by Ralph Cotton
“Damn it, Jackie!” He shouted. “Why did you do that?”
Jackie came riding up fast, laughing, holding his smoking rifle.
“I’m as surprised as you are, Henry!” he called out.
But no sooner had he spoken his words than Grayson and the others heard a return shot and saw the young outlaw fly out of his saddle as a blast of thick blood exploded from his side.
“Holy—!” shouted Grayson, seeing Jackie Warren hit the cold ground in a puff of snow.
“Get his horse, Henry!” shouted Rochenbach, jerking his bandanna mask down from his face, seeing Jackie’s spooked horse turn to take off across the flatlands.
Grayson made a grab for the horse’s bridle but missed. Another shot exploded from Summers’ Winchester. The shot whistled past Grayson’s head.
“Shoot that bastard before he kills us all!” Grayson shouted.
“I’ll get the money!” Rochenbach shouted, taking off after Warren’s horse, seeing the heavily loaded saddlebags bouncing on the animal’s back.
As soon as the bullet had hit one of his string horses, Summers had leaped out of his saddle and slapped his dapple gray’s rump. He hurriedly cut the rope holding the three live string horses to the dead one and sent them racing out behind his gray. He hadn’t wanted a fight; he hadn’t wanted to lose a horse. But now that he had a horse down, he threw himself behind the body and laid his Winchester out across its side.
Kill my horse…! He jerked a fresh round up into the rifle chamber. Steam curled from the gaping bullet hole in the dead horse’s neck. He was in the fight now, whether he wanted it or not.
Chapter 2
Avrial Rochenbach fired three quick loose shots in Summers’ direction with his big Remington revolver as he chased Jackie Warren’s fleeing horse across the snowy flatlands. His shots were wild and unaimed, meant to threaten Summers, keep him down while he caught up to the horse and the saddlebags full of money. But Summers would have none of it. They had killed one of his horses. He wasn’t about to lie still and let them ride away without a few bullets in them.
He took close aim on Rochenbach as the outlaw’s Remington belched fire and lead in his direction. He squeezed the Winchester’s trigger as the Remington’s bullets whistled overhead.
Grayson and Lewis Fallon saw Rochenbach fly up from his saddle in a spray of blood, turn a backflip midair and land sprawled on his back in a puff of white powder. The Remington flew from Rochenbach’s hand, spun in the air and exploded once more as it struck the hard, cold ground.
“Who does this jake think he is?” Henry Grayson shouted in rage, seeing Rochenbach down and the horse with the money still galloping fast across the flatlands.
“Get that horse!” Lewis Fallon shouted, firing his big Colt toward Summers. The two raced across the flatlands.
“You get it,” Grayson shouted, “whilst I kill this sumbitch!”
Summers saw the two masked outlaws split up, one riding after the loose horse, the other charging straight toward him. He took close aim as the outlaw leveled his Colt and fired at him. As Summers squeezed the Winchester’s trigger, a bullet thumped into the dead horse and threw his aim a fraction off target. The bullet sliced along the side of Grayson’s jaw and ripped his right ear away in a mist of blood.
Grayson bellowed and cursed and swung his horse away; his hat flew away. His right hand, gun and all, went up and cupped the side of his bloody head. He screamed loud and long as Summers watched him make a complete turn around and ride straightaway.
Taking aim on the fleeing outlaw’s back, Summers knew he had him cold. But he held his shot and swung the Winchester toward the other outlaw chasing the spooked horse. He took careful aim, knowing he had all the time he needed to make the shot count.
“Jesus, Henry!” Fallon cried out, seeing Grayson ride away screaming with his hat gone and his hand to the side of his head. “What about the money?”
“Get it, bring it! I’m shot!” Grayson screamed back at him without turning in his saddle. He’d never seen anything set up this good turn so sour this fast in his life. Damn, Jackie! he cursed to himself.
Fallon had jerked his horse to a halt, unsure of what to do next. He looked toward the dead horse where rifle smoke wafted in the cold air. Whoever was there was deadly with a repeating rifle. He looked toward the running horse, seeing it do as most any frightened horse would do, given a chance. The animal had spotted Summers’ dapple gray and the three string horses loping along across the snowy flatlands.
