Day of Rage

by William W. Johnstone

  “There are plenty of witnesses,” Gilmore cut in. “They’ll tell you what I just told you. Now, you need to go do your duty, Marshal.”

  “Maybe this man Sixkiller will ride on out of town—”

  “That’s exactly what I don’t want. Man like that needs to be behind bars.” Gilmore smiled. “Don’t you think so, Marshal?”

  Hinkle fought down the feeling of panic that tried to well up inside him. He said, “I’ll look into it. You have my word on that.”

  “When?”

  Hinkle wished that Gilmore hadn’t asked that quite so insistently.

  “First thing in the morning—” he began.

  “That might be too late. Sixkiller’s over in the Silver Spur right now. If you’ll go and arrest him, Duke and Sam will press charges against him. I’m sure of it.”

  “Do you think . . . do you think he’d come along peacefully?”

  “Why, I don’t know,” Gilmore said. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? It’s your job to take him into custody either way.”

  “Yeah.”

  A feeling of fatalistic gloom settled over Hinkle. He wasn’t sure why Gilmore was doing this. Normally, if anybody stood up to the outlaws, they got slapped down hard, sometimes even fatally. When that happened, Hinkle would make noises about investigating, but nothing ever got done. It was a good system.

  “You want to come with me?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t think of interferin’ with the workings of the law,” Gilmore said. “You can handle this, Marshal. I’m sure of it. Fact of the matter is, when you talk to Sixkiller just leave my name out of it. Say you had reports about him from concerned citizens.”

  The only thing Hinkle was sure of was that he didn’t want to leave this office. But it was obvious that Gilmore was going to keep prodding him until Hinkle did what he wanted.

  And when you came right down to it the stranger, that John Henry Sixkiller, was an unknown quantity. Hinkle didn’t know what he would do.

  Gilmore, on the other hand, was a devil. Even though he hadn’t voiced a single word in a threatening manner during this visit, Hinkle knew perfectly well what the outlaw was capable of. He had no choice but to go along with what Gilmore told him to do.

  “All right,” he said as he put his hands flat on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. He felt like he weighed a thousand pounds, that was how badly he didn’t want to leave his chair right now. But he stood up and reached for his flat-crowned black hat, which hung on a peg on the wall behind the desk. “I’ll go over to the saloon and arrest this man Sixkiller.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Gilmore said. “Duke and Sam can rest easier now, knowin’ that the varmint who caused them such misery is gonna be behind bars where he belongs.”

  “Yeah,” Hinkle said as he came out from behind the desk. “You tell them justice will be done.”

  A big grin broke across Gilmore’s face when he heard that, and Hinkle knew what the outlaw was thinking.

  There was no justice in Purgatory these days ... and there wouldn’t be as long as Billy Ray Gilmore was around.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Despite some of the thoughts in his head, John Henry enjoyed talking to Della, so he was a bit disappointed when she stood up and told him that she had to leave. It wasn’t surprising, though; she was a working girl, and she wasn’t making any money sitting there and chewing the fat with him.

  Royal Bouchard came over a few minutes later and sat down when John Henry waved a hand at the empty chair on the other side of the table.

  “It looked like you and Della were getting along well,” Bouchard commented as he took a cigar out of his vest pocket. “Smoke?”

  “Thanks,” John Henry said, taking the cigar. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Bouchard got out another cigar for himself, then scraped a match to life and lit both of them. After puffing on his, John Henry went on, “I don’t think Della and I got along quite as well as she’d hoped.”

  “She’s a lovely girl,” Bouchard said with a smile. “You either have a lot of willpower, or your tastes run in other directions.”

  “They run in Della’s direction, you can be sure of that,” John Henry said. “But there’s another girl . . .”

  “Ah, a gentleman.” Bouchard chuckled. “I haven’t run into too many of those in my life. You’re a rare breed.”

  John Henry shrugged.

  “What can I say? Loyalty’s important to me.”

  “It’s a fine quality. Also rare.”

