“He got in some punishment of his own,” John Henry said. “How do we proceed from here?”
“I’ll be in touch and let you know what our plans are.”
John Henry nodded. He thought about telling Gilmore that the mine owners were going to bring the gold down from the mountains the day after tomorrow, but he decided to hold on to that knowledge for now. That was one of his hole cards, he told himself, continuing to think of this affair as a deadly game.
He smoothed his rumpled hair, picked up his hat, and put it on. With a curt nod to Gilmore, he left the livery barn.
A familiar stocky figure stood on the boardwalk a couple of doors down. John Henry recognized the hostler who had been taking care of Iron Heart. The man said nervously, “Hope you don’t hold any grudges against me for lettin’ those hombres use my stable, Mr. Sixkiller. When Gilmore came in and told me it’d be a good idea for me to make myself scarce, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“That’s the only thing you could do,” John Henry assured the man. “No hard feelings on my part.”
“I’m mighty glad to see that you’re still alive.” The hostler darted a glance toward the livery barn, then lowered his voice to add, “That fella Gilmore, he reminds me of a diamondback rattlesnake.”
“That’s a pretty apt description,” John Henry agreed. “But he and his friend should be gone before long, and you can have your stable back.” He handed the man a silver dollar. “That’s extra, just for taking such good care of my horse.”
“I’m obliged, Mr. Sixkiller.”
John Henry went on toward the Silver Spur. He felt the need of a drink.
When he came in, he saw both Royal Bouchard and Della right away. They seemed to be watching the door for him. Bouchard motioned for John Henry to join him at his table, and Della was there, too, by the time John Henry reached the table.
“Did you have your talk with Gilmore?” Bouchard asked bluntly.
“You must not have, since you’re still alive,” Della added.
John Henry smiled and said, “That’s where you’re wrong. We worked everything out. There’s not going to be any more trouble.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Bouchard said skeptically.
The saloon keeper didn’t know it, but John Henry was in complete agreement with that sentiment.
Chapter Twenty-six
Marshal Henry Hinkle rattled the doorknob of the hardware store, making sure it was locked. That was part of his nightly rounds, checking to see that all of Purgatory’s businesses were secure. Strolling around town in the evening when things were quiet and peaceful for the most part was one of the few things about his job that he actually enjoyed. Maybe the only thing.
The other advantage to this particular chore was that a doorknob had never taken a shot at him. There was certainly something to be said for that. A lot to be said for it, in fact.
He was passing an alley when a voice called softly to him, “Marshal.”
Hinkle crouched and froze, not sure whether to run, duck, or make a grab for the gun on his hip, which was just about the last thing in the world he wanted to do. He settled for croaking out, “Who . . . ?”
The man in the shadows laughed.
“Take it easy, Henry,” he said. “It’s just me.”
“Oh.” Hinkle straightened from his crouch. “You took me by surprise. Spooked me a little.”
Actually, he’d been a lot spooked, and they both knew it. But there was no point in talking about such things as long as they were working together.
“Things have quieted down some today, haven’t they?” the man in the alley said.
“Yeah, thank goodness. With everything else that’s going on these days, we didn’t need any more trouble, especially from that Sixkiller fella.”
“But he’s still around and I don’t trust him, not for a second. He’s up to something.”
“You really think so?” Hinkle asked.
His partner made a disgusted noise.
“A man who can handle a gun like that? He didn’t ride into town a few days ahead of a massive gold shipment by accident, Henry.”
“He’s got his eye on the gold?”
“That would be my guess. Of course, he’s not the only one, is he?”
That brought a rueful chuckle from the lawman.
“Of course not. But we’ll need to keep an eye on him anyway.”
“The simplest thing to do would be to get rid of him,” the man in the shadows mused. “Do you think you could handle that, Henry?”
Fear coursed through Hinkle at the mere thought of facing John Henry Sixkiller in a gunfight. He would be nervous even if the plan was to ambush Sixkiller. If the first shot wasn’t instantly fatal, that would give Sixkiller time to fight back....
A shotgun would be best in those circumstances, Hinkle told himself. A double load of buckshot in the back would knock down anybody, and they wouldn’t be getting back up again.
The man in the shadows understood Hinkle’s hesitation in answering. He said, “Don’t worry about it, Henry, I’m not going to ask you to throw down on Sixkiller. There are other ways to make sure he doesn’t interfere with us. I just want you to be ready in case we wind up having to do something about him.”
“All right,” Hinkle said. “I will be.”
He was willing to make that promise to keep his partner happy, whether he would ever be able to keep it or not.
“I’ll let you finish your rounds. I just wanted to check in with you and see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine,” Hinkle declared with a lot more confidence than he really felt. “Everything’s going to go just like we planned.”
“That’s right. And then we’ll be rich men.”
The thought made Hinkle feel stronger. It was a toss-up which emotion was more powerful within him, greed or fear.
For now he was going with greed.
