Day of Rage

by William W. Johnstone

  John Henry wasn’t sure why the judge was telling him all this. As a deputy appointed to Judge Parker’s court, he served in the Western Federal District of Arkansas, which meant Indian Territory and part of Kansas.

  He was about to ask Parker what this had to do with him when the judge continued, “In approximately one week’s time, Jason and the other two large mine owners, men named Goodman and Lacey, are going to pool their resources and assemble a massive shipment of gold in Purgatory. Wells Fargo has agreed to take responsibility for it there.”

  John Henry frowned and said, “That sounds a little risky. Like the old saying about putting all your eggs in one basket.”

  “They believe that the gold will be safe there, if they can get it to town. All the holdups so far have taken place between the mines and Purgatory. Instead of each mine owner hiring guards to bring down their gold, they’re going in together to hire a large enough force to keep it safe. It seems like a plan with a reasonable chance of success.”

  “Maybe,” John Henry said. “You can’t ever predict what some bandit’s going to do, though.”

  Parker shook his head and said, “No, of course not. But there’s a risk in anything.”

  “And I’d still be worried about having that much gold in one place. How much did you say it’s going to amount to, Judge?”

  “I didn’t,” Parker said dryly. “But Jason estimates that the total will be around $75,000.”

  John Henry couldn’t help it. He let out a low whistle.

  “That’s a mighty big pile of gold, Your Honor. If it belonged to me . . . if even a third of it belonged to me . . . I’d be more than worried. I’d be downright scared.”

  Parker tapped the letter he had laid back down on the desk.

  “That’s why Jason wrote to me. Since any attempt to steal that gold would be a federal crime, he asked if I could send him a deputy marshal to help protect it.”

  “New Mexico Territory’s sort of out of our bailiwick, isn’t it?” John Henry asked.

  “Normally, yes. Jason should have sent his request to the chief marshal in Denver. But as I said, Jason is an old friend, so he turned to me instead. There’s another angle to consider, too. Whoever is sent to Purgatory to look after that gold might be able to do so more effectively if it’s not widely known that he’s a federal officer. That way if the outlaws do make a play for it, he can take them by surprise.”

  “Begging your pardon, Judge,” John Henry said, “but I think I can see the trail you’re laying down here. You want me to go to New Mexico and make sure that gold gets where it’s supposed to go.”

  “That’s the idea, yes,” Parker said with a nod. “Your record speaks for itself, Deputy Sixkiller. Despite your relative youth, you’re an experienced lawman, and you’ve found yourself in a number of tight spots. The fact that you’re still here says something about your abilities.”

  “And nobody in New Mexico is liable to recognize me as a deputy marshal, that’s for sure.”

  “Exactly. Because of my friendship with Jason, I consider this to be a personal matter, at least to an extent, so I’m loathe to make it an order. . . .”

  John Henry smiled and said, “No need to worry about that, Your Honor. A federal lawman has jurisdiction anywhere in the country, right?”

  “That’s right. Your badge means just as much in New Mexico as it does here.”

  Picking up his hat from his knee, John Henry leaned forward. He said, “There’s one problem, though. Iron Heart’s pretty fast, but I don’t think he can get all the way from here to the other side of New Mexico in a week.”

  “We’ll put you on the train. You can be in Lordsburg in a couple of days.” Parker smiled and added, “Jason can reimburse the federal government for that expense. There’s a stagecoach from Lordsburg to Purgatory.”

  “That sounds pretty good.” John Henry paused. “But I was wondering ... Is there any chance you could put Iron Heart on the train, too, and I could ride him to Purgatory? I can make almost as good time that way as traveling by stagecoach.”

  Parker gave him a severe look, and John Henry figured he had pushed things too far. Then the judge abruptly let out a laugh and said, “Jason can pay the freight on that horse of yours, too, if that’s the way you want it. What do you say, Deputy?”

  “I say I’m on my way to New Mexico,” John Henry replied with a smile.

