ikissdhimbck | OOM: Buchel Bank & Trust, Cuero, TX -- 1888

One of them won't, or at least not as far as the bank itself. Ace swings himself from Arrow's back and reaches for the two other sets of reins, tying them lightly around the hitch-rail. His fingers are clumsy with anxiety and he almost drops Arrow's; she snorts and backs up a step, swings her rump at Salty with her ears flicked back. Ace forces himself to take a long breath. It won't help anyone if he's on-edge enough to spook the horses. He's supposed to be looking out for trouble after all, not causing it.

He idly checks their girths, tugs on leather straps and buckles for something to do with his hands, runs his fingers down strong, tight tendons to reassure himself that they'll hold for a quick getaway. The street isn't bustling exactly but there are still more people than he's used to moving in and out of the tailor's, the apothecary, and he finds his eyes searching each face looking for someone who might somehow know what it is they've come to do.

He moves to the other side of Salty to check on the other two mounts. The walleyed paint belonging to Ferguson cocks a hind leg in warning as Ace slips his fingers beneath the girth, but he doesn't offer anything more than that and Adler's dark bay barely twitches an eyelash when he gets the same treatment. For a moment Ace just stands, surrounded by horses and the creak of leather, the smell of dust and sweat, and he lets it all wash over him in a comforting wave. He's doing the right thing, he figures -- or not, exactly, but he can imagine it is and anyhow he's in too deep to pull out now.

He finds a spot where he can lean against the wooden rail with his hat down low and watch the road. Arrow is tucked in behind his shoulder and he has an unobstructed view of just about everything happening in front of him. Ace takes another long breath, and settles in to wait.

It’s all in the details.

Butch likes to come up with a character; he finds it helps him when he’s scouting out a possible target, or acting casual just before it’s time to strike. What’s this particular Jim Lowe like? What’s he doing here? At other times, he’s had other answers, but this time, this Jim Lowe is a freshly-scrubbed country boy who’s still not used to towns even the size of Cuero. His clothes are new but they’re cheap. This Jim Lowe is cheerful, but maybe a little dim--he’s got a friendly smile for everybody, including the fellow he holds the door for, exiting the bank as Butch is on his way in.

It’s a good, honest day for good, honest folks. Nothing strange here at all. And the folks he sees in the bank all seem good and honest enough--it’s always seemed strange to him, how people can just work like normal around that much money, like Butch himself would work around horses. It’s just what they’re used to, he supposes. People get used to anything.

He gives the bank an amiable once-over, and then as if remembering something, slips his pocketwatch out to compare with the time on the clock on the wall. Well, you know how it is--you’re in the city, you’re out of your routine, you forget to wind your watch. Or maybe you just want to see how well it keeps time, compared to clocks in town. Or you’d dropped your watch yesterday when climbing off a horse, and you want to make sure it’s still running.

Or you want some excuse for standing around, and can keep a lookout behind you thanks to the reflection in the glass of the watch. One of those, probably.

The reflection picks up Ferguson as he brushes past Butch's shoulder, on his way in and toward the teller's station. Three windows, and only two open — both manned by gentleman, freshly scrubbed and neatly groomed. He makes his way to one opulent oak table, inks a silver pen, and starts filling out paperwork.

Meanwhile, Adler idles by the savings and loan office. Inside, a couple chat away with yet another gentleman. Adler's got an eye on them through the open door, while he meticulously picks lint from his derby hat. His guns are tucked inside his waistcoat, as the only holster he carries is a burlap sack he slings over his shoulder. Can't afford a show like that today.

"Mrs. Evans. Always so lovely to see you."

Kate's smile is effortless and contagious, mirrored back at her from Otto Buchel's face. He's a distinguished gentleman, hair slicked back and small, round-rimmed spectacles adorning his face; his accent is milder than you would expect. Oh, I was born in Indianola, he'd told her once, laughing good-humoredly. My father, Carl, was born in Gunthersblum, Of Hesse Darmstadt, in Germany.

His office is as she remembers it — a grand mahogany desk, fine carved chairs; satins, and leathers — but it's not his office she's interested in. They're at the far end of the bank from the front door, and to the right is the teller's station, and, most importantly, the safe. Kate can see it from where she stands.

