Eight Hours to Die

by William W. Johnstone

“I’m tired of you people plotting against me and spreading lies about me,” Dav went on. He drew his gun.

  “Please, no!” Heinsdorf cried as he held up his wildly shaking hands toward Dav, as if that would protect him from a bullet. “Please don’t kill me!”

  Dav didn’t have any intention of killing Heinsdorf. That would just take money out of his pocket.

  Instead he leaned down and smashed the Colt across Heinsdorf’s face. The sight raked a bloody furrow in the baker’s cheek. Crimson dripped down from it as Heinsdorf sobbed.

  Dav straightened and pouched his iron.

  “There,” he said with some satisfaction. “That ought to teach you a lesson. From now on you’ll cooperate with us when we try to help you, won’t you?”

  “Y-yes,” Heinsdorf said. His voice was muffled because he had pressed both hands to his injured face. “I . . . I won’t give you any more trouble, Sheriff.”

  “Now that’s what I like to hear.” Dav jerked his head at Miller. “Come on, Carl.”

  Miller reached out toward one of the loaves of bread sitting on the counter.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Dav asked sharply from the doorway.

  “I just thought—” Miller began.

  “I know what you thought. Leave that there. We’re not thieves, Carl. If you want some of Herr Heinsdorf’s bread, you’ll have to pay for it like everybody else.”

  “Uh . . . yeah, sure, boss.”

  From where he lay huddled on the floor, Heinsdorf said, “Nein, nein . . . take the bread, Deputy Miller, please. It . . . it is my gift to you.”

  “Well, in that case . . .” Dav said. He motioned for Miller to pick up the bread. “I’m glad to see that you’ve come to your senses, Wilhelm. You don’t think I’m a monster at all anymore, do you?”

  “Nein,” Heinsdorf whispered.

  * * *

  As the two lawmen left the bakery, Heinsdorf took one hand away from his bleeding face and reached over to where his crucifix lay on the floor, where Dav had thrown it. He brought it to him, held it close.

  Samuel Dav might not be the sort of monster Heinsdorf had believed him to be, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t the unholiest creature ever to set foot in the settlement of Chico.

  Chapter Four

  Lucinda Hammond stood at the window of her second-floor bedroom. Her left eye was closed, and her right eye squinted over the barrel of the rifle she held pressed firmly to her shoulder.

  She saw the door of the bakery open. Samuel Dav stepped out onto the boardwalk, followed by one of his toadying deputies. Lucinda settled the rifle’s sights on Dav’s chest.

  All she had to do was press the trigger to bring his evil existence to an end.

  Or she might miss, she thought. Her late husband, Milton, had taught her how to use a rifle, but she was far from an expert shot. At a range of four blocks, her aim wouldn’t have to be off by much to make the bullet miss the sheriff.

  Then Dav would probably figure out where the shot had come from, march up here, and kill her for daring to even attempt such a thing. Who in Chico would try to stop him? No one, that’s who, and Lucinda knew it quite well.

  With a sigh, she lowered the rifle. It was getting heavy anyway, she told herself.

  She turned away from the window, leaned the rifle in a corner of the luxuriously appointed bedroom. As she did so, she saw herself in the mirror above the dressing table.

  Her thick blond hair was tangled, not having known a brush or a comb for several days. Her face still retained a considerable vestige of her beauty, but her eyes were sunken and hollow from lack of sleep, and lines of grief and strain had appeared around her mouth. She hadn’t gotten dressed in days, either. A silk robe twisted around her was her only garment.

  She looked away from her reflection, but that just made her gaze fall on the framed photograph that sat on the dressing table. It had been made on the day of her and Milton’s fifth wedding anniversary. A traveling photographer had come to Chico, with his wagon packed full of arcane equipment, and they had hired him to make their portrait.

  They had posed for it downstairs in the parlor, Milton sitting in one of the chairs with his legs crossed, Lucinda standing just behind and to the side of him with one hand resting on his shoulder. She had wanted to smile—it was a happy occasion, after all—but the photographer had insisted the portrait would look better and more dignified if they wore solemn expressions.

