Blood for Blood

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Marshal,” he said as he shook hands with John Henry. “Pleased as well that my old friend Isaac Parker took my worries seriously enough to send a man to look into them. According to Sheriff Rasmussen, you chose a rather, ah, unorthodox method of doing so.”

  “It got me on the trail of the varmints who killed Charles Houston and Lucas Winslow, Your Honor,” John Henry said. “And I was able to keep them from torturing and killing Jed Montayne.”

  “Yes, I know. That was excellent work, and I intend to let Judge Parker know as much. But we’re left with the fact that Simon Garrett and his paramour Miss Dalmas are still out there plotting against me and the surviving members of the jury that convicted Henry Garrett. The sheriff tells me that they’re holding Deputy Baird prisoner as well.”

  Clarissa had left John Henry and her uncle alone in the room, or else John Henry might not have mentioned what he said next.

  “They may have killed the deputy by now, Judge. I’d say it’s about a fifty-fifty chance either way.”

  “I know,” Doolittle said with a grim look on his face. “If they’ve harmed him, that’s something else they’ll have to answer for. What I want to know is what you intend to do now. I think you should summon a whole posse of deputy marshals to clean out that devil’s sanctuary.”

  “It may come to that, Your Honor.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to help, you have only to ask, young man.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Doolittle smiled. “On a more positive note, I hear that my niece is helping Dr. Harmon take care of you.”

  “Yes, sir, she is,” John Henry said, “and she’s doing a fine job of it, too.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Clarissa is like a daughter to me.”

  “She speaks mighty highly of you as well.”

  The judge shook hands again and then left.

  Clarissa came into the room and asked John Henry, “Did the two of you have a good visit?”

  “We did. Your uncle strikes me as a good man, the sort of judge we need more of out here in the West.” John Henry was wearing a bathrobe over the bandages around his torso and the bottom half of his long underwear. He hadn’t seen his boots or his gunbelt since he woke up in the doctor’s house, and he had a hankering for both. “You wouldn’t happen to know where my clothes are, would you?”

  “Your shirt had too much blood on it to be saved—not to mention the bullet holes, but I suppose those could have been mended. I’m afraid the doctor threw it out and it was burned.”

  John Henry sighed. “I’ve got a couple spare shirts in my saddlebags. I reckon my gear is stored somewhere?”

  “Yes. Your saddlebags and the other clothes you were wearing are here. They’re in that wardrobe.”

  John Henry stood up and went over to the piece of furniture she indicated. He had thought about looking in there before but hadn’t gotten around to it. He opened it and felt better at the sight of his coiled gunbelt and the holstered Colt attached to it. “The sheriff told me my horse is being taken care of, down at the livery stable.”

  “Yes, of course.” Clarissa frowned slightly. “You sound like you’re thinking about getting dressed and going somewhere, Marshal Sixkiller. The condition you’re in, I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Not just yet.” He drew in a deep breath and was pleased when it didn’t hurt the wounds in his side too much. “But soon. Mighty soon.”

  * * *

  Kiowa City slumbered peacefully again that night. A faint breeze stirred the leaves of the cottonwoods that grew along Kiowa Creek, just north of the settlement.

  That breeze didn’t carry the sound of hoofbeats to the town, because the men who slipped through the darkness had left their horses a good distance away and approached the settlement on foot.

  Simon Garrett had half a dozen of his best men with him. He would have liked to bring the whole gang, charge down Main Street, and rain down fire, death, and destruction on Kiowa City. If it had been completely up to him, that sort of open warfare would have been the tactic he chose to avenge his brother.

  That wouldn’t satisfy Lottie’s thirst for vengeance, though. She wanted her enemies to suffer, not just die.

  So she had hatched the plan to kill the members of the jury one by one, then Sheriff Rasmussen, and finally Judge Ephraim Doolittle. She had struck an alliance with J.C. Carson, who at one time had been an outlaw himself, well acquainted with Harley Dalmas, Lottie’s father. Things had been going along fairly well until Carson had rushed them into going after Montayne.

