The heavy wrench connected hard, the man fell, twisting away. Lee backed against the truck, looking around to see if there was another one. The gelding was rearing and snorting, white eyed, blowing like a stallion. Lee reached for the gun on the seat, watching the shadows around him. The man lay on the ground unmoving. What had he wanted? The truck? The horse? Or was he just some nutcase, out to hurt anyone who looked weaker? Lee remained still, watchful and tense until the gelding began to settle. When the horse had calmed and turned away, when Lee was sure there was no one else, he rolled the man over with his boot, holding his gun on him.
The body was limp. The face was a pulp of blood from the blow of the lug wrench. There was a bloody hole where his nose had been, as if the bones had been driven deep. Lee felt his breath coming hard. He palmed his revolver, glancing at the gray to see if anything else alerted him, but the good, sensible gelding had put his head down again and started to eat.
Lee eased himself down on the running board, sucking air. Where the hell had the guy come from? Had he been in the barn all the time? Sleeping, camping out in the old barn? Lee thought he’d looked around good. He had seen no sign of anything to alarm him, nothing in there that he’d noticed but some old gunny sacks, twists of bailing wire, a rusty bucket.
Rising from the running board, Lee studied what he could see of the dead man’s face, what was left of it. Dark eyes beneath the blood, bushy brows soaked with blood. Despite the gray’s quiet assurance, Lee still wasn’t certain the man had been alone. Nervously he circled the barn and then eased away into the trees beyond, looking back watching the barn, and watching behind him; the light was beginning to soften, but so far, by his watch, his timing was okay. Some twenty yards into the trees he found a small clearing and a makeshift camp. One dirty blanket, a backpack with some canned goods, an empty cook pot. A single metal plate lay beside a miniature fire, near an unopened can of beans, a can opener, and a spoon. As he turned back toward the barn, he could see again the man’s dark eyes under the bushy, bloodied brows. He stood over the body, looking more carefully. Despite the gaping wound he could see how close the eyes were together, the face long and thin. Zigler. Luke Zigler, peering out from the wanted poster hanging in the Blythe post office.
Zigler, serving life for murder and armed robbery, escaped from Terminal Island some two hundred miles to the north but born and raised in Twentynine Palms. If that was Zigler’s home, maybe he’d been waiting here for someone he knew, maybe had camped here to join up with a partner, and that made Lee nervous. He sure didn’t want to leave the gray here for some badass to find. But what other choice did he have? He sure couldn’t leave Zigler, either, for someone todiscover.
Double-timing back to the truck, he studied his watch, thought a minute, then dragged the body around the truck. He searched Zigler’s pockets but found no identification, false or otherwise. A few dollars, chump change. Lifting Zigler by the shoulders, breathing hard, he managed with a lot of grunting and straining to heave him up into the passenger seat. He rolled up the window halfway, closed the door, and pulled Zigler snugly against the doorframe. He slipped his own straw Stetson from the dashboard, jammed it on Zigler, settled it down over his battered face.
Before getting in the truck he ground Zigler’s blood into the dirt, scuffed it in good. He rubbed the gray behind the ears, talked to him a minute, gave him another flake of hay, and left him happily munching his early supper. If the gray grew alarmed, if some no-good approached and tried messing with him—or if Lee himself didn’t return—Lee figured the gray would jump the four-foot rail easy enough, would take off out of the barn running free.
Inside the truck he rolled up Zigler’s window, and settled the hat a little better. He pulled out with Zigler’s body riding easy beside him. Driving, he lifted the revolver out of its holster and pushed it into his belt at the small of his back. He made sure the bandana around his neck was knotted loosely, as he wanted it. The sun was disappearing in the west and, as he moved out from the stand of salty trees, a cooler breeze eased in from the desert.
30
The old truck entered town looking like many another farm vehicle, rusted and dirty, a ranch hand half asleep in the passenger seat, leaning against the window with his straw hat pulled down, maybe a little drunk, this late in the day. Several times Lee had slowed the truck to make sure no blood had seeped through the straw hat, and to wipe away trickles of the blood that crept down Zigler’s face, using a rag he’d found stuffed behind the seat. The blood had stopped now. As he drove carefully past the post office, a clerk inside was closing the venetian blinds, though lights still shone within as he locked up the front part for the night. Lee guessed the small business operatorsand the larger companies would pick up their cash from the back office. Two big pickups passed him and turned the corner heading around to the back, new vehicles marked with the names of two local ranches. He heard truck doors slam, heard a muffled knock and then voices, heard the back door open andclose. He hoped to hell his timing was right. When he heard the men leave, when no other trucks showed up, he turned left between the post office and the burned bank, left again to the little dirt alley behind, and parked beside the wooden storage building.
He took his hat from Zigler and turned the man’s body so his face was half hidden, propping Zigler’s arm up over the seat back to hide his smashed nose. He wiped Zigler’s blood off the hatband, jammed the hat on his own head, and made sure the red bandana around his neck was loose enough. He stepped out of the truck leaving the door ajar, moved quickly to the metal-sheathed door and thumped on it hard, feeling as edgy as if he trod on hot cinders.
“Yes? Who is it?”
Lee leaned close, speaking loudly but garbling the words.“Placer Mining,” he slurred. This was the weakest point in his plan, that Placer hadn’t already been here and gone, that he could get in and get out again before their legitimate messenger drove up.
“Placer?”
Lee grunted.
“You’re early today.”
Lee relaxed a little. He’d started to say something more when he heard the spring lock turn. He pulled the bandana up over his face and drew the revolver. The instant the door cracked open he hit it with all his weight jamming it hard in the face of the startled guard. The man staggered back snatching for his gun and grabbing at his glasses, but he was already staring into the barrel of Lee’s cocked forty-five.
“If you want to live, do exactly what I tell you.” Lee’s blood surged with excitement at the thought of killing the man, a sensation that shocked him. This poor fellow wasn’t Zigler, who had attacked him and who deserved to be taken out. This was just a soft young bank guard, probably hiredat the last minute and obviously not well trained at the job. The frail man gaped at him, his glasses flashing in the overhead light as Lee backed him deeper inside, pulled the door shut behind them, and slid the padlock into the hasp. He had no reason to want the man dead, to envision him bloodiedand dead. The sharp thought upset him, yet he found himself shoving the gun hard into the man’s terrified face, taking pleasure in seeing the little man tremble and gasp. This wasn’t Lee’s mode of operation, his robberies were coolheaded and precise, he didn’t set out to abuse the weak and frightened. This was nothis thinking, that had turned his blood hot with malice, he didn’t like where this was coming from. Angrily he eased off, pressed the barrel of the gun sideways instead, along the man’s cheek. “Get that empty mail sack, there on the desk. Take it in the vault and fill it,stuffall the money into it. I’m right behind you, you make one dicey move and you’re dead.”