by Ralph Cotton
The four gunmen chuckled and watched.
“We had a shoot-out here just a little while ago,” said Stiles. He gestured toward the blood lying in the middle of the street. “A fellow named Henry Grayson went loco, started shooting up the town. He ended up throwing the head through the window.”
“Henry Grayson…” Pindigo feigned contemplation. “Now, where I do I know that name from?” He gave his men a knowing look. They chuckled and smiled and shared their private little joke.
Not only did they break the law, but now this one flaunted doing it, Summers told himself. All right, take it easy…, he warned himself. He’d done his duty; he’d reported everything to the law. The law isn’t going to do anything…. He needed to get through one more day here until the judge’s men arrived. Once he knew the sheriff was safe, he would take his horses and be away from here, he told himself.
“Who shot this Henry Grayson?” Pindigo asked.
“I did,” Summers said, not wanting Stiles to speak for him. He took a step forward, his right hand wrapped around the small of the Winchester’s stock for a fast upswing if he needed it.
“Well, well,” said Pindigo, turning and looking him up and down, “Let me guess.” He gave a flat, humorless smile. “You must be Will Summers.”
“I am,” Summers said. He glanced past Pindigo and inside the bank, seeing a large portrait of whom he could only surmise to be Jack Warren on the wall.
The gunmen bristled at the sound of Summers’ name, at the sight of him. They stood facing him, their gun hands poised and ready. Townsmen spread in a wider circle and backed away. Some took cover; others ducked away into alleys and open doorways.
“Easy, boys,” Roe Pindigo said under his breath. “If I wanted him dead, he’d be sucking dirt right now.”
Summers stood returning Pindigo’s hard stare.
Pindigo let out a breath and shook his head a little.
“You’ve got guts, horse trader, I’ll give you that,” he said. “I figured once you heard these boys and I were coming to reopen Jack Warren’s bank, you’d skin on out of here.”
Stiles cut in, saying, “I told you, he’s a deputy, like me,” he said.
“So you did,” said Pindigo to Stiles without taking his eyes off Will Summers. “Let me ask you something, Summers. Does that mean you’re bulletproof?”
Summer didn’t wait for a second threat. Without answering and without hesitation, his Winchester came up from his side, cocked, pointed at Pindigo’s chest.
The gunmen tensed, but held themselves in check.
“Whoa! Hold on!” Pindigo’s hand came away from his Colt and spread toward the men as if to hold them all in place.
Summers just stared and said nothing, his trigger finger ready to set things into action. What was there to say? Pindigo knew this same Winchester had killed Little Jackie, Lewis Fallon, Bert Phelps…. If Pindigo wasn’t certain he would kill him by now, Summers thought, this was a good time to remove any doubt.
“What’s gotten into him?” Pindigo asked Stiles, seeing there would be no talking to Summers.
“He didn’t like that bulletproof remark,” Stiles said in a low, even tone, worried himself about where he stood if Summers started dropping the hammer. “Right, Summers?” he ventured.
Summers still didn’t answer. Both Pindigo and Stiles had shown there was room to defuse this situation. But Summers didn’t jump at it right away.
“Judge Louder is in town,” Stiles said to Pindigo, hoping to stop things from going any further. “He will be until this afternoon.”
“Really, you say?” Pindigo kept his eyes on Summers as he grinned and spoke to Stiles, his hand still away from his Colt. “Well, we can’t have His Honor thinking we’re a bunch of pinch-necked gunslingers, now, can we?”
Summers offered nothing.
“Damn, what else can I say?” said Pindigo, starting to wonder himself if he would end the day with a big Winchester slug through his belly. “If you’ll ease that hammer down, horse trader, I’m willing to start all over, like this never happened.”
“Summers, let it go,” Stiles said. “Either way it spins, you know you won’t walk away. Think about Goss. He needs our help, both of us.”
Summers waited for another tense moment; then he lowered the rifle and saw Roe Pindigo breathe a little easier.
