Day of Rage

by William W. Johnstone

“Not for the town,” Cravens said as he sat down, “and not for a group of businessmen. For me.”

  “I’m pretty good at ciphering, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t make much of a teller,” John Henry said.

  Cravens shook his head and said, “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “I already said I’m not a hired killer.” John Henry let a little edge creep into his voice as he spoke.

  “I don’t care if you kill anybody or not. I just want this bank protected, whatever it takes. If you can do that without killing, fine.”

  “I don’t understand,” John Henry said, even though he had an idea what Cravens was driving at. “You want the bank protected from what?”

  Cravens leaned forward slightly and clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him. He said, “I like to think I’m a good judge of character. You have to be in my business. I believe that you’re an honest man, Mr. Sixkiller, and not just because you came to my assistance yesterday. Are you an honest man?”

  “I try to be,” John Henry answered honestly.

  “I’m going to trust you with some knowledge. Some people would say that I’m foolish for doing so, but I place a lot of faith in my instincts. In a few days there’s going to be a great deal of gold in this bank, Mr. Sixkiller. You may have heard rumors about that since you’ve been here.” Cravens smiled. “It’s hard to keep a secret in a small town.”

  “Go on,” John Henry said, not acknowledging whether he’d heard any rumors or not.

  “The largest mines in this area are the San Francisco, the El Halcón, and the Bonita, owned by Jason True, Arnold Goodman, and Dan Lacey, respectively. They’re all quite profitable operations, profitable enough that they have their own stamp mills to process the ore from their shafts into bullion. But once that’s done, they still have to get the bullion out. Recently that’s proven to be quite a challenge ... and a dangerous one, at that.”

  “Because of Billy Ray Gilmore and his gang,” John Henry said.

  Cravens sighed and nodded.

  “If we had some decent law in these parts, it might be different. But Marshal Hinkle is almost useless, and Sheriff Stone up at the county seat isn’t much better. We’ve been left to shift for ourselves down here, and Gilmore has had a free hand. The mines have sent out a few small shipments, but most of them have been held up and stolen. Because the owners are afraid to risk much at a time, the bullion has built up to the point that it’s too risky to keep it at their mines. They have to get it out somehow.”

  “Hire shotgun guards,” John Henry suggested, still playing along with Cravens, even though he already knew all of this.

  “People are afraid of Gilmore and his butchers. Too many men who rode shotgun with those gold shipments have been killed. But True, Goodman, and Lacey have hit on a plan. They’ve pooled their resources and are paying top wages. They’ve hired enough men to protect the bullion when it’s brought down from the mountains, from each of the mines in turn. They’re putting it here, in my bank, making up a massive shipment that’s worth it for Wells Fargo to send a small army of men to transport it to the railroad at Lordsburg.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” John Henry said. “But you’re worried about the gold being safe while it’s here?”

  “That’s right. The value of the bullion will be so high that it’ll be a very tempting target for the lawless.”

  “You say Gilmore’s been holding up the shipments on their way down out of the mountains,” John Henry said. “Why won’t he just hit these shipments as well?”

  “Because there’ll be too many guards. That’s the advantage the mine owners have from working together, instead of as rivals. They can get the gold here, and Wells Fargo can get it to Lordsburg, but there’s that window of time . . . less than twenty-four hours . . . when I’ll be responsible for it. And to tell you the truth, Mr. Sixkiller, I don’t like the responsibility.”

  “A banker should be used to taking care of other people’s money,” John Henry pointed out.

  “And I am. But these are special circumstances.”

  “So you want to hire me to guard the gold?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about all the guards bringing it down from the mines? Can’t they protect it while it’s here, too?”

  “They’ll be posted all around the bank,” Cravens said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t see how anybody could get to it. But that doesn’t stop me from worrying. I want a man here inside the bank, a good man to serve as a last line of defense. That man should be you, Mr. Sixkiller.”

  Now that he’d learned more details of the plan put together by the mine owners, John Henry didn’t see how Gilmore—or Sophie and Mitchum, for that matter—could hope to steal the gold. True, Goodman, and Lacey appeared to have every angle covered.

  And yet they were still worried, or at least Jason True was, or he wouldn’t have written to Judge Parker asking for help. Cravens was scared, too. Seventy-five thousand dollars’ worth of bullion was enough to make anybody nervous, John Henry supposed.

  If a whole gang of outlaws managed to get into the bank, one man wouldn’t be enough to stop them, no matter how good he was. John Henry knew that. He had to keep playing the game, had to try to keep manipulating the situation so things never got that far.

  Cravens had just dealt him another card, and John Henry already had a glimmering of how he was going to use it.

  “How about it?” Cravens prodded. “What do you think, Mr. Sixkiller?”

  John Henry smiled and said, “I think you’ve just hired yourself a last line of defense.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Considering that he’d been in Purgatory less than twenty-four hours, John Henry thought he wasn’t doing too badly. He had uncovered two people plotting to steal the gold—Sophie Clearwater and Doc Mitchum—and been taken into the confidence of the banker in whose safe the bullion would reside for a short time, all without having to reveal his true identity as a deputy United States marshal.

