Hour of Death

by William W. Johnstone

  “Don’t go overboard. A simple certificate will do. What’ll really back it up are my fists and a gun.”

  “That reminds me. I have something that belongs to you.” Ivey opened a drawer in his desk and took out a holstered gun, handing it to Sixkiller. “Reeve Westbrook gave it to me to give to you. He said he thought you might need it.”

  “Mighty friendly of him,” Sixkiller deadpanned. “This sure is a friendly town.”

  He drew the gun from the holster, checking the cylinder to make sure it was still loaded. Bullets filled all the chambers save one that he kept empty for placement under the hammer as a safety precaution against the gun’s going off accidentally should it be dropped in a fight or fall out of the holster as he got thrown from a horse.

  He eased the gun back into the holster and buckled on the gun belt. “That’s better. I felt naked without it.”

  Sixkiller was still not fully dressed though. “Did Westbrook leave my hat?”

  “Sorry, no. No hat here,” Ivey said.

  “I’ve got to get it. Can’t go around without a hat. Folks’ll think I’m a no-account.”

  “Try the saloons. Westbrook’s sure to be in one of them.”

  “One thing more, Mr. Mayor. How about getting Bull out of jail?”

  “Bull Raymond! What do you want him for? He’s a rowdy, a troublemaker, a loose cannon. Let him stay in the jailhouse as Braddock’s headache.”

  “Bull’s my buddy.”

  “He tried to knock your brains out!”

  “I admit the getting acquainted part was a little rough, but he’s a decent fellow at heart, I do believe. At the showdown, I’d rather have him with us than agin’ us. Have him paroled into my custody. I’ll be responsible for him.”

  “Who’s going to pay for the damage he does? You?” Ivey asked.

  “If he gets out of line, I’ll just have to whup him again.”

  “All right. If that’s what you want. I hope you know what you’re doing.” Ivey sighed. “When do you want him out?”

  “After lunch should do it. I’ve got a few things to attend to before then. I want to be there when Bull gets sprung. I want him to know who he has to thank,” Sixkiller said. “Braddock has my money, and I’m gonna get it back from him. It’ll be good to have Bull there for backup.”

  “I’ll get Mitch Evert on it. He’s the town prosecutor. Applewhite should have known something was coming when Mitch wasn’t in court this morning to prosecute you.”

  “Much obliged, Mr. Mayor, much obliged,” Sixkiller said. “Things are going to start popping in Ringgold pretty soon, so be ready. Keep Raffin close and warn your people to beware of bushwhackers and shotgunners in dark alleys. But don’t get excited if you hear some shooting in a couple minutes. That’ll just be me taking some target practice to work the rust off my trigger finger.”

  “This is exciting,” Ivey confided. “The other side’s had the way of it up till now. It’ll be a pleasure to start hitting back.”

  “Why, Mr. Mayor, what an unfriendly thing to say!” Sixkiller went out of the office and out of the building.

  Walking east, he was looking for a place to try out his gun without setting off a ruckus. He didn’t have to walk far to run out of Ringgold town, only a couple of blocks before coming to a stretch of vacant fields used as a town dump.

  The gun had been out of his possession. He didn’t know who besides Westbrook and Ivey might have handled it during the interval. He had to be sure that it hadn’t been tampered with, the firing pin filed down or broken, bad cartridges substituted for good. “Only a damned fool takes a weapon on trust.”

  The iron checked out okay on inspection, but the proof was in the shooting. He picked up an empty tin can and tossed it in the air with his left hand. He drew and fired, hitting the can in mid-air, sending it soaring off at a tangent. He threw a few more slugs into it on the fly, the can dancing and bobbing aloft.

  He left the last bullet unfired so as to not leave himself unarmed.

  Sixkiller looked around. He was alone. He broke the gun, opened the cylinder gate, shucked out the spent cartridges, and dropped the brass into a pocket of his vest. Thrifty, he saved the brass for future hand loading. He liked to make up his own special rounds so they’d have extra man-stopping power.

  Also, as a veteran trail man, he disliked like leaving evidence of his presence—a good habit to cultivate if he wanted to stay alive.

