Hour of Death

by William W. Johnstone

  Sixkiller frowned, a reaction not unnoticed by Westbrook.

  He smiled slyly. “That’s Bull Raymond, one of our leading local personalities. You’ve heard the expression, Bull of the Woods? That’s our Bull, the champion scrapper and fist fighter in the valley.

  “Nobody’s ever whipped him in a bare-knuckle brawl and most of those who’ve tried have never been the same since. He can shoot, too. He’s killed five men of the valley in gunfights and they were all fair duels.”

  “Loud son of a gun,” Sixkiller said.

  Chapter Eight

  Bull Raymond got drunker and louder by the minute.

  “Looks like Mase is keeping a weather eye on Bull.” Westbrook indicated a silver-haired man with a thin, iron-gray mustache standing off to one side conferring with a couple burly Jackpot staffers. The man wore a gray suit and a gun belt.

  The ever-more frequent glances Rourke cast in Bull’s direction were cold-eyed and disapproving. His sidemen were grim-faced and apprehensive.

  “Bull’s off his bailiwick,” Westbrook went on. “The Paradise Club is his usual haunt. He must have come into some money. He used to be a top hand for Donovan’s B Square B ranch until Colonel Tim fired him for drunkenness and brawling. It’s been pretty slim pickings for Bull ever since, although it’s an open secret that he’s taken to rustling. He’s said to wield a mean running iron, and is not afraid to poach on any of the big ranchers, but he’s got a special grudge against Colonel Tim.”

  Bull suddenly pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “Here he goes,” Westbrook said.

  Bull whipped off his sombrero-style hat and whirled it in circles over his head while venting an ear-splitting cowboy yell. “I’m a ripsnorting, fire-breathing, earth-stomping, maverick longhorn!” He launched into his big brag.

  “He must be from Texas,” Sixkiller said sourly.

  “Yes, but how did you know?” Westbrook asked.

  “Of all the loud braggarts in the world, Texans are the loudest.” Sixkiller, a native son of Oklahoma, harbored a natural-born antipathy for the neighboring Lone Star State and its denizens.

  Bull’s cronies urged him on. “You go, Bull! Damned right, Bull!” came the cries.

  “I rope twisters, wrassle grizzly bears, and use prairie fires to light my see-gars!” Bull declared. “I’m a lover, a fighter, a wild horse rider! Strong men cry when they see me coming and pretty women cry when they see me leaving!”

  Sixkiller rose. He tilted the bottle to his lips, draining the last few mouthfuls of whiskey. He set the empty down on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He took off his hat, handing it to Westbrook. “Take care of this. I don’t want to get it dented.”

  Westbrook gaped, openmouthed, eyes bulging. “What are you going to do?!”

  “I hate Texas loudmouths.”

  “Wait a minute you’re not going to—”

  Sixkiller walked away, angling toward Bull’s table.

  “I guess he is at that,” Westbrook said, bemused.

  Bull had been going on uninterrupted, not even pausing for breath, and was still going strong. “I can out-fight, out-shoot, out-ride, and out-talk any hombre west of the Mississippi . . . or east of it, for that matter! Ain’t a man in the territory with the guts to lock horns and butt heads with me! I use the lightning for a lasso and the storm for a bronc. I come to town to hoot and honk!”

  Sixkiller shouldered his way through the cluster of Bull’s cronies and was none too gentle about it. They were hard-headed, horny-handed hombres not used to being pushed around, but when they got a good look at Six-killer they decided not to push back.

  “Bull will handle it,” one muttered under his breath.

  A path opened for Sixkiller at the end of which stood Bull Raymond.

  Bull caught sight of the newcomer closing on him and seemed more surprised than anything else. “Something you want, stranger?” he demanded.

  “Yeah,” Sixkiller said. “Shut the hell up.” It was simply a flat-voiced declaration that was a command, not a request. No yelling, no shouting, Sixkiller’s remark was underlined by a short stiff right-handed jab that cracked a fist against the blunt point of Bull’s chin.

  Bull’s head snapped back. His mighty frame was rocked, but not to the extent that he was forced to take a step back. He threw an allover shudder like a wet dog shaking off water.

