by Ralph Cotton
“Tell Pindigo and Stiles to step out onto the street,” he said. If he made a run, it would have to be down another alleyway. He didn’t want those two already halfway down an alley with a head start.
Warren shrugged and said, “Roe, Stiles, both of you come on out. Watch the show.”
The two moved out warily into the street, spreading out, half facing Warren, half facing Summers.
Warren and Summers moved around slowly until they faced each other down the middle of the street, twenty feet between them. Summers held his Winchester in his left hand, but his right hand poised at the Colt holstered on his hip.
He watched Warren pull his riding duster back behind his holstered Colt and hold his hand poised near the gun butt. But as he reached for the Colt, he called out to the waiting gunmen, “Kill him!”
Not taken by surprise, Summers fell back along the street, firing as he went, toward the cover of a large freight wagon.
Even as bullets whistled past his head, he saw one of his shots nail Warren high in the chest and send him staggering about in place. Stiles and Pindigo were closest to him. He turned his shots toward them. But as he did so, he saw Stiles fall forward with a gaping bloody hole in his chest—hit from behind by a rifle shot from the roofline above the bank.
The roar of a rifle above them caused the gunmen to turn and look up just long enough to give Summers an edge. Instead of ducking behind the wagon, he dropped prone to the dirt, the butt of the Winchester coming to his shoulder. Here was his stand, he thought stubbornly, live or die.
His Winchester sent Pindigo flying backward into the dirt. As he turned to fire at the other gunmen, he saw another rifle shot from the roofline nail Luther Passe and send him flying brokenly to the dirt. Two Horse and Buddy Moon, seeing everyone falling around them, turned and ran without firing another shot. Big Jack Warren, staggering in the street, turned and raised his Colt toward them.
“You damned cowards!” he tried to shout in a broken, bloody voice.
“It’s still you and me, Big Jack,” Summers said, standing from the dirt, his Winchester smoking in his hand. He drew his Colt, raised it to arm’s length and cocked it toward Warren.
“I don’t…want no more,” Warren said, almost in a pleading tone.
“I didn’t figure you did,” Summers said. “But I do.” The Colt bucked once in his hand and Warren fell backward, dead on the ground. A puff of snow and dust rose around him.
Summers turned to face the roofline. He wasn’t sure who was up there, but it was time he found out.
As townsfolk ventured out of hiding, Summers walked along the side of the bank building to the rear and ascended a set of wooden stairs to a platform where a ladder led ten feet up onto the tin roof.
As soon as he stepped onto the roof and looked across it toward the street, he saw Avrial Rochenbach lying hunched up against the front facade, a Spencer rifle lying across his lap.
“Jesus…! So it was you,” said Summers, seeing Rochenbach’s bloody shoulder and left arm, the same shoulder he’d been wounded in the day of the bank robbery. As he walked toward the wounded man, he said, “Who shot you, Rock?”
“Take one guess,” Rochenbach said flatly. “Who’s shot me or cracked my head every time I turn around lately?”
Summers glanced around, then stooped down beside him.
“My shot hit you, earlier?” Summers said.
“Yep, a ricochet,” said Rochenbach.
Summers shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, Rock. I had no idea you’d come back to help me.”
“I didn’t,” Rochenbach said. “I came back to kill Holt and burn his newspaper to the ground. I saw what was going on. I couldn’t leave you stuck in it, not after you saved my life.”
“Obliged,” said Summers. “But why’d you kill Holt and burn his newspaper down anyway?”
“Holt is the man who was running a counterfeit ring I’ve been investigating for a long time,” Rochenbach said. “I came back, broke into his building and found the printing equipment he’s been using. That’s where Warren’s phony money came from.”
“So you were never out to nail Warren’s men for bank robbery—?”
“No,” said Rochenbach, “I just threw in with them to see what I could find out about the phony money that kept popping up across the territory. I’m not a Pinkerton, I work for the United States Secret Service—Treasury Department. Been there from the start, in ’sixty-five.” He gave him a thin smile. “I’m the only agent who operates under the guise of being a Pinkerton gone bad.”
