Chapter Thirty-six
As soon as John Henry realized who the leader of the gunmen was, his mind made the next logical leap. O’Reilly was here looking for his daughter, and who else could that be except the blonde who called herself Penelope Smith?
But how could O’Reilly have known that the law had her in custody here in Copperhead and that he needed to rescue her? John Henry couldn’t answer that unless O’Reilly had a spy here in town. He supposed that was possible, but the likelihood of such a thing struck him as far-fetched.
The answers to those questions could wait. Right now John Henry had to figure out a way to keep O’Reilly from freeing Penelope and Clive Denton. He also needed to take the master counterfeiter himself into custody.
And he was only outnumbered forty to one, he told himself with a bleak smile.
His business was to take care of the impossible jobs for Judge Parker, though, so he had to figure out a way. The key, he realized, was to get his hands on O’Reilly. Once he had the mastermind in custody, he could use O’Reilly as a hostage while he and Prentice got out of here along with their other two prisoners.
In order to do that, John Henry had to avoid being discovered by the hired killers who were searching the settlement, and he had to maneuver into a position where he could jump O’Reilly and overpower him.
He retreated farther along the alley until he reached the rear of the building. O’Reilly was on the other side of the street, so John Henry had to get over there somehow. He would go all the way down to the livery stable on the edge of town, he decided, and try to cross there without being seen.
Using all the shadows and other cover that he could in order to avoid being spotted, he hurried along behind the buildings. He heard O’Reilly’s men calling to one another as they searched. He hoped the townsfolk they encountered would have enough sense to cooperate. Men like those tended to shoot first any time they were challenged and sort things out later.
Even though John Henry was still puzzled about several things, the last few minutes had cleared up some of his confusion. Baird Stanton and his men must have tried to stop O’Reilly’s bunch from getting through. John Henry wondered if Stanton or one of his group had had a chance to explain why Copperhead was quarantined, or if O’Reilly’s gunmen had started shooting before that came about. If the latter was true, the hired killers wouldn’t know they were exposing themselves to a potentially deadly fever.
John Henry wasn’t going to waste any sympathy on them if they got sick.
He was almost to the livery stable when two figures suddenly loomed up in front of him. The searchers hadn’t been talking or making any other noise, so he hadn’t known they were there until they rounded the rear corner of a building and he nearly ran into them.
“Hey!” one of them exclaimed. “Hold it right—”
John Henry reacted instantly, leaping forward and lashing out with a fist. He didn’t want any shots, because that would just draw the attention of the other gunmen. He aimed at the sound of the man’s voice and smashed a terrific blow to his jaw.
Luck played a big part in the punch landing so perfectly, but there were two men, not just one. John Henry wheeled and saw movement and knew the second man was clawing at the gun on his hip. John Henry left his feet in a diving tackle and caught the man around the waist. The man went over backward and hit the ground so hard it knocked the breath out of him. That was another lucky break, because he couldn’t yell without any air in his lungs.
John Henry hammered a punch at the man’s head. He felt teeth gash his knuckles and knew he had hit the man in the mouth. John Henry hit him again, and this time the teeth gave under the impact. The man gurgled and went still as he lost consciousness.
John Henry hit a third time, just for good measure.
He scrambled to his feet and left the two unconscious gunmen where they had fallen. They would be out for a few minutes, and that would be long enough to give him a chance. He checked to make sure his Colt hadn’t fallen out of its holster, picked up the Winchester he had dropped when he tackled the second man, and ran toward the livery stable.
He had just reached the big barn and circled around it when he heard a spattering of gunfire somewhere up the street. The shots sounded like they might be coming from the marshal’s office, and John Henry hoped that Prentice hadn’t decided to shoot it out with O’Reilly’s men.
At the same time, the gunfire provided a distraction, and John Henry took advantage of it. He saw several of O’Reilly’s men running in the street, but they were all looking toward the shots. John Henry ran across the street, too. None of the gunmen paid any attention to him.