  Chapter Five

  In Purgatory, Duke Rudd and Sam Logan were bored. Both men had been outlaws since they were in their teens, and when they weren’t busy robbing and killing, sometimes they found that they didn’t know what to do with themselves. And Billy Ray just kept telling them to be patient, claiming that there was a big job coming up but the time wasn’t right for it yet.

  So here they sat at a table in the Silver Spur, nursing beers. Logan was playing a game of solitaire with a deck of greasy, dog-eared cards. Rudd wasn’t interested in cards. He just scowled as he looked around the room.

  “Might as well be in a damn cemetery,” he muttered. “It’s sure enough dead in here.”

  “It’s early,” Logan said without looking up from his cards. “Place’ll get busier later on.”

  “Well, what if I don’t want to wait for later on? What if I want some excitement right now?”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to manufacture your own. Why don’t you take one of the gals upstairs?”

  “Because the only one down here right now is that damned Linda Sue,” Rudd snapped. “I swear, my horse is better lookin’ than her.”

  “Then why don’t you—”

  Logan must have sensed the look Rudd was giving him, because he didn’t finish that sentence. Instead, he frowned at his cards and moved some of them around so he could continue playing. That was cheating, sure, but he didn’t figure it really mattered since he wasn’t likely to shoot himself over it.

  “Anyway, I’m a mite low on funds,” Rudd went on.

  “I know. Billy Ray don’t give us enough spendin’ money. As much loot as we’ve got stashed at the hideout, seems like we ought to be flush all the time.”

  “He says he wants to save it up and not do the divvy until we’re ready to rattle our hocks and shake the dust of New Mexico off our boots. Well, how long is that gonna be, I ask you? How much is enough?”

  “Money’s like sweet lovin’ from a gal,” Logan said with a grin. “Ain’t no such thing as enough.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m gettin’ tired of just sittin’ around and waitin’—All right.”

  Logan glanced up.

  “All right what? What’s goin’ on?”

  Rudd nodded toward the staircase at the side of the big barroom.

  “Look who’s woke up and comin’ downstairs,” he said.

  The pretty blonde called Della was descending the stairs. As Rudd and Logan watched her, she stifled a yawn. Her hair had been brushed but was still a little tousled from sleep. She paused halfway down, grasped the low neckline of her dress, and gave it a tug to adjust it over her breasts.

  “Lordy,” Rudd breathed. “You ever had her, Sam?”

  Logan shook his head.

  “She charges more than the other gals, and she can get away with it, too, lookin’ like she does. Besides, I, uh, think that she’s kinda sweet on Billy Ray. She’s always hangin’ all over him when he’s in here.”

  “Yeah, but he ain’t sweet on her, is he?” Rudd asked. “I mean, she don’t mean nothin’ special to him. I never knew Billy Ray to get moony-eyed over any gal in particular. So he hadn’t ought to mind if I was to spend some time in Miss Della’s company.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t have any money,” Logan said.

  “I’ve been savin’ some back for somethin’ special.” Rudd licked his lips as Della reached the bottom of the stairs. “And if that ain’t special, I never seen anything that is.”

  Logan shook his head and said, “Go ahead. Don’t be too surprised if she laughs in your face, though.”

 
“Why in the hell would she do that?” Rudd asked with a puzzled frown.

  “Because you’re about the ugliest peckerwood south of the Picket Wire!” Logan said.

  Rudd glared and said, “I reckon I’ll shoot you for sayin’ that, Sam. One of these days I will, you just wait and see. But not today.” He downed the rest of the beer in his mug, stood up, and hitched his trousers a little higher. “Today I got more important business to take care of.”

  “You do that,” Logan said, apparently unconcerned about Rudd’s death threat. He rearranged the cards again in his solitaire game.

  Rudd cocked his hat at a jaunty angle and crossed the room to the bar. Three men were drinking there, none of them paying any attention to the others. Della was near the end of the bar, talking to Linda Sue and the bartender, a consumptive-looking gent named Meade.

