The Chase

saloons and eight dance halls.
The man driving the wagon was not interested in anything the town had to offer except some of the assets of the John S. Cook Bank. He knew that the safe inside could hold over a million dollars in silver coins. But it was far easier to carry cash from the payrolls of the mines, and he had yet to take a single silver, or gold, piece. He figured that with eighty-five companies engaged in mining the surrounding hills, the payroll take should be quite considerable.
As usual, he had planned well, living in a boardinghouse for miners while entering the Cook Bank on numerous occasions to make small deposits in an account he had opened under a false name. A brief friendship was struck up with the bank’s manager, who was led into thinking the town newcomer was a mining engineer. The man’s appearance had been altered with a wig of black hair, a mustache, and a Vandyke beard. He also walked with a limp, which he said was the result of a mining accident. It proved to be a flawless disguise with which to study the banking habits of the citizens and the times when the bank was doing little business.
As he drove the wagon and mules into town toward the Cook Bank, however, his image had been changed from that of a mining engineer to that of a small-time freight hauler to the mines. He looked like any one of the town’s haulers, struggling to make a living in the broiling heat of the desert during summer. He reined in the mules at the rear of a stable. When he was certain no one was observing him, he lifted a dummy dressed exactly the same as himself and tied it to the seat of the wagon. Then he led the mules back toward Broadway, the main street running through town. Just before reaching the concrete walkway in front of the bank’s entrance, he slapped the mules on their rumps and sent them off, pulling the wagon down the street through the main part of town, his dummy likeness sitting upright on the seat and holding the reins.
He checked for customers approaching the bank. None of the people milling around the town seemed headed in that direction. He looked up at the four-story building, glancing at the gold paint on the windows of the upper floor advertising a dentist and a doctor. Another sign, with a hand pointing downward, indicated that the town post office was in the basement.
He strolled into the bank and looked around the lobby. It was empty except for a man making a withdrawal. The customer took his money from the teller, turned, and walked from the bank without glancing at the stranger.
There goes a lucky man, the robber thought.
If the customer had bothered to notice him, he would have been shot dead. The robber never left anyone behind to identify the least detail about him. Then there was always the possibility, although slim, that someone might see through his disguise.
He had learned from conversations in the neighboring saloons that the bank was run by a manager for a company of men who were owners of the region’s most productive mines, especially the Montgomery-Shoshone Mine whose original claim had grossed nearly two million dollars.
So far, so good, thought the robber as he leaped over the counter, landing on his feet next to the startled teller. He pulled the automatic from his boot and pressed the muzzle against the teller’s head.
“Do not move, and do not think of stepping on the alarm button under the counter or I’ll splatter your brains on the wall.”
The teller could not believe what was happening. “Is this really a holdup?” he stammered.
“It is that,” replied the robber. “Now, walk into the manager’s office very slowly and act as if nothing is happening.”
The frightened teller moved toward an office with a closed door whose etched glass made it difficult to see in or out. He knocked.
“Yes, come on in,” came a voice from the other side.
The teller Fred pushed open the door and was roughly shoved inside, losing his balance and falling across the manager’s desk. The sign on the desk, HERBERT WILKINS, was knocked to the floor. Wilkins swiftly took in the situation and reached for a revolver under his desk. He was five seconds too late. The robber had learned about the weapon from the manager himself, while talking at a nearby saloon.
“Do not touch that gun,” snapped the robber, as if he were psychic.
Wilkins was not a man who frightened easily. He stared at the robber, taking in every inch of his appearance. “You’ll never get away with it,” he said contemptuously.
The robber spoke in a cold, steady voice. “I have before and I will do so again.” He motioned toward the imposing safe that stood nearly eight feet high. “Open it!”
Wilkins looked the robber square in the eye. “No, I don’t think I will.”
The robber wasted no time. He wrapped the muzzle of his automatic in a heavy towel and shot the teller between the eyes. Then he turned to Wilkins. “I may leave here without a dime, but you won’t live to see it.”
Wilkins stood, horrified, staring down at the spreading pool of blood around Fred’s head. He looked at the smoldering towel where the bullet had passed through, well knowing it was unlikely that anyone in the building had heard the gunshot. As if in a trance, he walked to the safe and began turning the combination lock to the required numbers. After half a minute, he pulled down on the latch and the massive steel door swung open.
“Take it and be damned!” he hissed.
The robber merely smiled and shot Wilkins in the temple. The bank manager had barely struck the floor when the robber strode quickly to the front door, slammed it shut, hung a CLOSED sign in the window, and pulled down the shades. Then he methodically cleaned out