Mixed in with the descendants of the town’s original settlers was a sizable percentage of whites, many of them dressed like businessmen. Ever since the opening of the Santa Fe Trail while this was still part of Mexico, trade had been the most important part of life in this settlement. There was still a steady flow of goods back and forth, but most of it was shipped by rail now, rather than in long wagon trains.
John Henry found the Palace of the Governors without much trouble, although navigating the labyrinth of streets was kind of a challenge. The Palace was a long, low, sprawling adobe building with a covered gallery along its front and a number of different doors. John Henry dismounted, looped Iron Heart’s reins around one of the hitch racks, and went to the nearest door. It opened into a wide lobby.
A few minutes of being passed from functionary to functionary brought him to Governor Lew Wallace’s office. The governor had quite a reputation as a general in the Union Army during the Civil War. John Henry had fought on the other side during that conflict, as many of the Cherokee had, but he bore no grudges now toward the North and the men who had served the Union.
A smoothly handsome, expensively dressed man stood up from a chair in the governor’s outer office and extended a hand to John Henry.
“Marshal Sixkiller?”
“That’s right,” John Henry said as he gripped the man’s hand for a moment. “And you are . . . ?”
“Filipe Montoya, one of the governor’s aides. I’m told that you’re here on official business?”
“I suppose. I don’t really know much about it, Señor Montoya. I got a telegram from my boss asking me to come here and meet with the governor.”
“You would think that I’d be aware of this, as closely as I work with Governor Wallace on territorial matters.” Montoya seemed a little put out by the fact that he hadn’t been informed of John Henry’s visit until now, but he forced a smile and went on. “Ah well, I suppose I’ll find out soon enough, if this is something the governor needs my assistance on. Please, come this way.”
Montoya ushered John Henry over to a massive wooden door and knocked on it. When a voice called from the other side of the door and told them to come in, Montoya opened it and held out a hand to indicate that John Henry should go first.
“This is Marshal Sixkiller, Governor,” Montoya said as he and John Henry entered Wallace’s private office.
Wallace sat at a large desk with a window behind him that looked out across the plaza on which the Palace was located. He had a pen in his hand and was writing on a piece of paper. Without looking up from what he was doing, he said, “I’ll be with you in just a moment, Marshal.” As an afterthought, he added, “That’ll be all, Filipe.”
“Yes, sir,” Montoya said, and again he sounded slightly annoyed. John Henry figured he was one of those bureaucratic types who felt like he had to be kept up to date on everything that was going on.
Without being asked, John Henry hung his hat on a hat tree to one side of the door. Wallace finished his writing and put his pen back in its holder. He picked up the sheet of paper, blew on it to help dry the ink, and set it on a fairly thick stack of similar pages. He stood up and came around the desk.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Marshal,” he said as he shook hands with John Henry. “I’m writing a novel, you see, and I feared losing my train of thought if I failed to complete that paragraph before setting it aside.”
“Well, Governor, I never wrote anything except a few assignments for school, but I can understand how that might happen, I suppose. What’s your book about?”
John Henry knew that Judge Parker hadn’t sent him here to discuss literature with Wallace, but it never hurt to take an interest in the things that were important to other folks.
“It’s set during the early days of Christianity,” Wallace said as he waved John Henry into a comfortable-looking leather chair in front of the desk. “The leading character is a young man named Judah Ben-Hur.”
“Sounds interesting,” John Henry said as he settled down into the chair, which was as comfortable as it looked.
Wallace smiled. He was a distinguished gentleman, as befitted his military service and his current position as territorial governor. He had a shock of graying hair, a full mustache, and a pointed beard. There was an air of command about him, also appropriate given his background.
“I won’t bore you with reading any passages,” he said dryly. “Instead I’ll get down to business. I contacted Judge Parker because I need a man for a special mission, and it’s known far and wide that the deputies who serve under him are, for the most part, extraordinary lawmen.”
“We try to do our job,” John Henry said.
