Eight Hours to Die

by William W. Johnstone

  “So that would make you a horse thief, as well as a regular robber.”

  John Henry shook his head and said, “I didn’t steal anything. I was just borrowing a few things from them.”

  “Many a man’s been strung up for borrowin’ a horse,” the spokesman for the newcomers said.

  “Yes, but I was going to return these as soon as I got to town. I had a little disagreement with those two fellas up in the pass, and I didn’t want them coming after me and trying to bushwhack me.”

  “What sort of disagreement?”

  “I didn’t want to pay a toll to ride over what’s supposed to be a free public road,” John Henry said.

  “Not anymore,” the man snapped. “Not that part of it. The road through the pass is now a toll road, by order of Sheriff Sam Dav.”

  “That would be you?”

  “Me?” The man laughed. “Not hardly. I’m one of the sheriff’s deputies. Carl Miller. Who might you be, other than the fella who made a bad mistake by crossin’ the law?”

  “People keep telling me I’ve made a mistake, but so far I don’t see any evidence of it.”

  “I asked for your name,” Miller asked, impatience giving an edge to his voice.

  “It’s John Cobb,” John Henry drawled.

  Miller stiffened in the saddle, and the other three men, who also wore deputy badges, glanced at each other. Clearly, the name meant something to them.

  John Henry hoped that none of them had been acquainted with the real John Cobb, or else his masquerade would evaporate quicker than the morning dew.

  In his last assignment he had concealed his true identity as a federal officer and allowed people to draw the erroneous conclusion that he was a gunfighter and outlaw. He had used his real name, though. This was different. This was the first time he had deliberately posed as someone else. He hoped the ruse would work.

  “I’ve heard of this fella Cobb,” Miller said. “He’s supposed to be a pretty bad hombre.”

  John Henry shrugged.

  “Sometimes I feel like looking for trouble. But I never feel like running away from it.”

  “Well, you ran right into it this time,” Miller said. He nodded toward the road behind John Henry. “I don’t think Price and Hoffman are happy with you.”

  The two guards from the pass had been descending the slope while John Henry talked to Miller. They came up to the group of riders now, cussing because their feet hurt and out of breath from hurrying.

  “Shoot the son of a bitch, Carl,” the angrier of the two demanded. “He held us up, stole our horses and our gear!”

  “There are two of you and one of him,” Miller said dryly. “How’d he manage to do that, Hoffman?”

  The man’s face turned a mottled red with anger and embarrassment.

  “He’s tricky,” Hoffman said. “He fooled us into thinkin’ that he was gonna pay the toll, then threw down on us.”

  John Henry said, “And as I recall, you never did give me back that five-dollar piece, so technically I think I did pay the toll.” He grinned at Miller. “See? I’m just a law-abiding citizen, whether I mean to be or not.”

  “Stealing horses and guns isn’t law-abiding,” Miller pointed out.

  “Borrowing,” John Henry said. “I told you, I was just borrowing them as a precaution.”

  “Damn it!” Hoffman burst out. “Somebody gimme a gun! I’ll shoot him just to shut him up, if for no other reason!”

  “Take it easy,” Miller ordered. All six of these men were deputies, but Miller obviously held some sort of authority. He went on to John Henry, “You can’t disrespect the law the way you done without payin’ a price for it, mister. You’ll come on into town with us, and the sheriff will decide what to do with you.”

  “Don’t you mean a judge?” John Henry asked.

  Several of the men chuckled. Miller said, “Oh, there’s a judge in Chico, all right, but it’s Sheriff Dav who makes the only decisions that matter. Toss your guns down.”

  John Henry didn’t make a move to obey the order. Instead he asked quietly, “What if I don’t?”

  “Then we’ll kill you,” Miller said as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. “You may have a rep as a gunman, Cobb, but there are four of us and one of you. Pretty bad odds, if you ask me.”

  “Pretty bad,” John Henry agreed, “but not bad enough to keep me from putting a bullet in your gizzard before any of those others can stop me.”

  Miller’s mouth tightened.

