The Last Dance

March 25th, 1950
9:30 pm


The old man slipped silently into the back of the waiting car. Still stirring from the late night call he had just received thirty minutes earlier. It was time. After all these years it was finally time. “Damn near forty years,” he heard himself softly say. As he muttered those few words a lifetime of trouble, memories, and adventures came flooding back through the wide-open gate in his mind.

As the car sped down the road for the ten hour trip that lie ahead, the old man pulled an old worn leather satchel from the floorboard and started inspecting its few contents. There were several newspaper clippings dating back sixty years that he had saved for who knows what reason. Probably just to remember the way things had been. He found a ledger with pencil marks so old they were barely legible. Finally in the inside pocket he pulled out a picture. Two men and a woman, posed in their Sunday best, with old town San Francisco sprawling in the background.

The woman had been dead for years, a long lost love, who brought back fleeting visions of love and romance. However she was but a footnote in his life, since he had never been capable of commitment in the way she had wanted. It stung him a little looking at her long brown hair and those jade green eyes. The things he wanted to be for her, never revealed other than just a well-intended thought, which was always placed on the backburner. “Another time, another place,” he muttered. He was conscious of his surroundings, always conscious, but still in a myriad of remembrance as he stared wearingly at the picture.

He looked at the two men. My how young they had been. Freshly bathed, and barbered in the finest suits from the finest shop in all San Francisco. Brand new polished pistols at their sides, nickel-plated made from the finest manufacturers of the time. Sitting there in all there former glory, giving a blind eye to the world. I mean really he thought who was going to stop them. Thousands had tried, some had close. A few had come dangerously close. But no one really had a chance.

The first man, the one on the left of her, was medium height, average really with brown curly hair combed in the fashion of the time. An average man for all appearances he had a crooked grin that always let you know the wheels in his mind were turning. Planning their next great adventure, there next brush with the law. But it was the eyes that got you. Eyes pouring with confidence, one look could stare down the most giant of a man, and had on several occasions. Eyes that let you know that no matter what, the situation was under control, that he was the unequivocal leader of this operation. But eyes that also let you know that no matter what, come hell or high water, he would be right by you in the thick of things. A friend… a best friend, but in the feeling of one’s heart no matter the blood he was a brother.

He slowly looked to the man sitting the right of her, a mirror image of he without the effects of time. Where long stringy gray hair existed, was once a head of golden blonde. Tall… maybe six-four, with blue eyes, and a mustache that would make any man proud, a handsome man and the more likely of the two to catch the eye of the ladies.

Suddenly without warning, there was a sharp jolt. The driver had struck a pothole, and the jarring effect, quickly brought the man back to the present and the task at hand. He quickly placed all of the material back into the satchel, and as he did a worn piece of parchment folded over many times, fell out of the pages of the ledger. Without hesitation the old man stuffed the parchment back into the satchel. This time though he had placed the parchment into a well designed pocket in the interior lining of the satchel. A pocket that for most purposes would not be noticed. Hurriedly he clutched the satchel in a death grip and slid it down into the seat. Better to keep it hidden. Even though he trusted the driver, his aide of twenty years, some information was only known to two individuals, and in short time it would be over and the secret would be lost for eternity.

They continued driving through the night, across the desert, over mountains, and down canyons. The old man drifted in and out of sleep. Until presently when the sun started to rise, and a new day would begin on earth “maybe the last for him,” he thought with all probability.

Finally their destination had been reached. It was a nursing home nestled into the desert surrounding Barstow, CA. Barstow was a desert town, a highway town. Situated in the vast Mojave Desert of California, it was just another stop on the ever-winding Route 66. Los Angeles to the Southwest, Las Vegas to the Northeast. It was as much a town for drifters and highway men, long haul truckers, and desert enthusiasts as it was the for the remnants of a bygone era. Elderly folks living out there last few years in the desert sun, residing in abundant nursing homes, neighborhoods, and facilities designed for their use. It was here at the Mojave Valley Retirement Center, that the driver pulled the car to the entryway and helped unload his passenger.

“Would you like me to help you inside Mr. Bishop?” The driver asked.

”No thank you James, that will not be necessary,” said the frail old man.

The driver reached into the back of the vehicle and retrieved a small night bag, and the leather satchel, which he then gave to the old man, who took it away swiftly and placed over his shoulder.

"If you would James,” the old man said, “Please return the car home, and tell my son I will be out of town for a few days and not to worry.”

“And how will you be returning Sir?” Stated the driver.

