Stand Up and Die. William W. Johnstone

to show up to rob the First Bank of Deep Flood.

      Well, it might not be Hans. It could be the bank robbing fiend’s twin brother, Otto. A man—even a judge, coroner, or county sheriff—would be hard-pressed to identify one from the other. Not that it truly mattered. Both Hans and Otto were posted for five-hundred dollars each, dead or alive, in Texas and three territories. Breen didn’t think the constable at Deep Flood would mind which Kruger it was.

      One little matter concerned Breen as he adjusted his rear sight. He had seen only one of the Kruger boys. Granted, warrants had been issued for a Kruger here, a Kruger there, another Kruger for some crime—one burglary, one horse theft, one murder. Sometimes they did not work together, and often split up. A robbery of a bank in a town of this size could possibly be handled by one man, but Breen had trouble recalling any banks that had been robbed in Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, or Colorado in which only one of the Krugers had been seen—and charged. Not that he was an expert on the Krugers. A horse theft or two, and the time Hans Kruger—or was it Otto?—had gotten upset at losing at a faro layout in Laredo and had robbed the entire gambling parlor of a little more than nine hundred dollars and put a bullet through the faro dealer’s elbow were the types of documented crimes attributed to just Hans or Otto, not both.

      Breen peered down the streets, checking for a horse or a man paying too much attention to the bank. No one was on the street that he could see. He didn’t have much of a view for the street below him. He studied the rooftops, such as they were, and found no one.

      Well, he couldn’t wait anymore. Breen carefully slid the window up about halfway and then moved back, taking the Sharps with him. He lifted the heavy weapon and aimed at the front door to the bank, making sure that the barrel did not poke out of the window. If someone saw that—especially if the bank robber’s pard saw it (if the robber had a pard) looking out for his well-being—then things might get a bit ticklish, and Breen would have no reward to cash in.

      Breen’s plan was simple. When the robber stepped out for his horse, Breen would blow a fist-sized hole through his middle. Hell, bank robbery was a crime no matter if it were being committed by Hans Kruger, Otto Kruger, or some out-of-work cowboy who made the mistake of robbing his first bank and looking too much like one of those Huns. If Hans, or Otto, saw Otto, or Hans, lying in the dirt, most likely the surviving Kruger brother would ride over to assist his dead or dying brother, and even more likely to ride over to get the sack filled with the bank’s money. By that point, Breen would have reloaded the Sharps and after taking quick, deadly, careful aim, he would see the button on the last Kruger brother’s shirt and shoot that bank robber dead, too.

      Simple enough. Breen relaxed, controlled his breathing, made himself as comfortable as possible, and stared through the telescopic sight at the bank’s front door.

      A church bell in Deep Flood, Texas began ringing five long, drawn out, drowning out, drones that echoed. Finally, the last of the ear-splitting noise ended. Breen sighed. Five o’clock. The bank would be closing. The robber had timed his job perfectly, knowing few people would be inside at this time of day. Well, Deep Flood didn’t have more than a few people living and working in town anyway.

      The door to his room—the one he had kicked open and broken the lock—pushed open.

      Breen did not look back, but he cursed the bit of poor timing. He should have ordered his steak well done, and his potatoes peeled before being boiled, and a fresh pot of coffee, and maybe even a slice of cake that hadn’t been on the counter, uncovered and attracting flies most of the day.

      “Sweetheart,” he said without looking back, “If you would be so kind as to just leave the food on the dresser and leave, I’ll be with you shortly. And then, please, just wait out in the hallway. Things are apt to get a little hot in here. Don’t worry. I’m a lawman, sweetheart. Your bank’s about to be robbed.”

      He wasn’t a lawman exactly. He just helped lawmen out. By bringing in outlaws, for which he was generally paid a pretty decent reward. Folks called him a bounty hunter, and though that was a fairly correct description, Breen liked to think of himself as a . . . professional.

      He smiled at what one of the newspapers had called him. A jackal. Well, yeah, you could argue that point, but the newspaper had also called a former Texas Ranger named Matt McCulloch and a hard-drinking Irish cavalry sergeant, Sean Keegan, jackals, too.

      Breen hadn’t seen Keegan or McCulloch in months. When he got to Purgatory City with his five hundred bucks for Hans or Otto Kruger, he’d buy them a beer or whiskey.

      The hairs on his neck started tingling, and he let his eye rise from the telescopic sight even before he heard the revolver behind him being cocked, and the German-accented guttural voice say, “Ja. I know it be robbed. Too bad ya not live to see us spend all dat money.”

      Well, Breen thought as he eased down the hammer on the big rifle and slowly brought the rifle up and leaned it against the wall beside the window. Nobody told him to raise his hands, but he figured that was the general idea. By the time he turned around on his knees, his hands were high, and he saw the big man with blond hair and a Remington revolver aimed at his chest.

      “Kruger.” At first he thought Hans, or Otto, must have hurried away from the bank, climbed to the second floor—the church bells drowning out the noise of his spurs on the stairs—and figured to dispatch Breen before robbing the bank. But no, that wouldn’t make any sense. The bank would be closed by the time that happened. Suddenly, he remembered the Kruger that went into the bank wore striped britches. This Hun’s pants were checked.

      “I am Otto,” the German said with an even-toothed grin. “And ya be dead ven da shooting starts.”

      “Maybe there won’t be any shooting.” Breen smiled.

      “Ha. Alvays dere be shooting ven Hans rob bank.” Otto Kruger walked to the foot of the bed, never lowering the revolver.

      Every plan that passed through Breen’s brain never slowed down. Every idea he thought of that might not leave him dead was stupid, hopeless, and would have him deader than dirt.

      Then a lovely woman stepped into the room, carrying a tray that brought with it the aroma of fried steak, boiled potatoes, hot coffee, and chocolate cake.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      As captain of the wagon train that had left Dead Trout, Arkansas, the Reverend Sergeant Major Homer Primrose III called every man, woman, and child he was leading to the promised land to kneel in the camp’s circle. He was captain of the train, but preferred his rank of sergeant major, which he had earned through hard campaigning with the Thirteenth Arkansas Infantry for the late Confederacy.

      All twenty-six people knelt, bowed their heads, and took hands as the Reverend began to pray.

      “Dear Lord,” he said, “Please guide us safely through the evil, sinful town that blocks our path to the glory that awaits us in Rapture Valley, Territory of Arizona. God, spare our children from the sights of debauchery, lewdness, smut, immorality, and from the offensiveness and drunkenness. Spare them, Lord, spare all of us, from the wretched, the gamblers, the confidence men and, Lord have mercy, the confidence women. And the fornicators—especially the fornicators, prostitutes, the soiled doves, the bawdy women, the strumpets, concubines, the harlots, the ladies of the evening, the courtesans, the lost lambs. Oh those poor lost souls. Lord have mercy on them—those scarlet women, those Jezebels, shameless hussies, the dance hall girls. Oh, God, if you could just strike down all those dancers with a thunderous bolt of lighting—and the floozies and the tramps and the trollops. And God, please spare us from the nymphomaniacs, if thus be Thy Will!”

      He went on for deliverance from the evils of the gamblers and the confidence men (again), and the cutthroats and murderers and any Jayhawkers that might have drifted down from Kansas into the Panhandle of Texas, and any Yankee-loving son of a cur dog that dared slight the great Confederate States of America and, in especial, the state most noble to that glorious of now lost cause, Arkansas.

      “Lord, you know after years of Yankee rule and the curse of Reconstruction, there was nothing