  “You have any other suggestions?” he asked.

  “Sure,” John Henry answered instantly. “Like I told you, I actually did pay the toll, so you don’t have any cause to arrest me for that. And it’s these two I had the problem with, so why don’t you let me settle it with them?”

  “Now you’re talkin’,” Hoffman said. “Let me have my guns back, and I’ll settle things, all right.”

  Miller said, “Don’t be a damned fool. You’re a good man, Hoffman, but you’re not a gunslick. Cobb is. He’d likely kill you, and then the sheriff would be on my ass for lettin’ you get killed.” Miller rubbed at his heavy jaw and frowned in thought. “I got a better idea. Hash this out without guns.”

  A grin spread across Hoffman’s face as his hands clenched into hamlike fists.

  “That sounds good to me,” he said.

  “Two against one,” John Henry said. “That’s not exactly a fair fight, either.”

  “It’s as fair as you’re gonna get,” Miller told him. “Take it or leave it, Cobb. But if you leave it, there’ll be gunplay. Unless you want to surrender and come along peacefully to town with us.”

  “I don’t think so,” John Henry said. “But how I do know you won’t just shoot me if I turn over my guns?”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it. But I’d like to see you tangle with Hoffman and Price. I’m not too happy with ’em for lettin’ you get the drop on them in the first place. So that’s one reason for you to believe me.”

  “That’s as good as any, I suppose.” John Henry untied the sack from the saddle horn and tossed it to Price. “You boys will want your boots back.”

  While the two guards took their boots out of the sack and pulled them on, Miller told John Henry, “Get down off that horse and unbuckle your gun belt.”

  John Henry did what the deputy said. He didn’t want to risk a shoot-out with these crooked lawmen. Not because he was afraid of dying, but because if they did manage to kill him, his assignment for Governor Lew Wallace would come to an abrupt end before he was able to do any good. He was willing to risk a bare-knuckles fight with Hoffman and Price if it gave him a chance to stay on the job longer.

  John Henry took off his gun belt and hung it on the saddle horn with the others. He hung his hat on the horn as well, then took off his coat, folded it, and slipped it into his saddlebags. He looked at Miller and asked, “Are there any kind of rules to this fight?”

  Miller grinned and said, “What do you think?”

  The words were barely out of Miller’s mouth when one of the men tackled John Henry from behind.

  Chapter Eight

  The impact sent John Henry staggering forward. He struggled to keep his balance but failed as his attacker continued to drive against him. He lost his footing and crashed to the hard-packed dirt of the road. The other man’s weight came down on him with stunning force that drove the air from his lungs.

  The man—John Henry didn’t know which one it was, but he would have bet on Hoffman—grabbed his hair and jerked his head up. Even though he was dazed, he knew the man intended to smash his face into the ground, so he shot his right elbow back as hard as he could into the pit of his opponent’s stomach.

  John Henry smelled the man’s foul breath as it gusted from his mouth. The man’s grip on his hair came loose. John Henry writhed and twisted and bucked his body off the ground, throwing the attacker away from him.

  John Henry rolled the other way, and as he came up he saw that the man who�
�d tackled him was indeed Hoffman. Hoffman wasn’t the only one John Henry had to worry about. Price charged him, too, swinging a punch at his head before John Henry could get set. The only thing John Henry could do was jerk his head to the side.

  Price’s fist grazed his ear. It was a glancing blow, painful but lacking the power to do any real damage.

  The punch served to distract John Henry, though, and delay his response, and that gave Hoffman time to scramble up and launch another attack. He waded in and hammered a punch to John Henry’s ribs on the left side. John Henry grunted under the impact and swung a backhand with his left that caught Hoffman on the jaw. Knowing that he was taking a chance, he pivoted, turning his back on Price, and threw a looping right that landed on the same spot on Hoffman’s jaw. Hoffman dropped.

  As satisfying as that was, John Henry paid the price for it. Price grabbed him from behind in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides. A few feet away, Hoffman climbed to his feet with an expression of murderous fury on his face.

