Hour of Death

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’d just as soon shoot as not,” Braddock went on. “Life’s hard enough in Ringgold without a couple damned troublemakers trying to bust up the town.”

  He was playing to the crowd, but that came with the job of town marshal, Sixkiller thought. He kept his mouth shut on that score, too, saying only, “I’ll go quietly, Marshal.”

  “Damned right you will.”

  Sixkiller meant it. Scrapping with Bull had taken a hell of a lot out of him and his capacity for raising more hell was pretty much nil. He was glad of the rest.

  Not to mention that looking down those shotgun double barrels put a man in a more reasonable frame of mind.

  Apparently Bull felt the same way, for he went along without kicking or complaint.

  Sixkiller rose, forcing himself to his feet. It was a hardship to get there and another to stay upright. He noted a tendency to veer off-center from the strictly vertical plumb line.

  None of the lawmen offered to lend a hand.

  Well, why should they?

  Bull labored to haul himself out of the horse trough, rank streams of water that smelled none too good running off him. But then, Bull hadn’t been over-fragrant to start with.

  Titters and smirks from the crowd were instantly stifled when the amused ones came under the glare of Bull’s wicked red eyes. He rubbed his face with open hands, trying to restore feeling in it. “Lucky for you the law showed up when it did. Saved you from a beating,” Bull said to Sixkiller.

  Sixkiller laughed at him. It hurt when he laughed, it hurt when he didn’t. He was hurting all over, but damned if he’d let on and show weak.

  “Shut up, the both of you. I’m in no mood for any nonsense,” Braddock said.

  He and the two deputies readied to march Sixkiller and Bull off to jail. It was not much of a march on the part of the arrestees. They shambled and stumbled along like a pair of drunken bears walking upright on their hind legs.

  No spectators laughed at the sight. They knew better.

  Mase Rourke watched the brawlers go, his cold eyes looking down his long straight nose at them. He stood with fists on hips, his attitude seeming to say, Hanging’s too good for them.

  Sixkiller couldn’t blame the gambler. After all, it was his place that had gotten busted up. The money his henchmen were collecting from the many side bets they’d taken seemed unable to ease his pain.

  An argument was starting.

  “Come on, pay up. Your man lost,” a Rourke staffer said.

  “Says who?” the bettor demanded.

  “You bet on Bull. He lost.”

  “That’s your story. They didn’t fight to a finish. The marshal broke it up first, so there ain’t no winner or loser.”

  “The stranger whupped Bull before Braddock showed up.”

  “Bull had plenty of fight left in him. He’d’ve climbed out of that horse tank and given that other fellow what-for—”

  “Quit chiseling. Anybody could see Bull had had it!”

  Similar heated disputes sparked through the sporting crowd. The issue was sure to be a bone of contention.

  The law and its prisoners left the scene behind, the entire group proceeding down the middle of the street. Wagons, riders, and pedestrians made way for them.

  Sixkiller was feeling mighty shaky, a mass of aches and pains. His head hurt, each step he took making it hurt worse. Still, there was nothing for it but to keep picking his feet up and putting them down. It stirred up distant memories of when he had been on the raggedy-ass end of some of the forced marches he’d taken as a soldier in the army during the late war.

  The jail was only a couple blocks away, but it seemed a lot longer.

  The jailhouse was a square-built, one-story, stone-walled structure. Once inside, Braddock and the deputies kept their guns trained on Sixkiller and Bull while compelling the two to turn out their pockets to be relieved of their possessions.

  Bull yielded a clasp knife with bone handles and a six-inch blade.

  Sixkiller turned over his poke, a rawhide pouch that held some gold coins and a wad of greenbacks. Braddock seemed mighty interested in Sixkiller’s belongings.

  Let him look, the Oklahoman thought. There was nothing on him to give away his true identity or his mission in Ringgold. No badges, warrants, papers, documents, train ticket stubs, baggage claims—nothing. He was too sure a hand in the sleuthing game to make a rookie mistake like that.

  A slim, envelope-sized, leather case containing his U.S. deputy marshal’s badge and a few important papers was stashed in a secret pouch hidden within his saddle stowed at Noble’s livery stable.

