by Ralph Cotton
“So you would think,” said Grolin, his brow narrowed in contemplation. “This man has troubled me ever since I first laid eyes on him. I can’t figure his angle in all this.”
Frank Penta chuffed, also staring over at Rochenbach.
“Maybe he just figures he’s done his job. Now he wants what was promised to him for doing it,” he said to Grolin.
“Frank, are you worried about getting your cut of the gold?” Grolin asked Penta without taking his eyes off Rochenbach.
“No, I’m not,” Penta said.
“Then don’t worry about his cut either,” Grolin snapped. He turned from Rochenbach and looked at the wagon, the load tied down, ready to go. The men walked over to their horses a few yards away.
“You asked,” said Penta, “so I told you.”
“To hell with this,” said Grolin. “Shaner, tell him to go with you to turn those horses loose. Take him out of sight behind the freight car and shoot him in the head.” He paused, then added, “Wait until we’re all out of sight. If Giant sees what you’re up to, he’ll go crazy. He acts like Rock is his long-lost brother.”
“I’ve got it covered,” said Shaner. “I’ve wanted to shoot this bastard ever since I met him.” He hiked up his coat collar and lowered the hammer on his rifle to keep from alerting Rochenbach of his intentions.
Across the platform, Rochenbach watched Shaner walk toward him. Here we go…, he told himself, standing up off the empty barrels, picking up the lantern.
“Rochenbach,” Shaner said, “Grolin says to go help me unload the horses from the freight cars and turn them loose.”
“When do I get my cut?” Rochenbach asked, walking along beside the rifleman toward the freight car. “I want to get away from this bunch quick as I can.”
Shaner chuckled and said, “Yeah, we all love you too, Rochenbach. You’ll get what’s coming to you soon enough.”
Rock looked over and saw Grolin and the other two walk to their horses as the wagon turned on the ramp. By the time Rock stepped forward and slid the freight car door open, both the freight wagon and the horsemen had faded out of sight into the darkness. A dead silence fell over the empty depot and the long moonlit loading platform.
Stepping inside the freight car, Rochenbach held the lantern up and looked at the saddled horses standing in a row gazing back at him.
Stopping at the sound of the rifle hammer cocking behind him, Rochenbach turned to face Shaner.
“Before you pull that trigger,” he said calmly, his right hand on the butt of the Remington, “you’ve got to tell me something.”
“No, I don’t,” said Shaner, taking aim on Rock’s forehead from only a few feet away.
“Why do you suppose Inman Walker sent me here to check up on you guys?” Rock asked. Inside his unbuttoned coat, his thumb slid over the hammer of his Remington.
Shaner’s rifle lowered an inch.
“What?” he asked, not trying to hide his surprise.
“You heard me,” said Rock. “Are you stupid enough to believe I just dropped in out of the blue? Walker sent me.” He stopped and said, “Or am I wasting my time? You don’t even know who Walker is?”
“Oh, I know Secretary Walker is our setup man in the mint,” said Shaner. “I’ve met him in person.” His rifle lowered another inch.
Information verified…, Rochenbach told himself. Now to get out of here alive.
“Then you know why I’m here,” he said. “I’m here to find out why Walker didn’t get his cut from the Denver-Platte Canyon ore train robbery last month.”
Shaner looked puzzled and lowered his rifle a little more.
“You’re talking crazy,” he said. “We didn’t rob that train last month!”
“Maybe you and your pals here didn’t,” said Rochenbach. “But Grolin did the job. He had men from somewhere helping him. Maybe he held out on you and others. But it doesn’t matter. Walker expects to get his cut—so do I.”
“Damn!” said Shaner. “I don’t know whether to believe you or not, Rochenbach.” He lowered his rifle all the way to waist-high, the barrel pointing down at the floor.
Rochenbach stepped sideways to him. The Remington slid from his belly holster inside his coat, cocked at arm’s length.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he said quietly. He squeezed the trigger; the hammer fell. A streak of blue-orange fire belched from the open car door. The explosion caused the six horses to jerk against their tied reins. They whined and snorted fearfully in protest.
