“Go to hell!” John Henry shouted. “You’ll have to kill me to take me back there!”
The one who seemed in charge called to his men. “Move in slow. I’ll shoot his horse, and one of you wing him. As long as he doesn’t bleed to death on the way, I reckon Garrett and the Flame won’t mind too much if he’s shot up a little more.”
They could do it, John Henry knew. They were in easy rifle range already, but still too far away for him to count on the accuracy of his Colt.
Besides, not even the best gunslick west of the Mississippi could shoot in four directions at once. They had him, and all he would accomplish by putting up a fight would be to get Iron Heart killed.
He couldn’t do that to the big gray.
There was a slim chance, and John Henry took it. He lifted his voice again and said, “Don’t do this, Nick. I helped you before. Remember, we’re partners.”
He had recognized the man to his right as Nick Mallette. The gambler had his Winchester leveled, and after what had happened back at Packsaddle Gap, he didn’t have any more reason to trust John Henry than any of the other men did.
But the lawman appealed to him anyway. It was the only chance he had.
“Partners?” Mallette repeated bitterly. “Partners don’t punch each other in the jaw, John, and try to get each other killed.”
“That was never my intention,” John Henry said. “I give you my word on that.” He was telling the truth. By knocking out Mallette, his hope was that Garrett and the other outlaws would be convinced the gambler hadn’t had anything to do with John Henry’s actions.
Evidently that was the way things had turned out, otherwise Garrett wouldn’t have sent Mallette out to help chase him down.
“Sorr y, John,” Mallette said. “I can’t trust you anymore. I’m starting to think I never could.”
“Sure you can, Nick.” John Henry knew it was time to play the lone card he had left. “I’m a deputy U.S. marshal. I work for Judge Isaac Parker in Fort Smith. He’s a federal judge, and if there’s anybody who can do something about that bogus murder charge hanging over your head, it’s him.”
John Henry kept his eyes on Mallette. He knew his admission was a risk. He was counting on the outlaws to not forget their orders from Garrett and start cutting loose at him.
The revelation that he was a star packer brought angry curses from the outlaws, but they didn’t shoot.
John Henry’s spirits rose slightly when he saw the barrel of Mallette’s rifle sag a little.
“A federal lawman?” Mallette said. “You can’t do anything about a murder charge, and neither can that judge of yours. That’s a state crime.”
“You think the law in Kansas City won’t listen if Parker asks them to take another look at your case? The judge wields more influence than any two-bit local politician. I give you my word on that, Nick. I’ll do everything in my power to see that justice is done and your name is cleared.”
The outlaw leader had had enough. “Shut your mouth, Saxon! You’ve spouted enough lies!” The rifle in his hands cracked wickedly as he fired.
John Henry moved as the outlaw spoke, his instincts telling him that he had run out of time. His boot heels jabbed into Iron Heart’s flanks and sent the gray leaping to the side, as the outlaw squeezed the trigger. The slug whipped past them, barely missing.
To John Henry’s amazement, he saw Mallette twist in the saddle and swing his Winchester around to trigger a shot at the man who had just fired.
Mallette’s aim was good. The outlaw’s rifle flew from his hands as the slug’s impact jerked him halfway around in the saddle. Blood spurted from his bullet-shattered shoulder.
At the same time, John Henry charged toward the nearer of the other two men. The man fired, but he rushed his shot and the bullet whipped past John Henry’s head.
A few leaping bounds from Iron Heart brought John Henry into handgun range. His Colt blasted at the same time his opponent levered the Winchester and fired again.
The deputy marshal’s shot found its target first, ripping through the man’s throat. The outlaw rocked back as blood fountained from the wound, then toppled from the saddle as his horse shied violently.
More guns were roaring. John Henry wheeled Iron Heart toward the third outlaw and saw the man trading shots with Mallette.
In the blink of an eye the man had gone from being one of those in charge to being outnumbered and caught in a crossfire. He tried to spur his way out of trouble, but John Henry’s revolver bucked in his hand again and the outlaw sagged as the bullet tore into his side.
