Midnight Rider (Ralph Cotton Western Series) (5 page)

“Turn her loose, Spiller,” Rock said again. He held the money up. “We came here for money. We got it.”

“Huh-uh,” said Spiller, “I’m taking a little taste for my trouble. Don’t even think about trying to stop me.”

Rochenbach looked away and let out a breath as if in submission. But then he turned back in a flash; his stiff new boot came up hard and fast and buried itself in Spiller’s crotch. The gunman jackknifed at the waist with a terrible sound and seemed to freeze there, both hands grasping himself.

Rochenbach’s Remington streaked out of his belly holster and made a hard swipe across the side of Spiller’s forehead. Spiller’s hat flew away.

“My God, Rock, you’ve ruined him!” said Casings as Spiller fell to his side on the cold, hard ground.

The woman stood staring wide-eyed, her mouth agape.

“Go to your husband,” Rochenbach said to her, making her snap back to her senses. “Both of you get inside.”

Turning the Remington toward Casings, Rock asked him, “Anything you need to add?”

“Huh-uh, not a thing,” said Casings, instinctively taking a step back, fighting the urge to cup his hands and protect his crotch.

On the ground, Spiller let out a strained, pain-filled groan. Blood poured from a long welt running down the side of head, along his jawline.

“Throw some water on him. Let’s get him in his saddle and get out of here,” Rock said calmly. “We’ve interrupted these folks’ supper long enough.”

Two pairs of gleaming red eyes flashed in the darkness above the three riders as they rounded a sunken boulder on the trail back toward Denver City. In the pale light of a rising half-moon, Rochenbach and Casings rode along, Spiller slumped and silent in his saddle a few feet ahead of them. As the brush of padded paws swept down the side of the boulder and sprinted away into the greater darkness, Casings took his hand off his rifle stock and dropped it to his side.

“Coyotes…,” he said sidelong to Rochenbach.

Rochenbach didn’t answer. The horses plodded on at a walk.

A few yards farther along, Casings said quietly to Rochenbach, “We had no idea Edmund Bell was dead. Our job was to collect something from him, that’s all.”

Rochenbach didn’t answer, knowing that the less he spoke, the more Casings felt he had to.

“I mean, I wasn’t going to do anything to that girl,”
he said. He nodded at Spiller riding ahead of them. “That was all his idea.”

“You didn’t try to stop him,” Rochenbach said quietly.

Casings stared at him.

“No, I didn’t,” he said. “Why did you?”

“Because I was told we came here to collect money. So that’s what I did,” said Rock. “Sure, I had to rough the fellow up a little, but just enough to get the job done. What Spiller was about to do to the woman was stupid.”

“Yeah, I have to admit, you got what we came for,” said Casings, looking him up and down. “I call getting money from that ragged-ass kid nothing short of a miracle.”

Rock cut him a sidelong glance.

“What are you saying, Casings?” Rock asked.

Casings shrugged and said, “Nothing, just that it was a miracle.”

“A
miracle
?” said Rock. “So you’re expressing a religious view?”

“No,” Casings said, sounding embarrassed. “I’m just saying it’s not likely that Sonny Bell or his pa, either one, would have any money. That’s all.”

“Then why did we waste our time riding out here?” Rock asked, sounding irritated. “Is this some kind of kid’s game?”

“Whoa,” said Casings. “I’m just saying we’ve had a hard time shaking any money out of Edmund Bell.”

“Really?” Rochenbach stopped his horse and stared at Casings. “You’re the one who said ‘Put a scare into these beefers and miners, they come up with some
money.’ I put a scare into him and he
came up
with some money.” He turned his horse back to the trail, seeing Spiller get farther ahead of them. “Maybe you two haven’t been trying hard enough.”

Casings stayed beside him.

“We tried hard,” he said, “damned hard. Spiller has been at this business his whole life.”

“I’m no shylock,” Rock said, “but it didn’t seem too hard to me—a smack in the mouth. I reached in his pocket and there it was.”

Casings let go of a breath and considered the matter. Ahead of them Spiller swayed in his saddle. His left arm, which had been holding a wadded bandanna against his bloody forehead, fell limp to his side.

