got.”
“They’re waiting for us to hit that so-called money shipment. Friday morning when Burgade picks it up at the train depot and trucks it over to the bank. What’ll you bet there ain’t no real money at all? Just an empty box for them to lug along to make it look good.”
“Sure. So why you talking about Tucson?”
“Because come Friday morning, every gun in town will be lined up at the depot and along Congress Street and at the bank. They’ll have every inch of that street covered. You know what that’s got to mean. It means they’ve got to pull deputies and bank guards off every other cash vault in town. Off the express office, off the mercantile savings-and-loan, off the hotel cash tills and the company payroll offices. Friday’s payday, right?”
Menendez smiled slowly. “If you don’t beat all, Zach.”
It was then Tuesday evening. They spent the next forty-eight hours moving into position and equipping themselves according to Provo’s plan. Thursday afternoon they made camp in Rose Canyon, in the Santa Catalinas fifteen miles northeast of Tucson. A crystal creek trickled down from canyons higher up, crowding the defile with greenery; it was cool among the trees. Provo sent young Mike Shelby into Tucson to reconnoiter—Shelby was the one least likely to be recognized, he looked like any honest dumb young cowboy, and Provo could trust him to come back. Provo had spent an hour in Tucson last night, after dark, riding the back streets of the mercantile and warehouse sections, scouting targets. He had kept his coat collar up and his hatbrim down and nobody had paid him any attention. He had even drifted along the street within a block of Sam Burgade’s house, scouting the place out. He’d had plenty of time in Yuma to read every newspaper scrap about Burgade over the past twenty-eight years, and he’d picked the brains of every new prisoner. He knew a lot about the man, considering he hadn’t seen him in twenty-eight years. He knew where Burgade lived and what his daily habits were. He knew Burgade’s daughter lived in and kept house for the old man. He even knew that on Friday mornings Susan stayed home from her part-time job to do her thorough weekly housecleaning and laundry.
They had outfitted themselves in various village stores, going in in pairs, not attracting attention, buying what they needed with the cash they’d pilfered from the country store back in the Saucedas. Menendez wore an old straw hat that had turned an uneven brown—he’d stolen it off the hat rack in a café in Marana yesterday noon. Provo wore black stovepipe boots up to his knees, an old-fashioned brown linen duster that came down as far as the boot tops, and a peaked five-gallon hat. It was a sinister costume and he’d picked it for effect. Portugee and Lee Roy had lifted what explosives they needed from a mining construction shack up near Oracle in the Catalinas, and Menendez had augmented the arsenal with rifles and revolvers from the back room of a Marana gun shop. The theft would have been discovered by now but nobody had any reason to connect it with the fugitive convicts.
Shelby arrived at sunset, dismounted, and turned his horse over to Taco Riva. He reported:
“You were right, Zach, our best bet’s got to be the smelter mill. It’s away over west of town, a mill west of the area they’ll guard when the train comes in, and it looks like they’re gonna pull the guards off it for the train depot. They got a big old safe in the back room behind the paymaster’s office and I guess they must keep a pretty good wad inside—they pay off every first and third Friday of the month and tomorrow’s the third Friday in July. Four-, five-hundred man payroll—got to be at least twenty thousand dollars in there. Be easy to move in and out if we come down through the canyon back of the smelter. Right up to the back door of the paymaster’s office. Won’t be but half a dozen men in sight of us and none of them
“They’re waiting for us to hit that so-called money shipment. Friday morning when Burgade picks it up at the train depot and trucks it over to the bank. What’ll you bet there ain’t no real money at all? Just an empty box for them to lug along to make it look good.”
“Sure. So why you talking about Tucson?”
“Because come Friday morning, every gun in town will be lined up at the depot and along Congress Street and at the bank. They’ll have every inch of that street covered. You know what that’s got to mean. It means they’ve got to pull deputies and bank guards off every other cash vault in town. Off the express office, off the mercantile savings-and-loan, off the hotel cash tills and the company payroll offices. Friday’s payday, right?”
Menendez smiled slowly. “If you don’t beat all, Zach.”
It was then Tuesday evening. They spent the next forty-eight hours moving into position and equipping themselves according to Provo’s plan. Thursday afternoon they made camp in Rose Canyon, in the Santa Catalinas fifteen miles northeast of Tucson. A crystal creek trickled down from canyons higher up, crowding the defile with greenery; it was cool among the trees. Provo sent young Mike Shelby into Tucson to reconnoiter—Shelby was the one least likely to be recognized, he looked like any honest dumb young cowboy, and Provo could trust him to come back. Provo had spent an hour in Tucson last night, after dark, riding the back streets of the mercantile and warehouse sections, scouting targets. He had kept his coat collar up and his hatbrim down and nobody had paid him any attention. He had even drifted along the street within a block of Sam Burgade’s house, scouting the place out. He’d had plenty of time in Yuma to read every newspaper scrap about Burgade over the past twenty-eight years, and he’d picked the brains of every new prisoner. He knew a lot about the man, considering he hadn’t seen him in twenty-eight years. He knew where Burgade lived and what his daily habits were. He knew Burgade’s daughter lived in and kept house for the old man. He even knew that on Friday mornings Susan stayed home from her part-time job to do her thorough weekly housecleaning and laundry.
They had outfitted themselves in various village stores, going in in pairs, not attracting attention, buying what they needed with the cash they’d pilfered from the country store back in the Saucedas. Menendez wore an old straw hat that had turned an uneven brown—he’d stolen it off the hat rack in a café in Marana yesterday noon. Provo wore black stovepipe boots up to his knees, an old-fashioned brown linen duster that came down as far as the boot tops, and a peaked five-gallon hat. It was a sinister costume and he’d picked it for effect. Portugee and Lee Roy had lifted what explosives they needed from a mining construction shack up near Oracle in the Catalinas, and Menendez had augmented the arsenal with rifles and revolvers from the back room of a Marana gun shop. The theft would have been discovered by now but nobody had any reason to connect it with the fugitive convicts.
Shelby arrived at sunset, dismounted, and turned his horse over to Taco Riva. He reported:
“You were right, Zach, our best bet’s got to be the smelter mill. It’s away over west of town, a mill west of the area they’ll guard when the train comes in, and it looks like they’re gonna pull the guards off it for the train depot. They got a big old safe in the back room behind the paymaster’s office and I guess they must keep a pretty good wad inside—they pay off every first and third Friday of the month and tomorrow’s the third Friday in July. Four-, five-hundred man payroll—got to be at least twenty thousand dollars in there. Be easy to move in and out if we come down through the canyon back of the smelter. Right up to the back door of the paymaster’s office. Won’t be but half a dozen men in sight of us and none of them
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