“It seems to work for you,” Summers said. “I’m baffled by it.” He paused, then said, “But why’d you kill Holt? Why didn’t you arrest him?”
“I seldom arrest anybody,” Rochenbach said. “Word gets out. It makes it hard for me to keep doing my job among these hardcases. Besides, it was going to be hard to prove.” He shrugged his good sholder.
“That’s it?” Summers asked, sensing there was some-thing more to it.
“No, there’s more,” Rochenbach admitted. “I wanted revenge. Holt got Cherry Atmore started on the dope. She had given me my first lead on Warren passing counterfeit money. She and I had gotten real close after that.” He stared at Summers. “Do I need to say any more?”
“No, I suppose not,” said Summers. “But the dope was her choice. Nobody made her smoke it.”
“I know,” said Rochenbach. “That’s what everybody always says. But it’s deeper than that. Anyway, he didn’t start her on it because she was helping me. He didn’t even know she was. He got her started on it because he was a sneaking, no-good turd. So I burned his building down for counterfeiting—I killed him for the grief he caused in Cherry’s life. Hell of a strong position I’m in, being able to do something like that.”
“Why are you telling me all this stuff, Rock?” said Summers. As he spoke he picked up the Spencer rifle from across Rochenbach’s lap and helped him to his feet. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell?”
“Who are you going to tell, your horses?” Rochenbach smiled as they crossed the roof toward the ladder. “Anyway, who’d believe all this?”
“Beats me,” said Summers, wiping blood from his forehead as they stopped and prepared to climb back down from the bank roof.
“All this will play down to a rich young man robbing his own father’s bank. Everything else was just the aftermath of it.” He grinned. “It’s one more incident on this wild frontier that’s best forgotten over time.”
Summers shook his head and said, “The judge’s men will be here sometime today. The less said about any of this, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Rochenbach. “Keep it simple.”
“Yeah, simple…,” said Summers. He looked him up and down appraisingly. “Let’s climb on down from here, get you over to the doctor.” He added, “I’ve still got horses to deliver.”
Avrial Rochenbach’s story continues with the first book in a brand-new series!
Don’t miss a page of action from America’s most exciting Western author, Ralph Cotton.
MIDNIGHT RIDER
Coming from Signet April 2012.
Denver City, Colorado Territory
In the silvery light of dawn, U.S. Secret Service Agent Avrial Rochenbach stepped down from his big dun out in front of the seedy Great Westerner Hotel, located on the outskirts of Denver City. He unwrapped a wool muffler from around his bare head and left it hanging from his shoulders. He looked back and forth along the street, which had just started to come to life for the day. A curl of steam wafted in his breath.
Scabbed onto the right side of the hotel stood Andrew Grolin’s Lucky Nut Saloon. On a faded, hand-painted sign above the saloon, a large nut—of a variety Rochenbach was unfamiliar with—stood upright between a large frothy mug of beer and two large tumbling dice.
Rochenbach spun his reins around an iron hitch rail, stepped onto the boardwalk and inside the Lucky Nut. Before he’d made three steps ac
ross the stone-tiled floor, two gunmen at the bar turned toward him quickly.
“Whoa! Stop yourself right there,” one called out, a Henry rifle in his hand, leveled at Rochenbach. “Did you hear anybody say we’re open for business yet?”
Rochenbach made no reply; he didn’t stop either. He continued across the floor, his forearm carelessly shoving back the right side of his long wool coat, where a black-handled Remington stood across his lower belly.
On the other side of the bar, Andrew Grolin looked up from counting a thick stack of money, a big black cigar in his teeth. He stalled for a second before saying anything, observing how everyone handled themselves.
“Hey, sumbitch! Are you deaf or something?” the same gunman called out to Rochenbach, he and the other gunman spreading a few feet apart, ready for whatever came next.
