Northfield by Johnny D. Boggs

three men announced their intentions of robbing the bank that Thursday afternoon, I thought it had to be in jest, an almighty poor joke.
    I am not a man who will allow whiskey to pilfer me of my faculties, but although I abstain from intoxicating liquors, not all of my friends have proselytized the heritage and teachings of John North, our town founder. For the most part, the men who honor me with their friendship prefer beautifying their gardens, working on their homes, understanding the gospels, bettering their minds and souls, but Northfield is not without its “bum” element. One needs to merely happen by that wretched Jeff’s bucket of blood by the depot or wander down the boardwalk in front of the Exchange Saloon on pay day. And, yes, some of my acquaintances have been known to decorate their noses with the suds of a beer. Inventing a diversion like this would not be beneath them.
    Pen in hand, I left my ciphers and turned at the sound of the door opening shortly after two o’clock that afternoon, not even looking up until I reached my position at the teller’s counter facing the front lobby Then I saw them. Blinking, trying to comprehend the sight of three men brandishing horse pistols of an immense caliber I had never imagined, I registered my first thought: What a foolish joke! But which fool is playing it on me?
    Suspicions immediately targeted J.S. Allen, who, minutes earlier, had left the bank after bringing in a deposit slip but having forgotten the money Only I would only rarely associate jocundity with Mr. Allen, especially raw, foul humor.
    The three men wore no masks, but long linen dusters covered their clothes as if part of some uniform. One man was dark, a brooding, vicious specimen. All were tall. All sprouted facial whiskers in one form or another. I did not recognize them. They had left the front door open, but, through a glimpse, I spied another man, also clad in a duster, slam it shut. When the three gunmen jumped over the counter, I still thought this to be some ill-thought attempt at comedy. Even when one of the inside men cried out—“We’re robbing the bank! We’ve got forty men outside!”—even moments later when I heard J.S. Allen’s shouts from the front door, even then, I could not accept the reality of the situation.
    Robbery? In Northfield? No. Never. I am twenty-seven years old, in my first year of marriage to a wonderful schoolteacher, employed at the First National Bank for the past three years. I am a graduate of the St. Paul Business College, a former student at Carleton College here in Northfield, the second son of fine New England parents. This could not be happening.
    This wasn’t even the permanent home of the bank. We were operating in the Scriver Building. Our cashier, Mr. George M. Phillips, was not even in Minnesota on this day. Maybe it was Phillips who was behind this joke. Joseph Lee Heywood, my friend and fellow worker, the First National Bank’s bookkeeper, had revealed to me a conversation he had had with Mr. Phillips about what actions he might take if our bank were to be assaulted.
    Certainly, Joe and I never dreamed a robbery would ever happen. Could this be Mr. Phillips’s hand? No, he would do nothing so preposterous. Yet it couldn’t be a real robbery.
    A long-barreled revolver pressed hard against my face.
    “Which one of you sons-of-bitches is the cashier? Is it you?”
    I found myself that afternoon working as the teller. The lobby was empty, had been since J.S. Allen left to find his deposit. Working with me that day were Joe Heywood, acting cashier during Mr. Phillips’s absence, and assistant bookkeeper, Frank Wilcox, all fine colleagues, industrious men of high principles and solemn living.
    “Hands up, damn you. Now open that safe, or I’ll blow your damned brains out.” Only then, their curses finally registering as the cold barrel pressed harder against my cheek bone, did it strike me then that Joe Heywood, Frank Wilcox, and I faced