"Today's the day you've finally decided to open an account with us, perhaps?"

She carefully pulls her bonnet off and chuckles, coughing into a lace kerchief. The slight movements give her cover to check through the window quickly.

Three employees, plus the Pinkerton guarding the safe; Ferguson is in place; three civilians, no, four, two women; there's Adler; no children, thank god; nine hostages in all.

"Mr. Buchel, you know I've had my eye on your establishment for quite some time now."

She's waiting on Butch, wrist perspiring against the Smith & Wesson strapped under her sleeve. She can be as pleasant as a spring morning until then, making small talk about her husband's parish and their modest assets.

Any interest in the preacher's wife beyond her patronage would be most unwholesome, and so Buchel's eyes stay respectfully north of her high collar. Though, they do dart to those golden curls when she sweeps off her bonnet.

Apparently done fiddling with his watch, Butch approaches the counter--but around the side, closer to where the Pinkerton man is.

Well, he doesn’t really have much choice. He doesn’t quite trust Mr. Ferguson to handle the tellers and an armed guard all at the same time--it takes practice, bank-robbing does, and Butch has had that practice.

So here he goes, all aw-shucks small-town-boy charm.

“Say, fancy meeting you here,” he grins as he leans against the counter. “I haven’t seen you since--gee, that picnic at my cousin Maisie’s. You still courting that girl--uh, what was her name again? Ruthie?”

He says it so convincingly, he almost believes it himself.

She sees Butch pass by the door, and her heart picks it up a notch. Buchel is talking, and so her focus must remain on him; however, she spares a quick glance down the hall to catch sight of the Pinkerton, all dumbfounded confusion on his face.

" ... with interest, ma'am."

She purses her lips to keep from grinning, addressing the conversation at hand.

"Of course. Now, tell me about this equity?"

The Pinkerton man shakes his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know any Maisie, or Ruthie, or you either.” He’s got a job to do, and he doesn’t want this strange man distracting him with... with whatever he’s going on about.

“I’m sure I remember you,” Butch says. “Sure--you remember. Little Margaret fell in the brook, and Caleb and Daniel had that, uh... well, they should both stay away from the medicinal brandy. Tempers get heated. They’re still not speaking to each other. But--” He stops, and leans over the counter a bit more.

“Oh, that’s right. I got a picture of Ruthie and the baby though, if you’d like to see it...” And he reaches under his jacket.

The Pinkerton man takes a step closer, somewhere between confused and starting to get angry. “Now see here,” he begins. “I don’t know what you’re on about, but I don’t know any of these people, and--”

What Butch has in his hand, now, isn’t baby pictures, but rather a gun. A very real gun, pointed at the Pinkerton man. “Hands up,” he says, feeling the rush he always gets when robbing banks. “Put your gun on the floor, nice and slow.”

Ferguson, papers in hand, approaches the teller's counter. His eyes are on Jim Lowe (save for that moment he spares to look back at Adler, the two just as confused about what he's going on about as the Pinkerton is), and as luck would have it the lady in front of him steps aside just as Lowe draws his weapon.

"Hands where I can see 'em!"

Customers yelp in alarm, and as the two tellers show their hands to Ferguson, Adler pulls his gun on the three other civilians in the savings and loan office.

"This is a stick-up!"

"Miss Evans," says Buchel, with a honey-sweet chuckle. "If you don't mind me askin', why isn't your husband handling these affairs for you?"

"My husband's a busy man, Mr. Buchel — "

"Otto, please."

She smiles sweetly, gathering up her skirts and rising from her seat. That's not the question Mr. Buchel's asking. He's asking why she's here, alone and unescorted. Coughing against one leather-backed hand, she dips her fingers under her sleeve to retrieve her lace kerchief, closing the distance between them.

"I think you'll find my husband married a very capable woman."

The banker's smile is short-lived. As the commotion from outside his office rises, he too jumps to his feet.

"What in tarnation — ?"

There's a very distinct click, and Otto Buchel, who had been moving toward the doorway, stops in his tracks. Lace flutters to the floor; gripped in Kate's gloved hand is her Smith & Wesson, which is making itself quite familiar with the small of Otto's back. With slow movements, Kate comes in close, her painted lips brushing his ear.

