Chapter Seventeen
More people came along, giving in to their curiosity now that the shooting seemed to be over. One of them was Royal Bouchard, who smiled and said, “When I heard guns going off, I had a hunch you might be in the vicinity, Sixkiller. It looks like Gilmore didn’t keep his promise about not coming after you.”
“He said he wouldn’t let Rudd and Logan come after me,” John Henry pointed out. “Setting a couple of his other dogs on me isn’t exactly the same thing.”
“I suppose not. Come on back to the Silver Spur with me,” Bouchard suggested. “After all the excitement, I’m sure you could use a drink.”
“You don’t think I should wait for the marshal to show up and look into this shooting?”
“I suppose you can if you want to stay out here all night,” Bouchard said. “I wouldn’t expect Hinkle to get around to it before morning, if then.”
“You have a point,” John Henry agreed. “If he wants to talk to me, I shouldn’t be that hard to find.”
John Henry asked a couple of the townsmen to let the undertaker know he had another customer in the wagon. He retrieved his hat, which had landed near the back of the wagon after he threw it in the air as a distraction. Luckily, the shots fired at it by the bushwhackers had missed, so there were no bullet holes in it. Then John Henry and Bouchard walked toward the saloon.
“You killed the other bushwhacker, too, I assume,” Bouchard said.
“Seemed like the thing to do at the time.”
“Get a look at him?”
“Not a good one. But since that hombre Clemons was one of Gilmore’s men, I think it’s a pretty safe bet his partner was, too.”
“Yeah, I’d say so. You just keep making enemies, don’t you? On the other hand, you’ve done a good job of whittling down the opposition.”
John Henry laughed and said, “I suppose you could look at it that way. They’re not really my opposition, though. I’m willing to leave them alone as long as they leave me alone.”
“It may be too late for that now,” Bouchard said solemnly. “You’ve done more than spill a little blood. Two of Gilmore’s men are dead. He’s going to have to square accounts for them, or he’ll lose the respect of his gang.”
“Well, if it comes down to that, I’ll deal with it.”
“By yourself?”
“Who else can I count on for help around here?”
“You might be surprised,” Bouchard said. “There are plenty of folks in Purgatory who are sick and tired of being pushed around by outlaws.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” John Henry said as they reached the Silver Spur and went into the saloon.
Della was standing at the bar talking to Meade, the bartender. When she saw John Henry and Bouchard come in, she hurried over to meet them.
“You’re all right?” she asked John Henry.
“You don’t see me leaking blood, do you?” he replied with a smile.
“No, you look to be reasonably intact.”
“What makes you think I was even mixed up in that shooting?”
She gave him an exasperated look and said, “Who else would it be? You ride into town and hell starts to pop. Is it that way everywhere you go?”
“All too often, yes,” John Henry admitted. That was because of his job as a lawman, he thought, but he wasn’t ready to reveal that secret just yet.
“Meade, send a bottle of brandy over to my private table,” Bouchard told the bartender.
“I’ll bring it myself,” Della said.
Bouchard led John Henry to a different table from the one where they had been sitting earlier. This one was tucked away in a rear corner of the room where there was at least an illusion of privacy, and the chairs around it were padded and more comfortable. They sat down, and Bouchard again offered John Henry a cigar. He turned it down this time, saying, “One a day is about my limit.”
Bouchard smiled and said, “There are no limits on fine cigars. But suit yourself.”
Della arrived with the bottle of brandy and two crystal tumblers on a tray. She poured the drinks, then Bouchard said, “Why don’t you stay, Della? It’s obvious you want to.”
“You’re sure, Mr. Bouchard?”
The saloon keeper waved toward an empty chair. John Henry started to get up and hold it for her, but she said, “Just keep your seat. You don’t have to treat me like a lady. I’m about the farthest thing from being one of those that you can imagine.”
“I was raised to treat every woman like a lady,” John Henry said.
“That’s sweet of you to say, but it’s not necessary. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly a shrinking violet.”
John Henry shrugged. He wasn’t going to argue with her. That wouldn’t be the gentlemanly thing to do, either.
After they had sipped their brandy for a couple of minutes, Bouchard said to John Henry, “We’ve seen two demonstrations that you’re mighty handy with a six-gun. Tell me the truth . . . is that how you make your living?”
“Most of the time,” John Henry said. That wasn’t exactly a lie, he thought. As a deputy marshal, most of the work he did involved at least a little gunplay.
“You’re an outlaw?”
“There’s no paper out on me.”
That was true, as well. Bouchard and Della seemed to take it as a vague, noncommittal answer, though, which was exactly what John Henry intended.
“Are you in Purgatory for a reason, or did you happen to just drift in?”
John Henry took another sip of the smooth, fiery liquor and said, “You’re sort of full of questions this evening, aren’t you, Bouchard?”
“I’ve got a good reason to be asking questions,” the saloon keeper said. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”
John Henry’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He said, “Is that so?”
