by Ralph Cotton
“Here… drink this,” he said, collapsing beside Casings, sticking the canteen into his blood-caked hands.
Casings sipped water and looked up at the Giant sitting beside him in the dirt. His eye went from wound to wound as he saw the fresh blood trickle freely now.
“Jesus, Giant…,” he said, already sounding better. “You’re shot all to pieces.”
“This… ain’t nothing,” Giant said haltingly. “I’m not hurt… you’re the one hurt.” He looked at the bloody bullet hole in Casings’ side, and the bloody graze along the side of his head. As he spoke, he jerked the bandannas from around his neck, wadded them and pressed them against Casings’ wounded side. Then he placed Casings’ hand on top. “Hold this here,” he said.
Casings looked down at the bandannas and chuffed with a weak smile.
“Whoever heard of… a head so big… it takes two of these to go around it?”
The Giant grinned in spite of his wounds.
“Just me… the Stillwater Giant,” he said. “Nobody else.”
Casings handed the canteen back to him and collapsed back against the rock.
“Now… I’m going to go to sleep… for a while,” he said dreamily.
“No, you’re not!” the Giant growled. “I’m not… letting you die on me!” He reached a huge hand over and shook Casings roughly. “Wake the hell up! I’m taking you back to the depot.”
“Why, Giant?” Casings asked. “There’s… nothing back that way but the law by now,” Casings said. “Let me sleep.”
The Giant shook him again, roughly.
“I said… stay awake!” he growled, keeping his deep voice down in case Grolin and the others might hear him.
He struggled to his feet, stooped down and scooped Casings up in his huge arms like a rag doll. Then he staggered in place for a moment until he found his balance.
“See?” he said. “Nothing to it.…”
“Put me down, Giant,” Casings said.
But the Giant would have none of it. He staggered off along the trail leading back to the abandoned rail depot.
“You’ll be all right… you’ll see,” he said, sounding stronger. “Rock is back there. He’ll know what to do.”
The Giant struggled along the trail, Casings cradled in his huge arms, as morning rose around them. Two miles down the trail, just as the Giant felt his strength leaving him, he spotted the team of wagon horses, the broken wagon tongue, reins and rigging still on them. The horses stared at the Giant with apprehension, as if remembering him from the night before.
“Easy, horses…,” he purred in his deep but weakened voice. “How about giving the Giant… and his pal here a ride?”
The two horses chuffed and grumbled under their breath.
On the hillside, Grolin and the others had emptied everything from their saddlebags and stuffed them full of the gold ingots. They’d also stuffed ingots into their coats, their trouser pockets, boot wells and hats. When Bobby Kane’s head had cleared enough for him to know what was going on around him, he located the big Belgium the Stillwater Giant had been riding and led it to the side of the trail.
With the help of the other three men, Bobby tied six undamaged gold crates over the big horse’s back with lengths of rope from a coil Penta carried on his saddle horn. With their hats full of gold and tucked up under their arms, the gunmen struggled under their weight and climbed up into their saddles. What gold they couldn’t carry, they had gathered and stuffed under rocks and beneath dried brush.
“I hate leaving this much gold behind,” Grolin said, taking one last look down the hillside. “As soon as we meet Swank and his men, we’ll get a wagon and return for it.”
Spiller and Penta looked at each other from their saddles.
“That posse from the train is going to be coming down this trail with blood in their eyes,” Penta said. “They didn’t just give up and go home because we stole their horses with the freight car.”
“Tough knuckles,” said Grolin, red-faced. “We’re not leaving that gold here any longer than it takes to get a wagon and haul it out.”
“I understand,” said Penta, backing off.
Bobby Kane sat weaving drunkenly in his saddle, the Giant’s Belgium on a lead rope beside him.
“That damn Rochenbach,” Grolin cursed. “He caused every bit of this, stirring everybody up—him and his damn cocky attitude. I feel like kicking myself in the ass, ever bringing him in.”
Spiller and Penta gave each other another look.
“He was damn good at opening a safe,” Penta conceded with a sigh. “Damn shame he was such a hardheaded, tricky sumbitch.”
