by Ralph Cotton
“I don’t see how there could possibly have been time for them to do that,” Stiles cut in.
“Nor do I,” said Harper. “But the fact remains, it is all counterfeit. You can check it yourself.”
“If you say it’s counterfeit, Bob, I don’t need to check it. It has been checked by the best.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Harper. He continued, saying, “We’ll be closed until Monday. But come Monday, the only money I have to issue is—well, it’s phony,” he said with a bewildered shrug.
“Good Lord,” Warren said, looking baffled. “This makes no sense.”
“I could not agree more,” said Harper. “Either they switched the money, or else the money was counterfeit when they took it.”
Both Warren and Stiles stared flatly at him until he grew uncomfortable.
“Which, of course, we all three know better than that,” he said, feeling his forehead turning clammy with a sheen of cold sweat.
“Nobody is blaming you of anything, Bob,” said Warren. “So put that thought out of your mind. I’ll defend you to the gates of hell on this matter.”
“Thank you, sir,” Harper said, sounding relieved. “I stand prepared to follow any order you give regarding opening the bank Monday,” he said, boldly. “That includes telling everyone the money is counterfeit, and that they will have to wait until we can recover their real money for them.”
“That’s most courageous of you, Bob,” Warren said. He turned to Stiles and said, “You see, Deputy? This is the kind of man I have working for me. If it wasn’t for Bob Harper, I don’t know what I’d do in a time like this.”
Harper gave a sharp yet modest little grin. “I am a banker, sir. This is what we prepare ourselves for when we run the garters up our sleeves.”
“Who knows about this but us three?” Warren asked.
“Oh! No one,” said Harper. “I would not dare break such news without first meeting in confidence with you. That would be unheard of in banking.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right,” said Warren. He put a large hand on Harper’s shoulder. “I should be ashamed, the way I sometimes fail to tell you what an asset you are to my business.”
“Kind of you to say so, sir,” Harper replied, a little misty-eyed.
“I want you to continue keeping this to yourself until we figure out what we’re going to do come Monday when the merchants will want some of their operating capital.”
“You can count on it,” said Harper. He produced a small receipt pad and a flat tin of pen and ink from inside his coat. He flipped the tin open and handed Warren the pen from inside. Warren took the pen, signed the receipt for the money and handed the pen back. Harper looked at the signature, put the pen in the tin case and snapped the case shut. He put the pad and the tin case back inside his coat.
“All right, then, Bob,” said Warren, patting Harper’s shoulder. “There’s one problem we’ve got a little time to deal with. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to deal with Little Jackie’s burial arrangements.”
“Yes, of course, sir,” said Harper. He turned toward the buggy. Stiles walked beside him.
“Deputy, I see you brought your horse along,” said Warren. “Let Bob start on back—you can catch up. I have a couple of questions I need to ask just to make all of this set right with me.”
“Certainly,” Stiles said. He walked past the buggy and unhitched his horse.
Warren pulled a big cigar from his coat pocket and slipped it into Harper’s hand once the neatly dressed banker was in the driver’s seat with the buggy reins in hand.
“Bob, thank you for coming out here and keeping me abreast of things,” Warren said.
“Yes, sir, and thank you, sir,” said Harper, holding the cigar. “I will keep the lid on it, as they say.”
Warren and Stiles stood watching intently as Harper swung the buggy around out of the yard and rolled away toward Gunn Point. Fine white powder wafted from the skiff of snow on the ground. Big Jack stood in silence for a moment until he saw Roe Pindigo walking back from the house toward them. Then he turned to Stiles and made a grab for the deputy’s throat.
But Stiles had been prepared for such a move. And rightly so, he had calculated that it would not come until Roe Pindigo was close enough to back Warren’s play. The deputy stepped back quickly away from Warren’s big reaching hand; his Colt came out of his holster, cocked and ready.
“Don’t pull your strong-arm abuse on me, Warren,” Stiles said. “I won’t tolerate it.” His gun barrel stood only inches from the big man’s chest.
