Day of Rage

by William W. Johnstone

  “That wasn’t exactly my intention.”

  “Our intentions in life usually have very little to do with what actually happens.”

  “That’s true,” John Henry said. “I doubt if you wanted to discuss philosophy with me, though, Mr. True.”

  “No, I’m here to talk about gold,” True said. “Specifically, the shipment that will be held in the bank here for Wells Fargo in a few days’ time. I spoke to Joe Cravens a short time ago, and he told me that he’s hired you to help guard that gold.”

  John Henry nodded and said, “That’s right. We came to that agreement.”

  “Cravens should have consulted with me and the other mine owners before he offered you that job,” True said with anger in his voice.

  “I guess he figured that it’s his bank.”

  “Yes, but it’s our gold. And we don’t know you, Sixkiller. We don’t know you from Adam. All we know for sure is that you’re fast with a gun.”

  “And reasonably accurate with it, too,” John Henry said with a faint smile, “since I’m still alive and two other fellas aren’t.”

  “I don’t hold with bragging about killing,” True snapped.

  “I’m not bragging, just stating a fact.” John Henry paused, then said, “Look, I understand your reservations, Mr. True. Like you said, you don’t know me. You don’t have any reason to trust me. But look at it this way: I’m going to be inside the bank, and all those guards you and your friends have hired will be outside. I’ve seen the safe where the gold’s going to be stored. I can’t carry it off. I couldn’t budge it. And if I got it open, I couldn’t carry but a small fraction of the bullion inside it.”

  “I suppose that’s true. But I still don’t like it.”

  “You and the other mine owners are going in together to hire guards to bring the gold down from the mountains, right?”

  True grimaced and said, “Did Cravens tell you everything about our plans?” He waved off the question before John Henry could answer it. “Yes, we’re hiring guards, as many of them as we can. Good, tough men.”

  “Do you know each and every one of them?”

  True hesitated for a second before replying, “Well . . . no. Some of them were recommended by guards that we’ve used in the past.”

  “So you have to trust them.”

  “I suppose you could look at it like that.”

  “Mr. Cravens trusts me,” John Henry said.

  “Only because you saved him from two of Billy Ray Gilmore’s ruffians!”

  “It’s as good a reason as any, I guess.”

  True frowned at John Henry for a long moment before he said, “Very well. You make a good point. But you should be fully aware of this, Mr. Sixkiller . . . if you double-cross us and cause us to lose that gold, I’ll have you hunted down and brought to justice if it takes every penny I have.”

  “Fair enough,” John Henry said. “When’s the gold coming down?”

  True didn’t answer right away. John Henry began to think that he wasn’t going to. But finally, Jason True said, “The day after tomorrow.”

  John Henry couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice as he said, “That soon.”

  “Yes. We’ll be ready to put our plan into operation by then. We’ll start early in the morning, and it’ll take all day to get the bullion from all three mines into the bank. Wells Fargo will have armored wagons here the next morning to pick it up and transport it to Lordsburg under heavy guard.”

  “So the bank will have to keep it safe overnight.”

  “That’s right.”

  John Henry scratched at his jaw and frowned in thought.

  “What’s to stop Gilmore from hitting the bank during the day, after the first shipment gets here? That would still be a big haul for him and his gang.”

  “Not as big as if he waited until all three shipments are there. But of course, there’s no way to be sure how the mind of a bandit is going to work.”

  “And your guards are going to be busy taking care of the other two shipments,” John Henry mused. “That would be a good time to hit the bank.”

  “We’ll have some men on hand during the day,” True said. “And there’s you.”

  John Henry chuckled.

  “Yeah. There’s me.”

  True leaned back in the armchair and regarded him with an intent gaze for several seconds.

  “You seem sincere,” the mine owner finally admitted. “Perhaps you really are an honest man.”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  John Henry knew he could set True’s mind at ease and erase all the man’s suspicions instantly if he just revealed that he’d been sent here by Judge Parker in answer to True’s request for help. But so far no one in Purgatory knew who he really was, and John Henry wanted to keep it that way. His ability to play the different factions against each other, if that’s what he wound up needing to do, depended on his real purpose here remaining a secret.

  Jason True stood up and said, “Just remember what I said about having you hunted down if you betray us. I meant every word of it.”

  “I imagine you mean just about everything you say,” John Henry replied as he got to his feet as well.

  For the first time, a hint of a smile appeared on True’s face. He extended his hand and said, “I certainly do.”

  John Henry grasped the mine owner’s hand. True gave him a firm shake and a nod, and then left the room.

  John Henry waited a moment and then followed him out. Quite a few furtive looks were sent in his direction. People knew he had been in that room talking to one of the richest, most powerful men in these parts, and naturally they were curious about what had gone on between them.

  Bouchard waved John Henry over to the saloon keeper’s private table. He asked, “You and Mr. True get everything hashed out?”

  “Maybe,” John Henry said. “I got the feeling he thought I might be an outlaw who’s after his gold.”

  “Well, you could be,” Bouchard said with a grin. “None of us around here really know any better, do we?”

  “I reckon that’s right. But don’t I have a trustworthy face?”