He ducked into the shadows and headed for the last place he had seen O’Reilly, the boardwalk in front of the hotel.
The counterfeiter was still there, John Henry saw as he approached cautiously. O’Reilly stalked back and forth, visibly impatient. John Henry paused at the corner of the building, pressing his back against the side wall for a moment as he waited for any indication that he had been spotted. When none came, he risked a better look.
From where he was, he could have easily dropped O’Reilly with a rifle shot. But that would be cold-blooded murder, and even though O’Reilly was a killer himself, John Henry wasn’t prepared to execute the man.
John Henry also knew that shooting down O’Reilly wouldn’t save him and Prentice. With their boss dead, there was no telling what sort of bloody rampage the hired guns might go on. Everyone in Copperhead could be in danger.
No, their chances would be better if O’Reilly was alive and a prisoner. Then they could use him as a bargaining chip.
John Henry hadn’t heard any more shots. He looked across the street at the marshal’s office and felt his heart sink a little when he saw that the door was open. Prentice should have kept it locked, even barred. If he had blown out the lamp and barred the door in time, O’Reilly’s men might not have known that anyone was in there.
On the other hand, someone in town, fearing for their life, could have told the searchers about the beautiful blonde who could be found in the jail. John Henry was still convinced that Penelope was O’Reilly’s daughter. Prentice would have put up a fight when the gunmen tried to take her . . .
John Henry hoped the big Secret Service man was still alive.
O’Reilly stopped pacing as figures appeared in the doorway of the marshal’s office. A group of men emerged, prodding several people in front of them.
John Henry spotted Nick Prentice. The government man crossed the street reluctantly, a rifle muzzle jabbing him in the back.
Clive Denton was next to Prentice. From the looks of how he was being treated, he hadn’t exactly been “rescued.” He was being shoved along at gunpoint, too.
That left Penelope. Instead of her stalking across the street in triumph, one of the gunmen had hold of her arm and forced her toward the hotel. She struggled, and John Henry could hear her spitting curses at her captor.
He frowned. Maybe he’d been wrong about Penelope’s relationship to Ignatius O’Reilly.
O’Reilly clasped his hands behind his back, rocked forward on his toes and then back on his heels in obvious satisfaction. Even from the side, John Henry could tell that the master counterfeiter was smirking.
“It’s about time,” O’Reilly’s voice rang out as the three prisoners were brought in front of him. “I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to track you down. But a reunion long delayed is that much sweeter, wouldn’t you say, my dear?”
“I’m not your dear,” Penelope snarled at him. “I’m not anything to you.”
“On the contrary,” O’Reilly insisted. “You’re my darling daughter.”
“Just because you married my mother doesn’t make me your daughter. You never gave a damn about her or me!”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. Just like I’m sorry that you decided to run away after your mother passed on, rest her poor soul.”
“She didn’t pass on,” Penelope said. �
��She killed herself because she couldn’t stand being married to a monster like you anymore. You think I’ll ever forget finding her hanging from that beam with a rope around her neck?”
O’Reilly stiffened.
“We’ll speak no more about that,” he snapped. “You’re coming home with me now, Penelope. I forgive you for what you’ve done.” O’Reilly turned his gaze on Denton. “You, on the other hand, Clive . . . you’re a bitter disappointment. You were almost like a son to me, and what do you do? You steal from me.”
“It . . . it was all her idea, Mr. O’Reilly,” Denton stammered. “I knew you weren’t satisfied with that batch of currency and were going to destroy it. Penelope said that it would still fool most people and that it . . . it would be a shame to just waste it—”
“That’s not true,” Penelope said. “That’s what he told me. He said we’d take a trip across the Southwest and make enough money to set up our own operation.” She laughed humorlessly. “And I was a big enough fool to believe you, Clive! You’re no better than he is. You just wanted to use me.”
“That’s enough,” O’Reilly said. “We’re wasting time here.” He nodded toward Prentice. “Who’s this?”
