The news of the greenbacks was welcome, for a large sum of gold would be an elephant's burden to them in their flight.
"Wait," Terry directed Denver. The latter kneeled by his fuse until Lewison passed far down the end of his beat. Terry stepped to the door and dropped the bolt.
"Now!" he commanded.
He had planned his work carefully. The loose strips of cords which Denver had put into his pocket—"nothing so handy as strong twine," he had said—were already drawn out. And the minute he had given the signal, he sprang for the men at the table, backed them into a corner, and tied their hands behind their backs.
The fuse was sputtering.
"Put out the light!" whispered Denver. It was done—a leap and a puff of breath, and then Terry had joined the huddled group of men at the farther end of the room.
"Hey!" called Lewison. "What's happened to the light? What the hell—"
His voice boomed out loudly at them as he thrust his head through the window into the darkness. He caught sight of the red, flickering end of the fuse.
His voice, grown shrill and sharp, was chopped off by the explosion. It was a noise such as Terry had never heard before—like a tremendously condensed and powerful puff of wind. There was not a sharp jar, but he felt an invisible pressure against his body, taking his breath. The sound of the explosion was dull, muffled, thick. The door of the safe crushed into the flooring.
Terry had nerved himself for two points of attack—Lewison from the front of the building, and the guard at the rear. But Lewison did not yell for help. He had been dangerously close to the explosion and the shock to his nerves, perhaps some dislodged missile, had flung him senseless on the sand outside the bank.