Eight Hours to Die

by William W. Johnstone

  As the bullet ripped past his ear, John Henry knew he couldn’t take any more chances. He fired twice and sent both rounds into the gunman’s chest. The man went backward like he’d been slapped by a giant hand. His gun slipped from his fingers and sailed through the air to thud into the dust of the street.

  The gunman thudded into the dust as well, landing on his back with his arms outstretched. His back arched. Blood bubbled from his mouth and ran down over his chin. He sagged back to the ground as his muscles went limp.

  John Henry knew death when he saw it, too.

  But even though he was convinced the gunman was no longer a threat, he kept his gun trained on the man as he approached. He didn’t holster the Colt until he saw the lifeless, staring eyes in the hard-bitten face.

  The girl who had been taken hostage was several yards away, being comforted by a couple of older women. John Henry went over to them, touched a finger to the brim of his hat, and said, “Señoras, is the señorita all right?”

  “Sí, señor,” one of the women replied with a nod. “Thanks to you.”

  Several men emerged from the cantina where the earlier shooting had taken place and hurried toward John Henry. Some of them wore town clothes while the others were dressed like farmers. One of the townies took his hat off and said, “Mister, we can’t thank you enough. You’ve done us a big favor.”

  “I just didn’t want to see anybody else get hurt,” John Henry said. “What happened in the cantina?”

  “Cobb was drunk. He made a grab for one of the women, and the man the gal was with took exception to that. He told Cobb to leave them alone, and Cobb yanked out his gun and went to shooting.”

  John Henry inclined his head toward the dead man and said, “I take it that’s Cobb?”

  “Yeah.” The townsman rubbed the back of his neck. “And I got to tell you, I didn’t really think anybody could take him down the way you did, mister.”

  Several more of the men muttered their agreement with that sentiment.

  “He’s a well-known badman around here, is that it?” John Henry asked.

  “That’s right. He’s pulled some holdups and killed four men in gunfights, that I know of. I’ve heard that he’s gunned down more than that in other places. He drifts through every few months and we all hold our breath until he’s gone.” The man shook his head. “Looks like we won’t have to worry about that anymore.”

  “Did he run with a gang?”

  The townsman shook his head and said, “No, he was a real lone wolf, never wanted much to do with anybody. So you don’t have to worry about any pards of his coming after you to even the score, mister.”

  “What’s his first name?” John Henry asked. An idea was starting to form in the back of his mind.

  “Uh, John, I think.” The townie looked around at his friends. “Is that it?”

  Several of the men nodded, and one of them said, “Yeah, John Cobb. Doesn’t sound as bad as he really was, does it?”

  So he and the dead gunfighter shared a first name, John Henry thought. They shared more than that as well. Although their faces looked nothing alike, they were roughly the same size and had the same sort of thick black hair.

  That raised some interesting possibilities. John Henry had been wondering how he would approach the job in Chico, and now he had at least the beginnings of a plan of action.

  “How about the man who traded shots with Cobb in the cantina?” he asked. “Was he killed?”

  The man who had done most of the talking shook his head.

  “No, he was lucky. Got a bullet through the arm and a graze on his side, but he’ll live, I expect.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” John Henry said. “I’d like to ask a favor of you folks.”

  “Whatever it is, you name it, mister. We’re all mighty glad we won’t have to walk on eggshells around that loco son of a gun anymore.”

  So far, John Henry hadn’t revealed his identity as a deputy U.S. marshal. Now he moved his coat so the citizens could see his badge.

  “What I’d like for you to do is plant this fella, leave his grave unmarked for now, and don’t say anything else about it. Can you do that?”

  “Why, I . . . I reckon we can,” the townie said. He was obviously puzzled, but he looked around at the other settlers and went on, “We can do that, can’t we, folks?”

  “We’ll keep it to ourselves, Marshal,” one of the other men promised. “But why’s that so important?”

