Part 2

“That’s true,” nodded Putney. He turned to Amos. “If I give Mr. McGee a thousand dollars, you’ve got to make good with me, Amos.”

“I will,” whispered Amos. “All I want is to get out of this mess.”

Ferdinand P. Putney went into the next room. He did not trust the bank, because he knew Amos Weed too well. In a few moments he came back, carrying a thousand dollars in currency, which he counted out to Cloudy McGee.

“I’m banking on your honesty,” said Putney. McGee pocketed the bills.

“No one can ever say I was crooked in business,” he said. “When is this deal to be pulled off?”

“Tomorrow morning at exactly ten o’clock. There hasn’t been a customer in that bank at ten o’clock for months. Am I right, Amos?”

“You’re right,” whined Amos. “Nobody ever comes in that early.”

Cloudy McGee shook hands with them on the deal and left the house, promising Amos Weed to keep his big sombrero out of sight.

“Well,” sighed Amos, “that’s settled. If the sheriff does kill Cloudy McGee, he won’t squeal on us, Putney.”

“He better not,” grinned Putney. “But the deal ain’t all finished, Amos. You go down to the bank and take out every cent of that ten thousand dollars. Nobody is goin’ to wonder if you go in there this time of night, because you often work late.”

“You--you mean I’m to swipe that money, Putney?”

“Sure thing. We split it two ways--I take six thousand and you take four.”

“Aw-w-w-w-w, what kind of a split is that? We were to go fifty-fifty.”

“That’s all right. I get a commission for putting the deal over, don’t I? That thousand I gave him, I gave for you. It was just a loan, Amos. Take it or leave it.”

“Aw, I’ll take it, Putney. I hope he don’t fall down on the job.”

“He’s a heaven-sent angel, Amos. Now, you go and get that money and bring it up here.”

Amos went, but he went reluctantly. As he left the house he did not know he was being followed by the wet-nosed stranger, who had listened, with an ear glued to one of Putney’s window panes.

It was not difficult for Amos to enter the bank and come out with the money. At that time of night there were very few people on the streets of Lost Hills. He had the money in a gunnysack and carried it concealed as much as possible with his coat.

He came down the sidewalk, past the doorway of an old shack, when a big man pounced upon him, forcibly took the sack away from him, and sent him spinning with a punch on the jaw. Amos saw stars that the Lick Observatory had never dreamed of seeing, and when he awoke he was all alone and very sad.

Conscious of the fact that he had been robbed and knocked out, he staggered to Putney’s place, fell inside the house and gasped out his story. Putney’s consternation and wrath knew no bounds.

He fairly danced in his anger, while little Amos held his jaw and stared red-eyed at the wall.

“Cloudy McGee double-crossed us!” swore Putney. “He knew we’d do this, the dirty pup. Well,” Putney waved his arms in desperation, “we’ll have to kill McGee and get that money.”

“You do it,” said Amos wearily. “You can have my part of it. My Lord, that man is strong!”

“But don’t you see where it puts us?” wailed Putney. “He’s got all the money--eleven thousand. He don’t have to rob the bank now.”

“But he swore he’d do it, Putney,” Amos grasped at any old straw. “He didn’t promise not to rob us.”

“Well, if you can get any satisfaction out of that,” said Putney. “Anyway, it leaves me holding the sack. I’ve got nothing to gain, even if he keeps his word. I’m out a thousand. All it’ll do is to save your hide.”

“Well, isn’t that enough, Putney?”

“I wouldn’t give a thousand dollars for you, guts, feathers and all. I’ve sure bought something--I have.”

“Aw-w-w-w, it may turn out all right, Putney. Look at the jaw I’ve got on me, will you?”

“I don’t care anything about your jaw Go on home. When he robs that bank. I’m going to--” Putney hesitated.

“What are you going to do?”

“That’s my business. Now go home.” Amos went. And as he hurried home he noticed a light in the living-room of the sheriff’s home.

Perhaps at any other time Amos would not have given this a thought, but just now his nerves were in such a state that everything looked suspicious.

The big stranger with the damp nose had engaged a room at a little hotel, left his bundle there and gone to the War Path saloon, where he got into a poker game. In a little while Cloudy McGee came in, bought a drink and tackled the roulette wheel.

