by Ralph Cotton
“We’re all obliged for your help, Will Summers,” the judge said. “Were you here in Gunn Point when the bank robbery occurred?”
“No, Your Honor,” Summers said. “I crossed paths with the robbers while they were making their getaway. Their leader shot one of my horses.”
“I see,” the judge said.
“Will here foiled their plans,” Goss said, all the talking starting to weaken him again. “He killed one, wounded another one—shot another one’s ear off.” He chuckled and coughed. “The one he wounded is in jail right now. I hope you’ll try him right away, get him off my town’s expenses.”
“I’ll try him as soon as I return here from Whiskey Flats,” said the judge. Is he the one your other deputy captured?” he asked. “He was just telling me about it on the way to the hotel.”
Summers and Goss looked at each other.
“Deputy Stiles didn’t capture anybody, Your Honor,” Goss said. “Will Summers did.”
“Oh, then perhaps I misunderstood,” the judge said, even though he knew better. He looked at Summers, wanting to hear what he had to say about Stiles claiming to have captured the prisoner.
But Summers made no comment on the matter. Instead he said quietly, “There’s a lot to be talked about, Your Honor.”
“Indeed…?” The judge looked at Sheriff Goss.
“I’m going to let Summers talk to you about it, Your Honor,” said Sheriff Goss. “Since he is the man responsible for catching the prisoner and stopping the town from losing its money.”
“Very well, then,” said the judge, looking back at Will Summers. “After I’ve visited with my friend here, I look forward to hearing everything over a nice hot bowl of stew.”
_____________
Inside the abandoned relay station at the edge of Gunn Point, Henry Grayson lay propped against a wall in a corner, holding a blanket wrapped tightly around him in addition to his winter riding duster. Still, he shivered out of control, his teeth chattering so violently that the bandage on the side of his head pulled loose and hung down his jaw. His black swollen ear lay exposed, its stitches oozing a mixture of blood and greenish puss.
Cole Langler stepped down the ladder from the lookout post above the roof and walked over to him. Looking down at the swollen, blackened ear, he made a face of disgust.
“It’s getting to where I can smell it across the room,” he said.
“D-d-d-don’t you worry about it,” Grayson said, shaking all over.
Langler gave a dark chuff of a laugh and shook his head.
“Are you going to die on me, Henry?” he said.
“N-n-no,” said Grayson, keeping the shaking under control just long enough to reply. “I’m g-g-going to be all right.”
“Like hell,” said Langler. “Look at you. Your hands are shaking so bad you can’t take a piss without jerking yourself off.”
Grayson just stared at him coldly, clasping his shaking hands together to keep them under control.
“Lewis Fallon’s ear is not working out for you,” Langler said. “It’s blacker than a crow’s ass. You need me to slice it off of there before it’s too late.”
“St-stay aw-way from me, Cole,” Grayson side. “This sh-shaking just comes and g-goes. It’ll p-pass.”
“Only thing that’s going pass is you, Henry,” Langler said. “I never should have sewed it on for you. All that talk about sewing ears on is malarkey.”
“Th-they do it all th-the time,” Grayson said, picking up the bottle of rye standing on the floor beside him. He uncorked the bottle shakily and managed to raise the bottle to his trembling lips and take a long drink. In a few seconds the shaking subsided a little, as it had been doing for a time when the whiskey washed through his system.
He relaxed and took a breath, and raised his fingertips to the black throbbing ear.
“Hurts too, don’t it?” said Langler, seeming to enjoy Grayson’s pain and malady. “All those times they sewed somebody’s ear on, it was that person’s own ear. All you’ve done is turned yourself into Frankenstein’s monster.”
Grayson took another long drink and stared at him. “If you thought all this, why’d you sew the damn thing on for me?”
Langler shrugged, reached for the bottle, took it and rounded his palm over the top before taking a drink.
“I expect you never know until you try,” he said. He took a long swig of the rye and wiped his hand across his lips. “But now it’s time I slice that puppy off there and we go on and rerob this blasted bank.” He paused, then said, “If they ever open the damn bank, that is.”