  Lucinda tore her gaze away from the photograph. The sight of her handsome husband with his curling mustaches was a bitter reminder of what she had lost. Even now, after almost two weeks, the memories of their last moments together were as fresh and painful as if they had occurred only moments earlier.

  The insistent hammering of a fist on the front door made Lucinda gasp as she looked up from the needlework in her lap. She was sitting in the parlor with Milton after supper. The housekeeper and the cook had already left for the day, so there was no one to answer the summons except one of them.

  Lucinda set the needlework aside and started to rise from the divan.

  “No, you stay here,” Milton said as he got up from his chair. He waved her back. “I’ll get it.”

  “Milton . . .” She had to stop and swallow before she could go on. “Be careful.”

  “I’m not afraid of those cheap crooks,” he said, and she knew he was telling the truth. He wasn’t afraid. But he ought to be, Lucinda thought. She had seen the way Samuel Dav looked at her. She had seen the coldness in his eyes, too. They were as hard and inhuman as the eyes of a snake.

  Milton walked from the parlor into the foyer. Despite what he had told her, Lucinda got up from the divan and took a few steps after him, so she could see. As she watched, Milton opened the door.

  “I thought it might be you,” he said to whomever stood outside.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me in?” Sheriff Dav’s mocking voice asked. “I thought you folks were big on hospitality.”

  Milton didn’t issue an invitation, but he stepped back so that the sheriff could come in. Dav glanced over through the arched entrance to the parlor, spotted her, and used his left hand to take off his hat. He gave her a nod and said, “Good evening, Mrs. Hammond.”

  His polite façade didn’t fool anyone. His eyes were anything but courteous as they looked her over from head to foot, lingering boldly on the curves of her bosom and her hips. He smiled, but the expression reminded her of a predator licking its chops.

  He didn’t try to hide his lecherous examination of her from Milton, either. Face flushing with anger, Milton asked, “What do you want, Sheriff ?”

  Dav took his eyes away from Lucinda with obvious reluctance.

  “I hear you’ve been doing some talking around town,” he said. “You’ve been trying to stir up trouble, Mr. Hammond.”

  “I’m trying to look out for the best interests of the community,” Milton snapped.

  “I can understand that, what with you being the richest man in town. You feel like you’ve got a responsibility to these folks.”

  “That’s exactly how I feel,” Milton said. “A responsibility to protect them from the likes of you.”

  “I’d remind you that I’m the legally elected sheriff of Chico County.”

  “I’m not even so sure about that.”

  Dav nodded slowly and said, “Yeah, I heard that you’ve been spreading rumors. You’ve been saying that my supporters rounded up folks and forced them to vote for me.”

  “Only if paying them to vote for you didn’t work,” Milton said. “And there were more votes cast than there are legal voters in the county. It’s like everyone buried in the cemetery cast a ballot for you, Sheriff!”

  “None of that has been proven.” Dav clapped his hat back on his head and stepped closer to Milton. “I want you to stop lying about me, Hammond. It’s against the law.”

  “What law?” Milton demanded. “I don’t know of any law against speaking the truth.”

  “My law,�
�� Dav said coldly. The two men’s angry faces were only inches apart now. “And you’d better not forget it.”

  “Get out of my house,” Milton ordered. “Get out right now!”

  “You can’t throw me out. I’m the sheriff.”

  “We’ll just see about that!”

  Lucinda realized that her husband was about to lose his temper. He was in the prime of life and a good-sized man. He hadn’t always been wealthy, either. He had started out as a bullwhacker before establishing his own freight line and expanding into other businesses, and he knew what hard work was. He was no stranger to a fight.

  She cried, “Milton, no!” as he lifted his hands. He ignored her and planted both of them against Dav’s chest. He gave the sheriff a hard shove that sent him staggering back a couple of steps, almost out the still-open door.