  Silence fell over the saloon, then scattered gasps could be heard.

  A trickle of blood ran down Bull’s chin from a split lower lip. His eyes lit up with genuine delight. “Mister, you showed up just in time. I was starting to get bored.”

  “A man can’t drink in peace with all that bellowing of yours,” Sixkiller said.

  “No? What do you aim to do about it?”

  “I just did it.”

  “If that’s the best you can do, you’re in trouble, hoss.”

  “That? My hand was itching. That was my way of scratching it.”

  “I know you?” Bull asked, puzzled.

  “Nope.” Sixkiller shook his head.

  “And you don’t know me, because if you did you’d have rode a thousand miles to get shucked of me. Man, you must be a stranger. None of these rannies in town have got the guts to buck Bull Raymond. You got guts—no brains, but guts—I’ll give you that. Who are you? I mean, what’s your name? We’ll need something to carve on the marker of your grave on Boot Hill.”

  “The name’s Quinto.”

  “You some kind of Injun? You look it,” Bull said. “You should’ve laid off the firewater, Chief, it’ll be the death of you.”

  “There you go, jawing again. You gonna fight or talk me to death?” Sixkiller asked.

  “Just satisfying my natural curiosity. I hate to break a man’s back without even knowing his name.”

  Sixkiller sighed. “Let’s get to it before you get to running your mouth again. Anything’s better than that. It makes my ears hurt.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. I’m gonna rip ’em both off. Then I’m gonna tear out your spine and whip you into little pieces with it.” Bull started forward.

  A fair-minded onlooker stepped between the two. “Best shuck off those gun belts, men. Let’s keep it a friendly fight.”

  “That suits me fine. Nothing I like better than taking a man apart with my bare hands.” Bull unbuckled his gun belt, handing it to one of his cronies.

  Sixkiller took off his gun belt, never taking his eyes off Bull.

  Worried, Westbrook moved into the inner circle. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “You’re not getting out of buying the next round that easily,” Sixkiller told him.

  The crowd was excited. A fight was real entertainment, though with Bull Raymond as one of the participants it was not likely to last long, and neither was the mystery challenger. There were few sources of excitement in Ringgold and fewer that came for free.

  More people were gathering to see the fight than had been present before Sixkiller first socked Bull. Word had spread fast.

  Before the two could begin butting heads, Rourke pushed his way to the fore, bolstered by a handful of sidemen. He was careful not to get between the two combatants. His silver hair lay across his scalp neat and orderly, like a seamless metal skullcap. Not a hair was out of place. His cold green eyes were the color of the sea on a sunless day. “Hold it!” he barked. “If you want to fight that’s your business, but you’re not going to do it in the Jackpot—”

  Bull put his head down, charging. Sixkiller rushed to meet him.

  And the fight was on.

  The crowd roared its delight as the two collided with a meaty thud. Sixkiller got his left shoulder under Bull’s reaching arms, driving it into the other’s midsection. It was like slamming into a tree trunk.

  Bull’s brawny arms churned massive uppercuts toward Sixkiller’s middle. Sixkiller blocked them with his forearms held close to his body, absorbing the blows and fending them off. He couldn’t move hi
s arms without opening himself to rib-crushing blows from Bull’s rocklike fists.

  Sixkiller sidestepped, hooking a wicked left to Bull’s jaw. The two broke apart for an instant, a man’s length between them. Bull seemed unhurt by the blow.

  Sixkiller’s left fist hurt, and he realized he could ruin his hands hammering away uselessly at Bull’s hard head without making a dent in it.

  They mixed it up some more, trading punches. Bull threw wild haymakers that would have torn Sixkiller’s head off his neck if they’d connected. He managed a glancing blow to the side of Sixkiller’s head, which felt like the kick of a mule. Sixkiller saw stars.

  A couple inches shorter than Sixkiller’s six feet four inches, Bull was wider, thicker in the shoulders and upper body. He seemed to have no neck, his shoulder muscles starting right below the ears, so that his head was perched atop a pyramid of muscle. He outweighed Sixkiller by forty to fifty pounds, none of it fat. He was fast-moving, surprisingly quick.

