Eight Hours to Die

by William W. Johnstone

  “What do we do about Wilhelm?” the other man asked.

  “Leave him here,” John Henry said. “There’s nothing else we can do right now.”

  With guns drawn, the two of them hurried down the stairs. The hotel lobby was deserted. Most likely everybody else in the place had the covers pulled over their heads . . . if they weren’t cowering underneath the beds.

  John Henry turned out the lamps, plunging the lobby into darkness. He didn’t want the two of them to be silhouetted against the light when they went out. As they paused at the door, John Henry said, “Make for the jail as fast as you can.”

  Then he turned the knob, threw the door open, and plunged out into the night.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Edgar Wellman pulled his hat down tighter on his head as a gust of wind brushed against his face. He hurried along the alley toward the sheriff’s office and jail, and as he reached it and started up the narrow passage between it and the building next to it, lightning flashed. In that split second of illumination, he spotted Deputy Cobb running across the street, away from the jail toward the hotel.

  Moments earlier, Wellman had heard shots and thought they were coming from the direction of the hotel, although he couldn’t be sure about that.

  Wherever they came from, though, they were a clear indication that hell was breaking loose in Chico tonight.

  Wellman had a strong hunch that whatever happened, it would center around the jail, so that was why he had come here. He wanted to witness these momentous events firsthand so he could write about them later. Maybe that meant he had become a real journalist. That was for someone else to decide. He just wanted to get the story.

  He waited there at the corner of the jail and watched as Cobb met someone on the boardwalk in front of the hotel. Wellman wasn’t sure, but he thought the other man was one of the deputies. But a moment later he frowned in confusion as he saw Cobb pistol-whip the man and apparently knock him out. Cobb dragged the limp form into the alley next to the hotel, disappearing into the darkness and not coming back out.

  Muzzle flashes lit up one of the windows on the hotel’s second floor. At least, Wellman thought that was what he was seeing, not reflections of the lightning that split the night sky every few seconds. Muffled gunshots came from inside the hotel.

  Movement on the balcony caught Wellman’s eye. Someone had climbed out a window and was making his way along the balcony to another window . . .

  A moment later, Wellman heard the crash of glass as the window shattered, and then more shots blasted.

  None of it made any sense to the newspaperman, but he kept watching anyway. This was fascinating.

  Rain started to fall, big, fat drops splattering here and there, the sort of sporadic rain that comes before a downpour. A couple of minutes later, several men ran along the street toward the hotel, their attention no doubt drawn by the shooting. Wellman thought they were some of Dav’s deputies.

  Should he call out to them, tell them what was going on, at least as much of it as he could guess?

  No, Wellman decided.

  And then a second after that, the front door of the hotel flew open and two men charged out onto the boardwalk with guns in their hands.

  * * *

  John Henry saw several things right away when he and the townsman left the hotel. The rain was falling a little harder now, but the drops were still scattered.

  And there were three well-armed men charging up the street toward them.

  In the near-constant flicker of lightning, John Henry recognized them as three of Sheriff Dav’s men. They hadn’t drawn their guns yet, so he swung his Colt toward them and called, “Hold it right there!”

  As the deputies slowed, one of them exclaimed, “Cobb, what are you—”

  The man beside him yelled, “The hell with that! Nobody throws down on me!”

  He clawed his revolver from its holster.

  John Henry recognized the man who had gone for his gun as Hoffman, one of the deputies he had clashed with at the pass east of the settlement. Hoffman had probably been waiting for a chance to even the score with the man he knew as John Cobb, so he wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity.

  It was a foolish move, though, because John Henry’s gun was already drawn. The Colt roared and bucked against his palm as he put a bullet in Hoffman’s chest. The deputy went backward as if he’d been slapped by a giant hand.

  At John Henry’s side, the townie opened up on the other two. They reacted with the swift, deadly instincts of professional gunmen, weaving away from each other so they’d be harder to hit as they drew their guns. Flame gouted from the muzzles.

