Chapter Eleven
Well, that was interesting, John Henry thought. He didn’t know exactly who Billy Ray Gilmore was, but from the sound of it, the man was a notorious desperado and the leader of a gang of bandits.
Probably just the man John Henry was looking for.
The smaller of the two gunnies was rolling around on the ground, clutching his wounded foot as blood leaked through the hole in the top of his boot. He yelled a curse at John Henry and added, “You’ll pay for this, mister! By God, you’ll pay!”
John Henry ignored him and said to the townsman, “Should I be worried about this fella Gilmore?”
The man swallowed hard and said, “I . . . I prefer not to talk about him.”
That response jibed with John Henry’s initial hunch. Gilmore was the man who had this town buffaloed, all right. That meant he was the one Jason True and the other miners were afraid of.
“Well, if he has a bone to pick with me, he ought to be able to find me. My name’s John Henry Sixkiller, and I aim to be around for a while.”
That laid it out simple enough and amounted to throwing down a gauntlet. John Henry liked to know what sort of odds he was facing. He hadn’t intended to announce his presence in Purgatory quite so dramatically, but he might as well try to take advantage of the situation, he thought.
He looked at the townsman, who appeared prosperous enough, and waited for the man to return the favor and introduce himself. After a moment, the man said, “I’m Joseph Cravens. I own the bank here, and I’m the mayor of Purgatory, as well.”
“It’s good to meet you, Mayor,” John Henry said with a nod. He looked at the two men lying in the street. Both gunmen were whimpering in pain, but they had stopped writhing around. “What about these two?”
“Their friends will come along and tend to them, I suppose,” Cravens said. “I don’t see any of them on the street right now, but some of them are bound to be around and someone will tell them what happened.” A disapproving note came into Cravens’s voice. “There are people in Purgatory who are eager to curry favor with Gilmore and his ilk.”
“All right.” John Henry looked around. There were quite a few people standing around on the boardwalks, and more were looking on from the doors and windows of the buildings. “I’m surprised the local law hasn’t shown up to see what all the commotion was about.”
“Marshal Hinkle?” The mayor’s dismissive tone made it clear he didn’t think that was likely to happen. “He’ll poke his nose out later, when the trouble is all over.”
“I see. So you don’t think he’ll arrest me for shooting these two?”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Cravens said. “But I can’t say the same about Gilmore.”
“Like I said, he can look me up if he wants to talk about it.” John Henry started to turn Iron Heart away, but he stopped and said to the two men he had wounded, “You fellas remember my name, too. John Henry Sixkiller.”
“We’ll remember you, all right,” the smaller one snarled. “And we’ll see you again . . . over the barrel of a gun!”
“Looking forward to it,” John Henry responded dryly. He lifted his reins and heeled Iron Heart into a walk.
He didn’t think either of the outlaws would make another try for him right now, but he listened closely for any sounds that might warn him they were scrambling after their guns. He didn’t hear anything except the soft thuds of the horse’s hooves in the dust.
John Henry rode to the Silver Spur Saloon and dismounted. After most of two days on the trail, he was thirsty, and a cold beer sure sounded appealing right now. Back home, people sometimes looked at him a mite odd when he went into a saloon, because it was well known that Indians could not handle “firewater” very well. He always had to explain to them that it was the white half of him drinking, not the Indian half.
As he looped Iron Heart’s reins around a hitch rail and stepped up onto the boardwalk, he spotted a young woman watching him through one of the windows. She was a nice-looking honey blonde. Their eyes met for a second before she abruptly turned away.
He wasn’t totally unaccustomed to having women look at him. Back in Indian Territory, there was a beautiful young lady named Sasha Quiet Stream who had been friends with John Henry since they were both little more than kids. He had risked his life to save her from a vicious killer, and there was a chance that in time their friendship might grow into something more.
Right now, however, John Henry’s work kept him on the move nearly all the time, so it was difficult to even consider anything serious where the future was concerned. For him, the future had to be about doing the job he had set out to do.
Which meant that if an attractive woman wanted to smile at him, he certainly wasn’t opposed to the idea, and he wasn’t going to feel guilty for not being opposed to it, either.