  That failure had done something to Lottie, Garrett knew. Her patience had disappeared, and her orderly, well-planned campaign of terror had been abandoned. The citizens of Kiowa City would still know terror, but it would no longer be dragged out.

  Garrett held up a hand and signaled silently for his companions to halt. They were still in the shadows of the trees along the creek, so the chances of anyone spotting them were pretty slim.

  So late at night, nobody was out and about much in the settlement, anyway, except the men who were drinking in the saloons. They wouldn’t have any reason to look for danger lurking in the trees beside the creek.

  Garrett motioned for the men to gather around him and pointed to a whitewashed, two-story house about a hundred yards away. “That’s the judge’s place,” he whispered.

  “Looks like they’ve gone to bed,” one of the men said, keeping his voice equally quiet. “I don’t see any lights burnin’.”

  Another man asked, “You reckon they’ve got any guards posted?”

  “I don’t know, but if they do, it’ll be too bad for them,” Garrett said. “Be ready to move when the ball opens up.”

  Instead of attacking with everybody at his disposal, Garrett had split his force. Eight more members of the gang were waiting on horseback a few hundred yards from town. They would create a diversion while he and his companions sprinted toward the judge’s house and forced their way inside. It was just a matter of waiting for the right moment....

  Garrett stiffened as he heard the sudden drumming of hoofbeats. That would be the other group launching their raid, right on time.

  “Get ready!” he said in a low, urgent tone.

  None of the outlaws carried rifles. Any gun work they needed to do would be close up. They drew their revolvers and gripped the weapons tightly as they waited for their leader’s signal.

  Shots blasted from downtown as voices were raised in strident howls. Even from where he was, Garrett could see the muzzle flashes that lit up the street with their glare.

  “Go!” he told his men, and he broke into a run to lead them as they raced toward the Doolittle home.

  The shooting continued from the area around the square. Garrett didn’t care how much damage his men did there; their only purpose was to draw the attention of any guards around the judge’s house.

  Sure enough, he spotted a couple men running along the sides of the house, heading away from the back of the place where they had been posted. More than likely, their orders had been to stay put no matter what happened, but it was hard to ask excitable townies to do that. Once a commotion started, they had to go see what it was all about.

  Garrett headed for the rear door of the house. He was just about to kick it open when a man with a rifle appeared at the corner and yelled, “Hey!”

  Before the guard could raise the weapon, Garrett shot him. The bullet spun the man around and dropped him facedown on the ground.

  Garrett turned his attention back to the door, lifting his foot and driving his boot heel against the wood just above the knob. The door tore free of the splintered jamb and flew open. He went in fast, alert for more guards. The other outlaws were right behind him.

  He had never been in the house and didn’t know the layout, but it seemed likely the bedrooms would be on the second floor. He headed for the front of the house, knowing he would find a staircase along the w
ay.

  Light suddenly spilled down from above. Somebody up there had lit a lamp, but that just helped Garrett locate the stairs. As he rounded the landing and looked up, he saw a bulky figure appear at the top of the stairs. In the light coming along the hallway, Garrett recognized the man as Judge Doolittle.

  “Get out of my house!” the judge roared. He pointed a shotgun down the stairs and tripped both triggers.

  Garrett was already diving to the side as the double-barreled weapon boomed deafeningly. The charge missed him, but the man right behind him wasn’t so lucky. The buckshot tore into him, shredding flesh and throwing the outlaw backward.

  Garrett could have killed Doolittle then. The judge had emptied the shotgun and would have to reload before he could fire again.

  But Doolittle dying that night wasn’t part of Lottie’s plan. Garrett bounded up the stairs toward the judge.

  Doolittle realized that he’d made a mistake by firing both barrels at once. He flung the shotgun at Garrett and turned to run.