  The other deputies had been calling out encouragement to their friends during the fight. Now Miller whooped and shouted, “Go get him, Hoffman!”

  Hoffman didn’t need any urging. He charged at John Henry, obviously intent on beating him severely while Price hung on to him.

  That straight-ahead rush didn’t pan out the way Hoffman must have thought it would. John Henry threw his weight backward, lifted both feet, drew his legs back, and then lashed out with them. The double-barreled kick landed in the middle of Hoffman’s chest and flung him backward in a wild, out-of-control spill.

  At the same time, the force of the collision sent Price toppling backward as well, in the opposite direction. When he hit the ground, that jarred loose his grip on John Henry, who took advantage of the opportunity to smash an elbow under Price’s chin. John Henry rolled free again.

  As he came to his feet this time, he saw that Price was still down, evidently stunned. Hoffman was trying to get up, but he seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. John Henry knew his kick might have broken some of the deputy’s ribs.

  “Better stay down,” he advised. “You don’t want to—”

  He was about to say that Hoffman didn’t want to hurt himself even more by continuing the fracas, but Hoffman didn’t give him the chance to finish. Bellowing in rage, Hoffman used his anger as fuel to drive him back to his feet. He came at John Henry again, swinging wildly.

  John Henry ducked under the roundhouse punches and lifted an uppercut that landed with smashing force on Hoffman’s chin. Hoffman’s head went back so far on his neck it seemed like his spine must be about to crack. His eyes rolled up in their sockets. He managed to paw at the air with a couple of final, futile blows, but then he crashed to earth, out cold.

  John Henry stepped back and turned toward Price, who was still on the ground. The second deputy lifted a hand toward him, palm out.

  “That . . . that’s enough,” Price said. “No more, mister. No more.”

  John Henry was glad to hear that. He was running out of steam himself.

  He still had Miller and the other three deputies to contend with. As he turned toward them, he wondered how long he could stand up against them. Not long, more than likely, but he would give a good account of himself for as long as he could.

  A couple of the men looked angry that he had defeated Hoffman and Price, but Miller was grinning as he leaned forward in his saddle and rested his hands on the horn. He lifted a hand to motion the others back.

  “Take it easy,” he told them, and once again John Henry could tell that Miller was accustomed to being in command. “It was a fair fight.”

  “But, Carl,” one of the deputies objected, “he stole their horses and guns!”

  “Borrowed them,” Miller said, still grinning. “You heard what Cobb said, and I reckon we can give him the benefit of the doubt. Anybody who can brawl like that deserves it, as far as I’m concerned.”

  John Henry nodded, wiped the back of his left hand across his mouth, and said, “I’m obliged to you for that, Deputy. I’ve had about enough trouble for one day.”

  “Oh, I didn’t say you were out of trouble. That’ll be up to the sheriff.” Miller drew his gun and pointed it at John Henry. “And you’re goin’ to see him right now.”

  Chapter Nine

  The knock on the front door of her house made Lucinda Hammond flinch as if she’d been struck. She knew she might never be able to hear such a knock again without being reminded of the terrible night Sheriff Dav had murdered her husband.

  At least she had forced herself to get dressed today, instead of wearing the same dressing gown she had worn for nearly two weeks straight after Milton’s funeral. Her hair wasn’t as carefully brushed as it had always been before his death, but it wasn’t a wild tangle. She supposed she looked halfway respectable . . . not that it mattered anymore. Nothing mattered.

  The front door had a narrow window on each side, covered by curtains. Lucinda moved one of the curtains back to see who was standing on her porch. If it was Dav . . . !

  She dropped her other hand to the pocket of her dress and felt the reassuring hardness of the little pistol she carried there. If that bastard had shown up on her doorstep, she would open the door, stick the pistol in his face, and pull the trigger. Dav’s gunmen would come for her and probably kill her if she did that, but it would be worth it. She didn’t have anything left to live for, anyway.

  Her visitor wasn’t Samuel Dav. She recognized the slight, long-haired figure of Edgar Wellman.