Looking back and forth quickly between the deadly rifle and the loose horse running away with the stolen money, Fallon made a decision, just as Summers started to squeeze the trigger.
“To hell with this!” Fallon said aloud. He batted his boots to his horse’s sides, swung a sharp turn and raced away in the same direction Grayson had taken.
Seeing him turn to leave, Summers let his finger relax on the trigger. He lowered the Winchester an inch and watched both outlaws’ horses pound away toward the white-streaked hills five miles in the distance.
All right, it’s over….
He started to lower his rifle more, but he snapped it back to his shoulder when he saw one of the downed outlaws struggle onto his knees and scrape his battered derby up and put it on his head.
“Grayson…wait…for me…,” Avrial Rochenbach rasped, his left arm hanging limp at his side, his long black riding duster hanging from his shoulders and spread on the ground around him like a shroud. He wobbled unsteadily in place for a second, then pitched forward onto his face.
Summers stood up behind the dead horse and looked to his left where the horses had run themselves out and were standing with their muzzles down, scraping and pulling wild grass. The dead outlaw’s horse had joined them, settled and taken his place among his own kind. Rochenbach’s horse ran toward the grazing animal at an easy gait.
The horses were good for now, Summers told himself. He let the hammer down on his Winchester and stepped from behind the dead horse. To his right he saw the rise of snow behind the posse growing closer. He knew they’d heard the shooting; they’d be here in another ten minutes.
Walking to the outlaw lying facedown on the ground, Summers nudged him with the toe of his boot.
“What are you doing alive?” he asked flatly. “I had you dead to rights.” As he spoke he nudged the downed outlaw over onto his back. Rochenbach moaned, batted his blurry eyes and stared up the barrel of Summers’ Winchester.
“I—I don’t…know,” the outlaw stammered. He tried to look at the bullet hole in his coat lying dangerously close to his heart. A wide circle of blood lay around the hole, and around the blood a wider circle of what had to be whiskey, Summers thought, judging from the smell of it. “I—I think…this flask must have…saved my life.”
He started to reach his weak right hand under the lapel of his coat. But the tip of Summers’ rifle barrel nudged his hand away, then flipped the lapel open. Summers saw the top of a metal whiskey flask sticking up from the outlaw’s shirt pocket. In the bottom right corner of the pocket, he saw the bullet hole.
Summers stooped and stood up holding the dripping flask, seeing where the bullet had pierced it. Yet, inspecting the punctured flask, he saw how the bullet had deflected away from Rochenbach’s heart and sliced its way deep into his left shoulder.
“You might be right,” Summers said. He dropped the empty flask on the outlaw’s stomach and said, “Here, you can hold on to this till they haul you off to jail.”
The downed outlaw looked off toward the rise of snow as the posse rode closer. He shook his head slowly, then dropped it back to the ground. His derby flipped off and lay upside down in the snow.
“Finish me…Winchester,” he pleaded, raising his hand and touching his fingertip to the middle of his forehead. “I can’t…go to prison.” He gulped a breath of cold air. “I put…too many men there. They’ll kill me…sure enough.”
“Who are you?” Summers asked, searching the pained face for
any recognition.
“Avrial Rochenbach,” the wounded man said. “You’ve got to let me go.”
Summers gave a short nod and said, “Rochenbach…You used to be a detective for Allen Pinkerton.”
“That’s me,” Rochenbach said with regret. “Now let me go. Nobody has to know.”
“You’re not going anywhere, except to jail,” Summers said. “Do you want some water?” He gazed off toward his dapple gray and the other horses. Then he reached over with the tip of his rifle barrel, opened the man’s riding duster and coat and probed his vest pocket, searching for a hideout gun, finding nothing there.
“I’m clean,” said Rochenbach. “If I had a hideout I already would have gone for it.”
“All right, you’re not armed,” Summers said. “Do you want some water?” he repeated.
Rochenbach nodded.