“All right, now that that’s over with, let me advise you of something, horse trader,” Pindigo said, needing to save face with his men. “I’m going to be managing this bank until Jack Warren says otherwise.” He looked at one of the men and said, “Dade, bring the money up here.” He stood staring at Summers as a gunman named Dade Frawley walked to Pindigo’s horse and came back carrying two large canvas bank bags.
“See?” Stiles said to Summers, but loud enough for the townsmen to hear him. “Mr. Warren is reopening the bank!” In a lower tone he said to Summers, “It’s good U.S. currency. Check it for yourself.”
Pindigo took both bags of money in one hand.
“Let’s get this head cleaned up and this window fixed,” he said to his men. “This bank is open for business.”
Applause rippled along the street.
But before his men made a move, Pindigo pointed a gloved finger at Summers and said beneath a narrowed brow, “You ever point a gun at me or any of my men here again, you better use it right off.”
Summers looked him up and down.
“I will,” he said flatly. “You’ve got my word.”
Chapter 20
Summers left Stiles, Pindigo and his gunmen at the bank and walked to the sheriff’s office. Inside, Danny Kindrick stood up behind the battered desk with a cleaning rod in his hand and a rifle broken down on a cloth spread in front of him.
“I saw you shoot that man!” Danny said, having looked out at the first sound of gunfire. “I would have been there, except Deputy Stiles says this prisoner is not to be left alone again.”
“I understand, Danny,” said Summers. “If you need to visit the jake, go ahead. I’m going to talk to Rochenbach.”
“Thank you, Deputy,” Danny said, wasting no time coming around from behind the desk and heading out the door. “I won’t be a minute.”
“Take your time,” Summers said.
As the door closed behind the young hostler, Summers walked back to Rochenbach’s cell and found the prisoner standing at the bars waiting for him.
“What was all the shooting?” Rochenbach asked.
“Henry Grayson rode in shooting,” said Summers. “Threw a head through the bank window and charged down the street at the judge and me.”
“A head?” said Rochenbach.
“Yep,” said Summers.
“And you stopped his clock?” Rochenbach said.
“On the hour,” said Summers.
“Did you get to talk to the judge?” Rochenbach asked.
“I did,” Summers said. “He says no deal.”
Rochenbach hung his head and shook it slowly.
“Then I’m sunk,” he said.
Summers gave him a moment of silence.
After that moment of pause, Rochenbach looked back up at Summers and said, “All the same, I’m obliged to you for trying.”
“I wish I could have done you some good,” Summers said, “even though you did rob a bank. This whole thing doesn’t set well with me. Warren sets up his own bank to be robbed, and even double-crosses his robbers by sending them away with counterfeit money. Since it was his bank he had you robbing, it makes me wonder if you should even be in jail for it.”
“It’s always this way when a rich man like Warren breaks the law. They set it up in a way it’s hard to tell the good guys from the bad,” Rochenbach said. “If the law gets too close, his next step will be to stick a lawyer between himself and justice.”
“I have to admit it makes me question the right and wrong of things,” said Summers. “I’d have a hard time sending anybody to jail for it, except Warren himself.”
“I
like the way you’re looking at it,” Rochenbach said. “I just wish I could sell it to a jury.”
“It appears the law works a lot different than I expected it would,” Summers said.
Rochenbach said, “You’re used to seeing how the law works among everyday folks like yourself. It works fast and simple. But this is law among the wealthy. The law gets more complicated, harder to understand when you throw money and influence into the mix. That’s the main thing I learned in my line of work,” he said bitterly.
“I hate disappointing you, Rock,” Summers said.
“You didn’t disappoint me too bad, Will Summers,” he said. “I prepared myself for it when you said you wouldn’t step outside the law even to seek justice. Folks like Jack Warren have moved up past legal justice. They own legal justice. It’s what they use to protect themselves from the rest of us. Jack Warren can buy a bank. Think about that.”