“Settle down, fellows,” Rock said to the skittish animals, walking toward them. “We’ve got a long ride ahead of us tonight.”
Along the seasoned loading platform, the sound banged like a forging hammer on steel and echoed off through the woods.
Two hundred yards up the winding rocky trail, Grolin jerked his galloping horse to a halt and swung in around on the trail.
“That was a pistol shot,” said Spiller, sliding to a halt, turning his horse beside him.
“Lionel Sharp?” Grolin called out to the new man.
“Right here, boss,” Sharp said, proud to hear Grolin call his name.
Grolin budged his horse over to him and said, “Where is that pistol I gave you to hold for me?”
Sharp patted his pocket and realized the Remington was gone. Uh-oh…!
“I don’t have it, boss!” he said, his voice already trembling.
Grolin stared back into the darkness.
“Want me to go back and see what…?” Spiller said, his rifle in hand.
“I already know what,” Grolin said. “Adios, Shaner,” he said in the direction of the depot. He looked Sharp up and down, turned his horse and rode away. Sharp started to turn his horse, but Spiller grabbed its reins.
“Not so fast, fool,” he said. “This is as far as you make it.”
Chapter 19
Rochenbach pulled the gold ingot bar from his boot well and looked at it in the glow of the lantern light. The two-inch-by-three-and-a-half-inch shipping ingot glittered in the flickering light. He knew that the only purpose of an unmarked shipping ingot was its ease of transport and handling until it reached its final destination. There it would be resmelted, weighed, marked and stamped respectively.
He hefted the ingot in the palm of his fingerless leather glove. It looked right; it felt right. Yet… He reached down, pulled a knife from a sheath on the dead outlaw’s gun belt. He carved a corner of the soft metal, making the cut large enough to see into the core of its quarter-inch thickness.
He studied the ingot closely, noting to himself that for all its weight and glitter it was nothing more than a gold-plated utility slug—a bar useful for weight balancing and exhibition, nothing more.
Turning the plated ingot in his palm, he felt a sense of relief. It was good to learn that he hadn’t opened the big safe door and allowed hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of gold to fall into the hands of thieves.
This was the reply to his telegraph. Without receiving his identification code at the end of his message, the Denver field office chose the safest and most reasonable action. They had replaced the gold shipping ingots with gold-plated slugs. How had they done that without Inman Walker knowing?
Who knows? He shrugged. He wasn’t the only Secret Service agent operating west of the Missouri.
But why tonight? he asked himself. Why not Thursday—the night he’d told them the robbery would happen?
That was something he would have to resolve later for himself, he thought, squeezing the sliced corner of the ingot back together and gripping it in his gloved hand. Right now, Grolin and his men still had to be stopped, real gold or not. They’d taken a train by force, held its engineer hostage and stolen a shipment of U.S. gold en route from one federal mint to another.
You’ve had a busy night, Grolin, he said to himself. Shoving the shipping ingot into his coat pocket, Bryce Shaner’s rifle in hand, Rochenbach led the six horses out of the freight car onto the loading dock.
W
ith a coiled rope he’d taken down from a wall peg in the freight car, he strung the horses into a line. He led the string single file across the platform to where Shaner’s horse stood waiting at a hitch rail for its rider to return. The lone horse piqued its ears at him and the unfamiliar string.
Rock checked Shaner’s rifle and shoved it down into the empty saddle boot. Then he unhitched the horse and stepped up into the saddle.
Leading the horses down the wide ramp and off the loading platform, he turned onto a narrow path running parallel along the rails. He followed the trail through the grainy purple darkness onto a wider trail that wound through the pines and down over a long wooded hillside.
Once he’d cleared the pine woodlands, he rode at an easy gallop. He kept the long dark ribbon of rails in sight over his right shoulder; he searched and listened intently as five miles slipped beneath the horses’ hooves.
Staying parallel to the winding black rail clearing, he rode a mile farther before he slowed his horse and the string to a halt and stared down onto the black rails snaking beneath him.