  “I can’t tell you right now, but if I pass through this way again, I’ll explain then.”

  “What about the reward?” the first man asked. “There’s bound to be a reward for a gunhawk like Cobb.”

  John Henry shook his head and said, “I’m not interested in any reward. Later on I’ll let the authorities know what happened and tell them to send the money to the town. Fair enough?”

  “More than fair,” the man said, and a chorus of agreement came from the others.

  John Henry saw that the ferry was back on this side of the river.

  “I’ve got to go,” he told the settlers. “I’m obliged to you for your help.”

  “You’ve got that backward, Marshal . . . but we’ll take it.”

  John Henry smiled at the young woman who’d been taken hostage and tugged on the brim of his hat. She stared at him in obvious hero worship, which he ignored as he walked back to take hold of Iron Heart’s reins and lead the horse onto the ferry.

  “I thought I heard some shootin’ a few minutes ago,” the grizzled old ferryman commented. “What happened?”

  “A fella got what was coming to him, I reckon,” John Henry said.

  And he would have to wait and see how well that worked out for him.

  Chapter Six

  From the little riverside settlement, the easiest route was to follow the valley north to the point where the Rio Chama flowed into the Rio Grande. The smaller stream flowed down from the San Juan Mountains, and John Henry knew from studying a map in Wallace’s office that if he headed upstream, that path eventually would bring him to Chico.

  This was beautiful country, John Henry thought as he rode along. The area down in the southwestern part of the territory where he had been recently had an appeal of its own, but it was more rugged and arid than this region. The slopes here were covered with tall green pines, and the meadows were carpeted with thick grass and decorated by wildflowers. Getting to see this was almost worth getting shot at, John Henry told himself.

  Almost.

  Since he had gotten a fairly late start from Santa Fe, he wound up spending two nights on the trail. The days were warm, but at these elevations the nights got pretty chilly before morning. John Henry’s bedroll kept the cold from settling into his bones, and in the mornings a fire felt really good. The smell of coffee brewing mixed with the tang of pine in the cool air and woke up all of John Henry’s senses.

  By midday, John Henry figured he was approaching Chico. The Rio Chama still bubbled along beside him. The road turned away from it, though, as the river twisted off to the right and entered a deep gorge that cut through a sharp-edged ridge up ahead. John Henry spotted a notch in that ridge and wasn’t surprised when the road led to it. The pass was the easiest way through or over the natural barrier formed by the ridge.

  He recalled what Governor Wallace had told him about Sheriff Dav closing off a pass near Chico and forcing the local ranchers to pay a toll if they wanted to use the road to drive their cattle to market. John Henry had a hunch he was looking at that very pass. He would know soon, he thought as he sent Iron Heart trotting toward it.

  As he approached the pass, his eyes intently scanned the ridge and the surrounding landscape, searching for any stray glints of sunlight that might indicate concealed riflemen. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary . . . but that didn’t mean the men weren’t there.

  John Henry was close enough now to see that a gate made of heavy timbers had been set up inside the pass. As rocky as the ground was, whoever
had built the gate must have used dynamite to blast out holes for the support posts, which were as thick and sturdy-looking as the trunks of young trees. A herd of stampeding cattle might be able to knock down the gate, but the stock would pile up against it first and a great many of the animals would probably be injured or killed. No cattleman worth his salt would want to do that.

  At the moment, the gate was open. John Henry supposed that was because the men posted at the pass could see a long distance in both directions. If someone was coming that they wanted to stop, they would have plenty of time to swing the gate closed and secure it.

  They must not have considered a lone man riding toward Chico to be a threat, because they didn’t close the gate as John Henry rode into the pass. Two men, however, did stand up from the rocks where they were sitting and saunter into the middle of the road. They wore six-guns and carried rifles, and they looked hard-bitten enough that most folks wouldn’t want to cross them.

  One of the men lifted a hand in a signal for John Henry to stop. John Henry hauled back on Iron Heart’s reins.

