Robert Randisi - Bullets & Lies

He walked to the three fallen men, noticing the men who were crowded around the batwing doors. Then he heard somebody yell, “Lou’s dead! Free beer!” and they all vanished back inside.

Roper checked the three bodies, found them all dead. What now? Wait around for the law and an undertaker? Go back to his room and let them come to him?

He waited a few minutes but nobody came running. Shootings couldn’t have been that common in Gilette. He looked around, shrugged, and went back into the hotel.

Wilkins backed out of the window after Roper checked the three bodies and closed it behind him. As far as anyone down there knew, Roper had gunned down the three men. As far as Wilkins was concerned, he had partially paid his debt to Roper.

But there was another way to pay Roper back, and that was to sign an affidavit for him. Wilkins just didn’t know if he could do that. At least, not until he talked with Hampstead and Templeton. It was too bad about McCord being killed all those years ago, but everyone who knew him knew that Vince McCord would end up that way, either in the war or after.

Gerald Quinn, that was a shame. Quinn was a good man, and Wilkins would have liked to help the detective find out who killed him.

But the rest…signing the affidavit, he couldn’t make up his mind about that. At least, not until the other two arrived in Gilette.

If they got there at all.

46

Roper walked into the hotel, didn’t see anyone at the clerk’s desk. That was what bullets in the street usually did to people.

He went up the stairs, down the hall to his room, and entered.

Wilkins was sitting on the bed, his hands behind his head.

“Thanks.”

“For what?” Wilkins asked.

“I don’t know how many shots you fired, but that first one did the trick. I figured you’d target the center man first.”

“I fired once,” Wilkins said. “You were pretty good. I didn’t have to pull the trigger again.”

Roper nodded, ejected the spent shells from his gun, replaced them, and holstered it.

“We’re liable to get a visit from the law tonight,” he said. “I’ll do the talking.”

“Suits me,” Wilkins said.

Roper walked to his bed and sat down.

“You didn’t bring a bottle of whiskey, did you?” Wilkins asked.

“No,” Roper said. “Just the beer.”

“Too bad.”

Roper agreed.

It only took half an hour for a knock to come at the door.

“Sooner than I thought,” Roper said. “Remember, let me do the talking.”

Wilkins nodded.

Roper went to the door and opened it, with his hand on his gun. Standing out in the hall was a tall man with a sheriff’s badge. Behind him was a shorter, younger man, wearing a deputy’s badge.

“You the fella from the street?” the sheriff asked. “Just shot three men?”

“I shot three men about half an hour ago,” Roper said. “So I guess you want me, unless somebody else shot three men since then.”

The sheriff looked at Roper’s hand, which was on his gun.

“I’m gonna need you to identify yourself,” the lawman said.

“You want me to do it here, or come to your office?” Roper asked.

“Here’ll do,” the sheriff said.

“Why don’t you and your deputy come in, Sheriff…what’s your name?”

“Freese,” the lawman said, “Sheriff Freese.”

“Come on in, Sheriff Freese.”

The two lawmen entered, nodded to Wilkins, who was still sitting on his bed. His rifle was leaning against the wall next to him.

“This fella is Henry Wilkins,” Roper said. “My name is Talbot Roper. I’m a private detective.”

“Detective, huh?” Freese asked. “What brings you here, to Gilette?”

“I’m meeting some friends.”

“Why here?”

Roper shrugged. “We had to meet somewhere. This is as good a place as any.”

“You got something that says you’re who you say you are?”

Roper went to his saddlebags, took out his wallet, and handed it to the sheriff. There were several pieces of identification there with his name and address on them.

“Denver, huh?”

“That’s right.”

Freese handed the wallet back.

“You wanna tell me what happened in the street, why you had to kill three of our citizens?”

“They pushed it, Sheriff,” Roper said. “I gave them all the chance to walk away.”

“I understand you had a run-in with Jake and Hobie in the saloon.”

“With them, yeah,” Roper said. “I don’t know why the bartender was in the street. I had no beef with him, and as far as I knew, he had none with me.”

“I got the story from the saloon,” Freese said.

“And?”

“It’s like you say,” the lawman said. “Hobie was hoorahing you until you hit him with a beer mug.”

“I put him down without killing him,” Roper said. “He should have stayed down.”

“I guess he should’ve,” Freese said.

“If you want me to come to your office with you, Sheriff, I will,” Roper said.

“There’s no need,” Freese said. “Your story checks out. They braced you in the street, and they called the play. I don’t think I have any grounds to take you in.”

“I appreciate that.”

“But I do have the right to tell you to leave town.”

“What?”

“Those boys all have friends in town,” Freese said. “To keep any more trouble from happening, you have to leave.”

“I told you, I’m waiting for some friends to get here,” Roper said.

“I know that, but I can’t have any more gunplay in the street. Your friend can wait here for the others, but you have to leave.”

“No,” Roper said, “I can’t do that.”

“If you don’t leave,” the sheriff said, “I’ll have to put you in a cell.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m afraid I am.”

The deputy drew himself up and stared at Roper. “You better do what the sheriff says.”

Roper looked at the deputy, staring at him until the younger man averted his eyes.

“Okay, Sheriff,” he said finally. “I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.”

“Fine,” Freese said. “Sorry about this, Mr. Roper, but there’s nothing I can do.”

Roper opened the door and waited while the sheriff and his deputy left.

“What are we gonna do?” Wilkins asked. “Should I stay and wait while you go?”

“No, I can’t leave you here alone,” Roper said. “We’ll have to leave and camp just outside of town, try and catch the others when they ride in.”

“Well,” Wilkins said, “at least I get to sleep in a real bed one more night.”

“Yeah,” Roper said, “I could use some sleep myself.”

They each washed up with the pitcher and basin on the dresser. Wilkins got between the sheets, but before he went to bed, Roper took the chair from the corner and jammed it underneath the doorknob.

“Just in case,” he told Wilkins.

“What about the window?”

“They’d have to scale the building to get in that way, but I’ll put the pitcher on the windowsill just in case. They’d have to knock it off to get in.”

“Good enough,” Wilkins said.

Roper turned down the lamp on the wall by the door and got into bed.

47

Sally Bando passed a cup of coffee over to Dave Hampstead, who was wincing as he sat on the ground.

“Damn,” Hampstead said, “it’s been a while since I’ve been in the saddle.”

Bando had seen that the moment he met Dave Hampstead in Montana. The man was a businessman and had the belly to prove it.

“My ass is used to sittin’ in a chair, not on a horse,” he went on. “Was the day I didn’t have this belly and sore ass, but that was years ago.”

“Sorry, Mr. Hampstead,” Bando said, “but my orders are to get you to Gilette, on horseback, and alive.”