Eight Hours to Die

by William W. Johnstone

  “No chance of that,” John Henry assured him. He changed the subject and risked asking, “Say, where’s the sheriff these days? I’ve hardly seen him around lately.”

  Miller grunted. He didn’t seem suspicious about the question as he said, “He’s been spendin’ a lot of time with that newspaperman. Wouldn’t surprise me if they were hatchin’ plans for the boss to become an even bigger boss.”

  “Me, neither,” John Henry said. “If that were to happen, you reckon we’d go along with him, wherever he went?”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. You can be an even bigger outlaw in politics, but you’ve got to be slicker about it.”

  John Henry thought that was probably one of the truest statements he had ever heard. Wisdom sometimes popped up in unlikely places.

  He left the office and returned to the boardinghouse. Miller had been right about the thunder. John Henry heard a low rumble from the direction of the mountains as he walked along the street.

  He got to the house just as Kate was setting the last of the food on the table in the dining room. She gave him a brief glare in keeping with how she treated anybody who bent one of her rules. John Henry smiled to himself, secure in the knowledge that they were allies in the effort to end Samuel Dav’s rule over the settlement.

  Buckner was quieter than usual during the meal. That was a little troubling but didn’t have to mean anything, John Henry told himself. After supper, Buckner and Kemp set off for downtown to start their shifts on patrol. Kemp had been as taciturn as ever while they were eating.

  Before the night was over, he might be swapping lead with both of them, John Henry thought. That disturbed him more than it should have. He certainly didn’t have any fondness for men who would work for Dav, but he had seen Buckner and Kemp quite a bit during the past two weeks, and it was only normal to feel at least a bit of familiarity with them.

  Seeing your enemy as a human being with thoughts and emotions could be damned inconvenient, John Henry mused. But there was nothing that could be done about it now.

  He went upstairs at the same time as Fred Axminster and gave the other deputy a polite nod as they each went to their rooms. Once he was in his room, John Henry settled down to wait. He took out his watch, opened it, and set it on the bedside table.

  Midnight was the time they were going to start their plan in motion, and it couldn’t come too soon to suit him.

  * * *

  The house was dark and quiet when John Henry slipped out of his room a few minutes before midnight. He knew that Kate and her grandfather would be awake. He doubted if they had slept any during the evening. They were probably as keyed up with anticipation as he was. By morning Chico would be free again . . .

  Or else any resistance would be smashed so thoroughly that Dav could finish looting the town without any opposition at all.

  John Henry paused as he saw that Axminster’s door was open. He drew his gun and approached cautiously. Axminster usually snored loudly, and now no sound came from inside the room. John Henry stopped short of the door and gave a low whistle.

  A similar whistle answered him from inside. John Henry whispered, “Turnage?”

  “Yes,” the bank teller replied. “I’ve got him.”

  John Henry stepped into the doorway, gun leveled in case this was some sort of trick on Axminster’s part. Then a match flared to life, and as John Henry’s eyes narrowed against the glare, he saw Axminster sprawled facedown on the bed. The deputy had a bloody lump on the back of his head, and John Henry guessed it came from the butt of the gun Turnage held as the teller stood next to the bed.

  “He was so sound asleep he never heard me sneak in,” Turnage whispered.

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “No, he’s breathing. I’m going to tie and gag him, and then Nate Farnham is supposed to come and help me take him to the jail.”

  “Can Nate handle that?” John Henry asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Turnage said. “He’ll do whatever his father tells him to do, or die trying.”

  John Henry nodded. The first step of the plan was almost complete. They wouldn’t have to worry about Axminster now.

  He left Turnage binding the deputy’s hands and catfooted to the stairs. He went down them in silence, making one quick stop in the kitchen when he reached the ground floor, before letting himself out the front door and heading for the sheriff’s office and jail.

  The storm over the mountains had moved closer. The thunder was louder now, and John Henry saw streaks of lightning clawing across the sky like skeletal fingers. Gusts of cool wind prowled through the streets, whipping up little spirals of dust here and there.

