Hour of Death

by William W. Johnstone

  Between Sixkiller and Foley and Port, the table balanced upright on the rounded rim, two legs on the floor, two in the air. Sixkiller circled around it, bringing him to Foley, who had his gun up and swinging it toward Sixkiller.

  The Oklahoman sliced with an upward thrust that caught Foley on the underside of the wrist, driving his gun hand up. Ax handle impacted flesh and bone with a cracking sound that was drowned out by a blast of gunfire as Foley reflexively jerked the trigger.

  The shot went harmlessly into the ceiling.

  Sixkiller slashed again, knocking the gun from Foley’s hand. Foley screamed.

  A booming blast sounded a warning shot as Bull cut loose with one of the barrels of the sawed-off shotgun.

  Sixkiller spared a glance to see what was going on.

  Bull had fired in the direction of Hickory Ned, not at him, for if he had it would have been Hickory Ned who had the big hole in him rather than the wall beside him.

  Ned had been reaching under the bar for a weapon. Covered by Bull’s shotgun, he froze.

  “Ah-ah.” Bull grinned, wagging a finger at Ned.

  No one else in the saloon was minded to catch the buckshot in the other barrel.

  All of which Sixkiller took in an eye blink. He still had work to do.

  In the prone position, Virgil stirred on the floor, trying to rouse himself. He was out of the picture, merely something in the way, and Sixkiller stepped on him, stomping him flat. Virgil stopped trying to get up, and Sixkiller moved on to Port.

  With his right hand clutching his throat, Port pulled his gun with the left.

  Sixkiller stepped down hard, pinning the gunman’s wrist to the floor.

  Port worked the trigger, slugs burning a few inches above the floor, tearing into the base of the bar across the room. Patrons at the bar previously stupefied by Bull’s shotgun blast had to step lively as bullets blazed around their feet.

  Standing over Port, Sixkiller thrust straight down with the ax handle, using it like a spear, hammering Port’s chin. Port became unconscious.

  Sixkiller looked around the saloon. Port was knocked out stone cold. Foley, ditto. Virgil lay with arms and legs feebly flailing. Romeo sat huddled in a heap on the floor, holding his head in his hands, moaning. Lew had come out of it the lightest, mainly because he had never really been in the fight. He was on hands and knees, head bowed, dazed, and covered with sawdust like all the others who’d hit the floor.

  Sixkiller bent down, prying the gun from Port’s unresisting fingers. He kicked it across the floor. Raising the ax handle high overhead in both hands, he brought it down sizzling hard on Port’s gun hand. It was like crushing the head of a poisonous serpent. There was a crackling sound of breaking bones.

  Somebody screamed. But it wasn’t Port. He was knocked out, stirring not at all.

  Assorted gasps and groans came from the spectators as Bull held the shotgun leveled, covering them.

  “Port’s out of the gunslinging business—permanently,” Sixkiller announced in a voice of doom. “I’m feeling charitable today so I didn’t gun him out. I won’t be so easygoing next time. Any rannies who try to hoorah the town will get the same or worse.”

  Lew had kicked the oldster in the seat of the pants earlier. Sixkiller snaked Lew’s gun out of the holster. Lew flinched, shouting out loud and cowering.

  “Bellowing like a yearling roped for the branding,” Sixkiller said in disgust. “Quit your squalling. You ain’t hurt yet.” He gripped Lew’s upper arm, hauling him up on his feet.

  Lew shivered, nearly hysterical. “What—what’re you gonna do?!”

  “This is for that old gentleman you booted in the tail,” Sixkiller said. “You thought that was so damned funny, maybe you’ll get a kick out of this!”

  Sixkiller planted a tremendous kick to Lew’s tailbone, lifting him straight up into the air with both feet leaving the floor. Lew was propelled a goodly distance across the floor to land belly down, skittering through the sawdust, leaving skid marks to mark his trail.

  “One last word,” Sixkiller said to Hickory Ned. “I’m Quinto. Tell Bart Skillern I’ve got a message for him from Dean Richmond. I’ll tell it to him when I meet him face-to-face.”

  “I’ll just do that little thing, mister,” Hickory Ned said.

