Chapter Fourteen
Despite some of the thoughts in his head, John Henry enjoyed talking to Della, so he was a bit disappointed when she stood up and told him that she had to leave. It wasn’t surprising, though; she was a working girl, and she wasn’t making any money sitting there and chewing the fat with him.
Royal Bouchard came over a few minutes later and sat down when John Henry waved a hand at the empty chair on the other side of the table.
“It looked like you and Della were getting along well,” Bouchard commented as he took a cigar out of his vest pocket. “Smoke?”
“Thanks,” John Henry said, taking the cigar. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Bouchard got out another cigar for himself, then scraped a match to life and lit both of them. After puffing on his, John Henry went on, “I don’t think Della and I got along quite as well as she’d hoped.”
“She’s a lovely girl,” Bouchard said with a smile. “You either have a lot of willpower, or your tastes run in other directions.”
“They run in Della’s direction, you can be sure of that,” John Henry said. “But there’s another girl . . .”
“Ah, a gentleman.” Bouchard chuckled. “I haven’t run into too many of those in my life. You’re a rare breed.”
John Henry shrugged.
“What can I say? Loyalty’s important to me.”
“It’s a fine quality. Also rare.”
They smoked in companionable silence for a few moments. Then Bouchard glanced toward the door as the bat wings swung open, and his eyes narrowed. John Henry saw the reaction and looked toward the entrance, too. The man who stepped into the Silver Spur wasn’t very impressive. Medium height, thickly built, with dark hair under a flat-crowned black hat. The string tie he wore and the ivory-handled gun on his hip made him look a little like a dude.
“Who’s that?” John Henry asked quietly.
“Our esteemed marshal,” Bouchard answered, with scorn evident in his voice. “Henry Hinkle.”
“Does he come in here often?”
“Not if he can help it. He seems to be looking for someone.” Bouchard paused as Hinkle looked at them and then started across the room toward the table where they sat. “And that someone appears to be you.”
“Or maybe you,” John Henry suggested.
Bouchard shook his head.
“Not likely. He has his sights set on you.”
John Henry sighed. Here he was, faced with a dilemma again. It went against the grain for him to conceal his identity from a fellow lawman, yet doing so for the time being might help him accomplish the job that had brought him here. Like it or not, he was going to play the hand the way fate had dealt it to him.
Marshal Hinkle came to a stop beside the table, between the two men who were sitting there, and nodded to the saloon keeper.
“Evening, Mr. Bouchard,” he said.
“Marshal.” Bouchard’s tone was civil, but nothing more. “What brings you here?”
“I’m looking for this gentleman here. Is your name Sixkiller, mister?”
“It is,” John Henry said. “What can I do for you, Marshal?”
Hinkle drew in a deep breath. He squared his shoulders, hooked his thumbs in his gun belt so that his right hand was close to the butt of his revolver, and drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t anything special. Clearly, he was gathering his strength and girding his loins for battle, and John Henry might have been impressed if he hadn’t been able to see the panic lurking in the marshal’s eyes.
Hinkle said, “You’re—” then had to stop as his breath caught in his throat. He cleared it and started again. “You’re under arrest,” he got out this time.
“Is that so?” John Henry asked calmly. “What are the charges?”
“Attempted murder.”
John Henry frowned and said, “Honestly, I don’t recall trying to murder anyone since I rode into town, Marshal. Refresh my memory for me.”
“You shot Duke Rudd and Sam Logan. I’ve had reports about it from, uh, concerned citizens. We don’t like violence in the streets of Purgatory.”
“Well, I can’t blame you or the citizens for that,” John Henry said, “but I didn’t try to murder those two gents. I shot ’em in the foot. If I wanted them dead, they’d be dead now.”
“Maybe you were aiming to kill them and . . . and just missed.”
John Henry shook his head and said, “No, I don’t think so. I generally hit what I aim at.”
Hinkle looked like he wanted to bolt, but he made himself stay where he was. He glanced around as if searching for someone to tell him what to do next, then said, “But that’s still, uh . . . assault. You can’t just go around shooting people, even if it’s just in the foot.”
“I might agree with you, except I had a good reason for shooting those two boys. They’d been shooting at your mayor just before I came up. They were making him dance, just like two-bit desperadoes in some dime novel. I figured I’d better make them stop before somebody got seriously hurt, and that seemed like the quickest way.”
The corners of Bouchard’s mouth twitched a little. John Henry could tell that he was struggling to keep from laughing. He hoped Bouchard would be able to keep the impulse under control. Marshal Hinkle didn’t seem like much of a threat, but if a man felt humiliated enough, he might snap and do something foolhardy.
