Midnight Rider (Ralph Cotton Western Series)

by Ralph Cotton

  Garth Oliver indeed.… He’d heard of the Stillwater Giant. Who else could this monster of a man be? The captain smiled to himself as Rochenbach walked over and took the reins to his horse from him. As far as he was concerned, Mr. Smith was guilty too, until something proved him otherwise.

  Undercover operative? Maybe, Boone thought. But if he is an operative and not willing to say the four numbers that will get him off the hook, he must have a good reason for it. Whatever that reason might be, Boone had probed the matter as far as he could. He would jail the three in Dunbar and let the law sort them out.

  “Let’s move out, Sergeant,” he said.

  Beside him, Goodrich raised a gloved hand and waved the men forward without a verbal command.

  On the other side of the captain, Rochenbach nudged his horse forward at a walk.

  The party rode along the trail in silence for the next hour until the sergeant threw up a hand and stopped suddenly at the sight of Lambert Kane’s body stuck to the large pine, the frozen expression of surprise on his purple face.

  “Holy be-jesus, Captain,” Goodrich said.

  “Yes, Sergeant, I see it,” said Captain Boone, sounding as if it wasn’t the first time he’d found a man spiked to the side of a tree by a limb stub, ten feet off the ground. “Have your men take him down.”

  “Two men forward,” the sergeant called out, looking back at the mounted soldiers.

  As two soldiers booted their horses forward to assist the sergeant, Boone gave Rochenbach a sidelong look, followed by a backward nod directed toward the travois.

  “Something your friends had a hand in, no doubt?” he said.

  “I wouldn’t know, Captain,” said Rochenbach. “I wasn’t here.”

  “No, of course you weren’t,” said Captain Boone correcting himself. “You were busy leading our horses back to us.”

  “That’s right, Captain,” said Rochenbach. “That’s what I was doing, any way you look at it.”

  Just to see if he could get by with it, Rock nudged his horse forward, watching the two soldiers stand atop their saddles and lift the body off the tree stub. Hearing the captain’s Army Colt cock behind him, he stopped and gave him a faint, wry grin.

  “What, Captain? No warning first?” he said without looking around. “You’ll just shoot me?”

  “You’ve been warned, Smith,” Boone said in a somber tone. “No other warning is needed.”

  Without another word on the matter, Rochenbach turned his horse, rode it back slowly and turned it beside the captain. Boone uncocked the Colt, but kept it in hand. They watched the soldiers lower Lambert Kane’s body to the sergeant, who in turned laid it out on the ground.

  Boone looked over his shoulder at the three soldiers fixated on Lambert’s body and the blood-streaked tree where it had hung.

  “Corporal Rourke, scout ahead two hundred yards, then fall back and report,” he said as Goodrich and the two soldiers dragged the body out onto the trail.

  “Yes, sir,” said the corporal. He swung his horse around Rochenbach and rode away at a gallop. One soldier remained, the lead rope to the travois in hand. He looked back nervously at the Giant and Pres Casings, but saw them both sleeping, their hats pulled over their eyes.

  The captain and Rochenbach nudged their horses over and looked down at the body, able to see the ground through the wide, gaping wound.

  After a moment, the captain straightened in his saddle and shook his head.

  “Sergeant,” he said, “search the body for identification, then drag him off the trail and pile rocks over him. We’re not a burial detail,” he added, as if to justify himself.

  As the sergeant and the two soldiers followed the captain’s orders, Rochenbach and Boone sat atop their horses in silence. A few moments later, they both turned toward the sound of the corporal’s horse galloping back around the turn toward them.

  “Captain Boone,” he said, sliding his horse to a halt and sidling over to the captain. “I found this alongside the trail, less than two hundred yards from here, sir.” He held out a closed hand and opened it in a way as to reveal its contents only to the captain.

  “It’s all right, Corporal,” Boone said, taking the ingot from Rourke’s hand and eyeing it in the midmorning sunlight. Looking at Rochenbach, he said to Rourke, “Your knife, Corporal?”

  Rourke reached into his boot well, came out with a bowie-style knife and handed it to him.