  Now there was Billy Ray Gilmore to deal with.

  All in good time, though. John Henry spent the morning checking on Iron Heart at the stable, then walking around Purgatory in an apparently aimless fashion.

  In truth, though, there was nothing aimless about his wanderings. He was familiarizing himself with the town as much as he possibly could, committing to memory everything about the buildings, the streets, the alleys, and anything else that might come in handy to know. He paid particular attention to the area around the bank, where the guards would be posted.

  The bank had two stories, with offices on the second floor where a couple of lawyers and a bookkeeper conducted their business. The only other two-story buildings in town were the Silver Spur, which was up the street, and the Barrymore House, which sat directly across from the bank.

  John Henry looked from the bank to the hotel, his eyes narrowing as he considered the possibilities. Then he moved on to check out the other businesses around the bank. Riflemen on the roofs of those buildings might be able to pick off some of the guards, and then a concerted rush by the rest of Gilmore’s gang could overwhelm the others.

  While John Henry was at the bank, Joseph Cravens had spoken with justifiable pride about the strength of the safe. According to him, only two people knew the combination, him and his chief teller, Harley Smoot. John Henry immediately decided that that made both Cravens and Smoot very important in his preparations. He had to find out if pressure could be brought on either man to force him to open the safe.

  Of course, a gun to the head would probably work, but threatening the families of the two men would be an even more surefire method of insuring their cooperation.

  Cravens had gone on to say that a dynamite blast strong enough to blow the door off the safe would destroy the room around it. He seemed to think that would discourage any would-be robbers from employing that tactic.

  John Henry had his doubts about that. He figured Gilmore would be willing to leve
l the whole bank if it got him what he wanted. Bars of gold bullion, unlike paper money, wouldn’t be destroyed in such a blast. The heat might melt them a little, but the damage probably wouldn’t be too much.

  The one thing John Henry could be sure of was that if Gilmore made it to the safe, he would find a way to get into it and loot the gold, no matter what it took.

  The trick would be to keep him from ever getting to it.

  That meant a trap of some sort....

  John Henry ate lunch at the Red Top Café, and the food lived up to expectations. The steak and potatoes were filling enough that he felt a little drowsy after he ate, so he returned to the hotel, intending to take a short nap before he set out on the rest of the activities he had planned for the day.

  This time he didn’t find anyone waiting in his room, which was a relief. He was able to stretch out on the bed and doze for a couple of hours without being disturbed.

  When he woke up, he splashed some water on his face from the basin on the washstand. Refreshed and alert, he buckled on his gun belt, settled his hat on his head, and set out for the Silver Spur. Billy Ray Gilmore might not be there right now, but John Henry was confident the boss outlaw would show up at the saloon sooner or later. He might as well pass the time pleasantly while he waited, he thought.

  The honey blonde, Della, was at the bar when John Henry came in. She picked up a tray with a bottle of whiskey and several glasses on it and said to him, “Wait until I deliver this to one of the tables, and I’ll be right back.”

  “All right,” John Henry said. He gave the bartender, Meade, a pleasant nod and added, “I’ll have a beer.”

  Meade filled a mug for him, slid it across the hardwood, and said, “That’ll be four bits.”

  “The days of free drinks are over, eh?” John Henry asked with a grin.

  “You’ll have to take that up with Mr. Bouchard.”

  “No, it’s fine,” John Henry said as he dropped a coin on the bar. “I was just joshing you.”

  That was liable to be a waste of time, he thought. Meade didn’t appear to have much of a sense of humor. That probably went with being a bartender and having to listen to people’s troubles all the time, as well as witnessing some pretty sorry behavior now and then.

  Della came back carrying the empty tray. She handed it across the bar to Meade, then turned to John Henry with a smile on her face.

  “I wasn’t sure you were still in town,” she said.

  “Why would I leave so soon?” he asked. “I just got here.”

  “Riding into a town and having people trying to kill you isn’t that unusual for you?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” John Henry replied. “But I’m not in the habit of running away from a little trouble, either.” He paused. “Speaking of which . . . have you seen Billy Ray Gilmore around today?”

  Della frowned and asked, “Why in the world would you want to have anything to do with Gilmore?”

  “I thought maybe I’d talk to him again. Maybe try to clear the air between us. I’d just as soon not have to be looking over my shoulder the whole time I’m here in town.”

  Della shook her head.

  “It’s too late for that. You killed two of his men. You can’t make any sort of deal with him now.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that,” John Henry said. “I’ve got a hunch Gilmore would make any kind of deal as long as he thought it benefited him.”

  “What have you got that Gilmore might want?” Della asked with a curious frown.

  “Well, if we called a truce, I could stop killing his men.”

  Della looked at him oddly for a moment, then suddenly laughed.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Shooting people is serious business.”

  “I suppose so.” She shook her head. “To answer your original question, no, I haven’t seen him today. It’s a little early yet for him and the rest of that bunch. They’ll be more likely to show up after dark.”

  “I guess I could come back then.”

  Della’s pink tongue came out and darted over her lips for a second.

