Robert Randisi - Bullets & Lies

“Near here,” the marshal said. “What the hell are you doin’ here? This ain’t the kinda place to stop in for a visit.”

“It’s a long story,” Roper said. “I started tracking a man from Denver, and I think he’s here.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sender,” Roper said. “John Sender.”

“Should I know him?”

“I don’t think so,” Roper said. “Not yet anyway. Maybe not if I can catch him and cut his killing spree short.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Tall, broad shouldered, black hair, about forty,” Roper said. “Wears a silver-plated Peacemaker, likes to use it.”

“Far as I know, nobody like that’s ridden into town,” Tilghman said.

“His trail leads here.”

“Could you have beat him here?”

Roper thought a moment, then said, “Could be. His trail led me this way, but I can’t say he definitely rode in here.”

“You huntin’ bounty now, Roper?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “I was hired by a man whose son was killed by Sender. They argued over a poker game, but everyone said it just looked like an excuse for Sender to gun the kid. I’m inclined to believe it, because he’s killed three more men between there and here.”

“What about the local law?”

“Once Sender left Denver, the police there didn’t much care,” Roper explained. “The boy’s father isn’t a politician, so nobody seemed to care except him.”

“But he had enough money to hire you.”

“He did,” Roper said. “He somehow managed to pull it together.”

“And you don’t come cheap.”

“No, but the best rarely do,” Roper said. His eyes moved around the room. The rifle rack was full, cell block keys were hanging on a wall peg. The door to the cell blocks was open. The shutters of the front window were closed. He looked at Tilghman again. The man was staring at him intently.

Roper stood up. “Well, if you can’t help me, I’ll check with the sheriff and then have a look around town myself.”

“Good idea,” Tilghman said. “Pat Sughrue’s a good man.”

Roper walked to the door, and Tilghman remained behind his desk. He hadn’t moved from that spot the entire time Roper was there, except to stand up. Roper remembered Tilghman as the kind of man who was normally in motion. And while he looked restless, he hadn’t taken steps to remedy the situation. He just…sat.

“Stop back in before you leave, Roper.”

“I’ll do that, Bill.”

He stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Roper worked his way around to the back of the marshal’s office. He knew something was wrong, but since the shutters were closed, he had no view from the front window. His only chance was to try to get in through the back door.

Before reaching the back, he came to a high barred window and decided to try to get a look through there. He glanced around the alley, found a crate that would make a good step stool. He set it down beneath the window and climbed on. He was looking into a cell, and then beyond, through the bars, he could see the open door of the cell block.

Through the doorway he saw only slivers—a piece of Bill Tilghman’s desk, the marshal still seated there, and a partial view of a man standing next to him. Roper had never seen Sender. He had the killer’s description and wasn’t sure this was him, but it didn’t really matter. Whoever he was, he was holding a gun in his hand, pointed at Tilghman—and the gun was silver.

Roper got down from the crate, walked around to the side of the building, and considered his options. He could burst through the front door and hope he could get to Sender before he shot Tilghman, but that didn’t seem likely. Sender—or whoever it was—would likely pull the trigger at the first sight of Roper. He could stay outside, and wait for Sender to come out, but what if he killed Tilghman before he did that? He’d still get Sender, but he wasn’t willing to trade him for the marshal.

There was only one way to go.

He went back into the alley to his crate and climbed up again. Looking through the window, he could see the hand holding the gun on Tilghman. Roper was a detective, not a sharpshooter. He used his brain more than he used his gun, but he didn’t feel he had a choice.

He generally hit what he shot at, but in this case his target was a hand holding a gun, and maybe part of a forearm. Also, Tilghman was right there, presenting a big inviting target for an errant bullet. Roper was going to be allowed only one shot at this, and he had to make it count.

He drew his gun, stuck it between the bars, relaxed himself, inhaled one long, deep breath, and took the shot.

The silver gun went flying from Sender’s hand, and Tilghman moved quickly, taking Sender to the floor before he could recover.

Roper withdrew his pistol, got down from the crate, and walked around to the front of the office.

Tilghman came out of the cell block, having just locked the wounded John Sender in a cell.

“What took you so damn long?” Tilghman asked. “I was tryin’ to send you signals the whole time.”

“I noticed a funny look on your face, and you seemed real uncomfortable, but I just thought you had the trots or something.”

“Very funny. What finally tipped you off?”

“There were a few things,” Roper said. “You’d never wear an empty holster. You either keep your gun on or take the whole rig off. I figured somebody had taken your gun. Also, you were calling me Roper, when you usually call me by my first name. And finally, you hate Pat Sughrue and would never call him a ‘good man.’ ”

“He must have known you were right on his tail and figured taking a lawman hostage might buy him his life. But then why didn’t he pick the sheriff?” Tilghman wondered. “If he’d shot Pat, it would have been no loss.”

Roper knew Sughrue was a good lawman. He and Tilghman just didn’t like each other.

“Maybe he recognized your name but not Sughrue’s,” Roper suggested.

“That was a nice shot, by the way,” Tilghman said, “but why did you decide to just shoot the gun out of his hand? If you’d missed, he mighta killed me.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Roper said. “That was all I could see from the window.”

“Jesus,” Tilghman said, “if I knew my life depended on you makin’ a shot like that, I mighta been nervous. I guess I’m just lucky you’re a good detective and a fair shot.”

1

Denver, Colorado, months later…

Talbot Roper’s office was on West Colfax Street that year.

Roper entered his office, mindful of the fact that the door had not been locked. Only one other person had a key to the office, and the door did not bear any of the earmarks of a door being forced. He entered with his cut-down Colt still in his shoulder holster.

He had two rooms: a reception area, and his office. The outer area had a desk and chair, file cabinets, and several extra chairs for clients to wait—if he happened to have that many. And often, he had a girl sitting at the desk.

This time, a girl he’d never seen before was seated at his reception desk. She had brown hair pinned up on top of her head and a pretty face only lightly touched with makeup. She appeared to be in her early twenties but was wearing a very businesslike suit that you would usually see on an older woman. Someone had tried to dress her for business, but she had the face and body of a girl who was made for some…well, friskier activity.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Oh!” He’d startled her. “Can I—are you…Mr. Roper?” She stared at him through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with wide, liquid eyes.

“I am,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Lola,” she said. “Mrs. Batchelder sent me over this morning?” He hoped most of her sentences were not going to end with question marks. He hated that.