The Complete Novels of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

news will get to Redmain. Never worry about that. And it'll be all the bait he needs to set off his raid."

      "Then what?" insisted Steve.

      "Then you go back to Nightingale's and mind your business until I send you word to come. When I do, waste no time."

      "What'm I goin' to tell Ed Storm? He won't like it."

      "Al Niland knows Storm. Have Al explain."

      "Explain what?" Steve wanted to know. "And do yuh put the job of tellin' Al yore still alive on me? Ain't I had trouble aplenty?"

      "Tell Al the whole story. But get him off in a private place to do it. Then, when he stops swearin', you tell him this: He is to go to Storm, explain that the news of the shipment has leaked. He is to ask Storm to take absolutely no step toward extra defense of the bank, nor to take any measure that would draw suspicion. Everything is to go on as before. But when Redmain comes to town that day, I will be there—with men."

      Bonnet broke in. "That's drawin' things down to a fine point, Dave. Supposin' Redmain don't wait for the money to get to the bank. Supposin' he holds up the stage out in the hills?"

      "If he has set his mind to destroy Sundown," said Denver, "he will do it. And it's my belief he'd wait until the money was in the bank and so be able to kill two birds with one stone."

      "Burnin' Sundown sounds to me like the dream of a wild man," said Bonnet. "I don't see how he figures to have the chance of a one-armed Chinaman."

      "He will ride into town with more than thirty men," Denver answered. "Who would try to stop him?"

      Steve agreed. "An organized party always has got the bulge. People in town will sit tight and say nothin'—hopin' the trouble will blow over."

      "That's it," said Denver. "They will be covered in a hurry. Redmain will hit the bank, drop a half dozen matches and be on his way. And when a substantial fire starts through those buildings Sundown is gone."

      "I still think yore drawin' things too fine," objected Bonnet. "A single leak—and blooey for us."

      "It will be a gamble," said Denver, eyes narrowing. "But that's the best we can do. If we don't do it I'm afraid of the consequences. Better ride, Steve. It's gettin' late. And try to look sad."

      "That ain't hard," opined Steve, "considerin' I got to tell Niland yore alive."

      Bonnet still doubted.

      "And how you goin' to get near Sundown on Saturday without bein' seen?"

      "That's the gamble," replied Denver.

      "I know a bigger one," reflected Bonnet. "Which is you tryin' to fight in your present shape. Foolish."

      "Forty-eight hours from now I'll be a well man," stated Denver.

      "And mebbe stone dead on the forty-ninth," said Bonnet moodily. "This fella Redmain never answers to reason. That's why I think somethin's haywire in all this schemin'. It don't sound right."

      Denver shrugged his shoulders. "Either Redmain's makin' a mistake or I am. We'll soon find out."

      THE MISTAKE

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      The little man of the olive skin who faded so successfully into the background of Sundown sat on a bench by the Palace and smoked his black paper cigarette puff at a time. He looked up to the large stars, thinking whatever sly and secretive thoughts his little head permitted; and he looked again to the dusty, lamp-patterned street and saw Steve Steers enter town. Very carefully the little man pinched out his smoke, crouched back, and waited. Steers went directly to the bank, tapped on the window, and was let in; five minutes later Steers came out, teetered between the restaurant and Grogan's, and succumbed to obvious temptation. The little man rose, crossed the street by a dark lane, and followed into the saloon, slouching against a wall. Steers was drinking. Beside him stood Al Niland, another citizen the little man found time to watch. The two were talking. The little man sidled forward.

      "Can't I drink?" Steve was asking Niland.

      "Don't baptize yourself in it again," warned Niland.

      Grogan leaned over the bar in his striped silk shirt sleeves. "As a personal favor to me, Steers, go light on the liquor and I'll supply it free."

      "It ain't worth the price, even gratis," observed Steve and won for himself a black regard. "Money in the bank. I wonder who gets it all?"

      "What money?" asked Niland.

      "I'm a regular Wells-Fargo messenger," muttered Steve mysteriously. "I brought a telegram today from the Junction to Storm. Code, accordin' to the station agent. Money comin' to the bank."

      "Don't spend any of it here," warned Grogan. "That last jamboree won't bear repeatin'. I took all I ever will from you. We'll consider the slate clean. But don't try it no more. Just accept the advice of a kindly spirit. What money was you talkin' about?"

      "Fatherly," grunted Steve. "You'd put a knife in me if yuh could, Grogan. I know. But don't worry. I didn't say it was my money, did I? It's the bank's, or will be when it comes Saturday."

      Niland found a dozen interested listeners roundabout. He jogged Steve's elbow. "You've got no right peddlin' the contents of private telegrams, Steve. That applies double to bank affairs. Don't you know? Hush up and come get a steak."

      "What's the harm?" Steve wanted to know. "Bank's a public institution. Money's common currency."

      "Just so," agreed Niland. "Sometimes too commonly current. Ever hear the story about the man that held up the stage? Listen, are you coming after that steak or do I bring it to you in a sling shot?"

      There was some friendly wrangling between them. The little man drank his glass down to the last neat drop, paid for it, and slid out of Grogan's just as inconspicuously as he had entered. On the street he paused to relight his black paper cigarette. Impulse, or perhaps a cautious desire to check what he heard, turned him toward the bank. Passing it he squinted through the window and saw Ed Storm locking up; a little farther on he drifted against Steve's horse and tentatively rubbed the animal's chest, feeling the crust of sweat and dirt. With these gleanings he drifted down an alley, skirted the back of the Palace and ascended upon Langdell's stairway. He listened, applied his eye to the keyhole, tapped discreetly. Langdell didn't call but the little man entered anyhow, with one swift and sliding motion.

      Langdell looked up from his desk. The little man murmured, "You want me, Colonel?"

      "No. Get out. I'm busy."

      "Thought you wanted me."

      Langdell straightened, slipped off his eyeshade and motioned the little man to stand farther from the windows. "Well, if you've got something let's hear it."

      "Why should I?" parried the little man and fastened a hungry glance on Langdell's bottle locker. It seemed to be a ceremony Langdell had to endure. He nodded his head and the little man indulged himself in a full glass. "But I do know somethin'," he added. "Steers is in town."

      "Not worth the drink," said Langdell. "I'd found it out myself soon enough."

      "Him and Niland has got their heads together at Grogan's."

      "What of it?"

      "Steers is publishin' the fact he carried a telegram to Ed Storm. Money bein' shipped in Saturday."

      "That telegram," grunted Langdell, "is always in code. How does he know? What right's he got to talk about it if he does know? Blabbin' is a fool caper. It's the bank's business."

      "I thought I'd tell."

      "Well, don't keep runnin' to me with stuff I can't use."

      "You don't want me to see Redmain pretty soon?" persisted the little man.

      "No," said Langdell. "Get out." He swung his chair back to the desk and bent his head. His pen