He had taken this case as far as he could. It was time for him to bow out, let these soldiers do their job. In spite of their wounds, it looked as though Casings and the Giant were going to make it now that the bleeding had slowed.
“We’re taking the three of you to the jail in Dunbar,” said the captain. “There’s a doctor there who’ll properly attend to these two. I’ll telegraph my superiors, tell them you’re there. My men and I are going on after this Andrew Grolin and his gang.”
Rochenbach had no doubt Boone and his men could chase Grolin down now that they were hot on their trail. Besides, he reminded himself, there was no real gold stolen—only decoys, gilded ingots. Fool’s gold, he thought to himself. It was time to share that fact with the captain.
“If you’ll permit me, Captain Boone,” he said. He reached inside his coat with his cuffed hands.
“As you were, Smith!” the captain barked, jerking his Colt from its holster and aiming it toward Rock.
“Easy, Captain,” Rochenbach said. “I only want to show you something.” He pulled out the ingot slowly. With his thumbs, he pressed open the corner slit that he had made with his knife. He handed it to the captain.
As Boone studied it closely, Rochenbach glanced over at Casings, who sat watching intently.
“I’m not an expert, Captain,” Rochenbach said, “but this is the dullest gold I’ve ever seen.”
Boone studied the ingot, then looked up at Rock.
“You’re telling me this is from the stolen shipment?” he asked.
“Yes, it is,” Rochenbach said, knowing better than to say any more on the matter, not with the captain already wondering who he really was, especially not with Casings and the Giant listening close at hand.
The captain took Rochenbach by his handcuffs and led him farther away from the others. Rochenbach looked over his shoulder and shrugged toward Casings and the Giant.
“This isn’t real gold,” the captain said. “Why did you show me this? What is your angle here?”
“No angle, Captain,” Rochenbach said. “I figured I’d give it to you, let you decide if it’s worth dying for.” He shrugged. “I’d feel guilty otherwise, if something bad happened to you or your men.”
“I bet you would,” Boone said skeptically. He tightened his fist around the ingot. “Of course you might only be showing me this in hopes it would lighten my efforts of capturing your cohorts.”
Rock stared at him.
“That would be one more possibility, Captain,” he said. It wasn’t a matter he could push any further without the risk of exposing who he was. But he wasn’t overly concerned with them catching Grolin. If they didn’t catch him now, they would catch him when he returned to his hotel and saloon in Denver City. Either way, it was over for Andrew Grolin. Rock was being honest about the cheap gilded ingots; they weren’t worth dying for.
Boone studied Rochenbach’s eyes, trying to decide whether or not to believe him.
“Sergeant,” he called out finally, without taking his gaze off Rochenbach, “get those men ready to ride. We’re following the wagon tracks until they lead us to the thieves.”
“Yes, sir, Captain,” said Sergeant Goodrich. “But what about this big fellow? He’d wear a poor horse down in no time.”
“Damn it all!” Captain Boone hissed to himself in his frustration. He gave Rock a strange look. “How did I get stuck with a wounded giant?”
Rock just stared.
“Captain, sir,” the sergeant called out, “might I suggest we assemble a travois and pull both these men on it until we get to Dunbar?”
“Yes, Sergeant, please see to that,” the captain said. He hefted the gilded ingot on his palm in contemplation.
“Captain,” Rochenbach said quietly, anticipating the question on Boone’s mind, “since your superiors knew to expect a robbery Thursday night, do you suppose, as a precaution, they decided to ship these fake ingots all week long?”
Boone let out a breath, still hefting the ingot.
“As a precaution? Just in case of some last-minute change, such as this?” the captain said, as if he’d forgotten he was talking to, possibly, one of the thieves.
“It’s a thought, Captain,” Rock said.
“It’s a thought…,” said Boone, bemused, as it suddenly dawned on him what he was doing. “Just who the hell are you, Smith? What the hell is it you’re doing out here?”
Rochenbach gave him a cool, level stare, his hands cuffed in front of him.
“Aren’t you supposed to know who a man is, and what he’s doing out here, Captain, before you haul him off to jail?” Rochenbach said.
When Pres Casings and the Stillwater Giant were bandaged, watered and ready to ride, two soldiers helped Casings onto a hastily constructed travois made from four long pine saplings, the broken wagon tongue and front wagon boards. When the soldiers offered to help the Giant, he fanned them away with his tied hands. He allowed Rock to steady him and help him to his feet and lead him to the travois.
“I heard you, Rock,” he whispered in his thick, deep voice. “You didn’t tell these suckers nothing.” He gave him his wide, toothy grin. “You’re my pal. Soon as I get rested, I’ll break these strings and—”
Strings…?
“Don’t do it, Giant,” Rock said, cutting him off, looking down at the strong rope double-wrapped around the Giant’s thick wrists. “You’re my pal too. Don’t make these soldiers kill you. Stick with Casings. Do what he tells you, all right?”
“All right, whatever you say, Rock,” the Giant whispered, lying back beside Casings. The two wagon horses stirred and collected themselves, feeling the weight of the Giant on the travois poles.
Rochenbach shot Pres Casings a look. Casings nodded, a blood-soaked bandanna tied around his head, wrapped around the bullet graze. He held a torn, bloody bandanna to the wound in his side. Whatever Rock was up to, Casings saw that he had his and the Giant’s interests at heart.
“Obliged,” he whispered.
Rock only nodded and turned away.
Captain Boone sat watching from his saddle, seeing the three whispering back and forth. He took note of it but decided to say nothing. These two wounded men were as guilty as sin; he knew it.
Garth Oliver indeed.… He’d heard of the Stillwater Giant. Who else could this monster of a man be? The captain smiled to himself as Rochenbach walked over and took the reins to his horse from him. As far as he was concerned, Mr. Smith was guilty too, until something proved him otherwise.
Undercover operative? Maybe, Boone thought. But if he is an operative and not willing to say the four numbers that will get him off the hook, he must have a good reason for it. Whatever that reason might be, Boone had probed the matter as far as he could. He would jail the three in Dunbar and let the law sort them out.
“Let’s move out, Sergeant,” he said.
Beside him, Goodrich raised a gloved hand and waved the men forward without a verbal command.
On the other side of the captain, Rochenbach nudged his horse forward at a walk.
The party rode along the trail in silence for the next hour until the sergeant threw up a hand and stopped suddenly at the sight of Lambert Kane’s body stuck to the large pine, the frozen expression of surprise on his purple face.
“Holy be-jesus, Captain,” Goodrich said.