Ralph Cotton - Midnight Rider

Instead of going up the stairs to his room, Rochenbach slipped quietly through the hotel’s main hallway and out the back door into a long alleyway that would take him to the rear of the telegraph office unseen.

At the back door of the darkened building, Rochenbach looked all around, covered in the darker shadow of the doorway. Seeing nothing in the empty alleyway, he turned and deftly picked the door lock.

When he’d slipped inside and closed the door behind him, he looked around at the empty office and walked straight to the operator’s desk. Thursday…, he told himself, wishing he had more information to pass along. All right, it wasn’t much. But it’s a start, he reminded himself again. He leaned his rifle against the wall.

Instead of sitting down, he bowed over the telegraph operator’s desk and clicked on the switch standing atop a brass-trimmed, oak battery case. He made three quick taps on the operator’s key to ensure that both the key and the sounder were working properly. Then he clicked in the private identification code of his field supervisor.

Satisfied that the identification code was on its way, he quickly followed up, tapping out a six-word message in Morse code: Train ride… Thursday night… all aboard. He waited in the silence of the dark office for five minutes, then retapped the message. He stared intently at the sounder, waiting for a reply of any sort.

When no reply came, he tapped out the same message for a third time, hearing nothing in the silent office but the click of the telegraph key and the steady tick of a large clock hanging on the far wall.

Now what? he asked himself. Had the message gone through, gotten relayed on to its proper receiver? If so, why had his field office or even the supervisor himself not acknowledged him by now?

All right, send it again.

He began tapping out the message again—the same six words, once, twice, threes times. Then he straightened up from the desk and stared at the sounder, waiting. Still nothing. Too bad, he told himself. It was time to go.

He picked up his Spencer rifle from against the wall and started to reach out and tap in his own identification code, signaling that he had ended his message. But just as his fingers started to touch the key, the sounder suddenly came to life, tapping out a short unidentified message, meaning it could have come from anyone anywhere within range on the open wires.

Leaning back over the desk, Rochenbach listened closely, so as not to miss the message when it repeated itself. As soon as the tapping started again, he began translating the Morse code into words. But before he could get the first word spelled out, he heard something close behind him and he swung around, his rifle in hand.

“Quick, but not quick enough!” said Doyle Hughes, watching as Denton Spiller slammed the butt of his rifle full force into the side of Rochenbach’s head.

Staring down at Rochenbach as he lay sprawled and unconscious across the operator’s desk, Spiller grinned and lowered his rifle to his side. Next to Rochenbach, the telegraph key sat in silence, tipped over on its side, a wire having been pulled loose from the sounder.

“You can’t believe how good that felt,” he said to Hughes over his shoulder.

“You seemed to enjoy it really well,” Hughes replied in the darkness, stooping down, picking up Rochenbach’s rifle from the floor. He chuckled. “I don’t ever want you carrying a mad-on like that at me.”

“This bastard had it coming,” said Spiller. He reached out and turned off the battery switch. “The only reason he’s alive is that Grolin needs him. Soon as he’s finished with him, he’s all mine.”

Hughes stepped in closer and looked at a trickle of blood running down the side of Rochenbach’s face.

“Let’s hope you haven’t knocked his brain plumb out of his ears,” he said.

“He’s all right,” said Spiller. “What did you hear him saying on this thing?” He nodded down at the telegraph key.

“He was spreading the word to somebody,” said Hughes, “telling them our big job is all set for Thursday, the way I figure.”

“Are you sure?” Spiller said.

“ Train ride, Thursday night, all aboard, ” Hughes said, repeating Rock’s message. “What does that sound like to you?”

“Tickles the hell out of me,” Spiller said, glaring down at Rochenbach. “Let’s get this bastard up between us, drag him out of here. See what Grolin wants to do with him now.”

“Man!” said Hughes. “I hope this ain’t going to change our plans any.”

“I can just about promise you it won’t,” said Spiller, reaching down, grabbing Rochenbach by the shoulder of his wool coat. “Grolin might walk away from that Hercules money, but he’s not going to pass up a chance at the kind of money we’re fixing to make.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Hughes. Seeing Rochenbach’s hat lying on the floor, he started to bend down and pick it up. But Spiller stopped him.

“Leave it,” he said. “He’s not going to need a hat, not for long anyways.” He reached his boot out and kicked Rochenbach’s slouch hat away.

Rochenbach awoke flat on his face in the dark, the sound of a large parade drum pounding inside his swollen head with each beat of his heart. He felt the vibration, the rumble and clack of steel rails racing along beneath him. Turning his face enough to look up, he saw the flare of a match followed by a glow of circling lantern light.

“Well, now, looks like our tough guy is finally waking up,” said Spiller, seated on an empty nail keg near Rochenbach’s throbbing head. “Can I get you something for the pain, hoss ?” he asked, feigning concern. “I know how it feels getting smacked with a rifle butt, remember?” He patted the Winchester rifle lying across his lap.

The circle of lantern light clearly revealed Spiller’s cruel grin. The shadowy faces of the other men stood in a half circle behind him. At the far end of the car, he saw the black shadowy outline of horses.

“Water—” Rochenbach said in a broken voice.

“What’s that? You want some water?” said Spiller. He said to the others around him, “Hear that, fellows? Any of yas got some water for an ol’ ex-Pinkerton man? A dirty, rotten rat?”

Silence loomed for a moment beneath the rumble of the train. At floor level, Rochenbach saw stars and hill lines streak past the open doors on a blanket of purple darkness.

“Sorry, Rock , ol’ hoss,” said Spiller in a mocking tone. “Looks like no takers on your water request.”

Rochenbach tried to push himself up off the floor on both palms.

“Obliged, all the same…,” he said in a pained voice.

“Huh-uh,” said Spiller, slamming him back down beneath his boot. “You lie right there. The floor looks good on you.”

Rochenbach groaned and rolled half over onto his side.

“Christ. I’ve got some water in my canteen he can have,” said Doyle Hughes.

“He gets no water, Hughes,” Spiller said firmly.

“It’s not right, a man needing water and being denied it—”

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Spiller said, cutting him off. He laid his rifle on the floor, stood up and said to Rochenbach, “You want water, I’ll water you.” He started unbuttoning the fly of his trousers.

“Cut it out, Dent,” said Frank Penta, sitting back in the darkness against the wall of the rail car, staring out across the passing night. “I was told to deliver him in good condition, with a clear mind.”

“Come on, Frank,” said Spiller, a little upset. “I’m having some fun here. To hell with his clear mind and condition. You saw what this sumbitch done to me. I deserve my pound of flesh.”