“I’ve talked to some of the other businessmen in town,” Bouchard said. “Gilmore and his men don’t show any signs of leaving, and people are getting more and more frightened of them. To be blunt, they’re bad for business. If you’re interested, we’d like to hire you to deal with that situation.”
John Henry certainly hadn’t expected the turn this conversation had just taken. He asked, “You want to hire me to kill Billy Ray Gilmore?”
“And as many of his men as you can,” Bouchard said with a solemn nod. “We’ll make it worth your while, too.”
John Henry leaned back in his seat and shook his head.
“I’m not a hired murderer,” he said.
“You’ve already killed two of Gilmore’s men and put two more out of commission,” Bouchard argued. “He’s going to come after you anyway. You might as well get paid for taking on him and his gang.”
John Henry considered the idea, but only briefly. He couldn’t see how it would help him complete his assignment.
“Sorry,” he said. “Not interested.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. So we have an alternate suggestion. Take the marshal’s job. The pay’s not as good, but you’d have the backing of the law.”
“You mean you’d fire Hinkle?”
“The town council is prepared to do so, yes. It wouldn’t be any great loss to the town, I assure you.”
There wasn’t much brandy left in John Henry’s glass. He tossed it back and then said, “Just like I’m not a hired killer, I’m not going to pin on the marshal’s badge, either. You can tell the town council that I pass.”
Bouchard sighed and nodded.
“All right, if that’s the way you want it.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m a pretty good judge of character, Sixkiller. I think you’re up to something, but damned if I know what it is. If you want to keep on playing a lone hand, though, I can’t stop you.”
“That’s the way it has to be,” John Henry said.
Bouchard reached for the bottle.
“But you don’t mind drinking my brandy, do you?”
“As long as there are no strings attached to it.”
“None at all.” Bouchard splashed the amber liquid into the tumblers and then raised his. “To your good health.”
Della said, “That’s not going to last very long, the way things are going around here.”
* * *
Bouchard would have been happy to sit and kill the whole bottle with John Henry, and Della dropped several hints that showed she hadn’t forgotten about wanting to go upstairs with him. John Henry didn’t take up either of those offers. After he finished his second drink, he said, “I believe I’ll head back to the hotel. I was on the trail for a lot of hours today, and I could use some shut-eye.”
“Be careful,” Bouchard cautioned him. “Gilmore almost surely knows by now that the men he sent after you are dead. They could have half a dozen ambushes laid for you between here and the Barrymore House.”
“I’m in the habit of keeping my eyes open.” John Henry turned toward the honey blonde. “Good night, Miss Della.”
“There you go, treating me like a lady again,” she said. “Sooner or later I’ll break you of that habit.”
“We’ll see,” John Henry told her with a grin. He put his hat on and left the saloon.
He knew that Bouchard was right: There was every chance in the world that more of Gilmore’s men, maybe even the boss outlaw himself, were out there waiting for him. He remembered his mother reading Bible stories to him when he was a boy, and one of them was about Daniel in the lion’s den.
That was a little bit like the way he felt tonight, like he was walking right into a den full of hungry lions.
Nothing happened during the short walk to the Barrymore House, though. The undertaker must have come and gone already, taking the bodies of the dead bushwhackers with him. The street was quiet and almost empty again.
John Henry nodded to the clerk as he went through the hotel lobby. The man looked away and didn’t meet his eyes. John Henry wondered a little about that, and it made him even more cautious as he climbed the stairs and approached the door of his room. If Gilmore or some of the other outlaws had come to the hotel and demanded to know which room was his, the clerk probably would have been too scared not to tell them.
It was possible they were waiting in there for him now, ready to blast him through the door as soon as they heard his key in the lock.
Because of that, John Henry drew his gun as he catfooted along the hall. When he got closer to the door, he froze. A tiny gap was visible along the edge of the door, just enough to tell him that someone had opened it, gone inside, and pushed it back up so that it was almost closed, but not quite.
Somebody out to kill him wouldn’t do that, John Henry thought as a frown creased his forehead. He couldn’t have failed to notice that the door was open, so he wouldn’t just waltz into the trap waiting for him.
No, leaving the door cracked that way was more like something a thief would do, so that he could hear anybody approaching the room.
However, the thief, if that’s what he was, hadn’t counted on John Henry’s ability to move in complete silence. John Henry eased closer, and as he did, he saw the faint glow of a light in the room. A match burning, maybe. He reached the door, rested his left hand against it, and lifted the Colt in his right.
Then he shoved the door open, stuck the gun out in front of him, and snapped, “Don’t move!”
The figure beside the bed didn’t follow that order. John Henry heard a startled gasp as the intruder whirled around. The match fell and went out, but not before John Henry caught a glimpse of the face of the person waiting in his room.
It was a woman, but not either of the ones he might have expected, blond Della or the pretty redheaded waitress from the hotel dining room. This woman had hair that was a rich dark brown, along with a lovely heart-shaped face with a tiny beauty mark near her mouth to accentuate her attractiveness. John Henry needed only a second to recall her name.
Sophie Clearwater, the young woman who had tried to rob him on the train the other side of El Paso.