  “See that you do or I’ll be back for you and I won’t be so gentle next time,” Sixkiller said. “We’re done here, Bull.”

  “Right!”

  Sixkiller went to the saloon doors, hand on his gun. He looked outside to see if anybody was laying for them. “All clear, Bull. Let’s go.”

  “Be polite, gents,” Bull said, backing out of the entrance, still covering the customers with the sawed-off.

  They went outside, where knots of curious onlookers had gathered at a safe distance, staring at the saloon and wondering what was happening inside. Some scattered when they saw Sixkiller and Bull emerge.

  The duo hustled east on Liberty Street, not exactly running, but not taking a leisurely stroll either. No habitués of the Paradise Club followed to pursue the matter further.

  They nearly collided with Reeve Westbrook coming the other way. Westbrook had a notepad in hand and his face was shiny.

  Bull said, “Look who it is. Johnny-on-the-spot!”

  “What happened? I heard shooting! Anybody killed?” Westbrook craned to see past them to the saloon.

  “Nothing to get excited about,” Sixkiller said. “Some Highline hands fell down and knocked themselves out. It’s a shame when grown men can’t hold their liquor.”

  “What’re you doing with that ax handle?”

  “I need it for prospecting.”

  “But there’s no blade on it.”

  “Damn! Knew I forgot something. No wonder Tobey let me have it so cheap.”

  Sixkiller and Bull absented themselves from the scene, while Westbrook rushed into the Paradise Club.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The law in Ringgold, such as it was, waited until dinnertime to make its move against Sixkiller.

  At the Bon Ton Café, he and Bull sat at a corner table with both seats turned so they could see the front door. It was a popular eatery and most of the tables were full. There was a lively buzz of conversation and the clatter of knives and forks on plates.

  Sixkiller added to the conversation, filling Bull in on his afternoon. He had finally enjoyed the luxury of a hot bath, washing the jailhouse stink out of his skin. A loaded gun had sat on the stand beside the tub throughout, but nothing had interrupted his steaming soak.

  Bull didn’t believe in baths, a topic he held forth on during dinner. “I don’t hold with it. Too much bathing can weaken you,” he insisted.

  “Where’d you hear that?” Sixkiller asked.

  “From an old buffalo hunter.”

  “It might be good advice if you want to sneak up on an old buffalo, but there ain’t too many of them left around no more.”

  “Ain’t it the truth?” Bull lamented. “The herds are just about gone from Wyoming. Come next spring there won’t be none left.”

  “Funny—everywhere you go in the West there’s always a Bon Ton café,” Sixkiller said. “Why is that? I don’t know why. It just is. I don’t even know what Bon Ton means.”

  “Who cares? Just so long as the chow’s good,” Bull said.

  It was good, with thick juicy steaks big enough to cover the plates, and the plates were big. The steak was done the way Sixkiller liked, blackened on the outside, red on the inside. He had a side of fried potatoes, some sliced tomatoes, and bread, washed down with mugs of sharp tangy ale. Bull had pretty much the same, only more.

  The café owner, Alex, was short and squat with slicked down curly black hair and a mustache. He manned the register by the door as diners finished and cleared out. Soon, only a few tables were occupied. A handful of miners who’d come down from the camps sat at a side table working their forks and spoons like shovels as they excavated their plates clean. A few solitary eaters sat at small
tables scattered around the room.

  “You know the food’s good here because the waitress ain’t nothing to look at,” Bull said, loud enough for Cora to overhear.

  She was big with a mammoth bosom, thick middle, horse buttocks, and a visage like a shaved dish-faced bear. She called Bull a dirty name.

  “I don’t think Cora likes us too well,” Sixkiller said.

  “Hell, she don’t like nobody too well,” Bull opined.

  Sixkiller and Bull cleaned their plates. Cora sullenly stacked them to take them away.

  “We ain’t done yet,” Bull said. “Bring me a quart of coffee.” No need to specify black coffee. That’s how men in the West took their coffee. “A meal ain’t a meal without coffee.”

  “Agreed,” Sixkiller said. He told Cora, “I’ll have a pot of coffee too, a separate pot. I ain’t much for sharing. Bring me half an apple pie. Not a slice. I want a whole half a pie.”

