“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.”
“Whatever you say, Andrew,” said the Giant. He glowered down at Rochenbach. But he leveled his derby hat, turned and walked across the floor and out into the night air.
“Have a chair, Rock,” Grolin said.
The two sat down across the table from each other. No sooner had they been seated than the bartender appeared at Rochenbach’s elbow. He set a clean shot glass in front of him and filled it from a bottle of rye standing on the table.
“How’d the collection go?” Grolin asked as the bartender walked away.
“It didn’t,” Rock said, raising the shot glass and drinking half of it. “Edmund Bell is dead—so says his grave marker. The place has been standing empty awhile.”
“Empty, huh?” said Grolin, studying his eyes closely. “What took you three so long?”
“We stopped for coffee,” said Rochenbach.
Grolin considered the matter, then shrugged and said, “Well, it wasn’t time wasted. I’ll present my marker against the place to my attorney, have him take possession.” He grinned.
Rochenbach finished his rye and slid his glass away. He saw no sign that Grolin had only been testing him. Good enough, he told himself. Now he needed to get away from Grolin and take care of an important piece of business before the night was over.
“Did Casings or Spiller talk about collecting my gambling debts on the way there?” Grolin asked.
“No,” said Rock, “should they have?”
“Just curious,” said Grolin. He leaned in a little and lowered his voice. “I think they cut a little off the top for themselves when they can get by with it.”
“That’s business between you and them,” said Rochenbach. “When somebody else handles your money, it often sticks to their hands.” He shrugged. “But you already know that.”
“Yes, I do,” said Grolin. “I was hoping if you saw anything out of the ordinary, you’d tell me,” said Grolin.
“I’ve told you all I can tell you,” said Rock.
Grolin studied his face for a moment, then said, “All right. Get some rest. I’m sending you out on a practice run tomorrow—see if you know the Diebold Bahmann safe as well as you say you do.”
“You do realize I don’t open safes for exercise and self-fulfillment,” said Rock.
“You get a cut of everything you put your hand to for me,” Grolin said.
“In that case, I bid you good night,” Rock said, turning, walking out the door.
But instead of going into the hotel, he ducked into a darkened alleyway and hurried along in a crouch until he reached the rear door of the telegraph office. He produced a ring of lock-picking tools from inside his coat. Looking back and forth quickly in the darkness, he bowed over the door lock like some dark creature of night attending its prey.
Time to report in, he told himself as the lock clicked and the door opened an inch. He glanced both ways again, then opened the door far enough to slip inside as silent as a ghost.
Chapter 6
It the gray darkness of morning, Denton Spiller, Pres Casings, Turley Batts and the Stillwater Giant walked abreast along the empty street, making their way to the livery barn. As they arrived and started to go inside, a fifth man, an outlaw named Lonnie Bonham, came trotting along behind them on foot.
“Wait up!” Bonham called out, causing the four to stop at the barn door and look back at him. He trotted forward and stopped, his rifle hanging in his hand.
“Well…?” said Spiller, looking the younger outlaw up and down.
“He’s not there,” said Bonham.
“You went on up to his room?” asked Turley Batts.
Bonham gave him a searing look.
“He’s not there,” he repeated. “I checked inside Turk’s Restaurant on my way here. He’s not there either.”
“Now what?” said Spiller, looking all around. “I don’t like being nursemaid to this bastard.”
“Maybe he went to the Nut first thing,” said the Giant. His voice sounded like the rumble of low cannon fire deep inside a large cave.