  “Thank you, Corporal,” said Boone.

  He carved a deep cut across the corner of the ingot and examined it. Then he squeezed the cut closed and handed the big knife back to Rourke. He gave Rochenbach a look that said the ingot was the same as the one he’d taken from him.

  “And this is the only one you found, Corporal?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” said Rourke. “I saw where the wagon went off the trail. It’s broken up all over the hillside. There’s busted crates everywhere.”

  “Empty, I presume?” said the captain.

  “From what I could see, yes, sir,” said Rourke. “I didn’t climb down and check. I knew you would want to hear this straightaway. There must have been some shoot-out there. There’s blood everywhere, sir.”

  “Good work, Corporal,” said the captain. He turned to Sergeant Goodrich and said, “Sergeant, prepare your men to move out.”

  At the sergeant’s command, the troopers abandoned Lambert Kane’s body, leaving it only partially covered with rocks. In moments, they had mounted and assembled behind the travois. Leaving Goodrich and the three troopers to escort the slow-moving travois, the captain, Corporal Rourke and Rochenbach moved ahead along the winding trail at a gallop, until they reached the spot where the wagon tracks veered off the trail.

  The three dismounted, Captain Boone and the corporal keeping the handcuffed Rochenbach between them. They stood looking down at the splintered wood and empty gold crates scattered on the rocky hillside.

  “Corporal, bring Mr. Smith and follow me,” Boone said.

  The three climbed down to where three busted crates lay close together in front of a large stand of brush and rock. Seeing the scraping of boots in the dirt, Boone smiled to himself.

  “Mr. Smith,” he said, “how do you suppose these men transported all that gold down the trail after losing their wagon?”

  “Only by horseback, Captain,” said Rochenbach.

  “Yes,” said Boone, “meaning they could not have taken much of it.”

  “Meaning a lot of it is still here,” Rochenbach said, picking up on what the captain was saying.

  Boone nodded, stepping forward. Separating the brush with his hands and looking down into it, he saw broken crates and piles of ingots lying on the ground.

  “Here’s some of it,” he said, reaching down and picking up an ingot. Rochenbach stepped over for a closer look as Boone raised the ingot between his teeth and bit down on a corner of it.

  The two studied the ingot in the sunlight.

  “It’s gilded,” the captain said, “just like the other two.”

  “But if Grolin knows it’s worthless, why would he even bother hiding it?” Rochenbach asked.

  “Clearly he doesn’t know it’s not real, Smith,” the captain said. “He thinks this is pure gold lying here. And if you left gold lying on this hillside, what’s the first thing you would do once you left?”

  “Get a wagon and get right back here with it,” Rock said.

  “Exactly,” said Boone. “They think the gold is real. They are coming back for it, and we will be waiting.”

  Chapter 23

  At midmorning, Heaton Swank, a broad-shouldered, tough-looking gunman with a bullet scar running from his right cheek to his ear, took out a gold watch from inside his black duster and checked it. He cursed under his breath, snapped the watch’s lid shut and put it away. He turned to an equally fierce gunman named Silas Dooley, who sat atop his horse beside him.

  “If this bastard doesn’t show up, he’d better be dead, Dooley,” he said.

&nb
sp; Silas Dooley spit a stream of tobacco. He sat with wrists crossed on his saddle horn. Inside his gray wool coat, a big Dance Brothers revolver hung under his left arm in a tooled leather shoulder rig.

  “If he’s not, he will be,” he said, “I get my hands on him.”

  “Stay back here,” said Swank, nudging his horse forward for a better look at the trail winding upward before them.

  Strewn out in a loose line beside Silas Dooley, three other well-dressed men sat atop their horses. One of them, a hired killer named Lyle Myers, raised a silver flask of whiskey to his lips, took a drink and passed the flask along to an elderly gunman on his right.

  “How long are we going to wait for this bartender, Grolin?” he said to everyone.

  Dooley eyed him up and down and spit again.

  “How long does anybody wait for a man bringing them a half million dollars in smelted gold?” he asked.

  “Just about as long as we already have,” Lyle Myers said.