“He . . . he’s a Secret Service man,” Denton babbled, clearly trying to get back in O’Reilly’s good graces. “He’s been after us for weeks, but he thought he was chasing you, Mr. O’Reilly. Him and that U.S. marshal.”
“What U.S. marshal?”
“His name’s Sixkiller,” Denton said. “He’s around here somewhere.”
O’Reilly’s head jerked to the side as he glared at his men.
“You didn’t find this lawman?” he demanded.
One of the gunmen answered, “We didn’t even know he existed until now, boss.”
“Find him. I don’t want any loose ends.”
Some of the gunmen who had congregated in front of the hotel began to spread out again.
O’Reilly turned back to the prisoners and said, “Thank you for that bit of information, Clive.”
A grin spread across Denton’s face. He said, “I helped you out, didn’t I, Mr. O’Reilly?”
“Indeed you did, and because of that I’m going to do a favor for you in return. I’m going to make sure you die quickly.”
O’Reilly extended his right arm as one of the men gave Denton a hard shove in the back that sent him stumbling forward. John Henry saw the derringer appear in O’Reilly’s hand as if by magic and knew it came from a spring-loaded sleeve holster. The little gun cracked wickedly, flame leaping from its muzzle. Denton was only a couple of feet away, and his head rocked back as a small but lethal bullet hole appeared in his forehead. He fell to his knees and then pitched over onto his side, dead.
O’Reilly lowered his arm and said, “Kill the Secret Service man. My daughter and I are leaving. And what I said about loose ends still goes. Once you’ve found that marshal and made sure he’s dead . . . burn the whole town.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
John Henry could hardly believe his ears. O’Reilly had just cold-bloodedly pronounced a death sentence on the whole settlement. He knew he had to make his move now before the hired killers began to carry out that destruction.
Something else happened first, though. A tall, powerfully built young man John Henry recognized as Calvin Parton stepped out of the café and shouted, “Let Miss Penelope go!”
The old cap-and-ball pistol in his hand boomed as he fired at the knot of gunmen in the street. One of them fell as the heavy lead ball smashed into him.
Calvin dived for cover as the other gunmen reacted instinctively and returned fire. They were so surprised that they had hesitated for a split second, though, and that gave Calvin time to throw himself back through the café door. The barrage of lead smashed into the front wall of the building.
At the same time the owner of the hotel, Weaver, who appeared as jittery as ever, lunged out onto the boardwalk with his shotgun in his hands.
“You won’t burn down our town!” he shouted as he triggered the double-barreled weapon. The charges of buckshot ripped through several of the hired gunmen and blasted them off their feet.
John Henry stepped into the open and started cranking off rounds from the Winchester as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever. His shots were deadly accurate. One of the killers fell with each crack of the Winchester.
Meanwhile Prentice had turned on the man guarding him and grabbed the man’s rifle. They swayed back and forth as they struggled over the weapon. Prentice was bigger and stronger, though, and he ripped the rifle out of the man’s hand and brought it up sharply, slamming the stock against the gunman’s jaw. Prentice hit him so hard and shattered the jaw so thoroughly that the man’s chin wound up practically under his ear as he collapsed.
O’Reilly’s derringer had another barrel in it. He whirled and fired at Weaver, who was trying to reload the shotgun. Weaver cried out, dropped the shotgun, and slumped to the boardwalk. O’Reilly leaped down to the street, grabbed Penelope’s arm, and dragged her with him as he retreated into the hotel. She screamed and fought but couldn’t tear loose from his brutal grip.
John Henry heard the scream and from the corner of his eye saw O’Reilly forcing Penelope into the hotel. He didn’t have time to help her just then, however, because he was crouched beside a hitch rack returning the fire from several gunmen who were charging him. He blew one of them off his feet with the final shot in the Winchester, then flung the empty rifle aside and threw himself forward on his belly as he palmed out the Colt.
The revolver blasted three times and spilled the other attackers, even as their slugs kicked up dirt around John Henry. He surged to his feet and turned toward the hotel entrance. He saw that Prentice had armed himself with a couple of pistols from fallen gunmen and had the same idea. The two of them converged on the door.
