Incident at Gunn Point

by Ralph Cotton

  “I thought you left town, Summers,” he said.

  “I did,” Summer said. “I’m back.”

  “Is one of those for me?” Rochenbach asked, nodding at the mugs of coffee.

  “Yep,” said Summers. He reached inside the food slot and set one of the cups down in front of the prisoner. He noted the wide purple bruise on Rochenbach’s forehead, the same slim oval shape of his Winchester’s butt plate.

  “Well, well,” Rochenbach said dryly, “to what do I owe all this?” He picked up the steaming coffee mug and looked at Summers through the bars. “Feeling guilty about shooting me, punching me out or both?” His fingertips went idly to his swollen forehead.

  “Neither,” said Summers. “Just figured you might want some coffee. I can take it back if it’s unsettling your mind.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Rochenbach said. He drew the mug away as if Summers might reach through the bars for it. “I’m obliged,” he said. “I’m just surprised is all.” He blew on the coffee and sipped it and made a coffee hiss.

  “Tell me how you come upon this bank job, Avrial,” Summers said bluntly.

  Avrial…? First names now…. Rochenbach looked at him curiously for a moment.

  “If you’re trying to pal up with me,” he said, “it’s not Avrial, it’s Rock, or Rocky, either one. Nobody ever calls me Avrial—nobody who knows better.”

  “All right, Rock,” said Summers, “what about the bank job?”

  Rock, huh…? He half smiled to himself.

  “That’s the price of the coffee?” he said.

  “And maybe me getting the sheriff to talk to the circuit judge for you,” Summer said. “See if we can get you out of jail before you’re too old to know why you’re there.”

  “If I thought you meant it…,” Rochenbach said, clearly tempted.

  “I mean it,” Summers said.

  “Do you know the circuit judge?” Rochenbach asked.

  “He’s Judge Hugh Louder,” Summers said. “I know him well enough. He’ll listen to what I have to say.”

  Rochenbach sipped the coffee and considered it carefully for a moment. He finally let out a tight breath. “Like I told Stiles, a fellow I know told me about the job, had me meet up with Grayson and Fallon.”

  “Did you tell him who this fellow is?” Summers asked.

  “He didn’t ask,” Rochenbach said.

  Summers thought about it. Why would Stiles not ask, unless he already knew?

  “I’m asking,” Summers said.

  Rochenbach considered it another moment.

  “And you’ll speak to the judge?” he said.

  “What’d I say?” Summers replied in a firm tone.

  The prisoner looked all around cautiously before offering the name.

  “It was Roe Pindigo,” he said barely above a whisper. “He works for Jack Warren—doesn’t know I know it, though.” He paused, then said, “Now my life is back in your hands, Will Summers.”

  “Roe Pindigo…,” Summers said. “I’ve heard of him. He calls himself a personal detective—he’s really no more than a hired killer.”

  Rochenbach winced and said, “That’s him. Maybe if you’ll say his name a little louder, they can hear you across the street at the saloon.”

  Summers didn’t think he’d spoken too loudly.

  “You’re that scared of him,” he said, “even though you’re going to prison?”

  “Scared of him, no,” said the prisoner. “Convinced he’ll kill me, yes, to a certainty. If Pindigo wanted me dead, being in prison wouldn’t protect me from him.” Rochenbach gave him a serious stare. “Be sure and mention that to the judge,” he added.

  “You sure have come across some unsavory characters, Rock,” said Summers.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Rock replied, holding on to a bar with his good hand. “Being an undercover detective put me in touch with more criminals than I care to think about.” He pulled himself closer to the bars with his good hand. “I know the outlaw world down to their boot sizes. Tell that to the judge too. Maybe he can see a way to use me on the outside instead of me rotting in some—”

  The two stopped talking when they heard the front door open and close.

  “Keep everything between you and me, Rock,” Summers whispered.

  “You can count on it, Will Summers,” he whispered in reply. “You’re out to get the goods on Stiles, I can tell.” He stared at Summers wisely.

