by Ralph Cotton
“Uh-oh, there he goes,” said Casings, seeing the half-conscious gunman topple over out of his saddle and land in the cold, rocky dirt.
Rochenbach rode up slowly, grabbed the loose reins to Spiller’s horse and drew it to his side. He watched Casings help Spiller onto his knees and steady him.
“Here’s your horse, Dent,” Rock said quietly, pitching the reins down to the bloody, addled gunman. “Try to stay on it.”
“You’ve broken something… inside my head,” Spiller gasped, struggling to stand with Casings’ help.
“Wonder what that could be,” Rock said in a dry, calloused tone.
“We’re going to have to stop for a while,” Casings said to Rochenbach, “let him get his senses back.” He looked around in the pale moonlit night. “To tell the truth, my horse could use a little rest. I could use some hot coffee myself.”
Without a word, Rochenbach stepped down from his saddle and walked his horse off the trail into the scrub. He found a knee-high rock and sat down on it, holding his rifle across his lap.
Casings helped Spiller to his feet and walked him off the trail with his arm looped across his shoulders. He led both horses behind him. When he’d helped the wobbling outlaw seat himself in the dirt, he looked at the bloody, swollen side of his head.
“Man!” he remarked to Rochenbach. “I’ve never seen a man struck this hard by a pistol barrel before.”
Rochenbach looked out across the purple night and relaxed.
“How’s that coffee coming?” he asked.
Casings stopped looking at Spiller’s injured head and turned to Rochenbach.
“Who the hell put you in charge?” he asked. “I’m not the damned cook.”
Rochenbach shrugged and said, “No offense. You said you wanted to rest your horse and have a hot cup of coffee. I figured you wanted to talk some more about how you’re going to explain all this to Grolin.”
“Talk some more?” Casings said. “I didn’t say anything about explaining all this to Grolin.”
“No, but you were leading up to it when your pal here fell from his saddle,” said Rock. “I thought you might want to pursue the matter further before we get back to the Lucky Nut.”
Spiller and Casings stared at each other.
After a tense pause, Casings turned to his horse, flipped open his saddlebags, took out a small cloth bag of coffee beans and walked toward Rochenbach.
“You don’t know what it’s like sometimes, working for Andy Grolin,” he said.
Looking past Casings, Rochenbach saw Spiller wobble to his feet and begin searching the ground for firewood.
Rock smiled to himself. “Oh?” he said. “Then maybe you should tell me.”
Over a cup of coffee, Rochenbach listened as Casings spoke in a guarded voice, despite the fact that they were still seven miles out of Grolin’s hearing range.
“See, we knew Edmund Bell was in bad shape the last time we were there,” he said. “We had no doubt he’d be dead by the time we went back.”
“But you didn’t tell Grolin,” Rock interjected.
“No, we didn’t tell him,” said Casings. “I know we should have.” He hung his head for a moment. “Looking back, I wish we had.”
Rochenbach studied him closely.
“How much did you collect?” he asked flatly.
“Huh?” Casings looked surprised; so did Spiller, who had recovered some over a cup of strong coffee.
“The last time you were there. How much did you two collect?” said Rock. “Don’t take me for a fool, Pres,” he cautioned the gunman. “We can talk it out here, or back at the Lucky Nut with Grolin, whichever suits you.”
Casings rubbed his face and shook his head.
“Jesus…,” he said. “All right, we collected close to forty dollars last time.”
“But you told Grolin you didn’t collect anything,” Rock said.
Casings just stared at him.
“Damn it, Casings, don’t tell him,” Spiller ordered, firelight flickering in his eyes.
“He’s already figured it out,” Casings said. “No, we didn’t tell Grolin,” he said to Rochenbach. “We figured ol’ Edmund would be dead in a week, the kid and his woman would be cleared out and nobody would ever know.” He gave a shrug. “Hell, Grolin is going to get the place for what’s left owed against it anyway.”
“Damn it to hell, Pres,” said Spiller. “Shut up!”
