by Ralph Cotton
What was that all about? he thought. Something about the bottle, the cat…? Was he getting too suspicious of the deputy? Yes, he was, he told himself. But for good reason, he thought. Something wasn’t right back there. He just couldn’t put this finger on it.
Chapter 13
At the buggy, Stiles saw three men walking toward them from the direction of the saloon. Seeing foamy mugs of beer in their hands, he turned, facing them with a stern expression, his fists planted on his hips.
“I hope those beers are worth a night in a jail cell,” he called out. “Because that’s where you’re going to be if you don’t turn around and carry them back to the saloon.”
Without missing a step, the three drinkers turned instantly on their heels and walked back toward the saloon. Other townsfolk stared curiously at the buggy, but they kept their distance.
Stiles reached down onto the rear floor and picked up Harper’s derby hat enough for the doctor and Summers to see, without exposing it to the onlookers. He turned the hat upside down in his hand and showed the doctor Harper’s name on the inside of the sweatband.
“Yes, I see,” the doctor said quietly.
Summers watched in silence.
Stiles laid the battered hat on the rear seat. He took a breath; then he took the shredded, bloodstained suit coat and flipped it back, revealing the banker’s sparse remains.
“My goodness,” the young doctor said. He shook his head and leaned in a little closer. “I don’t see how I can definitely identify this as Bob Harper.”
“It’s his hat, his buggy,” said Stiles. “It’s Bob Harper all right, unless Harper comes walking down the street.”
“Yes,” the doctor agreed, “it’s Harper. I’ll send Flora to get someone to dig us a grave for him.”
While the two had stood talking, Summers had drifted around the rig and picked up the reins. He noted one rein was shorter than the other. Examining the end, he saw where the leather recently been sliced through.
Stiles laid the suit coat back down over Harper’s remains. He looked over and saw him lay the buggy reins down and walk back around the rig.
“What is it, Summers?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Summers replied. He reached inside the buggy, raised the shredded suit coat and looked at the grizzly remains again, taking his time.
“Summers, what is it?” Stiles repeated. “What are you looking for?”
Summers gave him a questioning look for a second. Then his expression changed, relaxed.
“Wolves don’t leave much, do they?” he commented, dropping the suit coat back on Harper’s half-skinned head, neck and gnawed rib cage.
“No, I’m afraid they do not,” the doctor said.
“Summers,” Stiles said coolly, “I’m the law here. If you’ve seen something about Harper’s remains that I need to know about, tell me.”
“Believe me, Deputy,” Summers said, swiping his fingers on his trousers, “if I saw something I thought you should know, I would.”
“Gentlemen, may I ask what’s going on here?” the doctor said, seeing Stiles’ demeanor change a little.
“Nothing,” Summers said, his eyes on Stiles. “I came here to bring the money back. Even if it’s fake, I didn’t want anybody to get any wrong idea if they found some of it missing.”
“Well, I think you’re certainly clear in that regard,” the doctor said, looking at Stiles for agreement.
Feeling their eyes on him, knowing he had flared a little for apparently no reason, Stiles relaxed.
“I’ve had a lot on my mind, Summers,” he said. “I know you understand.”
“I understand,” Summers said.
“Now that we’re clear on the money,” Stiles asked, “what’s your plans?”
“I’m leaving,” Summers said. “I haven’t forgot that Jack Warren will be coming to town.”
“I didn’t want to press the matter—make you feel unwelcome,” said Stiles. He offered a slight smile. “But the less trouble, the better.”
“Are we square, Deputy?” Summers asked.
“Yes, we are,” Stiles said. “And I meant it when I said obliged for bringing my prisoner back, and for returning the bank money.”
“You’re welcome, Deputy,” Summers said. “I’ll just go say adios to Sheriff Goss, and I’ll get myself out of here before night sets in.” He turned and walked back inside, down the hall to the convalescence room. The doctor and Stiles lingered behind by the buggy for a moment longer, the doctor picking up the battered derby and the shredded suit coat.