  Dav caught his balance. His face twisted savagely as his hand flickered toward the gun on his hip. Lucinda threw herself forward, but she was too late. Dav drew the revolver, raised it, and fired in less than the blink of an eye. The burst of flame that exploded from the muzzle almost touched Milton’s vest. Milton jerked backward.

  “Noooo!” Lucinda screamed.

  Milton clapped both hands to his chest and reeled from side to side. He twisted around toward Lucinda, and she saw the bright red blood welling out over his fingers. As his eyes widened in pain and shock, his mouth opened and closed a couple of times, but no words came out.

  “No!” she cried. “Milton!”

  He gasped and fell to his knees. She sprang toward him, went down to the rug to throw her arms around him. He sagged against her. Some incoherent sounds came from his throat. She tried to get to the wound and felt the warm wetness of his blood on her hands.

  He collapsed on a twisting fall to the side, leaving her on her knees above him. She screamed his name twice more as hot tears rolled down her cheeks. She grabbed him and shook him as if that would jar the light of life back into his eyes, but they continued to stare sightlessly.

  She looked up and saw Dav standing there calmly just inside the doorway, the gun still in his hand, a wisp of smoke curling from the barrel.

  “Now that’s a real shame,” he said, “but you saw it for yourself, Mrs. Hammond. Your husband attacked me. Attacked the law. And I just defended myself.”

  She wasn’t sure where the vile words that spilled from her mouth came from. Later she didn’t even remember exactly what she’d said. But Samuel Dav just seemed mildly amused by it all. He let her hysterical outburst run out, then said, “I’ll tell the undertaker there’s some work up here for him.” He slid his gun back into its holster and shook his head. “It’s never a good idea to oppose the law.”

  With that he turned away and left the house. Behind him, Lucinda fell across her husband’s bloody body as gut-wrenching sobs shook her.

  She was all cried out now. Tears were a waste of time. Her soul was a cold, dried-up husk, and the only thing that still aroused any real feelings inside her was the sight of Samuel Dav. All she had to do was see him, and she was filled with hate and revulsion.

  But she was afraid of him, too, not so much for what he might do to her but for the rest of the town. She believed that if anything ever set him off, ever pushed him over the edge into the sort of killing frenzy that she sensed lurking within him, then Chico’s Main Street might well run red with blood. Milton wouldn’t have wanted that. He wouldn’t have wanted his own death avenged so badly that the whole town might die.

  Lucinda wasn’t going to forget, though. Sooner or later her time would come. She lifted her hands now and studied them. Even though she had long since scrubbed her husband’s blood from them, she still seemed to see the red stains on her skin.

  And she knew that someday she would see real blood on her hands again . . . the blood of Samuel Dav.

  Chapter Five

  After spending so much time cooped up in train cars and stables over the past ten days, Iron Heart was more than happy to get out and stretch his legs. When they left Santa Fe heading northwest toward Chico, John Henry gave the horse his head and let Iron Heart run.

  Finally, though, John Henry pulled back on the reins and slowed his loyal mount to a walk. He didn’t want Iron Heart to get too carried away and hurt himself.

  John Henry carried enough supplies in his saddlebags for a three-day trip, even though Governor Wallace had told him the ride to Chico would take only two days. When you were out on the trail, you never knew when something might happen to delay you. John Henry believed in being prepared for emergencies.

  That was why his saddlebags also carried several boxes of .44-40 cartridges that would fit both his Colt revolver and his Winchester. And why the Bowie knife in a sheath strapped to his other hip was razor-sharp.

  When he reached the Rio Grande, he had to backtrack a short distance to the south to reach the nearest place that had a ferry. Governor Wallace had warned him about that, so he knew what to expect.

  When he reached the small settlement where the ferry was located, he was waiting at the landing, standing there and holding Iron Heart’s reins, when shots suddenly sounded somewhere nearby. John Henry swiveled around, his hand going to his Colt as he searched for the source of the shots.

  A man came running out of an adobe cantina about fifty yards away. He paused just outside the open door to turn around and fire twice more into the building.

