by Ralph Cotton
Rojo clenched his fists at his sides and kept himself from flying into a rage. He hurt all over. ‘‘Judge, let’s stop playing kid games and pretending you’re upholding the law. You want this Croatian brought in, and I’m the man who can do it for you.’’ He thumbed himself on the chest.
‘‘Oh, can you now?’’ Bass said sharply. ‘‘So far I have seen no sign that you are capable of anything. You certainly didn’t turn out to be much of a bounty hunter! Have you now changed professions and become a hired assassin?’’
Hired assassin? Damn right! It hadn’t occurred to Rojo until that very moment, but . . . ‘‘That’s what I’m doing, Judge,’’ he said. ‘‘To hell with all this bounty hunting. Let’s cut to the bare bone. I kill men for money. If you want this man dead, he’s dead. The only question now is, How much?’’ He rubbed his thumb and fingers together in the universal sign of greed.
‘‘I would never pay one man to kill another, Mr. Rojo,’’ Bass said with a sincere expression. He considered Rojo a fool. He wasn’t about to tell him outright to kill the Croatian. He leaned back in his chair, the Remington lying across his lap. ‘‘But let’s just suppose for a moment what it would mean if this case makes it to trial and this man doesn’t make it to court . . .’’
When Mary Alice arrived at the sheriff’s office, she and Texas Bob hugged and kissed through the bars.
Enough to make a man sick, Price had thought to himself, turning and walking out the front door. She whispered into Tex’s ear about Andrej Goran being a witness. Tex listened and pretended for her sake to be excited about the news. His plans were made. There was no way he could get an honest trial from Judge Edgar Bass. He wasn’t going to come out of this alive if he relied on the law. He accepted that; he knew what he had to do.
‘‘That’s wonderful, Mary Alice,’’ he whispered when she’d finished telling him. For a long moment the two lovers stood pressed together, the bars between them not important.
‘‘I miss you something terrible, Tex,’’ Mary Alice whispered through the bars.
‘‘I miss you too,’’ Texas Bob whispered. He closed his eyes, imagining they were somewhere else for a second. His arm through the bars, he stroked her hair, feeling the warmth of her overtaking the cold and the hardness of the iron bars.
‘‘You don’t think it will help, having the Croatian as a witness, do you, Tex?’’ she asked quietly.
‘‘To be honest, no,’’ Bob replied. ‘‘Or maybe it will help me as far as the shooting at the saloon goes. But there’s the charge of stage robbery and murder.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘The fact is, I’ve got a judge who wants me dead.’’ He gave her a thin hopeless smile. ‘‘What worse hand can a man draw?’’
‘‘Oh Bob, what are we going to do?’’ she whispered, putting her face back against the iron bars, near his chest.
‘‘I want you to stay strong, and have faith, Mary Alice,’’ he said. ‘‘No matter what happens.’’ He wanted to tell her not to worry, that he was leaving tonight, but he didn’t dare.
‘‘I’m getting you out of here,’’ she decided all of a sudden, unable to bear the thought of him hanging for crimes she knew he didn’t commit. She gave a guarded glance around the office, her eyes glistening with tears, and whispered, ‘‘Tonight, when the deputies are sleeping. I’ll bring a gun to the back window.’’ She nodded up at the small barred window in the rear wall of his cell.
He wasn’t about to tell her he’d made plans with the two deputies. If she knew, she would want to ride along. He didn’t want her involved. He couldn’t risk giving Price and Frisco an upper hand. ‘‘No, Mary Alice. Listen to me,’’ he said sternly, turning her face up to his. ‘‘I don’t want you breaking me out of here. It’s too dangerous.’’
‘‘No, it’s not,’’ she insisted. ‘‘I’ll be careful. Nobody will see me. Nobody will ever know.’’
He knew he couldn’t change her mind. ‘‘All right, but not yet. Not tonight.’’
‘‘Then when?’’ she asked, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘‘The ranger says Bass is going to push this case as fast as he can before anybody from Bisbee can do something to stop it. Meanwhile,’’ she said, ‘‘what about the lynching? Ranger Burrack said he had to hurry back here to keep something like that from—’’
Texas Bob cut her off gently. ‘‘Don’t worry about a lynching. Bass tried it; it failed.’’ He pushed a strand of hair from her face. ‘‘Seems I have a good reputation in Sibley.’’ He smiled. ‘‘I hope that doesn’t surprise you too badly.’’