* * *
A short time later, Billy Ray Gilmore was headed for Red Mike’s. He had sent Rankin back to the old deserted trapper’s cabin in the mountains that they were using as a sort of hideout, although the people in Purgatory and the surrounding vicinity were so afraid of the gang there was no real need for them to hide out.
It wouldn’t do any good to tell Rankin to bathe, but at least he could get rid of the clothes he’d been wearing when he went rolling around in horse apples. The way Rankin smelled now, he wasn’t really fit to be around anybody.
Gilmore hadn’t quite reached the saloon when someone spoke to him from the shadows next to a building.
“Billy Ray.”
The outlaw tensed. His hand moved instinctively toward his gun. Then he relaxed and chuckled when he realized who the man was.
“That’s a good way to get yourself shot, spookin’ me like that,” he said.
“That would have been unfortunate for both of us,” the man said. “What happened with Sixkiller? I assume he’s still alive?”
“He’s alive,” Gilmore confirmed. “We reached an arrangement, just the way you suggested. We’ll be able to keep an eye on him now. That’s better than havin’ him floatin’ around like some sort of wild card.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“But here’s somethin’ you might not know,” Gilmore went on. “Sixkiller’s workin’ for Joe Cravens.”
“The banker?” The other man sounded genuinely surprised by that news.
“That’s right. Cravens wants somebody who answers to him to guard the gold while it’s in his bank.”
“Hmm. But Sixkiller is double-crossing Cravens and joining forces with you?”
“Yeah. If we can trust him to follow through on that.”
“And that’s a big if,” the man in the shadows agreed. “I’m not convinced that he’s not trying to play all of us for fools.”
“Maybe he is,” Gilmore said, “but it’ll catch up to him sooner or later. And when it does, he’ll wind up dead. But maybe we can get some use out of him
first.”
“That’s why I suggested that we not kill him outright. I had a hunch he might prove to be useful. Just be careful in your dealings with him.”
“I intend to be,” Gilmore said. “There’s too much at stake to get careless now.”
The other man faded away into the shadows, and Gilmore went on to Red Mike’s. With everything he was trying to keep straight in his head right now, he needed a drink to help him clear his thoughts.
* * *
John Henry sat in the Silver Spur with Bouchard and Della for a while, sipping a beer and letting his nerves calm down after the battle with Rankin and the deal he had made with Billy Ray Gilmore. When he excused himself to go back to the hotel, Della sadly said, “I know there’s no point in asking you if you’d rather come upstairs with me.”
“No,” John Henry replied, “and you don’t know how sorry I am to say that.”
She just gave him a rueful smile and shook her head.
As usual, John Henry kept his eyes and ears open as he walked back to the Barrymore House. He thought that he was safe from ambush for the moment, but if he got careless and was wrong about that, he could easily wind up dead.
Along the way he ran into Marshal Henry Hinkle, who appeared to be making his evening rounds. John Henry nodded and greeted him with a polite, “Marshal.”
“Mr. Sixkiller,” Hinkle replied in a surly tone. “I was hoping you’d decided to move on by now.”
“No, I’m going to be around Purgatory for a while longer,” John Henry told the lawman. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m not disappointed. You’re welcome here as long as you don’t break the law, just like anybody else.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” John Henry promised dryly.
When he went into the hotel, the clerk wasn’t behind the desk. That didn’t have to mean anything— the man had probably stepped out to the privy or something—but John Henry was wary anyway as he went up the stairs and along the hall to his room. He didn’t trust Billy Ray Gilmore not to go back on the deal they had made.
When he’d left earlier, he had slipped an almost unnoticeable piece of thread taken from his shirt tail into the gap between the door and the jamb so that it hung over the tongue of the doorknob. If the knob was turned and the tongue pulled back, the thread would slip loose and fall to the floor. When John Henry saw that the thread was still in place, he knew no one had been in his room.
He unlocked the door, went in, and lit the lamp. Other than the battle with Rankin, not much had happened today, but that fracas was enough by itself to make him sore and tired. And the complex, ever-deepening labyrinth of false alliances in which he found himself was brain wearying, too. He would be glad to get some sleep.
He had taken off his hat, coat, and gun belt when a knock sounded on the door.
John Henry had hung the gun belt on the bedpost so the Colt would be handy while he slept. He drew the revolver from its holster now as he went toward the door. Knowing the panel wasn’t thick enough to stop a load of buckshot or a bullet fired from close range, he didn’t bother asking who was there. That would just give away his position.
Instead, he grasped the knob in his left hand, turned it, and jerked the door open as he thrust the Colt out in front of him, leveling it at the person who stood in the corridor.
“Well,” Sophie Clearwater said coolly as she looked down the barrel of the gun, “is that supposed to frighten me?”
John Henry lowered the Colt.
“Most people would be at least a little nervous,” he said.
“I’m not most people,” Sophie said. “And this isn’t the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me.”
“Somehow I don’t doubt that,” John Henry said. “What can I do for you?”
“You can let me in, to start with. I don’t feel like standing in the hall to do my talking.”
John Henry stepped back. Sophie came into the room, and he closed the door behind her.
