Day of Rage

by William W. Johnstone

  “What?” John Henry said.

  “Mexico,” the man repeated. “That’s what you’re looking at. Those mountains over there are on the other side of the border. You can’t see it from here, but the Rio Grande runs between us and them.”

  “All right,” John Henry said. “They look just like the mountains on this side of the border, don’t they?”

  The stranger chuckled and said, “Yeah, I guess they do.” He put out a pudgy hand. “Mitchum’s the name, Thaddeus Mitchum. Most folks call me Doc.”

  “Because you’re a doctor?” John Henry asked as they shook.

  “Oh, shoot, no. In my younger days I was a traveling man, sold elixirs and patent medicines.”

  “Snake oil, in other words,” John Henry said.

  Mitchum laughed.

  “You’re a plain-spoken young man, aren’t you?”

  “I try to be. I mean no offense by it, though.”

  “Oh, none taken, none taken,” Mitchum said with a wave of his hand. “I’ve been called much worse than a snake oil salesman in my time. But, as a point of fact, the nostrums I sold actually did bring some relief to people who bought them.”

  “Mix enough alcohol and opium in something, and that’ll do it.”

  “Indeed. I don’t believe I caught your name, friend.”

  John Henry had done some thinking about that very thing. Judge Parker had suggested, and he agreed, that it might make his job easier if he didn’t go around announcing the fact that he was a federal marshal. So the question was, should he use a false name?

  In Indian Territory, quite a few people had heard of him; he was chief sheriff of the Cherokee Nation, after all, in addition to his duties as a deputy U.S. marshal. He was somewhat well-known in certain parts of Arkansas and Kansas, too.

  But it was hard for him to believe that out here, with the vast reaches of Texas between him and home, that anybody would have ever heard of John Henry Sixkiller. So it just seemed simpler to use his real name.

  “It’s John Henry Sixkiller,” he said in reply to Mitchum.

  “Sixkiller,” the man repeated. “You’re an Indian?”

  John Henry knew that his dark hair and blue eyes made him look more like his mother’s Scotch-Irish ancestors than the Cherokee on his father’s side. He said, “Half.” He didn’t go into detail since it was none of Mitchum’s business.

  “Oh. Well, that’s fine. You may run into some people out here who are bothered by that, but I’m not one of ’em. I’ve studied history enough to know that most people are mongrels of one sort or another. I mean nothing derogatory by the word.”

  John Henry nodded. He didn’t have anything against Mitchum, but he didn’t particularly want to encourage a long conversation with the man, either. He found his eyes drawn back to those mountains that Mitchum had told him were in Mexico. This was the first time he had seen a foreign country, and he found it fascinating, even though it didn’t really look any different from Texas. This trip was awakening a wanderlust inside John Henry that he hadn’t known was part of his personality. He found himself wondering what it would be like to see an ocean, or a city like San Francisco, or even the great capitals of Europe.

  Not that he was ever likely to travel that far. But as long as he was a U.S. marshal, there was a chance he’d be sent to more places that he’d never been before, like this journey to New Mexico Territory.

  “Where is it you’re bound, if you don’t mind my asking?” Mitchum said.

  John Henry did mind, but he’d been raised to be polite. His mother, Elizabeth, wouldn’t have had it any other way. He said, “A little town in New Mexico Territory called Purgatory.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of it,” Mitchum said. “Never been there, though. It’s a mining town, isn’t it?”

  “I think so.” John Henry kept his answer deliberately vague.

  “Going there on business? You didn’t mention what line of work you’re in.”

  “No, I didn’t,” John Henry said. He left it at that. He figured he’d been polite enough, long enough, and he didn’t want to encourage this busybody any more than he already had.

  Mitchum seemed to take the hint. He didn’t ask any more questions, and after a few inconsequential comments about the landscape, he stood up and said, “Perhaps I’ll see you again later. Good luck on your journey, Mr. Sixkiller.”

