by Ralph Cotton
“Jesus, run, Giant!” shouted Casings, seeing three more snakes spill down from their disturbed resting place among the cluster of rocks.
In his hysteria, the Giant caught a glimpse of one of the snakes slithering past his feet. He ran screaming in a wide circle, the dead snake flying from his shoulder as he plowed through the already spooked horses. The bloody bull rattler landed atop one horse, sending it into a wild kicking, whinnying fit.
“We need to stop him,” Rock said quietly, watching in rapt fascination.
“Not me,” said Casings, knowing what a job it would be wrestling the big man to the ground and holding him there.
The Giant, still screaming out of control, ran smack into another horse. His massive body knocked the animal to the ground as he bounced back from it, right into the kicking hooves of the horse with the dead snake flopping up and down in its saddle. A wild kick gave the Giant a glancing blow to his head and sent him staggering in a zigzagging line for a few feet while his thick legs seemed to slowly melt beneath him.
“Well, there’s that,” said Casings as the Giant slammed the ground with the same powerful thud as the boulder he’d thrown down in a show of strength.
Shots rang out as the other men hurried and killed the other awakened rattlers.
“Yes,” said Rochenbach, “there’s that.”
He stepped forward and looked down at the Giant lying knocked cold in the dirt.
“He had to show off for everybody, lift that big rock,” said Casings, stepping up beside him.
Rochenbach only nodded, wondering if this would soften the Giant’s attitude toward him.
Chapter 7
A half hour later, the Giant sat on the same rock, this time facing a fire Bonham and Batts built so he could dry the crotch on his wet trousers. He sat in his long-john underwear and stockinged feet, his knees opened wide toward the fire, shivering even with a wool blanket clutched around him. His trousers hung on a stick stuck in the ground, and his enormous boots stood drying on the ground beside his trousers.
“God, I hate sna-snakes,” he said, his deep, powerful voice broken and trembling. “Ever since I was a ki-kid,” he added painfully. Blood ran down the side of his head.
“Lots of people hate snakes, Giant,” said Casings, trying to help him calm down. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
The Giant tried to settle down and breathe deep.
“Pres is right, Stillwater,” said Bonham. “Jesus, a big ol’ rattler like that. One bite and he would have filled you so full of poison—”
“Why don’t you pour yourself a hot cup of coffee, Lon?” Casings said to cut him off.
The Giant started shaking all over again.
“I was just saying,” explained Bonham, “a big bull like that. What if he’d fallen down your shirt before Rock got a shot at him?”
“Jesus, shut up!” Casings snapped. “The man hates snakes! Can you give it a rest?”
“He—he’s right,” the Giant said, shaking again. “The law dog sa-saved my life.” He looked all around the dry wash. “Where is he anyway?”
“I’m right here, Giant,” said Rochenbach. He stepped over from among the settled horses, a wet cloth in his hand. “But my name’s not law dog,” he corrected the Giant. He pressed the wet cloth to the Giant’s hoof-grazed head and directed the Giant’s large hand against it.
“Of course it’s not, Rock,” the Giant said. “No offense. I just ain’t myself right this minute. Hell, you saved my life. I’ll call you Mr. Rochenbach if you want. Man, if you hadn’t been there—” He lowered his big head as his voice cracked with emotion.
Rochenbach and Casings gave each other a bemused look.
“It’s all right, Giant,” Rock said. “You need to put it out of your mind. It’s over.”
The Giant looked at his drying trousers, then at Rochenbach and Casings.
“I’d just as soon Grolin not hear about any of this,” he said, shaking his swollen head slowly, the wet cloth pressed against it.
“I’ve faced a wild bear, once wrestled a Louisiana alligator, killed men of every size, shape and color,” he said. “I fear nothing—not the devil in hell. But a damn snake gets near me, I fall plumb apart. That’s all there is to it.”
“All right, we understand,” said Spiller, sounding a little tired of hearing it. He stepped in and put a cup of steaming coffee in the Giant’s free hand. “You need to buck up and get control of yourself. Like Rock here said, it’s over.”
