Andromeda Gun by John Boyd

as I can get when the Avenging Angels ride. Though it is written that man who is born of woman has but a little while to suffer, I see no point in cutting short my allotted suffering time.”
    Since Abe had not looked up and apparently did not intend to, Ian saw no point in threatening him with a drawn pistol.
    “Abe, I want all the money in the bank’s safe.”
    Fingers flicking, Abe said, “Get it yourself, deputy. The safe’s not locked. But, as town official, you’re required to sign for all withdrawals.”
    This was proving fair to be the most unusual holdup he had ever pulled, Ian thought, as he opened the cage door and walked back to the safe. He opened it and pulled out the money drawer. A glance told him the drawer contained only a ten, two fives, three ones, and some loose change.
    “Is this all the money in the kitty?” he called over to Abe.
    “Twenty-three dollars and thirty-two cents,” Abe said. “On Saturday the payroll must be met. Eleven dollars and fifty cents to you, twelve dollars and twenty cents to the high sheriff, and fifty cents for me. Someone is going to be asked to accept scrip, and it will not be a Methodist Gentile.” His voice sunk low in despair. “It will be this Jewish Gentile.”
    “I’ve seen lots more money in a poker pot,” Ian said in disgust.
    “Not in Shoshone Flats you didn’t. Poker playing is outlawed by the city ordinance against gambling.”
    “Is this all tax money?”
    “Yes.”
    “Who collects the taxes?”
    “Mayor Winchester.”
    “Who pays the taxes?”
    “Mr. Bain. The mayor does not approve of drinking, so the saloon is taxed and taxed and taxed.”
    “Don’t the people around here keep their money in the bank?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Not yet,” Ian echoed in astonishment. “Is there a season for banking around here?”
    “Weather’s a part of it. Few Mormons deposit here, for in bad weather they can’t get to town. If you should open the road, as Mayor Winchester promised, perhaps more Mormons would come. But mostly the people have no confidence in the law’s protection. Myself, I could rob the bank and outrun Sheriff Faust on foot, but the money would not pay me for the footrace.”
    “How long do you figure it would take for the people to put their money in the bank if they could rely on the law?”
    Abe lifted his eyes and spoke with quiet assurance.
    “For me, after today—if Deputy McCloud should live so long. If you survive this day, you should live forever. By now, Bryce Peyton has conferred with his bright angel, Moroni, gotten his instructions, and six black saints are riding… riding… riding.”
    As Abe’s voice dwindled into a sinister and ominous silence, its dramatic effect was lost on Ian whose thoughts skittered off at an obtuse angle.
    “I heard tell Peyton could hear voices,” he remarked, as he walked out of the cage, leaving the money behind. “I didn’t know whose. This Moroni’s a new angel on me.”
    He leaned against the teller’s window, thoughtfully pounding his fist into his palm, remembering the thought he had had last week: Either quit playing poker or find richer banks to rob. He had no choice of banks in Shoshone Flats, but this one could be made a lot richer with patience and planning.
    Plan ahead, Colonel Blicket had always told him back in the palmy days of their relationship. Standing here now, Ian remembered the injunction and planned.
    In three weeks, the stage would haul the payroll from Wind River to the mine. If, by then, he had proved that a strong lawman could enforce law and order in Shoshone Flats and had built an all-weather road to lure the Mormons into town, trusting depositors would swell the coffers of the bank. As a respected deputy, he could ride shotgun for the stagecoach of the Wind River to Shoshone Flats leg of the journey, hold up the stage en route, ride into town, and knock off the bank.
    The mine’s payroll and the bank might provide the biggest haul since the James boys