  “All the time I spent gathering information for Al Pinkerton’s rogues’ gallery? I can tell when a man has his nose to the ground trying to sniff something up.” He gave him a faint, guarded smile. He stepped back from the bars toward the cot, his coffee mug in hand, as Deputy Stiles started down the hall toward them.

  Summers just stood looking at Rochenbach, knowing the former detective’s intuitions were right. His advice about asking pointless questions had been right too. He’d seen how jumpy it had made Stiles. This man could be of help, he told himself. He knew it.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything back here,” Stiles said, only half jokingly, looking back and forth between the two.

  Summers only stared at Rochenbach, seeing how well he would handle answering the deputy.

  “After shooting me and cracking my skull with a rifle butt, your horse trader pard here thinks a cup of coffee is all it takes to turn me into a lapdog.” Staring coldly at Summers, he tipped his cup as if in toast. “Nice try, though.”

  “Settle down, Rochenbach,” said Stiles, convinced by the prisoner’s performance.

  Summers turned on his heel without a word and walked down the hall to the sheriff’s office.

  Catching up and following him, Stiles said, “What was that all about?”

  “You heard him,” Summers said, tight-lipped. “I asked him some questions…. He didn’t want to answer.” He stopped by the desk and sipped his coffee, his rifle in hand.

  “All right,” said Stiles, as if to pacify him, “what kinds of questions? Maybe I already know the answer.”

  Summers turned to him and looked him up and down.

  “I doubt it,” he said craftily. “If you did you wouldn’t want to tell me.” He set the empty mug down, turned and walked out the door. “Obliged for the coffee,” he said over his shoulder.

  Stiles stood watching as Summers closed the door behind himself. “Damn it to hell…!” he cursed aloud to himself, the words sounding strange coming from his lips.

  He turned and walked back to the cell and stared in at Rochenbach.

  “What did he ask you?” he demanded.

  The former detective gave a shrug and said, “He told me I better not tell if I know what’s good for me.”

  “If you know what’s good for you, Rochenbach, you will tell me,” Stiles said in a threatening tone.

  The prisoner stared at him intently from the striped darkness of his cell, his eyes above the coffee mug, his face feeling the heat of it.

  Summers was right…, he told himself. Stiles was too jumpy and tight for a man not hiding something.

  Chapter 17

  Sheriff Goss lay propped up finishing a bowl of warm calf liver soup, an iron-rich substance for replenishing his weakened blood supply. When Summers walked into the room, the wounded sheriff looked past Flora’s shoulder at him. Flora sat on the edge of Goss’ bed spoon-feeding him. But the sheriff held up a hand, stopping her for a moment.

  “I need to…talk to this fellow, Flora,” he said, sounding only a little stronger to Summers than he had only the day before.

  Flora stood from the bedside, touched a cloth napkin to the sheriff’s lips and left the room, giving Summers a cordial nod.

  “What brings you…back so soon?” Goss asked as Summers walked closer. Seeing the grim look on Summers’ face, Goss said, “Something’s wrong…I can tell.”

  Summers removed his hat and held it at his side.

  “Cherry Atmore has been shot to death, Sheriff,” he said quietly.

 
; “That’s terrible, Will,” the sheriff said. “That poor dove never…harmed anybody. Didn’t have…a mean bone in her body.”

  “I killed the man who shot her,” Summers added. “Deputy Stiles says it’s one of Warren’s cowhands.”

  Sheriff Goss closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head slowly.

  “This is all I need right now,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you,” Summers said, “but I figured you’d want to know right away.”

  “You’re right…it’s my job to know,” Goss said. He opened his eyes and said with determination, “I’ve got to get up from here….”

  “No, you don’t,” said Summers holding a hand in front of him as if to block him.

  The sheriff collapsed back against his pillows.

  “Hell…who am I kidding?” he said. “I can’t get up. I don’t have the strength to…coil a short rope.”

  Summers leaned in close.

  “You still want me to deputy for you, Sheriff?” he asked quietly.

  Sheriff Goss studied his eyes closely for a moment.

  “Not if you’re doing it as a way for you to get vengeance for Cherry Atmore,” he said.

