Midnight Rider (Ralph Cotton Western Series)

  BULL’S-EYE

  As if suddenly realizing someone was watching him from behind, Frank Penta turned around, smoking rifle in hand, and looked at Rochenbach through a haze of gun smoke. Seeing that Rochenbach had him cold, the rifle in Rock’s hands pointed, aimed and cocked at him, Penta gave him a strange, tight grin.

  “Some fight, huh, Rock?” he called out above the roar of gunfire, sounding as if the two of them had been close friends.

  “Yes, it is,” Rock agreed. His right eye fixed down the rifle sights; he squeezed the trigger….

  MIDNIGHT

  RIDER

  Ralph Cotton

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, April 2012

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2012

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58001-1

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For Mary Lynn… of course

  Table of Content

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part 2

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part 3

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Wildfire

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Denver City, Colorado Territory

  In the silvery light of dawn, U.S. Secret Service agent Avrial Rochenbach stepped down from his big dun out in front of the seedy Great Westerner Hotel, located on the outskirts of Denver City. He unwrapped a wool muffler from around his bare head and left it hanging from his shoulders. He looked back and forth along the street, which had just started coming to life for the day. A curl of steam wafted in his breath.

  Scabbed onto the right side of the hotel beneath a shed roof stood Andrew Grolin’s Lucky Nut Saloon. On a faded, hand-painted sign above the saloon, a large nut—of a variety Rochenbach was unfamiliar with—stood upright between a large, frothy mug of beer and two large, tumbling dice.

  Rochenbach spun his reins around an iron hitch rail, stepped onto the boardwalk and inside the Lucky Nut. Before he’d made three steps across the stone-tiled floor, two gunmen at the bar turned toward him quickly.

  “Whoa! Stop yourself right there,” one called out, a Henry rifle in his hand, leveled at Rochenbach. “Did you hear anybody say we’re open for business yet?”

  Rochenbach made no reply; he didn’t stop either. He continued across the floor, his forearm carelessly shoving back the right side of his long wool coat, where a black-handled Remington stood across his lower belly.

  On the other side of the bar, Andrew Grolin looked up from counting a thick stack of money, a big black cigar in his teeth. He stalled for a second before saying anything, observing how everyone handled themselves.

  “Hey, sumbitch! Are you deaf or something?” the same gunman called out to Rochenbach, he and the other gunman spreading a few feet apart, ready for whatever came next.

  Grolin already saw what was coming if he didn’t do something to stop it. A belly rig like this? The slightest move of either of his men, this newcomer would pivot left a half turn. The big Remington would slip out of its holster as if his body had moved away from it and left it hanging in midair. It would come up arm’s length slick and fast. Bang, you’re dead! Grolin thought.

  “It’s all right, Spiller. I’ve been expecting this man,” he said at the last second, before the scene he’d played out in his head began acting itself out on the floor.

  “Whatever you say, boss,” said Denton Spiller.

  The two men backed up a step; Spiller eyed the bareheaded newcomer up and down as Rochenbach stopped and returned his stare, his long wool coat still pushed back out of the way on his right side. The wool muffler hung from his shoulders.

  “You need to be more careful how you enter a room, mister,” the gunman cautioned him, lowering his rifle barrel almost grudgingly.

  “Obliged,” Rochenbach said flatly. “I’ve been working on it.” He let his coat fall back into place now that the rifle barrel wasn’t pointed at him.

  Rochenbach held the gunman’s stare until Andrew Grolin took his cigar from his mouth and looked back and forth between the two, still appraising, still gauging the tensile of each man’s will.

  “Spiller,” he said, “you and Pres meet Avrial Rochenbach.” He turned his eyes to Rochenbach. “Rock, this is Denton Spiller and Preston Casings
. Two of my best damn men.”

  Rochenbach nodded; the two nodded in return. None of the men raised their hands from gun level.

  “I heard of you, Rochenbach,” said Casings. “You’re the Midnight Rider, the fellow who prefers working in the dark of night.” He looked Rock up and down. “Also the fellow who got himself chased out of the Pinkertons.”

  “Really?” said Spiller to Rochenbach with a cold stare. “How does that feel, getting chased out?”

  “I can show you,” Rochenbach said.

  Spiller started to bristle.

