Incident at Gunn Point

by Ralph Cotton

  Rochenbach gave a slight shrug with his right shoulder.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Deputy,” he said. “A fellow I know told me if I needed work to look up Cole Langler, Henry Grayson and Lewis Fallon. I did, and this is where it led me. They led me to meet up with Little Jackie the day before we rode into town. Had I known the kind of fool he was, I never would have—”

  “That’s enough small talk,” Stiles said, cutting him off. This man had no idea Big Jack Warren was robbing his own bank, Stiles was certain of it. If he did, he would have said so before now.

  “You asked,” said Rochenbach. “I’m just answering the best I can.”

  “It looks like you’re coming to a terrible end,” Stiles said. “The only thing keeping you from attending a hemp waltz has been the sheriff not dying. I just talked to the doctor and he says the sheriff has taken a bad turn. So the townsmen could be coming for you most anytime.” He watched Rochenbach hang his head and shake it back and forth slowly.

  “That stupid Little Jackie,” he said under his breath. “I should have rode away the minute I laid eyes on him.”

  “Yep, you should have,” said Stiles. “But it’s too late now. What’s done is done.” He paused, then said, “I’m going to be honest with you. When the townsmen get fired up on whiskey and come for you, I’m not putting myself between them and you. I’ll give you over without batting an eye.”

  Rochenbach raised his eyes from the floor and stared at him as if he had something to say. Then he appeared to have thought better of it, and remained silent.

  “I don’t owe you nothing,” Stiles said. “That ol’ sheriff has been like a father to me.”

  Rochenbach looked at him.

  “I thought you hadn’t been deputy here that long,” he said.

  “Been talking to Jones, have you?” Stiles gave him a short, flat smile.

  “I just overheard it,” Rochenbach said.

  “It’s true I haven’t been here long,” said Stiles. “But what time I’ve been here, Sheriff Goss has been like the pa I never had. Do you understand me?”

  “Yeah, I understand,” said Rochenbach, letting out a breath. “I meant nothing by it.”

  Stiles breathed easy.

  “Of course you didn’t,” he said. He looked down at the shackle chain on Rochenbach’s stockinged feet. “If I take the chain from your ankles, will you give me your word not to try to make a break for it, first chance you get?”

  “You’d take my word for something like that?” Rochenbach asked, studying Stiles’ face curiously.

  “If that’s your answer, forget it,” said Stiles. He started to turn and walk away.

  “Wait! You’ve got my word, Deputy,” Rochenbach said.

  Stiles stopped in his tracks and smiled to himself. Then he got rid of the smile, turned and said, “Hold your feet over close to the bars. I’ll take them off right here and now.”

  “Obliged, Deputy,” said the prisoner, a little surprised by the deputy’s sudden act of mercy. He held his feet over close to the bars as Stiles stooped down, taking a key from his vest pocket.

  “Don’t you go making a fool of me, Rochenbach,” Stiles warned. “One false move and I’ll clap these right back on you.”

  “I understand,” Rochenbach said, staring down at him.

  What was all this…? Rochenbach asked himself. As he considered it, he opened and closed his left hand, testing his strength, his arm resting in the sling. He had no idea what the deputy meant by anything he’d said. But his shackles were coming off his ankles. That was a start, he thought. Now to figure out how to get out of here before the townsmen came calling, carrying a rope. He felt cool around his ankles when Stiles unlocked the shackle chain, lifted it through the bars and stood up and looked at him.

  As Stiles studied his eyes, the door to the office opened and Danny Kindrick walked in carrying a tray of food with a checkered cloth napkin covering it and a small pot of coffee.

  “Looks like dinner is here, Rochenbach,” Stiles said. He gave his short, flat smile. “Now mind your table manners.”

  Chapter 11

  An hour before dawn, Rochenbach had been awakened by the smell of coffee boiling atop the woodstove. He rolled up onto the side of his cot and tested his left hand again, opening and closing his fingers. He could use his hand if he had to, he thought, assessing himself. He’d had enough rest; he was over his loss of blood. He had to keep his eyes open and be ready to make a move when the opportunity presented itself. There was no way he was going to wait until Sheriff Goss was dead.

