Black Jack, Max Brand [snow like ashes .txt] 📗

CHAPTER 34

An hour’s ride brought them to the environs of the little town. But it

was already nearly the middle of night and the village was black;

whatever life waked at that hour had been drawn into the vortex of

Pedro’s. And Pedro’s was a place of silence. Terry and Denver skirted

down the back of the town and saw the broad windows of Pedro’s, against

which passed a moving silhouette now and again, but never a voice floated

out to them.

 

Otherwise the town was dead. They rode until they were at the other

extremity of the main street. Here, according to Denver, was the bank

which had never in its entire history been the scene of an attempted

raid. They threw the reins of their horses after drawing almost

perilously close.

 

“Because if we get what we want,” said Terry, “it will be too heavy to

carry far.”

 

And Denver agreed, though they had come so close that from the back of

the bank it must have been possible to make out the outlines of the

horses. The bank itself was a broad, dumpy building with adobe walls,

whose corners had been washed and rounded by time to shapelessness. The

walls angled in as they rose; the roof was flat. As for the position, it

could not have been worse. A dwelling abutted on either side of the bank.

The second stories of those dwellings commanded the roof of the bank; and

the front and back porches commanded the front and back entrances of the

building.

 

The moment they had dismounted, Terry and Denver stood a while

motionless. There was no doubt, even before they approached nearer, about

the activity and watchfulness of the guards who took care of the new

deposit in the bank. Across the back wall of the building drifted a

shadowy outline—a guard marching steadily back and forth and keeping

sentry watch.

 

“A stiff job, son,” muttered Denver. “I told you these birds wouldn’t

sleep with more’n one eye; and they’s a few that’s got ‘em both open.”

 

But there was no wavering in Terry. The black stillness of the night; the

soundless, slowly moving figure across the wall of the building; the

hush, the stars, and the sense of something to be done stimulated him,

filled him with a giddy happiness such as he had never known before.

Crime? It was no crime to Terry Hollis, but a great and delightful game.

 

Suddenly he regretted the very presence of Denver Pete. He wanted to be

alone with this adventure, match his cunning and his strength against

whoever guarded the money of old Lewison, the miser.

 

“Stay here,” he whispered in the ear of Denver. “Keep quiet. I’m going to

slip over there and see what’s what. Be patient. It may take a long

time.”

 

Denver nodded.

 

“Better let me come along. In case—”

 

“Your job is opening that safe; my job is to get you to it in safety and

get you away again with the stuff.” Denver shrugged his shoulders. It was

much in the method of famous old Black Jack himself. There were so many

features of similarity between the methods of the boy and his father that

it seemed to Denver that the ghost of the former man had stepped into the

body of his son.

 

In the meantime Terry faded into the dark. His plan of approach was

perfectly simple. The house to the right of the bank was painted blue.

Against that dark background no figure stood out clearly. Instead of

creeping close to the ground to get past the guard at the rear of the

building, he chose his time when the watcher had turned from the nearest

end of his beat and was walking in the opposite direction. The moment

that happened, Terry strode forward as lightly and rapidly as possible.

 

Luckily the ground was quite firm. It had once been planted with grass,

and though the grass had died, its roots remained densely enough to form

a firm matting, and there was no telltale crunching of the sand

underfoot. Even so, some slight sound made the guard pause abruptly in

the middle of his walk and whirl toward Terry. Instead of attempting to

hide by dropping down to the ground, it came to Terry that the least

motion in the dark would serve to make him visible. He simply halted at

the same moment that the guard halted and trusted to the dark background

of the house which was now beside him to make him invisible. Apparently

he was justified. After a moment the guard turned and resumed his pacing,

and Terry slipped on into the narrow walk between the bank and the

adjoining house on the right.

