by Ralph Cotton
“He knows about the money being counterfeit,” Stiles said hurriedly.
“What?” Pindigo said, annoyed. He opened the door wider.
“Don’t blame me,” Stiles said. “One of the robbers had some of the stolen money on him. Summers killed him and found the money—saw it was fake right off.”
“Damn it,” said Pindigo. “What about Harper, will he be opening his mouth if this horse trader starts pressing him hard enough?”
Stiles gave the gunman a sly grin. “If Summers talks to Harper, he’ll be talking to wolves’ asses.” He gave a dark chuckle.
But Pindigo only stared coldly at him.
“Meaning what the hell, exactly?” he said dryly.
“Meaning I killed him and let the wolves eat him,” Stiles said, his chuckle and sly grin both gone.
Pindigo’s shotgun hammers cocked. The double barrel tipped up and pointed at Stiles’ chest.
“From now on say what you mean the first time. I hate a turd who can’t talk straight out.”
“Sorry,” said Stiles, staring at the cocked shotgun. “I won’t do that again.”
“That would be wise of you,” Pindigo said. He stepped back and to the side, letting the shotgun barrel drop down from Stiles’ chest. “Now come on in here. I’ll go up and rouse Big Jack.”
Deputy Stiles stood in the dark inside the door while Roe Pindigo climbed the stairs, holding the oil lamp up to light his way. Stiles heard Jack Warren’s gruff voice cursing in his upstairs bedroom. Then he heard Warren’s voice more clearly as the sound of footsteps started down the stairs.
“What kind of stupid son of a bitch is he?” Stiles heard Jack Warren growl.
“You’ll have to decide that for yourself,” Pindigo replied.
Stiles felt his face flush, hearing himself discussed in such a manner and tone. He took a deep breath and settled himself as the two came down into view in the glow of the lamplight.
“Mr. Warren, sir, I hate waking you at this hour, but I thought you’d better be made aware,” he said as Big Jack stepped off the bottom stair and stood in front of him in the wavering lamplight.
“It better be a damned good reason,” Warren said, an unlit cigar hanging between his thick fingers.
“I was telling Pindigo here,” Stiles said, “that Summers killed Lewis Fallon and found counterfeit money on him.”
“Damn it to hell,” said Warren. He bit the end off his cigar violently and spit it to the floor. He clamped it between his teeth and stared angrily at Stiles. “Thought you were handling everything for me in Gunn Point?”
“I am handling what I can,” Stiles said. “This came up out of the blue. Luckily I was there and found out, else you would have rode in not knowing.”
Warren thought about it and settled down. He puffed on his cigar when Pindigo reached around with a struck match to light it for him.
“All right, that’s true,” he said to Stiles. “What the hell is Summers still doing in Gunn Point? You should have gotten him to leave!”
“He did leave,” said Stiles, “and he took that whore with him. But four of your hands ambushed the whore. Summers her brought her body back to—”
“I heard all about Cherry Atmore,” Warren said, cutting him off with an impatient wave of a hand. “Who all has Summers told about the counterfeit money?” he asked.
“The sheriff and me,” said Stiles. “Nobody else that I know of. Harper’s dead. He can’t tell anybody anything.”
Warren puffed on the cigar and considered it for only a second. “But I did sign his receipt pad for him before he left here,” he said. “If anybody sees that, I’m cooked.”
“Those wolves didn’t leave much of him,” said Stiles. “I wouldn’t worry about paperwork showing up. Even if it was lying out there, it won’t last long—snow, rain.”
“What about Summers having it?” Warren asked.
“Summers doesn’t have it,” Stiles said. “I know how he thinks. If he had it, he would have said so right off.”
“That being the case, nobody can say I took the money from Harper. I never saw it after it was stolen.” He looked at Pindigo as he spoke. “Harper stole it, far as anybody can ever say.” He puffed on the cigar and blew out a stream. “I ride in tomorrow, open the bank with my own money, honorable man that I am.” He grinned. The townsfolk should applaud me for it—making good on the stolen money, not even waiting for my partner, Leland Sutter, to come up with his share.”