  Huh-uh…. First chance he got he was out of here. If they killed him while he tried to escape, so be it, he thought with resolve. It still beat sitting here waiting for someone to sling a rope around his neck. As he considered his situation, he saw his empty boots standing inside the cell where someone had set them through the bars. The sight of them gave him pause. He looked all around as if expecting someone to be watching to see his reaction.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Danny Kindrick walking in through the front door and down the hall toward the cells carrying a tray of food from the restaurant. Stepping in behind Danny, Deputy Stiles walked along carrying a steaming mug of coffee. Rochenbach stood and stepped forward.

  “Feeling better this morning?” Stiles asked the prisoner. He waited until Danny pushed the tray through the open food slot onto a narrow iron shelf built into the barred door. Rochenbach’s right hand came out and took the mug of coffee when Stiles passed it through to him.

  “Some,” Rochenbach said, not wanting to tip Stiles off that he was well enough to do whatever it took to get himself out of here ahead of a noose.

  Stiles watched him take the coffee mug and raise it to his lips. He had no more questions for this man. Roe Pindigo had put him wise to the upcoming robbery and he’d looked up Grayson and the others and joined them. He’d had no idea what he was getting into. Avrial Rochenbach was just a loose end that needed tying down, Stiles decided, watching him sip the coffee. Not even an important end at that.

  “When the prisoner is finished with his breakfast and gets his boots on,” Stiles said to the young livery hostler, keeping his eyes on Rochenbach as he spoke, “handcuff him and escort him out to the privy.” He reached over and dropped a handcuff key into Danny’s shirt pocket.

  Rochenbach watched every move closely, as closely as he listened to every word.

  “Yes, sir,” Danny said to Stiles. He glanced down at the shackle chain missing from Rochenbach’s ankles. His eyes moved over to the boots.

  “I set them in there,” Stiles said. “There’s no need in ruining a good pair of socks.”

  “Yes, sir,” Danny said.

  “I’ll riding out of here shortly, Danny,” Stiles said. “I’m leaving you in charge of the prisoner while I’m gone.”

  As Stiles spoke he watched Rochenbach set his coffee mug on the food tray and carry everything to the cot. He set the tray on the cot and sat down beside it.

  “You mean all the way in charge?” Danny asked, sounding a little surprised.

  “Yep,” said Stiles, “unless you’d be more comfortable if I got one of the townsmen to come over—”

  “No, sir,” Danny said quickly, “I’m comfortable by myself. I’ve got the shotgun.” He gave a jut of his chin. “He’s not going to give me any trouble.”

  “That’s the spirit, Danny,” Stiles said, clasping a hand on the young hostler’s shoulder. “But forget the shotgun. There’s a Remington forty-five in a shoulder harness in the gun cabinet. You put it on and wear it, with my blessings. How does that sound?”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Danny replied.

  “No need to say anything, Danny,” Stiles said. “It’s a man-sized gun for a man-sized job. Don’t be afraid to use it if this man steps out of line.”

  “I won’t be, Deputy, I promise,” the young hostler said.

  “Good,” said Stiles. “I won’t be gone any longer than I ha
ve to be. The shape the sheriff’s in, I want to be here if anything happens to him.”

  “Yeah,” said Danny, “if that happened, things could get bad real quick.”

  “Well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” said Stiles, “for all our sakes.” His gaze riveted on Rochenbach, then moved away. “Anybody asks, I’ll be out checking the trail, seeing what become of the bank manager.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll say so if anybody asks,” said Danny Kindrick

  Stiles said to Rochenbach, “See to it you behave, Rochenbach, or else you’ll find yourself back in socks and shackles.”

  “I understand, Deputy,” Rochenbach said, not quite believing this opportunity, but not about to question it either. He wiggled his toes in his socks and looked at his boots. They stood as if waiting for him.

  Outside, Deputy Stiles unhitched this horse and rode it to the doctor’s office. He stepped down from his saddle, hitched his horse at the hitch rail and walked inside. Instead of being met by the young doctor, an elderly townswoman named Flora Ingrim waddled forward and stood before him inside the front door.