“You son of a bitch!” said Warren, even as he stopped short with his big fists balled at his sides. “You’ve got to answer for this! What the hell went wrong out there?”
“I’ll answer,” said Stiles, standing his ground. He glanced at Roe Pindigo, then back to Warren. “First, you tell your trained ape to point that rifle away from me.”
Warren cooled a little, realizing the deputy was not a man to take lightly.
“Roe, lower the rifle,” he said to Pindigo. “I want to hear who’s to blame for this mess.”
The gunman Pindigo stared hard at Stiles, but he turned his rifle away and slid his gun hand farther up the stock away from the trigger.
“If I was to blame, Big Jack,” said Stiles, “you can believe I wouldn’t have come out here. I would have skinned out of the territory.”
Warren settled a little more and let out a breath. Roe Pindigo relaxed a little himself, and stood listening.
“You might not want to hear this, but your son, Jackie, had a hard time listening to anybody,” Stiles said.
“Don’t speak ill of my son, Stiles,” Warren growled. “He can’t defend himself.”
“I’m just being honest,” Stiles said. “He shot Sheriff Goss down in the street. That was mistake number one.” He paused, then said, “Even so, everything else was moving right along the way we had it set to. I held the posse back, not too much, but just enough to let Jackie and the others get away without it looking suspicious—”
“What, then?” Warren said impatiently, cutting him short.
“For no reason at all, he opened fire on Will Summers, who just happened to be on the trail. He killed one of his horses. Summers said for all he knew he would be next.” Stiles paused again, then said, “So Summers returned fire. Jackie went down. So did Rochenbach. According to Summers, another one got his ear shot off.”
“Damn, what a big mess,” Warren said. “What about the money?”
“There was nothing I could do but take it back,” Stiles said. “It was there when the posse and I showed up. I couldn’t ignore it.”
“My son is dead,” said Warren. “Sheriff Goss is shot. Rochenbach is wounded.”
“And I’m the one put Rochenbach onto this job,” Roe Pindigo said.
“So Rochenbach knows it was a setup,” said Stiles.
“No,” Pindigo said to Stiles, “Rochenbach doen’t even know I work for Big Jack. I told him Langler and the others had a job coming up. Unless Jackie told him more, he doesn’t know it was all a setup.”
“I’m stuck with a bunch of counterfeit money,” Warren said in contemplation.
“Be glad you took the real money out before we set all this up,” said Stiles.
Warren nodded in contemplation. “But now I’ve got to figure how to keep the bank closed until I can slip some real money back inside.”
“Yep, that’s the problem,” said Stiles, realizing the worst was over between him and Warren, for now at least. He nodded toward the buggy growing smaller in the distance, snow swirling behind its wheels. “How much do you trust Bob Harper to keep his mouth shut?” he asked.
“How much do you, Deputy?” Warren said with a flat, level stare.
Stiles looked back and forth between the two men.
“What about these other robbers?” Stiles asked.
Warren winced slightly.
“I told Jackie to keep his mouth shut,” he said, looking down
at the ground. He shook his head. “But whether or not he told Grayson and the others is anybody’s guess now.” He looked back up at Stiles and said, “Find out for me, Deputy. Be a good lawman and clean this mess up for me, whatever it takes.”
“And…?” said Stiles, staring at Warren.
“And you’ll be taken care of for your efforts,” Warren said.
“That’s what I needed to hear from you,” Stiles said. “For the right money, it’ll all happen just like magic.” He turned to his horse and swung up into his saddle.
Big Jack Warren and Pindigo watched him ride away. Warren looked off to the northwest at a low cloudy sky.
“I expect we best get Little Jackie buried while a grave can still be dug.”
“Want me to ride out and round up your cowhands—send them in for the funeral?” Pindigo said quietly.
“Yes, you do that, Roe,” said Warren. “While you’re at it tell all of them that damned horse trader killed Little Jackie for no reason at all.”
“Consider it done.” Pindigo gave him a flat, tight grin, turned and walked away toward the horse barn.