“I have,” said Summers, “and it sticks in my craw. It sticks so bad, I have to step away from it. It’s not something I want to think about too much. I don’t like how it makes me feel.”
Rochenbach took a breath and settled down.
“You’re right not wanting to think too much about it,” he said. “If you think on it too long and hard, it can turn you into an outlaw.” He gave him a tired smile. “Sometimes I feel like that’s what it’s done to me.”
“Are you and me square?” Summers asked, not even knowing why it mattered so much what this bank robber thought of him.
“We’re as square as we can be,” said Rochenbach. “I think you kept me from hanging. That has to be worth something. A man hates to think he spent his life working for the law and the thanks he gets is to end up swinging from a rope.” He stared at Summers.
“Come on, Rock,” Summers said, refusing to feel too sorry for him, “nobody made you throw in with these men and rob the bank. That was your choice.”
Rochenbach let out a breath.
“Yes, you’re right,” he said. “I saw the trail I was taking before I started this journey.”
“All right. It’s best that you’re able to look at it that way,” Summers said.
“I have no choice,” Rochenbach said. “Maybe I’ll learn a new craft in prison, something besides working undercover,” he added wryly.
Summers said, “I almost wish I had believed you when you told me you were working undercover.”
“It’s still not too late,” Rochenbach said. “All you’ve got to do is unlock this cell and slip me out the back door.”
“Nice try again,” Summers said. “But I am working for the law.”
“And we’ve both just discussed the kind of law it is,” Rochenbach said.
“Yes, we did,” Summers said, “but I can’t turn away from it that easy. I gave my word. I’m Sheriff Goss’ deputy.”
“Yet I don’t see a badge,” Rochenbach said. “Have you taken your oath?”
“Stop it, Rock,” Summers said. He turned to walk away.
“No, wait. Hear me out!” Rochenbach said, sounding desperate. He reached his good arm out through the bars as if to stop him.
“I’m through with it, Rock,” Summers said, hearing Danny Kindrick walk back inside and close the front door behind himself.
Rochenbach slumped against the bars and watched Summers walk away.
In the afternoon shadows, Summers stood at Judge Louder’s side and tossed his carpetbag up to the shotgun rider who stood tying down cargo atop the big Studebaker coach. Down the street in front of the bank, Summers saw three of Pindigo’s men lounging against the front of the bank building as if it were a saloon. The judge saw the look on Summers’ face as he stared toward the men.
“It should console you to know that Sheriff Goss places great store in you as an honest, levelheaded man. And having met you and discussed the incident that occurred here, I must say, I agree with him.” He smiled. “I have to say I’m surprised to know that you’re a horse trader.”
“Why is that, Your Honor?” Summers asked.
“Oh, you know, the way horse traders are publicly denounced and maligned.” He smiled. “As outsiders we tend to only see the unsavory side of your occupation.”
Summers nodded slightly.
“I suppose the same can be said of most any occupation, Your Honor,” he said.
“Indeed it may,” the judge replied, not catching any reference Summers implied. “At any rate, Sheriff Goss and I share a high opinion of you.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Summers said. “Good of you to say so.”
“I hope at some time in the future, you’ll consider pursuing a career in law enforcement. There’s room for a man like you.”
“I’m a horse trader, Your Honor,” Summers said. “I doubt I’ll ever be anything else.” He wouldn’t say what he felt like saying, that after hearing how difficult it was to bring felons like Warren to justice, he wanted nothing to do with it.
They stopped talking as Deputy Stiles walked up to them from the direction of the sheriff’s office.
“Your Honor,” he said, touching his fingers to his hat brim. “I’m sorry we never got the chance to talk while you were here.”
“I’ll be back in two weeks or less,” the judge said curtly. “I’m sure we will find time then.”
“Yes, I hope so,” Stiles said, cutting Summers a glance, seeing the flat stare he received from him.
From atop the coach the shotgun rider stood among the secured cargo and looked down from above over his rounded belly.