Grolin already saw what was coming if he didn’t do something to stop it. A belly rig like this? The slightest move of either of his men, this newcomer would pivot left a half turn. The big Remington would slip out of its holster as if his body had moved away from it and left it hanging midair. It would come up to arm’s length, slick and fast—bang, you’re dead! Grolin thought.
“It’s all right, Spiller, I’ve been expecting this man,” he said at the last second, before the scene he’d played out in his head began acting itself out on the floor.
“Whatever you say, boss,” said Denton Spiller.
The two men backed a step; Spiller eyed the bareheaded newcomer up and down as Rochenbach stopped and returned his stare, his long wool coat still pushed back out of the way on his right side. The wool muffler hung from his shoulders.
“You need to be more careful how you enter a room, mister,” the gunman cautioned him, lowering his rifle barrel almost grudgingly.
“Obliged,” Rochenbach said flatly, “I’ve been working on it.” He let his coat fall back into place now that the rifle barrel wasn’t pointed at him.
Rochenbach held the gunman’s stare until Andrew Grolin took his cigar from his mouth and looked back and forth between the two, still appraising, still gauging the tensile of each man’s will.
“Spiller,” he said, “you and Pres meet Avrial Rochenbach.” He turned his eyes to Rochenbach. “Rock, this is Denton Spiller and Preston Casings. Two of my best damn men.”
Rochenbach nodded; the two nodded in return. None of the men raised their hands from gun level.
“I heard of you, Rochenbach,” said Casings. “You’re the Midnight Rider, the fellow who prefers working in the dark of night.” He looked Rock up and down. “Also the fellow who got himself chased out of the Pinkertons.”
“Really…?” said Spiller to Rochenbach with a cold stare. “How does that feel, getting chased out?”
“I can show you,” Rochenbach said.
Spiller started to bristle.
“Easy, men,” Andrew Grolin said with a short, dark chuckle. He gestured to Spiller and said, “You and Pres take a walk. I want to talk to Rock here in private. He’s going to be riding with us.”
“Come on, Dent,” said Pres, half turning toward the front door.
“Rock, huh? That’s the name you go by?” Spiller asked, not giving it up yet.
Rock stared at him. So did Andrew Grolin. Ordinarily Grolin would have had none of this—a man not doing what he was told right away. But he knew this was good. It showed him who he could count on when the going got tight.
“Friends call me that,” Rochenbach said.
“Yeah? What do them who are not your friends call you?” Spiller asked, his contempt for this newcomer showing clearly in his eyes, his voice.
“Nothing, for long,” said Rochenbach.
The threat was there, but it took a second for Denton Spiller to catch it, and that second was all Grolin needed to decide the better of the two—at least when it came to showing their fangs. It might be a different story when it came to hard testing. But for now, he’d seen enough. So far Rochenbach was living up to everything Grolin had heard about him.
“How’s that walk coming along?” he asked Spiller in a stronger tone.
Spiller didn’t answer. He jerked a nod toward the front door.
Grolin and Rochenbach watched as Casings followed Spiller out of the saloon.
After the two had moved along the street and out of sight, beyond reach of the large front window, Rock turned to face Grolin behind the bar.
“Cowboy Pres Casings…,” he said.
“Yep,” said Grolin. He eyed Rochenbach. “Used to be a man who called him Cowboy would be warming his feet in hell before he got the words out of his mouth.”
“I didn’t name him,” said Rock.
“I know,” said Grolin, sweeping up the cash from atop the bar. “Call it friendly advice.”
“Taken as such,” Rock said.
“I was surprised you heard of him at first,” Grolin said, eying Rochenbach. “Then I remembered you must know lots about us ol’ boys who drop gun hammers for a living.”
“I do,” said Rock. “Does it bother you, my having worked for the law?” he asked.
“I don’t bother easily,” said Grolin. “Not to piss on your hoecake, but I don’t figure you worked for the rightful law. You worked for the Allen Pinkerton law. I see a vast difference between the two.”