There they are. He watched as a row of dark figures on foot crossed along a rolling edge of land against a stretch of purple starlit sky.
The posse…? Yes, he was sure of it, he told himself. Now the trick would be to get their horses to them without either blowing his cover or getting his head shot off. He’d spent too much time establishing himself as an outlaw, a long rider who would do most anything for money. He wasn’t about to throw all that away—ruin my bad reputation, he thought with a wry smile.
Besides, he’d learned from experience that if he told them he was an agent for the U.S. government, they wouldn’t believe him anyway.
But here’s something they will believe…, he thought to himself, nudging his horse, leading the string behind him.
On the rail tracks, Captain Boone halted his men with a raised hand in the darkness.
“I heard it too, Captain,” Sergeant Goodrich whispered, a step behind him.
The six turned in the dark, their carbines in hand, and searched the treed hillside to their right as the sound of hooves moved closer.
“Take cover, men,” Captain Boone said, crouching, moving from the rails into the trees, his thumb cocking his carbine as quietly as possible. “Corporal Rourke, advance, see what we have here.”
Soundlessly, the corporal moved away deeper into the trees and took position above a thin trail that jarred softly with the beat of oncoming hooves. Captain Boone, his sergeant and the three other soldiers spread out, ten feet apart, and ducked down along the trail.
When Rochenbach caught sight of a shadowy figure taking position, he closed his horse to a walk and led the string forward. Here goes…, he thought, bracing himself for what came next.
Damn! the corporal thought, seeing the single rider and the six horses draw closer. Without waiting for an order from the captain, who, he was certain, didn’t see the lone rider yet, Rourke stood up in the moonlight with his carbine cocked and aimed at Rochenbach.
“Halt, right there!” he called out, loud enough for both Rochenbach and the other soldiers to hear. Seeing the rider caught by surprise and jerking his horse to a sudden halt, the corporal took a step forward as Rochenbach raised his hands in the air.
“Don’t shoot!” Rochenbach said. “I’m just passing through. I mean you no harm.”
He sat staring as five more dark figures stood up along the trail and hurried forward. They quickly formed a half circle around him and the horses. He saw the shorter barrels of carbines pointed up at him, already noting a military bearing to the men.
“We’re lawmen. Dismount, keep both your hands in sight,” Rock heard a voice demand. Yep, very military sounding, he told himself.
A rifleman hurried forward and grabbed Rochenbach’s horse by its bridle, holding it in place as Rochenbach stepped down, careful not to let his hands get close to his Remington or the rifle in the saddle boot.
“Lawmen? Thank goodness, gentlemen,” Rochenbach said amiably. “You’ve scared the bejesus out of me and my horses.”
But the captain was having no small talk.
“State your name, sir,” he said, “and your reason for being here this night.”
Rochenbach looked across the faces in the pale moonlight, the first sliver of sunlight wreathing the distant horizon.
“I’m… Smith,” Rochenbach said in a deliberately halting voice, “John Smith. I’m a stock dealer from Central City, just passing through, coming back from a horse swap—”
“John Smith indeed,” said the captain, cutting him short. He stepped in, slid the big Remington from across Rochenbach’s belly and looked at it in the moonlight.
Corporal Rourke had circled the six horses and looked them over closely.
“They’re ours, Captain! No doubt about it, sir!” he said, casting Rochenbach a searing stare.
“You’re mistaken, mister,” said Rochenbach, needing to offer some sort of defense. He kept his hands raised, but turned half around toward him as Rourke loosened the lead rope from the last horse in line and led it forward for the captain to see.
“Mistaken? I don’t think so,” said Rourke. “I believe I know my own damn horse.”
Rochenbach fell silent, as if he’d been caught red-handed.
“You appear to have run short on conversation, Mr. Smith,” the captain said, “so I’ll do the talking.”
“I didn’t steal your horses,” Rochenbach said, sounding as guilty as any horse thief he’d ever heard. “There has to be some mis—”
“Shut up,” Rourke snapped at him, poking the tip of his carbine into Rochenbach’s side, just enough to send a sharp pain through his ribs.
