THE THREE GODFATHERS
|THE daylight raid on the Wicken-burg National Bank had not been a success. It had been well planned, boldly and cleverly executed, and the four bandits had gathered unto themselves quite a fortune in paper money; the job had been singularly free from fuss and feathers. Nevertheless, as has already been stated, the raid was not a success. The assistant cashier, returning from luncheon, had, from a distance of half a block, observed two strangers in town. Both strangers were mounted and stood on guard in front of the Wickenburg National. In an alley just back of the bank two saddle horses were standing; and as the assistant cashier paused, irresolute, two men came out of the bank, mounted the two horses waiting in the alley, and, followed by the men who had been standing on watch in front of the bank, rode out of Wickenburg in rather a suspicious hurry. The assistant cashier had an inspiration.
“Thieves! Robbers! Stop 'em!” he yelled.
His hue and cry aroused to action an apparently inoffensive and elderly citizen who was taking his siesta in front of The Three Deuces saloon. Now this man in front of The Three Deuces was not the sheriff. He was not even the city marshal. Rather he inclined one to the belief that he might be a minister of the gospel—a soul-trapper on guard at the portals of The Three Deuces, within which, judging by the subdued rattle of poker chips, ivory balls and an occasional hoarse shout of “Keno!” one could be reasonably certain of a plethora of brands ripe for the burning. The aged citizen asleep in the chair outside was arrayed in somber black, with a turn-down collar and white lawn tie, a “biled” shirt with a ruby stud in it, and patriarchial white whiskers. But his coat, of a clerical cut, effectually concealed two pieces of artillery of a style and caliber popularized by time and tradition in the fair state of Arizona.
The four galloping horsemen were abreast The Three Deuces when the cry of “Robbers!” aroused all Wickenburg. It awoke the man in the chair; and he came to his feet with the suddenness of a ferocious old dog, filled both hands and cut loose at one of the four horsemen. There was a reason for this. The elderly citizen had a deposit of three dollars and seventeen cents in the Wickenburg National. Also he possessed a fair proportion of civic pride, and the horseman upon whom he trained his hardware was carrying a gunny-sack containing a pro rata of the said elderly citizen's three-seventeen.
Four Bad Men had ridden into Wickenburg that December afternoon, but only three rode out. One of the three had a bullet hole through his left shoulder. The man who stayed lay, thoroughly and effectually defunct, on top of a bulging gunny-sack in front of The Three Deuces. Came presently the paying teller of the Wicken-burg National and removed the gunny-sack. Came half an hour later the coroner of Wickenburg and removed the body. As for the elderly citizen of deceptive appearance, he walked uptown to a hardware store, replenished his supply of ammunition and returned to The Three Deuces in a highly cheerful frame of mind. Here let us leave him, for with this story he has nothing further to do. From now on our interest must center on The Three Bad Men who rode out of Wickenburg headed for the California line—which happens to be the Colorado River.
They made their first halt at Granite Tanks, twenty-five miles from Wickenburg. Here they watered their horses and then pressed onward toward the river. At the river they found a boat, thoughtfully provided for just such an emergency as the present.