The sandbar appeared like a pillow from Heaven dropped into a crook on the west bank of the Hobnail River. It was a sign, and Matthew’s momma had taught him well enough that you never ignored a sign.
“Hey, Tyrus.” He nudged his companion with a makeshift oar, reaching across the raft. Matthew nodded to the far bank. “Let’s pull over to that island for second.”
Tyrus followed Matthew’s gaze, then turned back with cockeyed eyebrows. “That ain’t no island, son”
“OK, fine. But we gotta stop for a minute. I’m gonna be sick.” Matthew staggered and nearly tumbled into the churning water.
“Alright, alright. Cool your heels.” Tyrus began to paddle toward the sandbar but cast his eyes behind them, toward the north. “We can’t stop long. They won’t be far behind us.”
Matthew ogled the canvas-covered piles between the two men. They had spent months planning the heist, and it came off without a hitch. Still, it wouldn’t take the bankers and lawmen back in Ralston long to figure out the getaway route once they noticed the money missing.
“Fine. I just need a minute or two on solid ground.”
Matthew push-paddled away from the raft to help speed them along, and the two men worked in silence for several minutes.
“Just a few feet now,” Tyrus said at last.
It was time.
As Tyrus stretched forward for the final stroke, Matthew pushed him hard in the back with his oar. Tyrus toppled from the raft and splatted face-first in the sand.
In a flash, Matthew angled the raft back into the current of the river.
“Hey!” Tyrus yelled when he had righted himself.
“Don’t worry, Ty,” Matthew called. “I’ll come back. I’m gonna get you. And if I don’t … well, I’m sure the sheriff will!”
No comments:
Post a Comment