  They smoked in companionable silence for a few moments. Then Bouchard glanced toward the door as the bat wings swung open, and his eyes narrowed. John Henry saw the reaction and looked toward the entrance, too. The man who stepped into the Silver Spur wasn’t very impressive. Medium height, thickly built, with dark hair under a flat-crowned black hat. The string tie he wore and the ivory-handled gun on his hip made him look a little like a dude.

  “Who’s that?” John Henry asked quietly.

  “Our esteemed marshal,” Bouchard answered, with scorn evident in his voice. “Henry Hinkle.”

  “Does he come in here often?”

  “Not if he can help it. He seems to be looking for someone.” Bouchard paused as Hinkle looked at them and then started across the room toward the table where they sat. “And that someone appears to be you.”

  “Or maybe you,” John Henry suggested.

  Bouchard shook his head.

  “Not likely. He has his sights set on you.”

  John Henry sighed. Here he was, faced with a dilemma again. It went against the grain for him to conceal his identity from a fellow lawman, yet doing so for the time being might help him accomplish the job that had brought him here. Like it or not, he was going to play the hand the way fate had dealt it to him.

  Marshal Hinkle came to a stop beside the table, between the two men who were sitting there, and nodded to the saloon keeper.

  “Evening, Mr. Bouchard,” he said.

  “Marshal.” Bouchard’s tone was civil, but nothing more. “What brings you here?”

  “I’m looking for this gentleman here. Is your name Sixkiller, mister?”

  “It is,” John Henry said. “What can I do for you, Marshal?”

  Hinkle drew in a deep breath. He squared his shoulders, hooked his thumbs in his gun belt so that his right hand was close to the butt of his revolver, and drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t anything special. Clearly, he was gathering his strength and girding his loins for battle, and John Henry might have been impressed if he hadn’t been able to see the panic lurking in the marshal’s eyes.

  Hinkle said, “You’re—” then had to stop as his breath caught in his throat. He cleared it and started again. “You’re under arrest,” he got out this time.

  “Is that so?” John Henry asked calmly. “What are the charges?”

  “Attempted murder.”

  John Henry frowned and said, “Honestly, I don’t recall trying to murder anyone since I rode into town, Marshal. Refresh my memory for me.”

  “You shot Duke Rudd and Sam Logan. I’ve had reports about it from, uh, concerned citizens. We don’t like violence in the streets of Purgatory.”

  “Well, I can’t blame you or the citizens for that,” John Henry said, “but I didn’t try to murder those two gents. I shot ’em in the foot. If I wanted them dead, they’d be dead now.”

  “Maybe you were aiming to kill them and . . . and just missed.”

  John Henry shook his head and said, “No, I don’t think so. I generally hit what I aim at.”

  Hinkle looked like he wanted to bolt, but he made himself stay where he was. He glanced around as if searching for someone to tell him what to do next, then said, “But that’s still, uh . . . assault. You can’t just go around shooting people, even if it’s just in the foot.”

  “I might agree with you, except I had a good reason for shooting those two boys. They’d been shooting at your mayor just before I came up. The
y were making him dance, just like two-bit desperadoes in some dime novel. I figured I’d better make them stop before somebody got seriously hurt, and that seemed like the quickest way.”

  The corners of Bouchard’s mouth twitched a little. John Henry could tell that he was struggling to keep from laughing. He hoped Bouchard would be able to keep the impulse under control. Marshal Hinkle didn’t seem like much of a threat, but if a man felt humiliated enough, he might snap and do something foolhardy.

  After a moment, Hinkle said, “I didn’t know that about Mayor Cravens.”

  “There are plenty of witnesses who saw it, Marshal,” Bouchard said. “Some of them are still here in the saloon. You can ask around if you want. You’ll find somebody to back up Mr. Sixkiller’s story.”

  Hinkle swallowed and nodded.

  “I’ll do that,” he said. “I’ll conduct a full investigation. In the meantime, Mister, uh, Sixkiller, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave town.”

  “Wasn’t planning to,” John Henry said with a smile.

  “All right.” Hinkle jerked his head in a curt nod. “Fine.”

