Watchman gripped Buck Stevens by the arm. “They didn’t pass by us going out so they’ve gone out the other way-west on 793. Get on the radio and report. Tell those Nevada patrol cars to stop and search anything that moves on that road. On the run, now.”
When Stevens sprinted past him he pushed Jace Cunningham aside with the heel of his hand and shoved into the crowd around Jasper Simalie. He recognized Doctor Jamieson-a gaunt man with a hollow-cheeked death’s head and big yellow teeth, sparrow-chested and frail. The doctor was breathing like a teakettle. He looked up at Watchman and shook his head.
Jasper lay on his face. There was a great deal of blood on the floor.
“Shotguns,” the doctor said through his teeth. “They weren’t pistols, they were shotguns. The poor son of a bitch never had a prayer.”
A pudgy man with pink hands was waiting, licking his lips with a pink tongue, when Watchman straightened and turned. Cunningham said, “This here’s Mr. Whipple. He owns the bank.”
“Not really,” the pudgy man said. “I’m the manager-I work for the San Miguel Copper Company and I’m supposed to-”
“Were you here?”
“What’s that?” Whipple’s eyelids fluttered like semaphores.
“When this happened. Were you here? Can you tell me what happened?”
“I suppose so. It’s all so unreal, you know?”
The doctor came by, lugging his bag. “I’ve got to have a look at those armored-car guards. You coming, Jace?”
Watchman turned with an abrupt snap of his wide shoulders. “What about the guards?”
Cunningham flapped a bony hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it. They’re okay. They got sprayed with something and need gettin’ their eyes washed out, that’s all.”
The doctor said, “I think it was chemical Mace,” and went.