“But this isn’t how you had it planned,” Pindigo reminded him.
“No, I had it planned that I come out with all my money free and clear and some to boot. But that’s not where it stands now. I’ll sit on things until the circuit judge has come and gone, then start taking my money back out a little at a time.” He looked at Stiles and said, “Maybe by then the poor sheriff will have gone on to a better place…. Maybe this horse trader will have gone along with him.” He gave Stiles a knowing look.
“Goss has made Summers a deputy,” Stiles said. “When you ride in you watch your step. He knows one of your cowhands killed the whore.”
“Damn,” said Warren. “He’s the one supposed to be worried about me, for killing my son. Now you’re telling me to watch my step?”
“I’m just saying—”
“Hold on, Big Jack,” Pindigo said. “I think you should stay out of town. Let me ride in tomorrow. You need a new manager. I’m him. I can feel things out, make sure nobody is able to point a finger at you for anything. Like you said, once the circuit judge has come and gone, we’ll clean this all up on our own terms.”
Warren puffed on his cigar and nodded his head.
“Good thinking, Roe,” he said. He looked at Stiles and said in a critical tone, “See why he is who he is?” He blew out a long stream of smoke and said confidently, “When this is all over, he’ll serve me the horse trader’s heart for breakfast.” He looked at Pindigo. “Am I right, Roe?”
Pindigo gave an arrogant toss of his head.
“Would you like it medium or well done?” he asked.
Chapter 18
Summers spent the night at the Gunn Point Hotel, in a room that overlooked the main street and provided a good view of the surrounding land in every direction. At a corner table, his back to a wall, he had a hot breakfast of thick bacon, fried eggs and hot coffee. When he’d paid for his meal, he put on his coat and hat, picked up his rifle from against the wall and walked out onto street. He walked in the street alongside the boardwalk, his breath steaming in the crisp, cold air.
Before stepping onto the boardwalk out in front of the sheriff’s office, he looked at Deputy Stiles’ horse standing lathered and hard ridden at the hitch rail. As he walked up toward the front door, he saw Danny Kindrick come around the corner of the alley leading back to the livery barn.
“Morning, Will Summers,” Danny said. “Or should I start calling you deputy now?”
“Whichever suits you, Danny,” Summers said. He watched the young livery hostler take the reins to Stiles’ horse and lead it toward the livery barn.
“Got to go,” Danny said. “I have to get this horse grained and rubbed down before I go get the prisoner some breakfast this morning.”
Summers had a pretty good idea where Stiles had been riding the horse to get the animal so lathered and worn. But he wasn’t going to mention it. Neither would Stiles unless he’d been up to no good. Stiles didn’t have to explain where he’d ridden his horse. But if he brought it up at all, it would be in an attempt to square himself.
As soon as Summers closed the door behind himself, Stiles stood up from behind the sheriff’s desk and handed him the deputy’s badge from inside the drawer.
“There you go,” Stiles said. “I shined it up some for you. I know you were tired last night and been through a lot, Cherry’s death and all. I hope you’re feeling better this morning.”
“Obliged,” Summers said, taking the badge and looking it over as he turned it in his hand. “I’ll pin it o
n later.”
“Whatever you think is best,” Stiles said. He gestured a nod toward the hitch rail out front. “You probably saw Danny leading my horse to the barn?”
Yep, here it comes…, Summers told himself. He didn’t reply; he just stared at Stiles.
“Yeah,” Stiles said, “I rode out late last night to see Big Jack Warren. I wanted to make sure I knew what to tell folks about him opening the bank today.”
Summers only stared without comment.
“I figured it’d be best for your sake if I got an idea what you should expect when he gets here, eh?”
Summers made no response.
“Good news,” Stiles said, “we won’t have to worry about it. He’s not coming. He’s sending his man, Roe Pindigo, to reopen the bank. Jack Warren is talking coolheaded about what happened. He said if the shooting was in self-defense, he has to abide by the same code as everybody else, like it or not. I think that’s big of him, don’t you?”