The Stillwater Giant lifted his eyes around to Spiller and gave him a hard stare.
“Obliged for the coffee, Dent,” he said, his deep, intimidating voice starting to return. “But don’t start crowding me over this. I’ve also taken a hell of a lick to the head. You ought to know how that feels after what happened to you.” He nodded toward the welt on Spiller’s head.
“Forget it,” Spiller said. He backed off, not wanting hear any more remarks about low-hanging tree limbs.
Rochenbach walked over to his dun and led it back with him, his Spencer rifle in hand.
“What do you say, big fellow?” he asked the Giant. “You feel up to riding yet?”
“I can ride,” the Giant said. Then his deep, powerful voice turned childlike. “But can I—can I ride alongside you?” he asked hesitantly.
Casings and Rockenbach shot each other a curious look.
“Sure,” said Rochenbach, “you’re welcome to ride right beside me.”
The men looked at each other guardedly as the Stillwater Giant stood up and stepped around the fire in his long johns and put on his trousers. As he dressed, his eyes kept looking warily all around on the ground.
“I’ve never seen a man fall apart so fast in my life,” Spiller whispered to Bonham and Batts.
“It’s plumb wrenching to watch,” Batts whispered in reply, turning sadly away and looking out across the rock land.
But Spiller and Bonham continued staring at the Giant as he walked over to his horse, Rochenbach leading his dun alongside him.
Jesus.… Casings looked the two gunmen up and down with disdain.
“Think we can get going now?” he said wryly. “Or do you two need to be walked to your horses?”
“Hell no!” Spiller said. He and Bonham bristled at Casings’ words. They both appeared to snap out of their transfixed state. “Come on, Lon, let’s get the hell out of here.”
Back in their saddles, they rode on at a strong, steady pace for the rest of the day until they’d made their way upward from the east to the foothills town of Central City. There, the six horsemen left the trail and rode along an abandoned miner’s path into a string of gulches until the rocky land swallowed them.
When they were out of sight on a hillside below the booming mining town, they made camp around a small fire. They ate jerked elk and beans from air-tights they’d brought along in their saddlebags.
As they finished their dinner, the Stillwater Giant looked back and forth from one face to the next.
“I want all of you to know that what happened to me back there today, it never happened,” he said in his deep, strong voice. The threat was there and clearly understood. Yet he continued, saying, “If I hear anybody saying anything about it, I’ll yank his tongue from his mouth and make a coin purse out of it.”
The men only nodded and continued eating, afraid to even reply.
“That aside,” the Giant said, turning to Rochenbach with a milder tone and expression, “I am obliged to you for what you did, Rock. I’m ashamed that I was goading you… yet you jumped in and saved my life all the same.”
Rochenbach gave no response apart from a short, silent nod.
The Giant looked around at the others and said, “From now on, anybody says anything bad about this man—I still need a good coin purse.” A wide, big-toothed grin spread across his face, making him appear all the more menacing in the flicker of firelight.
The men nodded as they ate.
After they’d finished the me
al and washed it down with strong, hot coffee, they sat in silence around the fire and waited until darkness set in purple and deep around them.
Rochenbach noted that a calm air of confidence seemed to come over the five men riding with him. Without being prompted to do so, they each sat checking pistols, rifles, ammunition and equipment. When they’d finished, they sat quietly until each of them appeared ready for the trail.
With a sigh, Casings stood up and slung coffee grounds from his empty tin cup.
“It’s time to do it,” he said quietly.
In a ragged tent saloon on the lower, eastern outskirts of Central City, a former ore wagon guard named Macon Ray Silverette relieved himself over the edge of the rocky trail as the six horsemen passed behind him a few feet away. Recognizing Spiller, Batts and Casings all three, he quickly ducked his head, buttoned his fly and hurried back inside the tent before the six were out of sight, headed deeper into town.
At a rickety table in a darkened corner, a hard case named Dirty Dave Atlo sat with his hand up the dress of a young woman perched on his lap. She stared into his eyes with a frozen grin, wiry red hair and lips painted redder than rabbit blood. Across the tent, a drunken accordion player drooled with his mouth agape as his hands squeezed out a mournful rendition of “Sweet Betsy from Pike.” Candle, lamp and lantern flickered around him like a broad circle of footlights.