  “Easy, men,” Andrew Grolin said with a short, dark chuckle. He gestured to Spiller and said, “You and Pres take a walk. I want to talk to Rock here in private. He’s going to be riding with us.”

  “Come on, Dent,” said Pres, half turning toward the front door.

  “Rock, huh? That’s the name you go by?” Spiller asked, not giving it up yet.

  Rock stared at him. So did Andrew Grolin. Ordinarily Grolin would have had none of this—a man not doing what he was told right away. But he knew this was good. It showed him who he could count on when the going got tight.

  “Friends call me that,” Rochenbach said.

  “Yeah? What do them who are not your friends call you?” Spiller asked, his contempt for this newcomer showing clearly in his eyes, his voice.

  “Nothing, for long,” said Rochenbach.

  The threat was there, but it took a second for Denton Spiller to catch it, and that second was all Grolin needed to decide the better of the two—at least when it came to showing their fangs. It might be a different story when it came to hard testing. But for now he’d seen enough. So far Rochenbach was living up to everything Grolin had heard about him.

  “How’s that walk coming along?” he asked Spiller in a stronger tone.

  Spiller didn’t answer. He jerked a nod toward the front door.

  Grolin and Rochenbach watched as Casings followed Spiller out of the saloon.

  After the two had moved along the street and out of sight, beyond reach of the large front window, Rock turned to face Grolin behind the bar.

  “‘Cowboy’ Pres Casings…,” he said.

  “Yep,” said Grolin. He eyed Rockenbach. “Used to be, a man who called him ‘Cowboy’ would be warming his feet in hell before he got the words out of his mouth.”

  “I didn’t name him,” said Rock.

  “I know,” said Grolin, sweeping up the cash from atop the bar. “Call it friendly advice.”

  “Taken as such,” Rock said.

  “I was surprised you heard of him at first,” Grolin said, eyeing Rochenbach. “Then I remembered you must know lots about us ol’ boys who drop gun hammers for a living.”

  “I do,” said Rock. “Does it bother you, my having worked for the law?”

  “I don’t bother easily,” said Grolin. “Not to piss on your hoecake, but I don’t figure you worked for the rightful law. You worked for the Allen Pinkerton law. I see a vast difference between the two.”

  “See it how it suits you,” said Rock. “It makes me no difference. Whatever I was, I’m a long rider now.” He gave a slight shrug. “I figure Juan Sodorez and some of his pistoleros must’ve vouched for me, else we wouldn’t be standing here talking all tough and friendly to each other.”

  Grolin chuckled under his breath and seemed to relax a little.

  “I expected you three weeks ago,” he said. “Wondered if I ought to come looking for you.”

  “You wouldn’t have wanted to be where I was three weeks ago,” Rochenbach said.

  “Oh?” Grolin said. “Is that where your forehead ran into a rifle butt?”

  Rochenbach touched his fingers deftly to his forehead, his dark-circled eyes, and his mending nose.

  “It’s a long story,” said Rock. “But yes, I did stop a rifle butt up at Gunn Point.”

  “I see,” said Grolin. “Was it over a whore, or over a card game?”

  “Does it matter?” Rock asked.

  Grolin grinned. “I’d like to think you were late for a good reason.”

  Rochenbach could tell by the look in his eyes that he had already heard what had happened in Gunn Point. He wasn’t going to offer any more than he had to on the matter.

  “I don’t remember,” he said. “It might have been both.”

  “But nothing you want to talk about,” Grolin concluded.

  “Right,” Rochenbach said. “Nothing worth talking about, that is.” He nodded at a coffeepot sitting on a tray behind the polished bar. “Not as important as a hot mug of coffee—and hearing what you’ve got in mind for us.” He kept his gaze on Grolin.

  Outside on the street, Denton Spiller and Preston Casings walked along in the grainy dawn light and stopped at a public fire burning out in front of a blacksmith and ironmongering shop. They stared at a ragged old man until he stopped warming his rough, calloused hands and walked away from the fire. They stood in his place and warmed their hands as a two-pound forging hammer rang against an anvil in the background.

  Spiller rolled himself a smoke and lit it carefully on a licking flame. Behind them on the street, steam wafted in the breath of passing wagon horses pulling their loads.

  “What do you think?” he asked Pres Casings. He blew out a stream of gray smoke.

  “About what?” Casings replied, wringing his gloved hands near the flames.

  Spiller stared at him with a no-nonsense look and took another draw.

