Hour of Death

by William W. Johnstone

  “I resent that, madam. Whenever something happens in the saloons, I’m right on top of it.” Bigelow put down the pages of notes he’d been examining. “If things keep on as quiet as they’ve been, we’ll have to go to a bi-weekly edition or maybe even a monthly.”

  “I shouldn’t worry,” Westbrook said. “Come Friday night when the cowboys are in town, there’ll be more than enough killings to fill the front page and then some.”

  “That’s for next week’s issue, but what about this week? If things don’t pick up by tomorrow we’ll have to run Parson Brown’s sermon on the front page,” Bigelow said.

  “This town could use it,” Cass said sharply.

  “Possibly, but it’s not the kind of thing that sells newspapers,” Westbrook said.

  “What we need is a six-gun free-for-all in some bucket of blood dive like the Paradise Club, one that leaves a half-dozen corpses when the smoke clears,” Bigelow said. “Or even a cave-in at the lead mines with some miners trapped underground.”

  “You two sound like a pair of ghouls,” Cass snapped.

  “This is the right town for it,” Bigelow said.

  “Though maybe not this week,” Westbrook added.

  “I need some fresh air.” Cass rose and stretched.

  It was something to see. Uncoiling like a big cat, her high firm breasts thrust against the bodice of her dress. She tossed her head, shaking coppery ringlets, and ran fingers through her hair, pushing it off her face and back on top of her head.

  Out through the open doorway of the front entrance and onto the boardwalk she went. The air was fresh compared to that inside the office, notwithstanding the omnipresent smell of horse manure on the street.

  The sun was lowering in the west, but the sunlight was warm and sensuous. From nearby came the sharp, brassy sound of a blacksmith hammering on an anvil.

  A rider came into view riding west along the street. Nothing unusual in that, Cass thought. Nothing so unusual in the type of rider, either.

  Whatever you called the breed—saddle tramp, gunman, drifter, long rider—the town and the valley were full of them, with more arriving every day. They threatened to soon outnumber the decent law-abiding citizens whose lives and property they so casually endangered.

  The newcomer was apparently doing just that, arriving, judging by his trail dust and bedraggled condition. Ringgold was a small town and if Cass had seen this one before she’d have remembered. He was not one easily forgotten.

  The stranger was a big man even in a time and a place where the man-plant tended to grow to outsize proportions. A big head crowned that big body. He had a wide face, clean-shaven and copper-red, an eagle-beak nose, long slit-like pale eyes and lots of chin and jaw.

  Topping that head was a high-crowned, round-topped, dun-colored hat with a broad, stiff brim and a foot-long eagle feather stuck in the hatband. He wore a buckskin vest over a rust-colored flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up past the elbows and dark gray denims over cowboy boots. A six-gun was holstered low on his right hip.

  A man who’d done some hard traveling on a dusty road, he walked the horse slowly and deliberately down the middle of the street. Clip-clop. The roan’s hooves struck the hard-packed dirt of the street, a metronome beat like the ticking of a clock or the beating of a heart.

  “Whew! That’s a big one,” Westbrook said. “Is it a man or a shaved bear?”

  Cass gave a slight start, unaware that the feature writer had come out to stand beside her on the front walkway.

  “Just what Ringgold doesn’t need, another gun-toting saddle tramp” Cass tsk-tsked. “As if the town isn’t overfull of them as it is.”

  “It’s like shipping cattle to Texas or ice to the North Pole,” Westbrook agreed.

  Looking straight ahead, the stranger drew abreast of the Banner office. He stopped and turned his head to the side, casting his pale-eyed gaze at Cass and Westbrook. Especially at Cass. His wide jack-o’-lantern mouth turned up at the corners in what might have been a friendly smile.

  Cass’s face twisted in an expression of mingled scorn and contempt. “Humph!”

  Westbrook, more politic perhaps, raised a hand in a half wave.

  Sixkiller’s close-mouthed smile widened at the sign of the redhead’s disdain. He rode on. Cass stood with hands on hips watching him go.

  “A fine figure of a woman,” Sixkiller said only to himself. When his horse had walked on several lengths, he looked back over his shoulder.

