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Arthur is placing the day’s gold nuggets into the safe when someone quietly enters the bank and locks the door. Arthur puts his hand on his gun and stands up slowly. Turns around.
His blood runs cold. “Mr. Eames.” The charming British outlaw has knocked over banks in three states, but even the massive bounty on his head has failed to bring him to justice. Arthur won’t stand a chance in a gunfight. “Nice day you’ve picked for a robbery.”
“Mr. Levine. Arthur, isn’t it?” He flicks his eyes up and down Arthur’s body, smiling at what he sees. “I have a business proposition for you.”
“I’m listening.” As if he has a choice.
“Get robbed often?”
“Often enough.”
Eames laughs, and Arthur finds his smile even more distracting than his reputation. “Now, my dear Arthur, what happens if one of your stagecoaches full of money never arrives?”
Arthur frowns. “They send another from San Francisco.”
“Exactly. And they’re notoriously hard to track down, but you’re in the unique position of knowing their schedules.”
“Go on.”
He shrugs. “I rob them and we split the profits. Simple.”
“That’s not sustainable, Mr. Eames. They won’t keep sending money.”
“Twice would be plenty. Do you want to live in this tumbleweed paradise forever? Dream a little bigger, darling.”
The word makes his breath catch and it takes him a second to process the rest of what Eames has said. “You should be careful what you say around here. People aren’t very … open-minded.”
“Something tells me you are. Perhaps you wanted a different sort of proposition?”
He thinks about his miserable frontier existence and the allure of San Francisco. He thinks about Eames, offering things money can’t buy. He thinks about Eames.
And he nods.