“If it’s a Diebold Bahmann experimental permutation safe, I’ll walk you in it quiet as a mouse.”
“What makes you so cocksure of yourself?” Grolin said. “These experimental safes are not widely known.”
“I know them,” Rock said.
“From having been a detective…,” Grolin murmured.
“Yes,” said Rock. “Every brand of these new permutation safes has its own sound. So, let’s just say I speak this safe’s language.” He returned the saloon owner’s stare.
Grolin weighed his words, then nodded slightly.
“All right,” he said, “I believe you.”
If Grolin really had the information he purported to have, it meant he had himself a spy inside either the mint or the Treasury Department. It had to be somebody powerful enough to access the scheduling, date of gold shipments and amounts being shipped.
Rochenbach wanted that person—wanted him bad, he told himself. But that would have to wait until later.
“How much do you believe me?” Rochenbach asked flatly.
“Fifty thousand in gold bullion,” Grolin returned in a like tone.
Rock allowed a gleam of excitement to come into his eyes.
“For fifty thousand gold, you’re inside it,” he said.
At the rear of the saloon, a door opened and a large man wearing a plaid wool coat stepped inside the Lucky Nut.
“One of my bartenders,” Grolin said in a lowered voice. “We’re through talking for now.” He looked Rochenbach up and down. “Now that you know my play, stick close to Spiller and Casings. I hate a man who’d change his mind and try to skin out of town.”
“I’ll stick close. Once I’m in on a job, there’s no turning back until my pockets are lined,” Rock said.
“Done,” said Grolin. “Go next door, tell my desk clerk I said to give you a room. Get yourself some grub down the street and get some rest. I’ll send Spiller and Casings by later. You ride with them.”
“Where are we going?” Rock asked, not really curious, but just curious if Grolin would tell him.
“Don’t worry about it. They’ll tell you,” Grolin said.
He looked at Rochenbach’s bare head. “The kind of money you’ve got coming, you might think about getting yourself a hat.”
“I already am,” Rochenbach said, turning toward the front door.
After a breakfast of elk steak, eggs, gravy and biscuits, Rochenbach walked back to the Great Westerner Hotel, where he’d stopped long enough to get a room for himself on his way to the restaurant.
“I had your horse taken to the livery barn like you asked,” said a young, thin desk clerk, “and there are your bags and rifle.” He nodded toward a saddlebag and a Spencer rifle standing in a corner near the stairs. He laid the key to Rochenbach’s room on the counter with a wide smile.
“Obliged,” said Rock, picking up the key. “Please see to it I’m not disturbed before noon.”
“Yes, sir,” said the clerk, the wide smile still stamped on his face.
Inside his dusty room overlooking the main street, Rochenbach took a wooden chair and tipped it back beneath the door handle, wedging it into place. He sat down on the edge of a lumpy mattress, pulled off his ill-fitting boots and stood them beside the bed. He stared at the boots in dark reflection as he wiggled his stiff toes inside his dingy gray socks.
He had taken the boots off one of two dead men he’d left lying in a livery barn in Gunn Point. He’d also taken the black-handled Remington, holster and all, and one of the dead men’s coats. Neither of their blood-soaked hats had been fit to wear, he recalled.
He loosened his gun belt and hung the belly rig on a bedpost. Sliding the big Remington from its holster, he turned it in his hand, looked at it and slid it under his pillow.
The two gunmen had led him from his cell coatless and in his stockinged feet, despite the snow that was on the ground.
“What about my coat?” he had asked.
“You won’t need it,” came a reply.
Their intentions had been clear enough; they’d escorted him to the livery barn to kill him, plain and simple. But they were both dead now, and here’s where he’d landed, on the outskirts of Denver City, right back on the job. He let out a breath. There was no shortage of work in his profession. Working for the government…
He collapsed back onto a long, neglected feather mattress, coat and all, and stared up at two bullet holes in the pine plank ceiling. He watched a small brown spider zigzag across the ceiling and crawl into one of the dark holes. All right, then, back to work…
A train job, he recounted to himself. Grolin had asked all the right questions, and he was certain he’d given the right answers. As for his ability to open a Diebold Bahmann, that much was true. He could open one.
He’d been taught how to listen to these new combination safes’ inner mechanism through an ear trumpet by the best in the business: Quick Charlie Simms, a reformed Roma Gypsy safecracker who turned lawman and now worked for Judge Isaac Parker’s court. How Simms had learned about the safes so quickly, he had no idea. The innovation of a master thief…, he mused to himself.
But he’d learned on his own that for the Diebold safe, he would need more than an ear trumpet; he would need the Cammann stethoscope he’d picked up in Boulder City and carried here with him.
The rest of the story he’d given Grolin had been a lie that he’d made up on the spot. He picked up the threads of what Grolin wanted to hear and he’d pieced together a story that suited the situation. As for the Treasury car, he’d never seen it, but he’d heard of it. He’d never held its design in his hands, but he’d heard talk. As for Allen Pinkerton offering a bonus for information on the construction of the car—huh-uh, all a lie.…
But it was close to what he’d shared with Arnold the Swede three months ago in a gambling hall in San Antonio. Two days earlier, a condemned prisoner named Vernal Tooney had told him the Treasury car was a target of a robbery in the works.
“I don’t expect telling you all this could keep me from swinging, could it, Rock?” Tooney had asked him.
“Not a chance,” Rochenbach replied.
“Then why am I telling you, knowing you’re the law dog who put me here?” Tooney said.
“Beats me,” Rock said. “Maybe just to get it off your chest? Do something decent?”
“Decent, ha. I hate every sumbicth I ever rode with, north or south, that’s why,” Tooney said.
“I understand,” Rochenbach had replied.
No sooner had the rope snapped tight around Tooney’s neck than Rochenbach had looked up the Swede. He’d spent a few days drinking, gambling with him, reliving the couple of times they’d ridden together—a bank job, a counterfeiting spree. Then he’d let the Swede know he was available. Reminded him how handy he was at opening safes.
He smiled and closed his eyes. That was enough to get himself into the game, he thought, drifting, catching flashes of the long ride he’d made from Gunn Point, almost nonstop, down from the Medicine Bow Range, along the mountain line to Boulder City, a dozen plank towns and mining camps in between and now finally to Denver City.
Three weeks late, according to Grolin.
But right on time, as far as he was concerned, considering he’d lost almost a week in the Gunn Point jail—not to mention he’d burned down part of a counterfeiting ring run by the Golden Circle and killed the man running it. But he was here now, ready to get to work, he thought, rubbing the sore but nearly healed wounds of two separate bullet fragments he’d taken in his shoulder—souvenirs.…