by Ralph Cotton
Summers heard Rochenbach’s horse’s hooves pounding away along a trail leading off from behind the barn. Looking through a crack in the front door, he saw two townsmen, one in a nightshirt and an overcoat, walking toward the barn. The other one held a lantern up to light their way. As the men drew nearer, Summers walked to the rear door, gathered the reins and the lead rope, led his horses out the rear door and closed the door quietly behind them.
He walked the animals away from the barn, deeper into the moonlight, sticking to the alleyways and shadows until he got to the rear porch of the doctor’s large clapboard house. On the way past the rear of the bank, he saw a lamp glowing in the back room, and knew it had to be Roe Pindigo and his men. Their horses stood at the rear hitch rail behind the building.
He hitched his horse out of sight behind the doctor’s house and stepped up onto the doctor’s back porch. Finding the back door unlocked, he slipped inside quietly. Instead of calling out and announcing himself so late at night, he eased along the hallway to the convalescence room. Seeing a faint glow of lamplight beneath the door, he eased the door open and looked over at the bed and saw both the sheriff and Flora Ingrim lying asleep beneath a large patch quilt.
Summers smiled to himself, stepped back silently out the door, closed it and knocked on it softly.
On his second knock, he heard the soft pat of house slippers walk across the room.
“Who’s there?” Flora’s voice said on the other side of the door.
“It’s Will Summers, ma’am,” Summers said just above a whisper. “May I come in?”
The door opened a few inches and the little housekeeper looked up at him.
“Sheriff Goss is asleep,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Summers. “I just wanted to make sure he’s all right.”
Seeing the concerned look on his face in the glow of the lamp she’d carried with her from the nightstand, she opened the door a little wider.
“He’s all right,” she whispered. “But I don’t think I should wake him.”
Summers started to speak. “Ma’am, I came by to make sure everything—”
But Sheriff Goss’ sleepy voice cut him off.
“Will, is that you?” the sheriff asked, looking over from the bed.
“Come on in, then,” Flora said. She closed the door when Summers stepped inside, and she followed him to the bed and set the lamp back down on the nightstand.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Summers said.
“Don’t wear him out,” she said, patting Summers on the forearm as she turned away. “I’ll just go back to my knitting.” She gestured toward a chair where beside it a knitting basket sat on the floor.
“Sheriff, I didn’t want to wake you, but I need to keep you abreast of what’s going on here,” Summers said down to Goss’ sleepy, drawn face.
“I heard two shots a while ago,” Goss said. “Is that why you’re here?”
“It is, Sheriff,” Summers said. He eased down on the side of the bed and whispered, “Avrial Rochenbach has escaped. Two of Warren’s men took him to the barn and tried to kill him, but he got away.”
The sheriff stared at him for a moment.
“Why are we whispering?” he asked.
“Because I’m not supposed to know it happened yet, Sheriff,” Summers said. “Folks are just now going inside the barn, seeing what happened there.”
“You smell like burnt powder,” Goss said. “Are you all right?” He looked Will Summers up and down, knowing that whatever happened in the barn, Summers was there.
“I’m all right, Sheriff,” Summers assured him. “But things are going to get lively here. I want to get you somewhere safe beforehand.”
“How lively are we talking about?” Goss asked, studying Summers’ face in the soft flicker of lamplight.
“I can’t say, Sheriff,” Summers replied. “But I don’t want Warren and his men coming for you, to get to me.”
“My place is only a few miles out on the south trail,” he said.
“No,” Summers replied, “everybody knows about it. We need somewhere nobody would think to look for you.”
Goss’ eyes moved sidelong to where Flora sat knitting, then back to Summers.
“Flora, come over here, please,” the sheriff said.
The little housekeeper padded over in her slippers, her knitting in hand.
“Deputy Summers needs to hide me out for a while. Can he take me over to your place?”
Flora looked a little shocked.
“Sheriff Goss, is that going to appear untoward?” Flora said.
“It’ll be all right, Flora,” Sheriff Goss said. He looked back up at Summers and said, “She and I have been what you call ‘close’ for some time now.”
“Why, Sheriff!” Flora said, shocked.