  “I think you know me better than that, Sheriff,” Summers said. “You asked me to think about working for you, and I have. If the offer is still open, I’m accepting it.”

  The sheriff reached a weak hand over and laid it on his forearm.

  “I’m obliged, Will,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m…too weak to swear you in right now.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sheriff,” Summers said. “Swear me in when you’re feeling better.”

  “There’s a spare badge in the desk…at my office,” Goss said. “You get it…put it on. Anybody questions it…they know where to find me.”

  “You mean Stiles,” Summers said.

  “Yes…your fellow deputy.” Goss gave him a weak smile.

  “I need to know, Sheriff,” Summers said. “Which of us has the most authority, him or me? He’s been a deputy a short while.”

  “You’re both the same, Will,” the sheriff said.

  “That could cause trouble, Sheriff,” Summers said, cautioning him.

  “You two…work it out,” said Goss, his eyelids starting to droop. “Now get out of here…it’s late. We’ll talk more in the morning….”

  Summers backed a step away from the sheriff’s bed. Good enough…, he thought. He put his hat atop his head and adjusted its brim.

  “Good night, Sheriff Goss,” he said, knowing the sheriff had already drifted off to sleep. He turned and walked out, back along the boardwalk toward the sheriff’s office. As he passed an alley, he looked down it, and in the dim light of an open side door, he saw two men taking Cherry’s body down from across her paint horse and carrying it inside the town mortuary. Summers stopped for a second, seeing a hand reach out and draw the dim light into darkness behind the closing door.

  He walked on.

  Inside the sheriff’s office, Deputy Stiles had walked back out front, carrying the empty coffee mug Summers had given to the prisoner.

  “I was just questioning Rochenbach about the robbery again,” he said when Summers walked through the front door, stopped and stood staring at him.

  “This is a good night for questioning,” Summers said flatly.

  “Oh?” Stiles looked him up and down. “What’s on your mind, Summers?”

  Summers took his time. He turned and closed the door behind himself, then turned back around facing Stiles, his hand inside his duster pocket.

  “Take a look at this, Deputy,” he said. He took his hand from his pocket and pitched the chewed-up length of rein on the battered oak desk.

  “Yeah? What is it?” Stiles said, playing dumb, keeping his startled response from showing on his face.

  Summers studied his eyes for a moment for any sign of recognition, seeing none.

  “You tell me,” he said. And he stood staring, waiting, watching the deputy closely.

  Stiles spread his hands, apparently at a loss.

  “I wouldn’t have any idea,” he replied. He offered a bemused smile as if Summers were kidding him.

  Bad answer, Summers told himself. If the deputy hadn’t recognized it, he would have looked closer, with more curiosity. Had he looked closer, he would have at least seen what it had been—a length of rein. Only someone had cut it.

  “Sure you do.” Summers said. He leaned his rifle against the desk, picked up the length and held it between his hands, holding it up for a closer look.

  “Oh. Yes,” said Stiles at last acknowledging the item. “It’s a piece of leather reins. Somebody cut it off. It must have been too long to suit its owner.”

  “It was cut from buggy reins,” Summers said. As he spoke he wrapped it around his right palm, then his left.

  “How can you tell?” said Stiles.

  “I found it where you found Harper’s remains,” said Summers.

  Stiles said, “But still—”

  “Harper’s buggy has a length of rein missing,” Summers said.

  “It does?” Stiles said, still plying dumb. “I hadn’t noticed. I’ll have to take a closer look.”

  Summers tightened the leather rein between his hands. “I can picture somebody choking the banker to death with this and setting his buggy out across the flatlands toward the hills, knowing he and his horse would be eaten.”

  Summers saw a nerve twitch in Stiles’ jaw.

  “Obliged for your help, Summers,” he said, keeping himself cordial. “Like I said, I’ll take a look at Harper’s buggy.”

  “Or I can,” Summers said. He loosened the leather rein from his hands, coiled it and stuck it back in his duster pocket.

  “No, I’ll do it,” Stiles said. In spite of the tightness that had set into his jaw, he offered a thin, stiff smile. “It’s my job.”

