A plume of smoke to the west marked the approach of an eastbound train. By the time he reached the town, the train had pulled in at the depot, a big gray and brown stone building located at the south end of Main Street.
As he circled the station and rode across the tracks, he looked along the street and saw the squat courthouse sitting in the middle of the town square a few blocks away. A few cottonwood trees dotted the lawn around the building.
Kiowa City had more trees and was just greener in general than most of the countryside because of the presence of Kiowa Creek. It ran just north of the settlement, roughly paralleling the railroad tracks before turning south to flow into the Smoky Hill River a few miles away.
A nice-looking town with three broad avenues running north and south and a dozen cross streets, it was home to several thousand people.
Some of those people had to be living in fear because of the brutal killings that had taken place. John Henry was going to do his best to put a stop to that and allow Kiowa City to go back to its peaceful, sleepy ways.
His first move in that campaign was to angle Iron Heart to the right and head for a large building on that side of Main Street. PARADISE SALOON was painted in bright blue letters on its whitewashed false front.
The saloon was big enough to have four hitch racks lined up in front of it, and although the racks weren’t full, several saddle horses were tied at each of them, indicating that the establishment was doing a brisk business even in the middle of the afternoon.
John Henry swung down from the saddle and looped the big gray’s reins around an empty spot. He took off his hat, sleeved sweat off his forehead, and settled the hat back on his head at a jaunty angle.
He stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon and pushed through the batwings, the spurs that he never used on Iron Heart jingling a little.
Logically, he knew that not every saloon west of the Mississippi looked and smelled the same, but sometimes that seemed to be the case. The differences between this one and all the others were minor. The lushly endowed naked lady in the big painting behind the bar was a redhead instead of a blonde or brunette. The brass rail at the bottom of the bar and the spittoons were polished a little brighter than some.
The clientele was the same, though—a mixture of cowboys, sodbusters, bullwhackers, and townsmen. John Henry didn’t spot any cavalry uniforms, which meant there wasn’t a military post within a day’s ride.
Girls in short, brightly colored, spangled dresses made their way between the bar and the tables, delivering drinks, laughing at risqué comments made by the customers, and not shying away too much from wandering hands that got too bold.
On one side of the room, a roulette wheel and a faro layout went unused at the moment, but three poker games were going on at the tables. The slap and shuffle of cards and the clicking of chips provided an almost musical accompaniment to the constant talk and laughter.
Men were lined up from one end of the long hardwood bar to the other, keeping two aprons busy pouring drinks.
John Henry sidled toward a gap in the line of drinkers.
Nobody paid much attention to him, other than a few quick, incurious glances when he’d come in. That was fine for the moment, since he was just after information and didn’t want anybody noticing him too much.
Sooner or later, he would have to make a splash in order for the plan he had developed on the train to work. He was counting on his instincts to tell him when the right moment for that would be.
Resting his left hand on the hardwood, he nodded to the bald, mustachioed drink juggler who came along the bar to take his order. “Is the beer cold?”
The bartender chuckled. “Mister, at this time of year nothin’s cold in these parts. But it’s about as cool as you’ll find this side of Denver.”
“That’ll do just fine, then,” John Henry said with a grin.
The bartender filled a mug from a tap and slid it in front of John Henry, saying, “Four bits.”
John Henry dropped a coin on the bar, picked up the mug, and took a healthy swallow as if he’d been riding for a long time and had plenty of trail dust in his throat to wash away.
The beer was cool, so the bartender had been right about that, and not too sour. John Henry nodded in satisfaction.
Nobody was demanding his attention at the moment, so the bartender lingered, picking up a glass and polishing it with the rag he carried. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”
Strangers were always of interest in a frontier town, John Henry knew. Anything to break the monotony. “I just rode in,” John Henry replied. “This looks like a nice place.”
“Kiowa City or this saloon?”
“Both.”
“Yeah, it’s a good place to live,” the man said. “Most of the time, anyway.”
John Henry frowned slightly, as most men would under the circumstances. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothin’, nothin’,” the bartender said, shaking his head. “Are you looking for work?”
“Could be. I had in mind maybe trying to find a riding job. Any of the spreads around here hiring?”
“The Anvil might be. That’s the biggest ranch in these parts. A man named J.C. Carson owns it. His foreman is Dell Bartlett. If you can make a hand, they can probably use you.” The bartender’s muddy gaze dropped briefly to the walnut grips of the Colt on John Henry’s hip.
“If you can use that,” he went on, “they’d be more likely to find a place for you, I’d say.”
“Carson likes to hire men who are gun handy?” John Henry asked. He hadn’t been sent there to look into the activities of some local cattle baron. Such men sometimes had the habit of trying to run roughshod over their neighbors. They often believed they were a law unto themselves, especially the old-timers who had been some of the first settlers in a region.
But John Henry was curious by nature and believed in indulging that curiosity whenever he could. You never could tell when a seemingly useless bit of information would pay off.
The bartender suddenly looked worried that he might have said too much. He answered curtly, “I never said anything against the Anvil.” He turned away, adding, “I got business to tend to,” even though no one along the bar had summoned him as far as John Henry could tell.