  John Henry felt as much as heard a bullet whip past his ear. At the same time, the townsman grunted and staggered. His gun blasted again, and fate must have guided the shot. One of the remaining deputies doubled over as the slug punched into his guts.

  John Henry triggered twice more and sent the third deputy spinning off his feet. He turned and grabbed the arm of the wounded man who had fought at his side, steadying him.

  “Come on,” John Henry urged. “Let’s get you to the jail.”

  But as they turned in that direction, more shots exploded. These came from the other direction. Bullets pounded into the street, kicking up clods of dirt and geysers of dust. The shots struck between John Henry and the jail, so he had to turn back, helping the wounded man with him.

  From the corner of his eye he caught glimpses of the shadowy forms firing at them. They had to be more of Dav’s men, and if they had seen the gunfight moments earlier they would know that “Cobb” had turned on them. That was why they were spraying lead at John Henry and the man stumbling along beside him.

  John Henry started back toward the hotel but realized a second later that he and his companion couldn’t get there. Bullets shattered the front windows. The two men were bracketed now, with leaden death both behind them and in front of them. The only bit of cover was a wagon parked in front of the building next to the hotel. John Henry veered toward it, still urging the wounded man to keep up with him.

  They reached the wagon and crouched between it and the boardwalk. Bullets thudded into the vehicle’s thick sideboards. The wagon wasn’t going to protect them for long. They were still too exposed. But it was better than nothing, John Henry thought as he snapped a shot over the wagon’s seat, aiming at a muzzle flash half a block away.

  He bent down again as a bullet hummed over his head. The townsman was leaning against one of the wagon wheels, but he was beginning to slump. His strength deserted him, and he fell to the ground. The wheel was all that held him up.

  John Henry knelt beside him and asked, “How bad are you hit?”

  “P-pretty bad,” the man replied. His voice was tight with pain. “A couple of bullets . . . went through me. I feel all . . . loose inside.”

  “You’ll be all right,” John Henry said. “I’ll get you to the jail. Some of our other men are holed up there, and they’ll take care of you.”

  “You can’t . . . do that. We’re . . . pinned down here.”

  John Henry didn’t want to admit it, but the man was right. And taking cover behind the wagon would give them only a momentary respite. In a matter of minutes, some of the deputies would circle around so they could get a better shot.

  “You can make a run for it . . . if I cover you,” the townie went on. “I just need to . . . borrow some bullets. Then I can . . . keep them off of you long enough . . . for you to make it to the jail.”

  “You can’t—” John Henry began.

  “What I can’t do . . . is live more than another few minutes.” In the silvery flicker of lightning, John Henry saw the strained smile on the man’s face. “Let me spend ’em . . . trying to kill some of those bastards.”

  John Henry couldn’t refuse that request. He took the man’s gun and filled the cylinder with cartridges from his own belt, then pressed it back into his hand. John Henry still had Buckner’s gun tucked into his waistband, so he
gave it to the townsman, too.

  “When I stand up . . . and start shooting . . . you light a shuck for the jail,” the man said.

  “All right,” John Henry said. “It’s a hell of a thing you’re doing, amigo.”

  “Just make sure . . . you kill Dav before the night’s over.”

  “I’ll do my best,” John Henry promised.

  “Gimme a hand . . . standing up.”

  John Henry grasped the man’s arm and steadied him. The man gathered his strength and then straightened from his position on the ground. He let out a yell and thrust his arms to the sides so that he could fire in both directions. He continued shouting in defiance as the guns roared and spouted flame.

  John Henry burst from behind the wagon and sprinted toward the jail. He didn’t look back, but he heard the man’s shout chopped off abruptly to a gurgle. Both guns continued to explode, though.

  Bullets sang past John Henry and chewed up the ground around his racing feet, but providence and the covering fire from the dying townie shielded him. He hoped that somebody in the jail saw him coming and recognized him.

