Day of Rage

by William W. Johnstone

  “You don’t see me leaking blood, do you?” he replied with a smile.

  “No, you look to be reasonably intact.”

  “What makes you think I was even mixed up in that shooting?”

  She gave him an exasperated look and said, “Who else would it be? You ride into town and hell starts to pop. Is it that way everywhere you go?”

  “All too often, yes,” John Henry admitted. That was because of his job as a lawman, he thought, but he wasn’t ready to reveal that secret just yet.

  “Meade, send a bottle of brandy over to my private table,” Bouchard told the bartender.

  “I’ll bring it myself,” Della said.

  Bouchard led John Henry to a different table from the one where they had been sitting earlier. This one was tucked away in a rear corner of the room where there was at least an illusion of privacy, and the chairs around it were padded and more comfortable. They sat down, and Bouchard again offered John Henry a cigar. He turned it down this time, saying, “One a day is about my limit.”

  Bouchard smiled and said, “There are no limits on fine cigars. But suit yourself.”

  Della arrived with the bottle of brandy and two crystal tumblers on a tray. She poured the drinks, then Bouchard said, “Why don’t you stay, Della? It’s obvious you want to.”

  “You’re sure, Mr. Bouchard?”

  The saloon keeper waved toward an empty chair. John Henry started to get up and hold it for her, but she said, “Just keep your seat. You don’t have to treat me like a lady. I’m about the farthest thing from being one of those that you can imagine.”

  “I was raised to treat every woman like a lady,” John Henry said.

  “That’s sweet of you to say, but it’s not necessary. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly a shrinking violet.”

  John Henry shrugged. He wasn’t going to argue with her. That wouldn’t be the gentlemanly thing to do, either.

  After they had sipped their brandy for a couple of minutes, Bouchard said to John Henry, “We’ve seen two demonstrations that you’re mighty handy with a six-gun. Tell me the truth . . . is that how you make your living?”

  “Most of the time,” John Henry said. That wasn’t exactly a lie, he thought. As a deputy marshal, most of the work he did involved at least a little gunplay.

  “You’re an outlaw?”

  “There’s no paper out on me.”

  That was true, as well. Bouchard and Della seemed to take it as a vague, noncommittal answer, though, which was exactly what John Henry intended.

  “Are you in Purgatory for a reason, or did you happen to just drift in?”

  John Henry took another sip of the smooth, fiery liquor and said, “You’re sort of full of questions this evening, aren’t you, Bouchard?”

  “I’ve got a good reason to be asking questions,” the saloon keeper said. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  John Henry’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He said, “Is that so?”

  “I’ve talked to some of the other businessmen in town,” Bouchard said. “Gilmore and his men don’t show any signs of leaving, and people are getting more and more frightened of them. To be blunt, they’re bad for business. If you’re interested, we’d like to hire you to deal with that situation.”

  John Henry certainly hadn’t expected the turn this conversation had just taken. He asked, “You want to hire me to kill Billy Ray Gilmore?”

  “And as many of his men as you can,” Bouchard said with a solemn nod. “We’ll make it worth your while, too.”

  John Henry leaned back in his seat and shook his head.

  “I’m not a hired murderer,” he said.

  “You’ve already killed two of Gilmore’s men and put two more out of commission,” Bouchard argued. “He’s going to come after you anyway. You might as well get paid for taking on him and his gang.”

  John Henry considered the idea, but only briefly. He couldn’t see how it would help him complete his assignment.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Not interested.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that. So we have an alternate suggestion. Take the marshal’s job. The pay’s not as good, but you’d have the backing of the law.”

  “You mean you’d fire Hinkle?”

  “The town council is prepared to do so, yes. It wouldn’t be any great loss to the town, I assure you.”

  There wasn’t much brandy left in John Henry’s glass. He tossed it back and then said, “Just like I’m not a hired killer, I’m not going to pin on the marshal’s badge, either. You can tell the town council that I pass.”

  Bouchard sighed and nodded.

  “All right, if that’s the way you want it.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m a pretty good judge of character, Sixkiller. I think you’re up to something, but damned if I know what it is. If you want to keep on playing a lone hand, though, I can’t stop you.”

  “That’s the way it has to be,” John Henry said.

  Bouchard reached for the bottle.

  “But you don’t mind drinking my brandy, do you?”

  “As long as there are no strings attached to it.”

  “None at all.” Bouchard splashed the amber liquid into the tumblers and then raised his. “To your good health.”

  Della said, “That’s not going to last very long, the way things are going around here.”

  * * *

  Bouchard would have been happy to sit and kill the whole bottle with John Henry, and Della dropped several hints that showed she hadn’t forgotten about wanting to go upstairs with him. John Henry didn’t take up either of those offers. After he finished his second drink, he said, “I believe I’ll head back to the hotel. I was on the trail for a lot of hours today, and I could use some shut-eye.”

  “Be careful,” Bouchard cautioned him. “Gilmore almost surely knows by now that the men he sent after you are dead. They could have half a dozen ambushes laid for you between here and the Barrymore House.”

  “I’m in the habit of keeping my eyes open.” John Henry turned toward the honey blonde. “Good night, Miss Della.”