  The dodge had its drawbacks. His credentials often smelled of horse sweat, an embarrassing situation when he had to identify himself to some high mucky-muck in the law enforcement line. But that was better than a bullet in the head for being found out as an undercover investigator by the wrong parties.

  Sixkiller was glad he’d hidden the gold coins he’d taken from Harper and Freedy in the secret saddle compartment instead of carrying them around with them. There weren’t too many of those shiny, newly-minted, fifty-dollar gold pieces floating around and he didn’t want to be linked with anything connected to the dead ambushers.

  He also didn’t know if Braddock was honest or not, and even if he was there were his two deputies to be concerned about. One local lawman might be honest, maybe even two, but three out of three honest lawmen in a town like Ringgold?

  Uh-uh. Nope, the odds were against it.

  He guessed Deputy Chet Wheeler was about thirty years old. Of medium height, he was well built, with a shaggy sheepdog mop of golden hair. Deputy Kev Porrock looked to be in his early twenties. Tall, skinny, sharp-faced, he was a bit dull-eyed.

  Sixkiller took inventory of his injuries. His face and head were numb from catching too many of Bull’s punches. One was too many and he’d stopped more than that with his head. A big cut had opened up over one cheekbone, bleeding steadily. Bruised ribs ached but luckily—and it was luck as much as fighting skill—nothing was broken.

  “Why don’t you let him go?” Sixkiller queried, indicating Bull. His voice sounded funny, and he had trouble forming the words with his smashed mouth. “Bull didn’t do nothing. I started it by punching him in the face.”

  “Hah! You call that a punch?” Bull taunted.

  “Takes two to tangle,” Braddock said. “Bull didn’t have to fight.”

  “What was I supposed to do?” Bull demanded incredulously. “File a complaint?!”

  “Technically, uh, yeah,” Wheeler said.

  “When somebody slugs me—and that don’t happen too damned often—I slug back,” Bull said.

  “When somebody brawls within town limits, I arrest him,” Braddock said.

  Sixkiller looked around the office front of the jail. One wall was papered with WANTED posters and flyers. Prominently displayed was a reward poster of Bart Skillern, the Utah Kid—Wanted for Murder, Bank Robbery, Highway Robbery, Horse Theft, Rustling, Rape, and Passing Counterfeit Money.

  No mention of the Bletchley party or the Kid’s possible role in the disappearance of same, Sixkiller noted.

  Wheeler put Bull’s holstered gun into a tall, side drawer in the marshal’s desk. He said, “Bet you’d like to get your hands on this shooting iron, eh Bull?”

  “I’d like to get my hands on your neck,” Bull growled.

  “Threatening an officer of the law. That’s a crime, ain’t it?” Porrock said.

  “He’s already got enough charges to hold him,” Braddock said matter-of-factly.

  “What’s all the fuss about a friendly little fight?” Bull asked.

  “Shut up, Bull.” This from Porrock.

  “You’re pretty tough behind that gun, ain’t you, Marshal?” Sixkiller remarked.

  “That’s right,” Braddock said, smiling thinly.

  “You’d think I robbed a bank or something!”

  “You busted up the Jackpot pretty good,” Wheeler said, amused.

&n
bsp; “The Highline bunch hoorah Ringgold and shoot up the town every Friday and Saturday night and you don’t crack down on them,” Bull countered.

  “They didn’t bust up Mase Rourke’s place,” Wheeler said.

  “Or maybe you’re scared of Endicott,” Bull pressed.

  “You’re talking yourself into a broken jaw, Bull,” Braddock said, starting to get sore.

  “Who’s gonna break it? You? That’s a laugh.” Bull indicated Sixkiller. “If he couldn’t do it, you sure ain’t gonna.”

  “I wasn’t half trying,” Sixkiller said, pouring oil on the fire.

  “Both of you keep your traps shut,” Braddock said briskly, businesslike, not rising to the bait. “A man gets mighty hungry in a jail cell if nobody feeds him. If you want to eat regular, quit flapping your gums.”

  Bull fell silent, giving Braddock a dirty look. He forked out a wad of greenbacks, plunking them down on the desk. The size of the wad raised eyebrows among the lawmen.

  “Count it, Chet,” Braddock said.