“Cut out the pretense, Flora,” Goss said. “If I know Will Summers, he’s already figured as much.” He looked at Summers questioningly.
“Sort of,” Summers said, picturing the two beneath the quilt only a moment earlier.
“There, you see?” he said to Flora. “Now, can I stay there awhile or not?”
“Of course you can,” Flora said with a sigh. “You know you’ve been welcome there all along. You’ve just been too stubborn to ask.” She turned and walked back and sat down to her knitting.
“She lives just across the street.” Sheriff Goss whispered to Summers, “I hate her cats. She only has one, but there must be a dozen hanging around.”
“But nobody would think to look for you there?” Summers asked.
“No,” he said confidently. Summers noted his voice sounded stronger than it had since the shooting. “We’re the best-kept secret in Gunn Point since Latimer Gunn got drunk at a Chicago zoo…and shot a baboon for shaking its genitalia at him.”
“I see. Then we need to tell the doctor and get you on over to Flora’s while it’s dark out,” Summers said.
“Where does Deputy Stiles stand in all this, Will?” Goss asked. “Tell me straight out,” he added.
“He’s with Warren’s men, Sheriff,” Summers said.
“That’s too bad,” the sheriff said, shaking his head. “I had come to put a lot of faith in that man.”
“He wants your job, Sheriff,” Summers said.
“That’s only natural,” said Goss. “A good deputy always wants to be sheriff.” He gave a weak smile. “Don’t you?”
“No, Sheriff, I don’t,” said Summers. “But Stiles wants it bad enough, I believe he would kill you for it.”
Goss stared at him for a moment.
“Have you any proof of that, Will?” he asked.
“No,” Summers said, “it’s just a suspicion I’ve had since the day Cherry and I came back here with the counterfeit money.”
“I think you’re wrong,” said the sheriff. “Stiles come by here making sure I had water to drink…fluffed up my pillow.”
Water to drink…Summers thought about Stiles, the doctor and himself walking past the office and seeing the broken laudanum bottle on the floor. What was it about that broken bottle…? The way Stiles acted, the way he looked…?
He didn’t know, but whatever it was, he’d have to think about it another time. Summers turned to Flora and said, “I’ll carry him. Make sure the way is clear and I’ll follow you to your place.”
“I can walk that far if I have to, Will,” said Sheriff Goss.
“I know you could, Sheriff,” Summers said. “But not as fast as I can carry you.”
“What’s going on in here?” Dr. Meadows asked, stepping inside the room in a long, wrinkled nightshirt. He saw Summers stoop to pick the sheriff up in his arms. “Where are you going with my patient?” he demanded.
“I’m moving him, Doctor,” said Summers. “He’ll be across the street at Flora’s.”
“Whoa, you can’t move him. There’s a good chance you’ll kill him packing him like a sack of feed!”
“There’s a better chance he’ll die if I leave him here, Doctor,” Summers
said.
“The street’s all clear,” Flora called out in a hushed tone from the front porch.
“Come with us, Doctor,” Summers said. “I’ll explain everything once we get to Flora’s.”
When Roe Pindigo, Delbert Sweeney and Lyle Fisk had waited a few minutes longer, they got up from the table and walked to the livery stable, where Deputy Stiles stood inside the open door looking at the two bodies lying sprawled on the dirt floor. Four townsmen had arrived and stood gathered at the doorway looking in at the carnage, lanterns in hand.
“Everybody out of my way,” said Pindigo, shoving the men aside and walking through the door. Expecting to see Avrial Rochenbach’s body, he jolted to a sudden stop when he saw Dade Frawley and what he could only guess had been Rudy Purser.
“Damn…,” said Fisk right behind Pindigo. “Is that Rudy?”
“Beats me,” said Sweeney. “That’s Rudy’s knife sticking in his throat, whoever it is.”
“It’s Rudy, you jackass,” Pindigo said. He looked at the exploded shotgun lying on the floor. “It looks like a shotgun blew up on him.” He stepped in closer to Stiles and said between the two of them, “What the hell happened here? Where’s Rochenbach?”
