Day of Rage

The town of Fort Smith perched on a bluff overlooking the winding course of the Arkansas River. It was the gateway to Indian Territory, which to some people meant that it was the last outpost of civilization.

Those people were somewhat ignorant, because the Indians who made their homes over there in the Territory weren’t called the Five Civilized Tribes for no reason. In many ways, the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek, and Seminole were just as civilized as their white brethren. They had schools, churches, businesses, farms, and ranches. They had their own written language and their own newspaper. They lived in towns and dressed much like the white man dressed.

And in some ways, John Henry Sixkiller mused as he rode into Fort Smith, the tribes were more civilized than the whites. After all, they had never forced their peaceful neighbors to pick up and move for no good reason, never driven an entire people into a pilgrimage over a route that took so many lives it came to be known as the Trail of Tears, as the whites had done with their Indian Removal Act.

John Henry felt no personal animosity toward white people because of that history. For one thing, he was half white himself. His father James Sixkiller had met his mother, Elizabeth, during the trip west and married her after the two of them fell in love. John Henry had been born in Indian Territory. It was the only real home he had ever known. And while he knew from listening to the old-timers that Indian Territory was considerably different from the lush forests of the East, it turned out to be pretty good land that would support people if they were willing to work.

And Indians, despite the reputation they had with some as lazy, were always willing to work hard when it came to taking care of their families, John Henry knew.

He rode straight to the big, redbrick federal courthouse where Judge Isaac C. Parker had his office. As a member of the Cherokee Lighthorse, John Henry’s jurisdiction had been restricted to Indian Territory, and he wasn’t allowed to arrest white criminals or even to interfere with them, a rule he had bent from time to time when the situation made it necessary.

When Judge Parker had offered to appoint him as a deputy United States marshal, John Henry had accepted with no hesitation. For one thing, that appointment had saved him from being tried for murder in the deaths of two white outlaws he’d been forced to shoot. For another, with the power of the federal government behind him, he could go after the desperadoes who plagued the frontier, whether they were red, white, black, or brown, and stay on their trail no matter where they went. That sort of freedom was very important to someone like John Henry, who was determined to bring law and order to the West.

He tied Iron Heart at the hitch rack in front of the courthouse and glanced toward the gallows that sat off to the side of the big building. It was a permanent structure and quite impressive in its grim way, because it was big enough that six men could be hanged at once there. During the years since Isaac Parker’s appointment to the bench, enough badmen had dropped through those trapdoors that Parker was starting to be called the Hanging Judge.

John Henry walked past two men who were leaving the courthouse and talking to each other in the soft, drawling accents of Texans. He climbed the steps and went inside, heading straight for Parker’s office. He took off his hat, knocked on the door, and opened it when the judge called, “Come in.”

Parker was behind his big desk. He got to his feet. He was a compact man with a neatly trimmed beard. Wearing his habitually solemn expression, he extended a hand to his visitor.

“Marshal Sixkiller,” Parker said. “Good to see you. Did you just get here?”

“That’s right,” John Henry said.

Parker grunted and motioned him into a leather chair in front of the desk.

“Then you missed all the excitement. We had some prisoners try to escape.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to lend a hand,” John Henry said as he balanced his hat on his knee.

“Oh, that’s all right. A couple of Texans pitched in and helped us round them up.” Parker began looking through some of the papers on his desk. “I wanted to see you on an entirely different matter. That’s why I sent a note to Captain LeFlore asking him to send you directly here if he saw you.”

“Yes, sir,” John Henry said. “I came as soon as I heard. What can I do for you?”

“Ah, here it is.” Parker picked up one of the pieces of paper. “This is a letter from an old friend of mine. His name is Jason True. Have you heard of him?”

John Henry shook his head and said, “No, sir, I don’t think so.”

“Well, no reason you should have. He owns a gold mine in New Mexico Territory, near the Arizona border. Rugged country, from what I hear, and virtually lawless.”

“I imagine so,” John Henry said, although he had no real knowledge of the area. In his lifetime he had only been to Indian Territory, Arkansas, and Kansas.

Parker went on, “It seems that Jason and the other mine owners in the area have been having trouble with a gang of outlaws stealing their gold shipments. They bring the gold down from the mountains where the mines are located to a settlement called Purgatory.”