‘‘No, Tex, that doesn’t surprise me at all,’’ Mary Alice said, again pressing herself to the iron bars to be near him. ‘‘You’re a good man. Everybody knows it. I always knew it, and so did all the girls where I work. . . .’’ She let her words trail hesitantly.
‘‘It’s okay for you to say it, Mary Alice,’’ Bob whispered into her cheek. ‘‘I know where you worked. It doesn’t mean a thing to me. You know that, don’t you?’’
‘‘Yes, I know that,’’ she whispered back.
‘‘We’re going to be all right, Mary Alice,’’ Bob said. ‘‘I want you to believe that. Will you?’’
‘‘Yes, I will,’’ she said.
‘‘Promise?’’ Bob asked.
‘‘I promise,’’ she whispered in reply, clinging to him.
‘‘And promise you won’t show up here tonight trying to stick a gun through the window?’’
‘‘All right. Not yet I won’t,’’ she said. ‘‘But if things get any worse, I’m taking you out of here. I promise you that too.’’
Out front of the sheriff’s office, Price and Frisco watched Tommy Rojo trudge along the dirt street, his shirt bloodstained and tattered, his head ragged, half shaved, and stitched in every direction. ‘‘One dog did all that to him?’’ Frisco asked, wincing at the sight of Rojo.
‘‘One dog and one whore,’’ Price said, nodding toward the inside of the sheriff’s office.
Frisco chuckled. ‘‘That’s one tough little gal is all I can say.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Price. ‘‘That’s something you might want to keep in mind.’’
‘‘Noted,’’ said Frisco. ‘‘But I’ve never met a whore who can do something like that to me, dog or no dog.’’
Price just looked at him and shook his head.
Rojo made his way on up the dirt street, the glow of the oil streetlamps casting dark shadows on his gruesome face. ‘‘Sonsabitches,’’ he growled under his breath when a man and woman veered quickly out of his path toward the Bottoms Up Saloon. ‘‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’’ he shouted over his shoulder at them. ‘‘You ought to see yourselves!’’
Under his breath he muttered as he looked back and forth all along the dimly lit street, ‘‘I see that dog, I’m killing him.’’ He felt his empty holster and added, ‘‘Soon as I find myself a gun.’’
Chapter 22
Inside the Bottoms Up Saloon and Brothel, Trigger Leonard and Mitchell Smith sat at a table in a darkened corner. The two had given up on raising a lynching party, at least for the time being. ‘‘I never seen a man that well liked in my life as this Texas Bob,’’ Leonard said, brooding over a glass of whiskey before raising it to his lips and draining it in one long drink.
‘‘Hell, it wasn’t our fault,’’ said Smith, hoping to cheer his partner up. ‘‘We liquored everybody up, but they just didn’t get into a serious killing mood.’’ He nodded around the saloon. ‘‘Look at them. All we managed to do was liven them up.’’
‘‘And that blasted ranger,’’ Leonard growled, not seeming to hear Smith trying to console him over the failed attempt to get support for a lynching. ‘‘I had the chance to kill him and didn’t! What the hell happened to me out there?’’ He pounded a fist down onto the tabletop, the sound of it going unheard beneath the din of the drinking crowd and the rattle of a tinny piano. ‘‘I wasn’t scared. I swear I wasn’t. It was just strange, the way he lifted
that rifle into play, getting the drop on us before I could even start any trouble with him! It was like he already saw what was coming and stopped it.’’
‘‘Don’t feel bad,’’ Smith offered. ‘‘I’ve heard he has a way of drawing his Colt and getting the drop on a man before he expects it.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘I reckon that’s just his way. One minute you’re ready to make a play on him, the next minute the play has been made. Bang, you’re dead.’’
While Smith spoke, Leonard had stared at him with a sour expression. ‘‘Are you through?’’ he said bluntly.
Smith shrugged. ‘‘I’m only saying—’’
‘‘I know what you’re saying!’’ Leonard growled. ‘‘And I know what you think! You’re thinking I’m afraid of that ranger!’’ He scooted his chair back and made the motion of rising to his feet, his hand on his gun butt. ‘‘What’s the matter, don’t you have the guts to come right out and say it?’’
‘‘Trig, you’re wrong!’’ Smith pleaded, seeing the look in his partner’s red-rimmed eyes. ‘‘I know you’re not scared of him, or anybody else! I’m your pal, remember? I’m on your side, right or wrong!’’
