Midnight Rider (Ralph Cotton Western Series) (2 page)

“Come on, Dent,” said Pres, half turning toward the front door.

“
Rock
, huh? That’s the name you go by?” Spiller asked, not giving it up yet.

Rock stared at him. So did Andrew Grolin. Ordinarily Grolin would have had none of this—a man not doing what he was told right away. But he knew this was good. It showed him who he could count on when the going got tight.

“
Friends
call me that,” Rochenbach said.

“Yeah? What do them who are
not your friends
call you?” Spiller asked, his contempt for this newcomer showing clearly in his eyes, his voice.

“Nothing, for long,” said Rochenbach.

The threat was there, but it took a second for Denton Spiller to catch it, and that second was all Grolin needed to decide the better of the two—at least when it came to showing their fangs. It might be a different story when it came to hard testing. But for now he’d seen enough. So far Rochenbach was living up to everything Grolin had heard about him.

“How’s that walk coming along?” he asked Spiller in a stronger tone.

Spiller didn’t answer. He jerked a nod toward the front door.

Grolin and Rochenbach watched as Casings followed Spiller out of the saloon.

After the two had moved along the street and out of sight, beyond reach of the large front window, Rock turned to face Grolin behind the bar.

“‘Cowboy’ Pres Casings…,” he said.

“Yep,” said Grolin. He eyed Rockenbach. “Used to
be, a man who called him ‘Cowboy’ would be warming his feet in hell before he got the words out of his mouth.”

“I didn’t name him,” said Rock.

“I know,” said Grolin, sweeping up the cash from atop the bar. “Call it friendly advice.”

“Taken as such,” Rock said.

“I was surprised you heard of him at first,” Grolin said, eyeing Rochenbach. “Then I remembered you must know lots about us ol’ boys who drop gun hammers for a living.”

“I do,” said Rock. “Does it bother you, my having worked for the law?”

“I don’t
bother
easily,” said Grolin. “Not to piss on your hoecake, but I don’t figure you worked for the rightful law. You worked for the
Allen Pinkerton law.
I see a vast difference between the two.”

“See it how it suits you,” said Rock. “It makes me no difference. Whatever I was, I’m a long rider now.” He gave a slight shrug. “I figure Juan Sodorez and some of his pistoleros must’ve vouched for me, else we wouldn’t be standing here talking all tough and friendly to each other.”

Grolin chuckled under his breath and seemed to relax a little.

“I expected you three weeks ago,” he said. “Wondered if I ought to come looking for you.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to be where I was three weeks ago,” Rochenbach said.

“Oh?” Grolin said. “Is that where your forehead ran into a rifle butt?”

Rochenbach touched his fingers deftly to his
forehead, his dark-circled eyes, and his mending nose.

“It’s a long story,” said Rock. “But yes, I did stop a rifle butt up at Gunn Point.”

“I see,” said Grolin. “Was it over a whore, or over a card game?”

“Does it matter?” Rock asked.

Grolin grinned. “I’d like to think you were late for a good reason.”

Rochenbach could tell by the look in his eyes that he had already heard what had happened in Gunn Point. He wasn’t going to offer any more than he had to on the matter.

“I don’t remember,” he said. “It might have been both.”

“But nothing you want to talk about,” Grolin concluded.

“Right,” Rochenbach said. “Nothing
worth
talking about, that is.” He nodded at a coffeepot sitting on a tray behind the polished bar. “Not as important as a hot mug of coffee—and hearing what you’ve got in mind for us.” He kept his gaze on Grolin.

Outside on the street, Denton Spiller and Preston Casings walked along in the grainy dawn light and stopped at a public fire burning out in front of a blacksmith and ironmongering shop. They stared at a ragged old man until he stopped warming his rough, calloused hands and walked away from the fire. They stood in his place and warmed their hands as a two-pound forging hammer rang against an anvil in the background.

Spiller rolled himself a smoke and lit it carefully on a licking flame. Behind them on the street, steam wafted in the breath of passing wagon horses pulling their loads.