An empty mug thumped rather violently onto the hardwood next to John Henry. The man who had put it there wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Yeah, the Anvil is a good spread to ride for . . . if you don’t mind working for a damn range hog.”
John Henry turned his head and looked the man up and down. The hombre was stocky and dressed in dusty range clothes. His battered hat was pushed back to let a tangle of rust-colored curls spill out.
“You have something against that fella Carson?” John Henry asked mildly.
“I’ve never even spoken to the man. But Bartlett and the rest of his crew are mighty touchy when it comes to any cattle straying over the line, either comin’ or goin’. Carson’s plenty protective of his range. More than one cowboy from a smaller spread has crossed the line to go after some strays and wound up either shot at or jumped and beaten up.”
“That doesn’t sound like a very good neighbor.”
“He’s not. But he’s always right there, Johnny-on-the-spot, when somebody decides to sell out, offering a heap less than the place is worth.”
“Nobody has to take his money,” John Henry said. “They can always wait for a better offer.”
“Sure, but once word gets around that Carson has his eye on a place, there won’t be a better offer. People don’t want to get on his bad side.”
It was the sort of story John Henry had heard before. Some of the biggest ranches in the West had been put together in such high-handed fashion.
Unfortunately, intimidation like that wasn’t really illegal. It certainly wasn’t the sort of federal crime that fell under his jurisdiction. He shrugged. “Thanks for the information, friend. I haven’t made up my
mind what I’ll do yet.”
The redheaded cowboy looked in the mirror behind the bar and grunted. “If you want to get a better idea about the Anvil, talk to these hombres just coming in. They ride for Carson.”
John Henry half turned to look at the three men who pushed through the batwings, one after the other, and came into the saloon. They were decked out in range garb, too, and there was nothing unusual about them except for the revolvers they carried, which were relatively new and obviously well cared for.
The three men headed for the bar, and John Henry got a good look at the last of the trio. A shock of recognition jolted him. The third man was Jimmy Deverill.
John Henry had arrested him less than a year earlier for running whiskey in the Nations.
Deverill looked right back at him and stopped short. His eyes widened, and any hope John Henry had that the ex-con wouldn’t recognize him disappeared as the man exclaimed, “You peckerwood!”
He punctuated the curse by clawing at the gun on his hip.
Chapter Five
There was no time to think. Delaying long enough to do that would just get him a bullet in the brisket. John Henry let his instincts take over.
His Colt came out of its holster in a smooth draw so swift it was hard for the eye to follow. Deverill had cleared leather, too, but John Henry’s gun barrel tipped up just a shade faster.
People near the line of fire piled out of the way, yelling and tripping in their haste. The roar of the two guns sounded so close together it was almost like one blast.
John Henry’s bullet was first by a hair, and that was all the advantage he needed.
The slug smashed into Deverill’s chest and knocked him back a step so that when his finger jerked the trigger the gun wasn’t quite high enough. The bullet chewed into the floor a yard in front of John Henry’s boots.
Deverill didn’t fall right away. He stood there swaying as he struggled to raise his gun and fire again.
The Colt was rock steady in John Henry’s hand. His thumb rested on the hammer, ready to let it fall for a second shot. If Deverill’s gun came up a little more, he intended to put a bullet in his brain.
Deverill opened his mouth. He got out, “You damned—” before a gush of crimson choked off the curse. His revolver slipped from his fingers and thudded to the floor. He followed a heartbeat later, smashing his face into the sawdust as he fell. He probably didn’t feel it since death spasms were already rippling through his body.
One of the men who had come into the Paradise Saloon with Deverill looked at John Henry. “What the hell?” he said into the shocked silence.
John Henry didn’t lower his gun. Deverill’s compadres might decide to join the ball, although they showed no signs of it at the moment.
“Jimmy Deverill, right?” John Henry said with a curt nod toward the dead man.
“Yeah, that’s right,” replied the one who had spoken. “You know him?”
“Used to run whiskey with him down in the Nations.” Since he didn’t know either of the other men, John Henry thought it was a pretty safe bet they hadn’t been mixed up in Deverill’s liquor smuggling operation in Indian Territory.
Instinct had done its job and allowed him to beat Deverill to the draw. He quickly turned his mind to figuring out how to use the unexpected trouble to his advantage. Thoughts flashed through his brain. Deverill had a reputation as a man who was hard to get along with. Deverill had been known to double-cross his partners.
John Henry went on. “That is, I ran whiskey with him until he lit a shuck with my share of the profits. I swore I’d kill him for that, and he knew it. I reckon that’s why he slapped leather as soon as he recognized me.”
John Henry paused and then added coolly, “If you fellas are thinking about settling the score for him, you probably ought to be thanking me instead. Whatever you’re partnered in, he would have double-crossed you sooner or later.”
“We’re not partners in anything,” the third man said. “We just ride for the same brand right now. There’s nothing crooked about it.”
“Hard to believe where Deverill’s concerned. He was crookeder than a dog’s hind leg.”