Several times the damp-nosed stranger glanced at Cloudy and found him looking. The first time they nodded, but the other glances were of suspicion instead of friendship.

“You’ve got a bad cold, stranger,” observed the dealer.

“Yea-a-ah--dab id.”

“You ought to take something for it.”

“I hab,” the stranger swallowed heavily.

“’F I was you I’d see a doctor,” declared one of the players. “I had a friend that died from pneumonia. Started just like your cold.”

“I thig I’ll see a doctor in the mornig--dab id.”

* * * * *

Amos Weed slept little that night, and he got up in the morning with his nerves all frazzled out. He did not eat any breakfast. He had heard of condemned criminals eating a hearty breakfast just before their walk to the gallows, and the very thought of food sickened him.

As he walked toward the bank he met the damp-nosed stranger, with the derby hat crushed down over his head. He sneezed just before they met, and Amos jerked as though someone had fired a gun.

“I’m lookig for the doctor,” said the big man thickly.

Amos sighed visibly and audibly, as he pointed out the doctor’s residence.

“Thag yuh,” nodded the sufferer, and went on. Amos looked after him, wondering who he was, and then went on to the bank. It was about ten minutes of ten, when Amos opened the doors and went in, closing them behind him. The bank did not open until ten o’clock.

Amos looked out the front windows, his heart pounding against his ribs. It was within ten minutes of the time that would see him saved or sunk. He went to the rear door, throwing back the heavy bolts, which would give Cloudy McGee a chance to make his getaway, if he were still going to carry out his plan.

A glance showed that McGee’s horse was behind the bank. Amos Weed’s hopes arose like a well-filled balloon. At least Cloudy McGee was shooting square. Then he saw Ferdinand P. Putney coming down the alley behind the street, carrying a double-barrel shotgun. Amos closed the door, peeking through a crack, watching Putney, who came in behind the bank.

He looked all around. A huge packing case and several smaller boxes gave him a hiding place, into which he crawled. Amos drew away from the door, his eyes squinting painfully. It was evident to him that Ferdinand P. intended to intercept Cloudy McGee and try to get back his money.

And Amos realized that Putney was going to ruin the whole scheme. If Cloudy was forced to stop and argue the case with Putney, it would give the sheriff time to catch him, and then there would be no chance to prove that McGee had stolen the fifty thousand.

Someone was knocking on the front door! Amos trotted to the front. It was the depot agent. He showed Amos a telegraph envelope through the glass of the door.

Amos went to the door, shaking like a Hula dancer, and got the message. It was for him. He jigged back to the rear door and looked out. Then he almost swooned. Seated on the boxes, where Ferdinand P. Putney was concealed, was the sheriff, Big Jim Potter, smoking his pipe.

Amos staggered back to the front door. Seated on the sidewalk across the street was “Slim” Caldwell, the deputy sheriff, watching the bank front. Amos reeled. The clock was striking the hour, and at every chime Amos Weed jerked inside his clothes.

Then he unlocked the door and went drunkenly toward his desk, where he slumped in a chair, staring with unseeing eyes. The door opened and a man came toward him. He opened his eyes. It was the man he had directed to the doctor’s office. Amos shook his head wearily. Nothing mattered now. He was still holding the telegram, and now he opened it mechanically, his eyes scanning it quickly. It read:

PANHANDLE NUMBER SEVEN BRINGS IN GUSHER AT FORTY TWENTY FIVE STOP CONGRATULATIONS

GRIMES SUPERINTENDENT.

Amos fell back in his chair, the world reeling around him. He opened his eyes. The stranger with the cold had crouched back against the wall, a gun in his hand, as Cloudy McGee came in through the doorway. Slim Caldwell, the deputy sheriff, was running across the street, almost to the door, when the stranger behind it flung up his gun, covering McGee.

“Put ’em up, McGee!” he snapped, and McGee’s hands went up, a look of wonder on his face.

Slim Caldwell ran in behind him, and the gun covered both of them.

“Who are you?” asked the damp-nosed stranger of Caldwell.

“Deputy sheriff,” blurted Caldwell.

“All right. Handcuff that man.”

“But--but--” stammered the deputy.