  Garrett ducked the flying Greener and charged after Doolittle. His gun rose and fell, crashing down on the back of the judge’s head and sending him sprawling to the floor. His long white nightshirt billowed around him as he fell.

  A woman screamed somewhere nearby.

  Garrett snapped, “Get her!” at his men and paused to kneel beside Doolittle and check the judge. He was alive, but out cold.

  The men rushed past Garrett. He called after them, “Find the girl, too!” He knew the Doolittles had taken in their niece and raised her like their own daughter. He’d had plenty of time in prison to study up on the men he hated.

  A couple men dragged a middle-aged woman in nightclothes toward Garrett as he stood up. She was too terrified to put up a struggle.

  That wasn’t the case with Doolittle’s niece. She was fighting like a wildcat as two more outlaws forced her from her bedroom into the hallway. Her dark hair was disheveled, and her nightgown was twisted around what appeared to be a nicely shaped body.

  At the moment, Garrett didn’t care about that. He stepped closer and swung his left fist in a short, sharp blow that cracked against the young woman’s jaw and jerked her head to the side. She sagged in her captors’ grip, stunned by the punch.

  “One of you can carry her. It’s going to take two to lift the judge.”

  They moved quickly, knowing that the raid in the other part of town might not draw everybody away from the house. Somebody could have heard the shots, especially the blast of Doolittle’s shotgun.

  By the time they had gotten the three prisoners downstairs, the two men who had been in charge of the horses had brought the mounts to the back door of the house. They had brought an extra horse for the judge. His senseless form was thrown over the saddle and lashed down. Each of the women would ride double with one of the outlaws.

  Garrett heard shouts of alarm not far off as they all mounted up. He shouted, “Let’s go!” and raked his horse’s flanks with his spurs. The animal leaped forward and broke into a run. The rest of the men were close behind him as he splashed across Kiowa Creek.

  Within moments the settlement fell into the distance behind them. The group that had provided the diversion would be withdrawing, too, and they would all rendezvous several miles from town and head for the Silver Skull.

  The first part of Lottie’s plan had been completed successfully, Garrett thought.

  And he took pleasure from the fact that the night was no longer quiet and peaceful in Kiowa City.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  John Henry was sound asleep when the shooting broke out, but his hazardous profession had trained his instincts to wake him at the first sign of trouble, even when he was deep in slumber. As usual, he went from sleeping to completely awake and alert in the blink of an eye.

  He sat up in bed, feeling the bandages tug at him, but the wounds in his side didn’t twinge at all. That was a good sign. He swung his legs out of bed and got to his feet. Still no real pain.

  A couple steps took him to the wardrobe. He had left the holstered Colt in there, thinking that he probably wouldn’t need it in town since so few people knew he was there and knew who he really was.

  That might have been a mistake, he thought as he opened the wardrobe door and reached inside to close his hand around the revolver’s smooth walnut grips. They felt good against his palm. “Must be getting careless in your old age, John Henry,” he said aloud. He swung toward the window. The doctor’s house had only one story, so he probably wouldn’t be able to see much, but he swept the curtain aside anyway and peered out into the darkness. The hour was probably approaching midnight.

  With all that shooting going on, more than likely most citizens were awake now. John Henry looked toward the square and saw the reflection of muzzle flashes splitting the night. It sounded like a small-scale war going on.

  His first thought was that Simon Garrett and the rest of the gang had attacked the settlement. That was certainly possible, although it seemed a little straightforward for the devious Lottie Dalmas.

  John Henry turned his head and frowned as he heard a faint, heavy boom. That sounded like a shotgun going off, he thought, but it didn’t come from the same area where the rest of the gunplay was taking place.

  Something else was going on.

  With a grimace, he turned away from the window and went back to the wardrobe. He holstered the Colt and picked up his denim trousers, which lay neatly folded on the same shelf as his gun belt and hat.

  Once he had stepped into the trousers and fastened them, he buckled on the gun belt. He moved swiftly and efficiently, not rushing but not wasting any time, either.

