Hankins would surely occupy one of them. The bankâs hours were painted on one of the glass doors. It opened at eight and closed at four, except for Saturday when it closed at noon. Closing time was now but a few minutes away. An enormous oak stood before the entrance to the building, and a white wooden bench had been built in circular fashion around the treeâs trunk. As though weary, Nathan sank down on the bench. He tilted his hat over his eyes, studying the interior of the bank through the plate-glass window. He felt foolish, like he was casing the place with the intention of robbing it. But there were four closed doors at each end of the lobby, and Nathan expected Hankins to emerge from one of them. He had no idea where or how he would confront the man. At this point he had no plan beyond finding Hankins, and if all else failed, he needed to know in which of these offices he would find the man. Nathan was sure of just one thing. When the moment came for Hankins to die, it must be face to face. More than anything else, Nathan Stone wanted this man and his cowardly companions to know why they were dying.
Nathan watched as one of the tellers locked the front doors. Within a few minutes a heavy, silver-haired man emerged from one of the doors to the left of the lobby. Using a key, he unlocked the front door, let himself out, and locked the door behind him. This, Nathan guessed, was the elder Hankins. He departed afoot, and that meant the family lived in town. When the fourth door to the right of the lobby opened, Nathan had his first look at one of the men he had sworn to kill. It had to be Bart Hankins, for he had a mane of white hair and the palid complexion of an albino. He fitted old Malachiâs description perfectly. He too departed the bank afoot, and Nathan allowed him a good start before following. The Hankins residence was at the far end of the townâs main street, and it stood out like a brahma bull in a sheep pen. It was a two-story, built of stone that had blackened to an ugly gray, and was surrounded by a heavy wrought-iron fence. The iron stanchions were inches apart, standing taller than a manâs head, and the uppermost tips were pointed, like spear heads. Nathan watched Hankins unlock the gate and let himself in, to be met by a pair of long-legged hounds. Nathan was thankful that Cotton Blossom had learned to remain with the picketed horse.
Nathan was shocked. The house seemed more impregnable than the bank itself. Getting to Bart Hankins wasnât going to be easy. He must waylay the man before he reached the formidable house or after he departed it, or confront him within the bank itself. Nathan hadnât much time. The longer he remained in town, the more likely he would be remembered. He returned to the picketed black horse, and with Cotton Blossom following, rode out of town. He couldnât afford the luxury of a night in town. Any hotel desk clerk would remember a stranger. With the dawn, he would go as near the Hankins mansion as he dared and wait for the albino to leave. If for any reason he lost Hankins after he left the house in the morning, it would leave Nathan with but one dangerous option. He would have to confront Hankins within the bank itself.
Nevada, Missouri. February 23, 1866.
Nathan had camped far from town in a secluded draw where there was good water and graze. There he picketed the packhorse. He reached town before dawn, leaving his horse and Cotton Blossom behind one of the saloons that fronted the main street. The saloon wouldnât be open for hours, and Nathan leaned against the corner of the building, looking down the street toward the Hankins mansion. His heart leaped when the huge front door opened and Bart Hankins stepped out. But the albino wasnât alone. The older man who almost had to be the elder Hankins was with him. That would have been bad enough, but the two men were accompanied by a young girl. Locking the big iron gate behind them,
Nathan watched as one of the tellers locked the front doors. Within a few minutes a heavy, silver-haired man emerged from one of the doors to the left of the lobby. Using a key, he unlocked the front door, let himself out, and locked the door behind him. This, Nathan guessed, was the elder Hankins. He departed afoot, and that meant the family lived in town. When the fourth door to the right of the lobby opened, Nathan had his first look at one of the men he had sworn to kill. It had to be Bart Hankins, for he had a mane of white hair and the palid complexion of an albino. He fitted old Malachiâs description perfectly. He too departed the bank afoot, and Nathan allowed him a good start before following. The Hankins residence was at the far end of the townâs main street, and it stood out like a brahma bull in a sheep pen. It was a two-story, built of stone that had blackened to an ugly gray, and was surrounded by a heavy wrought-iron fence. The iron stanchions were inches apart, standing taller than a manâs head, and the uppermost tips were pointed, like spear heads. Nathan watched Hankins unlock the gate and let himself in, to be met by a pair of long-legged hounds. Nathan was thankful that Cotton Blossom had learned to remain with the picketed horse.
Nathan was shocked. The house seemed more impregnable than the bank itself. Getting to Bart Hankins wasnât going to be easy. He must waylay the man before he reached the formidable house or after he departed it, or confront him within the bank itself. Nathan hadnât much time. The longer he remained in town, the more likely he would be remembered. He returned to the picketed black horse, and with Cotton Blossom following, rode out of town. He couldnât afford the luxury of a night in town. Any hotel desk clerk would remember a stranger. With the dawn, he would go as near the Hankins mansion as he dared and wait for the albino to leave. If for any reason he lost Hankins after he left the house in the morning, it would leave Nathan with but one dangerous option. He would have to confront Hankins within the bank itself.
Nevada, Missouri. February 23, 1866.
Nathan had camped far from town in a secluded draw where there was good water and graze. There he picketed the packhorse. He reached town before dawn, leaving his horse and Cotton Blossom behind one of the saloons that fronted the main street. The saloon wouldnât be open for hours, and Nathan leaned against the corner of the building, looking down the street toward the Hankins mansion. His heart leaped when the huge front door opened and Bart Hankins stepped out. But the albino wasnât alone. The older man who almost had to be the elder Hankins was with him. That would have been bad enough, but the two men were accompanied by a young girl. Locking the big iron gate behind them,
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