  He reloaded his gun, holstered it, and went back into town, intercepting Westbrook as he crossed the intersection a couple blocks south of Liberty Street.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Westbrook said.

  “Here I am,” Sixkiller said. “Thanks for looking after my gun. Where’s my hat?”

  “At the Banner office. I left it there for safekeeping.”

  “Let’s go get it.”

  “All right.”

  They walked north toward Liberty Street.

  “How do you like working for Mayor Ivey?” Westbrook asked.

  Sixkiller cut him a sharp side glance. He reckoned the mayor was too sharp to crack to the reporter the nature of their real working relationship, so he must have fed Westbrook the cover story about using Quinto to crack down on his political foes. “You get around.”

  “I’m a reporter, remember? Who do you think was the flea who first put the word in the mayor’s ear that you could be more useful to him outside jail rather than in?”

  “That was you? Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “What do you get out of it?”

  “A good story, apart from any feelings of civic betterment engendered from trying to make Ringgold a decent place to live—one where you can stick your head out the door without someone trying to shoot it off.”

  “Ringgold’s a long way off from there.”

  “And likely to be farther still before you’re done?” Westbrook suggested slyly.

  “Could be. I’m going to do a few things for the mayor,” Sixkiller allowed, “but don’t print that.”

  “I won’t print a word about your activities until you give me the okay. Just make sure you give me the story first.”

  “Who else would I give it to?” Sixkiller asked rhetorically.

  “Oh boy! I can’t wait for the fireworks,” Westbrook said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sixkiller and Westbrook turned left on Liberty, walking west toward the Banner office. The sky was hazy with high, thin, whippy clouds. Gusts of north wind blew a bit brisk for a late summer day. It would have been chilly in Oklahoma, but maybe considered a balmy morning in Wyoming, Sixkiller thought. He was beginning to appreciate the truth of the old saw that “There’s only two seasons in Wyoming, winter and the Fourth of July.”

  Noise flared up, the clamor coming from a side street that opened on Liberty. Near a row of small stores on the south side of the street, loud voices racketed. Whooping and hollering were mixed with bursts of raucous laughter, rude and rowdy.

  Although it was the middle of the morning, five drunken cowboys came stumbling into view. Loudmouthed, unkempt hardcases, they were a rough bunch outfitted like ranch hands, but armed like gun hands. They wore range hats and sombreros, vests, and leather chaps. Drunk and disorderly, they swayed, staggered, and reeled.

  Westbrook halted, placing a restraining hand on Sixkiller’s left. “Uh-oh. Trouble! Those are Highline hands. Real bad ’uns. Stay back.”

  “Endicott’s bunch, eh?”

  “You catch on fast, Quinto.”

  “I get around,” Sixkiller said, frowning at the Highline quintet. “Kind of early to get a load on, and I say that as a drinking man who likes his drink.”

  “They’re probably coming off an all-nighter at French Marie’s. She runs a bordello a couple streets down,” Westbrook said.

  The mid-morning eruption took by surprise those citizens of the law-abiding element unlucky enough to be on Liberty Street. The quick-thinking ones got off the street fast.

>   As the rowdies came out of the side street, a young woman came out of a tiny dry goods store unawares. Slim and sweet-faced with blue eyes and straight yellow hair, she wore a light blue-and-white gingham dress and carried a wicker sewing basket under one arm. She stopped in her tracks, dismayed.

  The cowboys set up a howling like dogs scenting fresh red meat.

  The girl had the right idea. She turned on a dime, ducking her head and hurrying back into the dry goods store.

  The cowhands shouted words at her, most of them not very nice.

  The shopkeeper, a sensible older woman, shut the front door and locked it tight, pulling down the shade.

  One of the cowboys rushed to the door, a gangly, mean-faced youth with lank blond hair so pale it was almost white. He strutted around like the cock of the walk in too-tight jeans and fancy boots with high built-up heels.

  “That’s Romeo, one of Port’s crowd,” Westbrook said. “Very tough boys.”

  The cowboy rattled the door handle till it shook the frame. He banged on the glass of the door like to break it.

  A dignified-looking old man rounded the corner, preoccupied with his own thoughts. He carried under an arm several brown paper-wrapped parcels tied with twine.