  His boots were in the bottom of the wardrobe. It took him only a moment to pull them on.

  As he turned toward the bedroom door, it swung open. John Henry put his hand on the butt of his gun again, but it was just Dr. Harmon standing there holding a lamp.

  “I was afraid this is how I would find you,” the doctor said. “You heard all that shooting, and you just can’t stand it, can you, Marshal?”

  “Trouble’s my job. And that sounds like plenty of trouble.”

  “It’s several blocks away. If you try to walk that far, you’ll probably collapse. If you collapse, you might break those wounds open again.”

  “I think you underestimate me, Doc. You said yourself I was healing up faster than anybody you ever saw.”

  “But you’re still far from recovered,” Harmon argued. “Besides, listen to that.”

  John Henry listened, and a frown creased his forehead as he realized that the shooting was a lot more sporadic. It sounded like it was getting farther away, too.

  The raiders, whoever they were, were retreating from Kiowa City.

  “It’s over,” Harmon said, “or at least it will be by the time you could get there. So you might as well get back in bed—”

  “Sorry Doc.” John Henry took a step toward him, forcing the medico to step aside. “Whether it’s over or not, I need to find out what happened.”

  “I can’t very well tackle you and force you to stop,” Harmon said angrily. “But I want to make it clear that you’re acting against medical advice.”

  John Henry nodded. “Duly noted. You won’t be held responsible.” He went to the front door and opened it. The shooting had stopped completely, but in the distance he heard the swift rataplan of fading hoofbeats. The attackers had lit a shuck, he was sure of that.

  He was walking to the gate in the fence around the doctor’s front yard when he spotted someone running toward him. It was too dark to see who the man was, so John Henry slid his Colt from leather and raised it. “Hold it!” he called. “Who’s there?” He took a quick step to the side, just in case somebody aimed a shot at the sound of his voice.

  The running man stopped short and exclaimed, “Sixkiller! Is that you?”

  “Yeah,” John Henry said, recognizing Mike Rasmussen’s voice. “What’s going on, Sheriff?”

  “Some
men charged into town and shot up a few businesses. Broke some windows and wounded half a dozen men, a couple of them pretty bad, from the looks of it. I was on my way to fetch Doc Harmon.”

  “I heard you, Sheriff.” Harmon stepped out of his house carrying his black medical bag. His nightshirt was stuffed into a pair of trousers. He hurried past John Henry. “I’ll go see to the wounded. Where should I start?”

  “The Paradise,” Rasmussen answered. “Several men were hit when they came running out and tried to put up a fight.”

  Harmon jerked his head in a nod and trotted toward the square.

  “I was coming to check on you, too,” Rasmussen went on to John Henry. “From what I was told, those rangy outlaws made a lot of noise and caused a lot of commotion, but they didn’t seem to care how many people they shot or how much damage they did.”

  “A diversion,” John Henry said. The same thought had occurred to him as soon as he heard that shotgun go off a few blocks away from downtown.

  “Yeah, I thought maybe somebody else was after you.”

  “Not very many people know I’m here, or even still alive.” Alarm bells went off in John Henry’s brain. “But Garrett would know that he could find Judge Doolittle here in town. Where does he live?”

  A curse ripped out of the sheriff’s mouth. “Not far from here.” He wheeled around to break into a run.

  John Henry followed at a more deliberate pace, although every instinct in his body wanted him to dash after Rasmussen. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew that Dr. Harmon was right. He wasn’t completely recovered and had to be careful not to cause himself a setback.

  Having to take it slow was frustrating. He had lost sight of Rasmussen and didn’t know where the sheriff had gone. He didn’t know which house belonged to Judge Doolittle, either.

  He was about to call Rasmussen’s name when the local lawman beat him to it, shouting, “Sixkiller! Over here!”

  John Henry spotted Rasmussen standing in front of a large, two-story, whitewashed frame house. Just the sort of place where a judge would live, John Henry thought.