Day of Rage

by William W. Johnstone

  “Now, that’s not very ladylike,” he broke in. “But if you want to start calling names, I reckon I could come up with a few to apply to you, as well.”

  “All right! Yes, I looked through your bag. But I didn’t take anything.”

  “And Brother Harlan back there hasn’t been bothering you, has he?”

  “He’s really a preacher?”

  “Seems to be,” John Henry said.

  Sophie sighed, shook her head, and said, “I just picked the meanest-looking man I could find. And he turns out to be a blasted sky pilot!”

  “That was an unfortunate turn of events for you,” John Henry said with a smile.

  Sophie surprised him a little by returning the smile. She didn’t seem to be playing up to him, either. She appeared to be genuinely amused by the irony. Of course, she was good at lying, John Henry reminded himself.

  “Are you going to turn me over to the law?” she asked.

  He didn’t tell her that he was a lawman himself. Instead, he said, “What for? You didn’t take anything. And if you could get in trouble with the law for lying to a man, all the women in the world would be behind bars, wouldn’t they?”

  “That’s a rather cynical attitude, isn’t it?”

  “Not really, because if the reverse was true, all the men would be locked up.”

  “So you have no faith in humanity at all, is that it?”

  “Let’s just say that my belief in the goodness of humankind has its limits.”

  She was silent for a moment, then asked, “If you’re not going to have me arrested, you can let me out of this seat.”

  “So you can find some other poor unsuspecting gent to rob between here and El Paso?” John Henry shook his head. “No, I think we’ll just continue our conversation, as I suggested earlier. For starters, is your name really Sophie Clearwater?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is,” she said.

  “My name is John Henry Sixkiller. Now that we’ve been properly introduced, tell me . . . do you do this sort of thing often?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “No, I suppose not. But you can’t blame me for being curious.”

  She sighed and said, “You wouldn’t believe what a woman has to do sometimes to get along in this world. Believe me, Mr. Sixkiller, there are worse ways than lifting an occasional wallet or watch.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. That’s a fairly expensive traveling outfit you’re wearing, though. You must not be completely broke.”

  “I never said that I was. But . . . at this particular moment I don’t own much more than the clothes on my back.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Sorry enough to perhaps help me out?” No sooner had she asked that then she shook her head and smiled. “No, forget I said that. Force of habit. And you wouldn’t fall for it anyway.”

  “No, I would not,” John Henry agreed. “Where are you from?”

  “North Carolina, originally. A little town you’ve never heard of.”

  “Probably not, since I doubt that I could name a single town in North Carolina.”

  “What about you?” She studied him with a degree of intentness. “There’s something unusual about you.”

  “I’m half Cherokee. Born and raised in Indian Territory.”

  “You don’t look like any Indian I’ve ever seen.”

  “We don’t all wear feathers and war paint,” John Henry said dryly. “My father’s people are one of the so-called Civilized Tribes. We live in houses, not buffalo hide lodges.”

  “I should have guessed, with a name like Sixkiller.”

  “I thought you might be part Indian, as well, with a descriptive name like Clearwater.”

  She smiled and shook her head.

  “No, my ancestors were English.”

  “Ah, dukes and earls.”

  “More like indentured servants and criminals. So you see, I come by it honestly.”

  “Just because your ancestors were one thing doesn’t mean you have to be, too. That’s one of the good things about this country.”

  “I suppose not, but there’s an old saying about the apple not falling far from the tree.”

  She was charming, John Henry had to give her that, but he wasn’t taken in by it. He was well aware that in her line of work, charm was one of the tools of her dishonest trade.

  What she did wasn’t a federal crime, though, and he had a job of his own to worry about. When the train reached El Paso it was likely they would be parting ways, since he doubted if she was going on to Lordsburg. A bigger town like El Paso would present more opportunities for her.