  As he came up to them, Rudd ignored Linda Sue and Meade and said, “Good day to you, Miss Della. Remember me? Duke Rudd? We’ve spoke before.”

  “Why, of course I remember you, Duke,” Della replied with a smile. “How are you?”

  Rudd thought it was likely Della would have claimed to remember any man who spoke to her, whether she really did or not. Whores were that way. But he didn’t care. He said, “I’m doin’ fine, I reckon. But I’d be even finer if you’d go upstairs with me and allow me the pleasure of your company for a spell.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, Duke. I’m flattered. But it’s early in the day and I really haven’t been awake that long.”

  “It’s after noon,” Rudd pointed out.

  “Well, that’s early for me, honey.” Della paused. “Besides, I sort of doubt that you’d be able to afford me.”

  “How much?” Rudd asked.

  Linda Sue laughed and said, “Boy, he comes right out with it, don’t he?”

  “I’m willin’ to pay,” Rudd went on. “Just tell me how much.”

  Della glanced at the bartender. Rudd thought she might have been appealing to Meade to get rid of him, but the man pointedly looked away and started wiping the bar with a rag, each movement taking him a little farther away. The message was clear: He wasn’t going to interfere with one of Billy Ray Gilmore’s men.

  Looking a little annoyed by Meade’s desertion, Della said curtly, “Ten dollars.”

  That brought another laugh from Linda Sue. She said, “Lord, who do you think you’re talkin’ to, Della, the president of these here United States? Nobody’s gonna pay ten dollars for a poke.”

  “Not if you’re the one they’re pokin’,” Rudd said.

  Linda Sue drew back and frowned. She said, “Well, that’s rude.”

  “No, it’s Rudd. Duke Rudd.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a ten-dollar gold piece. He slapped the eagle on the bar and said to Della, “There you go.”

  She looked surprised that he had actually met her price. Called her bluff, as it were. And now there was nothing she could do about it.

  “Fine,” she said, not sounding happy about it. Her hand moved over the eagle and swooped down on it like the coin’s namesake. “Let’s go.”

  She turned and led the way toward the stairs. Rudd divided his time between watching the appealing sway of her rear end in the tight dress and smirking in triumph at Logan, who sat there openmouthed.

  As she started up the stairs, Della looked over her shoulder at Rudd and said, “You don’t get anything special for that price, so don’t even think about it.”

  “Just bein’ with you is special enough for me, darlin’,” Rudd assured her.

  She took him along the balcony to her room on the second floor, which was spartanly furnished with a narrow bed, an old wardrobe with the doors taken off of it, a ladderback chair, and a small table that had one leg shorter than the others. The only remotely feminine touch was a gauzy yellow curtain over the single window.

  Della put the gold piece on the table next to a basin of water. With her back turned to Rudd, she said, “Unbutton my dress for me.”

  “Oh, I’d be glad to,” he said.

  His blunt fingers weren’t really meant for delicate work, though, and in his eagerness he fumbled even more than he might have otherwise. Della sighed in impatient exasperation.

  “Hang on, hang on,” he told her. “I’m gettin’ it.”

  “I sure hope you’re better at other things than you are at this, Duke,” she said.

  For some reason that really rubbed him the wrong way. Ever since he’d walked up to her at the bar, she’d been talking to him like she looked down on him. Her, a whore, doing that. It just wasn’t right.

  So without thinking much about what he was doing, he grasped her dress where he had already gotten a couple of the buttons unfastened and wrenched the fabric in opposite directions. Buttons popped and cloth tore, and Della exclaimed, “Hey! What the hell—”

  Rudd ripped the dress all the way down the back, exposing the short, thin shift she wore under it. She opened her mouth to scream, but Rudd gave her a hard shove that sent her sprawling facedown on the bed. He threw himself on top of her and planted a hand on the back of her head, shoving her face into the bedding to muffle any cries.

  “I don’t let no damn whore talk to me that way,” he said in a low voice as he leaned down close to her ear. His other hand tore the shift from her.

