Day of Rage

by William W. Johnstone

  “Maybe,” Morton said. “But come to think of it, we didn’t pay her. You ever know a whore to take off when you hadn’t crossed her palm with gold or silver?”

  “Well . . . no,” McCallum said. Their boots thudded on the hard-packed dirt of the alley as they came toward her. “Strike a match, Ben, so we can take a look around.”

  Della knew she couldn’t afford to wait any longer. If she could reach the street, she could probably give them the slip. And if she got back to the Silver Spur, she would be safe.

  She turned and dashed through the darkness toward the faint glow from the street that marked the end of the alley.

  Behind her, a match rasped to life and its harsh glare split the shadows. One of the outlaws yelled, “Hey! There she goes!” and the other one called out, “Stop her!”

  Guns crashed, and the roar of shots just made Della run faster, lifting her skirts so that her legs flashed back and forth in the gloom.

  She was about halfway to the street when something smashed into her with stunning impact.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  John Henry was just about to doze off when he heard the shots somewhere not far off. He lifted his head from the pillow and frowned.

  Of course, it wasn’t unusual to hear shooting in a frontier settlement, especially one where there were plenty of saloons. Men got liquored up, fell into some sort of argument, and settled it with six-guns. The results were sometimes tragic, but they weren’t uncommon.

  On the other hand, something about the brief flurry of shots he heard made John Henry’s instincts stir uneasily. He had no reason to believe that the outbreak of violence had anything to do with him, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up for a second anyway.

  The shooting stopped and wasn’t repeated. Whatever it was, it seemed to be over. John Henry settled back down and told himself to go on to sleep while he had the chance.

  Once again he had almost dozed off when a sound roused him. This time it wasn’t shots from somewhere else in Purgatory.

  It was a faint scratching on his own door.

  John Henry sat up quickly in bed, his hand reaching unerringly for the butt of the Colt, even in the dark. He pulled the revolver from the holster hanging on the bedpost as he swung his legs out of bed and stood up wearing only the bottom half of a pair of long underwear.

  Silently, his bare feet padded across the room to the door. The insistent scratching sound had stopped. John Henry leaned closer, putting his ear to the narrow gap between the door and the jamb.

  He knew he was taking a chance. Somebody might start shooting through the door, thinking that the little noise would be enough to intrigue him and make him come over here—and they would be right about that, of course—but he didn’t think that was going to happen.

  Instead, he heard what sounded like harsh, ragged breathing, and then a little moan.

  Somebody was hurt out there.

  The next instant he knew who it was, as a familiar voice whispered with obvious effort, “John . . . John Henry . . . please . . .”

  Even knowing it might still be a trap, knowing that the woman in the hall might be a Judas goat, he twisted the key in the lock and jerked the door open.

  Della fell into his arms.

  John Henry caught her, and as he wrapped an arm around her, he felt a warm, wet stickiness on her side. She was alone in the hall, and she was hurt.

  Picking her up was awkward with a gun in one hand, but he managed. She didn’t weigh much, or at least she didn’t seem to at this moment. He kicked the door closed and carried her to the bed. The likelihood of getting blood on the sheets never even crossed his mind as he gently placed her on the mattress.

  He set the gun on the little table next to the bed, found the tin of matches next to the lamp, and got it lit. As he lowered the glass chimney and the yellow glow of the flame filled the room, he saw how pale and drawn Della’s face was. She wore the same dress she’d had on earlier, but now there was a large, dark bloodstain on the left side of it.

  John Henry didn’t waste any time. He needed to know how badly she was hurt before he went to fetch a doctor. There might not be time for that much delay. He took hold of the dress with both hands and ripped it down the side, peeling it back to reveal the wound.

  So much blood had welled from the bullet hole that it was difficult to see how bad the injury really was. John Henry grabbed the sheet and swabbed away some of the gore.