  A cowboy dashed up, knocking the packages out from under the man’s arm and sending them scattering along the boardwalk.

  “Foley,” Westbrook said, naming the cowboy.

  The citizen stiffened, his reddening face contrasting with a white mustache. He knew better than to make a fuss. He stooped stiffly, laboriously picking the packages up.

  A third bad man moved behind the oldster, cueing his fellows in with a high sign that something was coming.

  “Lew,” Westbrook mumbled.

  The cowhand planted a hard kick on the seat of the oldster’s pants, sending him uncurling up into the air.

  “Like a jumping frog,” Lew crowed. “Haw, haw, haw!”

  The kick hurt. The oldster sat down in the street and didn’t get up, his face flaming red.

  A couple schoolboys raced past. A fourth rowdy stuck out a leg and tripped one of them, sending the kid tumbling.

  “Virgil,” Westbrook identified.

  The other schoolboys stopped, a couple of them helping their pal up.

  “Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?” one demanded.

  “’Cause there ain’t nobody big enough to tackle Virgil Akins, sonny boy,” the rowdy said. “Now git on home and cry to your momma.”

  “Tell her to come look up Romeo. I’ll make her cry . . . for more,” Romeo chimed in.

  “Cry from laughing, you mean,” Foley said.

  The fifth and final member of the group—a big bearish hombre whose unshaven face bristled like a hog’s back—came swaggering to the fore. Left-handed, he wore his gun on the left hip.

  He had little, piggy, red eyes just like a hog, Sixkiller thought.

  “And that’s Port, the leader of the bunch,” Westbrook said.

  The street was clear, free of any more citizens to torment, the civilians having gone to cover. Portand and his crowd stood with their backs to Sixkiller and Westbrook, not seeing them.

  “Fun’s over boys. We done chased ’em all away,” Port said.

  “I’m thirsty,” Foley complained.

  The others all agreed. They, too, were thirsty. Laughing and scratching, they lurched across the street and went into the Paradise Club.

  “No action?” Westbrook asked, arching an eyebrow. “I thought you’d go after them like you did Bull.”

  “It’s early yet,” Sixkiller said.

  They crossed to the Banner office.

  Cass stood outside the door, having just witnessed some of the cowboys’ “fun.” She was indignant. Being a redhead, her color was up. “Too bad you don’t feel like fighting when it would do some good,” she said to Sixkiller.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but I just spent a night in jail for fighting and I’m in no hurry to go back. Besides, cracking down on troublemakers is the marshal’s job.”

  “Humph!”

  “Say, where is Marshal Braddock, anyhow? Or his deputies? Seems like this is a job for them, protecting the citizens and all.”

  “I’m quite sure I couldn’t say.”

  “Or is it that Braddock’s heart just ain’t in it when it comes to laying down the law to Endicott and the Highline riders?” Sixkiller asked slyly.

  “I’m quite sure Marshal Braddock’s inner workings are a mystery to me,” Cass said.

  “Might be a story in it, a big one. Might make for some interesting reading.”

  That drew Cass up short, piquing her interest. She studied Sixkiller, her eyes thoughtful. “By the way, what are you doing out of jail and on the loose?”

  “You might say I’ve reformed. I’m working for the city now. Reeve’ll tell you all about it.” Sixkiller indicated Westbrook with a jerk of his thumb. “Much as I’d like to stay and pass the time of day, I’ve got business needs tending to, so if it’s all right with you, I’ll get my hat and be on my way.”

  “I’ll get it.” Westbrook went inside, returning a moment later with Sixkiller’s hat.

  “Thanks for taking care of it. I’d hate to lose it,” Sixkiller said. “Hard to find another like it.”

  “Who would want to?” Cass said.

  “You might not think it to look at me, but I’m really a very sentimental fellow.”

  “That is hard to swallow.”

  “That’s what all the girls say, but never mind about that. . . .”

  “Well!” Cass’s face reddened as she got it.