“He wasn’t worth the damn trouble of keeping him around,” Grolin said, turning his horse toward the trail.
“What about this one?” Spiller asked, nodding toward Bobby Kane. “Is he going to be all right?”
“Holy Joseph!” Grolin said in disgust. He stopped turning his horse and looked at Bobby Kane, who sat wobbling in his saddle, his eyelids drooping, almost closed. The side of Bobby’s face was swollen and purple where the Giant had backhanded him the night before.
“Bobby! Bobby!” Grolin shouted, trying to catch the gunman’s drifting attention. “Are you able to lead that horse, with all that gold?”
“I’m good,” Bobby said. Yet, no sooner had he said it than he toppled sidelong from his saddle and landed facedown in the dirt.
“Jesus Christ!” Grolin said to the other two. “Get him up and throw him over his saddle. Give me the horse.”
The two climbed down from their saddles and handed Grolin the Belgium’s lead rope. As they lifted the downed gunman between them, Bobby stared all around, blinking his bleary eyes.
“I—I think the Giant jarred something loose inside my brain,” he said to Grolin.
Grolin just shook his head as the two lifted Bobby and dropped him over his saddle. At first Bobby resisted and tried to right himself. But as they finally turned to the trail, he gave in and collapsed, his arms dangling down his horse’s sides.
“We lost the whole night fooling with this mess,” Penta said as they nudged their horses on along the trail. “You think Swank and his pals will still be waiting for us?”
“I think they will if they want this gold,” Grolin said. “How many deals this big do you think come their way?”
“I don’t know,” Penta said, “not many, I suppose.”
“Damn right, not many,” said Grolin. Then he cursed under his breath and shook his head. “I’ve never had anything get so damned fouled up in my life.” He spit sourly and stuck a cigar into his mouth. “Lousy Rochenbach bastard!” he grumbled to himself.
The soldiers and their prisoner rode hard throughout the night, following the wagon tracks. Rochenbach, the sergeant and the captain rode abreast. The corporal and the three troopers rode behind them. At dawn, when they rounded a turn in the high trail, the three jerked their horses to a halt so quickly that the soldiers following had to jerk their animal sideways to keep from plowing into them.
“Good God in heaven! What is this?” shouted Goodrich at the sight of the wagon horses plodding toward them.
The bloody Stillwater Giant stood between the two horses on the broken tongue and front wagon boards, his huge head bowed onto his chest. His enormous size dwarfed the otherwise large wagon horses. He held one large arm looped over each horse’s back. Pres Casings hung limp and bloody over his right shoulder.
The sergeant snatched a Colt from behind his riding duster and cocked it toward the unconscious Giant.
“Don’t shoot, Sergeant,” Rock said. “That’s Garth Oliver.”
The sergeant held his fire, but he looked to the captain for direction.
“Sir…?” he asked the captain.
“Do hold your fire, Sergeant,” Captain Boone said without taking his eyes off the approaching wagon horses and their bloody cargo. “You know these two, Mr. Smith?”
“Yes, sir,” Rochenbach said. “Captain, may I go see
about them? You have my word I won’t make a run for it.”
“We’ll all go see about them,” the captain said. He looked at Rochenbach. “You have my word we’ll shoot you in the back if you try.”
Rock and the sergeant dropped from their saddles and walked forward. The corporal and the other troopers followed close behind them. The Giant didn’t even raise his head. The two horses tried to continue right past Rochenbach and Goodrich, but Rock grabbed one of the horses by its bridle. Goodrich grabbed the other in the same manner.
The Giant lifted his bowed head a little as the horses halted in the trail.
“Is that you, Rock?” he asked weakly.
“It’s me, Garth,” he said, not wanting to use the Giant’s familiar name, lest the soldiers were aware the Stillwater Giant was a wanted man in Texas.
The Giant looked around at the soldiers, then back at Rochenbach, who hoped the big man had gotten the message.
“Pres… needs water,” the Giant said, his head drooping slowly back down on his chest.