  They spent the next hour talking, John Henry telling her some about his life but leaving out the parts about his being a member of the Cherokee Lighthorse, chief sheriff, and finally a deputy United States marshal. For her part, Sophie skillfully turned aside any questions that delved too deeply into her own past, although she said enough that John Henry got the idea she had gone through some tough times.

  That didn’t excuse her turning to crime, of course. John Henry was a firm believer in the law. There were plenty of opportunities in Indian Territory for a man to stray from the honest path, but he had never taken them. Well, not other than bending the rules a little now and then when he had to in order to bring in a wanted fugitive.

  The conductor walked through the car to announce that they were approaching El Paso and that the train would be stopped there for half an hour before it rolled out heading west again. Since it was the middle of the day, John Henry said to Sophie, “Maybe you’d like to have some lunch with me while we’re stopped?”

  “Thank you, but no,” she said. “I’m meeting someone in El Paso.”

  He smiled and said, “Ah, well, my loss.”

  “You can say that even though I tried to rob you?”

  “But you didn’t rob me, and that’s the whole point.”

  She laughed.

  “Not for lack of trying.”

  “If everybody was condemned for what they tried to do but failed—”

  “I know, the whole world would be locked up,” she said with a smile.

  “Half of it, anyway.”

  When the train came to a stop at the station in downtown El Paso, John Henry stood up to let Sophie out. She started to move past him, then paused so that she was standing right in front of him, only inches away, her head tilted back slightly so she could look up into his face.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been a real gentleman about this whole thing.”

  “Would it do any good to ask you to stop doing things like this?”

  “What do you think, Mr. Sixkiller?”

  “I think . . . I wish you the best, Miss Clearwater.”

  “And the same to you,” she said. Then she moved past him, merged into the stream of passengers getting off the train here in El Paso, and was gone. John Henry looked through the window, trying to spot her on the platform, but he didn’t see her anywhere.

  He supposed he would never see her again.

  That was all right. He had a job to do, and he knew that by the time he reached Purgatory, he would have forgotten all about Sophie Clearwater.

  Chapter Nine

  Once the train left El Paso, the terrain got flat, empty, and monotonous again. Occasionally, some mountains were visible in the distance to the north or south, but the railroad always skirted around them.

  At one point the conductor came through the car and announced that they had just crossed the Continental Divide. Wasn’t that something, John Henry thought. This trip was just chock-full of new experiences for him.

  It was late in the afternoon when the train reached Lordsburg. John Henry took his carpetbag and went to the stable car where Iron Heart was being unloaded. His saddle and rifle were there, too, and he put the clean clothes and ammunition in the saddlebags, then handed the carpetbag and a dollar to a porter and said, “Can you see that this is kept here for me?”

  �
�Of course, sir,” the man said. “When do you expect to be back to get it?”

  John Henry smiled and said, “Well, now, that’s a good question. I’d say it’ll be a week, maybe more.”

  “That’s fine,” the porter assured him. “It’ll be here waiting for you.”

  And if he wound up dead, John Henry thought, as was always a possibility in his business, eventually somebody who worked here at the depot would claim the bag. At least that way somebody would get some use out of it.

  He propped his saddle on his shoulder, tucked the Winchester under his arm, and led Iron Heart to the nearest stable. It was too late in the day to start for Purgatory. That would have to wait for morning. He made arrangements with a Mexican hostler to care for the horse and saddle overnight, then asked for directions to a decent hotel.

  “I don’t know how decent it is, señor,” the stableman said with a grin, “but the Lordsburg House is just up the block.”

  “I’ll give it a try,” John Henry said. “Muchas gracias.” He didn’t know much Spanish, but he had picked up a few phrases here and there.

  The Lordsburg House appeared to be a fairly clean and respectable establishment. John Henry rented a room. The clerk looked a little warily at the rifle in his hand and said, “I hope you’re not expecting trouble, sir.”

  “I’m not expecting it,” John Henry said, “but I wouldn’t want to be downright shocked if it showed up, now would I?”

  The night passed peacefully, and John Henry slept well. He ate breakfast in the hotel dining room the next morning, settled his bill, then went to the stable to pick up Iron Heart.