  To his right, Eli March, the elderly gunman who’d taken the flask, drank from it and passed it along to the next man.

  “He’s not just a bartender,” March said in an irritated voice. “Sumbitch owns a saloon, a hotel and a whorehouse. Not to mention a string of houses and dirt holdings.” He wiped a hand across his lips. “Bartender, your ass,” he grumbled through a scraggly gray beard.

  “Excuse the hell out of me, then,” Meyers said, taking off his black high-crowned range hat in a sweeping gesture. “Andrew Grolin is not just a bartender. He’s a bartender, a desk clerk and a pimp.” He stared at March. “Does that suit you any better, old man?”

  “I hate unfactual jawing, is all,” Eli March said in the same abrasive tone. “You call a horse a chicken long enough, pretty soon folks think they heard him cluck.”

  “Unfactual jawing…?” said Myers. His hand pushedhis plaid wool great coat back enough to rest easily on the black handle of a Colt holstered on his hip.

  March seemed unmoved by Myers’ threat.

  “You heard me right,” he said. “The longer I wait here, the less I like hearing it.” He nodded at Myers’ gun hand. “If you think that move scared me any, you chose the wrong place to be this morning.”

  Meyers thought about it, but decided to let it go. He chuffed and shook his head and looked away. His hand moved away from his gun. “You can’t put a bunch like us together for long, expect things to stay friendly—somebody not kill somebody.”

  “It’s only natural,” said a gunman named Lou “the Dog” Duggins. “Where I’m from, it’s all but destroyed the whole notion of family reunions.” He capped the silver flask and pitched it back to Meyers. “And I think it’s a damn shame,” he added.

  “Riders coming,” Heaton Swank called back to the others from where he’d sat his horse closer to the trail.

  “It’s about damned time,” said Dooley, perking up in his saddle.

  “No wagon, though,” Swank called out.

  “Damn!” said Dooley. He slumped, recrossed his wrists on his saddle horn.

  “A horse packing wooden gold crates,” Swank called back to them. “Get everybody up here, Dooley.”

  “Now you’re talking, Swank,” said Dooley, straightening himself again. He grinned. “Come on, fellows. Let’s go oversee this gold transaction, like we’re paid to do.”

  He booted his horse and galloped forward. The others rode along behind him. When they got to Heaton Swank, the big gunman fell in beside Dooley.

  “Keep a close eye on Andrew Grolin and his men,” Swank said as they galloped on along the trail. “He’s been known to show up at a swap like this and leave with everything in his pocket.”

  “Not today, he won’t,” said Dooley, riding close beside him.

  A hundred yards up the trail, Grolin slowed his horse and veered off the trail into the trees as he saw the riders come riding toward him and his men. When Swank and his men arrived and followed the same path, they found a dazed Bobby Kane in a small clearing holding the reins to the big Belgium. Grolin, Spiller and Penta had spread into a half circle around the edge on the clearing, rifles in hand. Grolin spoke from behind the cover of a thick pine.

  “That’s close enough, Swank,” he called out. “Have you got our money?”

  “I’ve got your money, Grolin,” Swank said, his men also spreading out around the clearing, staying atop their horses. “Have you got the gold?” As he asked, he looked curiously at the Belgium carrying the six wooden crates. He noted the stuffed saddlebags behind Grolin and his two gunmen.

  “I’ve got it,” Grolin said. He gestured toward the big Belgium.

  Swank and Dooley gave each other a look. Dooley shook his head slowly.

  “I was told twenty-four crates of gold ingots, around a half million in gold,” Swank said across the small clearing. “Has my arithmetic taken a bad turn, or am I only counting six?”

  “There’s six crates here,” Grolin said. “We’ve got another crate and a half in our saddlebags.”

  “There again,” Swank pointed out, “seven and a half crates sounds a lot shorter than twenty-four.”

  “I had a couple of men try to double-cross me,” Grolin said. “We lost a lot of the gold along the trail. But we’ve managed to get this much to you. I’ll get you the rest in a day or two. You’ve got my word.”

  “Your word…” Swank shook his head and stepped his horse forward, looking the Belgium up and down, casting a glance at the bleary-eyed Bobby Kane, holding its reins.