Chapter 9
Bob Harper thought about it as he rode along in the buggy. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He wondered for a moment if he should wire Leland Sutters, the other owner of Warren & Sutters Trust Bank. After all, Sutters had a right to know about the robbery and the counterfeit money. But would Sutters be as trusting as Jack Warren? He couldn’t count on it, he decided.
He shook his head, considering everything. A bank owner’s son involved in a robbery…The town sheriff shot down attempting to defend the bank…Now a large cache of counterfeit money…!
This wasn’t banking as he’d always perceived it to be. This was not like banking in some civilized large city like, say, Chicago or Philadelphia. This was frontier banking, raw and rugged. This was lunacy! he told himself.
As he rode along he begin to consider any and all possible connections the phony money had to the robbery. When the truth begin to sink in, he whispered to himself, “Oh, Jesus,” and slapped the reins to the horse’s back. But just as he started to speed up the buggy horse, he heard Deputy Stiles call out to him. Looking back, he saw Stiles riding hard toward him from fifty yards behind. Stiles waved his hat back and forth in the air to get his attention.
“Jesus…!” Harper whispered again. But then he quickly convinced himself that whatever was going on, Stiles was not a part of it. Stiles was the law, after all. If he couldn’t trust the law, whom could he trust?
He took a deep, calming breath and slowed the buggy to a halt and waited until the deputy slid his horse to a stop alongside him.
“Couldn’t you hear me calling out to you?” Stiles said. “I must have shouted three or four times.” He looked Harper up and down. “Is everything all right? You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Oh, I’m fine, Deputy,” Harper said, feeling a clamminess beneath his hatband. He took a breath, then stopped himself and said, “No, that’s not true. I’m not fine at all. I’ve given this matter some thought and I am most upset at what I fear is going on.”
“Oh…?” Stiles stepped down from his saddle, let his reins drop and walked over to the side of the buggy and looked closely at Harper. “And what is it you think is going on?” he asked.
“I—I’m most hesitant to say,” Harper stammered, looking away, out across the rugged snow-streaked land. “I’m not sure I can trust you, Deputy.”
“Not trust me—?” Stiles cut himself short. “Look at me, Bob Harper,” he said firmly, his words alone forcing the timid banker to turn his battered face back toward him. “What did you call me?” Stiles said.
“Call you?” Harper looked shaken, intimidated. “Well, I didn’t—”
“No, you called me something,” Stiles insisted, cutting him off. “What did you call me?”
“Deputy, I’m certain I—”
“That’s right,” said Stiles, “you called me Deputy, right?” Because that’s what I am.” He tapped his thumb against the badge on his chest. “Now say it again, with me…Dep-uty,” he said distinctly, forcing Harper to recite along with him like some schoolboy.
“That’s better,” Stiles said with a smile. “I am the law, sir. There is nothing you can’t tell the law. My job is to protect and defend innocent people like yourself.”
“You’re right, of course,” said Harper.
“You better believe I’m right,” Stiles said. “Now scoot over. Let me sit there beside you. Tell me whatever it is that’s bothering you.”
Harper watched the deputy spring up into the driver’s seat and set the buggy’s brake.
“I have a feeling Mr. Warren has tried to rob his own bank, Deputy,” Harper said. Stiles sat turned toward him in the buggy seat.
Stiles gave him a strange look and smiled.
“Rob his own bank? Now, why on earth would a man like Jack Warren do a thing like that?” he asked.
“I don’t know why, except that he has never been happy owning only half of the bank,” said Harper. “He hates Leland Sutters, I can tell.”
“He’s told you this?” Stiles stared at him dubiously.
“Well…no, not in so many words,” said Harper. “But why he would rob his bank is not my concern,” he said, brushing that question aside. “I believe he needed big money, so he set up the bank for his son, Jackie, and some others to rob. He didn’t trust them handling the money, so he planted counterfeit money in the bank.”
Stiles continued to stare at him, appearing engrossed.
“Go on,” he said.