  Lucinda opened the door. She hadn’t spoken aloud much these past two weeks, and her voice sounded rusty to her ears as she said, “Edgar. What are you doing here?”

  “How are you, Lucinda?” Wellman asked. “No one has seen you in days. You sent your servants away—”

  “I didn’t feel like eating, and I don’t care if the house is clean. I don’t care about anything.”

  “Now, I know that’s not true,” Wellman said. “You care about this town. You always did. You and Milton both.”

  Lucinda winced slightly as the newspaperman spoke her late husband’s name. She knew what he said was true; as one of the leading citizens of Chico, Milton had always done whatever he could to help the settlement grow and prosper, and she had done her part as well.

  But knowing something was true and wanting to hear it were two different things.

  Old habits were persistent. She had been raised to be polite, so she said, “What can I do for you, Edgar?”

  “Invite me in so we can have a talk?”

  Lucinda hesitated. Now that she was standing there with the door open and breathing fresh air for the first time in days, she realized how musty it was inside the house. She ought to air it out before she had company . . .

  But what did it matter? She swung the door open farther and said, “All right, come on in.”

  Wellman stepped in, holding his hat in his hand. He wore a tweed suit, a white shirt, and a string tie. He wasn’t a Westerner by birth. He came from back East somewhere, and his voice had an odd, lilting accent to it as if he weren’t even a native-born American. But he was a decent man, Lucinda knew, and his newspaper, the Chico Star, was the only paper in this part of the territory.

  For the past several months, though, Wellman’s press had been idle. Sheriff Dav had shut the paper down, saying that it was printing treasonous lies about him and his deputies when all they were trying to do was bring law and order to the town. That was the real lie, of course, but faced with the choice of printing what Dav wanted him to print, having the newspaper office burned down, or not printing anything at all, Wellman had decided to shut his doors for the time being. Until someone came along to help the honest citizens of the settlement, he said.

  Lucinda knew that was never going to happen. Wellman insisted there was still a chance. He had taken his buggy and gone to Santa Fe, before Dav had clamped down on travel in and out of Chico, and appealed to Governor Wallace personally for help
. Wellman was sure the governor would do something.

  Not long after that, three strangers had managed to get into town somehow, one after the other, several weeks apart, and each of them had spent a day or two asking cautious questions about what was going on here.

  Then, each of those men had disappeared. Lucinda didn’t know if Governor Wallace had sent them, but whether that was the case or not, they were gone, dropped out of sight with no explanation.

  Actually, their bodies had been dropped into a ravine somewhere by Dav’s deputies, Lucinda believed. That was the most likely explanation for their disappearance.

  Those thoughts went through her mind in a flash as she ushered Edgar Wellman into the dim parlor. She pushed a couple of the curtains back to let some much-needed light into the gloomy room.

  “That’s better,” Wellman said. “You can’t stay cooped up in here for the rest of your life, Lucinda.”

  “I don’t see why not,” she said. “There’s nothing out there for me.”

  “You’re wrong about that. You’re one of the community’s leaders, and the people are depending on you.”

  Lucinda let out a hollow, humorless laugh.

  “Well, they’re going to be awfully disappointed, then,” she said. “I can’t help anybody. I can’t even help myself.”

  “That’s not true. Some of us have been meeting—in secret, of course—and trying to figure out what to do about our illustrious sheriff.”

  “There’s nothing anyone can do,” Lucinda said. “Dav has twenty deputies, each of them as good with a gun and as ruthless and vicious as he is. No one is going to go up against them.”

  “There are more than three hundred people in Chico. We outnumber them more than ten to one.”

  “Three hundred people if you count the women and children. I don’t think most of them would be much good in a gunfight.”

  “Still, there are at least eighty able-bodied men in town,” Wellman insisted. “Those are four to one odds.”

  “If you could get everyone to agree to fight. And even then, one of Dav’s gun-wolves is probably more than a match for any four men in Chico. You know that, Edgar. If you try to stir up trouble, you’ll just get a lot of people killed for no good reason.”