After a moment, Hinkle said, “I didn’t know that about Mayor Cravens.”
“There are plenty of witnesses who saw it, Marshal,” Bouchard said. “Some of them are still here in the saloon. You can ask around if you want. You’ll find somebody to back up Mr. Sixkiller’s story.”
Hinkle swallowed and nodded.
“I’ll do that,” he said. “I’ll conduct a full investigation. In the meantime, Mister, uh, Sixkiller, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave town.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” John Henry said with a smile.
“All right.” Hinkle jerked his head in a curt nod. “Fine.”
He turned and tried to stalk out of the saloon with some of his dignity intact. He didn’t succeed very well, because by the time he reached the bat wings he was hurrying so much he was almost running.
“And that’s our noble defender of law and order,” Bouchard drawled. “You can see now why Gilmore and his men do pretty much whatever they want around these parts.”
“Who do you reckon put him up to that?” John Henry asked. “Or is trying to arrest me something he would have come up with on his own?”
Bouchard snorted and shook his head.
“Not likely,” he said. “Maybe Gilmore, just to see what you’d do? He said he wouldn’t let Rudd and Logan come after you, but he didn’t say anything about not going to the marshal.”
John Henry nodded and said, “That’s what I wondered, too. Kind of risky, though. What if Marshal Hinkle had gone for his gun and I killed him?”
“Hinkle was never going to slap leather against you, Sixkiller. Might as well ask what if he flapped his arms and flew like a bird.”
“That would be a sight to see, wouldn’t it?” John Henry said with a grin.
* * *
He finished his beer and spent some more time chatting with Royal Bouchard. Della had vanished from the saloon. John Henry assumed she was upstairs with a customer. For some reason he felt a little bad about that, even though he knew he shouldn’t. He supposed it was just that he felt no woman should have to make her living that way. Della didn’t appear to mind all that much, though. He supposed she had come to terms with it, as much as anybody could, anyway.
And he wasn’t here to right the wrongs of the world, he reminded himself. He was here to make sure that $75,000 in gold bullion didn’t get stolen.
It was getting on toward evening, so he excused himself and said he was going to find a stable for Iron Heart, a hotel room for himself, and a good place to eat supper.
“Patterson’s Stable and Wagonyard is the best place for your horse,” Bouchard told him. “You should be able to get a room at the Barrymore House. There are cheaper places, but it’s the cleanest. They have a decent dining room there, too, or you can eat at the Red Top Café. It’s not fancy, but the food’s good.”
“I’m obliged for the advice,” John Henry said with a nod.
“And if you want, stop back by later this evening,” Bouchard added. “I meant what I said about your money not being any good here today. Might as well drink for free while you can.”
“A man’d be a fool not to,” John Henry replied with a grin.
He left Iron Heart with a gruff, ginger-bearded hostler at the stable. The man handled the big gray with a firm but gentle touch, and John Henry knew his trail partner would be well cared for. He left his saddle there, too, but took his rifle and saddlebags with him as he walked to the hotel.
On the way he passed the café Bouchard had mentioned. It was a squat building made of blocks of red sandstone with a tile roof that was an even darker shade of red. A number of horses and wagons were tied up outside, so he suspected Bouchard was right about the food being good.
The clerk at the desk in the Barrymore House took his money and gave him a room key.
“Number Six,” the man said. “Top of the stairs and turn right. It’s on the front. Noise from the street shouldn’t bother you too much, though, since it’s not the weekend, or payday at the mines.”
“Gets a little rowdy at those times, does it?” John Henry asked.
“You know how miners are.”
Actually, John Henry didn’t, not that well, anyway. Mining wasn’t a major activity in Indian Territory. There were some coal mines in the mountains in the northeastern part of the territory, but John Henry had never spent much time up there.
He let the clerk’s statement pass without comment, nodded his thanks to the man, and went upstairs. The room was comfortably furnished with a good bed, a rug on the floor, a dressing table and a couple of chairs, a washstand, and a wardrobe. There was an oil lamp on the table for later, when it got dark.
John Henry went to the window and pushed back the curtain. He had a good view of the street, all right. And there was none other than Marshal Hinkle, striding along the opposite boardwalk and nervously hitching up his gun belt after every few steps. Hinkle looked worried. John Henry had a feeling that was common. A man who was a coward was always worried. That was one of the worst things about it.
John Henry let the curtain fall closed. He would deal with Hinkle later, if he had to. For now it was enough to know that if Gilmore’s gang did make a try for the gold, he wouldn’t be able to count on the local lawman for any help.