  The businesses along Main Street were all dark except for the Buzzard’s Nest, and as John Henry looked over the batwings he could see the swamper sweeping up already as a couple of drinkers lingered at the bar. The saloon was busy until well after midnight on Saturday night, but during the week like this, when everybody had to be up early for work the next morning, it usually closed down not much after this.

  John Henry ducked into alleys whenever he saw one of the deputies strolling along the boardwalks. Using caution and stealth, he made his way to the sheriff’s office. When he got there he tried the door, only to find it locked.

  That was an obstacle, but not a major one and he was prepared for it. He knocked on the thick wooden door. It had a small, square peephole in it that could be opened, and a moment later Gil Hobart looked out at him and asked in that distinctive voice, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s John Cobb, Gil,” John Henry replied. “Let me in.”

  “You ain’t on duty tonight,” Hobart replied. “I ain’t supposed to let nobody in unless it’s the sheriff or one of the deputies that’s on duty.”

  “I know that. But I was able to sneak a piece of Kate Collins’s apple pie out of the kitchen tonight, and I thought you might want it.”

  He held up the saucer with the slab of pie on it that he had brought from the boardinghouse. Sometime in the past, Gil Hobart had sampled Kate’s pie, and John Henry had heard him proclaim on numerous occasions that it was the best pie Hobart had ever eaten.

  Even though the peephole, John Henry could hear Hobart licking his lips in anticipation. The jailer said, “You ain’t gonna tell the sheriff about this, are you, Cobb?”

  “And get in trouble myself? I don’t think so.”

  “Hang on a minute. Lemme get the keys.”

  Hobart was back at the door in less than a minute. John Henry heard a key rattle in the lock, and then the door swung open.

  “Hurry up,” Hobart said. “Come on in.”

  John Henry went into the office. Hobart swung the door closed behind him but didn’t lock it. John Henry took the saucer over to the desk and set it down.

  “Dig in, Gil,” he told Hobart with a smile.

  Hobart came over to the desk and opened a drawer to dig out a fork. There were several utensils in there that were used by the deputies whenever meals on trays were brought over from Abernathy’s Café. John Henry eased behind him as Hobart cut off a big bite of the pie and stuffed it in his mouth. He rested his right hand on the butt of his Colt and got ready to reach down with his left and pluck Hobart’s revolver from its holster.

  Before John Henry could make that move, the office door opened again. Steve Buckner stepped into the room, leveled the gun in his hand at John Henry, and said, “Don’t do it, Cobb, or whatever the hell your name is.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  John Henry didn’t try to draw. Fast with a gun though he might be, he couldn’t outdraw a revolver that was already pointed right at him.

  “Wha’n’th’hell you doin’, Steve?” Hobart asked thickly around the mouthful of pie.

  “Keepin’ you from bein’ coldcocked on the head by this lyin’ son of a gun, Gil,” Buckner replied. “He’s a deputy United States marshal.”

  Hobart twisted his head to look back over his shoulder at John Henry. He swallowed the pie
and said, “Really? A federal star packer?”

  “I believe Steve’s mixed up,” John Henry said, keeping himself cool and composed. “I don’t think John Cobb ever carried a badge for Uncle Sam.”

  “I reckon he sure as hell didn’t,” Buckner snapped, “but you ain’t John Cobb. I never did catch your name when I was listenin’ in on those little get-togethers in the stable behind the boardin’ house, mister, but I know who you are and why you’re here.”

  John Henry didn’t have any idea how Buckner had tumbled to what was going on, but that didn’t matter now. The whole plan depended on him taking control of the jail. If he failed, then in a short time his newfound allies would begin showing up with their captives, only to be taken prisoner—or killed—themselves.

  “I don’t know what you think you heard, Buckner,” he said, stalling for time while he tried to figure out his next move, “but you got it all wrong, that’s for sure.”

  “Yeah, Steve,” Hobart put in. “I don’t think a real lawman would bring me pie.”