  Cass harrumphed with a toss of her head to underline her derision and turned away.

  “Why so hostile, Cass?” Westbrook asked.

  “What do you expect me to do, lay out the Welcome mat?” she fired back.

  “The Banner can’t afford to scare off any potential customers.”

  “That one? What makes you think he can read?”

  “Appearances can be deceiving. For all we know, he might be a perfectly decent fellow.”

  “I thought a reporter is supposed to know something about people,” Cass said, red color in her cheeks.

  “I’m interested in facts. What people do, that’s what counts,” Westbrook said. “Still . . . an interesting fellow, don’t you think?”

  “He’s a troublemaker. One look at him is all you need to know that.”

  “He certainly seems built for it. I daresay if that fellow set out to raise Cain he’d make quite a splash. Maybe he’ll make some news. We could use some.”

  Bigelow stepped outside, firing up a cigar butt. He looked at the dwindling form of Sixkiller riding down the street. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing. Just another piece of trash come to town,” Cass said.

  “No ordinary piece of trash, I’d say. He’s huge. As big as Bull Raymond,” Westbrook said.

  “That’d make him a pretty big ol’ boy,” Bigelow said.

  Westbrook reached into a hip pocket, pulled out a silver flask, and took a drink from it.

  “Where’d that come from?” Bigelow asked. “You’ve been holding out on me, you son of a gun.”

  “That’s the only way to make it last with you around,” Westbrook said.

  Bigelow stopped chewing on the cigar butt in the corner of his mouth long enough to smack his lips meaningfully several times. “How’s about sparing a snort for a colleague?”

  Westbrook handed him the flask. Bigelow took it, a slight tremor in his hands. He paused only long enough to wipe the spout of the flask on the edge of his sleeve.

  “How do you like that? He wipes it clean after I drink from it,” Westbrook said in mock outrage.

  Bigelow drank deep.

  Westbrook reached to wrestle it away from him, finally succeeding but not without a struggle. “There’s some left, no thanks to you.”

  Bigelow shuddered, a red flush overshadowing his face. “Ah—that’s good stuff!”

  “Brandy. Better than that rotgut you drink,” Westbrook retorted.

  “That’s all I can afford on my salary,” Bigelow said.

  “The way you drink you’d soon run dry even if you had Vanderbilt’s millions,” Cass said.

  Westbrook screwed the flask’s cap closed.

  “Aw, not another little taste?” Bigelow said, wheedling.

  “I need it myself. I can’t do my job without a drink,” Westbrook said.

  “But you’re not working now,” Bigelow pointed out.

  “I’m going to be. I’m about to ply the journalist’s art.” Westbrook pocketed the flask.

  “That gleam in your eye indicates you’re cooking up something.” Cass arched an interrogative eyebrow. “Where are you going?”

  “That stranger looks interesting. Could be a story there. I’ve got a hunch. Call it my nose for news.”

  “Get on the wrong side of that big tramp and you’re liable to get your nose bloodied . . . and maybe a pair of black eyes and a broken jaw, as well!”

  “Sounds like a front page story,” Westbrook said.

  Cass made a face and s
tarted into the office, pausing long enough to tell cigar-puffing Bigelow, “If you insist on smoking that piece of rope, you can smoke it outside!”

  * * *

  Sixkiller rode along the street, chuckling to himself. “That redhead is a whole lot of woman! Worth coming to Ringgold for, remains to be seen.”

  He’d seen several livery stables from the rise. He didn’t care for the first one he came to. Didn’t like the way the place was kept, dirty and sloppy.

  “You deserve better, hoss,” he told the roan, riding on.

  A boy of about twelve was sweeping the sidewalk in front of a barber shop. He was skinny, sharp-faced, and intelligent-looking. Sixkiller asked him where he could find a good, clean livery stable.

  “Noble’s at the west end of Liberty Street,” the boy said, giving him directions.

  “What’s your name, son?” Sixkiller asked.

  “Eli.”

  “I’m Quinto. Thanks!” He tossed a coin to the youngster.

  “Thanks, mister,” Eli said, plucking the coin out of the air and making it disappear into his pocket. He made quick furtive glances to see if anybody had observed him receiving the money. Nobody had. He waved so-long and ducked inside the barber shop, out of sight.