  “What happened to this one?” he asked, noting Kane’s swollen face.

  “The Giant backhanded him,” Grolin said.

  “Jesus,” Swank mused. “No wonder he looks like he’s forgot his way home.”

  “What do you say, Swank?” said Grolin. “You want us to drop these crates and start counting?”

  “‘This much’ don’t cut it, Grolin,” Swank said, stopping his horse and staring down at where Grolin stood close to the big pine. “My investors can buy this much gold for seventy-five cents on the dollar any day of the week. It takes a half million or better to make it worth their time.” He gave him a tight smile. “They’re big cats, these fellows of mine.”

  Grolin let out a breath and gripped his rifle a little tighter.

  “All right, let’s hear it,” he said.

  Swank looked over the six crates again appraisingly.

  “This much gold, we’re talking thirty-five cents to the note,” he said firmly.

  “And when we bring you rest?” he asked.

  “The rest means another trip for us. We’re still talking thirty-five cents—”

  “Forget it,” said Grolin, cutting him off. “We’ll split it among ourselves and cash it as we go. Right, fellows?” he called out to the others, as a reminder to Swank that there were rifles aimed at him and his men.

  “Damned right,” said Spiller. “We’re not giving it away.”

  “Not without a fight,” said Penta in a threatening tone.

  After a tense pause Grolin said, “There you have it, Swank. We’re all—”

  “So do I,” Bobby Kane cut in mindlessly, as if just catching up to the conversation.

  Grolin and Swank looked at the witless gunman, then back at each other.

  “Believe it or not, Grolin,” Swank said, “we’re not out to rob you. But I meant what I said. The people I’m turning this for would get real ugly if I came back to them with a small amount of gold for seventy-five cents on the dollar.”

  “Then you’ve made this trip for nothing,” said Grolin, “and I’ll bid you good day.”

  “Adios,” said Swank, touching his hat brim and backing his horse to turn it.

  Damn it.… Grolin watched as the horsemen started backing away, behind Swank, their rifles still at the ready.

  “Wait,” he called out to Swank, “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  Swank turned his horse back to Grolin; his men moved back into position.

  “I’ve got to get a wagon
to haul the rest of the gold in,” Grolin said. “If you can give me a day, stall your men and still pay our original price, we’ll cut you a share right off the top. Right, fellows?” he said to Spiller and Penta.

  “It’s right with me,” said Penta.

  “Me too,” said Spiller.

  Grolin and Swank both looked expectantly at Bobby Kane, who sat with his mouth slightly agape. Bobby made no reply.

  Swank nodded and said, “We’ll have a wagon here before you can say—”

  “Keep up the good work,” Kane blurted out in a slurred voice, cutting him off.

  Grolin and Swank stared at Kane.

  “Jesus,” said Swank. Lowering his voice, he said just between him and Grolin, “You ought to put that one out of his misery.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” said Grolin. “Just get us a wagon and let’s get this thing done, partner.”

  “One hour,” said Swank. “Be ready to ride when we get here with it. We might have a teamster or two shooting at our tails.”

  When Swank and his men were well on their way back along the trail toward the town of Dunbar, Silas Dooley rode up close beside Swank. The other three gunmen rode up on his other side. Swank looked back and forth at them. He grinned.

  “If this is a robbery, you got here too early,” he said. “You should have waited until I took possession of a wagon full of gold ingots.”

  “That’s the very thing we wanted to talk about, Heaton,” said Dooley. “We want to know how we fit in on this deal you’re cooking with Grolin. We were hired on to guard a wagonload of gold for you and the people you work for.”

  “Nothing’s changed,” said Swank. “You’ll all still get paid, just like we agreed to.”

  “Except, now we might have to ride right into a posse,” said Dooley, “or end up fighting the Stillwater Giant and whoever is sided with him against Grolin.”

  “Dooley’s right, Swank,” said Eli March. “This job has taken on a whole new hazard.”

  “You wanting out, Eli?” He shrugged. “Okay, you’re out,” he said. He looked at the others. “Anybody else want out?”