  “I’ll take the other half,” Bull said.

  Dessert and coffee arrived at the table quickly.

  “Got any whiskey to go with that coffee?” Sixkiller asked.

  “No hard liquor served here, mister,” Cora said.

  “Come on. Don’t tell me you don’t have a bottle or two set aside for special customers or cooking purposes?” Sixkiller pressed, suggestively rattling some gold coins in his hand.

  “I’ll take a look.” Cora went into the kitchen, returning with a pitcher. She set it down on the table.

  “You call that service? We want whiskey, not cream,” Bull said in an aggrieved tone.

  “Look inside, grumpy,” Cora all but spat.

  Sixkiller lifted the shiny metal lid. Brown whiskey filled the pitcher, its aromatic fumes wafting out. “Better have a look, Bull.”

  Bull held the pitcher under his face, which lit up. He inhaled deeply. “Ahh . . .”

  “If I brought out a bottle of whiskey everybody would want one,” Cora said snippily.

  “Why don’t you? What’s wrong with whiskey anyhow.”

  Cora paused before lowering the boom. “It brings in undesirable customers.” She went away, waddling into the kitchen.

  “I guess she put me in my place,” Bull said, grinning.

  “That’s us—undesirable customers.” Sixkiller poured a generous splash of whiskey into his cup, filling the rest with coffee. Bull did the same only with a bigger splash and less coffee.

  Sixkiller held the cup under his nose, savoring the heady aroma of rich fresh-brewed coffee laced with whiskey. He took a long pull. “That cools down hot coffee better than cream.”

  A small lithe form floated up on the other side of the café’s front window. It was Eli, the boy Sixkiller had met when he first rode into town, the kid who’d steered him to Noble’s livery stable. A street kid, frontier town version.

  Boys are useful lookouts. Adults pay no attention to them except to chase them away to loiter somewhere else. Boys of a certain age are small and sneaky and as the saying goes, “Little pitchers have big ears.”

  And bigger eyes, seeing plenty more than adults think they do, a fact well known to Sixkiller, who found them useful aides in the sleuthing game. Earlier that day he had located Eli and pitched him a business proposition, one given careful consideration by the youngster now that Sixkiller had the prestige of being the man who fought Bull Raymond to a draw.

  Sixkiller put Eli on the payroll and fed him some spare coins with the promise of more to come. “Watch the marshal and his deputies and keep me posted on their comings and goings. Be on the lookout for any hardcases riding into town, especially if they come in force. It’s a big job and it’ll take a passel of kids so rope your friends in on this. I’ll pay you and you pay them. When you get them lined up ready to work, let me know because there’s some town hall characters I want watched, too.”

  Sixkiller gave Eli the high sign, motioning him to come inside.

  Alex scowled at Eli’s entrance. No paying customer. Kids were a nuisance.

  Eli dodged him, rushing to Sixkiller’s table. He was a bright-eyed youngster with excited high color in his cheeks.

  Sixkiller paused with a piece of pie impaled on a fork halfway to his mouth. “What’s up?”

  “The marshal and his deputies are standing around the corner keeping an eye on this place. I seen them. They got shotguns. Looks like they mean business, mister,” Eli said.

  “I’ll be mindful of it, thanks. You got your buddies following those fellows I pointed out to you this afternoon at the courthouse?”

  “Sure do!”

  “Keep watching.” Sixkiller passed Eli some dollar coins under the table. “Thanks, partner. Best go through the kitchen out the back door so the law don’t see you.”

  “That’s what else I wanted to tell you,” Eli said excitedly. “One of the deputies went around the back way. I saw him sneaking around the back before—Wheeler, the one who’s always smiling all the time.”

  “Much obliged. Better go out the front way and make yourself scarce,” Sixkiller said. “Keep your eyes open and don’t forget to duck.”

  Eli bobbed his head, nodding yes. He scooted up the aisle and went out the front door, vanishing into the darkling dusk.

  “That idea of yours of hiring them kids as lookouts is starting to pay off big,” Bull said.

  “It’ll pay off even better if my hunch about the courthouse crowd pans out,” Sixkiller said. “Right now we’ve got a more immediate problem. Looks like Braddock’s crowding for a showdown.”