  Sixkiller put a fist inside the tall crown with the rounded top, knuckling out some of the dents, working it into shape. He fit it on his head, tilting the brim at a rakish angle. “See you in the papers, ma’am.” He turned and went on his way.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Town Prosecutor Mitch Evert’s office was on the second floor of the courthouse. Evert had handled Bull’s freeing, it being agreed by the prosecutor and Mayor Ivey that events might proceed more smoothly if Sixkiller was away from Braddock’s jailhouse at that time.

  Medium-sized, sandy-haired, and compactly built, with dark eyes, long sideburns, and a mustache, Evert was in the office with Bull when Sixkiller entered after lunch.

  Bull rushed Sixkiller, clasping his big meaty paws on the other’s upper arms in a gesture of enthusiastic fraternal feeling and concord. “My pal! I had you all wrong, Quinto. I thought you was throwing me to the wolves at Braddock’s jail!”

  Sixkiller’s arms went temporarily numb. “Wolves is stepping up in class for them, Bull. Call it a snake den.”

  “Maybe you don’t think Braddock wasn’t mighty sore when Prosecutor Mitch came around with a court order to get me out of jail. Man! He was fit to be tied.”

  “Just remember, Bull, you’re working for me now. They released you into my custody,” Sixkiller said.

  “That’s because you’re the only mug with guts enough to mix it up with me.”

  “You’re too tough for me, Bull,” Sixkiller said, shaking his head. “Next time I’ll just shoot you.” Sixkiller grinned to show he was joking . . . wasn’t he?

  “You’re the boss, Quinto,” Bull said. “Who do we kill?”

  Mitch Evert looked pained. “Please, not when I’m listening!”

  Sixkiller tsk-tsked. “You’ve got to rid yourself of such notions, Bull. You’re a peace officer now . . . of a sort. We’re going to see that the laws are enforced. We’re kind of unofficial roving agents for Mr. Evert here.”

  “So unofficial I don’t even know you. Unofficially speaking,” Evert said.

  “Got that, Bull?” Sixkiller asked.

  “No.”

  “Prosecutor Mitch can’t convict without evidence and can’t trust Braddock and company to get him the evidence he needs to bring before a jury. So we’re going to help him out—unofficially, of course,” Sixkiller explained. This was a new wrinkle he had worked out with Ivey
and Evert to sow mischief among the ungodly, in addition to his fire inspector dodge.

  Sixkiller went on. “Let’s say we catch us a rustler and the others get away and our man won’t talk. Well, it’s our job to make him talk. Have I got that about right so far, Mr. Prosecutor?”

  “Call me Mitch. That’s right. That’s about the size of it.”

  “I’ll make that rustler talk,” Bull said, his expression so fierce that the others grew mildly alarmed.

  “He’s got to be able to testify in court, Bull,” Sixkiller said.

  “What about Braddock?” Bull asked.

  “What about him?”

  “You know how he is. What if he tries to interfere?”

  “That’ll be just too bad,” Sixkiller said, “for him.”

  “I’m gonna like this job,” Bull said, grinning hugely.

  “Remember you’re working for Quinto, not me,” Evert said. “You take orders from him. He seems to know enough law to keep you both out of trouble.”

  “I do the thinking for both of us, Bull.”

  “Sure, Quinto, sure. I got it.”

  “By the way, Mitch, what do you know about an hombre named Port?” Sixkiller asked.

  “Too much,” Evert said. “You can thank Port for making Braddock marshal.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Port killed Braddock’s predecessor stone dead. Braddock was deputy and took over the marshal’s job. It was coldblooded murder. Port gunned the marshal down without warning. We couldn’t get a conviction, though. The witnesses were too scared of Port to testify. He’s one of Endicott’s top guns.

  “How’d you get on to Port, Quinto?”

  “Oh, I saw him and his pards cutting up earlier today on Liberty Street.”

  “Nobody was killed or I’d have heard of it. Lucky,” Evert said.

  “Reckon we’ll mosey along then and make the rounds,” Sixkiller said.

  “What have you got in mind or is it something I shouldn’t know about?” Evert asked.

  “Whatever it is, it’ll be perfectly legal,” Sixkiller assured him. “Keep any weapons here?”

  “What do you have in mind?” Evert said, repressing a slight start.