The next instant, Mallette’s rifle cracked again, and the wounded outlaw pitched off his horse as the gambler’s slug drilled him through the head.
Echoes of the gun thunder rolled away across the prairie. Two of the outlaws were down. The lead man Mallette had shot in the shoulder was still mounted. His right arm was useless, but he reached across his body with his left hand and clawed his gun from its holster. Flame spurted from its muzzle as he charged John Henry.
The lawman aimed and fired, and the man flew backward off his horse as John Henry’s bullet drove into his chest with the impact of a giant fist.
When the echoes of those final shots faded away, a grim silence hung over the plains.
Taking fresh cartridges from the loops in his shell belt was painful, but John Henry reloaded the Colt before doing anything else. Then, still holding the revolver, he walked Iron Heart toward Nick Mallette.
The gambler’s face was pale. He still had the Winchester in his hands, but he held it at a slant across his chest instead of pointing it at John Henry. If he had told the truth about his life, he had never taken part in a gunfight that big before.
Mallette had been cool under fire, though, and his aim with the rifle had been deadly.
John Henry reined in a few yards away. “That was some good shooting, Nick.”
Mallette let the rifle’s barrel drift a little toward John Henry. “There’s liable to be more, if you don’t tell me the truth right now. They’re all dead, so you don’t have any reason to lie anymore. Are you really a federal marshal?”
“I am. My real name is John Henry Sixkiller.”
“So I can keep on calling you John.”
“Sure.”
“And you really think your boss can help me?”
“I know he can. He can wire Kansas City and get your case reopened. Hell, if that doesn’t do any good, I’ll go there myself and make sure the truth comes out.”
“That’s assuming you get out of this mess alive.”
“Yeah,” John Henry said with a smile. “And right now, unless I get back to Kiowa City and get some proper medical attention, that’s a mighty big assumption.” A wave of weakness hit him and he clutched at the saddle horn with his free hand to steady himself.
“I’m not sure you can get there by yourself,” Mallette said. “And if I go with you, Sheriff Rasmussen will throw me back in jail and turn me over to those deputies from Missouri.”
“Maybe,” John Henry said through teeth gritted against the pain. “Maybe not, when I tell him who I am . . . and that you’re now a special deputy working for me.”
Mallette’s eyes widened. “You can do that?”
“Well . . . as far as the sheriff’s concerned, I can.”
Mallette took several Winchester rounds from his vest pocket and thumbed them through the rifle’s loading gate. Then he slid the weapon back in its saddle boot. “I sure hope you’re telling me the truth, John . . . because you’ve got yourself a special deputy.”
John Henry grinned. “Consider yourself a lawman, for the time being.”
“Never thought I’d see the day,” Mallette muttered as he turned his horse and fell in alongside John Henry. They started southeast toward Kiowa City.
After a few minutes, the gambler said, “You can prove who you are to Sheriff Rasmussen, can’t you?”
“We’d better hope so,” John Henry said. “Otherwise we’ll both
wind up behind bars again, and I don’t reckon he’ll ever let us out!”
Chapter Twenty
As darkness fell, John Henry guided them by the stars that popped out on the ebony curtain hanging above them. He was in and out of full consciousness, though, so to a certain extent he relied on Mallette to keep them going in the right direction.
At some point, the gambler pointed to a clump of lights in the distance and asked, “Is that the settlement, John? Is that Kiowa City?”
“Got to be. Keep your eye on those lights, Nick, and head us straight toward ’em.”
“All right. I’m still not sure this is what I should be doing, but I guess I’ve come too far to back out now. One thing is sure. If I’d stayed with Garrett and the Flame, I’d have been on the dodge from now on. Maybe with you, I’ve got a chance not to be a fugitive for the rest of my life.”
The lights got steadily brighter as they drew closer. From a few hundred yards away, John Henry could make out some of the buildings and knew they were in the right place.
