Double The Bounty

Chapter XXI

Brent Foxx insisted that he felt his horse going lame and he wanted to stop in Bell’s Crossing.

“We’ve only gone about forty miles, Brent. We’ve still got some daylight left.”

“Just let me get the horse checked, Brian. We don’t want it going lame out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Let me take a look at it.”

“When did you become an expert in horseflesh?”

“It’s not wise for both of us to go into town together.”

“Fine, let me go in and you wait here. I’ll be back real quick.”

Brian frowned, but then finally agreed.

“Be back in an hour, Brent, even if you have to buy a new horse.”

“I’ll be back, brother,” Brent said. “Count on it.”

Brent Foxx rode into Bell’s Crossing, but instead of heading for the livery stable he headed for the bank.

He hadn’t looked this bank over for that long— after all, he’d simply passed through the town recently on the way Tomeet his brother—but he was sure that it would be easy. He’d hold it up and meet Brian within an hour, just like he’d agreed.

He left his horse in front of the bank and went up onto the boardwalk to the front door. It was getting late and he could see through the window that the bank wasn’t busy. The town was a small one, and as he checked the street, he saw that it was sparsely populated.

Perfect.

He entered the bank and stood behind the elderly woman who was standing at the only teller’s cage. He waited a few moments, but she was taking so long with her transaction that he finally ran out of patience.

“Excuse me, lady,” he said, pushing her aside.

“Young man!” she objected, but the force of his push staggered her and she stumbled, trying to keep her balance.

He pointed his gun at the teller and said, “Let me have the money, friend, and make it quick. I got an appointment.”

The teller, a young man, froze with fear.

“Come on, jasper, I ain’t got all day.”

When Brent poked the gun through the bars, the barrel almost touched the young man’s nose. The teller pulled a bank sack over and began filling it with money.

“Where’s the manager?” Brent asked.

“H-He’s in the o-o-office.”

“Good,” Brent said, just as the office door opened and the manager stepped out.

“What the hell—” he said, staring. He was a barrel-chested man with a full mustache that hid his mouth.

“We’re being robbed, Mr. Levi,” the teller said, still filling the sack.

“Look here, fella—” the manager began, but the teller stopped him.

“Mr. Levi, don’t you recognize this fella?”

“I do not.”

“He’s Brian Foxx.” The teller looked at Brent and pushed the sack under the cage. “You are Brian Foxx, aren’t you?”

“That I am, sonny,” Brent said, accepting the sack. “Now don’t anybody make a move until I’m to hell and gone, hear? I’d hate to have to shoot somebody. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the teller said.

The manager harumphed his disapproval but remained silent.

Brent backed his way to the door, then averted his eyes in order to open it.

At that point the elderly woman, who had since righted herself, reached into her cloth bag and pulled out a small derringer.

“Mrs. Maxwell!” the teller shouted.

Brent turned in time to see her point the gun at him and pull the trigger, a look of pure glee on her face.

Gonna get me a bank robber, she was thinking.

It was her last thought in life.

Brent felt the bullet strike him in the side, like a bee sting, and fired in return. His slug struck Mrs. Maxwell in the chest and the frail woman was thrown to the floor.

“Damn you!” the manager shouted.

Mr. Levi had no gun, but Brent didn’t stop to notice that. He was hurt, and he wanted to hurt back!

He fired at Mr. Levi and his bullet bisected the bank manager’s mustache, taking out most of the back of his head. The teller screamed and held up his hands. Brent’s next shot went right through the palm of the young man’s left hand, which saved his life. The bullet was deflected just enough, and although it gave the young man a new, albeit bloody, part in his hair, the wound was not serious.

Brent opened the door and bounded out of the bank in time to see a man with a badge coming toward him.

“Hey, you—” the lawman managed to call out before Brent shot him in the chest.

Damn, the deputy thought as he was dying, first you draw your gun, then you yell, hey…

Brent mounted his horse, which had shown no signs of being lame, and rode hell-bent for leather out of town, leaving behind him a state of chaos that would take hours to calm. By that time, he’d be well away.

But he was bleeding.

Brian Foxx heard the horse coming before he saw it, and stood up. It was then he saw his brother riding toward him for all he was worth.

“What the hell happened?” Brian asked.

Brent tossed his brother the bank sack full of money and Brian caught it out of reflex.

“Oh, Brent—” Brian said, shaking his head.

“Can’t count it now, brother,” Brent said breathlessly. “Might be a posse on my tail. I, uh, had a little trouble.”

“Brent—” Brian said, and it was then he saw his brother’s hand clutching his side. There was blood leaking out from between his fingers. “You’re hit!”

“Not bad, but we’ve got to get going. It’ll take them time to get up a posse.”

“Brent, how many people did you shoot?” “Brother Brian,” Brent said, “I lost count.”