Inside the room, Summers walked over to the bed and looked down at the sheriff’s face.
“Are you asleep, Sheriff Goss?” he asked quietly.
The sheriff blinked and opened his eyes.
“No,” he said weakly, “I’m just…lying here thinking, Will.” He swallowed and said, “I’ve put a lot on Parley Stiles.”
“He seems to handle it well,” Summers replied.
“He’s a good man…no question,” Goss said. “But he needs help.”
“You’re going to be up and around before you know it, Sheriff,” Summers said, seeing where the conversation was headed and hoping to cut it off first.
“I’ve got horses to deliver, Sheriff,” Summers said. “I need to get in and out of Whiskey Flats before snow closes the high passes.”
“I need your help, Will,” Goss said. “So does Deputy Stiles.” Goss stared at the ceiling in contemplation. Finally he said, “What is Whiskey Flats…three days up, three back?”
“About that,” Summers said. “I figure a full week from here, round-trip.”
“I’m going to be laid up…most of the winter,” Goss said. “Think it over. When you get back…let me know.”
“All right, I will, Sheriff,” Summers said. He let out a breath. “What about Big Jack Warren?”
“You’ll be…wearing a badge,” Goss said.
“If I’m here there’ll be trouble with him, badge or no badge,” Summers said.
“Think it over…promise me you’ll think it over,” the sheriff said, ignoring the question of Jack Warren. His eyelids fell slowly shut as he spoke.
“I will, Sheriff,” Summers replied. He backed a step away from the bed, turned and walked out of the room.
At the front door he met the doctor and Deputy Stiles on their way in.
“He’s asleep, Doctor,” Summers said.
“Good, that is what he needs most now, rest, with no aggravation.”
“How long is he going to be off his feet, Dr. Meadows?” Summers asked.
“That’s hard to say,” the doctor replied. “But he’s not a young man. Healing comes slower at his age.”
“How long?” Summers repeated.
“Off his feet? I’d say most of the winter,” the doctor answered. “Longer still until he’s completely over it.”
“Why are you asking, Summers?” Stiles cut in.
“He said he’s worried about putting too much work on you, Deputy,” Summers said straight out. “He asked me if I’d put on a deputy badge and work with you awhile.”
“I see,” Stiles said. Summers watched his expression. “Well, I’d be pleased and honored to work with you, Will Summers,” he said. But something told Summers that wasn’t really how he felt.
“I told him no,” Summers said. “I’ve got horses to deliver in Whiskey Flats.”
“Oh,” said Stiles. “I’m disappointed.”
“I’ll collect my horses and be on my way,” said Summers. “I left them in the alley beside the jail. I’ll leave Fallon across his saddle. He’s out of public sight,” Summers added.
“Tell Danny Kindrick I’ll be right along,” said Stiles.
Summers nodded and left the doctor’s big clapboard house.
From the dusty front window of the sheriff’s office, Cherry Atmore watched Summers walk along the side of the street at the edge of the boardwalk. She stepped over and opened the front door just as he reached for the handl
e.
“How’s the sheriff?” she asked, a stub of a cigarette between her fingers.
“He seems to be getting better,” Summers said. “How’s Rochenbach? Where’s Danny Kindrick?”
“I got hungry,” Cherry said. “I sent Danny to get us something to eat. The detective is okay.” She shrugged and said, “His head hurts. I gave him a wet cloth. He’s lying down with it over his face. Says he can’t seem to make a move without you showing up and stopping him.” She smiled. “I think it’s got him spooked.”
“Being spooked won’t hurt him,” Summers said. He walked past her, saying, “I’ll just drop by and tell him hello before I leave.”
Cherry only smiled and puffed her cigarette.
At Rochenbach’s cell, Summers looked in and saw the detective turned outlaw lying sprawled on the cot, on his back, facing the ceiling, the wet cloth covering his forehead and most of his face.
“Avrial Rochenbach, are you all right?” Summers asked through the iron bars.