“From what I make of it, he’s gone,” Stiles said, staring straight ahead as he spoke, seeing Frawley’s stockinged feet, noting that his coat was missing. “He’s dressed for the trail, not for sticking around Gunn Point.”
Noting Dade Frawley’s missing gun and gun belt, Pindigo said, “He’s armed himself with Dade’s Remington.”
“It looks like he walked through these two like they were warm butter,” said Stiles. He kicked the pair of loose handcuffs lying on the ground.
“Watch your mouth, Deputy,” Pindigo warned. “These two were pals of mine.” He turned to Fisk and Sweeney. “Get out back, see if you can find any tracks.”
“Jesus, Roe,” said Fisk. “It’s a livery barn. It’s nothing but tracks.”
“Fresh tracks, damn it! Rochenbach’s tracks!” Pindigo shouted. “See if there’s fresh tracks on this cold ground! I want that man’s head on a stick.”
The two looked at each other, knowing how useless it was going to be searching for a man like Rochenbach; but they walked out the back door and walked back and forth looking on the ground for tracks leaving the corral behind the barn.
Sweeney stopped looking. He took a short, slim cigar from his shirt pocket, lit it and blew out a stream of smoke.
“Slow down,” he said to Lyle Fisk. “If we find his tracks, the next thing you know he’s going to want us to follow them.”
“So?” said Fisk.
“So I don’t want to go traipsing around in the dark on a cold night, trying to catch a man who just left two other men dead on the ground—him in handcuffs as far as we know. Do you?”
“No, come to think of it,” said Fisk, “not when we’ve got Big Jack Warren and his gunmen riding in come morning.”
“There you have it,” said Sweeney, blowing smoke into the chilled air.
“Here’s fresh tracks,” Fisk said suddenly. “Two sets in fact! One set goes out that way. The other heads south.”
“Damn it,” said Sweeney, “you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
Roe Pindigo and Deputy Stiles stepped out through the rear door and looked at the two.
“You found two sets?” Pindigo asked.
Damn it…, Sweeney cursed to himself, upset that Pindigo had heard them talking. “Yes, we did, Roe,” he said, sounding enthusiastic. “Which one you want us to follow?”
“Split up, follow them both,” said Pindigo.
“One of them is probably the hostler, Danny Kindrick,” said Stiles. “He sleeps in an empty stall here some nights. If he was in here and woke up and heard your men questioning Rochenbach, he could be trouble too.”
“All right, damn it,” Pindigo said to the two gunmen. “Ride them both down and kill them if you can. It’ll be daylight here in a couple more hours. If you haven’t spotted them by then, turn around and get on back here. I want you both in town when Big Jack shows up.”
The two stared as Pindigo said to Stiles, “That damn horse trader has a hand in this somehow. I’d bet my hat on it.”
“So would I,” Stiles said, looking all around. “His horses are gone, but he’s still in town somewhere. When are you going take care of Will Summers once and for all?” he asked.
“Never,” said Pindigo. “Big Jack made it clear, Summers is all his.”
“Even if he’s behind this?” said Stiles.
“That’s right,” said Pindigo. “I don’t care if he pisses in your hat. Leave him be. Warren is going to kill him soon enough.”
He turned and walked back inside the livery barn. Stiles followed closely.
“See?” said Sweeney as soon as Stiles and Pindigo were out of sight. “Now we’re stuck with two hours or more in the saddle, cold as it is.”
They walked away, back toward the rear of the bank building where they had left their horses.
Inside the livery barn, Pindigo looked down at the two bodies again and kicked Frawley in anger.
“Let yourself get taken down by some half-ass former detective,” he murmured to the sprawled corpse. “Shame on you!” he raged.
Stiles and the gathered townsmen stared stunned as Pindigo’s Colt streaked out of its holster and fired shot after shot in Frawley’s limp, bloody body.
“Easy, Mr. Pindigo,” said Stiles, for the sake of the townsmen staring wide-eyed.
“To hell with these flatheads,” Pindigo said toward the four townsmen, staring at them angrily, his Colt smoking in his hand.
“Uh-oh, gentlemen,” Richard Woods said under his breath to the other three townsmen. “We need to make ourselves scarce here.”
