurs with an eye on Crystal. There were five others who also saw Crystal as the key to a financial windfall, though their entrepreneurial experiment was criminal in its intent. Dinkins, Harley, Parnell, and the two Slater brothers rode down the street to the bank. Leaving Travis and Parnell to hold the horses, Dinkins, Harley, and Frank lifted bandannas to cover the bottom of their faces as they rushed in through the door. There were three customers inside the bank.
“You three!” Dinkins shouted. “Down on the floor!”
Frightened by the masked gunmen who had just entered the bank, the three customers did as they were told.
“You,” Dinkins said, pointing his pistol at the teller. “Listen real careful to what I am goin’ to say. I want you to empty your cash drawer, then I want you to go over to that safe, open it up, and give me all the money in there. If you tell me you can’t open it, I am going to shoot you dead. Now, do you understand me?”
The teller, who was shaking visibly, nodded.
“Let me hear you say that you understand what I just told you,” Dinkins said.
“I-I understand,” the bank teller said, barely able to choke the words out.
“Good for you.” Dinkins handed a cloth bag to the teller. “Now, empty your cash drawer into this bag, then go over there, open the safe, and empty it as well.”
With his hands shaking so badly he could scarcely hold on to the money, the bank teller did as he was instructed. When the cash drawer was emptied, he moved over to the big safe and opened it rather easily. Taking bound packets of money from the safe, he dropped them into the cloth bag.
As he handed the bag of money to Dinkins, there was a loud commotion outside the bank.
“Don’t go in there!” a voice shouted. Dinkins recognized it as Parnell’s voice.
“What do you mean, don’t go in there? What the hell is going on here?” another voice yelled gruffly.
A gunshot followed.
As Dinkins, Harley, and Frank Slater started toward the front door, distracted by the gunshot outside, Thaddeus Walker pulled his gun. He fired, but missed. Harley spun around, and in three quick shots, killed all three of the bank customers.
“Let’s go,” Dinkins called.
Outside, the man Parnell had frightened off by a gunshot was running down the street, away from the bank. The citizens of Crystal, who but a moment earlier had been going about their daily commerce, watched as five horseman galloped out of town, firing their pistols indiscriminately. Most dived to the ground as the bullets flew, but a man stepped out of the gun store, and raising a rifle to his shoulder, fired.
One of the galloping horses went down, leaving an outlaw without a horse. He yelled at those galloping away, but they didn’t come back for him. Turning, he saw at least a dozen men running toward him, all of them armed. He threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” he shouted. “I give up!”
“Get a rope!” one of the men shouted. “We’ll string the son of a bitch up right here, and right now!”
“No!” called a man wearing a badge. “We ain’t goin’ to have no lynchin’s in this town. We’re goin’ to try this man legal!”
There were several groans, and the outlaw nodded. “Thanks, Sheriff.”
“Then we’ll hang you,” the sheriff concluded.
The groans changed to cheers.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Oyez, oyez, oyez, this here court is about to convene, the honorable Judge Thurman Norton presiding,” the sheriff called. “All stand!”
Sheriff John Dennis was acting as bailiff of the court, and because court was being held in the saloon, he pointed toward the bartender. “Dooley, you make dead certain you don’t serve no liquor durin’ this trial, ’cause if you do, I’ll put whoever bought the drink, and you, in jail.”
“I ain’t plannin’ on servin’ no liquor, Sheriff.” The bartender pointed to a sign that was on the mirror behind the bar. “As you can see, I got the place posted CLOSED, and I ain’t served a drop for the last half hour.”