"I'm afraid I'm gonna hafta ask you t'stay where you are."

Outside the bank Ace glances around the street and kicks at the dirt, tries to restrain the urge to pace. He's checked over the mounts one too many times already and he feels like everyone's watching, like they know what he's up to. He knows he's imagining it -- hell, people's gazes aren't even focusing on him, just skating over with the knowledge that he's just some ranchhand down from the outskirts of town on his day off, dismissing him out of hand -- but that doesn't make the feeling any easier to ignore. He twitches a little every time someone walks out of the bank, keeps his ears sharp for some indication that the job's going the way it's supposed to. So far there's nothing. He doesn't know if that's good or bad, doesn't know how it's all supposed to go down, just knows that he's got a bellyful of snakes.

He leans on the hitch-rail next to Arrow and tries to look inconspicuous. Keeps his back to the bank because that's what he's supposed to be doing, keeping a lookout. It's not that hard. There's not that much to look at.

Ace takes a long breath, lets it out slow. And waits.

Calmness is the most important thing, in situations like these. It’s only money, after all--bits of paper and metal, with value of course, but it’s always been easy-come easy-go. Butch loves the thrill of robbing banks and trains, loves seeing whether he can pull it off and get away again, but he doesn’t go in with the sense of desperation a lot of robbers do. Which helps him to stay calm.

None of which makes any difference to the Pinkerton man; he’s got a job to do, and getting robbed is really not what he’d had in mind for today. Sure, working in a bank he’s always been aware it’s a possibility, and maybe some part of him secretly hoped it would happen--Pinkerton men love excitement too, or they wouldn’t be in this line of work--but here it is, his first robbery, and he all of a sudden has no idea what he’s supposed to do. Other than not give up the money, of course.

“You can’t rob this bank,” the Pinkerton man says, reaching slowly for his gun. “You shouldn’t rob any banks at all. What about all the people whose money this is?” He knows it’s stupid even as he says it, but they didn’t cover standoff-banter in his training.

“I know,” Butch says, his smile apologetic. “But look--you’re doing your job, and I don’t hold it against you. Let me do mine. Gun on the floor. There’s a good fella.”

"Lowe, what're you doin'?" Ferguson hisses.

Adler's leading the employee and his two customers around to the teller's station. Ferguson jabs a finger at where the other customers have been sequestered, keeping his gun on the men behind the counter.

"Mrs. Evans — "

"Please, Otto, it's easier for everyone involved if y'stop flappin' that impressive jaw of yours an' take heed of everythin' I'm about t'tell you."

Kate's voice never even rises; she just calmly tells him his life is in jeopardy if he don't do exactly as she says, and nudges him forward with her gun.

"Now, I know y'know the combination, an' I know this time'a day the timer y'got on it's off, so don't spin no yarns with me. What you're gonna do is open that safe on up real peaceful-like, an' let me take every last bit of Schleicher's money. An' if y'give me any fuss, you're gonna need a real preacher."

She stops, gaze flicking between Butch and the Pinkerton.

"Ah. Everythin' all right, gentlemen?"

Butch reaches over the little gate to unlatch and open it, letting himself in behind the counter--and it’s a strange feeling, somehow more of an illicit thrill than the fact that he is here to rob the bank. That counter is like a sacred boundary and now he’s on the other side of it.

It’s more prosaic back there than he would’ve expected, for the modern equivalent of a temple to the god of money. But then, it’s got to impress visitors, not the staff. And it’s very orderly, all the papers and ledgers and stacks of money in their place. If he were to run a bank, he’d want it to look a lot like this one.

He leans down to pick up the Pinkerton’s gun, and so with one in each hand, motions the tellers to go join the other hostages. This is more Sundance’s thing, and for just a moment he tries to channel that surliness--hence not giving the tellers any instructions out loud; Sundance can make people obey with just a look--but it’s just not in his nature, and he grins and shakes his head.

“This fella here says we can’t rob this bank,” he says to Kate, gesturing with his stolen gun toward the Pinkerton man.

“You can’t,” the man says. “Mister Pinkerton himself is gonna hear about this--there’ll be a report on his desk first thing tomorrow morning, believe you me!”