“Frankenstein’s monster…,” Grayson said under his breath, his brow lowered in a dark, menacing expression. “That is one hell of a thing to call me.”
“You bring things on yourself, Henry, when you do stupid things.” He shook his head. “Wearing another man’s ear. Whoever heard of such a thing?”
Grayson just stared at him, unable to think clearly for a moment. A string of saliva spilled slowly from his lower lip. For a moment he thought he saw two Cole Langlers standing there pointing and laughing at him.
No-good son of a bitch…, he said to himself.
Chapter 19
Will Summers and Judge Louder sat in a small side room of Gramm’s Restaurant, the judge eating and listening, Summer sipping coffee and telling the judge everything that had happened during and after the attempted bank robbery. He told him about Little Jackie Warren robbing his own father’s bank; about the stolen money being counterfeit; about the death of the bank manager, Bob Harper; and about Stiles saying Warren denied ever receiving the stolen money before Harper died. When he had finished, he sipped his coffee and watched Judge Louder’s face as the judge ran all the particulars back and forth in his mind.
“You have the length of rein?” He reiterated what Summers had mentioned early on in the conversation.
“Yes, I do,” Summers said, realizing even as he did so that the length of cut leather rein meant nothing.
“And you have the receipt pad with Warren’s signature on it even through Deputy Stiles says Warren denies having received the stolen counterfeit money?”
“Yes, I do,” Summers said, but he had a feeling the judge saw no evidence worth trying to bring a charge against Warren or Stiles, either one.
The judge fell silent for a moment.
“This is a very tricky legal situation, Deputy,” he said at length. “You have a rich wealth of circumstantial evidence, but no hard proof that links anyone to anything that has happened.” He shrugged. “The bank was robbed. But was Jack Warren involved in some conspiracy to rob his bank partner’s share of their partnership?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid that would be most difficult to prove based on what you’ve told me. At best, I’m afraid all you have are suspicions. Accurate though they may be, they will not support bringing Jack Warren or his alleged accomplices before my bench.”
“I see,” Summers said. “So, even though everything points to Stiles and Warren being involved in robbery and murder, unless they decided to come out and admit to it, they’ll never be brought to justice.”
“Such is the world of courtroom law, Will Summers,” the judge said. He sighed and added, “And I must tell you, I prefer this kind of law—that lets the guilty go free—to the risk of seeing the innocent punished.”
“I have to agree, Your Honor,” Summers said grudgingly. “It’s just hard to swallow when you see this happen and know there’ll never be anyone made to pay for this whole crooked incident.”
The judge nodded and sipped the last of his coffee.
“What about Avrial Rochenbach?” Summers said. “I promised him I’d talk to you on his behalf. He gave me Roe Pindigo’s name as the man who set him up with the bank robbers.”
“Avrial Rochenbach is a sad case,” said the judge. “The truth be known, he spent too much time living and working in the lairs of the criminal. I’m afraid it caused him to go wrong.”
“Nothing you can do f
or him, then?” Summers asked.
“I’m afraid not,” said the judge, “other than provide him a fair trail when I return. He did rob a bank. He shares responsibility for Sheriff Goss’ injury even though he’s not the one who pulled the trigger.”
“I understand,” said Summers in a resigned tone. “I told him I’d speak to you about him, and now I have.” He sipped the last of his coffee.
The judge eyed him closely. “I have to say, Deputy, you’re taking all of this very well. I’ve had men curse me, the court and God Almighty because the law doesn’t view things the way they think it should. You appear to have given up far too easily.” He grinned.
“I’m not a lawman, Your Honor. I’m nothing but a horse trader,” said Summers. “I’m not familiar with the law or how these things are handled. If this is how the legal game is played, I’m not the one to try to change it.” He stood up and laid a gold coin on the table for both their meals.
“Thank you for the food and the lively conversation,” the judge said. “I wish more people looked at legal matters as philosophically as you do, Will Summers. It would make life easier for everyone concerned.”