  “Mine too,” said Summers. “I just agreed to be a deputy, help you out a little until the sheriff is back on his feet.”

  “Oh…?” Stiles stood staring, not knowing what to say.

  “I remember how disappointed you were when I turned him down before I left,” Summers said.

  Stiles caught himself. He wasn’t going to play into Summers’ hand. He was going to be his same helpful, accommodating self—for the time being anyway.

  “Well, then,” he said. “Of course I’ll have to hear it from the sheriff himself, but I’m certain you’re telling me the truth.”

  “Yep, you check with Sheriff Goss first thing in the morning,” said Summers. “Meanwhile, I’m going to get a hot meal and a good night’s sleep—get ready to pin on a badge in the morning. Maybe between you and me we can figure out what’s going on with Jack Warren’s bank.”

  Stiles looked tense, like a man trying his best not to look tense.

  “I have to tell you, Summers,” he said, “I think you’re letting what happened to Cherry Atmore eat too hard at you. I think it’s causing you some dark, distrustful thinking.”

  Summers stared at him blankly.

  “Cherry Atmore was a harmless young woman who didn’t deserve to die, Deputy,” he said.

  “Summers, I hate to say this, but Cherry was just a whore,” said Stiles.

  “Whores don’t deserve to be shot down like animals, Deputy,” Summers said, a rigid set to his jaw.

  “I know that,” Stiles said, “but you don’t want to go making a bigger deal of it than it is, is all I’m trying to say.”

  “It is a big deal,” Summers said. “Murder is always a big deal. I killed the man who shot her, but I want the others who were in on it too. Between you and me, we’ll bring them all to justice.” Summers knew the spot he was putting Stiles in.

  “For God’s sake, Summers,” Stiles said, “Cherry was a low-down dope smoker! Didn’t you even see that?”

  “I saw it,” Summers said. He wanted to keep the pressure on Stiles, knowing how greatly his presence here as a deputy was going to get under his skin. “That
’s one of the things I admired most about her,” he lied.

  From his cell at the end of the hall, Avrial Rochenbach listened intently, the side of his head pressed against the iron bars. When he heard the conversation stop beneath the closing of the front door, he walked back to his cot and sat down.

  One of the things he admired most about her…?

  He smiled to himself. Whatever game this horse trader was playing, Rochenbach was betting on him to win it. He’d better be right, he reminded himself. His life depended on it.

  Stiles had ridden hard through the middle of the night to get to the Warren spread. When he arrived, Roe Pindigo met him at the front door, a shotgun in one hand, an oil lamp in the other.

  Behind Pindigo the big house stood dark and silent. Jack Warren had drunk himself to sleep in his large bedroom upstairs. Juanita, the cook, was asleep in her small room in the rear of the house.

  “What are you doing out here this hour of the night, Stiles?” Pindigo asked.

  “I need to talk to Jack Warren,” Stiles said. “It’s important.”

  “It’s Mr. Warren to you, Stiles,” Pindigo said, blocking the doorway.

  “All right, then, Mr. Warren!” the deputy said, getting a little edgy.

  Pindigo just stared at him, unmoved.

  “I need to speak to Mr. Warren,” Stiles said in a smoother, more civil tone.

  “No,” Pindigo said, “you need to speak to me. Then, if I decide it’s important enough, I’ll wake Mr. Warren and tell him you’re here.” He gave him a firm, unfriendly grin. “Now start talking before I change my mind.”

  Jesus…! Stiles took a deep breath and calmed himself.

  “Sheriff Goss has made Will Summers deputy, starting tomorrow,” he said, “and he’s already asking lots of questions.”

  “So?” said Pindigo. “What about all that magic you were going to put into play on everything?”

  “It’s not working the way I had it planned,” Stiles said.

  “So you come here for what, sympathy?” Pindigo asked. “You know this horse trader killed one of Big Jack’s cowhands, wounded another one, all over that whore from Gunn Point.”

  “I know all about it,” Stiles said.

  “Then shoot him and be done with it, Deputy,” Pindigo said. “Save these other cowhands from riding into Gunn Point and doing it for you.” He started to close the door in Stiles’ face.