Standing in the door to the vault, Lee watched the frightened clerk retrieve bundle after bundle of big bills from a set of metal drawers, watched him stuff the contents down in the bag. Two more bags stood on the floor against the wall, one full, one empty. Lee watched him fill the empty one, fight it closed at last, and pull the drawstring. The bag that was left, already bulging, was marked PLACER MINING.
“Is that all of it?”
“Yes, sir. You can see there’s nothing left.”
“Set the bags by the door, then bring the desk chair in here.”
Looking scared, the man did as he was told, wheeling the chair inside.
“Sit down, hands behind the back of the chair. Is the vault vented?”
“Yes, sir, but … The vent only works when the fan is on. That—that switch inside the vault door.”
“If it’s an alarm, you’re dead.”
“It’s the fan, I swear.”
Lee backed toward the door. He hesitated, watching the man. This was stupid, the damn thing had to be an alarm.
But a plain electric switch? Wouldn’t an alarm look different? Some kind of metal plate and handle or metal button? When he looked up where the clerk was looking, he could see the fan, through a dust-coated grate in the ceiling just above them. He reached for the switch, paused a moment waving the gun threateningly at the guard.
“It’s the fan switch, I swear. I’ve got a wife and two kids at home. Please …”
Lee flipped the switch. The fan started sluggishly,thump, thump, then took hold and began to whir. Lee backed out the door, eased to the desk while still holding the gun on his victim. He picked up a hole punch, returned to the vault fishing the roll of tape from his pants pocket. Working awkwardly, one-handed, he taped the clerk’s arms and legs to the chair. Only when the man was secure, did he slide his gun back in his belt.
With the punch he made holes in a long piece of tape, pressed this against the man’s mouth, wrapping it around to the back. That would smart when someone found him and pulled it off, but the little man looked relieved that he could breathe.
“You may be here for a spell,” Lee said. “You want me to take your glasses off?”
He grunted and shook his head.
Lee dragged the mail sacks out of the vault, looked the man over once, shut the heavy door and spun the dial. Turning, he eased the back door open, stood to the side looking up and down the alley. Dusk was falling fast, the sky deepening into gray, but the alley, the buildings and truck and Lee himself were still visible. When he didn’t hear another vehicle coming down the side street he moved on out. He carried the three bags to the truck, dropped them in back, and covered them with the saddle blanket.
Stepping into the cab, he pulled his bandana off and stuffed it in Zigler’s pocket. He resettled Zigler’s position a bit, took off the straw hat, put it back on Zigler, tilting it down again over the man’s bloody face.
He started the truck, pulled out onto the hard dirt alley, which he followed for several blocks before cutting back to the main street. Car lights were on, the windows of the stores that were still open were brightly lit. Driving slowly out of town, he was just another farm worker, his truck dirty and nondescript. Opening the wind wing, he let the thin evening breeze cool him, he hadn’t realized how bad he was sweating. But now, with Zigler beside him, he had to smile. The dead man made a nice change to his plans. Somehow, his dead companion made him feel steadier and more in control.
When he got back to the gray, everything was as it should be, the gray sleeping on his feet, not nervous or watchful as if anything had disturbed him. He saddled the gelding, fished a length of rope from the truck and tied the three canvas money bags on top of his saddlebags, tied the trenching tool across those. Putting on the gloves he’d brought, he wiped his prints off places on the trailer he’d touched. Lifting the tongue, he pushed the trailer deep inside the old barn, into the shadows. Last of all, he wiped any earlier fingerprints from the hitch.
He returned to the gelding, put him on a lead rope, and led him up close to the driver’s door. Stepping into the truck, he slipped the rope in through his open window and started the engine. Pulling out slowly, leading the gray, he eased away from the barn and up the incline to the little turnoff that led up into the hills. The gray followed willingly, trusting Lee, moving along at an easy jog. Lee drove until he found a deep embankment that was steep enough for what he wanted, an ancient, dry waterway, sheer and far to the bottom.
Pulling onto the shoulder and getting out, he led the gelding across the road out of the way and secured his rope among a scattering of boulders. In the dusk, the pale desert floor held the last of the light. He could see the old barn far below, and the airstrip. Off beyond the strip by several miles lay a ranch, the thin lines of fences, a barn, a windmill, a cluster of trees, and a glint of white that would be the ranch house.
Returning to the truck, still wearing the gloves, he got in and angled the truck facing the cliff. He set the hand brake, then wiped clean the steering wheel again for good measure, wiped the lug wrench, the jack, and the door handles. He slid Dawson’s driver’s license deep into the dead man’s back pocket, then, opening the driver’s door and stepping out, he pulled Zigler’s body across the seat and arranged it behind the steering wheel. He wiped the revolver good, pressed the dead man’s fingers to it, in the firing position, then laid it on the seat near Zigler’s right leg. Reaching in, with the hand brake still set, he started the truck, the gear in neutral, and let the engine idle. Along the edge of the canyon, the wind blew sharply up at him. He cranked the steering wheel toward the edge. If he wasn’t quick, he’d be as dead as Zigler. In one move he released the brake, forced the gearshift into low, and jumped clear, giving the truck a shove to get it moving.
It lurched over the bank and down the side with a hell of a rumble, kicking up rocks, plowing up dust that blew in his face. He listened to the truck fall bouncing against the cliff, sounded like it was turning over and over. He heard it hit a boulder and bounce, then a heavier sound, as if it had rolled. Warily he peered over but it was too dark to see down into the canyon, too black down there to see anything. He thought about climbing down and putting a match to the truck—if he could get down, in the dark, without breaking his neck. But what the hell? If the law found the truck, what did they have? An escaped convict gone over the cliff, false ID, a truck with false registration, and a dark revolver the bank teller might recognize with its six-inch barrel, woodengrip, and worn bluing.
Returning to the gray, he patted the canvas bags behind him as he stepped up into the saddle. He made sure the money rode steady and secure as he moved the gelding on up the western slope of the mountain. The gray moved out at a fast walk even climbing, but at last he tired at the uphill pull and wanted to slow. Lee let the willing mount take his own pace, he had enough time. His pocket watch said seven o’clock, straight up. He had an hour and a half, and that was plenty.
When the gray had rested, Lee urged him along again. They were high up on the northwestern slope at the base of a pinnacle rock when they stopped in the shadow of an overhang, and Lee stepped off. He untied one of the canvas bags, sat down against the bank with the bag between his knees and opened it. In the fading light, he counted roughly through the money, his heart pounding. Looked like, altogether, he might have around three to four hundred thousand. Hell, he could buy half of Mexico for that. The crisp green bills felt good in his hands. He managed to stuff two canvas bags in the saddlebags. Then, just below the cliff, he dug a deep hole in the dry desert. Even with the trenching tool, he was out of breath when he’d finished, and now time was getting close. Breathing raggedly, he dropped the saddlebags into the hole, laid the third bag between them, and covered them. He kept the trenching tool. Feeling pushed now, he stood for only a moment looking out over the valley, mentally marking his position. He could just see, down to his left, the airstrip like a small scratch next to the dirt road to Jamesfarm.