“What do you think?” he asked Pres Casings. He blew out a stream of gray smoke.

“About what?” Casings replied, wringing his gloved hands near the flames.

Spiller stared at him with a no-nonsense look and took another draw.

“Oh, you mean Rochenbach,” Casings said.

“Yeah, I mean Rochenbach,” Spiller said in a short tone. “What the hell else would I be talking about?”

“How would I know?” said Casings, his voice equally testy. “Any number of things, I reckon.”

Spiller shook his head and stared back toward the Lucky Nut. He drew on the thin cigarette between his lips.

“Anyway, I don’t trust the sumbitch. I don’t trust any man who once wore a badge,” he added.

“You can’t hold it against a man,” said Casings. “A lot of lawmen get tangled up in things and go afoul of the law.”

Spiller took a breath and let it out, considering Casings’ words.

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s true enough. Still, I can’t trust one. I believe there’s a peculiar, gnawing little animal lives inside a man that makes him want to work for the law.”

“I can see that,” said Casings, nodding, warming his hands. “But a man can change his mind, decide
to hell with the law
and go his own way.”

“Yeah,” said Spiller, looking back from the saloon and into the fire. “But once he turns outlaw, I wonder what’s become of that gnawing little animal. It still has to be fed, don’t it?”

Casings didn’t try to answer. He shook his head slowly and stared into the fire.

“I expect if Grolin wants Rochenbach with us, he’s
with us
, like it or not,” he said. He paused reflectively, then added, “Everything I’ve heard of him, he’s a straight-up outlaw, no doubt about it. Maybe you just worry too much.”

“Get this straight, Pres,” Spiller said in a strong tone. “I don’t worry about a
damn thing.
” He coughed and blew smoke around the cigarette. “The only thing that worries me about hanging is that they tie the knot wrong.”

“That would worry me too,” said Casings. “Maybe they’d let me tie it myself.”

“Naw, they won’t let you do it,” said Spiller. “I asked around.”

The two chuckled darkly and warmed their hands.

“Still, I’m going to watch this Rochenbach sumbitch like a hawk,” Spiller said, staring back toward the saloon in dawn’s light.

Inside the saloon, Rochenbach sipped the steaming coffee and watched Andrew Grolin pour his mug half full. He tipped a bottle of rye and filled the mug close to its brim.

Before Grolin corked the whiskey bottle, Rock slid his mug forward, on the outside chance that Grolin was just checking him out.

“Where are my manners?” Grolin chastised himself. He gave him a thin smile and topped off Rochenbach’s mug with whiskey.

Rochenbach nodded his thanks and sipped the hot, fiery coffee.

“Let’s get down to it,” Grolin said, leaning a little closer across the bar. “Arnold the Swede tells me you’re a man who knows his way around safe locks, explosives and such. That’s why I told him to send you to me.” He watched Rochenbach’s eyes as he sipped his whiskey-laced coffee. “Did he tell me right?”

“The Swede knows my work,” said Rochenbach. “If he says I’m good, I won’t argue with him.”

Here it was, Rock thought, studying Grolin’s eyes, knowing he was being tested and weighed with every word, every gesture. If he asked too much too soon, it would raise suspicion. If he didn’t ask enough, it would raise suspicion too—it was all about finding the right balance.

“So, what do you feel like robbing?” he asked, raising the steaming mug to his lips.

Grolin smiled appraisingly. “Just like that?” he said, snapping his thick fingers above the bar top.

“I didn’t ride all this way for the scenery,” Rock said. “If you don’t trust me, let’s stop here before we hurt each other’s feelings.”

“It’s a train that looks to be any ordinary freight car,” Grolin said, the slight smile vanishing from his face, “except, inside, one whole end of it is a big fat safe. It’s got the new permutation dial lock on it.”

Rock let out a breath.

“A combination safe,” said Rochencbach. “That’s
good for starters. But I’ll need to know what’s inside this safe. Is this going to be a blasting job—will I need nitro? Or will I be opening it with a trumpet?”