“Uh-oh, there he goes,” said Casings, seeing the half-conscious gunman topple over out of his saddle and land in the cold, rocky dirt.

Rochenbach rode up slowly, grabbed the loose reins to Spiller’s horse and drew it to his side. He watched Casings help Spiller onto his knees and steady him.

“Here’s your horse,
Dent
,” Rock said quietly, pitching the reins down to the bloody, addled gunman. “Try to stay on it.”

“You’ve broken something… inside my head,” Spiller gasped, struggling to stand with Casings’ help.

“Wonder what that could be,” Rock said in a dry, calloused tone.

“We’re going to have to stop for a while,” Casings said to Rochenbach, “let him get his senses back.” He looked around in the pale moonlit night. “To tell
the truth, my horse could use a little rest. I could use some hot coffee myself.”

Without a word, Rochenbach stepped down from his saddle and walked his horse off the trail into the scrub. He found a knee-high rock and sat down on it, holding his rifle across his lap.

Casings helped Spiller to his feet and walked him off the trail with his arm looped across his shoulders. He led both horses behind him. When he’d helped the wobbling outlaw seat himself in the dirt, he looked at the bloody, swollen side of his head.

“Man!” he remarked to Rochenbach. “I’ve never seen a man struck this hard by a pistol barrel before.”

Rochenbach looked out across the purple night and relaxed.

“How’s that coffee coming?” he asked.

Casings stopped looking at Spiller’s injured head and turned to Rochenbach.

“Who the hell put you in charge?” he asked. “I’m not the damned cook.”

Rochenbach shrugged and said, “No offense. You said you wanted to rest your horse and have a hot cup of coffee. I figured you wanted to talk some more about how you’re going to explain all this to Grolin.”

“Talk
some more
?” Casings said. “I didn’t say anything about explaining all this to Grolin.”

“No, but you were leading up to it when your pal here fell from his saddle,” said Rock. “I thought you might want to pursue the matter further before we get back to the Lucky Nut.”

Spiller and Casings stared at each other.

After a tense pause, Casings turned to his horse,
flipped open his saddlebags, took out a small cloth bag of coffee beans and walked toward Rochenbach.

“You don’t know what it’s like sometimes, working for Andy Grolin,” he said.

Looking past Casings, Rochenbach saw Spiller wobble to his feet and begin searching the ground for firewood.

Rock smiled to himself. “Oh?” he said. “Then maybe you should tell me.”

Over a cup of coffee, Rochenbach listened as Casings spoke in a guarded voice, despite the fact that they were still seven miles out of Grolin’s hearing range.

“See, we knew Edmund Bell was in bad shape the last time we were there,” he said. “We had no doubt he’d be dead by the time we went back.”

“But you didn’t tell Grolin,” Rock interjected.

“No, we didn’t tell him,” said Casings. “I know we should have.” He hung his head for a moment. “Looking back, I wish we had.”

Rochenbach studied him closely.

“How much did you collect?” he asked flatly.

“Huh?”
Casings looked surprised; so did Spiller, who had recovered some over a cup of strong coffee.

“The last time you were there. How much did you two collect?” said Rock. “Don’t take me for a fool, Pres,” he cautioned the gunman. “We can talk it out here, or back at the Lucky Nut with Grolin, whichever suits you.”

Casings rubbed his face and shook his head.

“Jesus…,” he said. “All right, we collected close to forty dollars last time.”

“But you told Grolin you didn’t collect anything,” Rock said.

Casings just stared at him.

“Damn it, Casings, don’t tell him,” Spiller ordered, firelight flickering in his eyes.

“He’s already figured it out,” Casings said. “No, we didn’t tell Grolin,” he said to Rochenbach. “We figured ol’ Edmund would be dead in a week, the kid and his woman would be cleared out and nobody would ever know.” He gave a shrug. “Hell, Grolin is going to get the place for what’s left owed against it anyway.”

“Damn it to hell, Pres,” said Spiller. “Shut up!”

