Hour of Death

by William W. Johnstone

  Ivey stepped back, appraising the Oklahoman. “You don’t look too bad, not bad at all. I’m impressed! Bull is a mighty tough customer, mighty tough!”

  “You don’t have to tell me that Mr. Mayor. I’ve got the aches and pains to prove it.”

  “You don’t look any the worse for wear after spending a night in Marshal Braddock’s jail, either,” Ivey said.

  From the distaste with which he said Braddock’s name, Sixkiller got the idea that the mayor was not overly fond of the marshal. That could be useful, very useful. Sixkiller didn’t like Braddock, either.

  Ivey turned toward the men in the armchairs. “Gentlemen, say howdy to Mr. Quinto.”

  “Howdy,” Raffin said, smiling with his lips. He raised his glass in an amiable kind of salute, showing no signs of eagerness to shake Sixkiller’s hand. The gun slick would not be one for shaking hands. Those hands were his stock in trade. They were smooth and soft, pampered, looking like he had never used them to do a day’s worth of manual labor in his life.

  In which case, he hadn’t missed much, thought Sixkiller, who had worked hard for most of his life. Federal deputy marshalling was the softest job he had ever had and he was determined to hold on to it with a death grip. He acknowledged Raffin with a nod.

  Milo Tapper bounced out of his chair and crossed to shake Sixkiller’s hand. He seemed a friendly, decent enough chap, even though he was a taxman.

  Assistant taxman, Sixkiller mentally corrected as he realized Milo was horny-handed from toil. Shaking his hand was like shaking hands with a brick. “By any chance, are you related to the fellow sitting outside at the desk?” That had been bothering Sixkiller since he’d entered the room.

  “That’s my brother, Sam,” Milo said, grinning. “So you met Sam, huh? I’m surprised you didn’t throw him out the window. He has that effect on people, including me.”

  “What’re you drinking, Mr. Quinto?” Ivey asked with an expansive gesture, indicating the serving cart.

  Sixkiller eyed the bottles and chose Old Scout whiskey, a brand he liked.

  The mayor poured and rather quickly Sixkiller was sitting in one of the armchairs with a full glass of whiskey in his hand and a couple of the mayor’s good cigars in his breast pocket. Ivey had all but forced them on him. Sixkiller decided to hold off on the smoking until later. He didn’t want it to interfere with his whiskey drinking.

  “Thanks for getting the charges against me dropped, Mr. Mayor,” Sixkiller began.

  “It was my pleasure, Mr. Quinto, my very great pleasure.” Ivey beamed.

  “I appreciate it. I owe you.”

  “You certainly do!” Ivey said, still beaming. “It wasn’t easy to get Mase Rourke to refuse to press charges. He was considerably irked with you and Mr. Raymond for the damage you did to the Jackpot. Why to replace the front window alone will cost a great deal of money. I had to call in some favors with Mase to get him to go along. But in the end, he saw the wisdom of it and agreed. Because we’re friends, Mase and I. And that’s what friends do. They help each other out.

  “The theme of my administration is friendship. I want the good people of Ringgold not to think of me only as their mayor, but as their friend. They don’t just have a mayor at town hall here, they have a friend.”

  “That was a mighty friendly thing you did for me, Mr. Mayor. Now what can I do for you?” Sixkiller asked, grabbing the hot iron and asking the big question.

  Ivey’s smile became even wider and more brilliant, more expressive of goodwill, if that were possible.

  “Mr. Quinto, I like you. I think we’re going to get along fine. I think we’re going to be friends. Because we understand each other. You cut right to the heart of the matter. To get along we’ve got to go along, all of us. Friends helping each other out is the very basis of good government and good citizenship.”

  Raffin, sitting in the far chair where Ivey could not easily see his face without doing a lot of leaning over his desk, caught Sixkiller’s eye. He sardonically raised his eyes to heaven as if seeking divine relief from the mayor’s speech about friendship, which he had doubtless heard too many times before.

  Milo Tapper sat in his chair as if entranced by Ivey’s words.

  Dash was deep into his second glass of whiskey and from the way he was going at it with single-minded concentration, he’d soon be working on his third.