  He grinned, showing a massive set of choppers that would have done a horse proud. He was having fun.

  The battlers circled each other, looking for an opening. Bull shuffled forward, lashing out with a looping roundhouse right.

  Sixkiller bobbed his head out of the way, saving his skull from a sure cave in, the breeze of the punch fanning his face.

  Bull followed up with a powerhouse left. He was a big puncher, putting all he had into each swing.

  Sixkiller stopped Bull’s advance with a series of short snappy jabs to the head, stinging Bull, but nothing more. He struck around the eyes, trying to open up a cut to obstruct the braggart’s vision. One punch connected with Bull’s nose, squashing it flat, blood spurting. But that was nothing new. The nose showed signs of having been broken any number of times.

  Sixkiller backed into a table, rocking it. Bull rushed, driving into him. They locked up again, grappling, struggling for holds. Bull’s superior weight forced Sixkiller back, upsetting the table and chairs. Bottles and tumblers flew, sounding the jingle of breaking glass.

  Sixkiller fired a flurry of pile-drivers into Bull’s middle trying to soften him up, a ploy which proved an exercise in futility as the man encircled him in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides.

  Bull locked the fingers of both hands together, interlacing them for a tighter grip. He squeezed, pouring it on. Tremendous viselike pressure was exerted on Sixkiller whose ribs would have cracked if not for the cushioning of his arms.

  Bull lifted Sixkiller so that his feet left the floor.

  Danger! Bull could slam him into something hard . . . to break his back against it.

  But Bull whisked him across the floor in a dizzying rush.

  Sixkiller head butted Bull, striking with the hard, horny, upper ridge of his forehead along the hairline where the bone structure was thick. Sixkiller was an accomplished “nutter” in street fighting parlance.

  The head butt squashed Bull’s already tormented nose. Bull roared, staggered by blinding pain. The crushing force of his grip slackened.

  Sixkiller got his thumbs under Bull’s rib cage and dug in hard. His pinioned arms lacked freedom to deliver the crippling strike at full force, but it still hurt.

  Bull’s interlocked hands faltered and Sixkiller broke free. He grabbed Bull’s arm by the wrist and swung him around like a kid’s game of crack the whip. But this was no game. It was real—a deadly matter of life and death.

  Sixkiller swung Bull in a circle and suddenly let go. Like the last man in line in crack the whip, Bull went flying. He pitched forward, bent almost double, tree-trunk legs churning.

  Unable to keep up with the impetus of his flying feet, Bull was propelled into a human wall of frenzied spectators ringing the combat. He cannonballed into them, scattering them like bowling pins.

  Bad luck for them, but good luck for him, they halted his momentum. Instead of crashing headfirst into a wall of wood, stone, and plaster, cushiony flesh and blood absorbed the impact.

  Shouts and shrieks sang out from the tangle of arms and legs, of struggling squalling bodies. On top of the pile, Bull rolled clear, bounding to his feet.

  Sixkiller was glad of the opportunity to suck wind, grabbing a few heaving breaths, each one sending fresh aches and pains through bruised ribs.

  He’d wanted to get Bull mad because angry fighters were losing fighters. Well, he had succeeded all right. Bull was mad clear through.

  Wild-eyed, with squashed nostrils bubbling blood whenever he forgot to breathe through his mouth, Bull’s lungs worked like bellows, his massive chest heaving.

  Sixkiller started for him, Bull coming to meet him.

  Shots were fired!

  Rourke was pretty damned mad himself, venting a stream of fiery oaths. He fired several more shots into the ceiling to get the fighters’ attention. Gunfire competed with the uproar of shouting spectators whooping it up, yelling and hollering with each punch and counterpunch.

  Rourke shouted, “Take it outside, damn you!”

  They took it outside, all right.

  Locked up, Sixkiller wrestled Bull around, propelling him toward one of the bay windows bracketing the front entrance. Bull held tight to his opponent.

  Gawkers pressed up close to the window saw the duo coming at them and scattered for the sidelines just in time.

  Sixkiller was moving at a pretty good clip when Bull’s broad back hit the window made of small squares of glass, impacting it like a battering ram. When the two massive bodies hit the window head-on something had to give.