  Wheeler was careful to keep out of the reach of Bull’s gorilla-like arms as he scooped up the money and counted it. “One hundred and sixty-four dollars, Dick.”

  “Pretty good money for someone who hasn’t done an honest day’s work since he got fired off the B Square spread,” Braddock commented.

  “I saved my wages,” Bull said, on the defensive.

  “You drank up your wages on a two-day drunk right after Colonel Tim fired you,” Porrock said.

  “He didn’t fire me. I quit.”

  That got a laugh from the three town lawmen.

  “You seen it. They’re stealing my money,” Bull complained to Sixkiller.

  “Nobody howls louder than a thief who gets robbed,” Porrock smirked.

  “I won it in a poker game!” Bull howled.

  “Who with?” Braddock returned.

  “I don’t remember. I was too drunk.”

  “That I could almost believe—the part about being drunk that is, not the rest of your story.”

  “You got to prove it first.”

  “I’m holding the cash for safekeeping,” Braddock said. “If it turns out not to be stolen or the product of unlawful activity, you’ll get it back. More likely, it’ll be credited toward paying off your fine and damages, which are liable to be considerable. Put it in an envelope, Chet.”

  Wheeler put the money in a brown paper envelope, writing Bull’s name and the amount on the outside of it.

  “You gonna give me a receipt for that ?” Bull sneered.

  “You’re just going to have to trust us, Bull,” Wheeler said.

  “Step back Bull, against the wall,” Braddock said.

  Bull complied.

  The marshal focused his attention on Sixkiller as if seeing him for the first time. “I don’t know you. Who are you?”

  “The name’s Quinto,” Sixkiller said.

  “Quinto what?”

  “Just Quinto.”

  “Probably an alias,” Porrock said importantly, with the air of one imparting some great revealed truth.

  “No,” Braddock said with dripping sarcasm.

  Porrock’s face reddened.

  “You must be new in town,” Braddock said,

  “Just got here,” Sixkiller confirmed.

  “Didn’t take you long to get into trouble.”

  “I’m a fast worker.”

  “Yeah? We don’t like fast workers in Ringgold,” the marshal said. “Why no gun?”

  “Didn’t think I’d need one. This seemed like such a peaceful town,” Sixkiller said.

  “Brother, you must be new in Ringgold!” Bull cracked, guffawing.

  “What’re you doing here, Quinto?”

  “I’m a prospector, Marshal. Reckoned I’d work the Hills for that yellow gold.”

  “Nobody’s struck gold there since the vein tapped out years ago!” Wheeler laughed.

  “Hell, you’re even dumber than Bull here, Chief!” Porrock snickered.

  “You talk funny. You don’t sound like you come from around here, Quinto. Where do you hail from?”

  “Oklahoma Territory, Marshal.”

  Bull snorted, slapping his knees. “Oklahoma?! That figures!”

  “You’re a long way from home, Quinto,” Braddock said.

  “You should’ve stayed there,” Porrock said.

  “I go where the gold is,” Sixkiller said.

  “Nobody but a danged idjit would go gold hunting in the Hills.”

  “That ain’t what I heard, Deputy.”

  “Yeah? What did you hear?”

  “Everybody knows there was a gold hunting party in the Hills this summer,” Sixkiller said.

  “That’s dangerous country,” Braddock weighed in. “Lots of outlaws and renegade Indians up there.” He studied Sixkiller. “You look like you got redskin blood in you, but I don’t reckon the Arapahos will extend you any professional courtesy on that score.”

  “Maybe they’ll only scalp you halfway,” Porrock said. “The white half. Haw haw haw!”

  “That’s what you’d say if you didn’t want anybody to find the gold,” Sixkiller said.

  “Why you danged fool!”

  “Let it go, Kev. Some folks are just too damned dumb to listen to good advice,” Wheeler said.

  “You came to the wrong place, Quinto—for hunting gold and making trouble,” Braddock said. “We don’t like outsiders coming into our town to start trouble.”

  “Then what’re you picking on me for?” Bull demanded. “I’m no outsider!”

  “You, we just plain don’t like, so shut up,” Braddock said. He returned his attention to Sixkiller. “You in trouble with the law, Quinto? Wanted for anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “What else is he gonna say?” Porrock scoffed.

