Robert Randisi - Bullets & Lies

“Here,” he said, pressing another twenty dollars into her hand.

“Our deal was only for twenty,” she said.

“That’s okay,” he said. “It looks like you can use another twenty.”

Roper and Parnell walked away from the house. When Roper turned, he saw that she was still standing in the doorway, her rifle in one hand, and twenty dollars in the other.

“That wasn’t very helpful,” Parnell said.

“Not to me,” Roper said. “She did okay, though, don’t you think?”

27

He traveled 584 miles to Amarillo, Texas, then stopped there to send a telegram to the lawyer, Harwick, in Hurricane, West Virginia.

He’d decided along the way not to contact Victoria, but to send the lawyer word that he’d found Vincent McCord, long dead, and was on his way to see Gerald Quinn.

Before leaving Hurricane, when he spoke to Victoria the last time, he’d asked her one last question. “Do I have a time limit?”

“My husband is in no imminent danger of dying, Mr. Roper. He is, however, in imminent danger of having his medal stripped from him. Do what you will with that information.”

He could have traveled from Saint Joe to Vega by rail—that is, to Amarillo by rail—and then ridden the next thirty miles on horseback. But he decided to ride the entire way. Catching a train meant stopping in the right town, probably staying overnight, checking a rail schedule, catching the next available train—of which there was not necessarily one every day. By the time he did all that, he figured he could be halfway there. He’d bought himself a nice horse, he figured he might as well put the animal to good use.

Roper knew lone riders in the West were fair game. While he slept each night he camped, he slept lightly. Long ago he had discovered his capacity to operate on very little sleep. It had served him well during the war and continued to do so when he was on the trail.

He was also able to exist on very little food—only beef jerky and coffee when he camped. He could carry that in his saddlebags with no trouble. A full packhorse of supplies would only slow him down.

He came to many small towns between Saint Joe, Missouri, and Amarillo, Texas—circumvented most of them, for he had what he needed with him. The only reason to stop in one of these small towns would be to restock, which he expected to have to do only once before he reached his destination.

He chose a town called Los Lunas, New Mexico, in which to make his stop.

The shot in Washington still played on his mind. If he’d taken the rail route to Amarillo, he would have made a stationary target. On the trail he was a moving target. But stopping in a town, once again he’d be stationary. So he intended to stop only as long as it took to buy more jerky, coffee, and maybe some beans this time.

Los Lunas was a smudge, a one-road town with half a dozen buildings that had seen better days, which included a saloon and a mercantile, but no jail. Most likely there was no law around.

He rode his Appaloosa up to the trading post and dismounted. He could have used a drink, but stopping in a saloon was as good as looking for trouble, especially in a hole like this.

He looped the horse’s reins around a hitching post and entered the store. Shelves on all sides were piled high with supplies. He was surprised at how well stocked it was for such a small town. There were probably ranches in the area that did all their restocking here.

The man behind the wooden counter said, “Welcome, stranger, welcome to Sandusky’s. That’s me. I’ve got everything you need here, best-stocked store for miles. Just tell me what you need, and if you have the money to pay for it, it’s yours.”

He was tall, red-haired, and pale, looked to be about sixty. His clothes looked handmade, and Roper suspected he had a wife or daughter who had made them. His hands showed the signs of years of hard work, some of the fingers bent, many of the nails broken.

Roper approached the counter, a sheet of wood that had been sandpapered smooth.

“Coffee, jerky, and beans.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” Roper said. “A box of ’forty-five shells.”

“Comin’ up.”

The merchant collected the items and brought them to the counter. He wrote out a bill and handed it to Roper.

“Can I wrap these items in brown paper?” Sandusky asked.

“No, just put them in a small sack,” Roper said. “I’ll be putting them in my saddlebags.”

“Sure you don’t need anything else?” the merchant asked. “A new hat? New boots?”

“My hat and boots are fine, thanks.”

“Suit yerself,” Sandusky said. “You ain’t gonna find another store like this between here and Amarillo.”

“Okay,” Roper said, “I’ll take one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

Roper pointed to an item on the shelf behind the man.

“Ah,” the man said, taking a bottle down, “the finest Tennessee sippin’ whiskey.”

“Add it to the bill.”

Sandusky did as he was told, and Roper paid the total. The merchant put everything into a sack and handed it to Roper.

“Thank you.”

“Stayin’ in town?” Sandusky asked.

“No, I just stopped for some supplies. I’ll be on my way.”

“Well, then, I have to warn you.”

“About what?”

“The Castles.”

“There are castles near here?” Roper asked.

“No, no,” Sandusky said, “the Castles are three brothers who live here. They…usually try to rob my customers when they leave here.”

“Do they usually succeed?”

“Oh, yes,” the man said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before you paid, but—”

“That’s okay,” Roper said. “I’ve dealt with highwaymen before.”

“Yes,” Sandusky said, “you strike me as the kind of man who has.”

“I’m assuming there’s no law in this town?”

“Not for a very long time,” Sandusky said. “You’ll be able to do whatever you need to do when you leave here.”

“Can you tell me anything else about the Castles?”

“Three brothers,” Sandusky said, “who are very used to getting what they want with no resistance.”

“Thank you,” Roper said. “That’s exactly what I needed to know.”

He took his sack, turned, and left the store, hoping for the best, but expecting the worst.

28

As he stepped outside, Roper saw the three men standing in the street. One was next to his horse, with his hand on the animal’s rump. They were all the same, over six feet, wearing threadbare clothes and with old but lethal pistols in their belts. None wore a hat, and all had the same unruly black hair. He could say that they were of differing ages, but definitely brothers. The one with his hand on the Appaloosa’s rump looked to be the oldest. As it turned out, he was the spokesman.

“Hello, friend,” the man said.

“Hello.”

“Don’t seem like you bought very much in the way of supplies.”

“I didn’t need very much.”

“Sandusky’s usually a pretty good salesman,” the man said.

“He did convince me to buy a bottle of whiskey.”

“Whiskey!” one of the other men said. He wiped his hands with his fingers.

“Shut up!” the older one said.

“Are you the Castle boys?” Roper asked.

“We are,” the older one said. “I’m Lem, that’s Cal and Bill. Sandusky tell you that?”

“Well…”

“He warned you about us, didn’t he?” Lem asked. “That wasn’t real smart of him.” Lem looked at his brothers. “We’re gonna have to teach Sandusky a lesson when we’re finished here.”

Roper realized he’d made a mistake, and he’d trapped himself so that he had only one out. If he managed to leave here with his supplies, without killing these men, Sandusky would no doubt pay the price.