Leonard’s shame had gotten the better of him. Instead of standing, he took a long breath and let it out slowly, trying to free himself of his whiskey-fueled rage and humiliation. ‘‘Damn it! Why didn’t I kill him?’’ He backhanded a shot glass off of the table. It flew across the room in a low straight line, missed a pair of drunken dancers, hit the brass mud-splattered foot rail and shattered in a spray of broken glass. In the din and clamor only one drinker standing nearby even noticed. He looked down for a second toward the disturbance, then looked back to the woman who stood leaning on the bar beside him as if nothing had happened.
‘‘Next time you will,’’ Smith said, glad to see the worst of Leonard’s storm had passed.
‘‘Yes, that’s right. And there will be a next time,’’ said Leonard, giving him a harsh, expectant look. ‘‘You can count on it.’’
Knowing how easily one wrong word could rekindle their drunken argument, Smith looked all around nervously while searching for the right thing to say. When his eyes came upon the bedraggled Rojo walking into the bustling saloon, he gave a smile of relief and said, ‘‘Well well, if it ain’t ole Dog-meat Tommy Rojo!’’ Smith waved Rojo to the table, seizing an opportunity to change the subject, or at least put someone between himself and Leonard’s drunken fury.
Upon seeing a fresh customer enter her world of gray smoke and whiskey vapor, a young dove started toward him from the bar. But then, at the sight of Rojo’s face and ragged bloodstained clothes, she stopped short and backed away. Rojo cursed her under his breath and walked to the table where he’d heard Smith call out to him.
Sliding a chair out to seat himself, Rojo said to Smith, ‘‘I’d consider it an act of kindness if you’d not use the name Dog-meat. We all know how names have a way of sticking to a fellow.’’ He sighed and slumped into the chair. ‘‘I swear, I feel like I’ve been through hell in a pushcart. You ain’t going to believe what I’ve—’’
‘‘Who said you can sit down here, Dog-meat Tommy?’’ Smith grinned cruelly, cutting him off.
Looking at the brooding Trigger Leonard for some sort of permission, Rojo saw only a caged stare that revealed nothing. Rojo tapped his fingers on the tabletop for a second, keeping calm. ‘‘All right,’’ he said, rising from the chair, ‘‘if I’m not welcome—’’
‘‘Aw, sit down, Dog-meat Tommy,’’ Smith said, chuckling darkly. ‘‘I’m funnin’ with you.’’
‘‘All right,’’ Rojo repeated. He let out another breath, nodded and sat down. ‘‘I’m serious about the Dog-meat name, Mitchell. I’m obliged if you won’t get that started.’’
‘‘Why, what’s wrong with Dog-meat Tommy?’’ Smith said, getting rid of some of the anger Leonard had forced onto him by passing it along to Rojo. ‘‘I saw that dog a while ago. He’s gone all over town, bragging about how he ate you from the head down.’’
Rojo tried to be a sport. ‘‘That’s funny.’’ He gave a weak halfhearted grin, then turned to Leonard, seeing that Mitchell wasn’t going to let up. ‘‘Trig, I’ve got some business we ought to talk about, if it’s all right with you.’’
Leonard only stared.
‘‘What kind of business, Dog-meat?’’ Smith cackled, cutting in.
Rojo just looked at him, keeping calm, then said to Leonard, ‘‘It’s gun business. I’ve been offered a piece of work. I might need some help—’’
‘‘Gun business? You don’t even have a gun, Dog-meat ,’’ Smith said, his digs getting worse by the minute. ‘‘You couldn’t shoot anybody if you wanted to!’’
‘‘Wanna bet?’’ Rojo said tightly. His stitches throbbed, as did his forehead.
‘‘Bet what, Dog-meat?’’ Mitchell laughed.
‘‘That’s enough, Mitch,’’ said Leonard, interested in what Rojo had to say. He poured the last drops from a whiskey bottle into his mouth. ‘‘Get us a bottle, and a couple of shot glasses.’’
‘‘And hurry back,’’ Rojo said, getting in a dig of his own, seeing the look on Smith’s face.
Smith glared at Rojo, but then said, ‘‘All right, I’ll get a bottle and glasses. I’m needing to relieve myself anyways.’’ As he stood up he said to Rojo, ‘‘The dog said he thought you’d be a bull elk, but you tasted more like pure pussycat.’’ His grin went away. ‘‘If you ever find yourself a gun, come see me, Dog-meat.’’