  “If he’s wanted for anything, we’ll have a flyer on him,” Braddock said. “Meantime, he’s not going anywhere.”

  Wheeler counted the money in Sixkiller’s poke, then whistled. “Two hundred and thirty-four dollars! Whew!”

  “No honest prospector makes that kind of money in these parts,” Porrock accused.

  “I didn’t make it in these parts. I panned it out after a couple months on Bitter Creek,” Sixkiller said.

  “If that’s true, it’ll go toward paying your fine and costs, like with Bull here,” Braddock said. “Fix it up the same way, Chet.”

  Wheeler put the money in an envelope with Sixkiller’s name and the total amount written on the outside.

  Braddock put both envelopes in the cast-iron safe in the corner and locked it closed. “Nobody can say Dick Braddock doesn’t run an honest jail.”

  He tossed a key ring to Porrock and picked up the shotgun, leveling it at the prisoners. “Lock ’em up.”

  Sixkiller and Bull were herded along a center aisle into the cell area and locked into separate side-by-side cells. Iron-barred doors clanged shut, the key turning in the locks, bolts thudding home.

  “When do we get out of here?” Sixkiller asked.

  “You’ll go before the justice of the peace tomorrow morning at nine when court is in session,” Braddock said. “Charges will be read and you’ll say how you plead. As for getting out of here, that’s up to the Justice Applewhite. But I’ll give you a little tip. He’s got no use for troublemakers, either.”

  The lawmen went up front into the office.

  “Lucky for you they showed up when they did. I was just getting ready to lower the boom on you,” Bull said.

  Sixkiller’s laughter was loud and insulting.

  Chapter Ten

  Sixkiller had been locked up before, mostly in the line of duty when his undercover roles required him to assume the guise of a lawbreaker—as he was doing in Ringgold. His strategy was called dynamiting.

  There were two ways to fish. One was the usual, everyday way where you take a rod and line, bait your hook, and drop it where you think the fish will be biting. That’s for someone with plenty of time on
his hands.

  The other way, well known to poachers and transgressors of fish and game laws, was to light a stick of dynamite, toss it in the pond, and let ’er rip. The blast killed or stunned all the fish and sent them floating to the surface for netting and collecting.

  Both ways were good, but Sixkiller was in a hurry. He’d been away from his home grounds for some time and knew that in his absence the countless malefactors, owlhoots, and bad hats in the Nations would run wild, making his job that much harder on his return.

  A certain type of investigator blends in with the crowd and goes about his business without anybody giving him so much as a second glance. Not Sixkiller. He wasn’t built that way. His plan in Ringgold was to make a big splash and see what washed up from the bottom of the pool. He wanted to get under the town’s skin and make his presence known. Westerners respected a fighting man. Tackling a tough hombre like Bull Raymond got him noticed fast and put him closer to the center of things, the heart of the action.

  He hoped the powers in town would take notice. It could make him a target, but that was useful, too. He’d catch hold of whoever was trying to kill him and squeeze them to give up the next one in line. He’d climb the ladder till he found the top man.

  Of course, he had to keep from getting killed along the way, but Sixkiller had confidence in his abilities to stay alive and win through all obstacles.

  He’d wanted to question at least one of the ambushers at Powder Basin, but it hadn’t worked out that way. That’s how things went sometimes.

  A night in jail could only further his plans, serving as a character recommendation to members of the lawless element. Unimpressed with the quality of law enforcement in Ringgold, he didn’t intend to spend much time in the hoosegow. If worse came to worst, he’d break out.

  Behind bars in an iron cage, the accommodations were minimal. A crude, wooden-framework bed with a straw mattress inside cloth ticking. A wooden bucket in a corner of the cell for sanitary purposes. A small rectangular window set high up in the stone wall, looking west.

  Just for the hell of it he took hold of the vertical iron bars in the window, gripping one in each big hand. He tested their strength quietly, without making a fuss. He pulled on the bars, veins and tendons standing out on his massive forearms like snakes entwined around them. Muscles bunched up under his shirt, shifting and flexing. His face reddened, pencil-thin veins standing out at the sides of his forehead.