“What are we gonna do, Sheriff?”
“That scoundrel run off with all our gold!”
Calvin Roberson held dismissive palms toward the angry crowd gathered in the low early-morning light outside the Killigan jail.
“Now, first of all, fellas … Sheriff Tom Harkin is still the law here in Killigan. I just happened to be passing through.”
“And it’s a good thing, too. Harkin don’t know his --”
“Easy there, Philip,” Roberson warned. “Sheriff Harkin is in charge here, and we take orders from him. All I can do is offer up a bit of advice based on my work over in Stonewall.”
Roberson searched his audience. None of them seemed to suspect Stonewall was made-up, but he could feel the weight of Harkin’s stare. The lawman was trying to figure him out.
“Now,” Roberson continued. “What we gotta do is split up into about five groups and fan out to the north. No sane man would take on the desert south of here on his own, especially not saddled with all that gold.”
“Now wait a minute …,” Harkin objected.
“You got no say here, Harkin,” one of the men barked.
“Time’s awasting, gentlemen.” Roberson tried to diffuse the dynamite that might crash his scheme.
It worked ...
His words prodded like a hot iron rod, and the throng set off toward the Colorado border all at once.
Harkin watched them go, then studied Roberson. The two men had spent most of the night a few feet apart in the jail, but Calvin had been filthy and unshaven then. It was darn near a miracle the changes a razor and some soap could wrought.
Finally, Harkin shook his head, mounted his horse, and headed off in search of the bandit.
Calvin watched him go, then disappeared into the southern sandscape.
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