  The entire sequence told Sixkiller something important about Ringgold. A fellow had to look sharp to keep hold of his money.

  “The only kind of town they send me to. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  That wasn’t really true. He’d like to visit some nice, quiet, peaceful burg to serve a writ or warrant or collect some back taxes for which he’d get a percentage of the take. But it just wasn’t in the cards. He sighed.

  The bold, full-bodied redhead evoked a different kind of sigh from him, one tinged with hard-breathing, hot-blooded lust, and longing.

  He rode west on Liberty Street. Along the way, he saw a couple of ragged boys throwing rocks at a mangy yellow dog. A stone hit its hindquarters and the dog yelped, scooting under a porch and out of reach of his tormentors.

  A drunk sprawled in a shadowed alley slumped against a wall, sleeping it off. At least, he looked drunk, but he could have been dead.

  Sixkiller didn’t give enough of a damn to check. “Ain’t nothing to me.”

  A pair of fancy women painted up like a carousel’s wooden horse exited the front door of a cheap rooming house. They had hourglass figures, but it looked like some of the sand was leaking out. Both wore satin dresses, one scarlet, the other bottle green. They walked along the boardwalk arm in arm, with bold looks and flashing eyes, casting long appraising looks at Sixkiller.

  He touched the brim of his hat politely. That set off a round of rude, shrill, raucous laughter and shrieks. One of the women called something after him as he rode on. He couldn’t quite make out what she said, but he got the general idea.

  Ahead, noise—loud voices, rinky-dink piano playing, the clink and rattle of glasses, shouts and shrieks—billowed like a puff of smoke or a haze hanging over the end of the street. Its source was a rowdy saloon. NED HICKORY’S PARADISE CLUB proclaimed a red and gold painted marquee sign board swinging in the wind, hinges squeaking.

  Sixkiller drew nigh as a bouncer built like a circus strongman and garbed like a barkeep, with a striped shirt, sleeve garters and a white bib-front apron emerged through the batwing doors. He was giving a customer the classic bum’s rush, with one hand on his collar and the other hand on the seat of his pants. He propelled the ex-patron headfirst out of the bar and across the plank sidewalk.

  The hapless man flew through the air in an arching curve, landing in the middle of the street right in front of the roan. Sixkiller reined to a halt.

  The bouncer waited to see if the drunk still had fight in him, then made a hands-washing gesture—good riddance to bad rubbish—as the patron struggled to hands and knees and crawled across the street in the opposite direction.

  Stiffening some when he made eye contact with Sixkiller, the bouncer’s face hardened in sullen lines, one big man sizing up another.

  Sixkiller touched heels to the horse’s flanks, moving on. He had a feeling he’d be dropping by the Paradise Club before too long.

  Noble’s livery stable was at the edge of town. It looked and smelled clean enough. So did the proprietor, a compact, sandy-haired man with a long seamed face and alert eyes. He minded his own business, asking no questions beyond what he needed to know regarding the upkeep of the horse.

  Sixkiller made arrangements to have the roan put up at the stable, paying a week in advance. “What’s a good place to stay?”

  “Laramie,” Noble said.

  “Ha-ha. I meant in town.”

  “Afton’s where cattle buyers and the gentry stay. Drummers and such roost at the Culhane. The Atlas is pretty decent I hear, but I never stayed at none of them places myself.”

  Drummers, salesmen, and their ilk irritated Sixkiller with their incessant chattering. Besides, they were transients unlikely to have much of an inside on what made Ringgold tick. “Where’s the Atlas?”

  Noble gave him directions. Sixkiller said thanks and moved on. He took his rifle and saddlebags with him, tossing the bags over a shoulder and carrying the rifle in his left hand, keeping his right hand, his gun hand, free.

  He walked back the way he’d come, along the north side of Liberty Street. The route would take him past the newspaper office. He wouldn’t mind getting another look at the redhead.

  Sixkiller passed the Paradise Club entrance quickly, not wanting to be hit by any more ejected customers. A strong fume of whiskey reek and haze of tobacco smoke wafted out the door, stinging his eyes. The drunk who’d been thrown into the street was gone, nowhere in sight. The two fancy women were gone, too. They’d be back on the street soon enough, he reckoned. The drunk too, probably.