Rochenbach lifted the cloth from his brow and looked over. Recognizing Summers, he let out a resigned breath.
“Why do you even ask?” he said. “Are you going to hit me again?”
“You were breaking jail, Rochenbach,” Summers said. “You had it coming.”
“Please, call me Rock,” the defeated prisoner said in a cynical tone. “We’ve gotten to know each other well enough.”
“Why did you try it?” Summers said, not calling him by name. “Once you hit the street, you could have gotten yourself killed.”
“Oh? Is death by bullet worse than hanging?” Rochenbach asked dryly.
“You’re not going to hang,” said Summers. “The doctor tells me Sheriff Goss is getting a little better every day.”
“Really…?” Rochenbach eased up on the side of his cot, the cloth hanging from his fingers. “I was told he’d be dead any minute. That I’d better be prepared to swing.”
“That’s not true,” Summers said. “You need to get your news from a better source.”
Rochenbach gestured a hand at his surroundings.
“As you can see,” he said, “my pickings are a little slim at the moment.” He stood up laboriously and walked over to the bars. “Should have known the escape looked too good to be true.”
Summers saw the purple-red impression of his rifle butt lying oblong across his brow.
“Are you saying it was a setup?” Summers asked.
“Hell, I don’t know.” Rochenbach rubbed his temples against the pain in his head. “I thought it was at first, but as we know, I’ve been wrong before.” He paused, then added, “I mean, you were a wild card in the deck, weren’t you? You just happened to be stopping by, is what Cherry Atmore said.”
“You and Cherry have been talking?” Summers asked.
“Some,” Rochenbach said. “She gave me a few puffs on her cigarette—you know, for the pain.” He gestured at his swollen forehead.
“Did it help?” Summers asked.
“It sure didn’t hurt,” Rochenbach replied, again rubbing his temples. “For a minute I thought I heard mice talking.” He glanced toward a dark corner of the cell, then back to Summers.
Summers just stared at him for a moment.
“Let me ask you something, Rock,” he finally said. “Back when you were a detective, how did you go about gathering proof that somebody was guilty, when all you had was a real strong suspicion?”
“You mean a gut instinct?” Rochenbach asked.
“Yes, something like that,” Summers said.
“That’s easy,” Rochenbach said. “I’d just start asking questions. A man who’s hiding something never wants to be asked questions.”
“What kinds of questions?” Summers asked.
“Any kinds of questions,” said Rochenbach. “When you don’t even know what to ask him to find out what he’s hiding, just ask any question that comes to mind. He’ll think it’s important how he answers it whether it is or not.”
“Yeah…?” Summers thought about it.
“You can ask a guilty man about the weather outside. He’ll think you’re putting him on the spot. The more pointless questions you ask, the more important he’ll think the questions are. It makes him start running in circles—it drives him nuts.” He laid the wet cloth back up on his uptilted forehead and closed his eyes. “Bear in mind, you’re getting this information from a man standing in a jail cell.”
“I understand,” said Summers. “But sometimes good advice comes from the least likely places.”
“That’s true enough,” said Rochenbach. “I don’t know who it is you’re suspecting, or what. But if I was out of here, where I could—”
“Forget it,” said Summers. “You robbed a bank. You can’t walk away from what you’ve done.”
“In a more perfected civilized society, I think I could,” Rochenbach said. He turned around, walked back to the cot and plopped down on it. “But like all of us, I’m stuck with what we’ve got.” He lay back and draped the wet cloth back over his face. “If I can ever be of more assistance, don’t hesitate to ask—I mean right up until they haul me to prison or hang me, that is.”
Summers decided the former detective was still under the influence of Cherry Atmore’s powerful cigarettes.
“Obliged,” he said through the bars. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
When Summers walked back out to the front office, Cherry Atmore stood leaning against the closed door. But she straightened up and took a step to one side.
“Are you leaving now?” she asked.
“Yes, I’ve still got to deliver my string to Whiskey Flats,” Summers said. “What are you going to do?”