“Judge, climb aboard and hold on to your teeth, we are de-parting,” he said with a wide grin. He weaved through and over the cargo and plopped down in his seat beside the driver.
“God help me…,” Judge Louder murmured with a look of dread on his face.
Summers opened the stagecoach door and the judge stepped inside and plopped back into his seat. Dust puffed up around him. He fanned at it with a handkerchief.
He said with a cough, “You two take good care of the sheriff.” He gave Summers a reassuring look. But the look was cut short as the driver slapped a whip above the horses and sent them forward with a hard jolt. The judge rocked forward like a limp scarecrow, almost leaving the dusty seat. His tall hat flew off his head.
“Hang on, Judge,” the shotgun rider shouted down to him, a short-barreled shotgun wagging in his hand.
“Damn it to hell!” Judge Louder cursed as he slammed back into his seat and was gone in a rise of snow and dust.
Before the stage was even out of sight, Stiles looked up along the street at the men out in front of the bank. Then he turned to Summers.
“This will come as a surprise to you, Summers,” he said, already sounding more sure of himself, “but I’m going to the town council when they meet in two days. I’m asking to be made sheriff until such time as the doctor says Sheriff Goss is able to handle his job.”
“That comes as no surprise,” Summers replied. “I’m only surprised that you’ve waited this long to do it.”
Stiles ignored the remark.
“It needs to be done and we both know it,” he said. “And if Sheriff Goss never gets better at all, Gunn Point still needs a sheriff.”
“I understand,” Summers said, knowing that in spite of the low opinion he had of Stiles, he was right about the town needing a sheriff.
“There’s room for you too, Summers,” Stiles said. “As sheriff I’ll need myself a deputy. We both know you’d make a good one.”
“What about when Warren and his men come to kill me, Deputy? Are you going to side with me, help me shoot it out with them?”
“I’m convinced that if you’re my deputy, I can keep Warren from wanting to kill you,” he said.
“You think so?” Summers said, just seeing how far Stiles wanted to go with this. Summers knew he was lying. When the time came to draw sides, Stiles would leap into Jack Warren’s arms like a trained monkey.
“I don’t think so, Summers. I know so,” said Stiles.
“I am right,” Stiles said. He lowered his voice to a guarded tone. “Can you imagine how well two men like us could do running a place like Gunn Point? A year from now this town will be twice its size—three times more saloons, more gambling, more whoring. Somebody is going to run it. Why not me, who not you running it with me? You and I shouldn’t be against each other. We should be working together.”
Summers appeared to be considering it.
“I have heard worse ideas,” he said. “This town could also be dried up and gone a year from now.”
“All the more reason to take what’s here while the taking’s good,” Stiles said.
“Give me a day to think it over?” Summers asked. He didn’t trust a word Stiles had said. But he would buy whatever time he could to keep his word to Goss until the judge sent help. Once the territorial lawmen arrived, he would gather his horse and his string and ride away.
“Sure, think it over,” said Stiles, “but let me know soon. It’s time I move forward on this.”
Summers touched his hat brim, turned and walked away.
Chapter 21
In the night, in the back room of the darkened bank, Roe Pindigo and two of his four gunmen sat drinking and dealing cards at a round wooden table. Dim light from an oil lamp flickered on their faces. The other two gunmen, Dade Frawley and a young Texan named Rudy Purser, had left through the rear door only a moment earlier.
Across the table from Pindigo, a gunman named Delbert Sweeney threw his cards onto the table in disgust.
“That’s it for me,” he said. “I’ve been throwing good money after bad all night.” He looked all around the stockroom, at shelves stacked with flat folded bank bags, stacks of paperwork and a gem and gold scale. “I never figured I’d ever see myself in a bank, playing poker. I feel out of place here without a mask on my face and a gun in my hand.”
“You can wear your mask, if it makes you happy,” said a lanky gunman named Lyle Fisk, studying his cards. “We all have our peculiarities.”
Pindigo chuckled.