The sheriff was coming in the back door, herding Ferdinand P. Putney ahead of him. He stared at the tableau. The damp-nosed stranger swung his back against the wall, half-facing the sheriff. For several moments things were rather deadlocked.

“Who are you?” asked the stranger with the cold.

“I’m the sheriff!” snapped Jim Potter.

“And I’ve got you, Cloudy McGee!” snorted Caldwell addressing the damp-nosed stranger, and covering him. “Drop that gun!”

The man addressed dropped his gun and Caldwell picked it up, but before anyone could stop him, the damp-nosed man had made a sudden dive and knocked the original McGee off his feet, and was sitting on him.

“For heck’s sake, what’s this all about?” demanded the sheriff, coming toward them, still clinging to Ferdinand P. Putney.

“Pud ha’d-cuffs on him, I tell you!” snapped the damp-nosed man. “This is Cloudy McGee.”

“Yo’re crazy!” roared the sheriff. “Yo’re McGee yourself.”

“You thig so?” The damp-nosed man turned back the lapel of his soiled vest and showed them the badge of a deputy U. S. marshal. “By nabe is Morton,” he said thickly. “I hobe you’re sadisfied.”

“U. S. marshal?” blurted the sheriff.

“Yeah. I be been looking for Cloudy McGee, bud I didn’t hab much of a describtion, excebt that he gambles quite a lot and is about my size. I heard he was in Salt Wells, or aroud that part of the country.

“I med this sud-of-a-gud and he wod my horse, saddle, hat and my gud. I thought he’d stay there bud he left; so I stole a horse and followed him. I heard hib frame up to rob this bank. They called hib McGee. That feller over there,” pointing at Amos, who was almost in a state of collapse, “took ted thousad from the bank last night; so I toog it away frob him. It’s ub in by roob.”

“Well, for the land’s sake!” blurted the man upon whom the deputy marshal sat. “They mistook me for Cloudy McGee, and I let the sheriff in on the deal. I thought you was McGee, because they recognized me by that big hat which I won away from you at Salt Wells, and we framed it to get Putney, Weed and you this morning.”

“Is thad so?” The marshal wiped his nose and stared down at the man under him. “Who in hell are you?”

“Me? I’m the bank examiner.”

“Huh! Loogs like a mistage--dab id.”

The officer got to his feet, grinning widely.

Amos was coming toward them, holding out the telegram.

“I’ll deed it to the bank,” he quavered. “It’s a gusher, and they’re worth more than fifty thousand dollars. Just so they don’t hang me, I’ll agree to anything.”

The bank examiner shook his head. “That’s between you and the bank officials, you cheap little crook.”

“Cheap?” muttered Ferdinand P. Putney. “That man must deal in big money, if he calls a fifty-thousand steal cheap.”

The bank examiner took a roll of bills from his pocket and handed them to the sheriff.

“Here’s the retaining fee I got from Putney last night. If you want to prosecute him, that is evidence.”

“I dunno what I want to do,” said the sheriff blankly.

An apparition was coming in through the back door; a gobby-black sort of a person, painted up like a war-path Indian in reds, greens, blues, purples and black. They watched him come toward them.

“My Gawd!” blurted the sheriff. “It’s Miles Rooney!”

“It is,” wailed the editor. “Look at me! He tied me to my own press and painted me with my own inks. I’ve been like this all night. I just got loose!”

“Who painted you?” whispered Amos.

Miles Rooney turned his ink smeared countenance upon the luckless cashier, pointing a gobby finger at him accusingly.

“Your friend. The man I seen you standing outside my window with last night. The man you were talking to, darn you! Cloudy McGee!”

“The bank examiner!” exploded Amos. “He--he said he was.”

“He is,” said the sheriff. “He’s examined a lot of ’em.”

The real bank examiner and the marshal walked outside, halting on the edge of the sidewalk, where they grinned at each other.

“You ought to take something for that cold,” said the examiner. “The first thing you know you’ll be having pneumonia.”

“Dod be.” The officer shook his head. “You can’t scare be do more. All by life I’be been scared of pneumonia. Never had the nerve to visit a doctor. Bud I seen one today. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Fuddy, ain’t id? I feel twedy years you’ger.”

“What did he say was the matter with you?”

“Hay fever.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 10, 1926 issue of Short Stories Magazine.]