He backed his way out the barn door, followed by the druggist, Martin Heintz, Jason Jones, the surveyor, and the telegraph clerk, Charlie Stuart. Once outside the livery barn, the four hurried farther away, then slowed to a walk and finally stopped twenty yards away.
“Holy God!” said Heintz, gasping to catch his breath. “What have we gotten ourselves into!”
“This man is dangerous,” said Stuart. “Warren must have been out of his mind making him bank manager.”
“Gentlemen, what are we going to do?” said Woods. “I depend on that bank to keep my business going. My money is in there. I’d be afraid to ask for my own money with a man like this sitting in the manager’s chair.”
Charlie Stuart said, “I’m wiring Leland Sutter, letting him know what kind of man Warren has put in charge here. I’ll tell him I speak for all of us.”
“You do that, Charlie,” said Jones. “But for God’s sake, keep quiet about it.”
“What do we do until we hear something from Sutter?” Heintz asked.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” said Woods. “I plan on just running my store, keeping my mouth shut and otherwise lying low and staying off the streets for a while.”
“Good thinking,” said Jones. “We need to spread the word, tell everyone to lie low as much as possible—stay away from the bank as long as this madman is running it.”
“Where is Jack Warren anyway?” said Stuart. “He needs to show his face here.”
Chapter 23
Delbert Sweeney had caught a glimpse of Avrial Rochenbach as Rochenbach left the flatlands and rode up into the hills in the gray morning light.
Yep, that was Rock all right, he told himself.
He had followed the set of tracks leading out across the flatlands all the way to the distant hill line. After spotting Rochenbach, he stayed on the tracks, seeing them run straight and long—a horse moving purposefully. But this last mile, the horse had slowed, its pace had broken and its direction swayed away toward a dry wash lined with dried wild grass.
You must be falling off your game, Rock, he thought.
Had he stopped to graze his horse? Sweeney asked himself, stepping down from his saddle fifty feet fr
om the edge of the wash and sliding his Spencer rifle from its boot. Warily, he followed the stretch of hoofprints to the edge of the wash and looked down.
“I’ll be damned,” he murmured, seeing the horse standing alone, bareback in the wash, and instead of wearing a bridle, with a short lead rope circling its muzzle. The animal chewed on a mouthful of wild grass. Sweeney sighed in resignation and tossed his rifle over onto the ground. Raising his hands chest high, he said over his shoulder, “Don’t shoot, Rock. I’m all in.”
Behind him, Rochenbach reached out and slipped Sweeney’s Colt Thunderer from its holster. Sweeney flinched each time he heard Rochenbach click the chamber in his free hand.
“Are you going to shoot me with my own gun?” he asked nervously.
Rochenbach uncocked the Colt and shoved it down behind his belt without answering. He took Sweeney’s hat from atop his head and put it on, feeling the warm of it on his cold forehead.
“Let me ask you something, Del,” he said amiably, stepping around in front of the gunman. “Did you ever find out the name for me?”
“Damn, Rock,” said Sweeney, “that was over a year ago you asked me that.”
“So?” said Rochenbach.
“So you show up behind me with a gun in my back and act like it’s something we talked about ten minutes ago,” Sweeney said. “Give a man a chance to collect himself.”
“Sorry, Del, but time has been running tight for me lately,” Rochenbach said. “Did you find out where Warren got the counterfeit money, or not?”
“Listen, Rock, I ain’t even supposed to know about any counterfeit money,” Sweeney said, sounding scared to even talk about it.
“Neither am I,” said Rochenbach. “But what we know or don’t know sometimes decides whether or not we live or die.”
“Now you’re threatening me?” Sweeney said. “If you’re not a detective anymore, why do you even care?”
“I rode on a bank robbery, and then I find out I was being jackpotted by the father of the man I was riding with. Warren stuffed his bank with phony money. How would you feel?” He jammed the point of the Remington into Sweeney’s back.
“Take it easy. I understand,” Sweeney said. “All I can tell you is it wasn’t the Canadians, like I thought it was. It was somebody close, maybe even in Gunn Point.”