“I am not sure,” said Mr. Bishop “Perhaps my acquaintance Mr. Knight and I will hire someone to drive us when the time is right.” “He is very sick right now and it maybe a few days until he is ready to travel.” “Not to worry James” he finished “I will be home when the time is right, I have survived for 83 years you know.”

“Very well Sir, enjoy your visit and the house will be ready for your return.” The driver said as he walked around the front of the car. As the car finally drove away the old man Mr. Bishop, gave it a long look as if to say good-bye to an old friend.

After the driver had left, Mr. Bishop collected his night bag and strolled through the lobby of the Mojave Valley Retirement Center as he did he could not help whistle a dapper tune one that he felt relaxing. He looked around the very expensive looking lobby, at the plush velvet chairs and the mahogany tables with vast amounts of flowers, exploding colors into the room. He walked to the front desk, and spotted a middle age nurse, who was busy rummaging through stacks of papers, and who looked to be having a hard time finding what she was looking for.

“Excuse me Ma’am, My name is Henry Bishop, and I am here to see a Mr. William Knight.” He asked “Could you please direct me to his residence?”

“Surely,” the nurse replied, looking anxious for something else to do beside paperwork. “If you follow me I will take you there myself.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to be that much trouble,” he stated “ you have much to do, and frankly I would like to sort of surprise Mr. Knight, it has been quite a while since we last met.”

"Well okay…” the nurse said wonderingly, “he is in room #57, but please don’t give him too much of a start his condition is worsening you know.”

“Never fear miss, I am quite aware of Mr. Knight’s condition, and I thank you for your help.”

As the old man walked down the corridor of the nursing home, he wondered how this reunion would be. It had been thirty six years since they had last seen each other. Although they corresponded once a year, always by mail, to let each other know of their well being and to update any information so they could always make contact. But nonetheless they hadn’t physically laid eyes on one another since 1914 when they went there separate ways and said good-bye on a train platform in Reno, Nevada. World War One had followed, both had served, but after the war they were both well aware of the consequences if they were spotted together. Life in prison for sure, but most likely a bullet or a noose. They had both started families rather late in life. And both had made slight changes to their appearances, not much but enough. And to this day no one knew there true pasts. The first halves of their lives were just well thought out fabrications, passed down until they had been accepted, and a new reality assumed. Bury one and start another basically.

Henry Bishop stopped as he reached the door marked 57. He took a deep breath and an excitement he hadn’t felt in almost forty years, began to burn inside. They had to do this. One last time for the books, maybe they would even let the world in on there little secret. They would have to talk about that. He knocked on the door, and after he heard the reply, he opened the door. He stood there in the doorway just staring with a blank look

“Well I’ll be a son of a bitch!” he heard as he closed the door.



The two men took each other in. Although it had been years, it seemed like it was just yesterday. Funny how that works, but it’s true. “How are you feeling?” said Bishop.

“Oh not to bad,” replied Knight, “I have good days and bad days, more bad then good anymore.” They shook hands heartily.

Mr. Knight was sitting in an expensive looking chair, a few papers strung out and with a light breakfast on the table. “Would you like some breakfast?” Knight asked.

“No thank you,” Bishop replied. “I see your working out the details.”

“Just about got it ready” remarked Knight “Mojave Savings and Loan, odd to think that this will be the last one.”

“Any security?” asked Bishop as he pulled two nickel plated pistols out of his night bag, and began going through the chores of preparation.

“Just one guard,” commented Knight. “I have been using this bank for 25 years, plenty of time for reconnaissance.” “Should be a nice score though,” he finished, “$250,000 dollars of all these fools retirement just sitting there in the open.”

“Too bad we won’t need the money though,” replied Bishop “Just the headline, how sweet it would be to stick around and see the looks on there faces.”

A plan had been in place, one they had both knew about all along. They had made a deal, after years and years of robbery, and more money then they could both spend in two lifetimes buried away. They called it quits. Not because they wanted to, but because after so many adventures time was running out. It would only be a matter of time until they would be caught. They had just got to risky. However, they always knew they had one more in them. So before they had gone there separate ways, they had made a pact to go out in style, as was probably intended all along. After the war, they kept in yearly contact. And for any reason, whether they thought the law was on to them, or in the case of Mr. Knight, time was about done with him. One or the other would make the call. And they would have their last adventure, one last ride into the sunset, so to speak. Although neither would have thought at the time it would have taken thirty six years.

“Kind of funny to see two eighty year olds knocking off a bank,” said Bishop, as they got into the car owned by Mr. Knight.

“Yeah but it will be really funny, when the bastards see what's happening,” he said as he started up the car.