  Ivey leaned forward in his chair, sitting with hands folded in front of him on his desk. He was looking at Sixkiller as if expecting some kind of response. His eyes were slate-gray, his orbs moist in their baggy pouches.

  He really did have a reptilian eye, thought Sixkiller, like an alligator or maybe even a Gila monster.

  The mayor’s pause lengthened, the seconds ticking past. He was looking solely at Sixkiller.

  Sixkiller felt it was incumbent of him to say something, anything. “Please, Mr. Mayor, call me Quinto. Just plain Quinto. No mistering involved.” Getting into the spirit of things, he added, “It’s the uh, friendlier thing to do.”

  “All right, Quinto.” Ivey didn’t tell Sixkiller to call him by his first name. He was happy being addressed as “Mr. Mayor.” That he liked.

  Reminded of Applewhite with his childish pompous pleasure at being called “Mr. Justice Applewhite,” Sixkiller thought politicians were all the same. They worked and schemed so damned hard to win their titles that they could never let them go.

  “You’re a newcomer to our town, Quinto, so let me give you some background first,” Ivey went on. “The Glint is on the boom. Between our friends at the Western Territories Mining Company and the big cattle ranchers in the valley, we in Ringgold stand to make a great deal of money. The prospects are astonishing, the potential profits breathtaking. Some of the best grazing land in the territory is located here in the valley. There should be enough for everyone.”

  “What’s the problem then?” Sixkiller asked.

  “Some folks want more than their fair share, Quinto. They want to hog it all. Now what do you think of that?”

  “Why I’d say that’s mighty unfriendly of them, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Precisely. That brings us to the subject of our talk, the reason I extended myself to ensure that you’d be free of the reach of men like Marshal Braddock and Justice Applewhite, of Hickory Ned Hampton and even as great a power in the land as Harl Endicott of the Highline Ranch. They are creatures of destruction, all of them. I call them creatures because that is what they are. Their free will is not their own. All of them, Endicott included, bend the knee to a single master.

  “And who is he? I do not fear to name him outright, this nemesis who falls on the Glint like a biblical plague. He is the robber bandit chief—Bart Skillern, the Utah Kid.”

  The effect on Sixkiller was electrifying. He felt like a cardsharp who suddenly discovers that someone else in the game has sneaked an extra ace into his marked deck. Not that anything of his sudden unease could be seen on his face. The heavens might fall, yet he’d never outwardly crack to a twinge of anxiety.

  Had Sixkiller underestimated Mr. Mayor Dawes Ivey? How much—if anything—did Ivey know of his true identity and mission in Ringgold?

  “I see I have your full attention now, Quinto,” Ivey said, smirking slightly.

  “I’ve heard of the Kid, sure,” Sixkiller said. “Who hasn’t? But to hear you tell it, he’s not just another robber and killer. He runs the whole valley from behind the scenes.”

  “Not yet,” Ivey said, shaking his head. “He doesn’t have that much power now, as we speak. But I assure you, he seeks total control of the Glint, and that goal is almost within his reach. The time to stop him is growing short.

  “Bart Skillern is the most dangerous outlaw in the territory. He is, as you said, a robber and killer. He’s also pure hell with a gun—fast!

  “But I have reason to believe he is more than that. His is more than the animal cunning of the outlaw breed. He is gifted with intelligence, an intellect free of any considerations of morality, pity, an
d human decency. He’s the leader of a gang of killers almost as bad as he is. Is there any crime they’re not wanted for? Believe me, Quinto, when I tell you that because of the Utah Kid, the mining companies have been unable to make one payroll date since last spring. Impossible, you say. And yet it’s true. The miners on Sagebrush Flats, several hundred men and the families who depend on them, have not been paid since the month of May. And it’s not for lack of trying.

  “The company has engaged in every stratagem to ship enough hard cash money through the valley to the mining camps on the flats . . . all with zero success. Every payroll run, express mail, and freight wagon attempt has failed.”

