“And murder.”
“The banker—I almost forgot about him. Anyway, down there in Mexico, Nate stews about it, and after a while he gets to thinkin' what a hell of a thing it would be if he could come back here and really rob that bank. Of course, what with telegraph wires strung all over Texas these days, he couldn't show his face up here. That's where you come in kid. Are you beginnin' to see the way Nate figured it out?”
Jeff stared. “He wants me to rob the bank?”
Somerson's laughter was a sudden outburst that was over almost as soon as it started. “You're gettin' the idea, kid, but it's not as risky as you make it sound. I'm here to help you.”
Jeff glared at the outlaw in disbelief. His memory went back five years, and again he saw the way Nathan had looked at him from behind the bars of Blasingame's jail. At a time like that, when he could have drenched his son with his own hate, Nathan had chosen to tell him nothing. Nathan had let him walk away hating him, because he had thought it would be better for the boy that way.
It didn't stand to reason for that kind of man to ask the things that Somerson claimed for him. Slowly, stiffly, Jeff got to his feet.
“What's the matter?” The outlaw frowned.
“I guess I'll head back for Plainsville.”
Somerson folded his pocket knife, and Jeff could almost see the thoughts racing behind his eyes. At last he slipped the knife into his pocket and rose to his feet, surprising Jeff with a mild grin.
“I didn't fool you, did I? Well, I should have known better than to try to fool a kid of Nate Blaine's.”
“He never said anything about that bank, did he?” Jeff asked tightly.
Somerson shook his head, as though in wonder. “You're just like Nate, all right. Want to see all the cards on the table, don't you? I'll give it to you straight, kid. Nate never sent me up here to look you up, and he never said he wanted you to rob a bank for him. I made that up out of my head, but the rest is the truth. The way he hates this town of yours, especially. Sometimes I thought he was goin' to come back and settle the score himself, government marshal be damned.” He was not grinning now. His face was hard and sober. “You believe that much, don't you?”
“If I did, what difference would it make? I've got no business with you, Somerson.”
“Just a minute; you haven't heard it all yet. Remember, this is the truth—your pa's in trouble, kid. The rebel army we rode for in Mexico got whipped; the ringleaders are bein' shot where they find 'em. That's why I came north. But your pa's not so lucky; he's got no place to run.”
Jeff felt an icy finger move up his spine. “How do I know this ain't another lie?”
“You don't,” Somerson said bluntly. “You could find out if you wanted to write the authorities on the Border. But you won't. Because you can see I'm tellin' the truth, can't you?”
Jeff tried to tell himself differently, but he instinctively knew that this was the truth, just as the other had been a lie. His legs felt suddenly weak. “Let's hear the rest of it,” he said quietly.
“It's the simplest thing in the world. Your Pa needs money. It wouldn't help him much in Texas, but in Mexico he can buy himself onto the right side of the law.” Now he grinned again, but this time the expression did not reach as far as his eyes. “With plenty of luck, I'd say your pa has about a month to go before they catch him. Do you know how they execute rebels in Mexico, kid? First, they make you dig your own grave, then they tie your hands and feet and bring in the firing squad. Mexicans are lousy shots, especially the ones they put in firing squads. They shoot you in the gut, if they can, and while you're still yellin' they start shovelin' dirt in—”
“That's enough!” Jeff snarled.
“Makes you squeamish, doesn't it? But that's the way they do it. That's the way it'll happen to Nate, if he doesn't get help. Five thousand dollars, kid. Is it worth that much to save your pa from a Mexican firing squad?”
Jeff felt his insides shrinking. He didn't even have enough to pay for his sleeping room.
Somerson saw that he was winning, and pushed hard. “Plainsville's a lively town these days,” he said. “Farmers bringin' their crops in, a lot of cattle money changin' hands. There's plenty of cash in that bank for a man smart enough to get it—enough to save your pa, kid, and then some.”
Jeff could not think. His brain felt as cold and immovable as stone. “What could I do?” he asked numbly. “Why did you pick me?”
“That's easy, kid.” Somerson picked up the coffee can, poured in a little cool water from his canteen to settle the grounds, then drank from the tin lip. “First, you're Nate Blaine's boy, so I figure you've got the guts for this kind of thing. Next, I'm not afraid you'll do any dangerous talkin'. Finally, and most important, you know the town and everybody there knows you. That's goin' to be important, as you'll see later.”
“What about your friend Fay. Why don't you get him to help you?”
“He will. Here, you'd better have some of this coffee, kid. You look like your nerves could use it.”
It was almost noon when Jeff headed back toward Plainsville. Somerson walked across the weed-grown yard with him to get the claybank. “It has to be on the first of the month,” the outlaw was saying. “Everybody does his bankin' around then, so there should be plenty of cash in the vault. How do you feel?”
“How am I supposed to feel?” Jeff asked bitterly.
Somerson's voice was suddenly a snarl. “You listen to me, kid, and listen good! If you want your pa dead, you just go back to town and forget all about this. But if you want to save Nate's neck, you do as I say!”
When Jeff said nothing, the outlaw grabbed his arm. “You write the Border rangers, if you don't believe what I'm tellin' you about Nate!”
“Get your hand off me.”
Somerson blinked in surprise, then dropped his hand. He could almost believe that Nate himself had spoken. “Sure, kid, I didn't mean to grab. Well, you go back to town and think over what I told you. I'll have Milan Fay contact you when the time is right.”
Jeff swung stiffly to the saddle and said nothing.
Chapter Sixteen
JEFF LEFT THE CLAYBANK in the alley behind Ludlow's store. It had been twenty-four hours since he had slept, his nerves were jumpy, and there was sickness in the pit of his stomach. Through the long ride back he had pondered Somerson's proposition and still had no answer.
Now it was night again, Sunday night and gravely quiet. No pianos, no fiddles, no dancing. Main Street was almost deserted; the cowhands had slept off their drunks, and the dancers had gone home. He could hear the whispered rattle of the wheel of fortune in Bert Surratt's place, and that seemed to be the only sound in the whole town.