Good Men and True; and, Hit the Line Hard/Hit the Line Hard/Chapter 8
Chapter VIII
BECK did not take his way to his own rooms despite the lateness of the hour. He followed the street at his left, the one that led to Bennett's home. A little later the door opened and Bennett took the same path at a slower gait.
A head projected itself cautiously above the adobe wall that fenced the Baca garden, looked forth swiftly, and vanished. After a few seconds the head appeared again, farther away, where a lilac overhung the wall. Screened by this background the head, with the body appertaining thereunto, heaved, scrambling over the wall, and followed, with infinite caution, the way of the two transgressors, keeping at a discreet distance behind the slower one.
It was quite dark, though a few pale stars glimmered through rushing clouds; the rain was a mere drizzle. Head and appurtenant body—the latter slickered and bulky—paused to listen. They heard plainly the plup of Bennett's feet before them, and sat resolutely down on the sloppy stone walk. There was a swift unlacing of shoes, a knotting of laces. Slinging the shoes about the neck between them, they took up the pursuit, swift and noiseless, slinking in the deeper shadows, darting across the open spaces, and ever creeping closer and closer—a blacker darkness against the dark.
When Bennett had passed through Baca's door, framed for an instant, black against a glowing square of light, Beck had been watching from far down the street. Assured that Bennett was coming, he then walked on swiftly for two or three blocks. Where a long row of cottonwoods made dark the way, he waited in the shadows. He heard the slow steps of his approaching victim, noted their feebleness, and waited impatiently until Bennett passed his tree.
The gambler pounced on him; he crushed his puffy hand over Bennett's mouth.
"It's me, Beck! If you make a sound, damn you, I'll kill you! Feel that gun at the back of your neck?" He took his hand away. "What's the matter with you? You old fool, can't you stand up? I won't hurt you—unless you try to talk. If you say just one word to me I'm going to kill you. I mean it!" His speech was low and guarded. "I've heard enough talk to-night to do me quite some time. That Scanlon and Baca—I'll show them how to ride me!"
He peered up and down the deserted street.
"Walk on, now! Here; take my arm, you poor old fool! Let's go down and inspect your bank!"
Bennett gave a heart-rending groan; his knees sagged, and he clung limply to his captor's arm.
"If it will make you feel any better," said Beck with a little note of comfort in his voice, "I'm going to rob my own safe next."
This assurance did not have the desired effect. With many exhortations, slowly, painfully, they negotiated the distance to the Bennett headquarters in the old Almandares Block.
With a strong hand on his collar and the muzzle of a forty-four pressed between his shoulder blades, the unfortunate banker unlocked the door, threaded the long, crowded aisles in the pitch dark, and came at last to his private office. At his captor's command he lighted a single gas jet near the safe; it made a wan and spectral light in the doleful place; in the corners of the great room the shadows crowded and trampled.
With his shriveled face contorted in dumb protest, with tears on his ash-pale cheeks, the wretched man groped at the combination. Strange thoughts must have passed through his mind as he knelt there, delaying desperately, hoping for the impossible.
Vainly, with a fiendish face, Beck urged and threatened; still the shaking fingers fumbled, without result. With a horrible snarl the gambler clasped Bennett's wrist, twisted it up and back to the shoulder blades, and pushed it violently forward. Stifling a shriek, the tortured wretch pitched over, on his face and lay there groveling, gasping, his free hand clawing at the boards of the floor.
The gambler raised him up, releasing the pressure on the twisted arm; Bennett twirled the knobs, the tumblers clicked, the bolts snicked from their sockets; the great door swung open.
"Now the little doors and the drawers!" Beck directed. He was sweating freely. For a moment it had seemed that Bennett would defy him at the last. "Don't leave anything locked on me! Man, the sweat's just pouring from you. That looks like a lot of money, to me. There, I forgot one thing! I saw one of those little electric flashlights in your show window yesterday. I want it. Lead me to it."
After some delay in the dark the flashlight was found. By its aid the robber compelled his victim to search out and carry a neat traveling bag, certain coiled ropes, two silk handkerchiefs, and a round from a loose stool; and drove him back to the office.
Here, heedless of voiceless protest and despairing tears, he gagged the master of the counting house with the silk handkerchiefs and the chair round, and then, with scientific precision, proceeded to bind him hand and foot.