  “There you go, treating me like a lady again,” she said. “Sooner or later I’ll break you of that habit.”

  “We’ll see,” John Henry told her with a grin. He put his hat on and left the saloon.

  He knew that Bouchard was right: There was every chance in the world that more of Gilmore’s men, maybe even the boss outlaw himself, were out there waiting for him. He remembered his mother reading Bible stories to him when he was a boy, and one of them was about Daniel in the lion’s den.

  That was a little bit like the way he felt tonight, like he was walking right into a den full of hungry lions.

  Nothing happened during the short walk to the Barrymore House, though. The undertaker must have come and gone already, taking the bodies of the dead bushwhackers with him. The street was quiet and almost empty again.

  John Henry nodded to the clerk as he went through the hotel lobby. The man looked away and didn’t meet his eyes. John Henry wondered a little about that, and it made him even more cautious as he climbed the stairs and approached the door of his room. If Gilmore or some of the other outlaws had come to the hotel and demanded to know which room was his, the clerk probably would have been too scared not to tell them.

  It was possible they were waiting in there for him now, ready to blast him through the door as soon as they heard his key in the lock.

  Because of that, John Henry drew his gun as he catfooted along the hall. When he got closer to the door, he froze. A tiny gap was visible along the edge of the door, just enough to tell him that someone had opened it, gone inside, and pushed it back up so that it was almost closed, but not quite.

  Somebody out to kill him wouldn’t do that, John Henry thought as a frown creased his forehead. He couldn’t have failed to notice that the door was open, so he wouldn’t just waltz into the trap waiting for him.

  No, leaving the door cracked that way was more like something a thief
would do, so that he could hear anybody approaching the room.

  However, the thief, if that’s what he was, hadn’t counted on John Henry’s ability to move in complete silence. John Henry eased closer, and as he did, he saw the faint glow of a light in the room. A match burning, maybe. He reached the door, rested his left hand against it, and lifted the Colt in his right.

  Then he shoved the door open, stuck the gun out in front of him, and snapped, “Don’t move!”

  The figure beside the bed didn’t follow that order. John Henry heard a startled gasp as the intruder whirled around. The match fell and went out, but not before John Henry caught a glimpse of the face of the person waiting in his room.

  It was a woman, but not either of the ones he might have expected, blond Della or the pretty redheaded waitress from the hotel dining room. This woman had hair that was a rich dark brown, along with a lovely heart-shaped face with a tiny beauty mark near her mouth to accentuate her attractiveness. John Henry needed only a second to recall her name.

  Sophie Clearwater, the young woman who had tried to rob him on the train the other side of El Paso.

  Chapter Eighteen

  With the match out, shadows suddenly cloaked the room. Some light penetrated from the hallway, but the wall sconce containing an oil lamp was all the way down at the other end of the corridor. John Henry saw a flash of movement to his right as the woman darted in that direction.

  Surely she didn’t think she could get past him with his blocking the door the way he was. As he twisted to intercept her, though, he saw that she had fooled him. Just as he had thrown his hat to draw the fire of the bushwhackers in the wagon, she had tossed something to distract him, too. As it slapped across his arm, he realized it was his saddlebags.

  The next instant something slammed into his left shoulder and shattered with a crash. The chamber pot from under the bed, he thought. He was glad he hadn’t used it earlier.

  The impact from the heavy ceramic pot staggered him a little and made him take a step back. She barreled into him a split-second later and knocked him even more off balance. She couldn’t weigh much, but she was moving fast. To his amazement, John Henry realized that she was about to slip past him.

  His left hand shot out and grabbed the collar of her traveling dress. Despite his upbringing, he wasn’t inclined to worry too much about being gentle with an intruder in his room, male or female. She let out a soft cry of alarm as he pulled her back and heaved her toward the bed. He put enough strength into it that her feet completely left the floor. She landed on her back, lying across the mattress, and bounced a little.

  John Henry stepped into the room, heeled the door closed behind him, and pulled out a match of his own. He squinted against the glare as he snapped it to life.

  Sophie Clearwater lay there on his bed, her breasts made more prominent by the way she was lying on her back and breathing heavily. She started to roll to the side, but John Henry pointed the Colt at her and said, “Nope.”

  She settled back, propped up on her elbows, and glared at him.

  “You wouldn’t shoot an innocent woman,” she said.

  “No, I probably wouldn’t,” he agreed. “Know where I can find one around here?”

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Except break into my room.”

  “I didn’t break into anything,” she insisted. “The clerk let me in.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because I told him I was your wife!”

  “In that case, you’re in the right place, lying in my bed like that, I suppose,” John Henry said. “You’re a little overdressed for the setting, though.”

  When he took a step toward her, she gasped and said, “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Wouldn’t dare claim my husbandly privileges, you mean?” he said. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Mrs. Sixkiller.”

  “It’s Miss Clearwater!”

  “Not if you’re my wife, it’s not.”

  “Fine, damn it,” she said. “So I lied. I never claimed I didn’t.”

