Robert Randisi - Bullets & Lies

“No.”

“You ain’t named him?” The boy closed one eye quizzically.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Haven’t had time really.”

The boy looked at the horse, then at Roper again. “For two bits I’ll name him for ya.”

“Two bits?” Roper asked. “That’s kind of steep for a name, isn’t it?”

The boy bit his lip and thought a moment.

“How about a nickel?”

“I think I could do a nickel,” Roper said. “But it better be a good name.”

The boy stared at the horse again, gave it some serious, brow-furrowing thought, then brightened and said, “How about Nickel?”

“And if I had agreed to two bits,” he asked, “would you have said Two-Bits?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a very enterprising young man,” Roper said.

The boy put out a grimy hand and said, “A nickel, please.”

Roper took out two bits and put it in the boy’s hand.

“Wow.”

“Okay, Nickel,” Roper said to the horse, freeing the reins from the hitching post, “let’s go. On to Vega.”

“You goin’ ta Vega?” the boy asked.

Roper mounted up and stared down at the boy.

“Yes, I am.”

“For two bits I’ll tell you somethin’ about Vega.”

“Do you really know something about Vega?”

The boy nodded his head.

“Okay.” Roper took out another two bits and tossed it to the boy, who caught it in the air very nimbly.

“Okay,” Roper said. “Talk.”

“Ain’t nothin’ there.”

Roper waited, then asked, “That’s it?”

“That’s what my pa says,” the boy answered. “He don’t know why anybody would go to Vega. There ain’t nothin’ there.”

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Jackson.”

“Thanks, Jackson,” Roper said. “Don’t spend it all on candy.”

Roper wheeled his horse around and headed out of town, knowing that the minute he turned, the boy was off to spend every penny on candy.

And why not?

30

He made Vega before nightfall. Jackson’s pa had almost been right. There was almost nothing there, just a few buildings. One of them, however, was a saloon. He reined in his horse in front of it and dismounted. He looped the reins over a rail, said, “Wait here, Nickel,” and went inside.

He stopped just inside the batwings, looked around. There were about ten men in the place, plus the bartender. They all stopped what they were doing—drinking, talking—and looked at him. He looked back, then walked slowly to the bar.

“Lost?” the bartender asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“Nobody ever comes here unless they’re lost.”

“How about to have a beer?”

“Is that what you want? A beer?”

“Yes.”

“Comin’ up.”

He drew a beer from the tap and carried it over to Roper.

“Four bits.”

“Twice as much as a horse’s name.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Thanks.”

The bartender nodded. He was a big man with thick hands, sloping shoulders, the kind of man who broke up bar fights with those hands.

“How many people live in this town?”

“Not sure.”

“Let me ask you this,” Roper said. “Does everyone who’s in here now live here?”

“Yeah.”

“But there are more?”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “Why are you askin’?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Are you law?”

“Do you have any law here?”

From underneath the bar the bartender took out a badge and set it on top.

“Is that yours, or are you offering it to me?”

“It’s mine, I guess,” he said with a shrug. “Nobody else wants it.”

“Then you’re the man who can help me.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not you’re looking for trouble,” the bartender/sheriff said. “And you ain’t answered my question. Are you any kind of law?”

“I’m no kind of law, Sheriff.”

“Don’t call me that.” He took the badge off the top of the bar, stowed it back underneath. “My name’s Dan.”

“Okay, Dan. My name’s Talbot Roper, I’m a private detective from Denver.”

“Denver. What are you doin’ here?”

“I’m looking for a man named Gerald Quinn.”

Dan didn’t say anything.

“Is he in here? One of these?”

“No,” Dan said.

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah,” Dan said, “yeah, I know him.”

“Can you take me to him?” Roper asked. “Or tell me where he is?”

“What for? What do you want Quinn for?”

“I want to talk to him about a man he served in the war with,” Roper said. “A Medal of Honor winner.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yeah, it is.”

Dan didn’t answer.

“I just want to ask him some questions,” Roper said.

“Are you plannin’ on payin’ him?”

“No, I wasn’t,” Roper said. “But I suppose I could.”

“How much?”

“I could negotiate that with him.”

The bartender/sheriff did some thinking. Roper sipped his beer.

Finally he asked the man, “Do you want me to pay you?”

“No,” Dan said, “I don’t need your money, Roper. But Quinn does.”

“Fine,” Roper said. “I’ll pay him something.”

“Okay,” Dan said. “Okay, I’ll take you to him.”

“Good.”

Dan looked around the room, then said, “Hey, Harry.”

“Yeah?”

He came around the bar.

“Watch the place for me for a while. I gotta go out.”

“I get a free beer?”

“Yeah, have a free beer.” Dan looked at Roper. “Follow me.”

Outside he said to Roper, “As soon as we’re gone, he’ll give everybody a free beer.”

“I’ll pay,” Roper said.

“This way,” Dan said. “You won’t need your horse.”

“You’re not taking me to a grave site, are you?”

31

Dan led Roper to a dilapidated house just outside of Vega. Everything around it was dead or dying. All hardscrabble ground, dead brush and trees. Dead, like the town.

“Quinn lives there.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s quiet.”

“Yeah,” Dan said. “Too quiet.”

“I’m going to go in,” Roper said, drawing his gun.

“Yeah, okay.”

Roper approached the house carefully, listening intently for any movement. When he got to the door, he saw that it was flimsy and ajar. Wouldn’t have taken much to force it.

He pushed the door open with his elbow, went inside holding his gun in both hands out ahead of him.

“Quinn?” he said.

Nothing.

“Gerald Quinn?”

Still no answer.

There was a second room. Roper went to the door, pushed it open with his foot, then stepped inside. That’s where he found Gerald Quinn—or a man he assumed was Quinn—shot in the back. He’d need the bartender, Dan, to make sure.

He checked the body first. The man had been shot twice. The body was still warm, the blood fresh. He turned and went to the front door, waved Dan in.

“What is it?” the man asked.

“In there.”

Dan went to the back room and looked inside, then turned and looked at Roper.

“Is that Quinn?” Roper asked.

“Yeah,” Dan said. “Did you kill him?”

“No,” Roper said.

He’d holstered his gun. Dan came out from behind his back with one and pointed it at him. Roper had seen the man secrete the gun behind his back in the bar. He’d wondered when it would make an appearance.

“How do I know you didn’t kill him?”

“He’s been shot twice,” Roper said. “Did you hear any shots?”

“How do I know you didn’t kill him an hour ago?”

“Why would I kill him, and then come into the saloon looking for him?”