“Hold on,” he told Mallette. “We need to make it to the courthouse without anybody recognizing us. If they do, they might start shooting before we get a chance to talk to Rasmussen.”
“How do you know he won’t shoot us on sight himself?”
“I don’t think an honest lawman would do that. He’ll let us turn ourselves in and explain.” John Henry paused a moment before he could go on. He felt weak and shaky as a newborn foal. “When we left town, you were wearing that gambler’s suit. Keep your hat brim pulled down and there’s a good chance nobody will pay any attention to you.”
“Unless the man I stole this horse from sees it and recognizes it,” Mallette said. “They hang horse thieves out here on the frontier, don’t they?”
“You were already acting as a special deputy when you took that saddle mount. We’ll see to it that the hombre gets his horse back, and maybe something for his trouble.” John Henry chuckled. “The judge may not like seeing something like horse stealing on the expense account, but he’ll understand.”
“All right,” Mallette said. “Hat brim down, ride slow and easy, head for the courthouse, and hope the sheriff is in his office. Is that about the size of it?”
“You’ve got the idea. Let’s go.”
They moved ahead again and a few minutes later entered the town on one of the side streets. Most of the houses in the residential area were already dark, their occupants having turned in for the night.
It was a different story when they cut over to the main street and turned toward the courthouse in the town square. All the saloons were open, and some of the other businesses were, too.
John Henry tensed as they rode past the Paradise Saloon. If anybody was going to recognize them, it would probably be while they were traveling through that stretch.
The sounds of music and laughter drifted past the batwings, but they were strangely subdued. The people of Kiowa City hadn’t forgotten what had happened to Charles Houston and Lucas Winslow. It was enough to cast a pall over the whole settlement.
A couple men came out of the saloon while John Henry and Mallette were riding past. John Henry held his breath, but the men just glanced at the two riders and then looked away, not taking any particular notice of them.
As they came closer to the courthouse, Mallette said quietly, “The lamps are burning in the sheriff’s office. Somebody will be on duty, even if it isn’t Rasmussen.”
“As long as whoever it is doesn’t get trigger-happy, we’ll be all right.”
“John . . . do you think the outlaws killed Carl Baird when they got back to the ranch?”
“Maybe not,” John Henry said. “Their reasons for keeping him alive are just as valid whether we’re there or not.”
“You, uh, you weren’t going to kill him either of those other times, were you? That was just an act?”
“That’s right. I had to convince everybody, even you, that I was John Saxon, outlaw and cold-blooded killer. Sorry I couldn’t tell you the truth all along, Nick, but I figured other folks would be more likely to believe the act if you believed it, too.”
Mallette sighed. “I hope you’re not lying to me now. If you are really Saxon, I don’t see any reason why you’d ride back here like this, though.”
“I wouldn’t. I’d be putting Kiowa City as far behind me as I could.”
“That’s what I thought.” Mallette drew rein in front of the courthouse. “Well, here we are.”
John Henry brought Iron Heart to a stop. “I’ll need something out of my saddlebags. You think you can help me down?”
“Sure. You don’t want to fall on your face after coming this far.” Mallette swung down from the saddle, then helped John Henry to the ground.
John Henry leaned on Iron Heart while he opened one of the saddlebags and slid a hand inside. The pocket that contained his badge and identification papers was hidden so cunningly that somebody could turn those saddlebags inside out and not find it. He had it open in a matter of seconds.
He took out the badge, but left the leather folder containing his bona fides. He could always show them to the sheriff later if he needed to. “All right. Let’s go.”
He leaned on Mallette for support as they made their way across the courthouse lawn and up the steps to the entrance.
The night-duty deputy bolted to his feet as they stepped into the building. He drew his gun, pointed it at them, and yelled down the hall. “Sheriff! Sheriff, you better get out here!”
Mike Rasmussen appeared in the open door of his office, stopping short at the sight of John Henry and Mallette. His shock at seeing them kept him immobile only for a couple heartbeats. He yanked his Colt from its holster, stalked toward them, and bellowed, “Stand right there, damn you! Don’t move!”
