Chapter Twenty-one
Considering that he’d been in Purgatory less than twenty-four hours, John Henry thought he wasn’t doing too badly. He had uncovered two people plotting to steal the gold—Sophie Clearwater and Doc Mitchum—and been taken into the confidence of the banker in whose safe the bullion would reside for a short time, all without having to reveal his true identity as a deputy United States marshal.
Now there was Billy Ray Gilmore to deal with.
All in good time, though. John Henry spent the morning checking on Iron Heart at the stable, then walking around Purgatory in an apparently aimless fashion.
In truth, though, there was nothing aimless about his wanderings. He was familiarizing himself with the town as much as he possibly could, committing to memory everything about the buildings, the streets, the alleys, and anything else that might come in handy to know. He paid particular attention to the area around the bank, where the guards would be posted.
The bank had two stories, with offices on the second floor where a couple of lawyers and a bookkeeper conducted their business. The only other two-story buildings in town were the Silver Spur, which was up the street, and the Barrymore House, which sat directly across from the bank.
John Henry looked from the bank to the hotel, his eyes narrowing as he considered the possibilities. Then he moved on to check out the other businesses around the bank. Riflemen on the roofs of those buildings might be able to pick off some of the guards, and then a concerted rush by the rest of Gilmore’s gang could overwhelm the others.
While John Henry was at the bank, Joseph Cravens had spoken with justifiable pride about the strength of the safe. According to him, only two people knew the combination, him and his chief teller, Harley Smoot. John Henry immediately decided that that made both Cravens and Smoot very important in his preparations. He had to find out if pressure could be brought on either man to force him to open the safe.
Of course, a gun to the head would probably work, but threatening the families of the two men would be an even more surefire method of insuring their cooperation.
Cravens had gone on to say that a dynamite blast strong enough to blow the door off the safe would destroy the room around it. He seemed to think that would discourage any would-be robbers from employing that tactic.
John Henry had his doubts about that. He figured Gilmore would be willing to level the whole bank if it got him what he wanted. Bars of gold bullion, unlike paper money, wouldn’t be destroyed in such a blast. The heat might melt them a little, but the damage probably wouldn’t be too much.
The one thing John Henry could be sure of was that if Gilmore made it to the safe, he would find a way to get into it and loot the gold, no matter what it took.
The trick would be to keep him from ever getting to it.
That meant a trap of some sort....
John Henry ate lunch at the Red Top Café, and the food lived up to expectations. The steak and potatoes were filling enough that he felt a little drowsy after he ate, so he returned to the hotel, intending to take a short nap before he set out on the rest of the activities he had planned for the day.
This time he didn’t find anyone waiting in his room, which was a relief. He was able to stretch out on the bed and doze for a couple of hours without being disturbed.
When he woke up, he splashed some water on his face from the basin on the washstand. Refreshed and alert, he buckled on his gun belt, settled his hat on his head, and set out for the Silver Spur. Billy Ray Gilmore might not be there right now, but John Henry was confident the boss outlaw would show up at the saloon sooner or later. He might as well pass the time pleasantly while he waited, he thought.
The honey blonde, Della, was at the bar when John Henry came in. She picked up a tray with a bottle of whiskey and several glasses on it and said to him, “Wait until I deliver this to one of the tables, and I’ll be right back.”
“All right,” John Henry said. He gave the bartender, Meade, a pleasant nod and added, “I’ll have a beer.”
Meade filled a mug for him, slid it across the hardwood, and said, “That’ll be four bits.”
“The days of free drinks are over, eh?” John Henry asked with a grin.
“You’ll have to take that up with Mr. Bouchard.”
“No, it’s fine,” John Henry said as he dropped a coin on the bar. “I was just joshing you.”
That was liable to be a waste of time, he thought. Meade didn’t appear to have much of a sense of humor. That probably went with being a bartender and having to listen to people’s troubles all the time, as well as witnessing some pretty sorry behavior now and then.
Della came back carrying the empty tray. She handed it across the bar to Meade, then turned to John Henry with a smile on her face.
“I wasn’t sure you were still in town,” she said.
“Why would I leave so soon?” he asked. “I just got here.”
“Riding into a town and having people trying to kill you isn’t that unusual for you?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” John Henry replied. “But I’m not in the habit of running away from a little trouble, either.” He paused. “Speaking of which . . . have you seen Billy Ray Gilmore around today?”
Della frowned and asked, “Why in the world would you want to have anything to do with Gilmore?”
“I thought maybe I’d talk to him again. Maybe try to clear the air between us. I’d just as soon not have to be looking over my shoulder the whole time I’m here in town.”
Della shook her head.
“It’s too late for that. You killed two of his men. You can’t make any sort of deal with him now.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” John Henry said. “I’ve got a hunch Gilmore would make any kind of deal as long as he thought it benefited him.”
“What have you got that Gilmore might want?” Della asked with a curious frown.
“Well, if we called a truce, I could stop killing his men.”
Della looked at him oddly for a moment, then suddenly laughed.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she said.
“Shooting people is serious business.”
“I suppose so.” She shook her head. “To answer your original question, no, I haven’t seen him today. It’s a little early yet for him and the rest of that bunch. They’ll be more likely to show up after dark.”
“I guess I could come back then.”
Della’s pink tongue came out and darted over her lips for a second.
“If you want to wait here, I can think of some ways you could pass the time.”
“I don’t know if that would be a good idea,” John Henry said. He was thinking about Sasha Quiet Stream, back home in Indian Territory . . . but keeping her in mind was getting to be more difficult.
“You know, if you keep saying no, eventually the offers will stop coming,” Della said with a trace of exasperation creeping into her voice.
“Believe me, I know,” John Henry said. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind these days.”
Della’s shoulders, which the low-cut dress she wore left bare, rose and fell slightly in a shrug that made her breasts do interesting things.
“Just so you have a good idea what you might be missing out on.”
Before John Henry could say anything else, she turned and moved away, heading for one of the tables where several men were drinking. They welcomed her exuberantly and one of them patted her on the rump, which Della didn’t seem to mind at all. John Henry sipped his beer and wondered if he’d done the right thing or just made a blasted fool of himself.
Royal Bouchard came down from upstairs a short time later. By then John Henry had drifted over to one of the poker tables and sat down to join the game when one of the players cashed in and left.
John Henry wouldn’t describe himself as a serious poker player, but he enjoyed a good game from time to time. He played carefully and didn’t plunge, even when he had strong hands, and as a result he was a few dollars ahead after an hour or so. That was enough for him. He gathered his winnings and joined Bouchard at the bar.
The saloon keeper had an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth. He smiled around it and said, “I’m glad that you’ve joined us again, Sixkiller. Anybody try to kill you today?”
“Not so far,” John Henry said. “But it’s early yet.”
“That was my hunch, since I hadn’t heard any shooting.” Bouchard signaled for Meade to bring him a drink. “I spoke to Della a little while ago, upstairs.”
John Henry had noticed that Della wasn’t downstairs anymore, but he didn’t know where she had gone. Now he did.
“She says you want to talk to Gilmore and try to make peace with him,” Bouchard went on. “It can’t be done. You can talk to him, but he’s still going to try to kill you.”
“Even if I appeal to reason and show him that we’ll both be better off if the killing stops?”
“You think you could appeal to reason with a lobo wolf? Gilmore’s even worse than that.”
“I just thought it might be worth giving it a try.”
Bouchard shook his head and said, “I’d advise against it.”
John Henry wasn’t going to stand around arguing the matter with Bouchard. He was saved from the necessity of doing so by a voice he didn’t recognize that declared, “I want to talk to John Henry Sixkiller.”