"Shall I get the money you gave 'im?" asked Bill
"No," snapped the desperado. "Jesse James does not rob dead men's pockets. It's his. Let him have it."
Strangely enough to the outlaws the shot had attracted no attention. And mounting they rode leisurely up the street toward the store where the second bank was located. He could see the remaining members of the band lounging recklessly about in the street in front of the place, and wondering at the delay.
"Something must have gone wrong," he muttered, urging his horse along a little faster.
Just then the ground under them was shaken by a dull heavy explosion. People came flocking from shop and saloon and curious scared faces appeared at the open windows of upper stories.
"Dynamite," he growled.
"It's the bank!" was the startling cry, taken up from mouth to mouth and passed along down the village street, as a shouting, gesticulating, yelling mob rushed to the store where the second bank was located.
The desperado saw his men coolly swing themselves into their saddles and face the mob with leveled Winchesters.
A rain of scattered shots began to patter about those in front of the bank. But the men held their fire, ordering the people back on the pain of instant death.