Like most banks, the Munro, Colorado branch of the Western States offered its customers a range of services. Like all banks, you had to pay for them.
Right now the man called Edge was availing himself of one of the facilities to wire $150 on to a sporting house woman he owed up in Cheyenne. Only one thing was holding up the transaction: the other customers, who were holding up the bank.
Four old-timers, they were overseeing the transfer of certain funds—the entire contents of the safe—to their saddlebags for onward transmission to their hideout in the woods.
Not a service willingly offered by the bank, nor one for which these customers looked likely to pay, but when a withdrawal demand is backed up by four Colt .45s, most any bank teller will do as she is told.