“Yeah, real big of him,” said Summers, not buying a word of it. He noted the name Roe Pindigo, but he said nothing. The less he spoke, the more Stiles felt he needed too.
“I suspect that’s why he’s not coming to town anytime soon. He’s so broken up and ashamed over what happened with Little Jackie, he doesn’t want to show his face for a while.”
No, not a word of it…, Summers told himself.
“What about the counterfeit money?” he said.
“What about it?” said Stiles.
“You told him about it, didn’t you?” Summers said.
“No, I didn’t,” Stiles said. Then he followed up quickly, saying, “But he already knew about it.” He looked amazed and said, “Don’t ask me how.”
Summers still just stared. He could tell the deputy was lying. But he would let it lie for the time being. He could tell Stiles was worried now, not at all calm and confident as he’d been before. Stiles was being just clear enough to try to save the situation, but not so clear that he couldn’t jump back at any minute and let Warren take the blame for everything if it fell apart. The deputy was like a man who had stepped in manure and was trying to get it off his boots without it being seen.
“Anyway, here’s some more good news,” Stiles said. “Warren said he’d already made arrangements to replace the counterfeit money with his own money, just to keep the merchants from falling behind.”
Summers stared at him for a moment longer, as if running it all through his mind. “So Harper did give him the money the day you and Harper were both out at his place?”
“No, he says Harper gave him nothing,” said Stiles. “I believe him.”
“What happened to the carpetbag you saw?” Summers said flatly. “Think the wolves ate it?”
“That’s got me puzzled, I have to admit,” Stiles said. “But with all the hard cases prowling around out there, who’s to say? Could be, some of them found the money and lit out with it.” He gave a casual shrug that Summers knew he didn’t feel. “We might never know what become of it.”
“No, we’re going to know, Deputy,” Summers said. “I’m going to find out. You can count on it.”
Stiles just nodded and looked all around the dingy sheriff’s office.
Changing the subject, he said, “Have you had breakfast yet?”
“Yep,” said Summers.
“I haven’t,” said Stiles, anxious, like a man eager to get off the firing line. “Mind if I go get some grub?”
Did he mind…? Summers noted to himself.
“Go help yourself,” Summers said, nodding toward the front door. “I’ll keep an eye on things here.”
No sooner had Stiles gone out the front door and on his way along the boardwalk than Summers walked back to the cell and saw Rochenbach standing with his good hand gripping an iron bar. He chuckled as Summers walked closer.
“He asked you if he could go get breakfast?” he said with an incredulous look.
“You heard that?” Summers said.
“I did,” said the prisoner.
“What do you think?” Summers asked.
“I think you’ve got him spooked, Will Summers,” Rochenbach said. “He’s on a hot spot and he doesn’t know which way to jump to get himself off it.”
“As a former detective yourself, how dirty would you say he is?” Summers asked, trusting Rochenbach’s opinion for some reason.
“It doesn’t matter how dirty I think he is,” Rochenbach said. “You’ve got him pegged as a murderer, I can tell by the look in your eyes.”
Summers just stared at him.
“All right,” Rochenbach said, “I say whatever is going on, he’s in it over his head. The trouble with a man like Stiles is that he’ll never come out and admit to anything. He’ll kill you when he figures his game is up.”
“That’s sort of what I’ve been wondering,” Summers said quietly.
“No, it’s not something you’ve been wondering, Summers,” he said, gripping the iron bar. “It’s something you’ve known and allowed for all along.”
“You’ve got good instincts, Rock,” Summers said. “It’s a shame you’re on that side of the bars.”
“Thanks,” said Rochenbach. “Be careful you don’t get yourself killed. Jack Warren is the kind of man who has a way of doing any damn thing he pleases and never getting called down for it.”
“I’ll take it as far as I can,” said Summers. “But I won’t step outside the law, even to see justice done.”
“If you want to bring these men to justice and stay within the law, you might as well stop now before you get your feelings hurt. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that law only works for them who live subject to it. The law means nothing to the likes of Jack Warren.”
