FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Jesse pulled on the reins of his horse, slowing the cantering steed to a trot as a carriage with a team of horses drove by. The calico cat adjusted his hat, the wide-brim shielding his eyes from the burning sun as he looked over the bustling town. It had been a long ride - two days on horseback, but this was his second-to-last stop on his way to the port of San Francisco. His orange and white colors were muted from the dust that his long ride had kicked up, and while he would like nothing more than to wash up in the nearby stream he had spotted on his way in, there was work to be done.

Guiding his horse through the town, he tipped his hat politely at the ladies walking in the shade of the balcony that the Grand Hotel had to offer. For a few moments, he wished that he had some more time to enjoy his stay here. Eyes scanning the cross-streets that he passed, he finally spotted his destination a few blocks from the hotel: a small, squat building with a large sign declaring itself as the local bank. Smirking, he pressed his horse onward.

Dismounting outside the bank, he wrapped the leather reins around a nearby post and took a moment to make himself presentable. After adjusting his ivory-handled six-shooters, one cradled under his left arm and one holstered on his right hip, he dusted himself off best he could and straightened his hat. Catching the look he was getting from a graying fox that stood near the bank's entrance, he smiled and nodded in greeting. "Afternoon."

"Afternoon, stranger," the red fox said thickly. "What's your business here?"

"Here?" Jesse replied, untying a satchel from the side of his horse. "Just making a deposit before I settle in for the night."

The fox's ears perked up at the sound of what he made out to be coins jingling in the cat's canvas satchel and gave a curt nod. "Very well, then."

Jesse gave his horse a few pats on its flank before slinging the bag over his shoulder and walking up the steps to the frosted-glass doors of the bank. Turning to the fox, his green eyes gave the man a look-over in an instant, his mind cataloging key features: he was tall, thin, probably in his late fifties, and wore a silver star-shaped badge that read 'Deputy Marshall' over his left breast, but more importantly, he carried a lever-action, .387 caliber long-barreled rifle - standard issue for a Marshall.

The cat smiled wearily at the deputy, a partial feign, but real enough. "Pardon me, deputy, but I don't suppose you know where I can get a good night's rest and a hot meal, do you?"

The watchman nodded and pointed south - the direction Jesse had just come from. "The Grand Hotel just down the street there. You passed it on your way into town, no doubt. They'll set you up right for the night."

Jesse tipped his hat. "Much obliged, sir."

Pulling open one of the doors to the building, his spurs clinked as he walked across the threshold into the dimmer, slightly cooler interior. Casually looking around, he couldn't help but shake his head. The room was barren, save for a potted cactus in the corner and a tall, wooden table for customers to use at will. A large wall of wood paneling cut through the middle of the structure, three narrow sections removed and replaced with iron bars to be the teller windows, all of which one were closed. This place is just as unattractive on the inside as it is on the outside, Jesse thought. Not one redeeming feature except for that sad looking cactus in the corner. Sighing quietly to himself, he hoped he hadn't made a mistake in coming here.

Paw raised in greeting, he approached the only teller window that was in service. "Howdy."

"Good afternoon, sir," the elderly human replied, the neatly-trimmed mustache that covered his upper lip quivering slightly . He smiled politely, brown eyes peering out from behind his bifocals. "What can I do for you?"

"I would like to make a withdrawal, please, if you don't mind."

The teller nodded and pulled out a large leather-bound book. Opening the tome, he began to run his finger down the first page. "And what would be your name, sir?"

"Jesse," the calico replied. "Jesse Thompson."

The old man's finger froze, his whole body locking up. Slowly, he looked up from the book at the cat. "Jesse...Thompson?"

Jesse nodded with a smile, dropping the satchel on the counter in front of him. "Yes, sir, that's me."

Hands starting to shake, the clerk raised them from his book, holding them up in front of him. "Please, Mr. Thompson, I don't want no trouble."

"Well, you're in luck today," Jesse replied as he slid the satchel under the iron bars. "Neither do I."

The teller pulled the bag slowly to his side and bobbed his head weakly.

Jesse pulled out the pistol from under his left arm and aimed it at the teller, pulling the hammer back in a single, smooth motion. "Now, don't take this the wrong way, but I'd rather have you fill the bag quick-like, if you please. I'm not one for waiting."