  He turned and tried to stalk out of the saloon with some of his dignity intact. He didn’t succeed very well, because by the time he reached the bat wings he was hurrying so much he was almost running.

  “And that’s our noble defender of law and order,” Bouchard drawled. “You can see now why Gilmore and his men do pretty much whatever they want around these parts.”

  “Who do you reckon put him up to that?” John Henry asked. “Or is trying to arrest me something he would have come up with on his own?”

  Bouchard snorted and shook his head.

  “Not likely,” he said. “Maybe Gilmore, just to see what you’d do? He said he wouldn’t let Rudd and Logan come after you, but he didn’t say anything about not going to the marshal.”

  John Henry nodded and said, “That’s what I wondered, too. Kind of risky, though. What if Marshal Hinkle had gone for his gun and I killed him?”

  “Hinkle was never going to slap leather against you, Sixkiller. Might as well ask what if he flapped his arms and flew like a bird.”

  “That would be a sight to see, wouldn’t it?” John Henry said with a grin.

  * * *

  He finished his beer and spent some more time chatting with Royal Bouchard. Della had vanished from the saloon. John Henry assumed she was upstairs with a customer. For some reason he felt a little bad about that, even though he knew he shouldn’t. He supposed it was just that he felt no woman should have to make her living that way. Della didn’t appear to mind all that much, though. He supposed she had come to terms with it, as much as anybody could, anyway.

  And he wasn’t here to right the wrongs of the world, he reminded himself. He was here to make sure that $75,000 in gold bullion didn’t get stolen.

  It was getting on toward evening, so he excused himself and said he was going to find a stable for Iron Heart, a hotel room for himself, and a good place to eat supper.

  “Patterson’s Stable and Wagonyard is the best place for your horse,” Bouchard told him. “You should be able to get a room at the Barrymore House. There are cheaper places, but it’s the cleanest. They have a decent dining room there, too, or you can eat at the Red Top Café. It’s not fancy, but the food’s good.”

  “I’m obliged for the advice,” John Henry said with a nod.

  “And if you want, stop back by later this evening,” Bouchard added. “I meant what I said about your money not being any good here today. Might as well drink for free while you can.”

  “A man’d be a fool not to,” John Henry replied with a grin.

  He left Iron Heart with a gruff, ginger-bearded hostler at the stable. The man handled the big gray with a firm but gentle touch, and John Henry knew his trail partner would be well cared for. He left his saddle there, too, but took his rifle and saddlebags with him as he walked to the hotel.

  On the way he passed the café Bouchard had mentioned. It was a squat building made of blocks of red sandstone with a tile roof that was an even darker shade of red. A number of horses and wagons were tied up outside, so he suspected Bouchard was right about the food being good.

  The clerk at the desk in the Barrymore House took his money and gave him a room key.

  “Number Six,” the man said. “Top of the stairs and turn right. It’s on the front. Noise from the street shouldn’t bother you too much, though, since it’s not the weekend, or payday at the mines.”

  “Gets a little rowdy at those times, does it?” John Henry asked.

  “You know how miners are.”

  Actually, John Henry didn’t, not that well, anyway. Mining wasn’t a major activity in Indian Territory. There were some coal mines in the mountains in the northeastern part of the territory, but John Henry had never spent much time up there.

  He let the clerk’s statement pass without comment, nodded his thanks to the man, and went upstairs. The room was comfortably furnished with a good bed, a rug on the floor, a dressing table and a couple of chairs, a washstand, and a wardrobe. There was an oil lamp on the table for later, when it got dark.

  John Henry went to the window and pushed back the curtain. He had a good view of the street, all right. And there was none other than Marshal Hinkle, striding along the opposite boardwalk and nervously hitching up his gun belt after every few steps. Hinkle looked worried. John Henry had a feeling that was common. A man who was a coward was always worried. That was one of the worst things about it.