It was noon when a northbound stagecoach rolled into Gunn Point through a flurry of dust and snow, and Circuit Court Judge Hugh Louder stepped down onto the street. The tall, dapper man carried a dark leather-trimmed carpetbag in his hand and wore a tall stovepipe hat above a long black overcoat, black gloves and a black and gray wool muffler.
Deputy Stiles spotted the judge from a block away, yet managed to be at his side almost before the man’s high-top shoes touched the ground.
“Your Honor, Judge Louder,” Stiles said, touching his fingers to his hat brim and reaching out to take the judge’s travel bag from his hand. “Please, allow me,” he said when the judge refused to turn the carpetbag loose.
“Do I know you, young man?” the judge said coldly, hanging on to the bag.
“Deputy Parley Stiles, Your Honor,” Stiles said. “We met on your last trip through Gunn Point. I had just become Sheriff Goss’s deputy.”
“Yes, of course,” the judge said, turning loose of the bag as he recognized Stiles. “To the hotel, Deputy.” He nodded in the direction of the Gunn Point Hotel a half block away. “I mustn’t tarry. The stage continues on to Whiskey Flats in three hours. I have time to eat, wash and rest at the hotel, then climb back inside that blasted rolling torture device. How is the sheriff?” he asked without pausing for a breath. “I received a wire that he had been shot in an attempted bank robbery?”
“Yes, that’s true,” Stiles said, stepping over toward the boardwalk, the judge right beside him. “It’s a serious chest wound, Your Honor, but he appears to be holding up well so far.”
The two walked along the boardwalk toward the hotel.
“I take it he’s convalescing at Dr. Meadows’?” the judge asked sidelong, walking at a brisk pace.
“Yes, Your Honor, he is,” said Stiles.
“Then I’ll want to visit him first thing,” said the judge. “Take my bag to the hotel. Tell the clerk I’ll require my usual room for the next three hours.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Stiles. “I’ll take care of all that. Once you’ve gotten settled into your room, you’ll probably want to get with me and discuss how things are going here in Gunn Point.”
The judge stopped in the middle of the boardwalk and stared at him.
> “Is Sheriff Goss unable to speak, then?” he asked.
“No, Your Honor,” said Stiles, “but he tires quickly and I’m the one who can tell you about the robbery incident and the prisoner I apprehended.”
“Oh, you caught one of the felons?” the judge said, appearing impressed. “Good work, Deputy! Yes, perhaps I will want to talk to you. Please remain available until after I visit Sheriff Goss.”
“Yes, Your Honor, I will,” said Stiles. He left Judge Louder’s side and walked into the lobby of the Gunn Point Hotel as the judge walked on toward the doctor’s office.
Inside the convalescence room, Sheriff Goss and Will Summers stopped talking and turned toward the door as Judge Louder and the doctor walked in.
“There he is, Your Honor,” said Dr. Meadows. “Please don’t wear him out.”
“I’ll try not to,” said the judge, taking off his tall stovepipe hat. He gave the doctor a dismissing nod. The doctor took the hint and left the room as the judge walked over and stood looking down at the wounded sheriff.
“Howdy, Your Honor,” said Goss, his voice still weak but improving, “I hope you haven’t…cut something short.”
“Nonsense, Turner,” he said, calling his old friend by his first name. I was headed this way when I received the wire. I am en route to Whiskey Flats in three hours.” He stooped down enough to put a hand on Goss’ shoulder. “How are you, Sheriff?”
“I’m going to be all right, thanks,” Goss said. “I’m glad you’re here. We’ve had quite a stir of things.” He shifted his eyes to Summers and asked the judge, “Do you know Will Summers, Your Honor?”
“The horse trader…,” the judge said. He looked Summers up and down appraisingly. “I’m familiar with the name, but I have not had the pleasure.”
“Well, you have now,” said Goss. He gestured a weak hand back and forth between the two. “Will here has agreed to be my deputy. He’ll help Deputy Stiles until I…get back up and around.”
The two exchanged a courteous nod.