  Ivey’s voice quavered with indignation—or was it fear? “The Kid is a cunning devil. If the payroll funds are guarded by a small army of gunmen, Skillern waits until delivery has been made and they’ve left. Then he raids the mining company safes and steals the gold before it can be paid out to the workmen.

  “He has a thousand eyes. Every harlot, tinhorn, sharper, and barkeep in the valley is a potential source of information to him. His reach extends to high places and low. I’ve even come to suspect that he has agents planted right here in town hall—but enough of that.

  “Perhaps you think I exaggerate. Have his depredations caused me to lose my reason, to become hysterical? No, Quinto. These are facts. Recall if you will the outrages of the James and Younger Brothers in the border states and see how a relatively small band of ruthless and determined outlaws can set the heartland of a great nation into the chaos and confusion of an overturned ant nest.

  “That’s the condition we’re fast approaching on the Glint. Skillern’s reach goes far beyond the outlaw gangs. A number of seemingly respectable citizens have allied with him in his attempt to take over the valley. They hide behind the mask of innocence while secretly aiding him in corrupting and subverting the community. I’ve mentioned some of their names. Marshal Braddock, Justice Applewhite, Hickory Ned, and Harl Endicott are the most prominent.

  “Let’s make no bones about it. I’m a politician. I try to get along with everyone. I just want to be friends. Why? Because that’s where the votes are. But with some folks there’s no getting along. That’s the Skillern outfit.—The Kid, his gang, and their allies and agents of influence. If I do nothing, they’ll eat me up in time, and time is running out,” Ivey said. He took a long drink of whiskey, nearly gulping down a whole glassful. It put some color back in his face.

  “I’ve talked long enough, Quinto. Now it’s your turn. What are your thoughts on the Bart Skillern problem?”

  “The Utah Kid’s a bad hombre, Mr. Mayor, but that’s all he is—an hombre. A bullet, a knife, or a length of rope will put paid to his career,” Sixkiller said.

  “Excellent, Quinto,” Ivey said, smiling thinly. “Again you cut to the heart of the matter. I shall be equally concise. I want you to join my little war on Bart Skillern.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I’m flattered by your confidence in me, Mr. Mayor. But I’m just a prospector who fought Bull Raymond to a draw. What makes you think I’d be any use to you in fighting an outlaw gang?” Sixkiller asked.

  “The answer to that question might be indiscreet, Quinto. For that reason, I must request my associates to leave us in privacy for a few moments,” Ivey said.

  Raffin didn’t need to be told twice. He finished his drink in a few gulps, set down his empty glass, and stood up. “Let’s go, Milo. Time for you to go collect some taxes.”

  The assistant rose, and he and Raffin started for the door.

  “I’ll be in the outer office when you need me, boss,” Raffin said over his shoulder.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” Ivey said.

  “I won’t be far away.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Raffin and Milo went out.

  Dash stood at the serving table, filling a glass almost to the brim with whiskey. “I’ll be in my office catching up on the paperwork.”

  “Thank you, Milt,” Ivey said.

  Sixkiller watched Dash. His hand was steady, his movements sure. Not a drop of whiskey sloshed over the rim of his glass as he crossed to the door and exited the room.

  “Now that we are in private, I think it best to put aside all pretense, Quinto.”

  “I’m an open book, Mr. Mayor,” Sixkiller said blandly.

  “Anything but,” Ivey said, chuckling. “Quinto. That’s an interesting name you picked for your alias in Ringgold.”

  “It’s my name.”

  “Perhaps it would expedite things if I tell you that I know what Quinto is. It’s a town in the Indian Nations of Oklahoma. After the Civil War, Quinto was the first big haunt of the border ruffians, an outlaw town.”

  “I grew up in those parts,” Sixkiller said, shrugging. “The name stuck to me and it fit. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Why don’t we put our cards on the table?” Ivey suggested.

  “Seems to me that you’re holding all the cards, Mr. Mayor.”

  “I wonder. You may better understand my position when I tell you that I am not only a friend and ally of Western Territories Mining Company, I hold a fair amount of stock in the company. I could not have been elected to this office without the company’s support. So you see, I have personal, political, and pecuniary reasons for wanting a quick resolution to the Utah Kid problem, Quinto.”