“I suppose I got caught up in wanting to see justice done,” Summers said. “This is my first time ever carrying a badge.” He patted his shirt pocket where he’d put the deputy badge.
“May I ask why you’re carrying a badge and not wearing it?” the judge asked as he and Summers walked out onto the street in the chilled afternoon air.
“Sheriff Goss hasn’t sworn me in yet, Your Honor,” Summers said. “He said it was all right for now, but I still felt strange wearing it without being sworn in officially.”
“How honorable of you, sir,” the judge said. “It is important to keep with tradition in these matters. Be sure and have Sheriff Goss take care of it as soon as he’s able. I would do it myself, but it is actually his responsibility, being the sheriff.”
“Thanks, Your Honor. I’ll see that he does it first thing,” Summers said.
They walked on, Summers’ Winchester hanging in his right hand. “Is Jack Warren going to try to kill you?” the judge asked.
“Yes, he will,” Summers said. “It’s just a matter of when. If it wasn’t for staying and helping the sheriff, I would already be gone. I need to get my string to Whiskey Flats before the weather turns bad.”
“What if I sent some territorial lawmen I trust to watch about Gunn Point? Would that free you up to leave and take care of your business?”
“Good men?” Summers asked.
“The best,” the judge said. “I’ll handpick them.”
“How soon?” Summers asked.
“I’ll wire them from Whiskey Flats tomorrow. They can be here tomorrow night, from Camp August.”
“I’d be obliged, Your Honor,” said Summers. “Why didn’t the sheriff ask you to do that to begin with?”
“He’s too weak to be thinking straight yet,” said the judge, “else he would have.” He adjusted the collar on his coat and said, “Consider it done.”
“Do me a favor, Judge,” Summers said. “Keep this between you and me?”
“Absolutely,” the judge said.
They walked on.
But before they turned in to the front door of Gunn Point Hotel, a long, terrible yell resounded out along the nearly empty street as gunfire exploded from the edge of town.
“My Lord!” Judge Louder shouted, seeing a rider burst onto the street from the direction of the old relay station and come thundering down the street toward him firing a big Colt in every direction. Townsfolk flung themselves out of the rider’s way. Buggies, wagons and saddle horses swerved off the street. Atop the charging horse sat Henry Grayson, wild-eyed, hatless, naked behind a flapping overcoat thrown open down the front.
“Get down, Your Honor!” Summers shouted, grabbing the judge with his left hand and pulling him behind the cover of a post as bullets sliced through the air past the judge’s tall top hat.
As Summers stepped away from the judge and dropped onto one knee to take aim, he saw a large round object draw back in Grayson’s hand as the gunman spun his horse and charged straight at the front of the bank building. With a loud scream, Grayson jerked his horse to a halt long enough to hurl Cole Langler’s severed head through the large glass window, knocking out frame, curtains, flower pot and all.
“I am the monster!” Grayson bellowed and sobbed. “I am the monster!”
A woman screamed shrilly as Grayson turned his horse back to the street and charged on toward Summers.
Summers took his time as bullets whistled through the air. He placed his shot in the center of Grayson’s naked, hairy chest and squeezed the trigger.
“I am the monster of Franken—” Grayson’s voice stopped midscream.
From behind the thick post, Judge Louder stared in awe as the shot exploded from the Winchester and Henry Grayson rose into the air above his galloping horse like some large bird spread-winged, ready for flight. Only instead of flying upward, Grayson flew backward, turning a terrible naked somersault. His coat flared wide open; his horse stumbled in the commotion and bowed and fell and rolled in the middle of the street in a cloud of dust and snow.
From the sheriff’s office Stiles came running, shotgun in hand. He slowed down as he approached the body lying naked in the street. Summers ran forward from the other direction and stopped and stood on the other side of the naked, bloody body, the overcoat twisted and bunched at Grayson’s shoulders. A few yards away, Grayson’s horse rolled itself upright and shook itself off.