“It’s also important that the man selected for this task not be well-known in New Mexico Territory. Judge Parker replied to me that you were already in the vicinity, and you fit that requirement. Are you up to taking on another assignment so soon, Marshal Sixkiller?”
“Judge Parker told me to do whatever I can for you, Governor,” John Henry said. “So I reckon I’m at your service.”
Wallace grew more solemn and shook his head.
“Three men have already died trying to carry out this mission, Marshal,” he said. “I ordered many men to their deaths when I served in the army. That was a necessary evil. These days, I find that it sticks in my craw more than it used to. I won’t order you to take this job . . . but I’ll admit that I’m in need of your help.”
“Why don’t you tell me what it’s all about?” John Henry suggested.
“Have you ever heard of a town called Chico?”
John Henry thought about the question for a moment, then shook his head.
“No, sir, I don’t believe I have.”
“It’s a couple of days’ ride northwest of here, on the other side of the Rio Grande at the edge of the San Juan Mountains. It’s located in an area where there are a number of fine ranches, along with a bit of logging and mining. Because of that, Chico was quite a thriving settlement.”
John Henry had caught an important distinction in what the governor said. He leaned forward in his chair, frowned slightly, and said, “Was?”
Wallace nodded and said, “Yes. Trouble has descended on Chico and threatens its long-term existence. A man named Dav, Samuel Dav, managed to get himself elected sheriff.”
“That’s an unusual name.”
“Dav is an unusual man,” Wallace said. “He’s some sort of foreigner, from what I’m told. A Gypsy, perhaps, I’m not sure. But one thing I am certain of is that Dav is an outlaw.”
“I thought you said he was the sheriff in Chico,” John Henry commented.
“He is, but that doesn’t make him any less of a villain.”
John Henry nodded. He understood now. He had run into a few crooked lawmen in his time, one of them pretty recently. As a man who carried a badge himself, he felt a special anger for anyone who abused that trust.
“I reckon the people of Chico didn’t realize what sort of man Dav was until after they put him in office.”
“That’s right,” Wallace said with a nod. “He immediately brought in a small army of deputies, all of them as ruthless and gun-handy as he is, and completely took over the town. He forced the town council to levy special law enforcement taxes that went directly into his own pocket.”
“That’s the same thing as protection money,” John Henry said.
The governor nodded and said, “That’s right. In addition, he began charging people to use the town’s public well, and he turned the road through a nearby pass into a toll road. The local ranchers have to use that road to get their cattle out to the railroad, but Dav’s deputies blocked it off and demanded payment before the herds were allowed to pass.”
“Sounds like he’s determined to loot as much as he can from those folks.”
“And that doesn’t even begin to touch on the more personal outrages being committed by Dav and his men.” Wallace’s mouth was a grim line under the mustache. “No woman is saf
e on the streets after dark. Any man who speaks up against Dav’s brutal tyranny is subject to a savage beating . . . or he just simply disappears in the night. Those people are living in terror, Marshal Sixkiller.”
“How do you know about all this?” John Henry asked. “If Dav is up to such no good, you’d think that he’d keep a tight lid on the place.”
“That’s exactly what’s happened over the past few months. Dav has clamped down tighter and tighter. The first few months after he took office, though, he wasn’t as diligent about keeping anyone from getting in or out of Chico. Several of the local leaders managed to send letters to me explaining what was going on and asking for help. One, the editor of the local newspaper, even came to Santa Fe and paid me a visit. I suggested that he shouldn’t go back, but he insisted that he had to.” Wallace shook his head. “There’s no telling what happened to him. Dav may have killed him by now. Things could be even worse than what I’ve told you. Considerably worse, in fact. Samuel Dav is running Chico like it’s a feudal kingdom, Marshal, and he’s the lord and master of all he surveys.”
“Sounds like somebody needs to take him down a peg,” John Henry said.