  The same friendly hostler was working again this morning. John Henry asked him, “Are you familiar with a settlement called Purgatory?”

  “Oh, sure, señor. It’s about seventy miles north of here, in the San Francisco Valley. Never been there, but I’ve heard about it.”

  “Was what you heard good or bad?”

  The hostler shrugged.

  “Well, you know, señor, there’s usually a reason people name a place Purgatory.”

  John Henry grinned and asked, “There a good road between here and there?”

  The stableman shrugged his shoulders.

  “There’s a road, señor,” he said. “I couldn’t tell you how good it is. The stagecoach uses it, though, so it must be not too bad.”

  John Henry gave the man an extra half-dollar, despite his habit of giving noncommittal answers to questions, then swung up into the saddle and set out on the last leg of the journey.

  A low ridge paralleled the road, running a mile or so west of it. By noon, the ridge had petered out, but John Henry could see some mountains in the distance to the east. Where he was, though, the land was flat, brown, and dusty. The vegetation consisted of greasewood bushes, bunch grass, cactus, and the occasional scrubby mesquite tree. Everything seemed bigger and vaster out here than back home . . . but not necessarily better.

  At least the road was good, fairly wide and packed hard by the wheels of the stagecoaches and freight wagons that made regular trips to Purgatory.

  He had stopped at a store in Lordsburg on his way out of town and picked up a few supplies for the trip. At midday, he made do with some jerky for lunch, washed down with water from his canteen. He had taken off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves because the sun was hot. He was glad for the shade that the broad brim of his hat provided.

  While he was letting Iron Heart rest, he spotted a cloud of dust approaching from the south. As the cloud came closer, the dark shape at its base resolved itself into a stagecoach being pulled by a fast-moving team of horses. John Henry took hold of Iron Heart’s reins and led the horse off to the side of the road so they wouldn’t be in the coach’s way.

  It rattled past, bouncing on its broad leather thoroughbraces. The canvas curtains were pulled over the windows to keep out some of the dust. John Henry took off his hat and swiped at that same dust in an attempt to clear some of it away from his face.

  As he did so, one of the passengers inside the coach pulled back the curtain and looked out at him. Because the dust was making his eyes water and the coach was moving fast, John Henry caught only a glimpse of the man. That glimpse was enough to make him frown, though.

  He would have sworn the man who looked out at him from the stagecoach was Doc Mitchum, the old snake oil salesman.

  That was certainly possible, John Henry thought. He had told Mitchum that he was on his way to Purgatory, but Mitchum hadn’t revealed his destination. He could be headed there, too, although such a coincidence seemed a little fishy to John Henry. Wouldn’t Mitchum have said something on the train if that was the case?

  But for the life of him, John Henry couldn’t see any reason why Mitchum would try to beat him to Purgatory. He’d never met the man until the previous day, and then they had only spoken for a short time.

  John Henry wasn’t the sort to waste time pondering matters he couldn’t do anything about. He put the question of Mitchum’s motive out of his mind. He would deal with that later if it became necessary.

  Anyway, it was always possible he’d been mistaken about the identity of the man in the stagecoach. It wasn’t like he’d gotten a real good look at the fellow.

  That evening he reached some mountains with a broad, shallow stream flowing at their base. Iron Heart’s hooves splashed in the water as John Henry crossed the river. The mountains were covered with pine trees that came all the way down to the stream. After all the brown and tan and gray in the landscape, it was good to see some greenery again, John Henry thought. He made camp in a clump of pines, building a fire to boil a pot of coffee and fry up some of the bacon he had brought from Lordsburg.

  After supper, when it was dark, he let the fire die down and then led Iron Heart to another spot about a quarter of a mile away before he unsaddled the horse and spread his bedroll. There was no reason to think that anybody out here in New Mexico Territory would want to ambush him, but his time as a lawman had taught him that it never hurt to be careful.