“Can we get some water?” Rochenbach asked, stepping in and pulling Casings’ bloody body down from the Giant’s shoulder. Casings groaned.
Rochenbach dragged him from between the horses and laid him on the ground. The soldiers stared, not knowing what to do about the Giant. Goodrich stooped down beside Casings with an uncapped canteen.
Captain Boone sat atop his horse and watched Rock lead the Giant from between the horses and sit him down in the dirt beside Casings.
“Did I hear him call you Rock?”
“Yes, you did,” said Rochenbach. “It’s a name some folks call me.”
“I see,” said the captain. He looked at the two bloody men on the ground. “And these fellows, are they part of your band of thieves?” He looked at the massive Giant sitting slumped on the ground. “I think I now understand how you were able to pull the coupling pin on a moving train.” Even sitting, the Giant was nearly as tall and twice as broad as one of the soldiers standing beside him.
“These two are a couple of businessmen from Denver City, for all I know,” Rock said, ignoring the captain’s speculation. “My guess is they stumbled onto the thieves, and this is what happened to them.”
The Giant raised his bloody head slightly and turned it enough to give Rochenbach a look. Then he lowered it again.
“Of course, I see,” the captain said with a touch of sarcasm. To the sergeant he said, “Get these wounded men watered and take them to the side of the trail. We’ll stop here long enough to rest our horses and dress their wounds.”
Chapter 22
Captain Boone, Rochenbach and Sergeant Goodrich stood watching as two of the troopers and Corporal Rourke washed and dressed the Giant’s and Casings’ wounds as best they could with scraps of bandannas they tore into strips. As they finished cleaning the two up and both Casings and the Giant began to come to, the soldiers crossed Casings’ wrists and snapped a pair of handcuffs on them.
They did the same with Rochenbach. Unable to get the cuffs around the Giant’s thick wrists, the soldiers tied his hands together with rope.
“Now that we have three prisoners, Mr. Smith, we wouldn’t want any of you wandering away from us,” Boone said.
“I told you these men had nothing to do with the robbery, Captain,” Rochenbach said for the Giant’s and Casings’ benefit. As he spoke, he looked down at the cuffs, realizing he had a key that would open them tucked inside the lining of his coat sleeve.
“You certainly did, Mr. Smith,” said the captain. “But you also said the same thing about yourself.” He offered a tight smile. “You can see how I might be a little skeptical.”
“What are you going to do with us?” Rock asked. “These men need more than bandannas stuck against their wounds. They need a doctor, some proper bandaging, some serious treatment to keep these wounds from bleeding all over again.”
He had taken this case as far as he could. It was time for him to bow out, let these soldiers do their job. In spite of their wounds, it looked as though Casings and the Giant were going to make it now that the bleeding had slowed.
“We’re taking the three of you to the jail in Dunbar,” said the captain. “There’s a doctor there who’ll properly attend to these two. I’ll telegraph my superiors, tell them you’re there. My men and I are going on after this Andrew Grolin and his gang.”
Rochenbach had no doubt Boone and his men could chase Grolin down now that they were hot on their trail. Besides, he reminded himself, there was no real gold stolen—only decoys, gilded ingots. Fool’s gold, he thought to himself. It was time to share that fact with the captain.
“If you’ll permit me, Captain Boone,” he said. He reached inside his coat with his cuffed hands.
“As you were, Smith!” the captain barked, jerking his Colt from its holster and aiming it toward Rock.
“Easy, Captain,” Rochenbach said. “I only want to show you something.” He pulled out the ingot slowly. With his thumbs, he pressed open the corner slit that he had made with his knife. He handed it to the captain.
As Boone studied it closely, Rochenbach glanced over at Casings, who sat watching intently.
“I’m not an expert, Captain,” Rochenbach said, “but this is the dullest gold I’ve ever seen.”
Boone studied the ingot, then looked up at Rock.
“You’re telling me this is from the stolen shipment?” he asked.
“Yes, it is,” Rochenbach said, knowing better than to say any more on the matter, not with the captain already wondering who he really was, especially not with Casings and the Giant listening close at hand.
