Midnight Rider (Ralph Cotton Western Series) (6 page)

“All right, then, we’re all three agreed,” Casings said. He also let out a breath and turned to Rochenbach. “Now that all that’s settled, let’s split the eighty dollars and get on back to town.”

“I don’t think so,” Rochenbach said, standing up, the Remington still hanging in one hand. He slung the grounds from his coffee cup and rubbed out the fire with the side of his new boot.

“What do you mean?” Casings said in surprise. “I thought we just agreed we’re partners.”

“We did
just
agree
,” Rochenbach said. “But we hadn’t agreed to it when I collected the money.” Firelight flickered in his eyes. “Anyway, I’m the new man here. I’ve got some catching up to do.”

It was long after midnight when the three rode onto the street leading to the Great Westerner Hotel and the Lucky Nut Saloon. Spiller rode slumped in his saddle a few feet in front of Casings and Rochenbach. He looked up in time to see the weathered, one-horse buggy sitting out in front of the hotel; the edge of its usually tall canvas top was lined with dangling fringe-work. The sight of the buggy caused him to jerk his horse to a halt and turn toward Casings behind him.

“Look who’s here, Pres,” he said in a low voice.

“Yeah, I see it,” Casings said, slowing his horse.

Rochenback looked at the buggy and slowed his big dun right along with Casings.

“Are you going to make me ask,
partner
?” he said to Casings.

“It’s the Stillwater Giant,” Casings whispered sidelong.

“Garth Oliver…,” Rock said quietly, looking the buggy over good.

Casings looked at him, surprised.

“You know the Giant?” he said.

“Only by reputation,” said Rochenbach. “I’ve seen his picture in Pinkerton’s rogues gallery.”

Casings gave him a curious, troubled look.

“You studied the rogues gallery a good deal, did you?” he asked.

“Studied it?”
Rock said. “I helped construct most of it.” He gave him a thin smile and nudged his dun forward toward an alley path leading to the livery barn.

“Jesus…,” said Casings, he and Spiller nudging their horses alongside him. “See, that’s something I find unsettling about you, Rock. You spent lots of time working on ways to put ol’ boys like the Giant… and Spiller and me behind bars.”

“Luckily, I saw the error of my ways and became one of you,” Rochenbach said wryly.

“Yeah, luckily,” Casings said. As they reached the livery barn, he said, “What are you going to tell Grolin when he asks you what happened out there?”

“I’ll tell him the truth,” Rochenbach said, “that the house was standing empty and Edmund Bell is dead and in the ground.”

Casings nodded and looked at Spiller, who’d been riding on in silence since they spotted the Giant’s buggy.

“You got that, Dent?” Casings asked.

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Spiller said. “Don’t worry about me. I’m not saying nothing that’s going to get Grolin or the Stillwater Giant on me.”

“Right,” said Casings. Testing him, he asked, “And what happened to the side of your head?”

“I rode into a damned low-hanging tree limb along the trail,” Spiller said grudgingly.

Casings chuckled to himself as the three of them brought their horses to a halt and stepped down from their saddles in front of the livery barn.

“Yep, that’s what you did,” Casings said, stifling a laugh, “and it seemed like it was no more than a minute after I’d cautioned you against doing that very thing.”

“Don’t mess with me, Pres,” Spiller warned him. “I ain’t in the mood for it.”

They walked their horses inside the barn, lit a lantern and tended to the animals in the dim circle of light. Dropping their saddles onto saddle racks and hanging the bridles on wall pegs, they grained and watered the horses.

While the animals ate, the men wiped the lathered horses down, each with a handful of fresh straw. Once the animals were finished with their feed, the men led them into clean stalls for the night.

“All right,” Rochenbach said, “it’s time we take our story to Grolin, see how well we can sell it to him.”

They walked back through the darkened alleyway, saddlebags over their shoulders, rifles in hand, down the street to the Lucky Nut. As they stepped inside the saloon doors, Grolin stood up from a corner table, lit dimly by a small oil lamp.

A squat, bald bartender stood behind the bar. Opposite him stood a miner who’d been drinking steadily since before dark. The rest of the dim saloon was empty, save for a large, hulking figure seated across the table from Andrew Grolin.

“Well, well,” Grolin said, a cigar curling smoke from between his thick fingers. “Speak of the devil and who shall arrive?”

Rochenbach and the other two gunmen walked toward the table. But Grolin held a hand up toward Casings and Spiller, stopping them.

“You two take the night off,” he said. “I’ll let Rock here tell me how things went.”

Casings and Spiller looked at each other. Neither of them liked the idea of Rochenbach speaking for them in their absence, but they both knew better than to say anything about it.

Grolin stood watching as the two turned and walked back out the door.

Once out on the empty street, Spiller glanced back over his shoulder to make certain they weren’t being followed.

“Damn!” he said under his breath to Casings. “I never counted on that.”

“Nor did I,” Casings said, walking along rigidly, staring straight ahead. “But we’d have to trust him sometime. At least we’ll find out tonight if he keeps his mouth shut or not.” He paused, then added, “I say he will.”

“If he don’t, we’re dead,” Spiller said.

“Yep,” Casings agreed, “deader than I ever want to be.”

“Maybe I should get around to the window and put a bullet in his back before he gets started talking,” Spiller said.

Casings looked sidelong at him and shook his head slowly.

“You got any better ideas?” Spiller asked, recognizing the way Casings looked at him.

“Don’t talk crazy, Dent,” Casings said.

They walked a block past the Great Westerner to a run-down house standing back from the street in a yard choked with dried weeds, wild grass and scrub. “All we can do for now is wait it out, see what the morning brings.”