  “He’s the one who’s got the problem.” Bull pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’ll cover the back door.” He reached for the sawed-off shotgun hanging by its strap on the back of an empty chair at the table. “I’ll take care of Wheeler.”

  “Don’t kill him if you don’t have to,” Sixkiller cautioned.

  Bull looked disappointed. “You ain’t gonna turn into one of them reformers, are you?”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Good.” Bull hefted the sawed-off and lumbered toward the rear of the café, into the kitchen.

  At the register in front, Alex started to protest, thought better of it, and kept quiet. He looked worried, fretting.

  Sixkiller rose to speak to his fellow diners. Luckily they were few, the dinner crowd having peaked earlier. “There’s liable to be some trouble, folks, so if you’re nervous about gunplay, better clear out now.” Sixkiller said.

  “Why the hell don’t you get out instead,” Cora demanded angrily. “Why do you have to make trouble?”

  “I’m still working on that pie, ma’am.”

  Cora told him what he could do with the pie.

  “I haven’t finished my coffee, either.”

  She told him what he could do with the coffee . . . and the coffeepot, too.

  “I’m sorry you feel like that,” Sixkiller said.

  Cora muttered something so deep under her breath that he couldn’t hear it. She breathed hard, her massive bosom heaving with indignation.

  Alex was anxious about the threat of upcoming action, but not so much that he failed to get between the front exit and some diners who tried to clear out without first paying their bill.

  A lone diner threw some dollar coins on the table, leaving most of his meal uneaten. “That’ll cover it,” he said, hurrying out.

  Alex must have agreed because he let the man slip out the front door without a further accounting.

  Two other diners paid up and went out fast, not looking back.

  Not the miners at the big side table. They kept on stolidly eating, while showing some interest in the coming clash.

  Sixkiller picked at his pie, working his fork with his left hand. His right held his drawn gun in his lap, under a white cloth napkin. The piece was covering the front door.

  Sure enough in they came, Braddock and Porrock, full-length shotguns in hand, held pointed downward. They entered one at a time, Braddock first, then the deputy.

  “That’s close enough,” Sixkiller sa
id. “Keep those shotguns pointed straight down at the floor, boys. Else there’s gonna be two vacancies opening up in the jailhouse department.”

  “Mighty big talk,” Braddock said, but he stopped advancing and kept the shotgun lowered. Porrock followed his lead, doing the same.

  “How you figure on backing your play?” Braddock demanded.

  “With this here Colt I’m holding under the table aimed at your belly,” Sixkiller said.

  “Aw hell, you ain’t gonna fall for that line of horse pucky? He’s bluffing.” Porrock sneered.

  “I’d say that too, if I was standing behind Braddock, you yellowbelly.”

  Braddock didn’t like that so well. He wanted to glance back to see what Porrock was doing and if he was really using his boss as a shield, but he didn’t dare take his focus off Sixkiller.

  Sixkiller raised the barrel of the Colt, causing a fold of the napkin to fall back, baring the gun muzzle so Braddock could get a look at that big black hole death came out of.

  “He’s got that gun drawn,” Braddock said tightly. “What kind of game you playing, Quinto?”

  “I was eating pie before you came horning in,” Sixkiller said. “You got the drop on me the last time we tangled. I was kind of distracted at the time, trying to keep Bull Raymond from beating my brains out. And I wasn’t wearing my gun. I couldn’t have made it easier for you, if I’d tried. Things shape up different now, huh?”

  “You can’t be that drunk, Quinto, and you ain’t loco, so drop that gun and raise your hands,” Braddock said.

  “Now who’s loco?” Sixkiller said, smiling nastily.

  “You’re under arrest.”

  “Prove it.”

  The issue hung fire for a long pause, the tension mounting. Even the miners had stopped eating, their eyes big in their heads as they watched the confrontation.

  Sixkiller reckoned that Braddock was stalling for time, waiting for Wheeler to come in through the back door. Then they’d have lined up in a squeeze play, caught in a shotgun crossfire.

  It didn’t work out that way.

  The Ringgold lawmen had forgotten about Bull.

  Wheeler’s shriek from the kitchen rang with the mortal terror of instant death. “No, don’t!—”