  After another good night’s sleep and some more coffee and bacon for breakfast, John Henry headed north again, still following the stagecoach road. The coach had probably reached Purgatory by now, but he would get there later today, still well ahead of the time when Jason True, Arnold Goodman, and Dan Lacey were scheduled to bring their gold down and deposit it in the bank to wait for Wells Fargo. If he had taken the coach, he probably would have had to rent a horse when he got to Purgatory, and he would rather have his regular mount with him. As the horse’s name indicated, he knew he could depend on Iron Heart.

  The road followed the valleys between the rugged peaks. He came to another stream, this one flowing north and south instead of east and west, and its valley gradually broadened until there were two distinct mountain ranges flanking it. This had to be the San Francisco River, John Henry thought, which made the mountains to the east the Mogollons and the western range the San Franciscos. That was where the mines were.

  Purgatory was located on the river, so with both the stream and the stagecoach road to follow, John Henry knew he wouldn’t have any trouble finding the settlement. Sure enough, about four o’clock that afternoon he spotted smoke rising from chimneys up ahead, and a few minutes later he began to be able to make out some of the buildings in the distance.

  Purgatory was on the western side of the river, the road on the east, so John Henry had to turn and cross a sturdy-looking log bridge to reach the settlement. Purgatory itself was a decent-sized town with a main street lined with businesses that stretched for three blocks and a couple of side streets where the residences were located. Most of the buildings were made of logs or lumber, but John Henry saw a few constructed out of brick, including an impressive edifice that had to be the bank, along with some made from adobe or chunks of native stone mortared together. One of those stone buildings, a squat, squarish structure, had a sign on it that read MARSHAL’S OFFICE AND JAIL. A smaller sign underneath it proclaimed HEN
RY HINKLE, MARSHAL.

  John Henry wondered if he ought to introduce himself and reveal his true identity to the local lawman. Judge Parker hadn’t said anything about this fellow Hinkle, so John Henry didn’t know what sort of man he was. If he’d been in Hinkle’s place, though, he knew he wouldn’t appreciate it if a federal officer came into his bailiwick on an assignment without him knowing about it.

  This would require some scouting around, he decided. He would try to find out more about Henry Hinkle before spilling the truth to the man.

  He rode past the impressive brick building he had taken for the bank, and fancy gilt lettering on one of the front windows confirmed that the establishment was the First Territorial Bank of Purgatory. Not only the first but also the only bank in town, as far as he could see, John Henry mused. He took note of several other businesses, including an assay office, several mercantiles, a couple of stores that sold hardware and mining equipment, a blacksmith, a pair of stables, a newspaper office, two cafés, a nicer-looking restaurant, a hotel called the Barrymore House, and at least half a dozen saloons, the biggest and fanciest of which appeared to be the Silver Spur.

  John Henry was easing Iron Heart along the street at a walk and debating what to do next when the decision was made for him.

  Somewhere behind him, possibly in the vicinity of the bank, shots suddenly blasted out, shattering the late afternoon calm.

  Chapter Ten

  Duke Rudd was still as bored as he’d been the day he forced himself on that saloon girl Della. Showing her what a mean, tough hombre he was had made things better for a while, but it hadn’t taken long for the feeling to wear off. Rudd leaned his skinny frame against a hitch rack and idly considered going over to the Silver Spur to see if Della was around. He hadn’t been there since that day, thinking that maybe it would be a good idea to stay away for a spell and let her get over being mad at him. She might’ve complained about him to Royal Bouchard, who owned the place.

  Rudd wasn’t worried about Meade, the bartender, but Bouchard was a different story. Rudd wasn’t exactly scared of Bouchard—he wasn’t scared of anybody except Billy Ray Gilmore, and only a damned fool wouldn’t get nervous sometimes around Billy Ray—but he was wary of the saloon keeper. Most folks in Purgatory wouldn’t meet your eyes when you looked at them. Bouchard would, and although he had never given the members of the gang any trouble, there was always the sense that he might be willing to if he was pushed into a corner.