“You can put that gun away, mister. Deverill drew first. It’s his own damned fault he wasn’t quite fast enough to take advantage of it.”
John Henry lowered the Colt’s hammer and pouched the iron. “Well, since Jimmy can’t do it anymore, I reckon the least I can do is buy you boys a drink.”
Both men smiled.
“We’ll take you up on that,” one of them said.
Clearly, Deverill hadn’t been that well-liked by his companions. John Henry was glad of that. He didn’t want to have to fight a pitched battle only a few minutes after coming into Kiowa City.
The sharp tang of burned powder smoke still hung in the air as John Henry and the other two men turned toward the bar. Deverill’s corpse remained facedown on the floor, all but forgotten now that the shooting was over.
John Henry signaled to the bartender for another beer and indicated with a gesture that the man should draw a couple for the other two hombres.
The rusty-haired cowboy he’d been talking to earlier frowned, shook his head, and walked out of the saloon, evidently disgusted with what he had just witnessed. The other customers slowly began drifting back to the things they’d been doing before the shooting started.
John Henry said, “I hope me killing that varmint won’t put your boss in a bind or get the rest of the crew too upset.”
“Not likely,” one of the Carson men replied. “Deverill never had a good word for anybody, and he wasn’t much of a hand, either. He was only good for one thing.”
“Gun work?” John Henry guessed.
The man shrugged.
The bald-headed bartender put three mugs of beer on the bar. John Henry paid for the drinks, and as he picked up his mug, he said to his new companions, “I’m glad you fellas are being reasonable about this.”
The second man laughed. “After seeing that draw of yours, it ain’t likely we’d be anything but reasonable. It was mighty fast and slick.”
“It’s kept me alive this long,” John Henry said dryly.
They sipped their beers, but before they had a chance to continue the conversation, heavy footsteps thudded on the boardwalk outside. Someone slapped the batwings aside and came into the saloon in a hurry.
Watching in the mirror, John Henry saw that the newcomer carried a shotgun. The man was medium height, packed a little extra weight around the middle, and had a rough-hewn face dominated by a large nose and a thick black mustache.
A star was pinned to his brown leather vest.
“What in blazes happened here?” the man demanded in a loud, angry voice.
“That’s Mike Rasmussen,” the man standing next to John Henry said under his breath. “The local sheriff.”
Rasmussen went on, “Who shot this man?”
John Henry took another long drink of his beer, then set the mug on the bar and turned toward the lawman in a casual, unhurried motion. “That would be me,” he drawled.
“And who the hell are you?” Rasmussen wanted to know.
John Henry had considered that very question during his trip to Kiowa City. He didn’t want to use his real name. Most of his activities as a deputy U.S. marshal had been carried out in Indian Territory, but some of his jobs had taken him to Kansas. He didn’t think his name would be that well-known, but he didn’t want to risk it being recognized.
The chances of running into somebody who knew his face were bad enough already, as the previous few minutes had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt.
“Saxon,” he said, using the name he had decided on. “John Saxon.”
“New in town, aren’t you, Saxon?” Rasmussen snapped.
“Just rode in a little while ago.” John Henry paused, then added, “And I can’t say as the place strikes me as being all that friendly so far, under the circumstances.”
“What happened here?” R
asmussen jerked the Greener’s twin barrels toward the corpse. “Coy, is that Deverill?”
“Yeah,” replied the man who had done most of the talking to John Henry. “And I won’t lie to you, Sheriff. He drew first. Saxon here was just defending himself.”
“Was there some sort of argument between them?”
John Henry said, “No, he grabbed iron as soon as he came in and got a good look at me. The trouble between us goes back a ways, Sheriff.”
“Maybe you were justified in shooting him, but that’s not my decision to make. I’ll be taking you in until there’s an inquest, Saxon.”
John Henry’s eyes narrowed, as if this development wasn’t exactly what he wanted. “You’re arresting me?” he said as if he couldn’t believe it. “On what charge?”
“Suspicion of murder will do.”
“It was self-defense,” John Henry said, making his tone sound angry and amazed. “Anybody in here can tell you that.”
“They’ll have to convince the coroner’s jury. Like I said, it’s not my job to judge.” Rasmussen made a curt gesture with the shotgun again. “Let’s go.”
This was actually working out pretty well for John Henry, but he put a stubborn, angry expression on his face anyway. “You can’t do that. It’s not right.”
“I’m tired of people thinking they can get away with anything around here. Come on, Saxon.”
John Henry understood now. Sheriff Rasmussen was frustrated by the recent murders and the possibility that the rest of the jury and Judge Doolittle were marked for death, too. The sheriff hadn’t been able to do anything about it so far, and the judge had appealed for outside help. That was likely to rub any conscientious lawman the wrong way.
Even though John Henry understood, he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. He squared himself up to Rasmussen and said, “I don’t intend to get locked up when I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Once again, people in the saloon began scurrying to get out of harm’s way. They cleared an even wider swath, since the loads of buckshot would spread out more.
Blood for Blood Page 3