  “You, too,” John Henry said.

  Mitchum moved off along the aisle that ran through the center of the car. John Henry leaned back against the hard seat and closed his eyes, tipping his hat down over them. Even though he hadn’t been awake all that long, the sleep he had gotten sitting up hadn’t really been all that restful, either. Besides, the gently rocking motion of the train and the monotonous clicking of the joints in the rails combined to make him drowsy. A nap wouldn’t hurt anything, he told himself.

  He dozed off and didn’t dream. He expected he might sleep all the way to El Paso.

  That turned out not to be the case. He didn’t know how long he had been asleep when he sensed someone else sitting down beside him. He opened his right eye only the tiniest slit, trying to get a glimpse of his fellow passenger. If Doc Mitchum was back, John Henry intended to go right on sleeping, or at least pretending to do so. He didn’t want to have to entertain the old medicine show conman.

  To his surprise, the person sitting beside him seemed to be wearing a dress. Some sort of bottle-green traveling outfit, to be precise. Still slumped against the seat with the hat partially shielding his face, John Henry opened his eye a little more and let his gaze trail up the woman’s body. He could see the curve of her bosom and above it her chin, and a fine chin it was, too, with a hint of firmness and determination about it.

  He couldn’t see the rest of her face, though, unless he lifted his head and revealed that he was awake. He was debating whether or not he wanted to do that when he felt the soft pressure of her shoulder against his. She was leaning toward him, and a second later he felt the warmth of her breath touch his cheek as she whispered, “Please, sir, you have to help me, I beg of you!”

  Chapter Seven

  Under those circumstances, John Henry didn’t see how he could pretend to go on sleeping. He sat up straighter, opened his eyes all the way, and lifted a hand to thumb his hat back into its normal position. He turned his head to look at the woman sitting close beside him. Improperly close, some people would have said.

  She was very attractive. Probably around twenty-three years old, he would have guessed, although like most men he was far from an expert at guessing a woman’s age. Lustrous brown hair was pulled back and up to form an elaborate arrangement of curls upon which sat a stylish hat that matched her traveling dress. Her eyes were a rich, warm shade of brown, too. Her face had a small beauty mark just to the right of her mouth that only added to her striking looks.

  “Can you help me?” she said again. Her voice had a breathy, throaty quality about it, so that even if she hadn’t been whispering, the words would have sounded intimate.

  “Help you to do what?” John Henry asked.

  “There’s a man. . . . He’s bothering me.”

  John Henry smiled. He might not be a sophisticated man of the world, but he had some experience. Any time a man was approached by a beautiful woman he didn’t know who claimed that she was being bothered by someone, it tended not to end well for the fella being approached. The mark, John Henry believed he was called.

  But the train had emerged from the mountains, he saw as he glanced out the window, and while he could still see some peaks to the south, across the Rio Grande, the scenery back to the north was downright boring again.

  “How long will it be before we get to El Paso?” he asked.

  The question seemed to take her by surprise. She frowned—which didn’t make her any less pretty, he noted—and said, “What? How long to El Paso? I . . . I don’t know. Another hour or two, maybe.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. Figuring out exactly what sort of trick she w
as trying to pull on him would help pass the time. “I just got distracted for a second. What were you saying about needing my help?”

  She looked relieved.

  “There’s a man who’s been watching me ever since we left San Antonio,” she said. “He’s very bold about it, and he makes me uncomfortable. I moved from the car where I was sitting originally, but he followed me. And then he spoke to me.”

  “I’m speaking to you,” John Henry pointed out. “It doesn’t seem so bad.”

  “Yes, but he wanted to know if I was stopping in El Paso. He suggested that he and I . . . well, I don’t want to repeat what he suggested, but I found it very offensive!”

  John Henry was sitting toward the front of the car, with only a couple of rows of seats between him and the vestibule. He turned his head to look behind him at the other passengers.

  “Is he in this car?”