“That doesn’t sound promising,” John Henry said with a slight smile.

“The town is well named, from what I know of it,” Parker agreed. “From Purgatory, the gold is taken to Lordsburg and shipped out by rail with Wells Fargo. Ultimately, of course, it winds up at the mint in Denver. Therefore, any interference with that gold falls under federal jurisdiction.”

John Henry wasn’t sure why the judge was telling him all this. As a deputy appointed to Judge Parker’s court, he served in the Western Federal District of Arkansas, which meant Indian Territory and part of Kansas.

He was about to ask Parker what this had to do with him when the judge continued, “In approximately one week’s time, Jason and the other two large mine owners, men named Goodman and Lacey, are going to pool their resources and assemble a massive shipment of gold in Purgatory. Wells Fargo has agreed to take responsibility for it there.”

John Henry frowned and said, “That sounds a little risky. Like the old saying about putting all your eggs in one basket.”

“They believe that the gold will be safe there, if they can get it to town. All the holdups so far have taken place between the mines and Purgatory. Instead of each mine owner hiring guards to bring down their gold, they’re going in together to hire a large enough force to keep it safe. It seems like a plan with a reasonable chance of success.”

“Maybe,” John Henry said. “You can’t ever predict what some bandit’s going to do, though.”

Parker shook his head and said, “No, of course not. But there’s a risk in anything.”

“And I’d still be worried about having that much gold in one place. How much did you say it’s going to amount to, Judge?”

“I didn’t,” Parker said dryly. “But Jason estimates that the total will be around $75,000.”

John Henry couldn’t help it. He let out a low whistle.

“That’s a mighty big pile of gold, Your Honor. If it belonged to me . . . if even a third of it belonged to me . . . I’d be more than worried. I’d be downright scared.”

Parker tapped the letter he had laid back down on the desk.

“That’s why Jason wrote to me. Since any attempt to steal that gold would be a federal crime, he asked if I could send him a deputy marshal to help protect it.”

“New Mexico Territory’s sort of out of our bailiwick, isn’t it?” John Henry asked.

“Normally, yes. Jason should have sent his request to the chief marshal in Denver. But as I said, Jason is an old friend, so he turned to me instead. There’s another angle to consider, too. Whoever is sent to Purgatory to look after that gold might be able to do so more effectively if it’s not widely known that he’s a federal officer. That way if the outlaws do make a play for it, he can take them by surprise.”

“Begging your pardon, Judge,” John Henry said, “but I think I can see the trail you’re laying down here. You want me to go to New Mexico and make sure that gold gets where it’s supposed to go.”

“That’s the idea, yes,” Parker said with a nod. “Your record speaks for itself, Deputy Sixkiller. Despite your relative youth, you’re an experienced lawman, and you’ve found yourself in a number of tight spots. The fact that you’re still here says something about your abilities.”

“And nobody in New Mexico is liable to recognize me as a deputy marshal, that’s for sure.”

“Exactly. Because of my friendship with Jason, I consider this to be a personal matter, at least to an extent, so I’m loathe to make it an order. . . .”

John Henry smiled and said, “No need to worry about that, Your Honor. A federal lawman has jurisdiction anywhere in the country, right?”

“That’s right. Your badge means just as much in New Mexico as it does here.”

Picking up his hat from his knee, John Henry leaned forward. He said, “There’s one problem, though. Iron Heart’s pretty fast, but I don’t think he can get all the way from here to the other side of New Mexico in a week.”

“We’ll put you on the train. You can be in Lordsburg in a couple of days.” Parker smiled and added, “Jason can reimburse the federal government for that expense. There’s a stagecoach from Lordsburg to Purgatory.”

“That sounds pretty good.” John Henry paused. “But I was wondering ... Is there any chance you could put Iron Heart on the train, too, and I could ride him to Purgatory? I can make almost as good time that way as traveling by stagecoach.”

Parker gave him a severe look, and John Henry figured he had pushed things too far. Then the judge abruptly let out a laugh and said, “Jason can pay the freight on that horse of yours, too, if that’s the way you want it. What do you say, Deputy?”

“I say I’m on my way to New Mexico,” John Henry replied with a smile.