  “Oh, you mean Rochenbach,” Casings said.

  “Yeah, I mean Rochenbach,” Spiller said in a short tone. “What the hell else would I be talking about?”

  “How would I know?” said Casings, his voice equally testy. “Any number of things, I reckon.”

  Spiller shook his head and stared back toward the Lucky Nut. He drew on the thin cigarette between his lips.

  “Anyway, I don’t trust the sumbitch. I don’t trust any man who once wore a badge,” he added.

  “You can’t hold it against a man,” said Casings. “A lot of lawmen get tangled up in things and go afoul of the law.”

  Spiller took a breath and let it out, considering Casings’ words.

  “Yeah,” he said, “that’s true enough. Still, I can’t trust one. I believe there’s a peculiar, gnawing little animal lives inside a man that makes him want to work for the law.”

  “I can see that,” said Casings, nodding, warming his hands. “But a man can change his mind, decide to hell with the law and go his own way.”

  “Yeah,” said Spiller, looking back from the saloon and into the fire. “But once he turns outlaw, I wonder what’s become of that gnawing little animal. It still has to be fed, don’t it?”

  Casings didn’t try to answer. He shook his head slowly and stared into the fire.

  “I expect if Grolin wants Rochenbach with us, he’s with us, like it or not,” he said. He paused reflectively, then added, “Everything I’ve heard of him, he’s a straight-up outlaw, no doubt about it. Maybe you just worry too much.”

  “Get this straight, Pres,” Spiller said in a strong tone. “I don’t worry about a damn thing.” He coughed and blew smoke around the cigarette. “The only thing that worries me about hanging is that they tie the knot wrong.”

  “That would worry me too,” said Casings. “Maybe they’d let me tie it myself.”

  “Naw, they won’t let you do it,” said Spiller. “I asked around.”

  The two chuckled darkly and warmed their hands.

  “Still, I’m going to watch this Rochenbach sumbitch like a hawk,” Spiller said, staring back toward the saloon in dawn’s light.

  Inside the saloon, Rochenbach sipped the steaming coffee and watched Andrew Grolin pour his mug half full. He tipped a bottle of rye and filled the mug close to its brim.

  Before Grolin corked the whiskey bottle, Rock slid his mug forward, on the outside chance that Grolin was just checking him out.

  “Where are my manners?” Grolin chastised himself. He gave him a
thin smile and topped off Rochenbach’s mug with whiskey.

  Rochenbach nodded his thanks and sipped the hot, fiery coffee.

  “Let’s get down to it,” Grolin said, leaning a little closer across the bar. “Arnold the Swede tells me you’re a man who knows his way around safe locks, explosives and such. That’s why I told him to send you to me.” He watched Rochenbach’s eyes as he sipped his whiskey-laced coffee. “Did he tell me right?”

  “The Swede knows my work,” said Rochenbach. “If he says I’m good, I won’t argue with him.”

  Here it was, Rock thought, studying Grolin’s eyes, knowing he was being tested and weighed with every word, every gesture. If he asked too much too soon, it would raise suspicion. If he didn’t ask enough, it would raise suspicion too—it was all about finding the right balance.

  “So, what do you feel like robbing?” he asked, raising the steaming mug to his lips.

  Grolin smiled appraisingly. “Just like that?” he said, snapping his thick fingers above the bar top.

  “I didn’t ride all this way for the scenery,” Rock said. “If you don’t trust me, let’s stop here before we hurt each other’s feelings.”

  “It’s a train that looks to be any ordinary freight car,” Grolin said, the slight smile vanishing from his face, “except, inside, one whole end of it is a big fat safe. It’s got the new permutation dial lock on it.”

  Rock let out a breath.

  “A combination safe,” said Rochencbach. “That’s good for starters. But I’ll need to know what’s inside this safe. Is this going to be a blasting job—will I need nitro? Or will I be opening it with a trumpet?”

  “A trumpet sounds better to me. But let’s talk about it some,” Grolin said. “I want to hear what you say about it.”

  “What can I tell you?” Rock asked.

  Chapter 2

  Rochenbach allowed himself to relax and drink the laced coffee. He listened as Andrew Grolin leaned against the inside of the bar and spoke in a guarded voice.

  “Do you know anything about the U.S. Mint and Assay Office in Denver City?” he asked.