Day of Rage

by William W. Johnstone

  He had paid attention to the time it was when the wagons left after delivering the load from the San Francisco and when they got back with the bullion from El Halcón. He asked True and Goodman, “Is Lacey’s mine closer to the settlement or farther from it than yours?”

  “It’s the farthest of the three, a couple of miles farther from town than mine,” Goodman answered. “Why?”

  “Just trying to figure out how long it’s going to take for the wagons to get back.”

  True took out his pocket watch, flipped it open, and said, “They ought to be back here by five o’clock.”

  “The shank of the afternoon,” John Henry mused.

  “Why is that important?” Goodman wanted to know. Clearly, he was still suspicious of John Henry.

  “Just curious,” John Henry said. He was going to wait as long as he could before springing the truth on them, even though he had decided that the guard who was in Gilmore’s pay probably wasn’t here in the bank. Gilmore’s plan called for him to eliminate all the guards inside the building, which would have put the spy at risk. More than likely the man was outside, where he could abandon his post and scurry for cover as soon as the shooting started.

  Time dragged by. Cravens mopped his sweating face and asked, “What if they don’t show up? What if Gilmore decided it’s too risky and he isn’t even going to make a try for the gold?”

  “Then we’ll count our blessings,” True said. “I can’t bring myself to believe that’s the case, though.”

  “Neither can I,” Goodman said. “They’ll be here. It’s just a matter of when.”

  John Henry knew the when, or at least thought he did. He kept checking his watch, and so did the other men.

  At a quarter to five, he approached True, Goodman, and Cravens, who were standing together near the front windows, watching the street for the arrival of the wagons.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” John Henry said.

  Goodman instantly looked suspicious again. He said, “I knew it. You’re double-crossing us.”

  “Not exactly.” John Henry slipped a hand inside his coat. The three men tensed, no doubt thinking he was about to draw some sort of weapon.

  Instead he brought out a leather folder and flipped it open. On one side was pinned his badge, and the other held the card identifying him as a deputy United States marshal.

  “A lawman!” Cravens exclaimed. “Good Lord! All this time you’ve been a lawman?”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Goodman said stubbornly. “Anybody can have a badge and a piece of paper.”

  “But only somebody who really is who he says he is would know about that letter you wrote to Judge Parker in Fort Smith, Mr. True,” John Henry said.

  “Letter?” Goodman said. “What letter?”

  A look of mingled surprise and relief was on True’s stern face. He asked John Henry, “You work for Isaac?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  True looked at the other mine owner and the banker and said, “I was worried that our preparations wouldn’t be enough, so I wrote an old friend of mine who’s a federal judge and asked if he could send someone to help us.” He frowned at John Henry. “Of course, I expected more than one man, and I didn’t expect the man who showed up to masquerade as a gunslinger!”

  “I reckon I’m the only one the judge could spare right now,” John Henry drawled, “and as far as acting like a gunslinger, that allowed me to partner up with Gilmore.”

  “You . . . you . . .” Goodman sputtered. His eyes were practically bulging from their sockets.

  John Henry held up a hand and said, “Hold on. You’ll bust a vein, Mr. Goodman. I should have said, that allowed me to pretend to partner up with Gilmore. He thinks I’m going to double-cross you fellas and kill the guards in here when he and his gang attack the rest of the guards outside, as soon as the wagons get here with the last of the bullion.”

  “He told you this?” True asked shrewdly. “He let you in on his plans?”

  “That’s right. And having him reveal that was my plan.”

  “They’re attacking as soon as the wagons get here with the third load?” Cravens said. “We’ve got to do something. That could be any minute now!”

  “I know,” John Henry said. “That’s why I want you to let me out the back door, then lock it and bar it behind me.”

  “You’re running out on us?” Goodman asked.

  “No, I just need to get outside where I can move around easier. Plus I’ve put together a little welcome for Gilmore.”

  Cravens said, “I don’t know about any of this—”

  “Do what Sixkiller says, Joe,” True snapped. “If he works for Isaac Parker, I have complete faith in him.”