  “Damn it, Gil, forget about the pie! Stand up and move away from him! If he pulls iron on me, you don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.”

  Hobart started to get to his feet. John Henry knew he had run out of time. Hobart being so close to him was the only thing keeping Buckner from squeezing the trigger. Once the jailer was clear of him, he wouldn’t have a chance to do anything except make a desperate grab for his gun and get himself killed. If he was going to make a play that might actually work, it had to be now.

  As Hobart got to his feet, he picked up the saucer, unwilling to leave his pie behind. John Henry suddenly put his hand under the saucer and shoved it up, smashing the pie into Hobart’s face. That took the jailer by surprise and made him reel back a step. John Henry darted behind him. Across the room, Buckner let out a startled curse but didn’t fire.

  John Henry reached around and plucked the saucer, with remnants of pie clinging to it, from Hobart’s fingers and sent it spinning across the room, straight at Buckner’s face.

  Buckner ducked instinctively but the saucer clipped him on the head anyway, shattering. John Henry had charged right behind it. He tackled Buckner around the waist and drove him back against the doorjamb. John Henry reached up with his left hand and closed it around the six-gun’s cylinder so it couldn’t turn and Buckner couldn’t fire.

  One thing John Henry had stressed with the townspeople who were staging the uprising was that they had to strike quietly. A bunch of gunshots would rouse the town and draw more attention from the other deputies than they could handle. He didn’t intend to let Buckner get a shot off if he could help it.

  The deputy’s head struck hard against the doorjamb, but the impact failed to knock him out. He fought back, slamming a punch to the side of John Henry’s head that sent the federal lawman’s hat flying. John Henry shrugged off the punishment and hooked his right fist into Buckner’s belly. Buckner gasped and tried to double over, but John Henry was crowding him too close for that.

  John Henry grabbed the wrist of Buckner’s gun hand and forced it down, at the same time bringing up his knee. Buckner’s hand hit John Henry’s knee and the fingers relaxed their grip on the gun. John Henry wrenched the weapon away from the deputy and smashed it across Buckner’s face. The blow twisted Buckner’s head to the side and made him go limp.

  Bunching his fingers in Buckner’s shirtfront, John Henry pivoted and slung him across the room toward the desk, where Gil Hobart was stumbling around pawing at his eyes. He was still half-blinded from getting apple pie shoved in his face.

  John Henry wasn’t sure how Kate Collins would feel about her pie being used as a weapon. That thought flickered across his mind in the time it took him to flip Buckner’s gun around and level it at the jailer.

  “Don’t try anything, Gil,” he warned as he kicked the door closed so that no one passing by on the street could see what was happening. “I’ve got you covered.”

  Hobart finished wiping the sticky pie out of his eyes and stared in disbelief across the room.

  “Cobb?” he asked. “You . . . you’re really what Steve said?”

  “Afraid so,” John Henry replied. “Reach across with your left hand and take your gun out, slow and careful-like. Put it on the desk.”

  “Take it easy,” Hobart said as he followed John Henry’s orders and set the gun on the desk. “I ain’t no gunslinger, and I don’t have any hankerin’ to get shot, neither.”

  John Henry nodded toward the stairs and asked, “Is the cell block unlocked?”

  “Yeah. No prisoners up there now.”

  John Henry circled to the side and kept Buckner’s gun pointed at the jailer. He used the barrel to gesture toward Buckner and said, “Come over here and pick him up. You’re going to take him up the stairs, and both of you are going into one of the cells.”

  “You’re lockin’ us up?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Hobart shook his head ponderously.

  “It ain’t gonna work. One of the other deputies will just come along and let us out when we start yellin’ for help.”

  John Henry considered this and then nodded.

  “Good point,” he admitted. “You’ll tie and gag Buckner and put him one cell, and then I’ll lock you in another one.”

  “There still won’t be anything stoppin’ me from yellin’.”

  “Well . . . I could just kill you,” John Henry said. “That would keep you quiet.”

  “Or . . . I could cooperate and let you tie and gag me, too,” Hobart suggested.