“See it how it suits you,” said Rock. “It makes me no difference. Whatever I was, I’m a long rider now.” He gave a slight shrug. “I figure Juan Sodorez and some of his pistoleros must’ve vouched for me, else we wouldn’t be standing here talking all tough and friendly to each other.”
Grolin chuckled under his breath and seemed to relax a little.
“I expected you three weeks ago,” he said. “Wondered if I ought to come looking for you.”
“You wouldn’t have wanted to be where I was three weeks ago,” Rochenbach said.
“Oh…?” Grolin said. “Is that where your forehead ran into a rifle butt?”
Rochenbach touched his fingers deftly to his forehead, his dark-circled eyes and mending nose.
“It’s a long story,” said Rock. “But yes, I did stop a rifle butt up at Gunn Point.”
“I see,” said Grolin. “Was it over a whore, or over a card game?”
“Does it matter?” Rock asked.
Grolin grinned. “I’d like to think you were late for a good reason.”
Rochenbach could tell by the look in his eyes that he had already heard what had happened in Gunn Point. He wasn’t going to offer any more than he had to on the matter.
“I don’t remember,” he said. “It might have been both.”
“But nothing you want to talk about,” Grolin concluded.
“Right,” Rochenbach said, “nothing worth talking about, that is.” He nodded at a coffeepot sitting on a tray behind the polished bar. “Not as important as a hot mug of coffee—hearing what you’ve got in mind for us.” He kept his gaze on Grolin.
Outside on the street, Denton Spiller and Preston Casings walked along in the grainy dawn light and stopped at a public fire burning out in front of a blacksmith and ironmongering shop. They stared at a ragged old man until he stopped warming his rough, calloused hands and walked away from the fire. They stood in his place and warmed their hands as a two-pound forging hammer rang against an anvil in the background.
Spiller rolled himself a smoke and lit it carefully on a licking flame. Behind them on the street, steam wafted in the breath of passing wagon horses, pulling their loads.
“What do you think?” he asked Pres Casings. He blew out a stream of gray smoke.
“About what?” Casings replied, wringing his gloved hands near the flames.
Spiller stared at him with a no-nonsense look and took another draw.
“Oh, you mean Rochenbach,” Casings said.
“Yeah, I mean Rochenbach,” Spiller said in a short tone. “What the hell else would I be talking about?”
“How would I know?” said Casings, his voice equally testy. “Any number of
things, I reckon.”
Spiller shook his head and stared back toward the Lucky Nut. He drew on the thin cigarette between his lips.
“Anyway, I don’t trust the sumbitch. I don’t trust any man who once wore a badge,” he added.
“You can’t hold it against a man,” said Casings. “A lot of lawmen get tangled up in things and go afoul of the law.”
Spiller took a breath and let it out, considering Casings’ words.
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s true enough. Still, I can’t trust one. I believe there’s a peculiar, gnawing little animal lives inside a man that makes him want to work for the law.”
“I can see that,” said Casings, nodding, warming his hands. “But a man can change his mind, decide to hell with the law and go his own way.”
“Yeah,” said Spiller, looking back from the saloon and into the fire. “But once he turns outlaw, I wonder what’s become of that gnawing little animal. It still has to be fed, don’t it?”
Casings didn’t try to answer. He shook his head slowly and stared into the fire.
“I expect if Grolin wants Rochenbach with us, he’s with us, like it or not,” he said. He paused reflectively. Then he added, “Everything I’ve heard of him, he’s a straight-up outlaw, no doubt about it. Maybe you just worry too much.”
“Get this straight, Pres,” Spiller said in a strong tone. “I don’t worry about a damn thing.” He coughed and blew smoke around the cigarette in his lips. “The only thing that worries me about hanging is that they tie the knot wrong.”
“That would worry me too,” said Casings. “Maybe they’d let me tie it myself.”
“Naw, they won’t let you do it,” said Spiller. “I asked around.”
The two chuckled darkly and warmed their hands.
“Still, I’m going to watch this Rochenbach sumbitch like a hawk,” Spiller said, staring back toward the saloon in dawn’s light.