“Enough of that for now, Corporal,” said the captain. To Rochenbach he said, “I’m Captain Daniel Boone.”
“Daniel Boone indeed,” Rochenbach couldn’t resist saying after the captain’s earlier sarcasm.
“I’m warning you, long rider,” said Rourke, gigging him again with the tip of the carbine barrel.
Captain Boone continued with a turn of his hand toward the sergeant and the corporal. “This is Sergeant Goodrich. This is Corporal Thomas Rourke.” As an afterthought, he nodded toward the other three. “These men are their troopers.”
Rochenbach looked back and forth among them.
“Soldiers, huh?” he said. “What’s soldiers doing out here?”
“We’re rail transport guards tonight. We were guarding the rail shipment you and your consorts stole,” said the captain. “You, Mr. Smith, are under arrest for train robbery and theft of a government gold shipment.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rochenbach said.
Again the carbine barrel gigged his side, this time harder, more painful, with a dark promise of more pain to come. Rochenbach caught himself, kept himself from bowing forward and falling to the ground.
“Listen to me, Mr. Smith,” said the captain, his voice turning grim, all business now. “Thanks to you showing up with our horses, we’ll catch the rest of the thieves, with or without your help. For all I care, I can have Sergeant Goodrich and Corporal Rourke hammer your face until you beg me to put a bullet through your brain.” He cocked Rochenbach’s black-handled Remington in his other hand and stuck the barrel up tightly under Rochenbach’s chin.
“Or… we can escort you back to Denver City in chains,” he added. “Let you fight this thing out peacefully in a court of law for the next year.” He leaned in close to Rochenbach’s face. “Make your choice quickly… I’m through talking.”
Rochenbach let out a sigh of submission. It had gone far enough. He’d made it look good.
“All right, you win, Captain. Ask me anything,” he said. “Want to know who’s leading the gang? I’ll even lead you to where we left the Treasury car sitting empty.”
The captain uncocked the big Remington and lowered it from under Rochenbach’s chin. He hefted the gun on his palm, as if judging the weight and balance, liking
the feel of it.
“You have shown good sense,” he said, in an almost cordial tone. “We have it on good authority an Andrew Grolin is the gang leader.” He gave Rock a knowing look, then turned and looked at the far horizon, judging the coming dawn. Finally he looked at the waiting sergeant and said, “Sergeant Goodrich, have the men sort out their horses and look them over good. We’re going to ride hard until we’ve closed the gap between us and these thieving dogs.”
“Can I lower my hands now, Captain?” Rochenbach asked as the men busied themselves sorting and checking their mounts.
“Yes,” the captain said to Rock, “but I hope you have the same good sense to realize that I’ll kill you at the slightest wrong move.”
“I understand,” Rochenbach said. He lowered his hands and stood watching, waiting until the soldiers were ready to ride.
So far, so good, he told himself. They had their horses back—hand-delivered, instead of him leaving the animals tied to a tree for them to happen onto. Now that he’d managed to insert himself into their ranks, he could lead them to the rail depot and point them in the right direction. From there he would leave them on their own—or so he hoped.
“Mount up, Mr. Smith,” Sergeant Goodrich said to Rochenbach as the men swung into their saddles. “You’re going to remain right by my side until we’ve caught up to the rest of your gang. Is that clear?”
One of the troopers rode forward and handed Rochenbach the reins to his horse, having taken the rifle from its boot.
“Clear as can be, Sergeant,” Rochenbach said, taking the reins and swinging up into his saddle. As the sergeant mounted his horse beside him, Rock said to the captain, “The car is at an abandoned rail depot six miles up from here. We can follow the rails, but it’s quicker taking the trail I was on.”
The captain looked at the sergeant.
“It’s true, Captain,” Goodrich said. “The trail will cut over the hillsides instead of winding through the woodlands.”
Captain Boone nodded and said, “Lead us on, then, Mr. Smith.”
The sergeant and Rochenbach rode in silence, side by side across the rolling hillsides for the next half hour.
