down in time, solidify into the murderous trigger-quick wiliness which had guided him in and out of so many tight places. Which forced him to survive long after the withered inner man had cried out for the peace of death. Now, however, there was nothing but the raging fear, and he had to strike out at something. At anything.
"You hear anything out there?" He jerked his head toward the street. "Well, did you?"
"Hear anything? W-what…"
"The bombs, you long-eared jerk! Any commotion."
"Huh-uh. But I don't guess we could, could we, Rudy? I mean, there in the vault we-N-no! D-don't!"
The kid strangled on a scream. He tried to claw the gun from his belt. Then he toppled forward, clutching at his half-disemboweled abdomen; at the guts which Torrento had mockingly credited him with having.
Rudy giggled. He made a sound that was strangely akin to a sob. Then he wiped his knife on a blotter, returned it to his pocket and picked up the two briefcases.
He carried them to the bank door, set them down again. He turned and looked meditatively at the bank's three employees. They were scattered about the lobby floor, their mouths sealed with tape, their wrists and ankles bound with more tape. They looked at him, their eyes rolling to show the whites, and Rudy hesitantly fingered his knife.
They'd have him tabbed for the robbery, for killing the kid. And if things broke wrong, Doc would doubtless manage to tag him with the guard's death. Trust Doc to keep himself in the clear, him and his smart little sneak of a wife! But anyway, these yokels could finger him- pick his wedge-shaped map out of a million mug shots. So as long as he couldn't be fried or have his neck popped but once anyhow, why not
He took the knife out again. He went from employee to employee, slashing the bonds of their ankles, kicking and cursing and yanking them to their feet.
Shoving them ahead of him, he herded them back inside the vault. He swung the door shut on them, gave the knob a few spins.
There'd been no point in killing them. He'd been seen coming into the joint, and he was a cinch to be seen leaving. There was a hell of a racket outside and it was growing by the second, and even in here you could get a whiff of smoke. But still, someone, a lot of someones, would see him leave. The best he could hope for was that none of 'em would try to do anything about it.
None of 'em did. Doc had figured right. They had too much else to be interested in to pay any attention to him. And after all, what was so funny about a guy coming out of a bank during banking hours?
The side street was jammed with people, surging back toward the walks occasionally when the wind-driven smoke threatened to envelop them. Sparks showered upward from the burning hay. A gas tank exploded, sending a speckled fountain of fire into the air. The crowd roared, jamming back into the intersection, and the people in the intersection tried to push forward. Several men in red helmets were scurrying about, shouting and gesturing futilely. Other red-helmeted men were lunging up the street, dragging a two-wheel hose cart behind them. The bell in the courthouse cupola tolled steadily.
Rudy loaded the briefcases into the car. He made a U-turn, honking for a couple of yokels to get out of the way, and headed out of town.
A block away, Doc stepped down from the walk to the street and climbed in with him. They rode on, Rudy grinning meanly to himself as he noted the careless caution with which Doc handled his coat. McCoy asked him how they had made out.
"Two hundred in bonds. Maybe a hundred and forty in cash."
"A hundred and forty?" Doc's eyes flicked at him. "I see. Must've been a lot of ones and silver."
"So maybe there's more, dammit! You think I figured it up on an addin' machine?"
"Now, Rudy," Doc said soothingly, "no offense. How did it go with the youngster?"
"What d'you mean, how'd it go? How'd you plan it to go?"
"Of course. Too bad," Doc said vaguely. "I always feel bad when
"You hear anything out there?" He jerked his head toward the street. "Well, did you?"
"Hear anything? W-what…"
"The bombs, you long-eared jerk! Any commotion."
"Huh-uh. But I don't guess we could, could we, Rudy? I mean, there in the vault we-N-no! D-don't!"
The kid strangled on a scream. He tried to claw the gun from his belt. Then he toppled forward, clutching at his half-disemboweled abdomen; at the guts which Torrento had mockingly credited him with having.
Rudy giggled. He made a sound that was strangely akin to a sob. Then he wiped his knife on a blotter, returned it to his pocket and picked up the two briefcases.
He carried them to the bank door, set them down again. He turned and looked meditatively at the bank's three employees. They were scattered about the lobby floor, their mouths sealed with tape, their wrists and ankles bound with more tape. They looked at him, their eyes rolling to show the whites, and Rudy hesitantly fingered his knife.
They'd have him tabbed for the robbery, for killing the kid. And if things broke wrong, Doc would doubtless manage to tag him with the guard's death. Trust Doc to keep himself in the clear, him and his smart little sneak of a wife! But anyway, these yokels could finger him- pick his wedge-shaped map out of a million mug shots. So as long as he couldn't be fried or have his neck popped but once anyhow, why not
He took the knife out again. He went from employee to employee, slashing the bonds of their ankles, kicking and cursing and yanking them to their feet.
Shoving them ahead of him, he herded them back inside the vault. He swung the door shut on them, gave the knob a few spins.
There'd been no point in killing them. He'd been seen coming into the joint, and he was a cinch to be seen leaving. There was a hell of a racket outside and it was growing by the second, and even in here you could get a whiff of smoke. But still, someone, a lot of someones, would see him leave. The best he could hope for was that none of 'em would try to do anything about it.
None of 'em did. Doc had figured right. They had too much else to be interested in to pay any attention to him. And after all, what was so funny about a guy coming out of a bank during banking hours?
The side street was jammed with people, surging back toward the walks occasionally when the wind-driven smoke threatened to envelop them. Sparks showered upward from the burning hay. A gas tank exploded, sending a speckled fountain of fire into the air. The crowd roared, jamming back into the intersection, and the people in the intersection tried to push forward. Several men in red helmets were scurrying about, shouting and gesturing futilely. Other red-helmeted men were lunging up the street, dragging a two-wheel hose cart behind them. The bell in the courthouse cupola tolled steadily.
Rudy loaded the briefcases into the car. He made a U-turn, honking for a couple of yokels to get out of the way, and headed out of town.
A block away, Doc stepped down from the walk to the street and climbed in with him. They rode on, Rudy grinning meanly to himself as he noted the careless caution with which Doc handled his coat. McCoy asked him how they had made out.
"Two hundred in bonds. Maybe a hundred and forty in cash."
"A hundred and forty?" Doc's eyes flicked at him. "I see. Must've been a lot of ones and silver."
"So maybe there's more, dammit! You think I figured it up on an addin' machine?"
"Now, Rudy," Doc said soothingly, "no offense. How did it go with the youngster?"
"What d'you mean, how'd it go? How'd you plan it to go?"
"Of course. Too bad," Doc said vaguely. "I always feel bad when
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