  “I don’t know . . . I think he followed me. . . .” The young woman looked, too, then jerked her head around so she was facing forward again. “Yes! He’s back there. He’s a big man, with . . . with a large nose and a black mustache.”

  John Henry looked again. There was an hombre several rows back who matched that description, all right, but he didn’t seem to be paying any attention to them.

  Maybe that was just an act. Maybe he really had been harassing this young woman. John Henry didn’t think it was likely, but it was possible. He was enough of a gentleman that he thought he ought to give her the benefit of the doubt, despite his suspicions of her.

  “Do you want me to go talk to him and ask him to leave you alone?” he asked.

  She put a hand on his arm and squeezed gently.

  “Could you?” she said, her voice again with that breathless quality.

  “Of course. First, though, I’d like for you to tell me your name.”

  “Is ... is that really necessary?”

  “I think it is,” John Henry said.

  “Very well. My name is Sophie. Sophie Clearwater.”

  Clearwater sounded a little like an Indian name. John Henry knew it could just as easily be a white person’s name, though. She didn’t look the least bit Indian.

  “All right, Miss Clearwater ... it is Miss Clearwater, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. I’m not married.”

  “All right, I’ll go have a word with the gentleman.”

  A little shudder ran through her.

  “He’s not a gentleman,” she said. “He’s a brute.”

  “I’ll talk to him nonetheless,” John Henry said as he got to his feet. “Why don’t you just scoot on over there by the window? Easier for me to get out that way.” She did as he suggested. He touched a finger to the brim of his hat and added, “I’ll be right back.”

  He felt the motion of the train under his boots as he walked along the aisle. The man Sophie Clearwater claimed to be afraid of sat by himself on one of the benches, looking out the window. John Henry stopped beside him and said, “Excuse me, sir?”

  The man looked around and said, “Yeah? What do you want?”

  “I was wondering if I could have a word with you?”

  “What about? I don’t know you, do I?”

  “No, but it’s important.” John Henry gestured at the seat. “If I could ... ?”

  The man grimaced and slid over with obvious reluctance. He made it plain he didn’t want any company.

  “Now, here’s the situation,” John Henry said quietly when he had taken off his hat and sat down. “There’s a young woman up there ... you see her, brown hair, green hat? She’s not looking this way.”

  “Yeah, I see her. What about it?”

  “Are you acquainted with her?”

  “Not that I know of. I can’t see her face, so I’m not sure. But as far as I know I’m not acquainted with anybody on this train.” He added pointedly, “That includes you, mister.”

  “I neglected to introduce myself. My name’s John Henry Sixkiller, and yes, before you ask, I’m part Indian.”

  “I don’t give a hoot about that. Get to the point, before I call the conductor.”

  “Well, you see, that young woman claims that you’ve been bothering her. That you looked boldly at her, made improper suggestions, and followed her from another car to this one. Is there any truth to those charges?”

  The man’s face had begun to flush with anger as John Henry spoke, and by the time he was finished the man looked like he was about to explode. He opened his mouth to say something, but John Henry held up a hand and said, “Quietly now. We don’t want to cause an unnecessary scene.”

  “You’ve already done that,” the man grated out, “by coming back here and leveling these ridiculous accusations at me. I’d never bother any woman like that, and I don’t appreciate her saying that I did!”

  “Is there any way you can prove that?” John Henry asked.

  “I don’t have to prove anything!”

  “Maybe not, but it would help me out if you did.”

  The man continued to fume for several seconds, then said, “All right. My name is Harlan Phillips. I’m the pastor of a Baptist church in El Paso. I’m on my way back from San Antonio, where I attended a denominational meeting where I was cited for my work in the service of the Lord. I’m happily married and have five children. Is that enough proof for you, mister?”

  “Am I supposed to take your word for it that you’re this Pastor Phillips?”

  The man reached under his coat, and John Henry tensed. If that hand came out with a gun in it, he was going to throw a punch before the man could bring the weapon to bear.