The captain took Rochenbach by his handcuffs and led him farther away from the others. Rochenbach looked over his shoulder and shrugged toward Casings and the Giant.
“This isn’t real gold,” the captain said. “Why did you show me this? What is your angle here?”
“No angle, Captain,” Rochenbach said. “I figured I’d give it to you, let you decide if it’s worth dying for.” He shrugged. “I’d feel guilty otherwise, if something bad happened to you or your men.”
“I bet you would,” Boone said skeptically. He tightened his fist around the ingot. “Of course you might only be showing me this in hopes it would lighten my efforts of capturing your cohorts.”
Rock stared at him.
“That would be one more possibility, Captain,” he said. It wasn’t a matter he could push any further without the risk of exposing who he was. But he wasn’t overly concerned with them catching Grolin. If they didn’t catch him now, they would catch him when he returned to his hotel and saloon in Denver City. Either way, it was over for Andrew Grolin. Rock was being honest about the cheap gilded ingots; they weren’t worth dying for.
Boone studied Rochenbach’s eyes, trying to decide whether or not to believe him.
“Sergeant,” he called out finally, without taking his gaze off Rochenbach, “get those men ready to ride. We’re following the wagon tracks until they lead us to the thieves.”
“Yes, sir, Captain,” said Sergeant Goodrich. “But what about this big fellow? He’d wear a poor horse down in no time.”
“Damn it all!” Captain Boone hissed to himself in his frustration. He gave Rock a strange look. “How did I get stuck with a wounded giant?”
Rock just stared.
“Captain, sir,” the sergeant called out, “might I suggest we assemble a travois and pull both these men on it until we get to Dunbar?”
“Yes, Sergeant, please see to that,” the captain said. He hefted the gilded ingot on his palm in contemplation.
“Captain,” Rochenbach said quietly, anticipating the question on Boone’s mind, “since your superiors knew to expect a robbery Thursday night, do you suppose, as a precaution, they decided to ship these fake ingots all week long?”
Boone let out a breath, still hefting the ingot.
“As a precaution? Just in case of some last-minute change, such as this?” the captain said, as if
he’d forgotten he was talking to, possibly, one of the thieves.
“It’s a thought, Captain,” Rock said.
“It’s a thought…,” said Boone, bemused, as it suddenly dawned on him what he was doing. “Just who the hell are you, Smith? What the hell is it you’re doing out here?”
Rochenbach gave him a cool, level stare, his hands cuffed in front of him.
“Aren’t you supposed to know who a man is, and what he’s doing out here, Captain, before you haul him off to jail?” Rochenbach said.
When Pres Casings and the Stillwater Giant were bandaged, watered and ready to ride, two soldiers helped Casings onto a hastily constructed travois made from four long pine saplings, the broken wagon tongue and front wagon boards. When the soldiers offered to help the Giant, he fanned them away with his tied hands. He allowed Rock to steady him and help him to his feet and lead him to the travois.
“I heard you, Rock,” he whispered in his thick, deep voice. “You didn’t tell these suckers nothing.” He gave him his wide, toothy grin. “You’re my pal. Soon as I get rested, I’ll break these strings and—”
Strings…?
“Don’t do it, Giant,” Rock said, cutting him off, looking down at the strong rope double-wrapped around the Giant’s thick wrists. “You’re my pal too. Don’t make these soldiers kill you. Stick with Casings. Do what he tells you, all right?”
“All right, whatever you say, Rock,” the Giant whispered, lying back beside Casings. The two wagon horses stirred and collected themselves, feeling the weight of the Giant on the travois poles.
Rochenbach shot Pres Casings a look. Casings nodded, a blood-soaked bandanna tied around his head, wrapped around the bullet graze. He held a torn, bloody bandanna to the wound in his side. Whatever Rock was up to, Casings saw that he had his and the Giant’s interests at heart.
“Obliged,” he whispered.
Rock only nodded and turned away.
Captain Boone sat watching from his saddle, seeing the three whispering back and forth. He took note of it but decided to say nothing. These two wounded men were as guilty as sin; he knew it.