"There!" he said, after a final painstaking inspection. "That'll hold you a while! It's a pity you're a bachelor. If you had a family they might find you here to-morrow. As it is I'm afraid you'll have to wait till Monday morning. If you'll excuse me I'll turn out the gas now. Somebody might see it. I can do my packing by the searchlight."
He sized up the stacks of gold, thumbed the bills, made a rough calculation, rolled on the prisoner an eye dark with suspicion, and remarked with great fervor, that he would be damned—Oh! Oh! He packed the money neatly in the bag. Then he turned the flashlight on Bennett's livid face—a hopeless face, seared with greed and fear and all the unlovely passions.
"Bennett, you're the most contemptible liar God ever let live!" His voice rang deep with scorn. "All that talk about your bein' broke—and here's thirty-one thousand and some dollars—not counting the chicken feed, which I leave for you. Say, do you know what I think?" He held the flashlight closer to the quivering face. "I think you've reached the end of your rope. I think you're about ready for a smash-up. By jingo, that's it! You've been speculating deep or you never would have stolen Drake's deposit.
"It's my notion that you intended to take this little wad and skip for Old Mex—maybe selling them El Paso securities before we missed you. I beat you to it, old hand! You can settle with my lovely companions on Monday. I reckon they'll be pretty sore, too, after all that big talk they made—Scanlon especially. We have about twenty-six thousand in our safe and I'm taking that Well, I gotta go. S'long!"
But he came back at once. Bennett could not see his face; but the man's voice, for the first time since the hold-up, carried a human note.
"I kind of hate it, too—you layin' here tied up this way all that time. It's going to be pretty tough. You'll have to overlook it, old man. There wasn't any other way. It was that or kill you. If it'll make you any easier in your mind you've got my dyin' oath that I'd 'a' killed you in a holy minute if you hadn't come through, or if you'd 'a' made one wrong move. Bein' tied up is a lot better than being dead." A new thought struck him. "I've got it!" he cried triumphantly. "Quick as I get to Juarez I'll wire somebody to let you go. That won't be so bad. I won't waste a minute. Buck up! I'm gone now."
Once in the open Beck trod with a jubilant step. It was darker now and raining steadily; the smell of dawn was in the air; he quickened his pace. No sign of life was on the street.
The gambler came to his place of business, took out his key ring, and entered noiselessly. He worked swiftly. A through freight went south before daylight, stopping at Saragossa for water; he would have time to make it nicely. Very quickly the money in the safe was stowed in his traveling bag. There was a little silver in stacks. Though the bag was quite heavy enough already—for much of the money had been gold pieces—Beck took the silver too.
Then a better thought came to him. He counted out nine silver dollars and put them back in the safe; he laid a blank check, face down, on the floor of the safe, with a dollar on each end like paper weights. And in the slender lance of light cast by the electric flash he penciled a brief note:
Dear Scanlon: I am leaving you nine dollars to send me a postcard.
He snapped out the flashlight, stuck it in his pocket, and tiptoed to the front door, laughing softly.
Man is the slave of habit. Outside Beck turned to lock the door—a most illogical thing to do. He placed the bag between his feet, fumbled for the keyhole and inserted the key. Then he stiffened. He felt the cold muzzle of a gun against his temple, and a gentle voice said:
"Let me carry your bag."
Frozen with horror, the gambler felt a hand remove his own gun and the flashlight.
"What's this?" demanded the voice. "Oh, I see—a searchlight! That'll be nice. Keep your hands right where they are!"
The hand felt for further weapons. "All right!" said the voice. "Now open up and we'll go upstairs. You tote the baggage. Close the door gently, please. March!"
There was nothing else to do; so Beck marched.
"I may not do as good a job on you as you did with Bennett," said the voice apologetically; "but I'll fix you up some way. While you was tyin' Bennett up I raided the whole durn neighborhood for clothesline. This'll be one awful grouchy town on wash-day!"
Beck's scalp prickled with an agonizing memory of Bennett's ghastly face, as he had seen it last; the hair began to rise. He stopped on the stairs rebelliously.
"I wish you would yell once, or balk—or something," said the voice hopefully. "It'd save me a heap o' trouble—trussing you up. G'wan, now!"
The gambler g'waned.