 

He had hoped for a side window. There was no sign of one. Nothing but the

sheer, sloping adobe wall, probably of great thickness, and burned to the

density of soft stone. So he came to the front of the building, and so

doing, almost ran into a second guard, who paced down the front of the

bank just as the first kept watch over the rear entrance. Terry flattened

himself against the side wall and held his breath. But the guard had seen

nothing and, turning again at the end of his beat, went back in the

opposite direction, a tall, gaunt man—so much Terry could make out even

in the dark, and his heel fell with the heaviness of age. Perhaps this

was Lewison himself.

 

The moment he was turned, Terry peered around the corner at the front of

the building. There were two windows, one close to his corner and one on

the farther side of the door. Both were lighted, but the farther one so

dimly that it was apparent the light came from one source, and that

source directly behind the window nearest Terry. He ventured one long,

stealthy pace, and peered into the window.

 

As he had suspected, the interior of the bank was one large room. Half of

it was fenced off with steel bars that terminated in spikes at the top as

though, ludicrously, they were meant to keep one from climbing over.

Behind this steel fencing were the safes of the bank. Outside the fence

at a table, with a lamp between them, two men were playing cards. And the

lamplight glinted on the rusty old safe which stood a little at one side.

 

Certainly old Lewison was guarding his money well. The hopes of Terry

disappeared, and as Lewison was now approaching the far end of his beat,

Terry glided back into the walk between the buildings and crouched there.

He needed time and thought sadly.

 

As far as he could make out, the only two approaches to the bank, front

and rear, were thoroughly guarded. Not only that, but once inside the

bank, one would encounter the main obstacle, which consisted of two

heavily armed men sitting in readiness at the table. If there were any

solution to the problem, it must be found in another examination of the

room.

 

Again the tall old man reached the end of his beat nearest Terry, turned

with military precision and went back. Terry slipped out and was

instantly at the window again. All was as before. One of the guards had

laid down his cards to light a cigarette, and dense clouds of smoke

floated above his head. That partial obscurity annoyed Terry. It seemed

as if the luck were playing directly against him. However, the smoke

began to clear rapidly. When it had mounted almost beyond the strongest

inner circle of the lantern light, it rose with a sudden impetus, as

though drawn up by an electric fan. Terry wondered at it, and squinted

toward the ceiling, but the ceiling was lost in shadow.

 

He returned to his harborage between the two buildings for a fresh

session of thought. And then his idea came to him. Only one thing could

have sucked that straight upward so rapidly, and that was either a fan—

which was ridiculous—or else a draught of air passing through an

opening in the ceiling.

 

Unquestionably that was the case. Two windows, small as they were, would

never serve adequately to ventilate the big single room of the bank. No

doubt there was a skylight in the roof of the building and another

aperture in the floor of the loft.

 

At least that was the supposition upon which he must act, or else not act

at all. He went back as he had come, passed the rear guard easily, and

found Denver unmoved beside the heads Of the horses.

 

“Denver,” he said, “we’ve got to get to the roof of that bank, and the

only way we can reach it is through the skylight.”

 

“Skylight?” echoed Denver. “Didn’t know there was one.” “There has to

be,” said Terry, with surety. “Can you force a door in one of those

houses so we can get to the second story of one of ‘em and drop to the

roof?”

 

“Force nothing,” whispered Denver. “They don’t know what locks on doors

mean around here.”

 

And he was right.

 

They circled in a broad detour and slipped onto the back porch of the

blue house; the guard at the rear of the bank was whistling softly as he

walked.

 

“Instead of watchdogs they keep doors with rusty hinges,” said Denver as

he turned the knob, and the door gave an inch inward. “And I dunno which

is worst. But watch this, bo!”

 

And he began to push the door slowly inward. There was never a slackening

or an increase in the speed with which his hand travelled. It took him a

full five minutes to open the door a foot and a half. They slipped

inside, but Denver called Terry back as the latter began to feel his way

across the kitchen.

 

“Wait till I close this door.”

 

“But why?” whispered Terry.

 

“Might make a draught—might wake up one of these birds. And there you

are. That’s the one rule of politeness for a burglar, Terry. Close the

doors after you!”

 

And