  John Henry didn’t know what was going on, but clearly the hombre wasn’t up to any good. He dropped the reins, knowing that the well-trained Iron Heart would stay ground-hitched for a while, and started toward the gunman. He drew his revolver and shouted, “Hold it!”

  The man jerked around toward him and fired. John Henry dived behind a wagon that was parked in front of a small general store. He didn’t want to kill anybody without knowing exactly what was behind the violence, but he wasn’t going to stand by and let somebody throw lead at him, either. He figured he could wing the gunman and then ask questions.

  As he eased up, intending to take a shot over the back of the wagon, he heard a woman’s scream. That made things more urgent. He ran forward, around the wagon, and as he reached the open again he saw that the gunman had grabbed a young señorita in a peasant blouse and long skirt.

  The man’s left arm was around the girl’s neck while his right hand held his gun to her head. She couldn’t let out a sound now because of the gunman’s choking grip on her throat, but her eyes were wide with terror.

  “Everybody back off!” the gunman yelled in a harsh voice. “Back off or I’ll blow this bitch’s brains out!”

  “Take it easy, mister,” John Henry called to him. “You don’t want to make this any worse than it already is.”

  The gunman laughed and tightened his grip on the girl even more.

  “They can only hang me once, so I don’t reckon it can get any worse than it already is,” he said.

  John Henry approached the man slowly but steadily. He said, “There’s no need for an innocent person to die, no matter what happens to you or me, amigo.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” the gunman flared back at him. “There aren’t any innocent people. And I’m damn sure not your amigo!”

  John Henry got a better look at the gunman now. Despite the fact that the man wore a wide-brimmed, high-crowned sombrero, he appeared to be white. In this hot, sunny country, a lot of people wore hats like that no matter what their ancestry, John Henry had noticed.

  The man’s hard-planed face sported several days’ worth of beard stubble. His eyes held a haunted look. John Henry knew a man on the dodge when he saw one; he had come face-to-face with plenty of them during his career as a lawman.

  So this hardcase had drifted into the settlement, gone into the cantina, gotten into some sort of shooting scrape, and now just wanted to escape. John Henry could understand that, but as a lawman he couldn’t allow it to happen. He sure couldn’t allow anybody else to be hurt if he could prevent it.

  “Why don’t you
just let the girl go, drop that gun, and we’ll talk about this,” he suggested.

  The gunman sneered at him.

  “You sound like a damn lawman,” he spat. “I don’t have anything to say to you blasted star packers except you should all go to hell.”

  “I imagine it’s pretty crowded, the way folks are just downright mean to each other.”

  “Don’t start preaching at me,” the gunman snapped. “Throw your gun away and back off. This little señorita and me are getting on a horse and riding out of here, and if anybody tries to stop me, she dies.”

  “If she dies,” John Henry said softly, “then I don’t have any reason not to kill you.”

  The gunman’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a grimace, and John Henry realized he had made a mistake.

  “You know what?” the man said. “Maybe that’d be best all the way around.”

  His finger started to whiten on the gun’s trigger.

  John Henry moved as fast as he ever had in his life. He had closed to within twenty feet of the gunman and the hostage. His gun came up and roared as it bucked against his palm.

  The gunman had already started to squeeze the trigger. John Henry couldn’t get off a shot fast enough to stop that. Nobody on earth could.

  But his bullet slammed into the cylinder of the gunman’s Colt just as the hammer fell. It drove the gun backward and smashed the mechanism so that the hammer missed the firing pin of the bullet in the chamber. The gun didn’t go off.

  Instead the slug’s impact transformed it into a missile that crashed into the gunman’s jaw. The stunning force of the blow jarred loose his grip on the hostage. The girl broke free and fled as the gunman staggered back a step.

  John Henry was hopeful now of taking the man alive since he’d disarmed him, but that turned out not to be the case. The gunman used his left hand to jerk another pistol from behind his belt, a weapon John Henry hadn’t been aware of until now because the hostage’s body had blocked his view of it. Howling incoherent curses because his jaw was probably broken, the man snapped a shot from that second gun at John Henry.