  “Shakespeare said that a man can smile and smile, and still be a villain,” Bouchard pointed out. “In fact, there’s a good example of that coming in right now.”

  John Henry glanced at the entrance and saw Billy Ray Gilmore pushing his way through the bat wings.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  According to what Della had said earlier about when the outlaws usually showed up, Gilmore was early today. The slightly-built boss outlaw crossed to the bar, seemingly oblivious to the frightened looks that some of the saloon’s other customers gave him as they moved quickly out of his way. John Henry was willing to bet that Gilmore noticed the reactions, though, whether he appeared to or not.

  He had a hunch that Billy Ray Gilmore didn’t miss much.

  John Henry started to stand up. Bouchard said, “There’s not going to be any gunplay in here, is there?”

  “I sure hope not,” John Henry said. “But I reckon nothing in life is guaranteed, is it?”

  Bouchard made a face, and his teeth clamped harder on the cigar clenched between them.

  John Henry walked toward the bar. People didn’t react quite as skittishly to him as they had toward Gilmore, but they still got out of his way without wasting any time.

  As John Henry moved up to the bar next to Gilmore, Meade sidled slowly toward them on the other side of the hardwood. The bartender like looked like he would have rather been just about anywhere else right now.

  “What can I get you, Mr. Gilmore?” Meade asked after he swallowed hard.

  “It’s a little early in the day for whiskey,” Gilmore replied. “Reckon I’ll just have a beer.”

  “Same here,” John Henry said.

  Gilmore turned his head to look over at him.

  “I don’t recall askin’ you to have a drink with me, Sixkiller.”

  “I don’t want to intrude,” John H
enry said, “but I thought it might be a good idea if you and I had a talk.”

  “I can’t think of anything I’ve got to say to you.”

  “Are you sure about that? I have an idea that you and I could do each other some good.”

  Gilmore cocked one eyebrow in a surprised, quizzical expression.

  “Is that so?” he murmured. “I don’t see how. You killed two of my friends last night.”

  “Did you send them after me?” John Henry asked. “Or just not get in their way?”

  Meade set the two mugs of beer he had filled on the bar in front of John Henry and Gilmore. He opened his mouth to say, “That’ll be—” then thought better of it, muttering instead, “Oh, the hell with it.”

  Gilmore didn’t answer the question John Henry had asked. He picked up his beer and took a sip of it. Then he said, “You’re either a mighty brave man or a damned fool, Sixkiller.”

  “You’re not the first person to make that observation. To tell you the truth, the same thought has crossed my mind from time to time.”

  “And what did you decide?”

  John Henry grinned and said, “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  That brought a grudging chuckle from Gilmore. He said, “Right now let’s say you’re a brave man and reserve judgment on the other. What is it you want from me?”

  “Like I said, we can do each other some good.”

  “How so?”

  “You don’t want to keep losing friends, and I don’t want to have to keep on killing them.”

  “Things might work out different next time.”

  “They might,” John Henry admitted. “But do you want to take a chance on that right now?” He lowered his voice. “Especially when you’ve got such a big job coming up?”

  Something flickered in Gilmore’s eyes. Not surprise, really, just a tiny reaction to show that he was off balance for a second. He recovered quickly, though, and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  John Henry took a sip of his beer and said, “I think you do. No point in us not being straight with each other, Billy Ray. You’re after the same thing that brought me to Purgatory.”

  And that wasn’t a lie, now was it, John Henry thought.

  He went on, “I don’t see any point in the two of us working against each other when we could be working together.”

  “I don’t know you,” Gilmore said. “I never even heard of you until you showed up here and started causin’ trouble for me.”

  “Maybe not, but you’ve got eyes. You’ve seen for yourself what I can do. You’d be smart to take advantage of that, wouldn’t you?”

  Gilmore didn’t say anything. John Henry couldn’t tell if the outlaw was thinking about what he had said, or if Gilmore was just so surprised by the offer of a partnership that he didn’t know what to say.

  After several moments, Gilmore took another long swallow of beer and lowered the mug.

  “We’ll talk again tonight,” he said. “But not here. We need more privacy. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, you know.”

  “Name the place,” John Henry said, well aware that he might be cooperating in an attempt to set up a trap for him. He had to run that risk. He couldn’t play the cards in this game as close to the vest as he had when he was playing poker earlier.

  “The livery stable. Eight o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Fine.” Gilmore drained the rest of the beer and set the empty mug on the bar with an emphatic thump. He turned and walked out of the saloon without looking back. No one who watched him go could have guessed from his demeanor that he and John Henry had discussed working together.

  John Henry returned to the table where Bouchard sat. The saloon owner said, “Looked like that didn’t work out too well. I didn’t figure it would. But I guess you’re no worse off than you were to start with.”

  “I reckon we’ll find out,” John Henry said.

  * * *

  After remaining a short time longer at the Silver Spur, he returned to the hotel and had dinner in the dining room. For once the redheaded waitress wasn’t there. A pleasant, middle-aged woman took his order and brought him his food instead: fried chicken, potatoes, greens, apple pie for dessert. After he’d eaten, he lingered over a second cup of coffee, knowing that he was in no hurry. It was a good meal.