  “He’s been fooling us all along,” Goodman protested. “How do we know we can trust him now?”

  “What other choice do we have?”

  The other two men didn’t have an answer for that. Cravens said, “All right, Mr. Sixkiller, I’ll let you out the back. I guess you weren’t ever really working for me, were you?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mayor, but we’re after the same thing: protecting that gold and putting a stop to the threat of Billy Ray Gilmore and his gang.”

  Cravens led John Henry to the back door. John Henry removed the bar, and Cravens unlocked the door. John Henry slipped out into the alley behind the bank. The ladder was right where he had left it that morning. He climbed to the roof while Cravens relocked the door and replaced the bar across it.

  A short wall surrounded the flat roof. The things John Henry had placed beside that wall at the front of the building were still there, too. Staying low again because he didn’t want to be spotted, he hurried over to them and knelt there to unwrap them from the burial shroud.

  The bow he pulled out of the cloth was a crude one, nothing like the bows his father’s people made back in Indian Territory. Cy Shuster had fashioned it in his carpentry shop, turning a length of supple wood on a lathe to round it, then stringing it with cord instead of animal gut. The half-dozen “arrows” John Henry unwrapped were actually just short lengths of wooden poles notched to fit the cord. They didn’t have any fletching, so accuracy might be a problem, but luckily they wouldn’t have to go very far.

  John Henry reached into the canvas sack that held his purchases from the general store. He used twine he had bought to lash a single stick of dynamite to each of the makeshift arrows. To each stick of dynamite he attached a blasting cap and a short fuse. He set them down, lining them up in a row within easy reach.

  Now it was just a matter of waiting for the right time to use them.

  He didn’t have to wait for very long. The sound of wagon wheels came to his ears. He took off his hat and lifted his head enough to look along the street.

  The wagons were on their way. He could see them entering the edge of town, along with the guards riding around them.

  John Henry watched as the wagons came closer and closer. One of the men riding in front of the lead wagon wore an expensive suit and hat, and a watch chain glittered where it looped across his vest. John Henry recognized the man he had seen having dinner with True and Goodman a few nights earlier and knew he had to be Dan Lacey, owner of the Bonita mine. The third load of bullion was here.

  Below John Henry, the front door of the bank opened. The wagons came to a halt, and the riders reined in. Jason True stepped out onto the boardwalk and called urgently, “Lacey! Get inside the building! Hurry!”

  Lacey hesitated, looking confused. He said, “Jason, what’s wrong?”

  The answer to that question came in the form of hoofbeats as a large group of horsemen surged around a corner two blocks away. John Henry saw Billy Ray Gilmore in the lead. He was shocked to realize that the gang was even larger than he’d expected. At least two dozen men were with Gilmore, maybe more than that.

  That ought to make things more interesting, John Henry thought as he took the cigar he had gotten from Bouchard out of his pocket, put it in
his mouth, and lit it.

  Down below, men yelled in alarm and scattered for cover as the outlaws opened fire and charged toward the wagons.

  John Henry picked up the closest dynamite arrow and puffed on the cigar, making the tip glow red. He held the fuse to the coal and saw sparks as it sputtered to life.

  Then he stood up, drew back the bow, and yelled, “Bank’s closed!” around the cigar.

  He let the arrow fly.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The arrow didn’t travel quite as far as John Henry hoped it would, landing well in front of the onrushing outlaws. He had cut the fuse the correct length, though, because the explosive detonated at almost the exact same instant it hit the ground, throwing dirt high in the air and causing a cloud of dust to billow up.

  By that time, John Henry had adjusted his aim and had two more of the arrows arcing through the air. Gilmore’s men were trying to slow their charge, but momentum carried them forward so that those two sticks of dynamite exploded among them. The blasts shredded man and horseflesh alike and blew several of the would-be gold robbers right out of their saddles.

  John Henry didn’t slow down his barrage. As the gang scattered, he raised the angle of his shots even more and rained down death and destruction through the swirling clouds of dust. Firing all six arrows had taken less than a minute, and during that time the street had been plunged into chaos.

