BULL’S-EYE
As if suddenly realizing someone was watching him from behind, Frank Penta turned around, smoking rifle in hand, and looked at Rochenbach through a haze of gun smoke. Seeing that Rochenbach had him cold, the rifle in Rock’s hands pointed, aimed and cocked at him, Penta gave him a strange, tight grin.
“Some fight, huh, Rock?” he called out above the roar of gunfire, sounding as if the two of them had been close friends.
“Yes, it is,” Rock agreed. His right eye fixed down the rifle sights; he squeezed the trigger….
MIDNIGHT
RIDER
Ralph Cotton
A SIGNET BOOK
For Mary Lynn… of course
PART 1
Chapter 1
Denver City, Colorado Territory
In the silvery light of dawn, U.S. Secret Service agent Avrial Rochenbach stepped down from his big dun out in front of the seedy Great Westerner Hotel, located on the outskirts of Denver City. He unwrapped a wool muffler from around his bare head and left it hanging from his shoulders. He looked back and forth along the street, which had just started coming to life for the day. A curl of steam wafted in his breath.
Scabbed onto the right side of the hotel beneath a shed roof stood Andrew Grolin’s Lucky Nut Saloon. On a faded, hand-painted sign above the saloon, a large nut—of a variety Rochenbach was unfamiliar with—stood upright between a large, frothy mug of beer and two large, tumbling dice.
Rochenbach spun his reins around an iron hitch rail, stepped onto the boardwalk and inside the Lucky Nut. Before he’d made three steps across the stone-tiled floor, two gunmen at the bar turned toward him quickly.
“Whoa! Stop yourself right there,” one called out, a Henry rifle in his hand, leveled at Rochenbach. “Did you hear anybody say we’re open for business yet?”
Rochenbach made no reply; he didn’t stop either. He continued across the floor, his forearm carelessly shoving back the right side of his long wool coat, where a black-handled Remington stood across his lower belly.
On the other side of the bar, Andrew Grolin looked up from counting a thick stack of money, a big black cigar in his teeth. He stalled for a second before saying anything, observing how everyone handled themselves.
“Hey, sumbitch! Are you deaf or something?” the same gunman called out to Rochenbach, he and the other gunman spreading a few feet apart, ready for whatever came next.
Grolin already saw what was coming if he didn’t do something to stop it. A belly rig like this? The slightest move of either of his men, this newcomer would pivot left a half turn. The big Remington would slip out of its holster as if his body had moved away from it and left it hanging in midair. It would come up arm’s length slick and fast. Bang, you’re dead! Grolin thought.
“It’s all right, Spiller. I’ve been expecting this man,” he said at the last second, before the scene he’d played out in his head began acting itself out on the floor.
“Whatever you say, boss,” said Denton Spiller.
The two men backed up a step; Spiller eyed the bareheaded newcomer up and down as Rochenbach stopped and returned his stare, his long wool coat still pushed back out of the way on his right side. The wool muffler hung from his shoulders.
“You need to be more careful how you enter a room, mister,” the gunman cautioned him, lowering his rifle barrel almost grudgingly.
“Obliged,” Rochenbach said flatly. “I’ve been working on it.” He let his coat fall back into place now that the rifle barrel wasn’t pointed at him.
Rochenbach held the gunman’s stare until Andrew Grolin took his cigar from his mouth and looked back and forth between the two, still appraising, still gauging the tensile of each man’s will.
“Spiller,” he said, “you and Pres meet Avrial Rochenbach.” He turned his eyes to Rochenbach. “Rock, this is Denton Spiller and Preston Casings. Two of my best damn men.”
Rochenbach nodded; the two nodded in return. None of the men raised their hands from gun level.
“I heard of you, Rochenbach,” said Casings. “You’re the Midnight Rider, the fellow who prefers working in the dark of night.” He looked Rock up and down. “Also the fellow who got himself chased out of the Pinkertons.”
“Really?” said Spiller to Rochenbach with a cold stare. “How does that feel, getting chased out?”
“I can show you,” Rochenbach said.
Spiller started to bristle.
“Easy, men,” Andrew Grolin said with a short, dark chuckle. He gestured to Spiller and said, “You and Pres take a walk. I want to talk to Rock here in private. He’s going to be riding with us.”
“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.”