  It was not the kind of place he liked to turn his back on, either.

  A couple more blocks took him to the Banner office. Reeve Westbrook stood leaning against a wall, smoking a long thin cigar. He looked pleasantly amused, but not so much that somebody might take offense and decide to wipe the smile off his face.

  Sixkiller paused, looking through the window, but there was no sign of the redhead.

  “You’re out of luck, friend. She’s not here,” Westbrook said.

  “Oh? Too bad. Who is she?”

  “Mrs. Horgan, publisher and managing editor of the Ringgold Banner, our town newspaper.”

  “Married, eh?”

  “Widowed. But don’t get your hopes set on her. She’s spoken for by Colonel Tim Donovan, owner of the B Square B ranch. Biggest in the valley.”

  “That’s nice to know,” said Sixkiller.

  “Did you have some business with her? I only ask because perhaps I can be of some assistance in her absence.”

  “Business? Not yet. I just got into town. Once I get settled in maybe I could take a look at some of your back issues, get a feel for Ringgold and the valley.”

  “Come by anytime, I’ll show you around,” Westbrook offered.

  “Much obliged. I like to know about a place before I start prospecting.”

  “A prospector? Hope you haven’t come a long way for nothing.”

  “How do you know I’ve come a long way?”

  “You look it, if you don’t mind my saying so. You and your horse. I saw you ride in earlier. I’m a reporter, a kind of professional snoop you might say. Keeping my eyes and ears open is all in a day’s work for me.”

  Me too, thought Sixkiller.

  “Asking questions is part of my game, too. Being in the news business I’m always on the lookout for whatever’s fresh and new. I’m Reeve Westbrook, at your service.”

  “Quinto’s my handle.”

  “Is that your first name or your last?”

  “Both. Just plain Quinto.”

  “Welcome to Ringgold.”

  “Thanks.”

  Westbrook pulled the silver flask from a hip pocket, having refilled it since sharing a drink with Big
elow. He took a long pull, then offered some to Sixkiller. “Brandy, if you’re of a mind to.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Sixkiller drank. “That’s good, cuts the dust.” He handed back the flask. “What did you mean when you said I might have come a long way for nothing?”

  “Ringgold was the site of a big gold strike, but that was some time ago. The vein played out and the crash damn near finished the town. The lead mines kept us from going under and the cattle boom brought us back. The Glint River Valley is top grazing land and the railroad allows ranchers to ship their livestock to market. Cattle is the true wealth of Ringgold.”

  “If gold’s been found in these parts before, it can happen again,” Sixkiller said, putting on a front of stubbornness, stubborn as only a gold seeker can be.

  “I don’t want to discourage you. Maybe you’ll be the lucky one. Let’s drink to it. Success and good fortune!” Westbrook passed the flask and they each had another drink, emptying it.

  “The well has run dry,” he said ruefully.

  “Let me get settled in and I’ll buy you a drink,” Sixkiller offered.

  “Most hospitable of you. Where are you staying?’

  “I heard the Atlas is pretty good.”

  “It’s acceptable enough. Heading there now? I’ll be glad to show you the way. I’ve got to refill anyway so I’ll just nip into the Jackpot, our most fashionable watering hole. The drinks aren’t watered down, the girls are clean and good-looking, and the games of chance are straight, which means you have a chance however slim.” Westbrook grinned.

  “Like prospecting, eh?” Sixkiller said with a sly smile.

  “You said it, not me.”

  They set off east on Liberty.

  “Where do you hail from, Quinto?”

  “I’ve been doing some prospecting in the Bitter Creek area. Slim pickings, so I thought I’d try my luck hereabouts. If the Lonesome Hills don’t pan out, I’ll keep on heading north to the Black Hills. They’re proven gold-rich and might still yield a strike. But first I’ll give the Glint River Valley a try.”

  “I wish you luck,” Westbrook said. “What’s new in Bitter Creek? Always on the lookout for news. Gunfights, floods, droughts, it’s all grist for my mill.”