“About what?” Cherry said.
“You were headed to Whiskey Flats, remember?” Summers said, trying to be patient. “Are you staying here now?”
“No, I’m still going,” Cherry said. “Am I still welcome to ride with you?”
“Yes, you are,” Summers said, not wanting to think of her out on the trail alone. “I’ll be ready to go as soon as Danny gets back.”
“Me too,” said Cherry. “Is the detective feeling any better?”
“You mean the former detective,” said Summers.
Cherry gave him a crafty smile. “I say once a detective, always a detective.” She tapped her finger to the side of her head.
“That’s good, Cherry. I’ll have to remember that,” Summers said.
A moment later, Danny Kindrick walked inside carrying a woven basket of hot food.
Summers ate a fried chicken leg, a hot buttered biscuit and washed the food down with a cup of strong coffee from atop the woodstove. Cherry and the young livery hostler dug into the food as if it were their last meal.
From across the street, behind a stack of shipping crates, Deputy Stiles waited and watched. Finally Summers and the woman both walked out of the office and around the corner of the alley to where their horses stood. When they had mounted and ridden away along the main street, Stiles came out of hiding and walked over to the edge of the alley. He looked at the body and shook his head.
Walking inside the office, he motioned for Danny to stay seated and walked past him, down the hall to Rochenbach’s cell.
“Hey, Rochenbach,” he said gruffly, Rochenbach lying prone with the cloth over his face. “Did Will Summers talk to you?”
“Yes,” said Rochenbach, “he came and said howdy. Said he was leaving town.”
“Did he ask you anything, I mean about the robbery or anything?” said Stiles.
“No, nothing,” Rochenbach said, tight-lipped. He took the cloth from his face and turned his head sidelong. “How’s the sheriff? Is he dead yet?” he asked in a flat, sarcastic tone.
Damn it! Damn it to hell! Stiles said to himself. The two had talked. Something was said. He could tell by Rochenbach’s attitude. But what…?
All right, it didn’t matter, he told himself. Summers didn’t know anything. Neither did this has-been detective. S
ummers might have told Rochenbach that the sheriff was going to live. That didn’t hurt anything. Rochenbach didn’t know the jailbreak had been a setup, and if he had guessed it, so what? The man was his prisoner. Who was going to listen to him?
You’re the law, he reminded himself. You’re still holding all the cards….
Chapter 14
It was late afternoon when Summers and Cherry Atmore reached the spot where Stiles said he had found the buggy and the remains of the deceased bank manager. The tracks of the buggy still stood out clearly in the dusting of snow all the way from the main trail to where the horse had flipped the rig over against a sunken boulder and failed to free it before the wolves closed in and made their kill. Bloody paw prints surrounded the scattered bones of the horse.
Cherry sat watching glassy-eyed from her saddle as Summers wrapped the lead rope to his three-horse string around his saddle horn, swung down and walked over and looked around in the dimming evening sunlight.
“I hate wolves,” she said flatly. “All they do is kill and eat other animals.”
Summers looked at the scraps of horse carcass.
“It’s what they have to do to live, Cherry,” Summers said quietly.
“I know, but I hate them anyway,” she said.
Summers walked around looking down at the ground until he came up on a ripped and chewed-up shoe, a scrap of pin-striped trouser leg.
“Can we go build a fire?” Cherry asked from her saddle a few feet behind him.
“In a minute,” Summers said. It was a long shot that he might find what he was looking for out here. But whatever his nagging hunch was, he had to start piecing it together somewhere. He moved the chewed-up shoe aside with the toe of his boot. Part of the buggy’s leather rear upholstery lay fluttering on a chilly breeze.
“I could eat again, funny as it sounds,” Cherry said.
Summers ignored her and flipped the piece of upholstery over with his boot. There it is!
He stooped and picked up a chewed length of bloodstained leather buggy rein lying on the ground. This was what he’d come looking for, but what were the odds of finding it?
Pretty good odds after all…, he thought, now that he did manage to find it.