“Damn it!” Dirty Dave growled, seeing Macon Ray weave toward him through a maze of tables, chairs and standing drinkers.
“You’re not going to believe who I just saw riding in from Denver City!” Macon Ray said in an excited voice, stopping less three feet away.
“Christ Almighty, Ray!” said Dirty Dave. He looked embarrassed. “Don’t you see what’s going on here?”
Hurriedly, Macon Ray shot a glance at the accordion player, then back to Dirty Dave.
“Yep, it’s fine music no doubt,” he said. “But I just saw some of Grolin’s men ride past the tent… headed into town…?” He left his words hanging as a suggestion.
“Whoa!” said Dirty Dave. “Now, that is some good news.” His hand came down from beneath the woman’s gingham dress. “Hop on up, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.”
He stood, forcing her to stand too or else fall to the dirt floor. To Macon Ray he said, “How long ago?” He fished a gold coin from his vest pocket with damp fingers and flipped it toward the table. The woman caught it before it landed.
“I just saw them and ran right in here. I knew you’d want to hear about it,” said Ray, hurrying along behind him as Dirty Dave headed for the wide-open tent front.
“Where’s Albert and Fackler, betting the birds?” He looked toward a far rear corner where a small group of miners were gathered around two battle-scarred roosters locked in mortal combat beneath a flurry of batting wings.
“Joe is. Albert’s just watching. Want me to get them?” Macon Ray asked.
“Hell yes, get them!” shouted Dirty Dave. “Get them, get your horses—all of you bring shotguns, catch up to me on the trail. Once I hone in on these boys, I’m not letting them out of my sight.”
As Macon Ray hurried, weaving through the crowd, Dirty Dave looked down at a table and saw a man sitting, staring engrossed at the drunken accordion player, a tall mug of beer standing in front of him. Dave stuck half his hand down into the mug, swished it around, raised it and slung beer foam from his fingers; he walked out of the tent, drying his hand on his trousers.
This was good, he told himself. He’d been wanting to get even with Andrew Grolin—kill his men, Spiller, Casings, the Stillwater Giant—any of his gunmen, ever since they had cheated him out of his cut in a robbery over a year ago.
Time to reap a little vengeance, he told himself.
He untied his horse from a crowded hitch rail, stepped into his saddle and turned the animal toward the trail leading farther into town. He rode hard along the rutted, treacherous trail until he caught sight of the six riders as they rounded a sharp turn in the trail.
All right, that had to be them, he decided, slowing his horse to keep from getting too close, lest the sound of his horse’s hooves give him away. He watched them move out of sight in front of him, and looked over his shoulder toward the sound of hooves as Macon Ray led Albert Kinney and Joe Fackler along the trail.
When the three riders saw him sitting his horse in the middle of the trail, they slowed to a halt and gathered around him.
“Any sight of them yet?” asked Macon Ray, his rifle held up loosely in his left hand. His horse bounced back and forth on restless hooves, causing the tip of his rifle barrel to swing within inches of Dirty Dave’s face. Dave had to jerk his head back from it.
“Settle your horse! Get that damn rifle out of my face!” he growled in a low voice. “Unless you’re meaning to blow my head off!”
Macon Ray jerked the feisty animal and lowered his rifle barrel.
“Yes, I just spotted them,” Dave replied now that the rifle barrel wasn’t threatening him. “If I hadn’t been here to slow you down, you’d’ve smacked right into them.”
“All right, then!” said Albert Kinney, sounding excited. “How do you want to do this, Dave? Ride in shooting? Chop them down before they know what hit them?”
Dave gave him a flat stare.
“No,” he said, then added with sarcasm, “As wise and clever as that plan might be, I fail to see how it would make us any money.”
“Oh…,” said Kinney. He settled down. “I figured, these men screwed you out of money, you’d want to kill them right off.”
“I want to kill them,” said Dave. “But if I have a choice of killing them for free or getting my money out of them first, guess which one I’d rather do.”