All along the street, shots roared as the citizens of Copperhead mounted a stiff resistance against the invaders. They had been through so much already, surviving the outbreak of fever that had threatened to wipe out the town, and they weren’t about to just surrender now to a bunch of no-account killers from outside.
John Henry hoped they would be all right, but he had done all he could to help them.
Now he was going after Ignatius O’Reilly.
The larger Nick Prentice bulled him aside, though, and charged through the door into the hotel lobby first. A shot roared. Prentice grunted in pain and staggered. He dropped one of the guns he had picked up as his left arm hung useless, drilled by a bullet. As John Henry darted past Prentice, he saw O’Reilly backing up the stairs, holding Penelope in front of him as a shield.
His left hand was around the blonde’s waist, dragging her up the stairs as she continued to struggle. O’Reilly’s right hand held a six-gun he had picked up somewhere. Flame spurted from the muzzle as he fired at John Henry.
The lawman felt the hot wind-rip of the slug as it sizzled through the air next to his ear. He couldn’t shoot back because the chances were too great that he would hit Penelope. John Henry was an excellent shot, but the risk was too great even for him.
They were almost at the top of the stairs when Penelope thrust a foot between O’Reilly’s calves and heaved as hard as she could. O’Reilly’s left leg went out from under him. Both he and Penelope fell hard against the banister, which bowed out under their weight and then gave with a sharp cracking of wood. Penelope fell, screaming, but O’Reilly caught himself.
He might have been just as well off if he hadn’t, because without Penelope to shield him, John Henry and Prentice both fired at him, triggering several shots each. The bullets pounded into O’Reilly’s chest, making him dance a grotesque little jig at the top of the stairs. With blood welling from half a dozen wounds, he dropped the gun, groaned, and pitched forward to tumble wildly down the stairs, leaving crimson smears on the steps behind him.
Prentice dropped his gun and lunged forward. Penelope hung from the broken banister, having made a despera
te grab for it as she fell. Prentice called to her, “Go ahead and drop! I’ll catch you!”
The distance wasn’t that far. The fall wouldn’t have killed her, probably wouldn’t even have hurt her very badly, but even with one arm wounded, Prentice was there to wrap the other arm around her and cushion her with his broad chest as she dropped. He staggered a little but caught himself, then stood there with his arm around her, holding her tightly against him as she looked up into his face.
Then his mouth came down on hers and she didn’t pull away.
John Henry kept his gun leveled as he approached the crumpled body at the foot of the stairs. He was pretty sure that Ignatius O’Reilly was dead. Anybody with that many bullets in him ought to be.
Then John Henry saw the unnatural way O’Reilly’s neck was twisted and the grotesque angle at which the counterfeiter’s head was turned. If by some miracle the gunshots hadn’t killed O’Reilly, the broken neck from the tumble down the stairs had.
Either way, he was dead as could be.
Footsteps from the entrance made John Henry swing around. Baird Stanton was coming into the hotel with his arm around Weaver’s waist, holding up the proprietor. Stanton was hatless and had a bloody bandage wrapped around his head. Weaver’s shirt was stained with blood, but he was walking mostly under his own power and didn’t seem to be wounded too badly. The bullet from O’Reilly’s derringer must have just creased him, John Henry thought.
“You’re not here to make more trouble, are you?” he asked the mine owner from Oroville.
“Hell, no!” Stanton exclaimed. “As soon as we patched up our wounds, my friends and I came after that loco bunch that blasted their way through us awhile ago. Killed half a dozen good men, they did, and I was damned if I was gonna let them get away with that, even if it meant riding into this pesthole of a town!”
“Even with half the people sick, Copperhead is a better town than Oroville,” Weaver insisted. “But I have to say, you fellas were a mighty welcome sight, riding in that way and finishing off those gunmen. They planned to burn down the town!”
Dead Man Walking Page 20