“Still,” said Spiller, “I’m sleeping with my rifle tonight.”

Casings gave him a tight, thin smile.

“Your private life is your own business,” he said quietly.

Spiller cursed under his breath as he pulled the broken picket gate open and walked into the overgrown yard.

“I don’t know how you can make jokes at a time like this,” he said, walking along a weed-lined path, up onto a rickety front porch. “If this damned
ex
-Pinkerton law dog opens his mouth about how we’ve been collecting money, Grolin will have us skinned and—”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve been through all that,” Casings said, cutting him off. “Don’t soil yourself.” He walked along a step behind him, through the unlocked front door and into the dark, sparsely furnished house.

“What did you say to me?” Spiller growled. He watched Casings walk over to a table and pick up an oil lamp to light it.

“Forget it,” said Casings. “You’ve just been getting on my nerves all day and night.”

“Soil myself, you said?” Spiller persisted, his hand on the butt of his gun. “You’ve been making remarks all day. I won’t tolerate sass from no—”

“Shhh,”
said Casings, cutting him off again.

Spiller saw Casings’ face turn orange-blue and shadowy in the flare of a match as he lit the lamp. Their eyes cut searchingly away from the circle of lamplight as Casings trimmed down the lamp’s wick and quickly set the lamp back on the table. They both heard the slight creaking sound of a floor plank in a dark, adjoining room.

Casings stepped away from the lamp table, his Colt streaking up from his holster, cocked and aimed blindly into the darkness.

“Whoever’s there,
announce
yourself!” Casings said, ready to pull the trigger.

From the other room, a quiet voice resounded low and evenly through the darkness.

“What if I’m just a cat?” the voice said.

“Then you better start purring, you sumbitch!” Spiller called out, raising his Colt and taking aim in the direction of the voice.

Casings raised a hand toward Spiller. “Hold up, Dent,” he said, letting out a tense breath. “It’s Turley.” He called out to the darkness, “Turley, don’t be acting a fool with us. We’re not up for it.”

“You boys sound overwrought,” said the voice with a chuckle. A gunman stepped out of the adjoining room into the circle of lamplight. “Tell ol’ Turley all about it.”

“Batts, you idiot,” Spiller growled under his breath, letting the hammer down on his Colt and slipping the gun back into his holster.

“When did you get here?” Casings asked the gun-man.

“I rode in with the Bonham and the Stillwater Giant about an hour ago,” Turley Batts replied. He looked at Spiller’s swollen forehead. “The hell happened to you?”

“Low-hanging limb…,” Spiller said in shame.

Batts laughed, making no attempt to hide his amusement from Spiller.

“What did you hear us saying when we walked in here?” asked Casings.

“Nothing worth saying again,” Batts said, cutting his laughing short. “But I heard Low-Hanging Limb here mention
collecting money
when you came through the door.”

“That figures,” Casings said, glaring at Spiller.

“I hope nothing has happened to spoil our little sideline?” Batts said. “I can use some quick pocket money until Grolin gets this
big job
of his set up.” He grinned and looked back and forth between the two gunmen. “We’re still three-way partners on everything, right?”

“Jesus…,” said Casings, shaking his head. “Something’s come up, Turley,” he added. “We need to talk about our three-way-partners deal.”

“Start talking, then,” said Batts, looking at Spiller’s swollen forehead again. “I’m nothing but
attentive.
”

Inside the Lucky Nut, Andrew Grolin stood beside Rochenbach and gestured his cigar hand across the table toward a man who’d been hidden in the shadows of the dark saloon.

“Rock,” Grolin said, “I want you to meet a
friend
and associate of mine. This is Mr. Garth Oliver.” To the big man he said, “This is Mr. Rochenbach—
Rock
to his friends.”

The Stillwater Giant…,
Rochenbach said to himself. He touched his fingertips to his hat brim. “Mr. Oliver,” he said aloud.

“Pardon me if I don’t get up,” said the Stillwater Giant, his voice deep and gruff. “It makes most folks nervous when I stand all the way up.”

“I’m not the nervous type,” said Rock, “but suit yourself.”

“Word has it you worked for Pinkerton’s boys,” said the Stillwater Giant.

“Yes, I did,” said Rochenbach, aware of Grolin watching, appraising his every word, every move.

The large figure leaned forward into the flicker of lamplight, staring straight at Rochenbach from across the table without having to lift his eyes.

“Good thing you’re not tonight,” he said with a cruel grin. “I’d be wearing you on my shoe soles.”

“Maybe,” said Rock, “or maybe you’d be leaving town over the back of a mule.”

“Oh…?” The Giant’s gaze hardened, but turned curious.

Rochenbach studied his face, the broad, hooded
brow, the wide, thick chin, jawbones the size and shape of apples.

“There’s five hundred dollars on your head in Texas,” he said.

Recollection came to the Giant’s face.

“I’d damned near forgot about that,” he said. “How come you to know it?”

“Old habit,” said Rochenbach. “I can’t walk past a post office without looking at wanted posters, thinking how easy it would be.”

“Easy…?” said the Giant. He scooted his chair back and rose to his feet. Rochenbach looked up at him, judging him to be seven feet tall.

Grolin stepped in and said, “Unless you know how to open a Diebold safe, you best mind your manners here.”

Mind his manners
… Rochenbach kept himself from smiling. Until he swung the door of the Treasury car door open for Grolin, his safety here was guaranteed.

“In fact, go get yourself some rest,” Grolin said to the Giant. “I want to talk to Rock here alone.”