Ignoring Spiller, Rochenbach said to Casings, “But Grolin wanted you two to check me out, so he sent you out earlier than anybody expected.”
“Yeah,” said Casings, also ignoring Spiller. “If he hears we held out on him, we’re dead, Rock.”
“I can see how he might want to kill you both,” Rock said. “Especially when he figures it’s not the first time you shorted him.”
“No, it is the first time,” said Casings. “I swear it is.”
Rock smiled and looked back and forth between the two gunmen.
“See,” he said, “I don’t believe you myself, and it’s not even my money we’re talking about. Imagine what Grolin will think if he ever gets wind of it.”
“Who’s going to tell him?” Spiller asked menacingly, setting his tin cup down beside him and turning toward Rock from where he sat in the dirt. His hand rested on the butt of his holstered pistol.
Rochenbach slid his Remington from his belly holster and pointed its barrel straight up, gleaming in the flickering firelight.
“You don’t want to be making threats,” he said, “sitting there with your head split—didn’t even check your gun to see if I unloaded it while you were knocked out.” He held a piercing gaze on Spiller.
Without looking away from Rock, Spiller swallowed a knot in his throat.
“Did he fool around with my gun, Pres?” he asked, his head still pounding like a drum.
“How the hell do I know, Dent?” Casings said. “The man’s kicked your nuts into your windpipe and cracked your head open. Why don’t you quit acting tough and listen to what he’s got to say?”
Spiller stared at Rochenbach with the same question burning in his red, pain-filled eyes.
“Nobody knows but me, Spiller,” Rochenbach said in a dead-serious tone. His thumb cocked the big Remington standing beside his face. “You’ve got two choices. Either take your hand away from your Colt or bring it up—show us how much faith you have in yourself.”
A tense moment passed until Spiller growled a curse under his breath and his hand slipped away from the Colt, eased back to the tin coffee cup and picked it up.
Rochenbach lowered the hammer on the big Remington and brought the gun down across his lap.
“Now back to who’s going to tell Grolin,” he said. “That would be me telling him, because I came out and collected the money. For all I know, Grolin could have told you to convince me you’ve been pocketing money, just to see whether or not he can trust me.”
“It’s not, Rock. I swear to God, it’s not!” Pres Casings said. “We’ve had this little thing going on for a while, nothing big, just drinking money now and then.”
“Damn it, Pres,” said Spiller, “you’re emptying your guts to him! He’s got no reason to trust us. We’ve got even less reason to trust him.”
“One of us has to bend a little,” said Casings. He looked back at Rochenbach. So did Spiller.
Rochenbach sipped his coffee, considering it.
“All right,” he said. “It looks like I’m the one who has to stick my neck out. The only way you two can trust me is to make me an accomplice.” He patted the eighty dollars folded inside the lapel pocket of his wool coat. “If I don’t turn this money in, and we all three tell Grolin that Edmund Bell is dead and his place was empty, I’m in with you up to my neck.” He looked back and forth again. “If you’re lying, we’re all three dead.”
They looked at each other, then back at Rochenbach.
“Because I’ll kill you both while Grolin puts a bullet in my head,” Rochenbach said.
But Spiller didn’t reply. He continued to stare coldly at Rochenbach.
Rock still looked leery of them as he held his tin coffee cup in his gloved hand, ready to take another sip as if doing so would seal a pact among them. This was what he needed, a toehold into Grolin’s operation.
“That’s you talking,” Rock said to Casings. “I haven’t heard anything from your sporting friend here.”
“What did you call me?” Spiller said in a dark tone.
Rochenbach just stared at him and finished his coffee.
“Dent, damn it, come on,” said Casings. “I’m trying to work this thing out! Give me some help here.”
Spiller simmered and settled, his head pounding, his crotch aching. He hadn’t forgotten that Rochenbach was the source of his misery. But he let out a breath.
“Okay! From now on we’re all three partners in our collecting scheme,” he said.