  “That’s what I’d rather do. You don’t seem like that bad an hombre, Gil. You’ve just got poor taste in bosses.”

  “You came here to put the sheriff out of business, is that it?”

  “That’s it,” John Henry said.

  Hobart drew in a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh. He nodded.

  “I reckon that’s fine by me. I ain’t sayin’ I never pulled anything crooked in my life, but some of the things I’ve seen since comin’ here to Chico . . . well, I just didn’t cotton to ’em, that’s all. Only reason I stuck was because I just had to take care of the jail and didn’t have to be out there makin’ life miserable for folks. I’ll play along with you, Cobb.”

  “Sixkiller,” John Henry said. “That’s my real name, John Henry Sixkiller.”

  Hobart regarded him for a moment, then nodded.

  “It suits you,” he said. “Just don’t kill me, ’cause I ain’t gonna give you no trouble.”

  He picked up the still senseless Buckner and slung the deputy over his shoulder. John Henry switched Buckner’s gun to his left hand and drew his own Colt as he followed Hobart up the stairs to the cell block. While John Henry kept him covered, Hobart lowered Buckner onto the bunk in one of the cells, then tied his hands behind his back and stuffed a bandana in his mouth to serve as a gag.

  John Henry was careful about approaching the big jailer, still wary of a trick, but Hobart kept his word and cooperated. He let John Henry tie his hands and gag him.

  “When all this is over, I’ll remember how you helped me out like this, Gil,” John Henry promised. “That might make some difference in how the law looks at things.”

  With that taken care of, the jail was in John Henry’s hands. He hurried downstairs to wait for the others to show up with their prisoners. He’d been listening for gunshots, but the settlement remained quiet, as if nothing were going on tonight.

  That couldn’t be any further from the truth, John Henry thought. At least, he hoped that was the case and that the rest of the operation was going as planned.

  Barely a minute after he’d come back downstairs, a soft tap sounded on the door. John Henry blew out the lamp and went over to look out the peephole. Pieces of broken saucer crunched under his boots as he approached the door.

  “It’s us, Marshal,” Alvin Turnage said before John Henry could ask who was out there. Turnage was showing a lot of confidence that John Henry
had been successful in capturing the jail.

  That confidence wasn’t misplaced. John Henry swung the door open and saw Turnage’s slender form beside the massive, hulking shape of Nate Farnham. Nate had Fred Axminster cradled in his arms like a baby.

  Axminster had regained consciousness. He jerked his head around and made muffled noises through the gag in his mouth, but that was all he could do. Nate’s arms might as well have been iron bands strapped around him.

  The newcomers moved quietly into the office, and as John Henry closed the door behind them, Turnage asked, “Did everything go as planned?”

  “So far,” John Henry replied. “As far as I know, anyway. I don’t know what’s happening at the hotel.”

  “Nate and I are on our way to the blacksmith shop to join up with Peabody and the others,” Turnage said, “as soon as we put Deputy Axminster in one of the cells.”

  “Take him on up, Nate,” John Henry said, but the young man hesitated.

  “You’re our friend now, right?” he asked as he frowned suspiciously at John Henry.

  “That’s right, Nate,” Turnage said. “This man is our friend.”

  Nate nodded and said, “All right, then.” He carried Axminster up the stairs as if the deputy only weighed as much as a puppy or a kitten. Axminster had about as much chance of getting loose as a puppy or a kitten would have, too.

  Turnage followed them up the stairs to make sure Axminster was locked up securely. John Henry waited by the door in the darkened office in case any of his coconspirators showed up with more prisoners.

  Turnage and Nate came down and slipped out to rendezvous with Nate’s father and the other men waiting at the blacksmith shop. John Henry wanted to go with them. Even though he had picked the job of staying here at the jail for this part of the operation because it was the key to everything, not being in the middle of the action chafed at him.

  Soon enough, he told himself. Soon enough the time for stealth would be over, and they could take the fight to the rest of the enemy.