  “Howdy,” he said with a pleasant nod to the guards. “Did I take a wrong turn back there somewhere? I thought this was a public road.”

  “Parts of it are,” one of the gunmen answered, “but this stretch through the pass is a toll road.”

  John Henry frowned and said, “Really? I never heard of such a thing.”

  “Well, you have now,” the other guard snapped. “You can either pay the toll, or you can turn around and go back where you came from.”

  “How much is it?”

  The momentary hesitation on the part of both guards told John Henry that there wasn’t a set price. Sheriff Dav probably allowed his men to charge whatever they thought they could get away with, depending on who wanted to go through the pass.

  After a few seconds, one of them said, “Five dollars.”

  “Five dollars?” John Henry repeated. “Sort of a steep toll, isn’t it?”

  “If you don’t like it, you can—”

  “I know,” John Henry broke in. “Turn around and go back where I came from, right?”

  “Damn right,” the second guard said with a curt nod.

  “Well, I don’t particularly want to do that, so . . .”

  John Henry fished a five-dollar gold piece out of his pocket, looked at it as if he were sorry to see it go, and then flipped it toward one of the gunmen. The man had been holding his rifle in both hands, ready to use it if necessary, but he took his right hand off the weapon and reached up to catch the spinning coin.

  The second guard watched the gold piece as if mesmerized, just as John Henry expected. Both men had taken the attention away from him for a second, and that was plenty long enough for what he did next.

  He palmed his Colt from its holster, leveled it at the two men, and as the first guard caught the coin, John Henry said, “Now, let’s talk about how much I’ll charge not to blow holes in both of you fellas.”

  Chapter Seven

  Both guards thought about making a play; John Henry could tell that by the look in their eyes.

  But he had the drop on them, and they could probably tell that he was a man who knew how to handle a gun. They settled for glaring at him, and one of them said, “You’re gonna be mighty sorry you did that, mister.”

  “You know, I don’t think so,” John Henry said easily. “Anyway, I was thinking five dollars would be a pretty good price, and it just so happens one of you is holding a five-dollar gold piece. That’s five bucks each, though, so the other one’s going to have to pony up.”

  “I swear, I’m gonna kill you,” the second guard threatened harshly.

  “Over a measly sawbuck?” John Henry shook his head. “I would’ve thought your hide was worth more than that to you, amigo.”

  “I’m not your damn amigo!”

  “I’m starting to think nobody is,” John Henry said with a sigh. He motioned with the barrel of his Colt. “Toss those Winchesters over here.”

  “What if it damages them?”

  “Then toss them carefully. I swear, fellas, you’re making me do all the thinking here.”

  The guards threw their rifles to the ground near Iron Heart.

  “Now unbuckle the gunbelts, let ’em fall, and back away from them.”

  With obvious reluctance, they followed that order.

  “Where are your horses?” John Henry asked.

  “Tied up on the other side of the pass,” one of the men replied.

  The other one glared at him and demanded, “Why the hell did you tell him that?”

  “Well, they’re in plain sight. He would’ve seen ’em as soon as he rode on through.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. The sheriff’s not gonna like it that you cooperated with this peckerwood.”

  “I ain’t the only one! You threw away your guns, too.”

  John Henry said, “Hold on a minute. You said something about a sheriff. You boys aren’t lawmen, are you?”

  The angrier of the two guards sneered at him and declared, “We damned sure are! We’re both legally appointed deputies, and you’re gonna be in a lot of trouble for throwin’ down on us, mister. We’ll see you behind bars for this. Maybe even strung up!”

  “I didn’t know that putting a couple of two-bit crooks in their place was a hanging offense around here, even if they are deputies,” John Henry said. “And for that matter, what are deputies doing collecting a toll on a road that’s supposed to be public?”

  “That just shows how much you know,” the guard said. “If Sheriff Sam Dav says this is a toll road, then it’s a toll road, by God!”

