Bullets & Lies (Talbot Roper 01)

by Randisi, Robert J.

  The furniture in the rest of the house—sofa, armchairs, tables—had seen better days, but in their day they had clearly been good stuff. Even her rifle, a Winchester ’73, hadn’t been cheap in its day.

  The two men sat at the table. Roper had his doubts that the chair would hold him, so he sat very still.

  Tina put the pot on, and the smell of coffee filled the house. They didn’t speak until she had it poured into three chipped mugs and joined them at the table.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Just some questions about Vincent McCord.”

  “He was a violent, venal man,” she said.

  “Then why were you with him?”

  “Because a woman needs a man to protect her.”

  “And now?” Roper asked. “You don’t have a man now.”

  “A young woman needs a man,” she said. “A dried-up old woman like me doesn’t.”

  He guessed she was about fifty. Not young, but certainly not an old woman.

  “McCord served with several men in the war, one of which was Howard Westover. Do you know that name?”

  “No.”

  “Never heard it?”

  “No.”

  “Did McCord talk about the war?”

  “Just some battles,” she said. “The killing he did. He thought that would impress me.”

  “Did he talk about any of the other men he served with?” Roper asked. “Or anything else that he may have done?”

  “No,” she said, “he only talked about killing.”

  Roper looked at Parnell, who just shrugged.

  “What is it you think he did?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Roper said. “I don’t know that he did anything. I’m trying to find out.”

  “Well,” she said, “I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

  They finished their coffee and walked to the door with her. He noticed she picked up her rifle along the way. Obviously, she never went to the door without it.

  “Here,” he said, pressing another twenty dollars into her hand.

  “Our deal was only for twenty,” she said.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “It looks like you can use another twenty.”

  Roper and Parnell walked away from the house. When Roper turned, he saw that she was still standing in the doorway, her rifle in one hand, and twenty dollars in the other.

  “That wasn’t very helpful,” Parnell said.

  “Not to me,” Roper said. “She did okay, though, don’t you think?”

  27

  He traveled 584 miles to Amarillo, Texas, then stopped there to send a telegram to the lawyer, Harwick, in Hurricane, West Virginia.

  He’d decided along the way not to contact Victoria, but to send the lawyer word that he’d found Vincent McCord, long dead, and was on his way to see Gerald Quinn.

  Before leaving Hurricane, when he spoke to Victoria the last time, he’d asked her one last question. “Do I have a time limit?”

  “My husband is in no imminent danger of dying, Mr. Roper. He is, however, in imminent danger of having his medal stripped from him. Do what you will with that information.”

  He could have traveled from Saint Joe to Vega by rail—that is, to Amarillo by rail—and then ridden the next thirty miles on horseback. But he decided to ride the entire way. Catching a train meant stopping in the right town, probably staying overnight, checking a rail schedule, catching the next available train—of which there was not necessarily one every day. By the time he did all that, he figured he could be halfway there. He’d bought himself a nice horse, he figured he might as well put the animal to good use.

  Roper knew lone riders in the West were fair game. While he slept each night he camped, he slept lightly. Long ago he had discovered his capacity to operate on very little sleep. It had served him well during the war and continued to do so when he was on the trail.

  He was also able to exist on very little food—only beef jerky and coffee when he camped. He could carry that in his saddlebags with no trouble. A full packhorse of supplies would only slow him down.

  He came to many small towns between Saint Joe, Missouri, and Amarillo, Texas—circumvented most of them, for he had what he needed with him. The only reason to stop in one of these small towns would be to restock, which he expected to have to do only once before he reached his destination.

  He chose a town called Los Lunas, New Mexico, in which to make his stop.

  The shot in Washington still played on his mind. If he’d taken the rail route to Amarillo, he would have made a stationary target. On the trail he was a moving target. But stopping in a town, once again he’d be stationary. So he intended to stop only as long as it took to buy more jerky, coffee, and maybe some beans this time.

  Los Lunas was a smudge, a one-road town with half a dozen buildings that had seen better days, which included a saloon and a mercantile, but no jail. Most likely there was no law around.

  He rode his Appaloosa up to the trading post and dismounted. He could have used a drink, but stopping in a saloon was as good as looking for trouble, especially in a hole like this.

  He looped the horse’s reins around a hitching post and entered the store. Shelves on all sides were piled high with supplies. He was surprised at how well stocked it was for such a small town. There were probably ranches in the area that did all their restocking here.

  The man behind the wooden counter said, “Welcome, stranger, welcome to Sandusky’s. That’s me. I’ve got everything you need here, best-stocked store for miles. Just tell me what you need, and if you have the money to pay for it, it’s yours.”

  He was tall, red-haired, and pale, looked to be about sixty. His clothes looked handmade, and Roper suspected he had a wife or daughter who had made them. His hands showed the signs of years of hard work, some of the fingers bent, many of the nails broken.

  Roper approached the counter, a sheet of wood that had been sandpapered smooth.

  “Coffee, jerky, and beans.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No,” Roper said. “A box of ’forty-five shells.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  The merchant collected the items and brought them to the counter. He wrote out a bill and handed it to Roper.