He pushed the bat wings aside and stepped into the saloon. Instantly, he felt the eyes of a number of people on him. That wasn’t surprising, since he’d just been involved in a shooting. The fact that the other two hombres involved in that shooting were members of the local outlaw gang just made him even more notorious.
He pretended not to notice the scrutiny and strolled toward the long mahogany bar that ran down the right side of the big room. The hardwood gleamed in the light from a number of chandeliers. Tables were scattered to the left. About half of them were occupied by drinkers. The bar was busy, too, but not packed. The rear portion of the room was devoted to gambling, with several poker tables, a roulette wheel that wasn’t being used at the moment, and a faro layout where men could take their chances on bucking the tiger.
A staircase to the left led up to a second-floor balcony that went around two sides of the room. Judging by the number of women in short, spangled dresses in evidence, there would be rooms on the second floor where fellas could try their luck at another kind of bucking, John Henry thought with a wry smile.
The blonde John Henry had seen in the window was wearing one of those eye-catching dresses, he noted as he spotted her standing at the bar talking to a man in a suit with a fancy vest and a gold watch chain draped across it. The man looked like a gambler, but John Henry thought there was a good chance he owned this place.
The bartender was already moving to meet him as he stepped up to the bar. John Henry nodded and said, “I could sure do with a cold glass of beer, friend.”
“Coming right up,” the aproned man replied. He drew the beer and set it in front of John Henry, then glanced to his right and added, “It’s on the house.”
“First one’s free, eh? Is that the policy?”
“Well . . . not always. But this is sort of a special occasion.”
“It is?” John Henry said. “Some holiday I don’t know about?”
The well-dressed man who’d been talking to the blonde moved alongside him in time to hear that question.
“It’s a local holiday,” he said. “I just declared it.”
John Henry lifted the glass in his left hand and took a swallow of the beer. It wasn’t ice cold, but it was cool and tasted mighty good going down his throat.
“What are we celebrating?” he asked.
“It’s not every day that somebody stands up to a couple of Billy Ray Gilmore’s gun-wolves,” the man said. “That makes it a holiday as far as I’m concerned, and since I own the Silver Spur, I think I can declare one.” He raised his voice and addressed the bartender. “I’m buying the next round for the house, Meade.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bouchard,” the bartender said as customers began to crowd up to claim their free drinks.
The man extended his hand to John Henry and introduced himself.
“Royal Bouchard. This is my place.”
John Henry gripped his hand and said, “John Henry Sixkiller. I’m drinking in your place.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sixkiller. You’re new to Purgatory, aren’t you?”
“Just rode in about fifteen minutes ago.”
“And rode right into trouble, from what I hear.”
“You didn’t see it?”
“I was upstairs when I heard the shooting,” Bouchard said. “By the time I got down here, it was all over. But one of the girls who works for me told me all about it. She said Duke Rudd and Sam Logan were shooting at our esteemed mayor, and you came along and shot them.”
John Henry nodded and said, “That’s about the size of it.”
“In the foot.”
“Seemed appropriate, since their bullets were kicking up dust around your mayor’s feet.”
“Maybe, but it would have been all right with me if you’d put your slugs in their gizzards, instead. They’re dangerous men, and they won’t take kindly to being wounded.”
“Since I’m the one who shot them, seems like I might be a little dangerous myself.”
Bouchard chuckled and nodded.
“Point taken, Mr. Sixkiller,” he said. “Is that an Indian name?”
“It might be,” John Henry allowed.
“None of my business, of course,” Bouchard went on smoothly. “I’ll venture to ask something else that’s none of my business: What brings you to Purgatory?”
“I’m just passing through,” John Henry said. “I have to admit, though, I like the looks of the country around here, and Purgatory seems like a nice enough town . . . if you don’t mind a few vermin like Rudd and Logan. Wasn’t that their names? Anyway, I might stay awhile.”
“You’ll be welcomed, at least by some of us. Gilmore and his men are tolerated around here, but they’re certainly not liked.”
“This Billy Ray Gilmore, he’s the big skookum he-wolf in these parts?”
Bouchard glanced toward the entrance, stiffened, and said, “You can ask him yourself. Here he comes now.”