  A whoomping sound as of a muffled explosion was followed by a cascading torrent of glass shards and broken wooden ribs bursting outward.

  Sixkiller tucked his head down, snuggling chin to chest to protect against getting his throat cut by broken glass. He squeezed his eyes shut for protection, if only for an instant.

  Each clutching the other with a death grip the two combatants went through the broken window to fall crashing to the wooden plank sidewalk fronting the saloon. They grappled, rolling around on the boardwalk atop broken glass and busted wood, tearing at each other. Bull clawed at Sixkiller’s face, Sixkiller punched Bull in the head and ribs. First one was on top, then the other.

  Commotion erupted from the horses lining the hitching rail, spooked by the sudden melee. They fought to break free, uprearing, sidling, straining against their tethered reins. Some reins snapped, and the horses ran wild and free.

  Sixkiller and Bull rolled off the edge of the boardwalk into the street, hitting the ground with a whoof. Lucky to avoid being trampled as they rolled clear of the remaining horses, they kept at it, rolling and tumbling, hammering at each other.

  Patrons and owner of the Jackpot poured out to watch the rest of the fight. It also attracted passersby. They came running, shouting, “Fight! Fight!” Excited mongrel dogs ran along, barking and nipping at the flashing legs of excited runners.

  Sixkiller and Bull somehow managed to stand on their knees. The Oklahoman hurled a one-two combination that knocked Bull back down to the ground, then struggled to his feet in a crouch. Bull heaved himself upright. Both men were dead beat. Nothing took it out of men like mixing it up in all-out knockdown fight.

  “Might as well make hay when the sun shines,” Rourke told himself, true to his gambler’s vocation. He and his sidemen started taking bets on the fight.

  Ordinarily the odds would have highly favored Bull, but the fight had pretty much evened up, though the hometown boy was still the favorite on points. The Jackpot gamblers handled lots of action, the sporting element thrilled by the novelty of something fresh and unexpected to bet on. Lots of money was clenched in excited fists as the wagering went on.

  Citizens made small side bets among them-selves.

  The fighters closed once more. Bull played it tricky, holding back and feigning weakness to lure in his opponent, then lashing out with a brutal kick aimed at Sixkiller’s knee.

  Sixkiller stalled, laying back at the last second and the kick missed, lea
ving Bull off balance. Plowing into him, Sixkiller straightened Bull up with some stiff left jabs to the chin, getting him into position. He thrust in with a fierce knuckle punch to the solar plexus of the other. That blow told.

  Bull paled under his deep tan, mouth widening into a sucking O shape. He looked green around the gills.

  Giving Bull not a moment’s—not a second’s— respite, Sixkiller crowded him with a flurry of hard rights and lefts to the breadbasket.

  The formerly rock-hard midsection had been well softened up. Bull backpedaled, purely on the defensive. His guard failing, he let through more punches than he parried.

  Sixkiller steered Bull toward a street-side watering trough and moved in for the kill. His right shoulder dipping, he launched a sizzling right hand, putting much of his weight behind it. Walnut-sized knuckles cracked home against the point of Bull’s jaw.

  Whiplash! Bull’s head snapped back from the blow, the rest of him following. Arms windmilling, he toppled backward into the horse trough, raising a waterspout.

  He tried to rise, but couldn’t. Draped across the trough at right angles, body in a V-shape with his hindquarters submerged in the tank, he just lay there.

  Sixkiller sank to his knees, head held high. He closed his eyes, unsure how much time passed—a heartbeat or a minute.

  When he opened his eyes he was looking into the twin bores of a double-barreled shotgun pointed down at his head. It was in the hands of a man with a badge.

  The big brawl was officially over.

  The law had arrived.

  Chapter Nine

  “I’m of no mind to mix it up with you two,” Marshal Braddock said. “Cut up and I’ll cut loose with this scattergun. You think this is a bluff, call it.”

  Braddock and two deputies had Sixkiller and Bull covered. They had a clear field of fire if they had to open up and start blasting.

  A mighty yellow-bellied way of breaking up a fistfight, Sixkiller thought, but he kept his opinions to himself. Braddock struck him as a hard man with a mean mouth.