  John Henry let the curtain fall closed. He would deal with Hinkle later, if he had to. For now it was enough to know that if Gilmore’s gang did make a try for the gold, he wouldn’t be able to count on the local lawman for any help.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Marshal Hinkle was almost back at his office when a figure stepped out of the gathering shadows at the mouth of an alley. He stopped short. Most Westerners, if confronted by that situation, would have reached instinctively for a gun. Henry Hinkle’s first instinct, which he controlled with an effort, was to turn and run.

  “Marshal,” Billy Ray Gilmore said as he materialized out of the gloom. “I thought you were going to lock up that fella Sixkiller.”

  “I . . . I spoke to him,” Hinkle said. “He claimed that your friends Rudd and Logan started the trouble by shooting at the mayor’s feet and making him dance.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Evidently there are witnesses to the incident who’ll back up Sixkiller’s story. I told him I’d have to conduct an investigation and ... and warned him not to leave town.”

  “Well, I guess that’s about all you can do, then,” Gilmore said. “Meanwhile, poor Duke and Sam are laid up with those bullet wounds in their feet. It’s a real shame. But I did what I could to get justice for ’em, I reckon. I went to the marshal and lodged a complaint, just like law-abidin’ folks are supposed to do.”

  Despite his fear, Hinkle was angry again. He knew Gilmore was mocking him. He and the rest of those outlaws did what they wanted to do, whenever they wanted to do it, and never worried for a second about the law. Everybody in Purgatory knew that. All Gilmore was doing now was rubbing Hinkle’s nose in how powerless he really was.

  Hinkle ducked his head and started to move past Gilmore. He muttered, “I hope your friends get better.”

  Gilmore put out a hand to stop him. With an effort, Hinkle didn’t flinch from the touch on his sleeve.

  “You’ll let me know how that investigation of yours turns out, won’t you, Marshal?” he asked.

  “Sure.” Hinkle swallowed. “Sure, I will.”

  “Fine. Good evenin’ to you.”

  Gilmore sauntered away along the boardwalk without looking back. Hinkle turned to watch him go. The marshal sleeved sweat from his forehead despite the fact that it wasn’t a particularly warm evening.

  Maybe it was time for him to leave Purgatory behind, he thought. He probably would have before now if i
t weren’t for certain arrangements he’d made. Because of that, he was sort of stuck here. He had to wait and see what was going to happen.

  And hope that he didn’t wind up dead first.

  * * *

  The Silver Spur wasn’t the only saloon in Purgatory, just the biggest and best. But there were several other places where a man could find a drink, a game of cards, or a woman, depending on what he wanted at the time. One of them was called Red Mike’s, after the Irishman who owned it. Smaller and more squalid than the Silver Spur, nonetheless it was still popular among the settlement’s more unsavory element.

  The Gilmore gang certainly fit into that category.

  Billy Ray Gilmore saw half a dozen of his men in the room when he came into Red Mike’s. Two of them were at a table playing dominoes, while the other four leaned on the bar, nursing mugs of beer. The man closest to the door noticed Gilmore and nudged his neighbor, who looked around and then passed on the news that the boss was here. When all four men were looking at him, Gilmore silently inclined his head toward the rear table where the other two outlaws sat.

  They drifted back to the table, carrying their drinks with them. Gilmore joined them. The table was big enough for all seven men, but just barely. Gilmore had to swipe a chair from a vacant table. He turned it around and straddled it as he sat down.

  “How are Duke and Sam doin’?” Junior Clemons asked. Junior was a big, jovial man who looked like somebody’s friendly cousin. He’d killed his first man at the age of twelve. Cut his throat while the unlucky gent was sleeping.

  “They’ll be all right, I expect,” Gilmore replied. “I’m pretty sure Duke will limp the rest of his life, and Sam may, too. But at least they’ll still be able to get around some.”

  “What about the marshal?” Jack Bayne asked. “Did he arrest the fella who shot ’em, like you talked about, Billy Ray?”

  Gilmore smiled ruefully and shook his head.

  “The marshal claims he’s gonna conduct a full investigation.” Gilmore waved a hand. “I never expected him to do anything about it. Mainly, I just wanted to see the look on his face when I asked him to, and I have to tell you, it was pretty amusing.”