  “If you want to wait here, I can think of some ways you could pass the time.”

  “I don’t know if that would be a good idea,” John Henry said. He was thinking about Sasha Quiet Stream, back home in Indian Territory . . . but keeping her in mind was getting to be more difficult.

  “You know, if you keep saying no, eventually the offers will stop coming,” Della said with a trace of exasperation creeping into her voice.

  “Believe me, I know,” John Henry said. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind these days.”

  Della’s shoulders, which the low-cut dress she wore left bare, rose and fell slightly in a shrug that made her breasts do interesting things.

  “Just so you have a good idea what you might be missing out on.”

  Before John Henry could say anything else, she turned and moved away, heading for one of the tables where several men were drinking. They welcomed her exuberantly and one of them patted her on the rump, which Della didn’t seem to mind at all. John Henry sipped his beer and wondered if he’d done the right thing or just made a blasted fool of himself.

  Royal Bouchard came down from upstairs a short time later. By then John Henry had drifted over to one of the poker tables and sat down to join the game when one of the players cashed in and left.

  John Henry wouldn’t describe himself as a serious poker player, but he enjoyed a good game from time to time. He played carefully and didn’t plunge, even when he had strong hands, and as a result he was a few dollars ahead after an hour or so. That was enough for him. He gathered his winnings and joined Bouchard at the bar.

  The saloon keeper had an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth. He smiled around it and said, “I’m glad that you’ve joined us again, Sixkiller. Anybody try to kill you today?”

  “Not so far,” John Henry said. “But it’s early yet.”

  “That was my hunch, since I hadn’t heard any shooting.” Bouchard signaled for Meade to bring him a drink. “I spoke to Della a little while ago, upstairs.”

  John Henry had noticed that Della wasn’t downstairs anymore, but he didn’t know where she had gone. Now he did.

  “She says you want to talk to Gilmore and try to make peace with him,” Bouchard went on. “It can’t be done. You can talk to him, but he’s still going to try to kill you.”

  “Even if I appeal to reason and show him that we’ll both be better off if the killing stops?”

  “You think you could appeal to reason with a lobo wolf? Gilmore’s even worse than that.”

  “I just thought it might be worth giving it a try.”

  Bouchard shook his head and said, “I’d advise against it.”

  John Henry wasn’t going to stand around arguing the matter with Bouchard. He was saved from the necessity of doing so by a voice he didn’t recognize that declared, “I want to talk to John Henry Sixkiller.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  What now? John Henry asked himself as he turned around. The man who had spoken his name didn’t sound particularly threatening, so he didn’t reach for his gun, but he kept his hand near the Colt’s butt anyway.

  John Henry immediately recognized one of the three gents he had noticed in the hotel dining room the previous evening. The man was tall, with a stiff stance, iron-gray hair, and a neatly clipped mustache. When he’d seen them in the dining room, John Henry had pegged this one as possibly being Jason True, Judge Parker’s old friend.

  “I’m Sixkiller,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to have a word with you,” the man said. “In private.” He looked over at Bouchard. “Do you have a room we can use?”

  “Of course, Mr. True,” Bouchard answered, confirming John Henry’s hunch. “There’s a private room we sometimes use for high-stakes games.”

  That was appropriate, John Henry thought. With $75,000 worth of gold bullion involved
, those were sure enough high stakes.

  “That’ll do fine,” True said, his voice about as stiff as his backbone appeared to be. As a rich mine owner, he probably didn’t like having to ask a favor of a mere saloon keeper. He added to John Henry, “If that’s agreeable to you.”

  “Sure,” John Henry said easily. He was curious to hear what Jason True wanted to say to him.

  The three men drew quite a few interested looks as they crossed the room to a door Bouchard opened. The chamber on the other side of the door was dark, but Bouchard stepped in ahead of John Henry and True and struck a match to light a pair of oil lamps in wall sconces, one on each side of the room.

  The room was windowless and well furnished, John Henry saw in the glow of the lamps. In its center was a poker table covered with green felt and surrounded by comfortable chairs. A well-upholstered sofa sat on the other side of the room, beyond the table. A pair of armchairs were to the right, with a small round table between them, and to the left was a sideboard where drinks could be prepared. Brass cuspidors tucked into the corners gleamed in the lamplight.

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to play a few hands while you’re having your talk,” Bouchard said. “I could fetch a new deck, and I’d be glad to deal.”

  “I don’t gamble with cards,” True snapped, leaving the impression that he confined his gambling to other things.

  “Fine.” Bouchard shifted the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “In that case, I’ll leave you gentlemen alone. Let me know if you need anything.”

  When Bouchard was gone, True motioned to the armchairs. John Henry sat down in one of them and balanced his hat on his knee.

  “We haven’t been introduced,” True said. “My name is Jason True. I own the San Francisco Mine.”

  “John Henry Sixkiller,” John Henry said. “But you already know that.”

  “I suspect that just about everyone in Purgatory knows who you are, Mr. Sixkiller,” True said, which wasn’t the first time John Henry had heard that sentiment expressed. “You’ve cut quite a wide swath through the town since your arrival yesterday.”