Summers turned facing the horses and let out a sharp loud whistle. The gray jerked his head up from grazing, looked toward him, then came pounding across the flatlands, loose stirrups flopping and bouncing at its sides. Behind the gray the other horses fell in and followed him as if on command.
“Damn,” Rochenbach said. “I always wished I could whistle a horse that way.”
“You’ll have time to practice the whistling,” Summers said flatly.
“That’s real funny,” Rochenbach said with a bitter twist. He paused; then watching Jackie Warren’s horse lope along with its bulging saddlebags, he said, “What if I told you there’s close to…a hundred thousand dollars on that horse’s rump?”
“From where?” Summers asked.
“The new bank…in Gunn Point,” the outlaw said.
“New bank?” Summers said.
“Yeah, it just…opened last month.” He nodded toward the body of Jackie Warren lying dead in the snow. “His father owns it. What do you think of that?” He raised his head slightly from the ground
Summers just stared for a moment, wondering if that could possibly be true.
“I think you’re lying,” he finally said.
The wounded man managed a dark chuckle and shook his head. “My whole life has been too crazy to believe.” He nodded toward the horse approaching and said, “I’ll split the money with you…you just get me up, let me ride away from here.”
“Why would I split it with you?” Summers said, gazing off toward the coming posse. “If I killed you, I’d have it all.”
“Oh,” said Rochenbach, “so if money’s involved, you would shoot an unarmed man?”
Summers didn’t answer. He turned to the dapple gray as the horse trotted up and stopped beside him. He took down his canteen and opened it and turned back to Rochenbach.
The outlaw straightened up a little and reached his hand for the canteen. “What if I…told you this is my job…I’m working undercover?” he said.
“I’d say, nice try, but save it for the posse,” Summers replied. “I’m the man who shot you, not one of the ones you have to answer to.”
“All because Little Jackie shot your horse?” Rochenbach asked reflectively, as if knowing would make any difference now.
“That’s right,” said Summers, “all because your partner killed one of my horses. Had he left me and my horses alone, you’d be on your way right now.”
“Jesus….” Rochenbach held the open canteen and looked back toward Jackie Warren’s body. He let out a sigh of regret.
“Not to speak ill of the dead, but Little Jackie Warren was the stupidest son of a bitch I ever met,” he said quietly.
“And you rode with him,” Summers said with a flat stare.
The wounded outlaw looked offended. But then he considered his circumstances and sighed.
“You didn’t have to say that,” he replied.
By the time Deputy Stiles and his six-man posse arrived, Summers had loosened and removed the wounded outlaw’s broad-striped necktie from around his neck. Rochenbach watched him fold it and stick it under his shirt onto his bloody chest.
“Keep your hand pressed on it,” Summers said, laying Rochenbach’s good right hand on top of the makeshift bandage. While the outlaw watched with regret, Summers loosened the bulging saddlebags from behind Jackie Warren’s saddle and pitched them on the ground.
“Aren’t you going to even look inside?” Rochenbach asked. “Maybe the sight of that money will jar some sense into you.”
Summers didn’t answer. He stood with his rifle hanging from his right hand as the posse slowed their horses from a fast pace to walk and spread out abreast, rifles out and ready.
“Pitch your rifle away,” the young deputy demanded, nudging his horse forward slowly.
But instead of carelessly throwing his Winchester onto the rocky snow-covered ground, Summers stooped and laid it across the snow a few inches in front of his boots. Then he straightened and raised his hands chest high, his right glove off and stuck down in his belt.
“Watch this one, he’s a cool customer,” Dewitt said under his breath. He had sidled in closer on the deputy’s right.
“Keep quiet, Dewitt,” said Stiles. “I’m not blind.” He called out to Summers, “Keep your hands where they are, till we see what’s going on here. Don’t make any sudden moves.”
“I won’t,” Summers said as the seven men stepped their horses forward. He didn’t want to do anything to set a group of nervous trigger fingers into action. “I heard the shooting from town. When they come through here, one of them killed one of my horses. I returned fire.”