  John Henry hoped it wouldn’t be his last.

  After eating, he went back upstairs. He cleaned and oiled his Colt, then took a sheathed knife from his gear and slipped it down inside the top of his boot. His Winchester was leaning in the corner, but he left it there. If there was gun work to be done inside the stable, it would be at close range, too close for the rifle to be very effective.

  When he checked his pocket watch and saw that it was time to go, he put his hat on and set it at just the right angle on his head. He went downstairs and nodded to the clerk as he crossed the lobby. When he stepped out onto the boardwalk, he saw that Purgatory was fairly quiet tonight. A few people strolled here and there, a wagon drawn by a team of tired, droopy-eared mules creaked along the street, and a couple of men on horseback rode up to the Silver Spur and dismounted, leaving their horses at the crowded hitch rack.

  John Henry turned the other way and walked toward the stable. As far as he could tell, no one was paying any attention to him, but there could be watchers hidden in the darkness, keeping track of his activities.

  There could be gunmen as well, drawing a bead on him at that very moment. He tried to look like he didn’t have a care in the world but, inside, his nerves were taut and all his senses were on alert. At the first sign of an ambush, he would have to react instantly.

  Nothing happened, though, as he walked the couple of blocks to Patterson’s Livery Stable and Wagonyard. The double doors on the front of the big barn stood open. A lantern burned inside, casting a flickering yellow glow.

  John Henry knew he would be an excellent target when he stepped through the door. He was still several businesses away from the stable when he suddenly slid into a dark, narrow passage between two buildings.

  The shadows here were so thick that he couldn’t see more than a foot in front of his face . . . but that meant nobody could see him, either. He kept his right hand on the butt of his gun and the fingertips of his left hand against the wall of the building on that side as he moved silently through the darkness.

  When he reached the rear corner, he stopped and listened intently. It was very quiet back here with the businesses closed down for the night. The only sounds were the ones that drifted down the narrow passage from the street.

  When he was confident that no one was waiting back here to bushwhack him, John Henry rounded the corner and catfooted along the alley behind the buildings. A minute later, he came to the back of the livery stable. Double doors back here led into a corral, but they were closed at the moment.

  Half a dozen horses stood in the corral, dozing. They stirred a little as John Henry bent and slipped through a gap between the poles. He spoke to them in whispers, calming them as he made his way to the stable.

  The doors had a narrow gap between them, even when they were closed. John Henry put his eye to it and peered into the barn. He couldn’t see much, just a slice of the center aisle between the stalls that was lit by the lantern’s glow.

  He sniffed, smelling the familiar mixture of straw, manure, and horseflesh that could be found in any stable. Blended with it was the scent of tobacco smoke. That didn’t mean anything; the hostler could have been smoking in there, although men who worked in stables tended not to because of all the dry straw scattered around. A carelessly dropped quirly could cause a catastrophe.

  John Henry smelled something else, though, that warned him.

  Unwashed human flesh. The source had to be close, too, for the smell to be that strong.

  Someone coughed, right on the other side of the door.

  A faint smile tugged at the corners of John Henry’s mouth. He drew his gun and took off
his hat. A couple of waves with the hat stirred up the horses again. They began moving around, their hooves thudding against the hard-packed ground.

  The man on the other side of the doors called softly, “Hey, Billy Ray, something’s got those horses in the corral spooked!”

  “It’s probably nothin’,” Gilmore replied from somewhere else in the barn, his voice faint through the doors. “Better go check it out, though, Rankin.”

  John Henry heard the man called Rankin mutter a curse, then there was a scraping sound as he moved the bar on the inside of the doors. John Henry moved to the side as one of the doors swung out a little.

  The dark shape of the outlaw moved into sight. John Henry waited, silent as the grave, while Rankin stood there just outside the doors, looking around the corral. There was nothing to see except the skittish horses. Rankin took another step forward. In the light that spilled through the opening, John Henry saw that the man held a rifle slanted across his chest.

  When John Henry made his move, it was fast. His left arm went around Rankin’s throat from behind and closed on it like a bar of iron, so tightly that the outlaw couldn’t let out even a squeak. At the same time John Henry reversed the Colt in his right hand and struck with it, crashing the butt against the back of Rankin’s head, low enough so that the man’s hat wouldn’t cushion the blow. Rankin went limp and dropped the rifle. John Henry held his breath as the weapon fell, hoping that the jarring of its fall wouldn’t cause it to discharge.

  The rifle thudded harmlessly to the ground.

  John Henry dragged Rankin’s unconscious form to the side, out of the light. The whole thing had been so quick, he doubted that anyone inside had noticed. If they had seen any movement, they wouldn’t have been able to tell what was going on. John Henry lowered Rankin to the ground, not bothering to be careful about the piles of horse manure scattered around. The outlaw already smelled like he hadn’t had a bath in a month of Sundays, and he could wake up stinking even worse for all John Henry cared. He reached down, pulled Rankin’s handgun from its holster, and tossed it off into the darkness.

  Then he stepped back to the doors in time to hear Gilmore call, “Rankin, you see anything back there? Rankin?”