"Bill Dalton passed the City Marshal's office just as a short, stocky constable, Rosco Chattaway, stepped out of the door. The twenty-three year old law officer was wearing a dark blue wool uniform with brass buttons completely down the middle of his thigh-length coat. Across the front of his flat-topped, short-billed cap, was the word CONSTABLE in polished brass letters. He watched as the rest of the gang slowly rode separately to the bank down on the corner, dismount and tie up.
Chattaway watched for a moment longer and then turned to reenter the office. "Marshal, they's some men just rode into town sorta one at the time and they all tied up in front of the bank…Never seen 'em afore."
"And?" City Marshal Matt Muckleroy asked, not looking up from his paperwork.
"Well, I could see they was wearing side arms under their coats and appeared to be a mite…fidgety."
He looked up. "How do you mean…'fidgety', Rosco?"
"They was lookin' around, ya know, sorta nervous-like. Then all but one went into the bank…I think they're ne'er-do-wells up to no good…sir."
The rotund marshal removed his reading glasses laid them on his desk, got to his feet and adjusted his gun belt. "You know what I tol' you about thinkin' Rosco…but you make a good point. Head down to Sheriff Brownlow's office. I'll go the other direction and start roundin' up a posse…just in case. Tell J. D. to put his deputies on the roofs on the other side of the street and catty-corner from the bank, I'll put mine behind the water troughs and inside the saloon directly across from the bank…Be sure he reminds his men to take a caution…ya hear?"
"Yessir." The constable stood there for a moment and then glanced around the marshal's office with a blank look on his face.
"Today, Chattaway…Today!"
"Yessir…uh, I was jest wonderin' ifn I should get my gun…sir?"
"Rosco, if brains were dynamite, you couldn't blow yer nose…Of course get yer gun!"
"Right, sir," he said as he went to the gun rack on the back wall of the office, removed a Remington single barrel shotgun and headed to the door.
"And rounds, Rosco, rounds. Not much good without ammunition, now is it?"
"Oh…yes, sir. I mean no, sir…sir," he said as he wheeled around to the cabinet next to the gun rack and grabbed a box of shells. "Got 'em, sir," he said as he held up the box.
"Go, dammit! Just go!" the marshal screamed as Chattaway hustled toward the door. "Boy's gonna make an old man of me…if I survive atall….Dumber'n bucket of rocks," he mumbled and jumped as the door slamed.
"Wallace, stay out here and mind the horses…'n keep yer eyes open…The rest of ya'll with me," Dalton said as he, Big Asa, Jim Knight, Three-fingered Dynamite Dick West and George Bennett entered the lobby of the bank through the double nine foot tall glass-inset doors.
Bill glanced at Big Asa and Knight. They nodded back, walked up to President Joseph Clemmons desk at the side of the lobby and Big Asa handed him a note that read: 'This will introduce you to Charles Spreckelmeyer, who wants some money and he is going to have it. Bill and Friends'.
Clemmons looked up from reading the note only to see the bore of a Winchester pointed at his face just six inches away. Jim Knight had carried the .44-40 caliber rifle inside the bank under his long morning coat. The banker swallowed hard as he noticed Dalton and the others had spread out and also drawn their weapons. An elderly woman customer screamed and fainted."
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