  He spat out the cigar, turned, and ran to the back of the bank building. As quick as he could, he climbed down the ladder, leaping off of it when he was still a few feet from the ground. He landed running and darted around the corner to head for the street.

  The outlaws were demoralized and disoriented by John Henry’s explosive counterattack, but the ones who were still alive weren’t giving up, not with the lure of $75,000 in gold bullion to keep them fighting. Shots roared as the men who were still mounted veered around the bloody craters in the street and continued their charge toward the bank.

  John Henry saw that when he reached the front of the building. He had drawn his Colt as he ran along the alley. It bucked against his palm as he fired and knocked one of the outlaws out of the saddle. The man hit the dirt and rolled over several times before he came to a stop on his back with his arms outflung and blood welling from the hole John Henry’s bullet had left in his chest.

  John Henry crouched as a slug whined over his head. He shifted his aim and pulled the trigger again. This shot wasn’t quite as accurate. Instead of boring through its target’s heart, the bullet shattered the outlaw’s left shoulder. That was enough to make him slew around sideways in the saddle and drop his gun. A second later, before the outlaw could recover, one of the guards at the bank blew his brains out with a Winchester.

  A furious bellow from the side made John Henry twist around. He saw the giant outlaw Rankin, the brute he had battled in the livery stable to earn entrance to the gang, leave his horse in a diving tackle. John Henry didn’t have time to get out of the way before Rankin crashed into him and drove him off his feet.

  The impact was so stunning that John Henry blacked out for a second. He came to with Rankin on top of him. The big man’s weight kept him from drawing breath, and the force with which he had landed had driven all the air from John Henry’s lungs.

  Some instinct, though, had enabled John Henry to hang on to his gun. He still clutched the Colt in his right hand. He brought it up and smashed it against Rankin’s head just above the big man’s ear. That drove Rankin to the side and allowed John Henry to roll in the other direction. His chest heaved as he gulped down a deep breath.

  While John Henry was doing that, Rankin scrambled back to his feet first. John Henry tried to swing up the revolver, but Rankin’s foot lashed out in a kick that connected with John Henry’s wrist. John Henry yelled in pain as the Colt flew from his grip.

  Rankin pulled a massive bowie knife from a sheath at his hip and roared, “I’m gonna cut you into little pieces, you son of a bitch!” He raised the knife high and lunged at John Henry.

  Rankin’s head jerked before the slashing blow could fall. His face blew apart as a heavy slug crashed through his head from behind. Blood and brain matter sprayed over John Henry, who still had to throw himself aside quickly to avoid being crushed by Rankin’s toppling body. That knife still represented a threat, too.

  John Henry neatly avoided that danger and leaped to his feet. His first thought was that one of the guards at the bank had shot Rankin, but suddenly he realized that the angle was wrong for that. The shot had come from somewhere else, most likely across the street. He looked toward the Barrymore House and saw a curtain flutter in one of the hotel’s second-floor windows.

  Whoever was up there had quite possibly saved his life. John Henry lifted his left hand in a wave of thanks as he reached down with his right to scoop up his Colt. He didn’t linger.

  There were still outlaws to battle . . . and he didn’t know if Billy Ray Gilmore was dead or alive.

  He felt the wind-rip of a bullet past his ear and whirled to see one of the gang charging him. John Henry’s return shot punched into the man’s chest and made him rock back in the saddle. The man didn’t fall, but he was only half conscious and bleeding badly as he galloped past.

  “Sixkiller, you son of a bitch! You double-crossed me!”

  John Henry heard that strident shout over the roar of shots and the thundering hoofbeats. He recognized Billy Ray Gilmore’s voice and searched for the boss outlaw in the roiling clouds of dust and powdersmoke. A spurt of muzzle flame guided him. Gilmore’s bullet sang over his head.

  John Henry triggered a couple of shots, and then his hammer fell on an empty chamber. Twisting aside as another slug sizzled past his ear, he darted into the scanty cover of the building’s corner and reached for the cartridge loops on his gun belt.

