by Anita Sanchez

This time the robbery really was proceeding flawlessly, thought Hannibal Heyes, glancing around the bank. He couldn't avoid a smug smile of satisfaction. Instead of trying to sneak in, he and Kid Curry had utilized the simple strategy of just strolling through the wide double doors of the bank, and no one had blinked an eye. Heyes was actually a little surprised; he had expected the bank to be more heavily guarded, because the entire payroll for the Widdecombe mines went through here each week, but there were only two employees in the building, a bewhiskered teller and an elderly man behind a desk.

There was only one person in line at the counter, a plump man with dusty jeans and a battered wide-brimmed hat, standing with his back to them as he chatted with the teller. Heyes checked carefully to be sure that none of the men were wearing a holster, and quietly swung the doors shut behind him. He glanced at Kid, then took a deep breath and bellowed, "All right! This is a robbery, hands up everyone!"

The plump man spun around with surprising speed, and Heyes 's eyes widened as he saw that the man had a star on his vest and an enormous handgun stuck in the front waistband of his trousers. The sheriff's hand was already swinging towards the handle of the gun.

Heyes opened his mouth to shout a warning, but Kid had seen the movement. Never losing the calm look on his face, he drew his gun as smoothly as a stone slipping over ice, and had the sheriff covered before he could even begin to pull his gun free. Heyes blinked in amazement at the speed and sureness of the movement. The sheriff stared at them whitefaced, but Kid gave him a friendly smile, and gently slid the gun out of his grasp.

While Kid carefully locked the front doors, Heyes grabbed the teller, a nervous young man with bushy side whiskers and a neat waistcoat. "All right, you, open the safe or you're dead," Heyes growled, hoping he sounded fierce.

"Be damned to you , you dirty outlaw," squeaked the teller with unexpected spirit. Heyes shoved the gun under the man's nose and tried to think of a truly terrifying threat, but before he could get the words out, there came a sudden, shocking sound. Someone was knocking at the bank door.

Silence. All eyes turned to the big double doors. Heyes swept the bank employees with a warning look, and Kid kept his gun trained on the sheriff. The hammering echoed again. A voice could be heard outside: "Open up! It's after nine, what the heck are you doing, getting your beauty sleep?"

Heyes and Kid looked at each other, wide-eyed. The silence filled the room, to be shattered again by a heavy pounding. "Come on, it's late, open up!"

Kid gave Heyes an urgent shove. "You can't come in," Heyes shouted. "We're... painting. The floor, we're painting the floor, and the paint's still wet, come back in an hour."

More hammering. "An hour? Open up, the stage is leaving in five minutes, I need the package. Come on, Edwin, I got to get a move on."

The silence in the bank was intense. Heyes looked around. "Who's Edwin?" he demanded. The elderly man behind a desk, a fat, balding little fellow in a suit and tie, raised a trembling hand. "That's me," he said. "I'm the manager of the bank."

"What's he want?" Heyes asked. "What package?"

"John's the stagecoach driver," the man replied obediently. "He comes here every Saturday morning to pick up a package that goes on the stage."

Heyes glanced around. "Where is it?"

The man pointed a trembling finger to a large canvas satchel, strapped and padlocked, lying on the counter. "It's right there, all ready to go."

"All right," said Heyes, his voice low and dangerous. "Here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna pick up that package, open the door, hand it to John with a smile, and not say a word about us. You got that?"

Edwin nodded, white-faced. Heyes took a menacing step closer. "Because if you say a word, wink an eye, let on by any means that we're here, you'll be a dead man. Got it?" He strode across the room, grabbed the heavy satchel, and shoved it into the manager's arms. "Go ahead," Heyes said evenly.

The manager looked around at the other two captives, his brows raised, as if asking them what he should do. The sheriff shrugged, and nodded, with a small smile. The teller's eyes were round as marbles, his teeth chattering. He took a deep breath, then nodded, too. Edwin nodded grimly, then walked slowly to the door and put his hand on the knob. Heyes raised his gun and drew back the hammer. The click was loud in the silent room.

Edwin swung the door open, and offered the bag. "'Bout time!" came a cheery voice from the other side of the door. "What the hell's going on in there?"

"We're redecorating," Edwin stammered. "New coat of paint for the whole place."

"Oh, yeah? What color? Let's see," said John. Heyes tensed, his hand tightening on the gun. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement, and noticed Kid's gun was out of his holster, too.

Edwin shoved the door almost closed. "No time for sightseeing now, John, you're late," he said firmly. "Get along now, we've got work to do."

"Well, if I'm late, whose fault is that?" John grumbled. Edwin slammed the door shut altogether, and John's boots could be heard as he rattled off down the steps. There was a faint sigh as five people simultaneously released the breath they had been holding. Kid grinned widely at Heyes, and reholstered his gun.

"Watch the other two," Heyes warned him. He strode over to the teller, and once again grabbed him by the collar. "Open the safe or you're dead," he began.

"All right, I'll be glad to," the teller replied amiably.

"Don't give me any of your lip," Heyes snarled. "You open the safe or ...what?"

"No problem, sir, right this way," said the man. He pulled loose from Heyes's grip, and Heyes, caught off guard, let him go. The teller walked over to the safe and began to spin the dial. Heyes looked at Kid, who shrugged. "Lie down on the floor!" barked Kid and the two other men obeyed hastily.

The teller swung open the safe door and stepped back. Heyes's face lit up as he saw tall piles of greenbacks. He met Kid's eyes again, this time with a look of triumph, and grabbed a canvas sack to put the loot in. But as he knelt in front of the safe, his triumphant smiled faded.

"Hey," he said, looking over the bills in his hand. "These are all ones." He thrust both hands in, and pulled out handful after handful. "Hey, they're all ones. There's only about a hundred dollars here. Where's the payroll?" The teller stepped back, blinking nervously.

"Where's the payroll, I said," Heyes repeated, in a quiet voice that was as dangerous as a coiled snake. He raised his gun, and Kid reached again for his holster.

The plump manager clambered to his feet. "It's on it's way to Phoenix," he said in a voice as quiet as Heyes's. "We ship it out on the stagecoach every Saturday morning, promptly at nine."

Heyes and Kid both stared at him, dazed. The manager was as white as a sheet, but he faced their guns firmly.

"We're running a little late this morning, though," added the bank manager. "Almost missed the stage. On account of the redecorating."