Deputy Stiles looked over at the wounded outlaw lying on the ground—at the body of the other outlaw lying dead, facedown in the snow. With a look of stunned surprise, the deputy stared back at Summers as he stopped his horse again only a few feet from him.
“And you shot these two?” Stiles asked.
“I did,” said Summers. “This one says he’s Avrial Rochenbach.” He gestured a nod toward the body. “Says that one’s name is Little Jackie Warren.”
“Little Jackie Warren?” said Dewitt. “Holy Moses.” He and the others looked back and forth at one another; Stiles kept his eyes on Summers.
“Go over and see if it’s Little Jackie,” he said to Heintz the druggist. To Summers he said flatly, “There were two others in on it.”
“They got away,” Summers said. He jerked his head toward the tracks leading off across the snow. “One of them is short an ear.” He nodded down at the bulging saddlebags. “I took these off the dead one’s horse.”
“Short an ear?” Dewitt chuckled grimly. “Good enough for the thieving bastard.”
“Did you look inside the saddlebags?” the deputy asked Summers.
“Nope, it’s none of my business,” said Summers. “I took it off the horse and pitched it here, Sheriff. I wanted you to see it on the ground, knowing that my intentions weren’t to cut out with it.” He paused and then asked, “Is Turner Goss still sheriff here?”
“Yes, he is. I’m his deputy,” Stiles said.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Summers said with relief. “I’m Will Summers. I’m a horse trader who comes through here now and then. Sheriff Goss will vouch for me.”
“He might,” said the deputy, stone-faced, “if he’s still alive.” He nodded at Rochenbach and said, “These poltroons shot him down in the street when they robbed our bank.”
“I’ll vouch for who he is,” said an old teamster named Joe Leffert. He sat atop his horse at the end of the line on Stiles’ left. “He’s a horse trader, just like he says.”
“I’ll second that,” said Long, the gambler. “I’ve seen him around. He is indeed a horse trader.”
Summers gave Leffert and Long a slight nod of thanks.
“Not that it cuts any ice,” Dewitt butted in, staring menacingly at Summers. “In my book horse trading never stacked much higher than a thief anyway.”
Summers didn’t reply, but he returned the engineer’s stare.
From the body lying twenty yards away, Heintz called out in an excited voice, “It�
�s Little Jackie, sure as shooting, Deputy Stiles.”
“Damn,” said Stiles, “this thing is shaping up worse by the minute.”
“Don’t feel you need to thank me for saving your money, Deputy,” Summers said a little sorely, bringing attention to having his hands still raised chest-high.
“Keep them raised until we say otherwise,” Dewitt barked before the deputy could reply for himself.
“Shut up, Dewitt,” said Stiles, glancing at the horses standing a foot behind Summers. “This man’s telling the truth. Why would he be standing here waiting for us if he was one of them?”
“I don’t know,” said Dewitt. “But then I never heard of an idiot robbing his own daddy’s bank either.”
Stiles ignored Dewitt and said to Summers, “Lower you hands. We’ll see what Sheriff Goss has to say when we get back to town, provided he’s still breathing.”
“Back to town?” Dewitt protested. “What about catching the other two?”
“You ride on and catch them, Dewitt,” said Stiles without turning toward him.
“Me?” said Dewitt. “By myself?”
“We’ve got two of them,” said Stiles. “We’ve got the bank money back.”
“So we’re letting them get away with it?” said Dewitt.
“We’re riding back to see about Sheriff Goss,” said Stiles. “If he says go after the other two, we will.”
“What if Goss is dead?” Dewitt persisted. When the deputy ignored him, Dewitt said, “Hell’s fire. For two cents I would go on after them by myself.”
Stiles ignored him and swung down from his saddle and walked toward Summers. He said back to the men over his shoulder, “Fellows, throw this one on a horse—Little Jackie too. Let’s get the money and get back to town.”
“What’s Jackie’s pa going to say about all this?” Joe Leffert said to Richard Woods, the town mercantile owner, as the men swung down from their saddles.
“I don’t even want to think about that yet,” Jason Jones, a land surveyor, replied. “They best tie him down before they tell him.”
