“Keep quiet about it, Giant,” said Casings. “We don’t need to tell him anything.”
“Tell me what, Pres?” Grolin said.
“Nothing,” Casings said. He stared hard at Dent Spiller, the man who used to be his close friend. To the Giant he said, “Let them all find out for themselves.”
From inside his coat, Grolin took out a match, struck it and lit his cigar. He puffed on it, shook out the match and held the cigar between his finger and thumb.
“If there’s something you want to tell me, Pres, get to it,” Grolin said. “If not, I see no reason in standing here just to watch the sun go down.” He gave Spiller a nod and flipped the spent match away.
“It’s about damn time,” Spiller growled under his breath. He raised his rifle, ready to fire.
“Grolin! Look at this!” said Silas Dooley.
Grolin, Spiller and the others all turned as one, seeing Rochenbach ride slowly toward them right up the middle of the dirt street.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Grolin.
The Giant grinned and said to himself, “Ol’ Rock! Right on time!”
As the Giant spoke, he and Casings drew their Colts instinctively while the others’ eyes were turned for a second toward Rochenbach.
Grolin clenched his teeth tightly on his cigar.
“This son of a bitch!” he growled. He swung back toward Casings and the Giant. “Don’t think—” His words stopped as he saw their guns out, leveled and cocked. But then he continued. “Don’t think this is going to help you any. We’ll kill him too. In fact, it will be a pleasure”
“It’s already helped us some,” Casings said, ready to start squeezing the trigger himself.
Grolin and the others stood in silence as Rochenbach rode up, stopped fifteen feet away and turned his dun to them in the street. He held his big Remington resting along his right thigh. As soon as the dun had settled, Spiller stepped closer with his rifle half raised, his finger on the hammer.
“Rochenbach!” he shouted. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited for you and me to stand off toe-to—”
His words stopped short beneath the sound of Rochenbach’s big Remington resounding along the empty street. The shot nailed Spiller squarely in the chest and sent him flying backward through a heavy mist of blood. His rifle flew from his hands and landed at Bobby Kane’s feet. Kane stared down at it as if he might or might not know what it was.
For the captain, Rock told himself. The big Remington stood smoking in his hand.
The gunmen aimed their weapons toward Rochenbach. But then they froze, tense, waiting. Rochenbach calmly lowered the smoking Remington and stared at Grolin before he pitched an ingot to the ground at Grolin’s feet.
“What the hell?” Grolin managed to say. Swank stepped over, stooped down, picked it up and looked it over in his hand.
“Well…?” Pres Casings called out to Swank, liking this sudden turn on things. “Tell him what it is, Heaton,” he said as Swank looked at the cut corner of the glittering ingot.
“Casings is right, Grolin,” said Swank, a sour look coming to his face. “This is a damned phony—a chunk of lead, pig iron… something. It’s sure as hell not gold!” He shoved the ingot to Grolin, again fixing his angry eyes up at Rochenbach.
Grolin looked at it, his face twisted and confused.
“I don’t know where you got this, Rochenbach,” Grolin said, “but it’s got nothing to do with the ingots we took from the train—”
Rochenbach cut him off, saying, “I got it from one of the ingot crates you’ve got stashed in the stall with the Belgium,” he said, gesturing a nod toward the livery barn a block away.
“No, you didn’t! You’re lying!” said Grolin, gripping the ingot tight in his fist. “Lou the Dog is guarding that gold!”
“He was,” Rochenbach said calmly. “Maybe he will be again when he wakes up.”
Grolin gritted his teeth; his thick hand tightened on the butt of his Colt, the only gun still in its holster. But he dared not draw the Colt, not now—not with Heaton Swank’s eyes burning a hole in him.
“Rochenbach, you son of a bitch!” he shouted. “You’ve done nothing but mess up everything I’ve tried to do since you’ve been here!”
“What’d he do?” Swank asked pointedly, staring hard at Grolin.
“He did what he was supposed to do,” Casings called out. “He did what Grolin told him to do, just like the rest of us always do. Hell, he’s the best safe man we’ve ever seen.”
“Shut up, Casings,” said Swank. He turned back to Grolin. “Well, Andrew? What did he do?” he demanded.
Grolin looked stuck for an answer. He stalled, threw his cigar to the ground, grabbed his temples with his thumbs and fingers as if suffering from a terrible headache.
“Damn it, Swank! I can’t pinpoint every least little thing he did. He’s been… unruly, undermining, divisive!”
Swank gave him a look of disbelief.
“Unruly? Undermining…?” he said. “What the hell is this, a school yard? The man’s an outlaw. Didn’t he tell you?”
“I told you it’s hard to explain!” said Grolin. “But he’s ruined this whole big job for all of us—ruined it from the start!”
“You’re losing your damned mind, Andrew,” said Swank. “I’ll tell you something he didn’t do. He didn’t get none of my men shot up over a damn load of fake gold ingots!” he snarled. “You didn’t have the sense to check the load, make sure it was real gold?”
“Don’t crowd me on this, Heaton, I’m warning you!” Grolin shouted.
“Crowd you, Grolin? You’re lucky if I don’t kill you!” Swank shouted in reply.
Rochenbach watched calmly from his saddle. Casings and the Stillwater Giant stood pat, their guns drawn, cocked, ready for anything, rifles in their other hands.
They’re good.
Swank snatched the ingot from Grolin’s hand, threw it to the ground and shot a hole through it. It broke in two. Both pieces of metal bounced ten feet in the air. Bobby Kane watched with a half smile as the pieces spun and glittered in the afternoon sunlight.
When Swank turned back to Grolin with the smoking Colt in his hand, Grolin mistook the move. Thinking Swank meant to shoot him next, he jerked his Colt up from its holster and fired at a distance of less than three feet.
Swank rose onto his boot toes as the bullet ripped through his belly. He staggered back a step, but caught himself and returned fire. Grolin took the bullet in his chest and wobbled on his feet, but he continued firing. Rochenbach watched intently; so did Casings and the Giant—two gunmen shooting each other back and forth repeatedly on the dirt street.
Jesus…
Rochenbach shook his head a little, seeing Heaton Swank go down beneath a gray rise of smoke. Grolin staggered back another step and wobbled back and forth, waving his Colt, gripping his belly, blood spewing from his lips.
Seeing Swank dead, knowing the gold ingots were worthless, Silas Dooley murmured to himself, “To hell with this!” He backed away a few feet, then turned and ran off while all eyes were set on Grolin.
“Don’t nobody… try to stop me!” Grolin warned mindlessly, no longer interested in Rochenbach, the gold or anything else. He turned and staggered off toward the livery barn a block away, leaving a bloody trail behind him.
Rochenbach, Casings and the Giant stood watching.
Grolin had made it fifty feet up the center of the empty dirt street when suddenly a loud shotgun blast exploded from an alleyway and hit him from the side. The buckshot lifted him up like a rag doll and flung him sidelong ten feet. He landed dead and bloody in the dirt.
A big bearded man in buckskins walked out from the alleyway carrying a smoking double-barreled shotgun. A bloodstained bandage covered his otherwise bare head.