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John McCauley had just started his shift at the Mojave Savings and Loan. After saying good-bye to his wife of thirty years, Marge, he had driven to work, and after looking at himself in the mirror and adjusting his security uniform, he announced himself fit to start. Mojave Savings and Loan was a quiet place. Nothing ever happened just elderly folks storing away there meager savings. Day in and day out it was the same. He knew them all by name and greeted them everyday from his security booth by the entrance. Today as he unlocked the doors, he looked into the parking lot, and saw one of his favorites William Knight getting out of the car. A crowd was beginning to form at the doors, several people waiting to get in. So he opened the doors.

William Knight and Henry Bishop stood at the back of the line waiting to enter the bank. They took there time. No need to rush, the more inside the merrier. As they were about to enter, Mr. Bishop looked down at his life long friend Mr. Knight, and with all the intensity building for over thirty-six years he said. ‘You ready for this?”

“After you Mr. Bishop, after you.” replied Mr. Knight as he drew his gun on John McCauley.



The look on John McCauley’s face was anything but inviting. After unlocking the door he had began to greet the waiting customers, and was about to shake hands with some one he considered a friend, when suddenly a pistol was jammed right into his face. Taken back, he had one of the moments where your life flashes before you. After what seemed like an eternity, but really just a split second, he was jolted back to reality.

“God damn it I said MOVE!” yelled the man he knew as Mr. Knight.

“Now everyone on the floor and lets make this real peaceful like,” said the other man.

John McCauley was driven back into the lobby where he was forced to sit on the floor among the others and disarmed.

“Hot damn, I’m feeling frisky!” yelled Knight as he casually walked to the single teller. Gun in hand, he clubbed the helpless teller across the forehead, and stepped around him. The bank manager who had spilt coffee all down his shirt when the melee began, approached Knight wearily. In all his years of running this bank, he thought he would be prepared for something like this but in fact, he was scared to death. The terrified manager began turning the dial on the combination safe knowing that his career was about to be forever ruined.

Bishop meanwhile was having a grand time, completely caught in the drama, he had disarmed the old security guard, and after ordering all the customers and bank employees to sit in single file, he began cherry picking what possessions they had and stuffing them in his now empty night bag. With that finished he tossed the bag to Knight, who by now was pushing the manager aside to get to the loot.

Several minutes passed, and with the night bag bulging, it became obvious, that neither one of them was going to heft that out to the car. Frantically Bishop spied around; until he spotted the duffel bag the old security guard had setting by his post. Without hesitation, he ran over grabbed the bag, and dumped its contents all over the floor. McCauley blushed as his new girlie magazine fell to floor for the folks to see.

Finally the money was split between the two bags, and the two aging outlaws slowly backed towards the front entrance, holding the trembling bank manager as their hostage. While standing at the entrance they both took in the scene, or more like drank it in. Hundreds of robberies, hundreds of scared looks, hundreds of getaways, from the first one until now came flooding back. Just as they were about to make there exit, Mr. Knight took the worn folded piece of parchment, that Bishop had given him earlier in the car, from his breast pocket, and put it into the pants pocket of the bank manager. He whispered into the manager’s ear, and with a final glance they were gone. Forget riding into the sunset like the old adage, today they were riding off to a new sunrise, how fitting Bishop thought as they plowed into the car, today the world would get a new awakening.

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Barstow Police Chief Marvin Hunt arrived at the bank, not long after the call was placed. He had quickly thrown down his breakfast, and made the short drive from his home to the Mojave Savings and Loan, still not quite knowing what had happened. All the report said was that two elderly men had robbed the Savings and Loan, at gunpoint, banged up a bank teller pretty well, and scared the living crap out of sixty year old Eugene Cummins, the bank manager. Estimates put the robbery at well over a quarter million dollars.

As Chief Hunt got out of the car, and began walking through the parking lot, flashes were going off everywhere as reporters, and radio crew were swarming the ambulances sent to tend to the victims. Amid all of the hoopla, was a sixty year old frantic Eugene Cummins, all he needed was a pulpit to finish off the act. He was yelling “those eyes, those eyes, I’m telling you it was the same man, as I swear on my wife’s eternal soul it was the same man.” And with that he held up an old piece of parchment neatly folded, for all the reporters and cameramen to see.

“He gave me this, and he told me all of you wouldn’t believe it, but he said I was to tell you ‘We won you sons of bitches… now catch us if you can!’” As Chief Hunt stared at the piece of paper, now unfolded he couldn’t believe his eyes, printed on the paper in bold letters right above a picture of two of the most famous outlaws of all time it said...




WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE
REWARD: $50,000
For the capture or killing
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid