A Bad Day and a Bad Place for a Bank Robbery

By Craig Grafton

A Saturday afternoon, a small frontier town, and a chain of events that nobody sees coming.

“I ain’t going with ya on this one, Mort.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’ll stick out like sore thumbs there, that’s why.”

“So what? Those people know better than to bother us. They know their place. They’ll leave us alone. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

​

“Well, I ain’t choking on that piece of cake. Take the kid. He’s been chomping at the bit for some time now.”

“Alright, I will. Shouldn’t take but the two of us anyway.”

“Fine. See ya when you get back.”

​

Mort and the kid took off.

​

“Where we going, Mort?”

“To a little town called Nicodemus.”

“Nicodemus? Never heard of it.”

“Well, there’s no reason why you should have, kid.”

“You been there?”

“Ya, I checked out the bank there a couple of weeks ago. It’s right on the edge of town. It’ll be easy for us to make our getaway. I don’t want it to be like last time, where the bank was in the center of town and we had to shoot our way out. We should be there before noon tomorrow.”

​

They were. It was Saturday. The stores were closing, and people were headed home. As they rode in, Mort noticed that the kid was staring at the townsfolk, not believing his eyes.

​

“Don’t look at ’em, kid.”

“But they’re—”

“But nothing. They know better than to look at us. The bank will be closed at noon, and we’ll go in the back door in the alley.”

​

The head cashier was Hiram Freeman. It was noon now, so he locked the front door, went over to the teller’s drawer, got it, carried it to the back room, and put it down on his desk. Then he went over and unlocked the back door because he was expecting his sons to show up so they could go dove hunting together. Dove season opened at one.

​

Mort and the kid rode into the alley. They dismounted and tied up their horses at the hitching post next to the community outhouse there. They walked over to the back door. Mort stopped and grabbed the kid's arm.

​

“Stay here like I said and keep an eye out. I’ll go inside and take care of business. You remember what I told you to say if anyone shows up, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mort, I remember.”

“And don’t go shooting nobody. The gunshot will give us away.”

“Yes, Mort, I won’t shoot nobody.”

“Good.”

​

Mort went over to the door, kicked it in, and entered.

Hiram was sitting at his desk. The noise of the door bursting open startled him so that he jumped up, scattering the money all over the floor.

​

“Hands up!” shouted Mort.

Hiram put his hands up.

“Go over and open the safe.”

“I don’t know the combination.”

​

The bank owner had told him to say that if there ever was a bank robbery, in hopes that a robber might buy it. But Mort wasn’t buying.

​

“Don’t give me that crap. I’ve heard that one before. Open it up, or I’ll get some dynamite from my saddlebag and blow it open.”

​

Mort was bluffing, but Hiram bought it. He fumbled with the lock, stalling for time. Then likewise in gathering up the proceeds, sorting bills and coins by denominations, stalling for time, hoping his sons would show up—his sons with shotguns.

​

Grant and Ulysses rode into the alley and saw the kid standing in front of the back door.

​

“Something’s funny here, Uly.”

They rode up to the kid.

“Who are you?” asked Grant.

“Who the hell are you, boy?” countered the kid, pointing his gun at them.

“I’m Grant Freeman, and this is my brother Ulysses. We’re here to get our father to go dove hunting with us.”

“Well, he’s tied up, I think. I mean, he’s helping my partner—I mean my associate. We’re special agents from Wells Fargo here to pick up a special delivery. So get out of here.”

​

The kid had gotten the speech right after all that Mort had told him to say. He was smiling. He was proud of himself.

Grant leaned over and whispered into his brother’s ear.

​

“There’s never been any special Wells Fargo deliveries here before that I know of. I think they’re robbing the bank. Look, the door’s been kicked in, and there’s two horses tied up over there at the outhouse. Stay calm. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll tell him that I got to use the facilities. I’ll ride over there and position my horse on the other side of their horses, hopefully blocking his view, get off, uncase my shotgun, and go on in the outhouse. While I’m doing that, you take off, go to the saloon, and tell them the bank’s being robbed, and get back here so I don't have to hold them off. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Hey, you two!” shrieked the kid. “I told ya to git out of here.”

“Just a second. I have to use the facilities first.”

“Huh?”

“I got to take a dump.”

“Well, make it quick then.”

​

Grant rode over to the outhouse and dismounted. He had no trouble getting out his shotgun. But as he took the couple of steps necessary to get to the outhouse, he walked clumsily, trying to hide the shotgun against his leg farthest from the kid. That caught the kid’s attention and gave him away.

​

“Stop. Stop right there, or I’ll shoot.”

Grant paid him no attention and ran inside, shutting the door.

​

Uly took off.

The kid never fired at either of them. He’d been told not to shoot anybody, and he didn’t.

Uly rode to the saloon.

​

“Listen up, everybody. Some white guys are robbing our bank. My brother and I went to the back door to get our father to go dove hunting, and there’s this dumb white kid there with a gun, the door’s kicked in, and two horses are tied up there. His partner must be inside with my father. My brother got in the outhouse with his shotgun so he can stop them if they come out. So some of you men come with me to the alley. The rest of you go out in front of the bank and position yourselves accordingly. Hurry now, hurry. We got to save my father and brother.”

​

The saloon was full of dove hunters. Dove hunters with a drink in one hand and their shotgun in the other, having one last drink before going off for an afternoon of slaughtering doves. They rose as one mass swarm of riled-up hornets and buzzed out the door, making a beeline to their respective destinations.

​

Hiram Freeman had gathered up all the money from the safe and the floor and put it in the gunny sack that Mort had given him.

“Get on your knees now and put your hands on your head.”

Hiram did as told.

​

Mort went up behind him and cold-cocked him with the butt end of his pistol, knocking him out cold. He went out the back door, gun in one hand, the gunny sack in the other.

​

Grant saw him through the peephole and readied his shotgun.

“Okay, let’s go now, kid. We’re done here. Mount up.”

“Mort, there’s a boy with a shotgun over there in the outhouse.”

“Huh?”

“I said there’s a boy over there in the outhouse with a shotgun.”

“How’d that happen?”

“Said he had to take a dump. So I said okay. The other one rode off.”

“The other one?”

“Ya, there were two of them. Said they were here to pick up their father and go dove hunting.”

​

“God, that was stupid of you, kid. You should have blasted them both.”

“But you told me not to shoot anybody, Mort.”

“Well, sometimes you got to improvise, kid.”

“Huh?”

“Improvise, like now. We can’t get our horses. It's too dangerous. So we’re going to improvise. We go out the front door, steal a couple of horses, and get away.”

​

The two robbers ran back inside, over to the front door. Mort unlocked it.

​

“Leave your gun in your holster, kid. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves now, do we?”

“But—”

“But nothing. That’s improvising too. Do it.”

​

The kid did it.

“Let’s go, kid.”

​

The two bank robbers stepped out the front door into the roar of a dozen shotgun blasts.

​

It was a bad day and a bad place for a couple of white guys to try to rob a bank in a town founded by and consisting of colored folks.