Read Midnight Rider (Ralph Cotton Western Series) Online
Authors: Ralph Cotton
Midnight Rider (Ralph Cotton Western Series)
BULL’S-EYE
As if suddenly realizing someone was watching him from behind, Frank Penta turned around, smoking rifle in hand, and looked at Rochenbach through a haze of gun smoke. Seeing that Rochenbach had him cold, the rifle in Rock’s hands pointed, aimed and cocked at him, Penta gave him a strange, tight grin.
“Some fight, huh, Rock?” he called out above the roar of gunfire, sounding as if the two of them had been close friends.
“Yes, it is,” Rock agreed. His right eye fixed down the rifle sights; he squeezed the trigger….
RIDER
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,
Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,
Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632,
New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, April 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2012
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-101-58001-1
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For Mary Lynn…
of course
PART 1
Denver City, Colorado Territory
In the silvery light of dawn, U.S. Secret Service agent Avrial Rochenbach stepped down from his big dun out in front of the seedy Great Westerner Hotel, located on the outskirts of Denver City. He unwrapped a wool muffler from around his bare head and left it hanging from his shoulders. He looked back and forth along the street, which had just started coming to life for the day. A curl of steam wafted in his breath.
Scabbed onto the right side of the hotel beneath a shed roof stood Andrew Grolin’s Lucky Nut Saloon. On a faded, hand-painted sign above the saloon, a large nut—of a variety Rochenbach was unfamiliar with—stood upright between a large, frothy mug of beer and two large, tumbling dice.
Rochenbach spun his reins around an iron hitch rail, stepped onto the boardwalk and inside the Lucky Nut. Before he’d made three steps across the stone-tiled floor, two gunmen at the bar turned toward him quickly.
“Whoa! Stop yourself right there,” one called out, a Henry rifle in his hand, leveled at Rochenbach. “Did you hear anybody say we’re open for business yet?”
Rochenbach made no reply; he didn’t stop either. He continued across the floor, his forearm carelessly shoving back the right side of his long wool coat, where a black-handled Remington stood across his lower belly.
On the other side of the bar, Andrew Grolin looked up from counting a thick stack of money, a big black cigar in his teeth. He stalled for a second before saying anything, observing how everyone handled themselves.
“Hey, sumbitch! Are you deaf or something?” the same gunman called out to Rochenbach, he and the other gunman spreading a few feet apart, ready for whatever came next.
Grolin already saw what was coming if he didn’t do something to stop it. A belly rig like this? The slightest move of either of his men, this newcomer would pivot left a half turn. The big Remington would slip out of its holster as if his body had moved away from it and left it hanging in midair. It would come up arm’s length slick and fast.
Bang, you’re dead!
Grolin thought.
“It’s all right, Spiller. I’ve been expecting this man,” he said at the last second, before the scene he’d played out in his head began acting itself out on the floor.
“Whatever you say, boss,” said Denton Spiller.
The two men backed up a step; Spiller eyed the bareheaded newcomer up and down as Rochenbach stopped and returned his stare, his long wool coat
still pushed back out of the way on his right side. The wool muffler hung from his shoulders.
“You need to be more careful how you enter a room, mister,” the gunman cautioned him, lowering his rifle barrel almost grudgingly.
“Obliged,” Rochenbach said flatly. “I’ve been working on it.” He let his coat fall back into place now that the rifle barrel wasn’t pointed at him.
Rochenbach held the gunman’s stare until Andrew Grolin took his cigar from his mouth and looked back and forth between the two, still appraising, still gauging the tensile of each man’s will.
“Spiller,” he said, “you and Pres meet Avrial Rochenbach.” He turned his eyes to Rochenbach. “Rock, this is Denton Spiller and Preston Casings. Two of my best damn men.”
Rochenbach nodded; the two nodded in return. None of the men raised their hands from gun level.
“I heard of you, Rochenbach,” said Casings. “You’re the Midnight Rider, the fellow who prefers working in the dark of night.” He looked Rock up and down. “Also the fellow who got himself chased out of the Pinkertons.”
“Really?” said Spiller to Rochenbach with a cold stare. “How does that feel, getting chased out?”
“I can show you,” Rochenbach said.
Spiller started to bristle.
“Easy, men,” Andrew Grolin said with a short, dark chuckle. He gestured to Spiller and said, “You and Pres take a walk. I want to talk to Rock here in private. He’s going to be riding with us.”