  “Can I wrap these items in brown paper?” Sandusky asked.

  “No, just put them in a small sack,” Roper said. “I’ll be putting them in my saddlebags.”

  “Sure you don’t need anything else?” the merchant asked. “A new hat? New boots?”

  “My hat and boots are fine, thanks.”

  “Suit yerself,” Sandusky said. “You ain’t gonna find another store like this between here and Amarillo.”

  “Okay,” Roper said, “I’ll take one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  Roper pointed to an item on the shelf behind the man.

  “Ah,” the man said, taking a bottle down, “the finest Tennessee sippin’ whiskey.”

  “Add it to the bill.”

  Sandusky did as he was told, and Roper paid the total. The merchant put everything into a sack and handed it to Roper.

  “Thank you.”

  “Stayin’ in town?” Sandusky asked.

  “No, I just stopped for some supplies. I’ll be on my way.”

  “Well, then, I have to warn you.”

  “About what?”

  “The Castles.”

  “There are castles near here?” Roper asked.

  “No, no,” Sandusky said, “the Castles are three brothers who live here. They…usually try to rob my customers when they leave here.”

  “Do they usually succeed?”

  “Oh, yes,” the man said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before you paid, but—”

  “That’s okay,” Roper said. “I’ve dealt with highwaymen before.”

  “Yes,” Sandusky said, “you strike me as the kind of man who has.”

  “I’m assuming there’s no law in this town?”

  �
�Not for a very long time,” Sandusky said. “You’ll be able to do whatever you need to do when you leave here.”

  “Can you tell me anything else about the Castles?”

  “Three brothers,” Sandusky said, “who are very used to getting what they want with no resistance.”

  “Thank you,” Roper said. “That’s exactly what I needed to know.”

  He took his sack, turned, and left the store, hoping for the best, but expecting the worst.

  28

  As he stepped outside, Roper saw the three men standing in the street. One was next to his horse, with his hand on the animal’s rump. They were all the same, over six feet, wearing threadbare clothes and with old but lethal pistols in their belts. None wore a hat, and all had the same unruly black hair. He could say that they were of differing ages, but definitely brothers. The one with his hand on the Appaloosa’s rump looked to be the oldest. As it turned out, he was the spokesman.

  “Hello, friend,” the man said.

  “Hello.”

  “Don’t seem like you bought very much in the way of supplies.”

  “I didn’t need very much.”

  “Sandusky’s usually a pretty good salesman,” the man said.

  “He did convince me to buy a bottle of whiskey.”

  “Whiskey!” one of the other men said. He wiped his hands with his fingers.

  “Shut up!” the older one said.

  “Are you the Castle boys?” Roper asked.

  “We are,” the older one said. “I’m Lem, that’s Cal and Bill. Sandusky tell you that?”

  “Well…”

  “He warned you about us, didn’t he?” Lem asked. “That wasn’t real smart of him.” Lem looked at his brothers. “We’re gonna have to teach Sandusky a lesson when we’re finished here.”

  Roper realized he’d made a mistake, and he’d trapped himself so that he had only one out. If he managed to leave here with his supplies, without killing these men, Sandusky would no doubt pay the price.

  “Nice horse,” Lem said. “I think I’ll start with this.”

  “Start what?” Roper asked.

  “Me and my brothers, we get to pick what we’re gonna keep. I’m gonna keep the horse.”

  “I want his gun,” Bill said.

  “I want that bottle of whiskey,” Cal said.

  “I’m afraid you boys are shit out of luck,” Roper said. “You can’t have any of those things.”

  “Now look,” Lem said, “if Sandusky warned you about us, he told you why. So it ain’t too smart of you to refuse. You might as well start walkin’ now.”

  “I don’t intend to walk anywhere,” Roper said. “And I’ll advise you to take your hand off my horse.”

  “My horse,” Lem said. “And those are my supplies you’re holding.”

  “No,” Roper said. “It’s all mine. Step aside, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Lem dropped his hand from the horse’s rump, and his two brothers tensed.

  “There’s three of us,” Lem said. “You ain’t got a chance.”

  “But I intend to resist,” Roper said. “Sandusky said you’re not used to that. Are my horse and what I have in this sack worth dying for?”

  “Ain’t us is gonna die, friend,” Lem said. But his brothers didn’t seem as sure. They were used to scaring people and meeting no resistance. This obstinacy was new to them.

  Roper remained on the boardwalk in front of the store. It gave him an advantage, looking down on his three opponents. They were sufficiently spread out, though, to give him trouble. If he could just get them to stand closer together…

  “Your brothers don’t look so confident, Lem,” Roper said. “You better talk to them.”

  Lem turned and looked at his brothers, then back at Roper.

  “Don’t you worry, my brothers will do what they have to do,” he said, but he did move away from the horse, toward his brothers.

  “Okay, boys,” Roper said. “Let’s get this over with. Either I mount up and ride out, or you go for those guns in your belts and hope they don’t blow up in your hands.”