  He felt a slight sense of relief when he realized that the slug hadn’t penetrated deeply into Della’s body. Instead, it had plowed a raw, ugly furrow that ran for several inches along her side. The wound was messy and she was weak and disoriented from losing so much blood, but he didn’t think she was in any danger of dying right away. The injury certainly needed medical attention, though.

  Della looked like she had passed out from the shock of the wound. John Henry started to turn away so he could get dressed and go find a sawbones for her.

  She surprised him by lifting a hand and clutching feebly at his arm. Her eyelids fluttered open as she husked, “J-John Henry . . .”

  He leaned over the bed and told her, “I’m right here, Della. You’re going to be all right. I’ll fetch a doctor—”

  “No!” The exclamation sounded urgent. “No . . . doctor . . . please.”

  “But you’re hurt,” he protested. “You’ve got a bullet wound in your side. That happened a few minutes ago, when I heard those shots, didn’t it?”

  “Can’t you . . . patch me up? I don’t want them to know . . . that I’m still alive.”

  John Henry started to ask whom she was talking about, who it was that had shot her. But right now that didn’t matter, he realized. Blood was still oozing from the gash in her side. It needed to be cleaned and bandaged as soon as possible.

  He tore a piece of fabric off the sheet and soaked it in the basin. Then as carefully as he could he wiped the blood away from the wound. He got another piece of the sheet and folded it into a pad. As he pressed it against the gash, he said, “Can you hold this in place? Press tight on it.”

  “I’ll . . . try,” Della said.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “John Henry . . . don’t . . . leave me.”

  “I’m just going down to the lobby. I won’t be gone more than a couple of minutes.”

  Clearly, she didn’t like the idea, but she said, “All right. H-hurry.”

  John Henry pulled on a pair of trousers and a shirt and stuck the Colt in his waistband. He locked the door behind him when he left. Della was worried that whoever had shot her might come after her, and John Henry didn’t want the bastard, or bastards, to find her.

  He hurried downstairs. The lobby was empty. The clerk, as usual, it seemed, was not behind the desk. John Henry went back there to look around on the shelves below the counter where the registration book lay.

  “Hey! What are you doing?”

  The startled question came from the clerk, who emerged from a hallway leading toward the rear of the hotel. He stopped short at the sight of John Henry behind the desk.

  “I’m looking for a bottle of whiskey,” John Henry said. He had glanced up when the clerk spoke, but now he went back to his search.

  “What makes you think I’d have any liquor back there?” the clerk asked. He tried to sound indignant and offended, but it didn’t go over too well since being around John Henry obviously made him nervous.

  John Henry reined in his impatience and said, “I imagine the nights get pretty long while you’re working. A little nip now and then might help you get through them.”

  “Well ...”

  “I’m not trying to get you in trouble with the owners. I just want that whiskey.”

  John Henry took a ten-dollar gold piece from his pocket and let it drop in the counter to reinforce the request.

  If that didn’t work, he might have to see if a closer look at the Colt would make the clerk more cooperative.

  He didn’t have to g
o that far. The clerk hurried behind the desk, shoved aside some boxes, and brought out a half-full bottle of amber-colored liquid.

  “It comes from Red Mike’s, so it’s not the best quality,” he said. “You can get better at the Silver Spur.”

  “No time for that.” John Henry took the bottle out of the clerk’s hand and turned toward the stairs.

  “Is ... is there trouble of some sort, Mr. Sixkiller?”

  “No trouble,” John Henry said curtly over his shoulder. He took the stairs two at a time.

  When he got back to his room, Della’s eyes were closed and the makeshift dressing had fallen away from the wound when her grip on it relaxed. For a second, he was afraid she had died, despite not seeming to be that seriously injured, but then he saw her chest rising and falling and the flutter of a pulse beat in her soft throat. She had passed out or possibly even gone to sleep.

  She might be better off if she’d passed out. If she was just asleep, the fiery bite of the whiskey on her raw flesh would wake her up.

  He wiped away the blood that had seeped out while he was gone, then soaked another rag in the whiskey and used it to clean deep in the wound. Della gasped and arched her back, but her eyes remained closed.