  Her right hand slid under the pillow and came out with a straight razor that she opened with a practiced flick of her wrist. She swiped back with it and he felt the blade’s fiery bite on his thigh where it sliced through his jeans and into his flesh. He yelled and jumped back.

  She rolled over on the bed, moving fast, and slashed at him again, but this time he was able to grab her wrist. A brutal twist made her hand open. The razor fell to the mattress. Rudd swept it off onto the floor.

  Then in an extension of the same motion, he backhanded Della across the face. The blow landed with a sharp crack and jerked her head to the side. Curses and even worse filth spewed from Rudd’s mouth as he hit her again. She was still conscious, but she went limp, all the fight going out of her.

  “You’re gonna pay for what you done,” he threatened as he loomed over her. “I might even take my ten dollars back. You’re gonna have to work mighty hard to convince me I shouldn’t cut you, too, like you did to me. I could fix it so no man’d ever want you again, missy.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry,” Della panted. “You just . . . took me by surprise. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

  “Well, now, that’s more like it. What’re you gonna do to make it up to me? Show me.”

  She did, and while she was at it he couldn’t see her eyes anymore. If he’d been able to, he might have been worried.

  Because in their green depths lurked the promise that someday he was going to pay for what he’d done, sure enough, and not with money, either.

  Chapter Six

  The railroad linking southwestern New Mexico Territory with the rest of the country had been completed not that many years previously, and getting from Fort Smith to Lordsburg by rail still wasn’t what anybody would call a simple task. You had to either go north to Missouri on the Santa Fe, and then circle back through Kansas and Colorado before turning south through New Mexico to El Paso, and then finally turn west to Lordsburg; or else travel south through Texas to Houston and switch to the Southern Pacific, which roughly followed the old Butterfield Stage route through Texas to El Paso. The last stretch of the trip from El Paso to Lordsburg was the same either way. It was about the same distance out of the way no matter which route you chose, too.

  John Henry took the Texas route, which cut across the corner of Indian Territory. He’d had a little to do with that rail line being completed, so he thought it was fitting he put it to use now.

  Northern Texas, he discovered when the train crossed the Red River, looked a lot like southern Indian Territory. It stayed that way for several hundred miles before growing more wooded.

  Houston was the biggest town John Henry had ever seen. He and Iron Heart
switched to a Southern Pacific train there. San Antonio was the next stop. John Henry wouldn’t have minded doing some looking around in that historic old city, but he didn’t have the time. He wasn’t traveling for pleasure. He had to reach Purgatory well before Jason True and the other mine owners brought their gold down, so he’d have a chance to get the lay of the land and sniff out any trouble.

  After San Antonio the terrain changed. The train rolled through a band of rugged hills, then hit a stretch of flat, semi-arid plains. This was drier country than John Henry had ever seen, and it seemed to get more dry the farther west he traveled. Here and there, rough-looking buttes thrust up from the tableland, and trees became scarce. Low brush and clumps of ugly-looking grass covered the ground, interspersed with cactus and areas of bare rock. Settlements were few and far between, too. Often when the train had to stop for water, there was nothing to be seen but the water tank itself, sitting up on stilts, and the telegraph line that ran alongside the railroad tracks.

  John Henry wasn’t sure why anybody would want to live out here in the middle of nowhere. Some people did, though. He’d been told that there were vast ranches out here in western Texas. He believed it, because country like this sure wasn’t good for anything else.

  He slept sitting up, since he had the frontiersman’s ability to doze off just about anywhere, under any conditions. A cheap carpetbag containing his belongings was under the seat. When he reached Lordsburg, he would switch his things over to his saddlebags and leave the carpetbag at the depot for safekeeping until he returned.

  When he awoke, mountains had replaced the desert. He bought an apple for breakfast from a boy who came through the car selling them and looked out the window to the south as he munched on the fruit.

  Someone sat down on the bench seat beside him. He looked over and saw a thickly built, middle-aged man with curly, graying hair under a pushed-back derby. The man wore a dusty town suit. He said, “Mexico.”