  Instead, Phillips, if that was his name, was holding an envelope. He showed it to John Henry, who saw that it was addressed to Harlan Phillips, Grace Baptist Church, El Paso, Texas.

  “Just because you’ve got a letter addressed to this Pastor Phillips doesn’t mean you’re him.”

  “Maybe not. Why don’t you bring the young woman back here and I’ll address her accusations directly.”

  “I don’t believe that’ll be necessary,” John Henry said. “I’ll accept that you’re who you say you are, Brother Harlan, if you’ll do me a favor.”

  “What sort of favor?”

  “Don’t argue with me when I say what I’m about to say.”

  Phillips looked confused. He started to say, “What—” but John Henry got to his feet, pointed his hat at him, and said in a loud voice, “And don’t you forget it!”

  Then he clapped his hat on his head, gave Phillips a curt nod, and turned to stride back up the aisle to his seat.

  A few of the other passengers had looked at him oddly when he spoke that last bit to Phillips, but most ignored him. Not Sophie Clearwater, though. She turned to watch him approach, and she started to move as if she intended to slide off the bench and let him reclaim his seat by the window.

  John Henry moved too fast for her to do that. He sat down beside her instead and let his long legs extend casually in front of him, as much as they would in the space between benches. Sophie couldn’t get out now unless he let her out, short of climbing over the back of the bench.

  “You don’t have anything else to worry about,” he told her as he glanced down and saw the corner of his carpetbag sticking out from under the seat. It hadn’t been like that when he left. “I gave the man a good talking to, and he won’t bother you anymore.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “You’re a true gentleman. Now, I shouldn’t take up any more of your time—”

  “I don’t have anything but time until we get to El Paso,” John Henry said, “and I’d be honored if you’d spend it talking with me, Miss Clearwater.”

  She looked uncomfortable, sort of like a deer that wanted to bolt. She forced a smile and said, “Well, I suppose—”

  “And the first thing we can talk about,” John Henry said, “is why you lied to me and told me that a fine, upstanding Baptist preacher with a wife and five children was making improper advances toward you.”

  Ch
apter Eight

  Her brown eyes widened in surprise, and her lips compressed into a thin, taut line.

  “Just because a man’s a preacher doesn’t mean that he can’t sin,” she said.

  “Anybody can sin,” John Henry said. “Some people do it like breathing. I’ve even heard it said that preachers are good at sinning because they’ve studied it so much. That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “You think that he’s telling the truth and I’m lying?” she snapped.

  “I do, yes. I also think that you went through my carpetbag while I was talking to the good pastor. Find anything interesting?”

  He knew she hadn’t, unless she was interested in a few spare shirts, socks, changes of underwear, and a couple of boxes of .44 ammunition. His wallet and the leather folder containing his deputy marshal’s badge and bona fides were resting snugly in his inside coat pockets.

  “Are you accusing me of being a thief?” she asked, still tight-lipped.

  “Well, a would-be thief, anyway. I doubt if you took anything, since I don’t really have anything worth stealing.”

  “Please let me out of this seat right now.”

  John Henry shook his head and said, “Not until you tell me the truth.”

  “I’ll scream. The conductor will come.”

  “Go ahead. I wouldn’t mind having a word with him myself.”

  She sighed and her hand moved slightly. He saw the twin barrels of an over-and-under derringer peeking out at him from her fingers.

  “I don’t want to shoot you—”

  “And I don’t want to be shot,” he said. Moving so quickly she couldn’t stop him, his hand clamped over hers and forced it down so if she pulled the trigger, the bullet would go into the bench between them. He reached across his body with the other hand, tightened his grip enough so that she gasped softly in pain, and plucked the derringer from her grasp. As she glared at him, he let go of her, broke the little gun open, removed the shells, and handed it back to her.

  “I don’t like people pointing guns at me,” he said. “Not even beautiful women.”

  She said, “You son of a—”