Delayed Deposit: Part II

The second and final part of a Western short story

Mike Goad // Pixabay

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“I tell you I don’t know the combination,” said John Middleton through teeth set on edge with pain. “I’m just the teller. The president and cashier are the only ones with the combination, and they’re not here.”

During the parley with Graham, Decker and Con Murphy had bandaged Middleton’s arm with strips torn from the lining of the teamster’s coat, while Pitt finished stuffing the canvas bag with what money he had collected behind the counter—less than a hundred dollars. Then the unpleasant discovery about the safe had been made. Pitt swore in helpless fury, and a new vein stood out on Teague’s darkened face; but though they vented their anger in profanity and a few ugly threats it was plain even to them that the teller was speaking the truth. Through it all Mrs. Eberley sat bolt upright on her chair, immune to the storm of words, “like she was sittin’ in church,” Decker had whispered incredulously to his fellow-hostages.

Teague paced up and down the floor once or twice, then leaned against the wall by the far window again. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind, Russ thought, what face he wanted to show both to his partner and the hostages in reaction to being thwarted. He wiped the sweat from his chin—managing calm on the outside, though there was still a glitter of rage in his eyes.

“Never mind,” he said. “We’ve got the two hundred off the counter, and almost another hundred there...what’s to complain about? Not bad for an hour’s work.”

“I wouldn’t say your chickens are hatched yet,” observed Russ Murphy.