“I’ve tried. I’ve sent in three men, specially appointed investigators, tough men, each and every one of them.” Wallace paused. “They’ve all disappeared as if they’d fallen down the deepest, darkest mine shaft you can imagine. I can’t help but believe that they’re all dead.”
John Henry leaned back in the chair and cocked his right ankle on his left knee.
“Sounds to me like you need to send in the army,” he said. “Or at least a big posse of lawmen.”
“I don’t have that many men to spare right now,” Wallace said. “Trouble’s heating up down in Lincoln County. It may turn into an outright war down there. I can’t put out both of those brush fires at once. And as for the army, this is a civil, criminal matter, not a military one. I’m not going to declare martial law except as a last resort. Besides, if Dav is as vicious and ruthless as I’ve been told, if the army showed up he might hold the entire town hostage and start killing off the citizens. A standoff like that could turn into a wholesale slaughter.”
“So you thought you’d send in one more man first,” John Henry mused. “Even though you’ve lost three so far doing that.”
Wallace’s face flushed with anger.
“You can see why I said I wouldn’t order you to accept this assignment, Marshal,” he snapped. “There’s a great deal of danger involved. Not only that, but it’s somewhat out of the normal range of cases handled by federal officers. New Mexico is still a territory, though, not a state, so I think I can justify federal involvement.”
“I’m not worried about jurisdiction,” John Henry said. “I was thinking more along the lines of how I would keep Dav from just killing me like he probably killed those other men you sent in.”
“I can’t tell you that,” Wallace said. “All I can do is ask if you’d be willing to give it a try. I don’t really know what’s going on in Chico right now, Marshal, but I’d be willing to wager that it’s pretty bad for the citizens.”
John Henry nodded and said, “So would I. That’s why I’m going to take you up on it, Governor.”
“You’ll go to Chico and try to put a stop to Dav’s reign of terror?”
“I’ll give it my best shot,” John Henry said.
And judging from everything Governor Wallace had told him, that was just what it would take.
Hot lead, and plenty of it.
Chapter Three
The mountains around Chico reminded Samuel Dav a little of home. It was true that the San Juans were taller and more rugged than the Carpathians, but the way their darkly wooded slopes cupped the valleys was similar. Chico was much larger and impressive than the tiny villages of his homeland, however. And certainly more profitable . . . for a man willing to take whatever he wanted.
Right now Dav wanted the woman named Lucinda Hammond, and he certainly was willing to do whatever it took to get her.
Of course, he could march into her fine home, put a gun to her head, and force her to do what he wanted, he thought as he leaned against one of the posts holding up the awning over the boardwalk in front of the sheriff’s office. He could march up to the street to that mansion he was looking at now and claim his rights.
But that wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying as if she came to him and begged for it, he thought. Begged him to take her and make her his woman. He just had to be patient and give her a little more time.
After all, it had only been less than two weeks since he had killed her husband.
Footsteps sounded on the boardwalk to Dav’s right. He turned his head lazily to see who was approaching him. The citizens of Chico were so thoroughly cowed that he didn’t think the newcomer could represent a threat, and he saw that he was right about that. It was one of his deputies, Carl Miller.
The two men were a study in contrasts: Dav tall, whipcord lean, and dark, with a narrow mustache above his cruel mouth, while Miller was short and stocky with a sunburned face and curly fair hair spilling out from under his thumbed-back hat. The men were similar enough in other ways, though, most notably their capacity for ruthless violence.
“The old fella over at the bakery is givin’ trouble again, Sam,” Miller reported.
“Call me Sheriff,” Dav said. “You know better than that.”
“Oh yeah, sorry.” Miller grinned broadly. “I forget sometimes that we’re legal now.”
“And as for the baker, you know how to deal with a problem like that.”
Miller scratched his heavy jaw and said, “Yeah, but I sort of hate to shoot him. He bakes just about the best bread I ever did taste. Anyway, he said he wanted to talk to you.”