  As he bounded onto the boardwalk, the door of the marshal’s office flew open. John Henry left his feet in a dive that carried him into the building. He felt a slug pluck at his coat as he flew through the air.

  Then he was inside and the door slammed behind him as he hit the floor. He heard the bar drop across it. The jail was dark except for the backflashes as several men fired from rifle slits cut into the thick stone walls. This place had been built for defense. The windows were all barred and had shutters over them that could be closed from inside. That had been done already.

  They would have a chance to see how well the building would hold up to an attack, John Henry thought as he got to his feet.

  “Marshal Sixkiller,” Turnage said in the darkness. “Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” John Henry said.

  “Were you hit?”

  John Henry took a second to assess his condition. Sometimes in the heat of battle, a man might be wounded and not even notice it at the time. But in this case he was able to say, “No, I’m all right. Looks like they all missed, although I’ve got luck to thank for that. It certainly wasn’t for lack of trying on their part.”

  “The man who came with you from the hotel . . . he didn’t make it. We saw him go down after he gave you a chance to make a run for it. It looked like . . . they shot him to pieces.”

  “He was hit bad and dying already,” John Henry explained. “Otherwise I never would have left him there.”

  “Who was he?”

  The question made John Henry draw in a sharp breath. He had never even known the man’s name.

  “A good friend and a brave man,” he said. “That’s all I know.”

  Sometimes that had to be enough.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  As the gunfire continued both inside and outside the jail, John Henry asked, “Has anybody been hit in here?”

  “Not so far,” Turnage replied. “We’ve been lucky, too.”

  John Henry added things up in his head.

  “We have eight men in here, counting Jimpson,” he said. “There are five deputies locked up in the cell block, six if you count Hobart, two dead in the hotel and three in the street . . . although I can’t be absolutely sure about the three in the street. Even if they’re not dead, they ought to be hit bad enough that they’re out of the fight.”

  “That should leave Dav with just ten deputies,” Turnage said. “Eight against ten, and the eight are in a place that was built to be defended. Those aren’t bad odds, Marshal.”

  “No, they’re not,” John Henry agreed. “But you need to add Dav himself to the mix, and throw in the fact that those deputies are professional killers, most of them. We still have our work cut out for us.”

  John Henry didn’t know where Kate was, so he was a little surprised when she spoke up right next to him.

  “I can use a rifle,” she said. “So there are nine of us to hold the jail.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. In fact, if there was any way to get you out of here without exposing you to their fire, I would.”

  “You’d have a fight on your hands if you tried,” she snapped. “This is my town, too, Marshal. And I’ll be damned if I won’t stand up and try to help take it back.”

  John Henry knew there was no point in arguing about it. They were all stuck in here for the time being, Kate included.

  And there were bigger worries as well, because while the jail was plenty sturdy, sooner or later those inside it would run out of ammunition, not to mention food and water.

  “What’s the situation on supplies?” he asked. “Does anybody know?”

  Turnage said, “I have no idea. Should we make an inventory? We’ll need light for that.”

  John Henry fished a lucifer from his pocket and snapped it to life with his thumbnail.

  “No point in standing around in the dark now,” he said with a faint smile as he squinted against the light. “We’re already under siege, and I don’t expect that to change anytime soon.”

  He lit the lamp on the sheriff’s desk, and as the yellow glow welled up and filled the room, he took a look around. The men who stood at the rifle slits, firing out into the night, had taken their weapons from the racks on the wall. John Henry opened a cabinet next to the gun racks and found a dozen boxes of ammunition. They weren’t going to run out of firepower anytime soon.

  Food and water were a different story. He found some canned peaches on a shelf in the small storeroom behind the office, along with a couple of bottles of whiskey. That was it for provisions. The peaches would last less than a day, and John Henry figured it wouldn’t be a good idea for any of them to be sampling the rotgut. They would need to keep their wits about them.