“All right, then, we’re all three agreed,” Casings said. He also let out a breath and turned to Rochenbach. “Now that all that’s settled, let’s split the eighty dollars and get on back to town.”
“I don’t think so,” Rochenbach said, standing up, the Remington still hanging in one hand. He slung the grounds from his coffee cup and rubbed out the fire with the side of his new boot.
“What do you mean?” Casings said in surprise. “I thought we just agreed we’re partners.”
“We did just agree,” Rochenbach said. “But we hadn’t agreed to it when I collected the money.” Firelight flickered in his eyes. “Anyway, I’m the new man here. I’ve got some catching up to do.”
Chapter 5
It was long after midnight when the three rode onto the street leading to the Great Westerner Hotel and the Lucky Nut Saloon. Spiller rode slumped in his saddle a few feet in front of Casings and Rochenbach. He looked up in time to see the weathered, one-horse buggy sitting out in front of the hotel; the edge of its usually tall canvas top was lined with dangling fringe-work. The sight of the buggy caused him to jerk his horse to a halt and turn toward Casings behind him.
“Look who’s here, Pres,” he said in a low voice.
“Yeah, I see it,” Casings said, slowing his horse.
Rochenback looked at the buggy and slowed his big dun right along with Casings.
“Are you going to make me ask, partner?” he said to Casings.
“It’s the Stillwater Giant,” Casings whispered sidelong.
“Garth Oliver…,” Rock said quietly, looking the buggy over good.
Casings looked at him, surprised.
“You know the Giant?” he said.
“Only by reputation,” said Rochenbach. “I’ve seen his picture in Pinkerton’s rogues gallery.”
Casings gave him a curious, troubled look.
“You studied the rogues gallery a good deal, did you?” he asked.
“Studied it?” Rock said. “I helped construct most of it.” He gave him a thin smile and nudged his dun forward toward an alley path leading to the livery barn.
“Jesus…,” said Casings, he and Spiller nudging their horses alongside him. “See, that’s something I find unsettling about you, Rock. You spent lots of time working on ways to put ol’ boys like the Giant… and Spiller and me behind bars.”
“Luckily, I saw the error of my ways and became one of you,” Rochenbach said wryly.
“Yeah, luckily,” Casings said. As they reached the livery barn, he said, “What are you going to tell Grolin when he asks you what happened out there?”
“I’ll tell him the truth,” Rochenbach said, “that the house was standing empty and Edmund Bell is dead and in the ground.”
Casings nodded and looked at Spiller, who’d been riding on in silence since they spotted the Giant’s buggy.
“You got that, Dent?” Casings asked.
“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Spiller said. “Don’t worry about me. I’m not saying nothing that’s going to get Grolin or the Stillwater Giant on me.”
“Right,” said Casings. Testing him, he asked, “And what happened to the side of your head?”
“I rode into a damned low-hanging tree limb along the trail,” Spiller said grudgingly.
Casings chuckled to himself as the three of them brought their horses to a halt and stepped down from their saddles in front of the livery barn.
“Yep, that’s what you did,” Casings said, stifling a laugh, “and it seemed like it was no more than a minute after I’d cautioned you against doing that very thing.”
“Don’t mess with me, Pres,” Spiller warned him. “I ain’t in the mood for it.”
They walked their horses inside the barn, lit a lantern and tended to the animals in the dim circle of light. Dropping their saddles onto saddle racks and hanging the bridles on wall pegs, they grained and watered the horses.
While the animals ate, the men wiped the lathered horses down, each with a handful of fresh straw. Once the animals were finished with their feed, the men led them into clean stalls for the night.
“All right,” Rochenbach said, “it’s time we take our story to Grolin, see how well we can sell it to him.”
They walked back through the darkened alleyway, saddlebags over their shoulders, rifles in hand, down the street to the Lucky Nut. As they stepped inside the saloon doors, Grolin stood up from a corner table, lit dimly by a small oil lamp.