Rojo watched him walk halfway to the bar, call out to the bartender for a bottle and two glasses, then walk out the back door.
‘‘Now then, Rojo,’’ said Leonard, ‘‘tell me about this business proposition you’ve got for us.’’
Still staring at the back door, Rojo said, ‘‘I’ve got a man who wants me to kill a fellow for him. He’s paying five hundred dollars.’’ He turned his eyes from the door to Leonard.
‘‘Five hundred? For killing just one man?’’ Leonard looked impressed.
‘‘This is an important man who wants it done,’’ said Rojo.
‘‘Aw, I see.’’ Leonard grinned. ‘‘You mean like a judge or something?’’
‘‘Something like that,’’ said Rojo, his eyes wandering to the back door.
Leonard nodded. ‘‘Yeah, five hundred sounds good, till you figure cutting it three ways.’’
‘‘Right.’’ Rojo nodded. Then he stood up without another word on the matter and walked toward the back door. On his way, he veered close to the crowded bar and slipped a big Dance Brothers pistol from a drinker’s holster without being noticed. Stepping out back, he closed the door behind himself and walked up behind Mitchell Smith, who stood relieving himself into a urinal ditch alongside the public jakes.
Smith, staring off into the black-purple sky, suddenly felt his skin crawl; hair rose on his forearms. Oh no!
Rojo raised the big pistol and shot him squarely in the back of the head. ‘‘Found one,’’ he said, a blue-orange bolt of fire streaking from Smith’s forehead out across the darkness. Smith splattered facedown into the urine-soaked mud, smoke curling from the back of his head.
Turning, Rojo walked back into the loud sound of drunken revelry and deafening swell of piano music. Veering back along the crowded bar on his way, he slipped the smoking gun back into its unsuspecting owner’s holster, picked up the two shot glasses and a bottle the bartender had set there, and walked back to his chair and sat down.
‘‘Two ways,’’ he said to Leonard, standing the bottle in front of him. ‘‘Mitchell ain’t coming.’’
Leonard stared at Rojo in silence for a moment, letting it all sink in, having seen him walk out the back door and return so smooth and effortlessly. ‘‘Oh . . .’’ he said after a while, watching Rojo fill two glasses and slide one over in front of him. ‘‘Well . . . I suppose that’s that,’’ he offered. ‘‘Let’s go do this piece of work. I need to get away from here for a while anyway, get my mind clear
and think some things through.’’
‘‘I’ll be borrowing Mitch’s horse, rifle and whatnot, if it’s all the same with you,’’ Rojo said, lifting his shot glass as if in a toast.
Trigger Leonard gave a knowing look, raising his shot glass in return and smiling. ‘‘If he’s not objecting, neither am I.’’
In the middle of the night, Texas Bob lay on his bunk, fully dressed, boots on, waiting for the deputies to arrive. Once freed from this cell he had no doubts he could handle Price and Frisco Phil when the time came. The main thing was to get out of here, away from the threat of a noose hanging over his head.
Ranger Burrack had done all he could to try and keep him from hanging, but it wasn’t enough. There were times when being in the right made no difference, not when you had a man like territorial judge Henry Edgar Bass out for your blood, he told himself.
He wished he could have told Mary Alice what his plans were, but he was certain she would understand once she realized why he had to do it this way. I’ll be back for you, he said to her in his mind as he sat up on the bunk, hearing quiet footsteps cross the boardwalk and open the door.
The door closed softly. Without lighting a lamp, Price walked across the darkened office and stopped at the cell door. Bob heard the metallic sound of the key slipping into the lock. ‘‘It’s me, Texas Bob,’’ Price said, turning the key and swinging the door open enough for Bob to step out of the cell.
‘‘Where’s Frisco?’’ Bob whispered, walking across the floor toward a peg on the wall where the ranger had hung his hat. He took his hat down and put it on.
‘‘He’s out back with the horses,’’ said Price. As Bob turned toward the front door, Price stepped in front of him, blocking his way. In the light of a streetlamp glow coming through the front window, Bob looked him up and down and saw the handcuffs in his hand. ‘‘I’ve got to put these on you, Bob, just until we get to where the money is hidden. Frisco and I agreed.’’