Sam Bass by Bryan Woolley Page B

must be by it all, and what a rotten Christmas it had been for everybody, and what a tiny bandit band we were now. Sam must have been thinking the same thing, for he said, “Join us, Jim. We need a good man.”
    â€œIt would kill Daddy,” Jim said. “Look what it’s doing to Henry’s family.”
    â€œHenry’s been in trouble all his life. You know that. And your Daddy wouldn’t never know.”
    â€œI can’t, Sam.”
    â€œLater, maybe?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œDo you know a man or two who want some easy money? We need help.”
    â€œI’ll check around,” Jim said.
    â€œMake sure they’re good ones,” Sam said. “We won’t have time to teach them much.”
    â€œAll right.” Jim rose and stretched like a cat. “I got to go. It’s Christmas, and I’m expected.”
    We walked him out to the corral and watched him swing into the saddle. As he was about to start down the hill Sam said, “Wait.” He took five double-eagles out of his pocket and handed them to Jim. “Send them to Henry when you know where he’s at.”
    Jim looked at the coins and smiled. “I’ll send him greenbacks. These wouldn’t help his case if the law got hold of them.”
    The wind definitely was dying, and the cold, fresh air felt good after the smokey confinement of the cabin. When Jim had gone, we led our horses to the water and watched them drink. They were quiet and rested, and the cold hair of their hides and the strong animal warmth underneath was pleasant to the touch. “I’m sick of this place,” Sam said. “Let’s get out of here.”
    â€œAnd go where?”
    â€œTo steal something.”
    So we saddled up and rode out of Cove Hollow. I was glad to go.

    When the driver sighted us my rifle was aimed straight at him. Alarm spread over his face. He pulled frantically on his lines, shouting, “Whoa! Whoa!” The man on the box beside him, whom I guessed to be a passenger from his fancy dress, grabbed at the side of the seat to avoid being toppled overboard.
    â€œOne move, and you die!” Sam shouted.
    â€œNo trouble!” the driver replied. “You won’t get no trouble out of me!”
    Sam ran to the coach and opened the door. I shifted the rifle from the driver to the man beside him. “Get down,” I said. “Go for a gun, and your brains will be all over this road.”
    The man climbed down and joined the four men Sam rousted from the inside. He lined them in a row and began searching them. I kept my rifle pointed at the driver’s chest. He was a small, skinny man with a droopy mustache and squinty brown eyes that stared at me without blinking. He wore a pistol in a holster, but it was well back from his hands, which still held the lines. “Stay away from that gun, and you won’t die,” I said.
    â€œI will. I can’t hit the side of a barn, nohow.”
    I smiled behind my mask. “You ever been robbed before?”
    â€œOnce. The other side of Weatherford.”
    His horses seemed to welcome the stop. They cocked their hind legs and dropped their heads as if sleeping. One snorted and shook his head. The harness jingled. “Whoa!” the driver said.
    â€œHow long you been driving these nags?” I asked.
    â€œNigh onto three years. It was four men that robbed me last time. Mighty chancey doing it with just two, ain’t it?”
    â€œNo. It’s easy.”
    â€œI told them they ought to give me a shotgun guard. Cheap company!”
    Sam was herding the passengers back into the coach. The man who had sat beside the driver got inside with the others. Sam slammed the door, and I said, “You can go now.”
    â€œAll right, son. Take it easy, hear?”
    The driver slapped the lines. The horses bolted like one animal and left us standing in their dust. A passenger poked his head out the window, then