“Where’s your partner?” he asked.
“Doc’s asleep, I imagine. He’s not as young as he used to be.”
“What do you want?”
“That’s a little blunt, isn’t it? We’re supposed to be working together. Can’t I come by to see how you’re doing?” Sophie frowned slightly as she studied his face. She asked, “Have you been in a fight?”
“You could say that. I had to tangle with one of Gilmore’s men who was almost as big as a bear and smelled even worse than one.”
“Why? Was it another ambush?”
John Henry shook his head.
“No, that was Gilmore’s idea of making me earn my way into his gang.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. She said, “You’re a member of Gilmore’s gang now?”
“Well . . . we’re allies, I guess you could say.”
“You’re supposed to be working with Doc and me.” Sophie’s jaw was taut as she spoke.
“I am,” John Henry said. “I have to find out what Gilmore’s plans are some way. This seemed like as good a way as any.”
“So you’re not really throwing in with him.”
“That’s right.”
“And how are Doc and I supposed to know that you’re not planning to double-cross us, too?”
John Henry didn’t have to come up with an answer for that, because just then someone else knocked on his door.
“Are you expecting anyone?” Sophie asked in a whisper as she tensed even more.
John Henry shook his head and whispered back, “I wasn’t even expecting you.”
He still had the gun in his hand at his side. He lifted it as he motioned with his other hand for Sophie to move over so that she would be behind the door when he opened it.
Just as he had when he answered Sophie’s knock, he jerked the door open and leveled the Colt. Della gasped as she took an involuntary step back.
“Good Lord, John Henry,” she said. “You scared me. What are you doing with that gun?”
John Henry hadn’t expected to see the saloon girl again tonight. He lowered the revolver and instead of answering her question he asked one of his own; the same one he had asked Sophie, in fact.
“Della, what are you doing here?”
She stepped into the room, lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck, and said, “I’m here to give you one more chance to come to your senses, John Henry Sixkiller, and take me to bed.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Before John Henry could say anything, Della lifted herself slightly on her toes, which brought her mouth within reach of his. She pressed her lips to his and let her body mold itself warmly against him.
Della’s eyes were closed in passion, but John Henry’s were still wide open. He looked past the saloon girl’s honey-blond head and saw Sophie standing against the wall behind the door, looking equally surprised.
But then Sophie’s eyes started to narrow, and she began looking more angry than surprised. John Henry tried to shake his head in a signal for her to be quiet, but that was hard to do with Della kissing him so passionately.
It became even more difficult when she cupped one of her hands against the back of his head to hold him still as the kiss grew even more urgent.
Sophie said in a loud, clear voice, “John Henry, who in the hell is this?”
At the sound of the other woman’s voice, Della jumped back a few inches and gasped. She let go of John Henry so she could whirl around and confront Sophie. They glared at each other with open hostility, blonde versus brunette.
“Now I understand why you kept turning me down, John Henry,” Della said when she had recovered enough from her surprise to speak. “You already had a floozy of your very own stashed here in your hotel room.”
“Floozy?” Sophie repeated, her voice rising with anger. “You’re a fine one to talk, dear, dressed—or should I say undressed—the way you are. Don’t you ever get cold with all that hanging out like it is?”
“You can’t talk to me that way—�
�� Della began.
“I’ll talk to you any way I please. You’re the one who’s intruding.”
Della tossed her hair defiantly.
“I’ll bet I have just as much right to be here as you do,” she said.
Sophie smiled coldly and said, “I doubt that. You see, John Henry is my husband.”
There she went with that lie again, John Henry thought. He wasn’t in any mood to let Sophie get away with it.
“I’m not her husband,” he said to Della. “I swear we’re not married.”
“We might as well be,” Sophie insisted, “considering all the things that have gone on between us. Or have you forgotten about all that, John Henry?”
He knew she was talking about the gold and their supposed partnership to steal it, although Della would probably take the statement to mean something else. He said, “I haven’t forgotten about anything.”
“So there is something between the two of you?” Della demanded.
“Nothing romantic—”
“Call it whatever you want,” Sophie broke in. “If that’s how little I mean to you, maybe we’d better just forget it.”
“Now, hold on,” John Henry said. He wasn’t sure what to do about this. He was more accustomed to dealing with situations that required guns or knives or at least fists. He didn’t want Sophie to get mad over nothing, though, and jeopardize his plans.
“I won’t bother you anymore,” Della said as she took a step toward the doorway. She paused, looked at him, and added, “Unless you’d rather get rid of this woman and spend some time with me instead. I can promise you wouldn’t regret it, John Henry.”
“You just get out of here right now,” Sophie said furiously.
“I think John Henry should be the one to decide that,” Della responded. “It’s his room, after all.”
“Ladies—” John Henry began.
Sophie stepped forward and grabbed Della’s arm. She shoved Della toward the door as she said, “I told you to get out!”
“Oh!” Della cried. “Let go of me, you . . . you . . .”
Day of Rage Page 15