“Big Jack already has the real money,” said Harper. “He switched it the night before the robbery. He was there late, going over some records—something he seldom ever does,” he pointed out. “His hope was for the robbers to get away. The counterfeit money would never be seen, and he’d have the real money. Sutters and the town would have to take half the loss.” His eyes gleamed a little. “A fifty percent return on capital is quite enough reason for him to do it, wouldn’t you say, Deputy?”
Stiles stared at him, considering it.
“Deputy…?” Harper repeated, after a moment of blank silence.
“Yes, right….” Stiles batted his eyes, coming out of deep thought.
“You do believe me, don’t you?” Harper asked.
“It is a stretch, but yes, I believe you,” said Stiles. He slipped a knife from his boot well.
Harper gasped. But then he settled when he saw Stiles take one of the buggy reins in hand and slice a three-foot length of leather from the end of it.
“Wha—what are you doing, Deputy?” Harper asked, his voice trembling.
“I’m going to choke you to death, Bob,” Stiles said calmly, with the slight trace of a smile.
“You’re…not serious?” Harper asked, almost smiling himself at such an improbable notion.
“Oh yes, I’m serious,” Stiles said, wrapping one end of the leather reins around his left hand for a good grip.
Harper saw that he meant it; he reacted quickly. Snatching a small pepperbox derringer pistol from inside his black suit coat, he aimed it shakily at Stiles.
“Stay away from me!” he shouted.
But Stiles backhanded the small pistol away and sent it bouncing out across the buggy horse’s back. The horse jerked once against the buggy brake, then settled.
“No, no!” Harper shouted. He turned to leap from the other side of the buggy. But Stiles slung the length of leather reins around his throat from behind him and jerked tightly, garrote-style.
“Why? Why?” Harper rasped just before his breath cut off.
“Because it’s so much quieter this way, Bob,” Stiles whispered close to his ear, his pleasant expression unchanged.
Harper’s shoes dug and kicked against the wooden floor of the buggy. His arms flailed wildly. He reached back and clawed at Stiles’ cheek, but the deputy quickly bowed his head, jammed it into the center o
f Harper’s back between his shoulder blades and held tight. Harper bucked bounced and clawed at the leather buggy seat. But soon it was over.
Stiles sat in silence, staring out across the snow-dusted terrain. He put both ends of the leather rein in his right hand and continued holding on while he took a deep breath and let the banker’s body roll down onto the buggy floor.
“All right,” he murmured, “that’s done.” He unwrapped the length of leather rein and dropped it on the buggy floor. He stepped down from the buggy and straightened his clothes.
Looking over at the hills skirting the snowy flatlands, he studied a high ridgeline where he’d seen a pack of animals move along at a low run while he’d sat listening to the banker’s story and acting as he really gave a damn.
What were they? Wolves? Coyotes? At this time of day, in broad daylight…?
It was one or the other, he’d decided, knowing how the changing weather had wildlife acting out of the ordinary. Whichever it was, he was sending it a feast, still warm, he told himself, stepping forward, taking the buggy horse and turning it toward the hills.
With a gloved right hand he gave the horse a sharp slap on its rump and sent it racing straight toward the hills.
“Enjoy…,” he said quietly toward the treed hillside as he watched snow flair up from behind the buggy’s spinning wheels.
This was good, he told himself. When the time was right he could ride out in a day or so and find the buggy easy enough. That would bode well for him, he thought, smiling.
He turned to his horse to step up into the saddle. When the horse nickered and shied a step, Stiles grabbed the saddle horn and shook it roughly before swinging up.
“Careful I don’t send you to the hills too,” he warned the horse under his breath, turning it, tapping his heels to its sides.
Late afternoon, inside the convalescence rear room of the doctor’s office, Sheriff Goss sat propped up in bed against two feather pillows. On either side of the bed stood the druggist, Martin Heintz, and Richard Woods, the mercantile owner. At the foot of the bed stood Eric Holt, pad and pencil in hand, busily taking notes. When the doctor came in stirring a spoon around in a glass one-third full of a cloudy liquid, he gave the two men a stern look.