“While you’re thinking that over,” Macon Ray said to Kinney, “try to keep your mouth shut long enough to hear what we’re going to do.”
Kinney nodded and listened, realizing he’d already said too much.
“Can I ask a question?” said Joe Fackler, sounding a little surly, having been dragged away from the cockfighting event.
“Sure thing, Joe, come right on out with it,” said Dave.
“What makes you so sure they’ve got any money?” Joe asked. “I happened to be winning at that cockfight.”
“I never said they’ve got any money,” said Dave Atlo, ignoring the cockfight remark. “At least not yet, they haven’t—”
“But we know these thieving cutthroats,” Macon Ray cut in before Dave could finish. “If they left Denver City, rode forty miles to be here, it’s because they’ve got something in the works.”
“Thank you, Macon Ray,” Dave Atlo said a little brusquely. He paused long enough for his words to sink in. “They’ve come up here to rob something.” He grinned. “As soon as they do, we’ll be waiting to rob them.”
PART 2
Chapter 8
Rochenbach and the five other riders bypassed the main streets of Central City and rode upward on a steep trail overlooking the booming mining town. Keeping their horses at a walk, they moved along single file in the pale moonlight, past long rows of mining shacks and shaft entrances, where the sound of steel tools rang behind the curtains of night.
At an upward turn in the trail, two riders appeared from out of nowhere. Rochenbach’s thumb slipped over his rifle hammer until he heard one of the riders call out to them from ten yards away.
“Dent, Pres, Giant,” said the lowered voice, “is that you?”
“It’s us, Frank,” Casings replied, nudging his horee forward and stopping as the two men rode up to him.
Rochenbach and the others followed behind Casings. When they gathered in close to the two newcomers, Casings motioned a gloved hand between the two and Rochenbach.
“Frank Penta, Bryce Shaner, meet Rochenbach… You can call him Rock,” he said.
Penta and Shaner touched their hat brims toward Rochenbach, who returned the gesture.
“So, you’re the man who has us out working in
the cover of night,” Frank Penta said with a thin smile. As he spoke, he looked Rochenbach up and down appraisingly.
“I do my best work at night,” Rock replied mildly.
“Yeah, well, we’re just hoping you’re worth the trouble, Midnight Rider,” said Shaner.
“Enough talking. Why don’t we go see?” Casings said quickly, knowing Rochenbach’s low tolerance for surliness and badmouthing.
“That’s what I say,” said Penta, catching the apprehension in Casings’ tone of voice. “Let’s go do what we do best.” He gave him another thin smile.
“Yeah,” said Bryce Shaner, “let’s go see what you’ve got.” He gave an exaggerated sweep of his hand. “After you, Midnight Rider.”
But Rochenbach only sat staring at him.
“Are you a gambling man, Shaner?” he asked in an even voice.
“I’ve been known to lay down a stack on the right play. Why? What’s the wager?” Shaner asked.
“I’ll bet you fifty dollars I can put a bullet in your right eye before you can call me Midnight Rider again,” Rock said.
Uh-oh! Casings snapped his gaze to Rochenbach.
“Hang on, Rock—Jesus!” he said. “Bryce didn’t mean nothing by that! He gives everybody a little nickname like that. Right, Bryce?”
Rochenbach saw Shaner’s prickly attitude and demeanor change quickly.
“Yeah! Hey, amigo! I was just trying to get acquainted, more or less funning with you!” he said to Rochenbach, his pretense shattered.
“Is it a bet?” Rochenbach asked flatly, unmoved by Shaner’s sudden change of heart.
Frank Penta sidestepped his horse away from Bryce Shaner; the other men backed their horses a step.
“Hey, come on, Mid—I mean Mr. Rochenbach!” Shaner said, talking fast, correcting himself. “I came out to do a piece of work tonight,” he said soberly. “I didn’t come out looking for a gunfight.” He slid nervous glances back and forth from Casings to Penta, looking for any support he might find. “All I want to do is make some money,” he said shakily. “That’s all I’m here for.”
