Winchester 1887 Read Online Free PDF Page A

saying.
    â€œYou opened the vault, you fool! How many times did I tell you that if robbers ever demanded money, you were to tell them that the safe is on a time lock? How many times? Those rascals have absconded with one thousand seven hundred and ninety-three dollars and sixty-seven cents! Because of you. A time lock, you fool. You were to tell them about the time lock.”
    â€œI did,” Crawford moaned when Cleveland stopped to catch his breath. He wanted to tell that idiot that no intelligent robber would believe that time lock lie anyway. Safe on a time lock? How would the bankers get money out if they needed to cover a withdrawal? He wanted to tell Cleveland to drop dead, but his head ached too much. Why didn’t he send someone to fetch a doctor? Crawford was bleeding, for goodness sakes!
    â€œSpencer Tillman lies dead,” the president roared. “He died a hero. Defended my money—the money of our depositors—defended it carrying the pistol I carried during the War for Southern Independence.”
    Leaning beside him, County Sheriff Whit Marion turned his attention to the small derringer he held in his left hand, thinking you carried this during the war? And suddenly, he recognized Grover Cleveland for a liar, a fraud, and a blowhard.
    Cleveland decided to turn his rage onto the law. “Sheriff, why are you here? Why aren’t you pursuing those murderous, scum-sucking thieves?”
    Marion said calmly, “U.S. marshals will be goin’ after ’em, I expect.”
    â€œMarshals? Why? Ain’t it your job?”
    â€œFor one, those bandits will be in the Nations, by now. My jurisdiction ends at the state line. For another, they didn’t just kill your teller, cashier, manager or whatever that boy was. They shot Don Purcell dead in the streets. Don wasn’t just my deputy. He had a commission as a deputy marshal. Judge Parker, well, he frowns upon folks killin’ his deputies. So we’ll get ’em. Rather, the marshals will.”
    â€œHow?” Cleveland spoke with contempt. “How can we even identify them? They wore masks, and you said none of the vile fiends killed in the raid had any identifying marks. Nothing. Nothing but bullets, gold watches, and horses they had stolen in Rogers.”
    Whit Marion shoved the .30-caliber Sharps into his vest pocket, then realized he had no use for it, and handed it, butt forward, to the bank president, whose meaty hand swallowed the pocket gun.
    â€œI know who they were,” Mike Crawford said at last.
    The sheriff eyed him curiously.
    Cleveland leaned closer to Crawford’s face. “Who were they, my good man?” he demanded, his breath reeking of cigarettes and brandy. “Who were they? How could you recognize any of them when they all wore hoods?”
    â€œLet him speak, Grover,” the sheriff said.
    Cleveland stiffened at such a rebuke.
    â€œOne of them had a shotgun, a sawed-off Winchester lever-action with a pistol grip. I remember reading about such a weapon in . . . a newspaper.” The latter part was a lie. It had actually been in a dime novel he had picked up over in Flint when he was with the Cherokee soiled dove.
    Some truth must have been in that piece of fiction, because Sheriff Whit Marion leaned backwards and whistled.
    â€œWhat is it?” Cleveland demanded.
    â€œCongratulations, Grover,” the sheriff said, “you just made history. Your bank got robbed by the McCoy-Maxwell Gang.”
    Mackey’s Salt Works, Cherokee Nation
    Folks had been producing salt there for longer than Link McCoy could remember, likely before he was even born. Indians had been going there before the Cherokees had been kicked out of Tennessee and Carolina or wherever they hailed from.
    McCoy stood by the campfire, watching with interest at the commotion below the hillside. Old Sam Mackey and his boys had had a good business. Pay a lease to the Cherokees and then send salty water