Butch trying on surly is about as funny as a pirate in a periwig. If she weren't so nervous she might laugh, but as it stands only the corner of her mouth twitches when he turns, all smiles, and explains the situation. She'll have to tell him to stick to what he knows after this is over.

"Well — we are," she says, pointing out the evident. "An' don't you try passin' off that funny business on me, son. Everyone knows Alan Pinkerton passed, round 'bout four years ago, an' I very much doubt y'have any clout that high up the ladder anyhow."

The Pink looks mildly embarrassed, but before Kate can scold him any further Buchel is eyeballing her over his shoulder.

"This is about Schleicher, is it? This whole grotesque potboiler."

Kate hardens at the sneer in his voice, feeling not an ounce of guilt when the added jab of her gun causes him to grimace. She's leaning in again.

"No. This is about you, an' Runge, and Schleicher, bleedin' this town dry t'feed your fat bellies. My fondness for a banker ain't greater than a railroad man, 'specially a couple crooks like you. You've gotten away with it far too long. Now, are you gonna open that safe, or am I gonna hafta convince you?"

“You could get started on that report, if you want,” Butch says helpfully, motioning with one of his guns toward one of the tellers’ stations, where there is a pen and an open ledger. “Go on, I’ll help you. ‘Dear Mister Pinkerton...’ I’m serious. You want to make your report while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

Something about this seems wrong to the Pinkerton man--well, even more wrong than having the bank he’s supposed to protect get robbed, but that is already happening whether he wants it to or not, and there’s a certain peculiar logic in starting his report right now, even if it won’t be going to the late Mr. Pinkerton.

Somehow disobeying Butch’s instructions doesn’t even cross his mind. This man seems the most experienced in this sort of situation, so he speaks with an air of authority, and if he says this is how things are done, who is the Pinkerton man to argue? Maybe a good enough report will salvage things with his bosses.

Butch gives Kate a momentary ‘...can you believe this?’ look as the Pinkerton man moves to the teller’s station and picks up the pen. But it’ll keep him out of the way and occupied--she was a schoolteacher; no doubt she can appreciate how much easier it is to keep order while the children are busy practicing their writing.

“‘Dear Mister Pinkerton,’” he repeats once the man is in place, quietly so as not to disrupt the drama unfolding near the safe. “‘This morning the bank in Cuero was held up by a gang of twenty-three heavily armed men, possibly former soldiers--’”

“Twenty-three?” the Pinkerton man asks dubiously, glancing around the bank. Numbers aren’t his strong point, but even he doesn’t believe that.

“They’re not all inside,” he explains. “And those good folks over there--” Gesturing to the hostages-- “They’re ours too. Trust me, I counted before we came in. Twenty-three. Bosses like precision. It makes a good report.”

While Butch occupies the simple Pink, Adler starts collecting money from the tills. Ferguson can be heard from the other side of the counter, talking to the hostages, explaining just what'll happen if they don't hold still.

Buchel grunts and grumbles, but Kate's called his hand. His fearsome Pinkerton, hired especial to guard the railroad's assets, is offering no leverage. Either he can hold out, hope the pretty preacher's wife don't mean what she says, or he can do the smart thing. Whatever he may think of Kate's intentions, or the good-natured Jim Lowe, Ferguson is raising enough of a stink to keep tensions high.

"Y'keep your trap shut!"

The women yelp, and one of the tellers — a boy no older than twenty — starts sniveling. Ferguson waves his piece back and forth, pointing it at each of the men.

"I'm the one in charge, here!"

Kate cuts a sharp look over her shoulder at that, catching Butch's eye and exchanging a brief smile. His calm and confidence is contagious. She reminds herself he's done this dozens of times, and lets that steady her. Ferguson keeps flapping his jaw, but she keeps her eye on the prize for now.

"Open it!"

She pushes Buchel toward the safe, taking a step back. From this angle he can see her shiny revolver leveled at his head. There's just a heartbeat of hesitation before he starts on the combination.

(Kate breathes a sigh of relief, hoping the tremble in her hand is only noticeable to her. It's been years for her, thinking and planning and stewing over Cuero; over Schleicher the railroad man, and the two bloated bankers, Buchel and Runge; over the businesses being run out in the name of progress and expansion. But to Buchel, it's only been a handful of months. This is the first time she hasn't pulled her gun for survival. This is the first time she's thought ahead on taking something from somebody else. And it fills her with a disturbing rush of excitement.