“What happened, Summers?” Stiles asked, his finger on the shotgun’s triggers, both hammers cocked and ready to fire.
“Turn that scattergun away from me, Stiles,” Summers said firmly.
“For God’s sake, Summers,” Stiles said, “I’m not pointing it at you—” He heard the Winchester’s hammer cock; quickly he turned the shotgun away from Summers. “All right, there, satisfied?”
Summers stepped forward and looked down at Grayson, seeing the gaping bullet hole in the dead man’s chest. He saw the blackened stitched-on ear and remembered Lewis Fallon being short an ear the night the three had tried to ambush him and Cherry in the old mine camp.
“Jesus…,” Summers said. He shook his head in disbelief.
“What’s wrong?” Stiles asked.
“It’s one of the three men who tried to kill Cherry and me,” Summers said to Stiles. “The one whose ear I shot off the day of the robbery.”
Stiles stepped in closer and looked down at the naked, hairy body. The smell of whiskey and putrid flesh wafted upward to the two deputies.
“His name is Henry Grayson,” he said. “What about that ear?”
“As crazy as this sounds, I believe he cut the ear off the other man I shot and had it sewn on him,” Summers said.
Stiles looked stunned and amazed.
“Does something like that work?” he asked.
“I’m not the one to ask,” said Summers, “but I don’t think so. Look at it. No wonder he come charging up the street wild drunk and loco. He must’ve been out of his mind.”
“He threw something through the bank window,” Stiles said. “Did you see what it was?”
They looked over to where townsmen stood looking down inside the broken bank window.
“It looked like a head to me,” Summers said as the judge walked up and stood beside him, staring down at the body and its black infected ear.
“My, my,” the judge said, “I’m glad I’m only here for a stage stop, this trip. It looks like Gunn Point is going through some harsh and peculiar times.” He gave Summers a look.
“Come along, Judge,” Summers said, “I’ll walk you to the hotel.”
“I’ll get some townsmen to drag Grayson out of the street,” Stiles said.
On the way to the hotel, the judge swerved away from the front of the bank where a gathering of men still stood staring in at the floor through the broken window. Off to the side, E
ric Holt stood scribbling away in his notepad. When he looked up and saw the judge with Summers, he stopped writing and walked toward them quickly. But the judge held a hand up, stopping him from even getting close.
“Summers, if there’s going to be animosity between you and the other deputy,” the judge said, “are you going to be all right here until help arrives?”
“I’ll be all right, Your Honor,” Summers replied. “I told the sheriff I would stay and help out for a while. That’s what I’ll do until your help arrives. If the law needs to question Jack Warren, Deputy Stiles or anybody else about the incident that happened here, I’ll leave that to Sheriff Goss when he’s feeling better.”
“Good for you,” the judge said. “Sometimes the law does not appear to be working, yet over time it always manages to sort itself out some way.” He looked at Summers intently. “I hope you will take satisfaction in believing that.”
“Yes, Your Honor, I will,” Summers said. He wasn’t going to say what he really thought about the law and how it always seemed to work best for men like Jack Warren who always had a way of breaking it without being seen or caught.
At the door to the hotel, Summers tipped his hat to the judge and watched him walk inside the door. When he turned to walk back toward the sheriff’s office, he saw five horsemen riding slowly up the street toward the bank. This would be Roe Pindigo and some other Jack Warren gunmen, he thought. Here we go….
By the time he’d walked to the front of the bank, the five men had stepped down from their horses at the hitch rail, walked up onto the boardwalk to the broken window and looked inside.
“Why is a head lying in the middle of the floor?” Roe Pindigo asked loudly enough for his men and the townsmen to hear him.
Stiles hurried up from the direction of the sheriff’s office.
“There you are, Roe—I mean Mr. Pindigo,” he said, correcting himself.
Pindigo turned a flat, curious look to him and asked again in a more demanding tone, “Why is there a head lying on the floor of Mr. Warren’s bank, Deputy? Is there no law and order in this town?”