  “Good morning, Deputy,” she said. “The doctor had to leave in the night. Can I help you?”

  “I’m checking on the sheriff,” Stiles said. He sidestepped around her, taking his hat from atop his head. “I know where he is.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Flora, “you go right on ahead. Dr. Meadows gave him something to make him sleep, but he said you’d most likely be by checking on him this morning.”

  “He did?” said Stiles, stopping, looking back over his shoulder at her.

  “Well, yes,” she said, “knowing how concerned you are about the sheriff—as are we all.”

  “Right…,” said Stiles, walking on into the hall toward the convalescence room.

  “While you’re here, Deputy,” she called out, “I’ll just step across the street and let my cat out of the house, if you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not, go ahead,” Stiles said. He smiled secretly to himself and stopped outside the door to the wounded sheriff’s room and waited until he heard the front door close behind the woman.

  Perfect….

  He turned away from the closed door and walked back along the hall and into the doctor’s private office. Inside, he walked across the floor and took down the large blue bottle of laudanum.

  Three parts water, one part laudanum…, he told himself, reaching over and picking up a drinking glass like the one he’d seen the doctor use. Not this time…. He smiled and filled the glass to the top, leaving the tall bottle empty. He recapped the empty blue bottle, placed it back up on the shelf and walked back to the sheriff’s room.

  Standing over the sleeping sheriff, Stiles shook his shoulder gently. “Wake up, Sheriff. “I’ve got something to make you feel better.”

  Sheriff Goss opened his eyes weakly and tried to focus up at Stiles.

  “Wa—water?” he said thickly.

  Stiles patted his shoulder and held the glass down to his lips and tipped it slightly.

  “That’s right, Sheriff, good cool, clean water,” the deputy said. “You drink it all down—it’s good for you.” He smiled guardedly, watching the wounded man gulp down the water until the tall glass was empty.

  “I—I was awfully…thirsty,” the sheriff rasped. “I still am.”

  “You’ve had plenty, Sheriff,” Stiles said, not wanting Flora to come in while he carryied out his terrible act. “More than enough,” he added.

  “Where is the doctor?” Sheriff Goss asked.

  “He’s off seeing a patient,” Stiles said. “I just stopped in to see that you’re all right.”

  “Help me…sit up so we can talk,” the sheriff said, struggling a little but making no progress in rising.

  “No, Sheriff,” said Stiles, hearing the woman come back in the front door, “you lie still. I’m leaving anyway. We can talk another time. The main thing is that you’re feeling better.”

  “I’m…so sleepy,” the sheriff said, relaxing back onto the pillow.

  Stiles smiled and patted his shoulder.

  “Sleep tight,” he said quietly. He turned and walked back through the hallway toward the front door.

  Standing inside the door with a yellow cat in her arms, Flora Ingrim said, “There’s so many dogs I couldn’t turn her loose right now.” She rocked the cat in her arms. “How is the sheriff…sleeping soundly, I bet?”

  “Oh yes, very soundly,” said Stiles. On his way out the door, he reached over and scratched the cat’s head fondly. “Nice kitty,” he said.

  Only a few minutes after the deputy had left, Rochenbach finished his breakfast and stood up from the cot. He went to where his boots stood inside the bars, carried them over to the cot, sat down and pulled them on. He worked his left hand, testing it. After a moment, he walked to the barred door, took a few deep breaths to clear his mind and calm him.

  Here goes….

  “Danny,” he called out down the hallway.

  In a second, Danny Kindrick came walking down the hall wearing a shoulder harness, the butt of a big Remington sticking up under his left arm.

  “Yes, sir,” Danny said, stopping and staring at Rochenbach through the bars.

  “I need to go out back now, if it’s all the same with you.”

  “Sure thing,” Danny said. From his back pocket he pulled a brass ring with the cell key hanging on it. He reached out and started to unlock the cell door. But then he caught himself, stopped and said, “Just one minute.”