Ignoring Spiller, Rochenbach said to Casings, “But Grolin wanted you two to check me out, so he sent you out earlier than anybody expected.”

“Yeah,” said Casings, also ignoring Spiller. “If he hears we held out on him, we’re dead, Rock.”

“I can see how he might want to kill you both,” Rock said. “Especially when he figures it’s not the first time you shorted him.”

“No, it is the first time,” said Casings. “I swear it is.”

Rock smiled and looked back and forth between the two gunmen.

“See,” he said, “I don’t believe you myself, and it’s not even my money we’re talking about. Imagine what Grolin will think if he ever gets wind of it.”

“Who’s going to tell him?” Spiller asked menacingly, setting his tin cup down beside him and turning toward Rock from where he sat in the dirt. His hand rested on the butt of his holstered pistol.

Rochenbach slid his Remington from his belly holster and pointed its barrel straight up, gleaming in the flickering firelight.

“You don’t want to be making threats,” he said, “sitting there with your head split—didn’t even check your gun to see if I unloaded it while you were knocked out.” He held a piercing gaze on Spiller.

Without looking away from Rock, Spiller swallowed a knot in his throat.

“Did he fool around with my gun, Pres?” he asked, his head still pounding like a drum.

“How the hell do I know, Dent?” Casings said. “The man’s kicked your nuts into your windpipe and cracked your head open. Why don’t you quit acting tough and listen to what he’s got to say?”

Spiller stared at Rochenbach with the same question burning in his red, pain-filled eyes.

“Nobody knows but me, Spiller,” Rochenbach said in a dead-serious tone. His thumb cocked the big Remington standing beside his face. “You’ve got two choices. Either take your hand away from your Colt or bring it up—show us how much faith you have in yourself.”

A tense moment passed until Spiller growled a curse under his breath and his hand slipped away from the Colt, eased back to the tin coffee cup and picked it up.

Rochenbach lowered the hammer on the big Remington and brought the gun down across his lap.

“Now back to who’s going to tell Grolin,” he said. “That would be me telling him, because I came out and collected the money. For all I know, Grolin could
have told you to convince me you’ve been pocketing money, just to see whether or not he can trust me.”

“It’s not, Rock. I swear to God, it’s not!” Pres Casings said. “We’ve had this little thing going on for a while, nothing big, just drinking money now and then.”

“Damn it, Pres,” said Spiller, “you’re emptying your guts to him! He’s got no reason to trust us. We’ve got even less reason to trust him.”

“One of us has to bend a little,” said Casings. He looked back at Rochenbach. So did Spiller.

Rochenbach sipped his coffee, considering it.

“All right,” he said. “It looks like I’m the one who has to stick my neck out. The only way you two can trust me is to make me an accomplice.” He patted the eighty dollars folded inside the lapel pocket of his wool coat. “If I don’t turn this money in, and we all three tell Grolin that Edmund Bell is dead and his place was empty, I’m in with you up to my neck.” He looked back and forth again. “If you’re lying, we’re all three dead.”

They looked at each other, then back at Rochenbach.

“Because I’ll kill you both while Grolin puts a bullet in my head,” Rochenbach said.

“We’re
not
lying, Rock,” Pres Casings repeated, both outlaws looking relieved. “And you’re in on our scheme from now on. Whatever we get, you get a third. Three-way partners. Right, Dent?” he said sidelong to Spiller.

But Spiller didn’t reply. He continued to stare coldly at Rochenbach.

Rock still looked leery of them as he held his tin coffee cup in his gloved hand, ready to take another sip as if doing so would seal a pact among them. This was what he needed, a toehold into Grolin’s operation.

“That’s you talking,” Rock said to Casings. “I haven’t heard anything from your sporting friend here.”

“What did you call me?” Spiller said in a dark tone.

Rochenbach just stared at him and finished his coffee.

“Dent, damn it, come on,” said Casings. “I’m trying to work this thing out! Give me some help here.”

Spiller simmered and settled, his head pounding, his crotch aching. He hadn’t forgotten that Rochenbach was the source of his misery. But he let out a breath.

“Okay! From now on we’re all three partners in our collecting scheme,” he said.