  “And I have a feeling you were searching my saddlebags when I came in,” he went on. “That’s why you had them in your hand and were able to throw them at me. You must have been disappointed when you didn’t find anything except the same stuff that was in my carpetbag on the train. Why in blazes are you so determined to rob me, anyway?”

  She sniffed in disdain and said, “I wasn’t trying to rob you. I have better things to do than that.”

  “Then what are you after, and what are you doing here in Purgatory? Did you follow me here?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” she snapped.

  John Henry’s brain worked swiftly. He said, “If you’re not trying to rob me, and if you didn’t follow me here, which means you were already on your way to Purgatory when we met on the train, that leaves only one answer: You’re trying to find out who I am and what I’m doing here. Am I right?”

  He saw by the sudden flash of reaction in her eyes that he had reasoned it out correctly. But why would she be interested in his identity and his reasons for coming to Purgatory?

  “I don’t have to talk to you,” she said. “Call the law on me if you want. I don’t care. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  John Henry thought about what a waste of time it would be to turn her over to Marshal Henry Hinkle. Besides, he wanted answers, and if he turned her in, he wouldn’t get any.

  “Go ahead and sit up,” he told her. “Just don’t try anything.”

  “What would you do, throw me across the room again?”

  “The way you landed on the bed, you didn’t hurt anything,” he pointed out.

  “Did you know for sure that was how I was going to land?”

  As a matter of fact, he hadn’t. He’d just been trying to stop her from getting away. It was luck that made her fall harmlessly across the bed.

  He didn’t admit that. As she sat up, he said, “Just tell me why you’re so determined to search my gear, and maybe I’ll let you go.”

  She sighed and said, “Look, I’m a thief, all right? I might as well admit it. I use my good looks to distract men, and I sneak around and steal. But I haven’t stolen anything from you, so you’ve got to let me go.”

  John Henry waggled the gun in his hand.

  “I don’t think I have to do anything right now.”

  “Well, if you’re going to force yourself on me, go ahead and get it over with.”

  “Nobody said anything about that.” John Henry was still thinking fast, considering everything he knew about the situation here in Purgatory, and he decided to take what might turn out to be a blind shot. “Just like nobody said anything about $75,000 in gold bullion, either, but I think we both know about it.”

  Maybe she was just one hell of an actress, but from the way Sophie’s jaw dropped, John Henry thought he had taken her completely by surprise. Despite the gun he still had pointed at her, she came to her feet.

  “How did you . . . You know about the gold?”

  “Of course, I do, and so do you.”

  Now they were getting somewhere, he thought.

  Sophie stubbornly shook her head, though, and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You just admitted that you did.”

  “I did no such thing. This is mining country. Of course, there’s gold around here.” She laughed. “But $75,000 worth of bullion. That’s ridiculous. Nobody would ever put that much gold in one place. That’s just asking for it to be stolen.”

  “But if you could put together a shipment of that size and get it safely into the hands of Wells Fargo’s, that would be better than losing a lot of smaller shipments, wouldn’t it? Bigger risk, bigger reward.”

  She looked like she was about to argue with him some more, but abruptly she changed her mind.

  “Fine,” she snapped. “You know about the gold. But that doesn’t mean you can horn in on it.”

  “You’ve got your sights set on it?
” John Henry asked.

  “Of course! If I could get my hands on that bullion it would be the biggest haul of my life! No more lifting wallets or . . . or the other things I’ve had to do to get by.”

  “So why get me involved?” he said. “Why were you so determined to find out who I am?”

  “Because I thought you might be after the same thing. And I was right! You wouldn’t even know about the gold if you weren’t planning to steal it.”

  There was another way he’d know about it, he thought: if he’d been sent here to protect it. But he wasn’t going to admit that to Sophie.

  “That doesn’t explain why you thought I might be after the gold,” he said.

  “Look. I have my sources on the railroad. When I heard about the gold, I was able to find out who had tickets for Lordsburg, since that’s the closest stop to Purgatory. I figured it would be a good idea to find out as much as I could about them. I don’t need the competition. You were the only one I wasn’t able to pin down and peg as harmless. And then when you actually showed up here in Purgatory, I knew I was right to be suspicious of you.”

  “How’d you find out about the gold in the first place?”

  “I have sources in other places besides the railroad,” she said, being deliberately mysterious about it.

  According to what Jason True had told Judge Parker in his letter, the only ones who knew about the planned massive gold shipment were the three mine owners and officials of the Wells Fargo Express Company. The mine owners were here in Purgatory, so that meant Sophie must have learned about the shipment from somebody who worked for Wells Fargo. It would be a good idea for the company to ferret out that indiscreet employee . . . but that could be dealt with after the gold was safely on its way to the mint in Denver.

  “Look, I’m the only one who’s giving away any information here,” Sophie went on. “You still haven’t told me who you are and exactly what you’re planning, or how you found out about the gold, for that matter. Don’t you think turnabout is fair play?”

  “Not as long as I’m holding the gun, I don’t,” John Henry said. He was busy trying to figure out what to do about this adventuress and would-be gold thief. Her presence was something he hadn’t expected, and it was a complication he didn’t really need, since he already had a gang of bloodthirsty outlaws to deal with.