  “What’s he mean?” Cal asked his brother.

  “Have you boys ever even fired those guns?” Roper asked.

  Bill looked down at the gun in his belt, frowning.

  “Never mind,” Lem said. “That’s enough talk. Start walkin’ or pay the price.”

  “I already paid in there,” Roper said, jerking his thumb at the store behind him. “Out here, you’re the ones who will pay.”

  “There’s three of us,” Lem said again.

  “But you’re just three bullies, used to getting your way,” Roper said. “I’m a professional. You don’t stand a chance.”

  “Goddamn you—” Lem said, and reached for his gun.

  Roper knew that speed was revered when it came to gunplay, but it was accuracy that kept men alive. He calmly drew his gun and fired, first at Lem, because he was the most dangerous.

  He’d been right about the three brothers. Beating men with their fists came easy to them. Gunplay did not. Lem had to grab for his gun twice, and by then Roper’s bullet struck him in the chest, knocking him backward and then onto his back in the street.

  Cal grabbed for his gun, but only managed to pull the trigger while it was still in his belt. He shot himself in the leg just moments before Roper shot him in the belly.

  Roper turned his attention to Bill last. The younger brother pulled his gun free of his belt, but as he tried to bring it to bear, Roper shot him in the hip. The bullet spun him around just at the same time he was pulling the trigger. The old gun exploded in his hand, and it was the backlash from that explosion that killed him in the end, not Roper.

  When the shooting had stopped, Sandusky came out of his store to survey the results.

  “Well, thank God,” he said.

  Roper turned to look at him, then stepped into the street. He walked to the three brothers to determine that they were all dead. He still held his sack of supplies in his left hand.

  His horse had shied from the gunfire but, tied fast, had been unable to run off. Roper walked to him now and patted his neck, speaking to him softly. Then he looked at Sandusky.

  “Thanks for the warning, Sandusky.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Sandusky said. “Every time I have a customer who looks like he can handle himself, I give him the same warning. You’re the first one who’s been able to do anything about it. So I thank you. Now my customers won’t have to worry about being robbed.”

  “Glad I could help,” Roper said. He ejected the spent shells from his gun, reloaded, and then holstered it. “I’ll be on my way.”

  Roper transferred the supplies from the sack to his saddlebags, then mounted up. He waved at Sandusky and rode out of Los Lunas. Just outside of town he took the bottle of whiskey from the saddlebags, uncapped it, and took a long pull. He’d killed men before, for good reasons and for bad, and it was never easy to deal with afterward. He always found the before easier. Even while he was using his gun, firing lead into men’s bodies, it was easier. It was the aftermath that weighed heavily on him—even during the war. He took another swig from the bottle and then replaced it in his saddlebag. Then he continued riding toward Amarillo, hoping he wouldn’t have to stop again until he got there.

  29

  Talbot Roper rode into Amarillo about eleven days or so after leaving Saint Joe. He’d stopped to restock only that one time in Los Lunas, carrying with him only enough supplies to see him through until the end of his journey. The one thing Roper did on every job he took was keep himself mobile, able to move at a moment’s notice without worry of leaving anything behind. Guns, horse, and saddle were enough. The rest he could replace later.

  In Amarillo he reined in the Appaloosa in front of the telegraph office, went inside, and carefully worded a message to the lawyer to report his progress.

  He came out of the telegraph office, untied his horse, and walked it across the street. He tied it off again in front
of a saloon and went inside. One beer to cut the dust and he’d be on his way.

  He trusted himself to avoid trouble in Amarillo, as he had failed to do in Los Lunas. For one thing, Amarillo had plenty of law. And the people had more to do with their time than hang around outside the mercantile or general store to rob people.

  “Help ya?” the bartender asked.

  “Cold beer,” Roper said.

  “Comin’ up.”

  The saloon was called The Bent Tree, and hanging over the mirror behind the bar was a huge bent tree limb. The bar was about twelve feet long, made of varnished and polished wood, with plenty of tables on the floor, some of which were set up for faro or poker.

  Roper accepted his beer, paid for it, then turned and drank it while leaning against the bar. The cold beer cut the dust that coated his throat and spread a wonderful cool feeling through his belly.

  It was midday, and only about half the tables were occupied. The gaming tables were not yet up and running. There was one saloon girl working the floor, but he knew by that evening there’d be three or four.

  He nursed his beer, gratefully swallowed the last bit of it, then set the empty mug on the bar.

  “’Nother?” the bartender asked.

  “No, thanks. One was all I needed.”

  “Stayin’ in town or passin’ through?”

  “Passing through,” Roper said. “I’m on my way out right now.”

  “Good luck to you, then.”

  “Thanks.”

  He came out and found a boy looking at his horse.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  The boy turned his head and looked at him. He was about ten years old, had a dirty face, a blond cowlick, and brown eyes.

  “Nice horse.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “No.”

  “You ain’t named him?” The boy closed one eye quizzically.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Haven’t had time really.”

  The boy looked at the horse, then at Roper again. “For two bits I’ll name him for ya.”