  John Henry cleaned the wound thoroughly, then fashioned another dressing and bound it tightly in place with strips of cloth cut from the sheet. When this assignment was over, he would have to see to it that Judge Parker reimbursed the hotel for the damage he was doing. It was more important to save Della’s life than to save a few pennies, though.

  When he was finished, she let out a little moan and stirred. Her eyes opened again. After a moment, she focused on him and said, “Wha . . . what happened?”

  “I’m hoping you can tell me,” John Henry said as he pulled one of the chairs over to the bed and sat down on it so he could lean close to her. “Somebody shot you. Do you know who it was?”

  She lifted her head enough to look down at herself.

  “I’m . . . practically . . . naked.”

  “Modesty had to take a backseat to patching you up,” John Henry told her. He pulled what was left of the sheet over her.

  “You didn’t . . . bring a doctor up here . . . did you?”

  “Nobody knows that you’re here except me,” he assured her. “Unless somebody saw you coming in.”

  She shook her head.

  “No, I was . . . careful. I came up . . . the back stairs. I was afraid . . . I might pass out . . . before I got here . . . but I was determined . . . to hang on.”

  “You made it, all right. Now tell me what happened?”

  She licked her lips and asked, “Can I get . . . something to drink first?”

  “Water or whiskey?”

  “Better make it . . . whiskey.”

  The bottle was still about a fourth full. John Henry slipped a hand behind Della’s head and lifted it enough for him to tip the bottle to her lips. She took a small swallow from it and shuddered.

  “That’s not from . . . the Silver Spur . . . is it?”

  John Henry had to smile.

  “No, I got it from the clerk downstairs, and he said it came from a place called Red Mike’s.”

  “I’m not . . . surprised. Royal wouldn’t . . . serve swill like that.”

  John Henry took a swig from the bottle and made a face.

  “You’re right,” he said. “It’s not very good.”

  “But it’s . . . booze. Gimme another.”

  John Henry let her drink, then set the bottle aside. Her color looked a little better now, he thought.

  He eased her head back down on the pillow. She looked at him and said, “You know . . . this is one hell of a way . . . to finally get you to put me in your bed.”

  That brought an outright laugh from John Henry. He pushed her honey-blond hair back from her sweaty forehead and said, “You need to tell me what happened now. I want to know the name of the varmint I have to hunt down, so I can settle the score for what he did to you.”

  Della’s expression grew serious again.

  “There were two of them,” she said, “and it shouldn’t be . . . too hard for you to find them, John Henry. They’re your . . . partners.”

  He frowned and asked, “What are you talking about?”

  “Their names are . . . Morton and McCallum. They’re part of Billy Ray Gilmore’s gang.” She lifted a hand and clutched at his arm again. “But you have to be careful, John Henry. Once you’ve . . . stolen the gold . . . they plan to double-cross you and put a bullet in your back!”

  Chapter Thirty

  John Henry couldn’t help but stare at her for a moment in surprise. Somehow she had found out a lot in a hurry. He was convinced that when she left here earlier, she hadn’t known a thing about his connection to Gilmore’s gang.

  He asked himself if he should tell her that it was all a sham, maybe even reveal his true identity as a deputy U.S. marshal. No, not yet, he decided. At least not until he had more of the story from her.

  “Go on,” he urged. “Tell me what happened after you left here.”

  “You mean after you kicked me out . . . in favor of that brown-haired witch?”

  “She left right after you did,” John Henry told her. “I don’t care what she said, there’s nothing going on between us.”

  “But you know her.” Della’s eyes widened. “Is she part of the plan . . . to steal the gold, too?”

  “I’ll get to all that,” John Henry promised.

  “Men,” Della said with a sigh. “You always want what you want . . . when you want it.”

  He smiled and said, “I’ll tell you all about it, but I want to hear your story first.”