  “How long do you think we can hold out?” Peabody Farnham asked.

  “Until morning, for sure,” John Henry replied. “Probably on up into the day.”

  “But not indefinitely,” Turnage said.

  John Henry shook his head and said, “No, not indefinitely.”

  “And there’s no help on the way, is there?”

  “No. Governor Wallace sent me here alone. If you’re thinking that if I don’t get in touch with him by a certain time, he’ll send in the army . . . that’s not going to happen.”

  “Our plan was to take the fight to them,” Turnage went on, his voice growing bleak now. “Out there in the open, where we had a chance to move around, we might have been able to make a fight of it. Stuck in here, all we can do is wait for them to starve us out.”

  John Henry’s brain was working furiously. He said, “That’s true, Alvin, unless we can come up with a way to turn things around so that the odds are on our side.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Almost anything is possible,” John Henry said. “Sometimes it’s just not easy. But I may have an idea . . .”

  * * *

  Edgar Wellman had hunkered down behind a rain barrel while the gun battle was going on in the street. A stray bullet could kill a man just as dead as one aimed straight at him.

  One thing was certain, he told himself in the aftermath of the shooting, once the man he had known as Deputy John Cobb retreated into the jail. “Cobb” wasn’t who he’d said he was. Wellman couldn’t help but wonder if he wasn’t another of those undercover investigators sent in by the governor.

  If that was the case, the man had lasted longer than the others. He had even persuaded the townspeople to stage some sort of uprising against Dav. But from the looks of things, the man’s string had played out tonight. He and his allies were trapped inside the jail.

  The ringing of boot heels against boardwalk planks caught Wellman’s attention. Since the shooting seemed to be over except for some desultory sniping between the jail’s defenders and the deputies who had taken cover across the street, he shook the rainwater from his hat and stood up. A quick loo
k around the corner revealed the tall, lean, predatory figure of Sheriff Samuel Dav striding along the boardwalk toward him.

  “Sheriff!” Wellman called softly.

  Dav’s reaction was instantaneous. He stopped short and drew his gun with blinding speed. Wellman ducked back and yelped, “Hold your fire! Don’t shoot, Sheriff. It’s me, Edgar Wellman.”

  “Wellman,” Dav said curtly. “What are you doing here?”

  The newspaperman risked poking his head around the corner again. Dav had lowered his gun but hadn’t put it away.

  “I’m a journalist, Sheriff,” Wellman said. “And there’s a big story going on in Chico tonight. It’s my duty to witness it and report on it.”

  Dav let out a contemptuous snort that told Wellman all he needed to know about the sheriff’s true opinion of him. Dav had been using him . . . and Wellman had been content to let himself be used.

  “Come on out of that alley,” Dav said. “Nobody’s going to bother shooting at you.”

  Wellman stepped up onto the boardwalk. He was glad to be out of the rain, which was falling at a steadier rate now.

  “Do you know what’s going on here?” Dav demanded. “There are dead men lying in the street, and they look like some of my deputies.”

  “They are some of your deputies,” Wellman said. “Cobb and another man gunned them down a little while ago.”

  Most of the time Dav was unflappable, but that news prompted a startled exclamation from him.

  “Cobb? Are you sure?”

  “The lightning was bright enough for me to get a good look. It was Cobb, all right, although I’d wager that’s not really his name, Sheriff. I think he was just pretending to be a notorious gunfighter when he came here . . . although he does seem to handle a Colt with considerable skill.”

  “He must be an outside lawman of some sort,” Dav muttered.

  “That would be my guess as well.”

  “Do you know where the rest of my deputies are?”

  Wellman remembered what he had seen from the window of his living quarters behind the newspaper office and said, “I think some of them may have been captured and locked up inside the jail. That’s where Cobb—we might as well call him that for now—and his friends are holed up. They were trying to stage a coup against you tonight, Sheriff.”