Nervously looking at the pistol, he reached down into the money drawer and began pulling small stacks of silver notes, stuffing them into the satchel without delay.

Jesse kept a close eye on the clerk, not wanting to take any chances. Spotting something unusual out of the corner of his eye, he leaned to the side a bit to get a clearer look. Noticing a flight of stairs leading down into the earth, he motioned with his head in its direction. "What's down there?"

The teller turned his head for a moment, looking in the direction Jesse indicated before turning back. "That'd be where the safe is, Mr. Thompson."

The cat smirked a bit - maybe this wouldn't be such a waste after all. "Alright, finish with those bills and let's go have ourselves a look."

The clerk cinched up the satchel and passed it back under the iron bars when his eyes looked past the robber, betraying him.

Jesse caught the look and spun around, coming face to face with the aging deputy. Before his opponent could raise his rifle in response, the cat flipped the pistol end-over-end, grabbed it by the barrel, and pistol-whipped the fox across the face. Without even the slightest hint of a struggle, the lawman collapsed, his body crumpling to the floor with a dull thud. Kicking the rifle away, Jesse aimed the pistol in hand at the deputy, not wanting to take any chances.

A few moments passed before Jesse noticed the crimson pool beginning to form underneath the head of his adversary. Satisfied that he wouldn't be causing him any more trouble, he unholstered his other six-shooter, turned to the side, and pointed it at the clerk. "Now, the vault, if you'd be so kind. I would rather not have to shoot the poor deputy here in the head."

#

Marshall Flynn Matthews walked up the steps of the bank, his standard-issue rifle cradled against his body, thumb habitually rubbing over the engraving of his initials on the stock. The middle-aged husky had a no-nonsense look about him - something that was often a trait of a Marshall out on the frontier. He had been a law-keeper for nearly twenty years now, but his days of tracking and hunting down criminals was coming to an end; he had a wife at home and a young pup on the way. With any luck, he would be able to turn in his badge in a few short years and pick up a new profession. Maybe he'd open up a business. Hell, maybe he'd do a little prospecting.

"Now where the hell did that old deputy get off to," he said aloud. "I told him to stay out front."

Standing on the porch of the bank, he looked around. His ears twitched this way and that as he looked around for the old fox, but failed spot him anywhere. Figuring he had ducked inside to get out of the heat, he sighed and shook his head. And that's why he never made Marshall, he thought to himself.

Opening the door to the bank, he stepped in and immediately became suspicious. Burt, the teller, was gone, the door to the back wide open. Eyes quickly scanning the room, he found his missing deputy off to his right, sprawled out underneath the window. Seeing the pool of blood collected under his head, he feared the worst as he knelt down, pressing a pair of fingers to the fox's neck. Upon feeling a slow, steady pulse, he breathed a sigh of relief - the old bastard wasn't dead, thank goodness. After years of service, he knew head wounds often looked worse than they were, but all the same, the sight of so much blood was unsettling.

"Michael," Flynn said quietly as he shook the deputy. "Michael, wake up!"

The deputy didn't move a muscle - he was out cold.

"Shit," Flynn muttered under his breath as he stood up, bringing the rifle butt up to his shoulder. Flynn's ears perked up at the faint sound of keys clinking together followed shortly after by the creaking of an iron gate. His eyes honed in on the stairwell that led down to the bank vault and slowly made his way towards it. Passing through the doorway into the back half of the bank, he glanced over at the teller drawers and saw that they had been cleared out already. Well, he thought, at least whoever is here, they'll all be downstairs.

Taking a few cautious steps down the stairs, he could hear the sounds of someone rummaging around in the vault. Eyes scanning the hallway outside the vault, he spotted Burt, his hands raised up and unmoving from his position against the wall - it looked like this wasn't the first bank robbery Burt had dealt with. As Burt glanced in his direction, Flynn put a finger to his lips in a motion to keep quiet. Rifle trained on the vault entrance, Flynn quietly took one step at a time, his footpaws graciously carrying him the rest of the way down to the vault.

Once at the bottom, he motioned with his head for Burt to clear out, which didn't take much convincing. Certain the civilian was out of harm's way, he exhaled slowly to steady his grip on the rifle. Taking a deep breath, he rounded the corner. "Paws where I can see them!"