He was fit enough now, he thought, taking stock of himself. He’d have to get some better boots—a hat of some sort, some gloves… but all that in good time. Right now he needed sleep. After he’d rested, he thought, Let the game begin.
Chapter 3
Rochenbach awoke at midday to the sound of a key turning inside the door lock. Almost before he’d opened his eyes, his hand streaked from beneath his pillow and raised the Remington, cocking it on the upswing. He rose quietly from the bed and stood in his stockinged feet, still dressed, his wool coat still on. He saw someone try the door against the chair back wedged beneath it. He lowered his big pistol a little as he watched the doorknob ease back around into place. He waited; a knock came.
He stepped over to the door and listened for the second knock before reaching out and taking hold of the chair.
“Who’s there?” he asked. He heard cursing on the other side of the door. Then he heard Denton Spiller’s gruff voice.
“It’s us, damn it!” Spiller said. “Spiller and Pres Casings. Open the damned door. What are you so scared of?”
Rock uncocked the Remington, bent his arm at the elbow and raised the gun upright beside him, poised. He pulled the chair from beneath the doorknob and set it back out of the way.
“Jesus, Rochenbach, come on,” Spiller grumbled.
But Rock still took his time. He stood to the edge of the door frame, twisted the knob and shoved the door open, leaving the two gunmen staring at an empty room for just a second before he appeared at the right edge of the door.
The two looked at the wooden chair and at the Remington in Rochenbach’s hand.
“Damn,” said Spiller, “a man takes all this precaution, you must be guilty as sin.”
Rochenbach took his thumb off the Remington’s hammer and lowered the gun to his side as he gestured for the two to come inside.
“That’s in case somebody had a key to my room,” Rock said flatly, staring at Spiller.
“Oh. Well…,” said Spiller, holding a big skeleton key in his hand. He looked a little put off. But then he collected himself quickly and said, “Grolin told us to come get you and take you with us. It is his hotel.” He pitched the key up; Rochenbach caught it in his left hand without taking his eyes off Spiller.
“Where we going?” he asked.
Spiller grinned at Casings, then turned back to Rochenbach.
“If Mr. Grolin wanted you to know, he’d have already told you,” said Spiller. “Get your gun belt and boots—hurry the hell up.” He gestured toward the belly rig hanging from the bedpost.
“Grolin said you’d tell me,” Rochenbach replied without moving an inch. It didn’t matter to him. But he wasn’t going to let Spiller get started telling him what to do.
“Yeah, but I’m not going to tell you,” Spiller said with a cold expression.
“I understand,” Rock said. “So, now you can go tell Grolin.”
Spiller looked at him curiously. “Tell him what?” he asked.
“Tell him that you weren’t able to make me leave this room,” said Rochenbach with finality.
“Now, listen, damn it!” said Spiller in a threatening tone. He took a step toward Rochenbach.
The Remington cocked at Rock’s side.
Spiller stopped.
“I’m listening,” said Rock.
Casings stood watching intently. This man was hard to deal with. But that didn’t bother him.
Spiller froze for a tense second, weighing his chances. Then he let out a breath of exasperation.
“All right, Rochenbach,” he said, “if this is how you’re going to be.” He spread his hands in a show of peace. “Mr. Grolin wants you to ride out with us, collect a debt for him.”
“I’m a debt collector?” questioned Rochenbach, feigning offense.
“Don’t get piqued. He just wants to see how you handle yourself,” Pres Casings cut in.
Rock shook his head. Without another word on the matter, he walked over beside the bed and pulled on his ill-fitting boots. The two gunmen watched as he put on his gun belt beneath his long wool coat and shoved the Remington into the belly holster.
“You always sleep with your coat on, Rock?” Casings asked. He gave him a half-friendly smile.
Rock, huh? Rochenbach noted to himself.
“Doesn’t everybody?” he replied, half friendly himself now that Casings had made the first gesture. He picked up his Spencer rifle and saddlebags from against the wall, slung the saddlebags over his shoulder and walked back to the two gunmen, rifle in hand. “After you, gentlemen,” he said, sweeping a hand toward the open door.
“Meaning, he doesn’t want us behind his back,” Casings said to Spiller, turning toward the door.
“I know what the hell he means,” Spiller said in an angry tone, turning behind him.
After getting his horse from the livery barn, Rochenbach left the two gunmen waiting atop their horses at a hitch rail while he walked inside a trading post.
“What the hell is this? He leaves us sitting here while he browses?” Spiller grumbled to Casings, watching through the open doorway as Rochenbach moved among the stacks of men’s hats and clothing.
“Said he needs a hat and gloves,” Casings replied. He liked the way Rochenbach handled himself—cool, calm, no hurry.
“A sumbitch should already have a hat and gloves when he shows up,” Spiller said. “This is no child’s game.”
“Jesus. Why don’t you take it easy, Dent?” said Casings. “The man is no rube when it comes to this business. Grolin brought him in because he’s a good safe man. That means we must have something big in the works.”
“Did you just tell me to take it easy?” Spiller said, his face lit red with anger and disbelief. His right hand moved up onto the butt of a Colt standing in his tied-down holster.
Casings saw the threat, but he didn’t back an inch.
“You heard me right,” he said. His thumb slid over the hammer of his Winchester lying across his lap, barrel leveled in Spiller’s direction. “Is any of this worth us going to the iron over?”
Spiller cooled a little, but his hand stayed on the butt of the Colt.
“I don’t give a damn about his hat and gloves!” he said, switching the subject of the conversation back to Rochenbach. “Once we get back, maybe you and him would like to explain to Grolin why this trip took so damn long.”
Casings tossed a glance up at the gray afternoon sky. “I didn’t blame a man wanting gloves and a hat in this kind of weather.”
They sat for a moment longer, Spiller’s temper swelling.
“To hell with this!” he said, swinging down from his saddle, and headed inside the trading post. But he stopped as Rochenbach stepped out through the door, putting on a new pair of snug-fitting black leather gloves, which he’d cut the thumbs and fingers off of. He’d shoved the scraps down into his coat pocket.
“Ready to go?” Rochenbach asked quietly. “We’ll be running out of daylight.”
Along with the fingerless gloves, he wore a new black slouch-style hat and a pair of black high-welled miner’s boots. He’d purchased a pair of warm wool socks and wasted no time putting them on. Hiswool pin-striped trouser legs were tucked inside his boot wells.
Spiller stared at him coldly.
Casings lowered his head and hid a thin smile. He managed to compose himself when Spiller stepped into his saddle beside him and jerked his horse around toward the dirt street.
“Let’s ride,” Spiller said over his shoulder. “The sooner we get this over with, the better.”