She wonders what she must look like in his eyes.)

Adler's stuffing the last two stacks of cash into his burlap sack when the safe creaks open. Kate calls Butch's alias.

"Lowe!"

The gangly crook nods at him, pulling his gun from his waistband in silent reassurance. He'll watch the Pinkerton while he finishes up. It's all moving according to plan.

“...planning on escaping over the border to Monterrey,” Butch finishes for the Pinkerton as he moves toward the safe.

He’s pleased with his report; it’s very believable, if you ask him, and may make it harder for the poor Pink to give an accurate account of what happened--he’s got this story now, it’s in his head, and since these details are written down why should anyone trust the spoken word? And the Pinkerton sure has nice handwriting, much better than Butch’s own. That’s got to help people believe that, over whatever the hostages or Mr. Buchel might say. Who would doubt a Pinkerton man?

He slips his own gun back into its holster as he peers into the safe. That’s a pretty good take, right there, and so easy--why doesn’t everyone rob banks? It’s better than working.

And it feels so good to handle that money, to have it pass through his hands as he starts loading it into a sack.

"You aren't doin' this town any favors, you know," mutters Buchel. "Save your speeches. 'Cuz the money you're takin' is coming right out of the people's pockets. It isn't attractive coming from a lady of your caliber, Mrs. Evans — or whoever you really are — all that hypocrisy."

"Shuddup."

She leads him to the wall and forces him to sit, hands where she can see them. Now that the Pinkerton has finished with his scribing, he joins him there. Kate nods to Adler.

The banker's eyes are hard and black, and she imagines he's trying to guilt her into a misstep. Kate holds his eyes for a long moment, hers cold and blue but just as hard, and as transparent as a mirror. Without another word, she turns back to the safe.

Crouching beside Butch, she spares a quick grin.

"Looks like a good haul."

“Better’n I would’ve figured for a town like this,” he says quietly, returning the grin.

He’d had his concerns about the other men but really, everyone seems to be doing their part just fine. The money is theirs, they’ve got their escape route all lined up, it’s just a matter of finishing up in here and they’ll be on their way. He’ll get himself a real nice dinner tonight--and hey, he’s gotten a brand-new (or new to him, anyway) genuine Pinkerton gun. Won’t that make for a good story?

Oh, if only he could tell Sundance about all of this.

The street outside is still quiet. Ace, hat jammed low over his eyes so he can gnaw on his lower lip without anyone noticing, is still leaning up against the rail like he's just taking a nap while waiting for someone to come out of the bank. Which except for the nap part, he figures he pretty much is.

He scans the shops in front of him. A woman with a young child clutching at her skirts moves slowly past, keeping her steps small to allow the boy to keep up. Two young men discussing the probability of work in Cuero lean up against a storefront, hands moving animatedly. The wind catches their voices intermittently so that Ace can only hear a word here and there.

Arrow drops her head and nudges at his pockets, clearly bored. Her tail swishes flies off her flanks with just a little more attitude than is really necessary and he turns half an eye to her, finding the ticklish spots under her chin and forelock where scratches will distract her from whatever trouble she's thinking of. The feeling of her breath on his fingers calms him as the woman and her child move out of range, the two young men (boys, really...) still talking. Across the way a lawman moves with a slow and purposeful gait in Ace's general direction.

His fingers freeze, and his breath with them. He can see the gun plain as day holstered low on the man's hip and knows what he's there for. Should he call out? Wait? The snakes come to life once more low down in his belly and the moments crawl past like molasses as the man comes closer, and closer still...

...and passes through the door to the apothecary, shutting it softly behind him. The tension moves out of Ace in one long wave and leaves his knees suddenly weak. Not coming for him, after all. They're still safe.

Kate beams at Butch, her laughter like drops down a well. She's delighted by the turnout.

"I knew it'd be somethin'. Look at it all, slicker'n a greased pig."

She touches his shoulder, with a smile meant for no one but him, and tucks her gun away so she can help fill bags.

"An' I've got you t'thank. For helpin' me with it all."

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