“A trumpet sounds better to me. But let’s talk about it some,” Grolin said. “I want to hear what you say about it.”

“What can I tell you?” Rock asked.

Rochenbach allowed himself to relax and drink the laced coffee. He listened as Andrew Grolin leaned against the inside of the bar and spoke in a guarded voice.

“Do you know anything about the U.S. Mint and Assay Office in Denver City?” he asked.

“Not very much,” said Rochenbach, lying straight-faced. “I rode past it one night the last time I was here. I remember wishing they had left a basement window open.”

“How long ago was that?” Grolin asked, studying Rochenbach as he spoke.

“A year, maybe longer,” Rock replied.

“In that case, you would have been sorely disappointed,” said Grolin. “There was nothing in the basement there but minting equipment left behind after the government bought out the Clark Gruber Mint back during the war. The fact is, after the government bought out Clark Gruber, equipment and all, they’ve yet to strike a single coin there, silver or gold.”

“No kidding?” said Rochenbach, already knowing it, but feigning mild surprise. “Why is that?

Grolin shrugged a thick shoulder and poured more whiskey into his coffee.

“Hell, if we’re going to talk about why the government does or doesn’t do what they say they’re going to, we’re in for a long, sad conversation,” he chuffed, stirring the whiskey and coffee around with the tip of his finger.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Rock agreed, raising his warm mug and taking a sip from it.

“My notion, Honest Abe and his gang couldn’t stand the thought that a commercial business was conducting banking and striking coins without getting their greasy noses stuck into the mix.” He raised his cigar with his thick fingers and stuck it into his mouth. “That’s usually what happens, right?”

Rochenbach saw Grolin stare at him, searchingly, for a reply. But he wasn’t going to give one. There was such a thing as him knowing
too
much.

“If you say so,” he said. “I don’t keep up much on banking practices—government either, for that matter.”

“Yeah?” Grolin looked at him closely. “I figured in your time as a detective, you had the chance to learn quite a lot about both.”

“Maybe I
should
have,” said Rock. “I spent most my time figuring the best way to get bank money to follow me out the door.” He sipped the last of his whiskey-laced coffee.

Grolin gave a short laugh. He puffed his cigar and considered it for a moment.

“The reason I asked how long ago since you’d ridden past there,” he said, “is that the past eight months, there’s been smoke seen rising from the smelt furnace in that basement.” He paused, then added, “Always, it’s been seen late at night.”

Rochenbach gave him a curious look. “But you just said they’ve yet to strike the first coin—?”

“That’s right, I did,” said Grolin, cutting him off. “And they still haven’t. But they do melt down gold and ship it back East, all the way to Philadelphia. They don’t do it all the time, and they try to keep it under their hats when they do.” He gave him an oily, crooked grin, the black cigar still in his mouth. “But I’ve got eyes in Denver City. Nothing gets past me.”

“Smelting gold, huh?” Rochenbach straightened a little against the bar, looking even more attentive. He set the mug on the bar in front of him.

Noting the empty mug, Grolin started to reach out and fill it with more whiskey, but Rochenbach put his hand between the bottle and the coffee mug, stopping him.

“Thanks, but I’m good for now,” he said. “We’re starting to talk about money.”

Grolin nodded and set the bottle down. He liked that, he told himself—Rochenbach, cool and even, facing up to Spiller and Casings, knocking back a little whiskey before breakfast, but turning strictly business, now that business was at hand.

“Yes, we are, and big money at that,” he said, still watching Rochenbach’s eyes closely. “Only, this is not cash money.”

Rochenbach kept quiet, listening.

“This is all in bullion, three-and-a-half-inch gold ingots,” said Grolin, another oily grin around his black cigar. “Got anything against taking your pay in gold, Rock? My extra men I pay off in cash, out of my pocket. But my regular men get paid more, so they’ll take their pay in gold, convert it to cash themselves, if they know somebody who’ll convert it.”

“Nothing against gold, unless I have to dig it up first,” Rochenbach replied. “I know plenty of folks who can touch bullion gold and turn it into cash. They don’t care what stamping is on it.”