“Thank you, Jed,” Beulah said primly. She followed the banker to a railed partition where Jed eased wearily into a leather chair.
He got out pen and paper and said, “Now how much is it, Beulah? I'll just add it to your and Wirt's account.”
Beulah felt the breath of the street on the back of her thin neck. She thought, Jed left the door open. Now that's a careless thing to do, with people's money in his care. But she was busy counting the money in the bottom of the wicker basket and didn't turn around. Then she heard the latch click and knew that someone had stepped through the door and closed it.
A voice said, “Stand like you are, lady. Don't turn around.”
Jed Harper's eyes were bugging as though he had just caught a glimpse of the Great Beyond. “Do as he says, Beulah,” the banker said hoarsely. “He's got a gun!”
Beulah stiffened. A gun meant robbery. She thought of Wirt's hard-earned money, and her small eyes glinted. No hoodlum was going to take this money, she vowed to herself; she didn't care how many guns he had.
Beulah started to wheel about. She would fight for what was hers with her own two hands, if necessary! The man behind her made a small, angry sound of surprise when he saw what she was going to do. He moved quickly, before Beulah's thought had grown to action, Beulah felt blinding pain as something hard struck the back of her head through her sunbonnet....
Beulah awoke in a sea of pain. Her head ached as if it would burst, and she had never known that a person could be as sick as she was that moment. The smell of oiled oak told her that she was lying on the floor of the bank. She tried to move and could not. She tried to call out, but the effort of drawing up a bare whisper brought the blaze of pain to her head.
Her money! Had the thief taken her money? She saw the blurred shape of her shopping basket turned upside down on the floor, but she couldn't reach it. She had the shameful, disgusting feeling that she was going to be sick there on the bank floor.
For a moment she slipped into a dense mist of pain. What was the matter with that Jed Harper? Why didn't he help her? Why did he leave her lying on the floor like this, helpless?
She didn't dare move her head. Every move she made caused the floor to lurch sickeningly and increased the agony in her head.
Through the mist she heard a voice snarling angrily, “I said open that vault! And be quick about it!”
Beulah heard Jed Harper's voice, sputtering and scared. A fine man he is, Beulah thought, for people to leave money with! She'd tell Wirt about this! They'd take their money out of this bank and put it somewhere else!
Still, she was afraid to move. When she opened her eyes the lurching of the room made her violently sick, and she decided to lie quietly. Sooner or later someone would come to help her. But she wouldn't depend on Jed Harper!
Then she heard boot heels running away from the vault. Beulah made herself open her eyes again, and saw a hazy, distorted form that hardly looked like a man at all. A voice shouted, “Don't try it, mister!”
A revolver exploded. The crashing sound made Beulah cringe, her eyes tightly closed. The side door of the bank opened and closed j then there was complete silence in the building.
Several seconds must have passed before realization drifted through the pain. The thief was gone. But it was so quiet....
Finally she realized that Jed Harper must be dead. Beulah lay like stone, her mind racing. She discovered that she could move now and the pain was not so bad. But she lay there thinking....
Her small, pale eyes took on the cast of steel. Every nerve in her tight-wound body twanged like a fiddle string. She made herself sit up. Her heart hammered, her head throbbed, but she forced herself not to think so much of the pain. Slowly, inch by inch, she gained her feet and stumbled to the bank's front door. She fell almost into the arms of Phil Costain.
“Miz Beulah!” the big drayman said, startled. “You better stay inside; there's shootin' goin' on somewhere!”
Beulah's throat felt raw. “Get Elec Blasingame,” she said. “Get him here quick!”
Other men were gathering around. Some were running up the street trying to find out where the shot had come from. “Miz Beulah,” Phil said, “you better sit down; you don't look so good to me.”
“You fool!” she told him angrily, “get me the marshal! I think Jed Harper's just been killed!”
It didn't take Blasingame long to get there. His face was redder than usual, and the smell of whisky on his breath was enough to make Beulah reel. She said, “Did you get him?”
“Not yet, but we will. Did you see him, ma'am?”
Beulah locked her jaws for a moment. Then she snapped, “Aren't you going to take a look at Mr. Harper?”
The marshal turned on Bert Surratt, who had just come up. “Bert, see if you can locate Doc Shipley. Mrs. Sewell, you'd better come back into the bank and sit down.”
Beulah followed Elec Blasingame into the building and sank weakly into a chair by the rail partition. Elec went to the other side of the partition, stayed a moment and came back. “Jed caught it just over the heart: never knew what hit him.”
The throbbing in Beulah's head got worse. She tried to think. The most important thoughts she'd ever had were now swimming in her brain, but it was hard to keep them straight in all that pain.
“Mrs. Sewell,” the marshal said, “did you get a look at this killer, the one that shot Harper?”
Beulah's thin lips compressed, her small mouth almost disappeared. She looked hard at Elec Blasingame. “Marshal,” she snapped, “don't you think you ought to be out looking for the killer instead of pestering a poor hurt woman like me?”
“I just want to know if you saw the killer, ma'am.” He waited a moment, then added, “There are plenty of men scouring the town, but it would help if we knew who to look for.” Beulah Sewell's jaws locked again. It gave Elec Blasingame a chill to see her sitting there as cold as a block of stone. “Please, Mrs. Sewell,” he said with great patience, “this is important. You are the only one alive who could have seen him.”
Still, Beulah said nothing. A glassiness appeared in her pale eyes. She sat staring... staring... Elec had the chilly feeling that she was looking right through him at something on the other side of the world. Anger and impatience swelled within him.
“Look,” he said shortly. “Every minute counts, ma'am. Surely you can understand that. Now please, as quick as you can, tell me exactly what happened.”
Wirt Sewell burst through the front door at that moment, pale and frightened. “Beulah, you're all right!”
“My head hurts,” his wife said peevishly.
Elec Blasingame, outwardly, remained calm. “Wirt, Doc Shipley'll be here directly to look her over. Now it's important that she tell us what she saw.”
“Even if she's hurt?” Wirt demanded.