“All right, I suppose I can put the fear of God into him.” Dav cast one last glance toward the Hammond mansion at the other end of town as he turned to follow Miller toward the bakery.
“More like the fear of the devil,” the stocky deputy said with a chuckle. “Some of these ignorant yokels seem to think you’re Beelzebub his own self.”
Dav smiled and said, “How do you know I’m not?”
Miller chuckled again, but it had a slightly uneasier sound to it this time.
“Don’t be funnin’ with me that way, Sheriff,” the deputy said. “My ma always told me the devil would get me if I didn’t straighten up and behave myself.”
“And yet you’re still here,” Dav said mockingly as he clapped a hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder. “You make the mistake of believing that there are such things as good and evil in the world, my friend. In reality, there are only those who get what they want . . . and those who don’t.”
“Yeah, I reckon you’re right about that,” Miller said.
They had reached Heinsdorf’s Bakery. Wilhelm Heinsdorf was a fat, middle-aged German who, like Miller said, was a fine baker. But no matter how good his bread and cakes were, he couldn’t be allowed to stand up to the law, Dav thought. The idea put a sardonic smile on his face.
A little bell over the door jingled when Dav opened it and strode in with Miller close behind him. A couple of female customers stood at the counter. They took one look over their shoulders at the lawmen and then scurried out of the building, leaving the loaves of bread they had purchased behind them. They ignored Heinsdorf as he called out to them.
“Don’t worry, Dutchy,” Dav told the baker. “They can come back for what they bought later.”
Heinsdorf reached below the counter. Dav rested his hand on his gun butt, confident in his speed. Even if Heinsdorf brought out a weapon, Dav could draw and fire before the German had a chance to use it.
It was not a shotgun or a revolver Heinsdorf reached for, however. When his hand came up from behind the counter, his pudgy fingers clutched a silver crucifix.
He thrust the cross toward Dav and said in a trembling voice, “Stay back! I don’t know how a foul creature like you manages to walk in the daylight, but this will
protect me! I know what you are!”
Dav stared at the baker in surprise for a few seconds, then a laugh burst from him.
“You old fool!” he said. “You think I’m some monster from your Old World superstititions?”
“I . . . I know where you come from,” Heinsdorf quavered. “You may be a descendant of Vlad himself!”
“Idiot,” Dav muttered. He stepped closer to the counter and reached out toward the baker. “If I were truly what you think I am, would I be able to do this?”
He closed his hand around the crucifix and ripped it out of Heinsdorf’s hand. Heinsdorf cried out and took a stumbling step backward.
Dav held up the cross, displaying it for Heinsdorf to see.
“Look!” he commanded. “Nothing. It means nothing to me. You really are ignorant, Heinsdorf. I’m a flesh-and-blood man, that’s all.”
And Lucinda Hammond would soon find out just how flesh and blood he really was, Dav thought fleetingly as he tossed the crucifix aside. It clattered to the floor.
Heinsdorf’s eyes followed the cross, so he wasn’t watching Dav at that moment. As slow as he was, he wouldn’t have had a chance to escape anyway. Dav lunged forward, grabbed Heinsdorf’s apron and the front of his shirt, and dragged the startled baker onto the counter.
Heinsdorf let out a frightened yelp and struggled to get away, but Dav’s fist cracked across his face, stunning him. Dav was stronger than he looked with his lean frame. He dragged Heinsdorf the rest of the way across the counter and let him fall heavily to the floor.
Dav drew back his leg and lashed out with a vicious kick. The toe of his boot sank deep into Heinsdorf’s ample gut and brought another cry of pain from the baker.
“You think the law enforcement tax is too much, is that it?” Dav asked through clenched teeth. “You don’t want to pay to keep things like this from happening?”
As he asked the question he kicked Heinsdorf again, this time in the side. The impact was enough to break a rib, even through the layers of fat on Heinsdorf’s body. Dav heard the bone give with a sharp snap. Heinsdorf screamed.
Eight Hours to Die Page 2
