Outlaw

    I reckon things were liable to get hairy, so I made sure to pack a spare six-gun inside my duster with a speed loader loose in my breast pocket. No one would raise an eye at the pistol on my hip, but the teller might not take kindly to the cocked long gun I had tucked in my waistband running down my pants leg. If I didn’t have to use it, they’d never know it was there, and I had no intention of using it. Bank robbin’ has been a risky business ever since it was a business, but I was outstanding in my field and took precaution. Last dent I pulled, I made sure to get real friendly with the deputy. He was sleeping like a baby with a bottle in his mouth by the afternoon. The sheriff was out breaking up some cattle rustlers in the badlands, so ain’t nobody round to say I couldn’t rob the place.

 

    From Flagstaff, to Prescott, to Phoenix, to Tucson, and now all the way down to the southern Arizonan town of Tubac, I had stuck up every bank that was worth stickin’ up on the way down to ol’ Mexico. Frankly, I had more than enough loot to make off to some cantina across the border and spend the rest of my days with a pair of señoritas. Now, I ain’t conflating the two, but I had an uncle, a real bronc fighter. He lived at some ranch in Oklahoma as a cowboy breakin’ horses in. He told me a couple years before I started making my own luck that he was obsessed with getting tossed by broncos. He never said much else about it, but I reckon it was the thrill of it. Now that I’d pulled guns on lawmen and they’d pulled guns on me, I reckon I feel like how Uncle Dave did gettin’ tossed. In the summer of 83’, Dave got his chest caved in by a stud that rolled over on its back. 

 

    Tubac had a real nice bank for being so close to the border. It was a single story cream plaster building with orange tile shingles at a nice little pitch to deflect the rain when it came. Inside was just as nice with a bunch of pretty young girls counting money and fiddling with the telegram. One of those pretty girls looked over at me and smiled a big toothy smile.

 

    “Hello, sir,” she said politely, “what can I do ya for?”

 

    I approached the booth and folded my arms across the counter.

 

    “Missy, what do they call you, you got a name?” I asked.

 

    Her brow gently furrowed, “Why, my name is Ethel,” she said.

 

    “Ethel, now that is a lovely name.”

 

    Her eyes looked down towards the counter, “Thank you, mister.” She paused for a second and looked back up at me, “So, is there anything I can do for you?”

 

    I leaned close to the reed divider that separated us. The bank I hit in Phoenix was real fancy and had bars and glass that caged in the girls. Nothing like that here. “Ethel, I want everything you got in that fuckin’ vault, sweet heart.” I said.

 

    What little color Ethel had in that sweet face drained until it was white as a cloud, “S-Sir. . .”

 

    I slid the six-gun from the leather holster I wore low by my side onto the counter. “Eyes on me, don’t look at the guard, sweetheart. You get his attention, and I’ll splatter your face against the ceiling. Play nice Ethel, and fill up one of those lockboxes.” I was still talking pleasantly to her, there wasn’t much danger even if the Pinkerton boy saw what was going on, he wouldn’t shoot. Our sweet Ethel being behind me and all would have put her in the direct cross fire.

 

    She stared at the Colt in my hand, “Sir. . .” Ethel said again. 

 

    “Go on,” I said, pulling back on the hammer with my thumb. 

 

    Sure as shit, Ethel vanished and reappeared with a sack of loot in her trembling hands. “Easy, girl,” I said to her, “You don’t want any of those girls back there getting hurt now, do you?”

 

    “No sir,” Ethel said, subduing tears.

 

    She filled a tin lockbox with shiny gold coinage, with paper, and whatever else looked valuable she had on the counter within each. She wordlessly shoved the box under the slot of the reed divider and stared at me with wide eyes. My thumb played with the hammer of the Colt, and I leaned in even closer, “You like what you see. That could be you,” I said winking as I rubbed the top of the hammer in a circular motion. A tear slipped out of her eye and rushed down her pale cheek. “Well, Ethel, I’ll be seeing you,” I said, stealing a glance over my shoulder to check on the guard before I holstered my pistol. 

 

    The lockbox felt good and heavy in my palms, Ethel had done good. Giving Ethel one more wink, I turned towards the door, but an impatient little old lady about three heads shorter than I bumped into me. A sudden ringing filled my ears, and the smell of burning flesh filled my nostrils. I looked down towards my leg and saw a piece of fabric on my pants smoldering orange. Blood rushed from my pant leg and I collapsed to the floor. Coins from the lock box exploded onto the floor. All of the girls were screaming. 

 

    “He’s got a gun!” I heard the Pinkerton scream, “Gun!”

 

    Sure enough, I did. In fact, I had three, but the guard could only see the long rifle that evidently severed my lower leg and now protruded out of the scraps of my pant leg.

 

    “Hershel!” The Pinkerton hollered aiming his gun at me.

 

    “You alright, Virgil!” a frantic voice called.

 

    “I’m good, Hersh, but get in here!” he screamed. “He blew his leg off!”