Chapter Twenty-five
John Henry dropped the gun belt and tried to brace himself to meet Rankin’s attack. He wasn’t quite fast enough. Rankin slammed into him and drove him backwards, off his feet. John Henry’s hat went flying in the air.
If he’d landed on the hard-packed dirt with Rankin’s weight smashing down on top of him, the impact probably would have cracked some of his ribs and maybe ended the fight then and there. As luck would have it, they toppled onto a pile of straw instead, and that cushioned the landing.
Even so, that was enough to knock all the air out of John Henry’s lungs and leave him gasping for breath.
Dust from the straw filled his nose, along with the stench from Rankin, made worse by the manure smeared on his clothes. John Henry gagged and coughed. The stable seemed to spin crazily around him for a second. When he looked up, he saw Rankin’s face, leering with hate as it loomed over him.
Rankin lifted his right fist high above his head, ready to bring it down in a pile driver punch that would crush John Henry’s face. John Henry didn’t give him a chance to launch that blow.
Instead, he shot a straight left up into Rankin’s jaw. That rocked Rankin’s head back and drew his throat tight. John Henry whipped the edge of his right hand across Rankin’s throat in a slashing thrust.
Rankin clutched at his neck and fell back. John Henry heaved and bucked and sent the bigger man flying off of him. As Rankin tumbled to the right, John Henry rolled to the left to put a little space between them.
John Henry made it to his feet first with room to swing a fist. His right looped around and caught Rankin on the cheekbone just as Rankin surged upright. The punch staggered Rankin but didn’t knock him down. He got his boots under him and charged again, trying to curse but unable to get anything through his damaged throat except some incoherent croaks.
John Henry was ready for this assault. He went low, tackling Rankin around the knees. Rankin’s weight and momentum sent him toppling over John Henry’s back. John Henry scrambled out from under Rankin’s legs before he could be trapped there and pushed himself up again.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Billy Ray Gilmore standing off to the side, watching the battle. Evidently, Gilmore intended to stay out of this fight, making it a fair match between John Henry and Rankin. As fair as it could be, anyway, considering that Rankin had a couple of inches and probably forty pounds on his smaller opponent.
But size wasn’t everything, John Henry knew. He had been in a lot of fights, all the way back to when he was a boy, and he had won most of them through a combination of speed, strength, and the ability to think clearly even when he was in the middle of a desperate struggle.
Rankin was still trying to get up. John Henry clubbed his hands together and brought them down on the back of Rankin’s neck. That drove Rankin’s face into the ground. When he lifted his head again, blood was pouring from his nose. His throat had started working again; the roar of mingled pain and rage he let out was proof of that.
His hand shot out and fastened on John Henry’s left ankle. A hard jerk upended the lawman. John Henry fell on his back and kicked out, driving the heel of his other boot into Rankin’s shoulder. That held off the bigger man and prevented him from getting on top of John Henry and pinning him down.
As John Henry scrambled backwards, he ran into one of the beams that supported the hayloft. He grabbed hold of it to brace himself as he climbed to his feet.
His heart was pounding and blood hammered in his head. He was out of breath. The fight hadn’t lasted long so far, but it had been fierce and had taken a toll on him.
The good news was that Rankin appeared to be in just as bad shape, if not worse. Blood from his broken nose was splattered across the lower half of his face. His jaw was already bruised and swollen.
He wasn’t ready to give up, though. He got to his feet and bulled in, swinging wild roundhouse punches.
John Henry ducked. Rankin’s left fist hit the beam on which John Henry leaned. A knuckle broke with an audible pop! Rankin howled in pain.
Boring in, John Henry hooked punch after punch into Rankin’s midsection. The bigger man was forced to give ground. With his left hand now broken, he could only punch with his right, and his defense was awkward. In desperation, he lurched forward, got both forearms against John Henry’s chest, and shoved as hard as he could. John Henry went backwards and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught himself against the beam.
With his back braced, he lifted his right foot and sunk the toe of his boot deep in Rankin’s belly as the man attacked again. Rankin doubled over. John Henry laced his fingers together and clubbed Rankin on the back of the head again.
Rankin went down. He was able to catch himself on hands and knees for a second, but then his strength deserted him. He sprawled on his belly and groaned. His fingers dug into the dirt as he tried to push himself up and failed. After a second, he slumped again and then lay still except for his back rising and falling as he heaved in breath. The air made ugly bubbling sounds in his nose.
John Henry leaned against the post and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. His hair had fallen across his eyes. He tossed his head to throw it back and clear his vision.
He saw Gilmore standing several yards away. The outlaw had picked up John Henry’s gun belt and stood there holding it with a smile on his face.
John Henry wondered if he could get the knife out of his boot and use it in time to stop Gilmore from killing him, if that was what the outlaw had in mind.
That didn’t seem to be Gilmore’s intention, though. As he came toward John Henry, he said, “That was just about the most entertainin’ fracas I’ve seen in a long time.” He held out the gun belt, which he had coiled around the holstered Colt. “Here you go, Sixkiller.”
John Henry took the belt and buckled it on. He asked, “So, are we partners now?”
“I don’t think Rankin’ll be too happy about it, but yeah, I reckon we can work together. I’ll be keepin’ an eye on you, though. If I get the idea that you’re tryin’ to double-cross us, you won’t live very long after that.”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
“I’d be disappointed in you if you didn’t feel that way,” Gilmore replied with a chuckle. “Reckon I’d better get a bucket of water and dump it over Rankin, see if I can bring him around. That was some thrashin’ you handed him.”
“He got in some punishment of his own,” John Henry said. “How do we proceed from here?”
“I’ll be in touch and let you know what our plans are.”
John Henry nodded. He thought about telling Gilmore that the mine owners were going to bring the gold down from the mountains the day after tomorrow, but he decided to hold on to that knowledge for now. That was one of his hole cards, he told himself, continuing to think of this affair as a deadly game.
He smoothed his rumpled hair, picked up his hat, and put it on. With a curt nod to Gilmore, he left the livery barn.
A familiar stocky figure stood on the boardwalk a couple of doors down. John Henry recognized the hostler who had been taking care of Iron Heart. The man said nervously, “Hope you don’t hold any grudges against me for lettin’ those hombres use my stable, Mr. Sixkiller. When Gilmore came in and told me it’d be a good idea for me to make myself scarce, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“That’s the only thing you could do,” John Henry assured the man. “No hard feelings on my part.”
“I’m mighty glad to see that you’re still alive.” The hostler darted a glance toward the livery barn, then lowered his voice to add, “That fella Gilmore, he reminds me of a diamondback rattlesnake.”
“That’s a pretty apt description,” John Henry agreed. “But he and his friend should be gone before long, and you can have your stable back.” He handed the man a silver dollar. “That’s extra, just for taking such good care of my horse.”
“I’m obliged, Mr. Sixkiller.”
John Henry went on toward the Silver Spur. He felt the need of a drink.
When he came in, he saw both Royal Bouchard and Della right away. They seemed to be watching the door for him. Bouchard motioned for John Henry to join him at his table, and Della was there, too, by the time John Henry reached the table.
“Did you have your talk with Gilmore?” Bouchard asked bluntly.
“You must not have, since you’re still alive,” Della added.
John Henry smiled and said, “That’s where you’re wrong. We worked everything out. There’s not going to be any more trouble.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Bouchard said skeptically.
The saloon keeper didn’t know it, but John Henry was in complete agreement with that sentiment.