  “You’ll excuse me if I don’t take your word for it,” John Henry told them. “Now, one more thing . . . Shuck those boots.”

  They stared at him in disbelief.

  “You want us to take our boots off?”

  “I can say it in Cherokee, if you didn’t understand English.”

  Muttering curses, the men sat down and pulled their boots off. When they had done that, John Henry made them back away even farther. They winced with every step they took as the rocks that littered the floor of the pass poked their feet through their socks.

  Keeping the guards covered with the Colt, he swung down easily from the saddle and collected the boots, gun belts, and rifles. He hung the belts on his saddle horn and put the boots in an empty sack he took from one of his saddlebags. He tied that to the saddle horn along with the rifles, using some twine he carried with him.

  “How far is it to the nearest town?” John Henry asked as if he didn’t already know.

  “Chico’s about two miles on the other side of this pass,” one of the men answered in a surly voice.

  “Well, then, I’ll leave your guns and boots with your horses in Chico,” John Henry said.

  “You’re gonna make us walk in? In sock feet?”

  “Unless you’d rather spend the rest of your life up here,” John Henry said.

  “I ain’t gonna forget this, mister. No way in hell.”

  The implied threat clearly didn’t bother John Henry. He mounted again and nudged Iron Heart into a walk.

  “I’ll be seeing you boys,” he said with a smile.

  “You sure will. You can count on that.”

  “Blast it, Harry,” the second guard said. “Don’t rile up the son of a bitch even more!”

  With his gun hand resting on his thigh as he held the Colt, John Henry rode past the two men. The pass was only about fifty yards from one end to the other, so it didn’t take him long to emerge from it. He immediately spotted two horses tied in a grove of pine trees. Without getting down from the saddle, he untied the reins and led the animals out onto the road.

  The two guards had followed him, still walking gingerly on the rough ground. They stood at the mouth of the pass. John Henry grinned, waved with his gun hand, and turned Iron Heart down the slope.

  A second later, he heard two things that gave him pause.

  One was laughter
coming from the guards.

  The other was hoofbeats pounding up the trail toward him.

  John Henry reined in. The road twisted in front of him, turning to wind its way down into the valley on the other side of the ridge. From up here he could see the pine-covered mountain slopes looming on the far side of the valley, and between here and there he could make out the distant cluster of buildings that formed Chico. Riders were coming from that direction, and a few seconds later they swept around the curve in the road and came into sight.

  Four men, and somehow John Henry knew without being told that they were more of Sheriff Dav’s deputies.

  One of the guards he had disarmed and set afoot whooped in triumph.

  “Now you’re in for it, you dirty skunk!”

  John Henry glanced around. The pines were thick on both sides of the trail. He could have left the guards’ horses and taken off into the trees on Iron Heart, but he wouldn’t be able to get up any speed. Not only that, but no doubt these men knew the area a lot better than he did. He’d never been here before, so he didn’t know what he’d be getting into.

  Besides, the half-formed plan in his head called for him to confront Dav’s men sooner or later. He might as well get started on that here and now, he thought.

  He waited as the four men rode closer. They had spotted him, too; he could tell that by the way they slowed down and approached him warily. A couple of the men drew rifles from saddle sheaths.

  One man edged out in front of the others. When he was about twenty feet from John Henry, he stopped and lifted his hand in a signal for the others to do likewise. When they had, he walked his horse a few feet closer.

  “Howdy,” he said. “You look like you’re armed for bear.”

  The man was stocky and powerful looking, with a heavy jaw and brown hair. A badge was pinned to the old buckskin shirt he wore. For all John Henry knew, this was Sheriff Samuel Dav. He hadn’t been given a description of the crooked lawman.

  “You mean all these guns?” he asked. “They don’t all belong to me. Some of them belong to those two fellas up there.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the pass. “The same goes for these horses.”