  Rochenbach watched him walk over to a pair of handcuffs hanging on a wall peg. He took the cuffs down, walked back to the cell and held them out on his fingertips.

  “Turn around, I need to cuff your hands first,” he said.

  Rochenbach gave him a close and serious look.

  “Behind me?” he said. “Are you sure you want them cuffed behind me? That means you’ll have to unbutton my fly for me and all that….” He let his words trail.

  Danny winced at the thought of what “all that” meant. He looked a little embarrassed.

  “I forgot about that,” he said. “Just put your hands out in front of you.”

  Rochenbach did as he was told, lifting his sore left arm out of the sling. Danny reached the cuffs through the bars and cuffed his wrists in front of him.

  “They’re not too tight, are they?” Danny asked.

  “No, they’re okay,” Rochenbach said. He wasn’t sure he trusted this. The deputy had to know that this young man lacked the experience needed to keep watch over a prisoner, especially one as desperate as he himself was. He looked all around, making certain this wasn’t some made-up deal—the deputy looking for a reason to kill him while he tried to escape. It didn’t matter; setup or no setup, he had to take the chance.

  “All right, then, let’s go,” Danny said, reaching out, unlocking the cell door and swinging it open.

  As Rochenbach stepped out of the cell past Danny, with one swift move he jerked the big Remington out of the shoulder harness with his cuffed hands, cocked it and jammed the tip of the barrel up under Danny’s chin.

  “Don’t move!” he warned. “Don’t make me kill you!”

  Danny stood speechless, his hand instinctively rising chest high as Rochenbach shoved him into the cell and backward onto the cot.

  “Get these off me,” Rochenbach demanded, holding the gun and both wrists out in front of the frightened young man.

  As soon as Danny fished out the small key and unlocked the cuffs, Rochenbach spun him around on the cot, cuffed his hands behind his back and stepped back. He looked all around, still leery of a trap.

  “You won’t get away with this, mister,” Danny ventured.

  “Keep quiet!” Rochenbach snapped. He pulled a faded bandanna from around Danny’s neck and tied it tightly around Danny’s head, between his parted lips.

  Crossing the cell, he stepped out and closed the barred door. He turned the key in the lock, then took it out and pitched it and the h
andcuff key across the floor.

  So far so good…, he told himself. Hurrying down the short hall to the dusty front window, he looked back and forth along the quiet street. Morning traffic; nothing out of the ordinary. All he had to do was slip out the door and cross the boardwalk to the hitch rail where three horses stood waiting at the rail. This was going to work!

  Rochenbach hurried over to a coatrack, jerked a coat down and hurriedly put it on. He grabbed a battered black Stetson with a brim wide enough to hide his face. Pulling the hat down low onto his forehead, he uncocked the Remington and shoved it down into his belt.

  Here goes…, he told himself. But to his stunned surprise, when he opened the front door he found himself staring right into Will Summers’ eyes.

  “Holy—!” He grabbed for the Remington, but before he got his hand around the gun handle, Summers’ Winchester butt swung up and made a vicious jab into his forehead. He flew backward across the office and hit the floor, knocked cold.

  Summers stepped inside. Cherry Atmore followed. She stared down, wide-eyed, at the knocked-out Rochenbach, who lay sprawled on his back, the battered Stetson lying on the floor behind him, rocking back and forth on its crown.

  Summers stepped over Rochenbach and reached down and took the Remington from his waist. He took him by the coat collar and dragged the limp outlaw down the short hall to the cells where Danny Kindrick stood looking at him through the bars.

  “There’s the keys,” Summers said to Cherry, nodding at both the large and small keys lying on the floor.

  Cherry snatched both keys up and unlocked the cell door. While Summers wrestled the knocked-out Rochen-bach onto the cot, Cherry quickly took the bandanna from across Danny’s mouth and unlocked his handcuffs.

  “Folks, I am so happy to see you,” Danny said. “I have been made into a real rube here.”

  “Where’s the deputy?” Summers asked.

  “Our bank manager is missing,” Danny said nervously. “Deputy Stiles left me in charge while he rides out to check the trail.”