  “I see that much.”

  “The WTMC has branches throughout the Rocky Mountain States, including a Salt Lake division. Naturally the company representatives took a great interest in the recent death of Dean Richmond, a close friend and partner of the Kid’s since boyhood days.”

  “Naturally,” Sixkiller agreed.

  “The description of one of the posse men who got Richmond fits you to a tee,” Ivey said.

  “There’s a lot of fellows in the West who look like me.”

  “Apparently. Not long ago, another fellow who fits your description—a big Indian-looking fellow—cleaned up on a gang of killer bandits.”

  “Small world, ain’t it Mr. Mayor?”

  “The WTMC has extensive mining interests in New Mexico. One of their sources reported the fellow who cleaned up on the bandits, your lookalike, Quinto, was rumored to be a federal marshal,” Ivey said.

  “Excuse me for one little minute,” Sixkiller said, rising.

  Ivey watched in bemusement as the Oklahoman went to the door, opened it, and stuck his head outside. He closed the door, returned to his chair, and sat down.

  “For an instant there I thought you were running out on me, Quinto.”

  “Just making sure nobody was listening at the keyhole,” Sixkiller said. “You got to be more careful, Mr. Mayor. You go making statements like the one you just made and they get heard by the wrong set of ears, you could maybe get somebody seriously killed. Me.”

  “My apologies,” Ivey said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Like you said Mr. Mayor, Bart Skillern is a very crafty fellow. He could have spies in your outfit, maybe even on your staff.”

  “An unpleasant possibility, but one I’ll admit to contemplating. That’s why I’ve kept this matter closely held. So close, only you and I know of it.”

  “I’m not going to ask you what you think you know, Mr. Mayor. My question is, where do we go from here?”

  “I think we could do each other a deal of good. Ringgold needs help. I need help. I’m in a position to help you. In fact, I already have. Those charges could have worked you a mischief, Quinto. Whatever your objective is here, you won’t get much done from inside a jail cell or on a convict work crew. I’d say I’ve already made a substantial demonstration of my good faith.”

  “You have at that, sir.”

  “I can do more. Through me, you can put the considerable assets of the WTMC to work on your behalf.”

  “They’ve gotten nowhere catching Skillern so far,” Sixkiller pointed out.

  “True. But they can make all kinds of men and materiel
available to you,” Ivey said. “And I can give you some immunity from interference by the likes of Braddock and Apple-white. Already have given you some.”

  “It’s possible we can come to some kind of working arrangement. Something loose and flexible. I don’t work well under a tight rein. I’ve got to have the freedom to come and go as I please and crack down on troublemakers when I think they’ve got it coming.”

  Ivey smiled politely. “My last interest would be in reining you in, Quinto. Raffin doesn’t really collect taxes, Tapper does. Raffin’s my bodyguard and I keep him close. His official title gives him a reason for being here on the scene to protect me.”

  “A sensible precaution.”

  “Raffin’s a good gun, but he can only do so much. I’ll sleep better once Skillern’s dead and buried.”

  “So will a lot of other folks,” Sixkiller said.

  “Some of them right here in this very building,” said Ivey.

  “Taking the Kid is no easy proposition. He’s been getting away with it for years. We’ll both have to walk soft if we want to get out of this with a whole skin. The most important thing is that our arrangement remains a secret between you and me. Don’t tell Raffin or your mining company buddies or anybody else. Don’t put anything in writing.”

  “Give me credit for a little common sense, Quinto. No smart politician ever puts anything important in writing.”

  “By now, it’s common knowledge that you got me off the hook to sic me on Skillern and your political enemies, so let’s stick with that.”

  “I’ll do for you what I did for Raffin—appoint you to some official post to give you some cover for your activities.”

  “Good idea. Only let’s try to find something a little more high-toned for me than tax collector. Even for Ringgold, that’s kind of raw. How about fire inspector? That’ll give me a reason for sticking my nose into other people’s business.”

  “Done,” Ivey said. “I’ll have Milt Dash work up some kind of certificate of authority with a lot of important looking stamps and ribbons to impress the weak-minded.”