LAST WORDS

Chapter 2

The Brodericks

There was nothing noteworthy, or memorable, about the dark-haired man. Ketch Broderick leaned casually against the support beam at the mouth of the mine. He played with a piece of timothy hay, twirling the stem between his teeth to make the fuzzy end dance. Dressed in a faded blue shirt and dirty pair of jeans, only reinforced the casual image of a cowboy.

The youngest Broderick, nervously pacing next to him, projected a completely different image. "Race isn't going to like this." Even his voice resonated of anxiety and doubt. "He said fer us to find a place to lay low awhile." The shaggy blonde stood still, just long enough to let his eyes take in the dilapidated structure. "It looks like it's about ready to cave in." Fear overtook him again, as he shook his head, running his hand over the back of his neck. "He's gonna be mad."

Ketch pulled himself slowly to his feet and sauntered over to the scrawny teenager. Without warning, a strong right hand came out, striking the kid to the ground. The muscular man had at least fifty pounds and fifteen years on the youngster. "Kale, so help me! If you don't stop that whining…" He drew back, ready to strike again.

With nothing but a pair of bony arms as protection, Kale instantly jumped to his feet. The boy was cursed with a long, skinny neck and when he swallowed hard, it forced the oversized Adam's apple to bob up and down. "I'm sorry, Ketch. Don't hit me again."

Ira and Eula Broderick had three sons. The two outside ones had been seriously passed over when it came to smarts, but the middle one—Race—had more than his share. The look on his face as he rode up to the abandoned goldmine, reflected not only intelligence, but extreme irritation.

"What the hell is this?!" Race crossed his arms, leaning over the top of his saddle horn. "I said to find us a safe place to hole up after we do the job."

"I told ya!" Kale's screeching voice pierced the air, as he stared at his still-mounted brother. "I told him. I did, didn't I, Ketch? I said you wouldn't be happy, Race." He stepped closer to the horse and let his voice drop to a raspy whisper. "I even heard tell this mine was haunted."

With the point of his thumb, Race pushed his hat farther back on his head. "Haunted?" The word fell as flat as his interest in the subject.

Kale failed to pick up on his brother's indifference and felt the need to expound on the rumors. "Crisp Watkins told me they never found Cleavus Luken's body when Festus went back after it." He nodded his head, to display his own belief and approval.

"Crisp is a liar and ever'body knows it!" Ketch yelled.

"Is not! Crisp says, ol' Cleavus wanders through the mine, moanin' and groanin' and searchin' for his lost gold." The young man's tale came to an end, but neither brother appeared impressed by the rumors.

Choosing simply to ignore the ramblings of the young boy, Race climbed down from his horse. "Ketch. Wanta tell me why you picked this place?"

It was most unusual to see a sheepish grin on the face of a bully, but the bigger man wore one just the same. "To be honest, kinda because of what Kale said. We know it ain't haunted, but the rumors are out there and it does tend to keep people away. If you plan on hiding the money, nobody will look up here."

Cool, gray eyes wandered lazily over the broken down mine and surrounding area. Race was mildly surprised and amused. As ridiculous as it sounded, Ketch had a point. It was close to town and no one ever went nosing around. "Is it safe?"

"Fur a piece." Ketch said. "I wouldn't go too far in, but if you keep toward the front, should be safe."

Race stepped inside the mouth of the mine. The opening was spacious, but it wasn't totally empty. An old, battered table leaned against the far wall for support. A bottle of cheap whiskey and a dented tin cup graced the wooden surface. That would be Ketch's contribution, Race thought.

Kale pointed to the upended barrel in the corner. "I couldn't find a chair but I found that back there. It was too heavy for me to lift but I drugged it as far as I could." The zig-zagging trail in the loose dirt verified its weight. "Found that, too." Beside the table was a two-legged bench. The legless end was propped upon a broken, gold-washing cradle. "Betcha can't guess what was in the box, Race?"

"No, I can't." He walked past his brother, making it obvious he had no interest in either the contents, or playing a game of twenty questions. In the days to come, Race would regret that little oversight. "We need to go over the plans." He poured himself a swallow of whiskey, before speaking again. "The payroll came in yesterday. Kale, do you know what you're supposed to do?"

The head was bobbing in sync with the knot in his neck. "I wait outside. to keep anyone from coming in." Kale paused and then realized that Race was waiting for the rest. "Oh. If someone comes, I tell 'em, them bankers haven't come back from lunch."

Race turned to the oldest Broderick. "Ketch?"

Ketch was irritated that his younger brother was treating him the same as that idiot, Kale. "I know how to rob a bank!"

"Really…and how many have you robbed?" They all knew the answer was, none; but the question did put the arrogant cowboy in his place.

Ketch cast a sullen glance at Kale, warning him not to laugh. His tone was flat as he recited the plan. "We go in the back, hoods over our faces. Take the money and split up, to throw off Dillon; then meet up here."

"We need a clean get away." Race steadied his eyes on the only Broderick that had nurtured a violent streak. He knew Ketch wanted to go in, guns blazing; which was not only a lazy plan but a foolish one. Experience had taught the more seasoned robber to get in, get the money and get out of town. Race had killed—when he had to—and knew that in his line of work, he would probably kill again, but it was not something he enjoyed.

This was the first time that the Broderick brothers had teamed up for a job. For the past five years, Race Broderick had been outsmarting and outrunning the law in three states, but he wasn't doing it alone. He had met up with Miles Dunkin in a scroungy little jail, down in El Paso. It was just a short stint for drunk and disorderly, but it was long enough for the two men to strike up a successful partnership.

The union was most profitable, until Miles got himself shot in the back by a double-crossing saloon girl. Race wasn't a particularly vicious man, but it seemed only right that he should get justice for his friend and partner.

For a dollar and a bottle of cheap whiskey, the little tramp took Race back to her room. As he watched her strip down and casually toss the garish red dress to the floor, he wondered if it would bother him to kill a woman. As it turned out, she made it quite easy. The liquor loosened her tongue and before long she was laughing and bragging about killing her last lover—among several others.

When the deed was done, Race stepped over the lifeless body and left town…with the half-empty bottle of whiskey.

But, that was then, Race sighed, as he cast a skeptical look at his new crew. With a hopeful breath, he walked out of the dark mine into the morning sunshine. "Boys, lets mount up. We have work to do."

TBC