Robert Randisi - Bullets & Lies

“That’s me. Who are you?”

“My name’s Roper,” Roper said. “I’m a private detective from Denver. Are you Wilkins?”

“I am.”

“Can I put my hands down?”

“I got a rifle pointed at you,” Wilkins said. “Holster your weapon and turn around slowly.”

Roper obeyed, sliding the pistol into the holster and turning. He continued to hold his hands away from his body so as to appear less threatening.

“What are you doin’ here?” Wilkins asked. He was a tall man with very long, stringy hair, painfully thin, as if he hadn’t been eating well for a long time. “Why are you looking for me?”

“Well,” Roper said, “basically I’m here to save your life.”

“What?”

“If we could go inside and talk, I can explain.”

“First tell me who sent you.”

“Victoria Westover.” Roper decided it didn’t matter whether they went inside, or stayed out.

“Westover?” Wilkins said. The barrel of the rifle lowered slightly. “I knew a Westover during the war. Howard Westover?”

“That’s right,” Roper said. “Victoria is his wife. She sent me to find you.”

“Why?”

“He’s in a bad way,” Roper said, “and he’s in danger of having his Medal of Honor stripped from him.”

“Stripped?”

“That’s right. She sent me to find five men he served with so they can swear he earned the medal honorably.”

“And I’m one of the five?” Wilkins seemed surprised.

“Do you remember Vincent McCord and Gerald Quinn?” Roper asked.

“I do,” Wilkins said, and the barrel dipped even more, until it was pointing at the ground. “I served with them.”

“They’re dead.”

“What? How?”

“McCord died years ago, in Saint Joe, Missouri,” Roper said, “but someone killed Quinn days ago, before I could get to him. And I think that same someone is after you.”

“Me? Somebody wants to kill me?”

“Yes,” Roper said, “and they may not be far behind me. They beat me to Quinn, but it looks like I beat them to you. We have to get out of here.”

“And go where?”

“Somewhere I can keep you safe,” Roper said.

“I can take care of myself.”

“You’re an old soldier, I know,” Roper said. “So am I. I served with Pinkerton.”

“They didn’t call him that during the war,” Wilkins said.

“I know, he was Major E. J. Allan. I’m a private detective now because of him.”

Wilkins looked around, then said, “You better come inside.”

“Only long enough for you to pack,” Roper said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Come inside,” Wilkins said. “We can talk more over a jug.”

The hard ride had awakened a thirst in Roper so he said, “All right. One drink and then we’re out of here!”

38

The house was little more than a bare cabin inside, but there was a rickety table and two matching chairs. It reminded him of the house Vincent McCord’s woman lived in.

“Have yourself a seat,” Wilkins said. “I’ll get the jug,” Roper was feeling antsy. Could be a killer outside any minute. He had to get Wilkins out of there. Anyplace other than this would do.

Wilkins returned with a jug, sat across from Roper, and passed it to him. The detective uncorked it and poured some down his throat. It burned like fire. He put it on the table and pushed it back, his eyes tearing.

Wilkins drank deeply from the jug, then put the cork back in. He must have been in his thirties during the war, because he looked to be near sixty.

“You better start from the beginning, mister.”

“I don’t think we have time, Mr. Wilkins. I’m convinced there’s a man on the way here to kill you. If we don’t get you out of here—”

“You sure about this?”

“Sure as I can be,” Roper said. “Gerald Quinn is dead, and there are two more men on my list.”

“Who are they?”

“David Hampstead and Zack Templeton.”

Wilkins sat back in his chair.

“You know them?” Roper asked.

“I served with both of them.”

“I guess that’s why she gave me your names, then. You got a horse?”

“A broke-down saddle mount one in the back.”

“Why don’t you pack what you’ve got, saddle that horse, and we’ll get out of here.”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere, just so long as I keep you alive.”

“You’re serious about this.”

“Yes, I am. After this I’m going to see Hampstead and Templeton.”

“I ain’t seen them boys in years,” Wilkins said. “Okay, I’ll do it. I ain’t got much, it’ll all fit in some saddlebags.”

“Get them packed, then,” Roper said. “I’ll watch your back while you saddle up.”

“That stuff you said about Westover true? They want his medal?”

“They’re recalling many medals,” Roper said. “His is one of them.”

“For sure?”

“No, not for sure,” Roper said. “Pack up and I’ll tell you about it while you saddle up.”

“Okay.”

Behind the house, Wilkins saddled his horse, which would probably barely carry him to Sedona. When they got there, they’d have to get him a better mount. The rest of the horses he released, so they wouldn’t starve to death.

“Where we goin”?” Wilkins asked.

“We’ll start with Sedona,” Roper said. “I’m expecting a couple of telegrams.”

Roper made sure Wilkins didn’t get shot while he saddled his horse, and then they both mounted up. The only gun Wilkins had was his rifle.

“You want a handgun? I’ve got an extra.”

“I see that, sewed onto your saddle. That’s pretty handy. But no, I ain’t much use with a handgun. My rifle will do.”

“All right, then,” Roper said. “We better get moving. After I get my telegrams, I’m going to want to ride fast.”

“What about me?”

“I got a piece of paper I want to show you,” Roper said, “but that’ll hold until we get to Sedona.”

They rode to the front of the house. Wilkins reined in and looked around.

“Sorry you’ve got to leave your place,” Roper said. “But you can come back in the future.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Wilkins said. “It was never much of a ranch anyway.”

“Then we’d better get moving.”

Roper kept alert as they rode away from the ranch, on the watch for a bushwhacker or backshooter.

About a half an hour after they left, Kilkenny rode up to the Wilkins ranch. He dismounted, drew his gun, and entered the house. It was empty. He came out and looked around. There were horses in the corral, but no saddle in the barn. And on the ground he saw the tracks of two horses.

Talbot Roper had beat him here, and now he was on the run with Wilkins. But where would they go? Most likely Sedona, but at some point Roper was going to head for Hampstead and Templeton.

Unless Kilkenny beat him there.

39

When Roper and Wilkins rode into Sedona, they stopped at the telegraph office first. Roper made Wilkins come inside with him so he wouldn’t catch a bullet.

“My telegrams come in?” he asked the clerk.

“Right soon after you left, mister,” the man said. “Here ya go.”

Roper accepted the telegrams and read them both, then smiled, folded them, and put them in his pocket.

“What do they say?”

“That some plans I’ve made are in motion,” Roper said. “Now all I need is for you to sign an affidavit and I’ll be on my way.”

“Nothin’ doin’,” Wilkins said.

“What?”

“I ain’t signin’ no paper until I see Hampstead and Templeton.”

“You want to come with me?”

“You got the idea,” Wilkins said.

“Well,” Roper said, “that ought to keep you one step ahead of a bullet. Okay, let’s get outfitted and get moving.”