A squat, bald bartender stood behind the bar. Opposite him stood a miner who’d been drinking steadily since before dark. The rest of the dim saloon was empty, save for a large, hulking figure seated across the table from Andrew Grolin.
“Well, well,” Grolin said, a cigar curling smoke from between his thick fingers. “Speak of the devil and who shall arrive?”
Rochenbach and the other two gunmen walked toward the table. But Grolin held a hand up toward Casings and Spiller, stopping them.
“You two take the night off,” he said. “I’ll let Rock here tell me how things went.”
Casings and Spiller looked at each other. Neither of them liked the idea of Rochenbach speaking for them in their absence, but they both knew better than to say anything about it.
Grolin stood watching as the two turned and walked back out the door.
Once out on the empty street, Spiller glanced back over his shoulder to make certain they weren’t being followed.
“Damn!” he said under his breath to Casings. “I never counted on that.”
“Nor did I,” Casings said, walking along rigidly, staring straight ahead. “But we’d have to trust him sometime. At least we’ll find out tonight if he keeps his mouth shut or not.” He paused, then added, “I say he will.”
“If he don’t, we’re dead,” Spiller said.
“Yep,” Casings agreed, “deader than I ever want to be.”
“Maybe I should get around to the window and put a bullet in his back before he gets started talking,” Spiller said.
Casings looked sidelong at him and shook his head slowly.
“You got any better ideas?” Spiller asked, recognizing the way Casings looked at him.
“Don’t talk crazy, Dent,” Casings said.
They walked a block past the Great Westerner to a run-down house standing back from the street in a yard choked with dried weeds, wild grass and scrub. “All we can do for now is wait it out, see what the morning brings.”
“Still,” said Spiller, “I’m sleeping with my rifle tonight.”
Casings gave him a tight, thin smile.
“Your private life is your own business,” he said quietly.
Spiller cursed under his breath as he pulled the broken picket gate open and walked into the overgrown yard.
“I don’t know how you can make jokes at a time like this,” he said, walking along a weed-lined path, up o
nto a rickety front porch. “If this damned ex-Pinkerton law dog opens his mouth about how we’ve been collecting money, Grolin will have us skinned and—”
“Yeah, yeah, we’ve been through all that,” Casings said, cutting him off. “Don’t soil yourself.” He walked along a step behind him, through the unlocked front door and into the dark, sparsely furnished house.
“What did you say to me?” Spiller growled. He watched Casings walk over to a table and pick up an oil lamp to light it.
“Forget it,” said Casings. “You’ve just been getting on my nerves all day and night.”
“Soil myself, you said?” Spiller persisted, his hand on the butt of his gun. “You’ve been making remarks all day. I won’t tolerate sass from no—”
“Shhh,” said Casings, cutting him off again.
Spiller saw Casings’ face turn orange-blue and shadowy in the flare of a match as he lit the lamp. Their eyes cut searchingly away from the circle of lamplight as Casings trimmed down the lamp’s wick and quickly set the lamp back on the table. They both heard the slight creaking sound of a floor plank in a dark, adjoining room.
Casings stepped away from the lamp table, his Colt streaking up from his holster, cocked and aimed blindly into the darkness.
“Whoever’s there, announce yourself!” Casings said, ready to pull the trigger.
From the other room, a quiet voice resounded low and evenly through the darkness.
“What if I’m just a cat?” the voice said.
“Then you better start purring, you sumbitch!” Spiller called out, raising his Colt and taking aim in the direction of the voice.
Casings raised a hand toward Spiller. “Hold up, Dent,” he said, letting out a tense breath. “It’s Turley.” He called out to the darkness, “Turley, don’t be acting a fool with us. We’re not up for it.”
“You boys sound overwrought,” said the voice with a chuckle. A gunman stepped out of the adjoining room into the circle of lamplight. “Tell ol’ Turley all about it.”
“Batts, you idiot,” Spiller growled under his breath, letting the hammer down on his Colt and slipping the gun back into his holster.