  As he reloaded with the ease of long practice, he risked a glance around the corner, not needing to see what he was doing as he thumbed fresh rounds into the Colt’s cylinder. He spotted Gilmore right away.

  The outlaw had been unhorsed in the chaos and confusion. He had lost his hat, too, and his thick dark hair was wildly askew. He ran toward a riderless horse, obviously intending to swing up into the saddle and make a getaway.

  John Henry burst from cover and went after Gilmore. He snapped a shot at the fleeing man, who was moving so fast that John Henry knew his earlier shots had missed. Gilmore twisted as he ran and flung a couple of rounds at John Henry, who had to dive to the ground as the bullets cut through the air just above him.

  That gave Gilmore enough time to reach the horse, which was dancing around skittishly, and seize the reins. He brought the animal under control and grabbed the saddlehorn. A vault put him into the saddle, where he leaned far forward over the horse’s neck as he kicked the animal into a gallop.

  Gilmore headed for the edge of town, leaving his surviving men behind him. Obviously, his hide was worth more to him than the rapidly fading chances of him getting his hands on any of that bullion.

  Gilmore was already too far away for John Henry to waste a shot with his Colt. He ought to just let the outlaw go, he told himself. After all, Judge Parker had sent him here to protect the gold, and clearly Gilmore’s plans to steal it were wrecked.

  John Henry knew that . . . but he grabbed the reins of another riderless horse anyway and leaped into the saddle. Leaving things unfinished went against the grain for him. He sent the horse lunging after Gilmore.

  Purgatory fell behind the two men as the shooting began to dwindle. John Henry wouldn’t have left if he hadn’t seen that Gilmore’s gang was practically wiped out and no longer a real threat.

  Gilmore headed west out of town, toward the mountains. He was following the same road the wagons had used to bring the gold down from the mines. The road quickly began to slant upward, and John Henry felt the horse laboring underneath him.

  Gilmore’s mount was struggling, too, though. As his horse slowed, he twisted in the saddle to look behind him. John Henry
saw a couple of jets of flame and smoke as Gilmore fired down at him. The shots didn’t come anywhere close. They struck rock and whined off harmlessly into the distance.

  John Henry holstered his Colt. The hurricane deck of a galloping horse was no place for accurate shooting. Let Gilmore waste bullets if he wanted to.

  John Henry didn’t know if his mount was fresher or just stronger to start with or both, but he began to cut into Gilmore’s lead. Gilmore slammed his heels against his horse’s sides and slashed at the animal’s head with the reins, but the animal could only go so fast, especially uphill like this. John Henry continued to close in.

  They had actually climbed quite a bit, he saw when he glanced to his left. The ground fell away from the road at a steep slant, dropping seventy or eighty feet to a point where it leveled off. That drop continued to increase slowly.

  Gilmore kept shooting. He emptied his revolver, but none of the bullets came close enough to worry John Henry. He saw Gilmore jam the iron back into its holster, then lean forward to concentrate on his riding.

  The road took a bend up ahead. Gilmore had to slow down for that. John Henry closed in even more. He could see the sweat on Gilmore’s face now when the outlaw looked back over his shoulder. John Henry urged the last bit of speed out of his horse.

  He drew even with Gilmore, to the outlaw’s right. Gilmore had drawn a knife from somewhere and slashed at John Henry with it. John Henry ducked the blade, kicked his feet free of the stirrups, and left the saddle in a diving tackle that sent him crashing into Gilmore.

  Both men fell, and for a split-second John Henry wondered if they were both going to go off the side of the drop-off. Then they slammed into the ground at the side of the road, with a hundred feet of mostly empty air only a couple of yards away from them.

  Gilmore had managed to hang on to the knife. John Henry saw steel glitter as the blade came flashing toward his face. He got his left hand up and grabbed Gilmore’s wrist, stopping the thrust when the knife was scant inches from his throat. He brought up his right fist in a straight punch that landed solidly on Gilmore’s jaw and twisted him to the side.