“We’re not going anywhere, Sheriff,” John Henry said with a weary smile. “I can’t make any promises about standing, though. I’ve been shot, and I might fall down.”
“Is that why you came back?” Rasmussen demanded. “Looking for help since you’re hurt?”
“That . . . and to tell you the truth.”
Mallette said, “You’d better listen to him, Sheriff. You might be surprised what he has to say.”
“Oh, I’ll listen, all right.” Rasmussen’s face was flushed with anger. “Once I’ve got the two of you locked up behind bars where you belong!”
“You might want to . . . think twice about that, Sheriff ”—John Henry’s strength was suddenly deserting him again—“after you’ve . . . taken a look at this.” He held out his right hand and opened it.
The badge of a deputy United States marshal rested on his palm.
“My name is . . . John Henry Sixkiller. You can wire . . . Judge Parker in Fort Smith . . . if you don’t—”
Those were all the words John Henry got out. The courthouse corridor spun madly around him for a second before a black shroud dropped down over him and blotted out everything.
* * *
“. . . iron constitution,” a man was saying as awareness seeped back into John Henry’s brain. The voice faded in and out. “Most men . . . dead by now . . . that much blood.”
“I think he’s coming around,” another man said. That voice was familiar, and after a second John Henry was thinking straight enough to realize that it belonged to Nick Mallette.
“Let me give him this,” the first voice said. Somebody slipped a hand behind John Henry’s head and lifted it slightly.
He felt something against his lips and opened them. Liquid fire flowed into his mouth and down his throat, making him gasp and open his eyes. The weatherbeaten face of a gray-haired, middle-aged man looked down at him.
“That was just a sip of whiskey, son,” the man said. “A restorative. Perhaps I shouldn’t have given it to you. If your name really is Sixkiller, you’re probably an Indian, and redskins are notorious for not being able to handle liquor.”
Even in his condition, that statement annoyed John Henry. He push
ed it aside since there were more pressing matters. “Are you . . . a doctor?” he husked.
“That’s right,” the gray-haired man said as he straightened. “You’re in my office. The sheriff brought you down here when he saw how badly you were wounded. I’m Dr. Joseph Harmon.”
“Those . . . bullet holes . . .”
“Don’t worry. I’ve cleaned and bandaged them. They look better than they have any right to, considering what you’ve been through. I believe they’ll heal properly, and you’ll be back on your feet in a few weeks.”
John Henry closed his eyes for a moment. He wasn’t going to waste time and energy arguing with the sawbones, but he knew he probably didn’t have a couple weeks to lay around recuperating.
Besides, he wasn’t going to need that long to get better. He knew his own abilities, knew from experience that he always bounced back from injuries faster than most men. As the doctor had said, he had an iron constitution.
John Henry opened his eyes again and looked around the room. He was lying on a table between a grim-faced Sheriff Rasmussen and Dr. Harmon. Nick Mallette sat in a ladderback chair against the wall to one side. The deputy from the courthouse stood in the doorway with a shotgun cradled under his arm.
John Henry summoned up a smile for the gambler. “Thanks for . . . getting me here, Nick.”
Mallette held up his hands to display the steel cuffs locked around his wrists. “I sure hope you’re playing straight with me this time, John.”
“I am.” John Henry looked at Rasmussen. “Sheriff, Nick’s been helping me. He’s a special deputy.”
“He’s a fugitive from Missouri is what he is,” Rasmussen said harshly. “A wanted murderer. If you think I’m going to let him go on the word of some Texas gunslinger—”
“Deputy U.S. marshal,” John Henry cut in. “You saw my badge.”
“Which you could have taken off the body of a real marshal after you killed him.”
“I have identification papers—”
“Same thing. They could be stolen.”
John Henry took a deep breath and felt the pull of the bandages wrapped tightly around his torso. “Did you wire Judge Parker in Fort Smith?”
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