  “All right . . . I ran into Morton and McCallum outside Red Mike’s . . . on my way back to the Silver Spur. They wanted to have some fun, and I’m . . . a sporting girl . . . so I told them to come to the Silver Spur with me. But they didn’t want to. They wanted to . . . take me in the alley right there.”

  John Henry’s jaw tightened with anger.

  “I don’t even know these hombres, and I don’t like ’em,” he said.

  “You don’t know . . . all the members of the gang?”

  “My arrangement is with Gilmore himself,” John Henry admitted. He would give her that much if it kept her talking.

  “Well, you haven’t missed much . . . by not knowing those two. They’re sorry bastards. Morton grabbed me . . . and dragged me into the alley. They . . . took what they wanted.”

  “They’ll pay for that,” John Henry promised.

  That made Della laugh.

  “They sure as hell . . . didn’t pay me,” she said. “When they were finished . . . they wandered off to have a smoke . . . and that’s when they started talking about the gold . . . and about you working with the gang. They said . . . you’re going to be the inside man at the bank. Is that . . . true, John Henry?”

  “It’s true,” he told her, his face and voice grim. He didn’t like the idea of her believing that he was an outlaw, but for now she didn’t really need to know the truth. She might even be better off if she didn’t.

  “Well, I don’t guess I can . . . blame you,” she said. “Seventy-five thousand dollars is an awful lot of money. If I was a man . . . I might be trying for a share of it, too.”

  “Why did those two varmints start shooting at you?”

  “Because they realized . . . I had overheard what they were saying. Gilmore warned them . . . not to talk about it. I guess they thought . . . if they killed me . . . he’d never have to know.” Della’s mouth twisted bitterly. “After all . . . who’d give a damn about a dead whore?”

  John Henry stroked her forehead again.

  “I’m glad they didn’t kill you, that’s for sure,” he said. “How did you get away from them?”

  “I was hit . . . but I managed to stay on my feet and keep running. I made it to the street ahead of them . . . but I knew they’d catch up if I tried to outrun them . . . all the way to the Silver Spur. So
I ducked down . . . the next alley . . . and hid. Got behind . . . a rain barrel . . . and prayed they wouldn’t find me.” Della laughed softly. “Guess that’s pretty funny . . . somebody like me . . . praying.”

  “Not funny at all,” John Henry said quietly. “And since you’re here, I’d say it’s likely Somebody heard those prayers.”

  “I . . . hope so. Anyway, I heard them . . . looking around. One of them even came into the alley where I was hiding . . . but he didn’t see me in the dark. I held my breath . . . until he was gone. It was hard not to cry . . . because my side hurt so bad . . . but I didn’t.”

  “I’m proud of you,” John Henry told her.

  “When they were gone . . . I decided to come here. I had to warn you . . . about what they were planning. I stayed in the shadows . . . came up the back stairs like I told you . . . but when I got here . . . I was too weak to knock. So I just . . . scratched at the door . . . and hoped you would hear. . . .”

  She had started to look pale and weak again. Talking so much had worn her out, John Henry knew. He gave her another sip of the whiskey and told her, “You should rest now. That wound’s not too bad. You just need to take it easy and let it heal.”

  “John Henry.” She made an obvious effort to talk. “John Henry, if they think I got away, they’ll know I might tell you about the double cross. They might . . . go ahead and kill you. We’ve got to . . . make them believe I’m dead.”

  John Henry thought about what she said and realized she was right. He said, “Can we trust Bouchard?”

  “I do. For a saloon keeper . . . he’s a good man. And I think he . . . likes me.”

  “All right. I’ll talk to him. We’ll figure something out.”

  “That sounds good.” She moved a hand, and he took hold of it in both of his hands. “Thank you . . . for saving my life.”

  “Thank you for saving mine,” he told her, even though he never would have trusted Billy Ray Gilmore, even without her warning, and would have been ready for a double cross. It was good to have those suspicions confirmed, though.

  “This is . . . the worst damn timing in the world.”