Chapter Thirty-five
The arrow didn’t travel quite as far as John Henry hoped it would, landing well in front of the onrushing outlaws. He had cut the fuse the correct length, though, because the explosive detonated at almost the exact same instant it hit the ground, throwing dirt high in the air and causing a cloud of dust to billow up.
By that time, John Henry had adjusted his aim and had two more of the arrows arcing through the air. Gilmore’s men were trying to slow their charge, but momentum carried them forward so that those two sticks of dynamite exploded among them. The blasts shredded man and horseflesh alike and blew several of the would-be gold robbers right out of their saddles.
John Henry didn’t slow down his barrage. As the gang scattered, he raised the angle of his shots even more and rained down death and destruction through the swirling clouds of dust. Firing all six arrows had taken less than a minute, and during that time the street had been plunged into chaos.
He spat out the cigar, turned, and ran to the back of the bank building. As quick as he could, he climbed down the ladder, leaping off of it when he was still a few feet from the ground. He landed running and darted around the corner to head for the street.
The outlaws were demoralized and disoriented by John Henry’s explosive counterattack, but the ones who were still alive weren’t giving up, not with the lure of $75,000 in gold bullion to keep them fighting. Shots roared as the men who were still mounted veered around the bloody craters in the street and continued their charge toward the bank.
John Henry saw that when he reached the front of the building. He had drawn his Colt as he ran along the alley. It bucked against his palm as he fired and knocked one of the outlaws out of the saddle. The man hit the dirt and rolled over several times before he came to a stop on his back with his arms outflung and blood welling from the hole John Henry’s bullet had left in his chest.
John Henry crouched as a slug whined over his head. He shifted his aim and pulled the trigger again. This shot wasn’t quite as accurate. Instead of boring through its target’s heart, the bullet shattered the outlaw’s left shoulder. That was enough to make him slew around sideways in the saddle and drop his gun. A second later, before the outlaw could recover, one of the guards at the bank blew his brains out with a Winchester.
A furious bellow from the side made John Henry twist around. He saw the giant outlaw Rankin, the brute he had battled in the livery stable to earn entrance to the gang, leave his horse in a diving tackle. John Henry didn’t have time to get out of the way before Rankin crashed into him and drove him off his feet.
The impact was so stunning that John Henry blacked out for a second. He came to with Rankin on top of him. The big man’s weight kept him from drawing breath, and the force with which he had landed had driven all the air from John Henry’s lungs.
Some instinct, though, had enabled John Henry to hang on to his gun. He still clutched the Colt in his right hand. He brought it up and smashed it against Rankin’s head just above the big man’s ear. That drove Rankin to the side and allowed John Henry to roll in the other direction. His chest heaved as he gulped down a deep breath.
While John Henry was doing that, Rankin scrambled back to his feet first. John Henry tried to swing up the revolver, but Rankin’s foot lashed out in a kick that connected with John Henry’s wrist. John Henry yelled in pain as the Colt flew from his grip.
Rankin pulled a massive bowie knife from a sheath at his hip and roared, “I’m gonna cut you into little pieces, you son of a bitch!” He raised the knife high and lunged at John Henry.
Rankin’s head jerked before the slashing blow could fall. His face blew apart as a heavy slug crashed through his head from behind. Blood and brain matter sprayed over John Henry, who still had to throw himself aside quickly to avoid being crushed by Rankin’s toppling body. That knife still represented a threat, too.
John Henry neatly avoided that danger and leaped to his feet. His first thought was that one of the guards at the bank had shot Rankin, but suddenly he realized that the angle was wrong for that. The shot had come from somewhere else, most likely across the street. He looked toward the Barrymore House and saw a curtain flutter in one of the hotel’s second-floor windows.
Whoever was up there had quite possibly saved his life. John Henry lifted his left hand in a wave of thanks as he reached down with his right to scoop up his Colt. He didn’t linger.
There were still outlaws to battle . . . and he didn’t know if Billy Ray Gilmore was dead or alive.
He felt the wind-rip of a bullet past his ear and whirled to see one of the gang charging him. John Henry’s return shot punched into the man’s chest and made him rock back in the saddle. The man didn’t fall, but he was only half conscious and bleeding badly as he galloped past.
“Sixkiller, you son of a bitch! You double-crossed me!”
John Henry heard that strident shout over the roar of shots and the thundering hoofbeats. He recognized Billy Ray Gilmore’s voice and searched for the boss outlaw in the roiling clouds of dust and powdersmoke. A spurt of muzzle flame guided him. Gilmore’s bullet sang over his head.
John Henry triggered a couple of shots, and then his hammer fell on an empty chamber. Twisting aside as another slug sizzled past his ear, he darted into the scanty cover of the building’s corner and reached for the cartridge loops on his gun belt.
As he reloaded with the ease of long practice, he risked a glance around the corner, not needing to see what he was doing as he thumbed fresh rounds into the Colt’s cylinder. He spotted Gilmore right away.
The outlaw had been unhorsed in the chaos and confusion. He had lost his hat, too, and his thick dark hair was wildly askew. He ran toward a riderless horse, obviously intending to swing up into the saddle and make a getaway.
John Henry burst from cover and went after Gilmore. He snapped a shot at the fleeing man, who was moving so fast that John Henry knew his earlier shots had missed. Gilmore twisted as he ran and flung a couple of rounds at John Henry, who had to dive to the ground as the bullets cut through the air just above him.
That gave Gilmore enough time to reach the horse, which was dancing around skittishly, and seize the reins. He brought the animal under control and grabbed the saddlehorn. A vault put him into the saddle, where he leaned far forward over the horse’s neck as he kicked the animal into a gallop.
Gilmore headed for the edge of town, leaving his surviving men behind him. Obviously, his hide was worth more to him than the rapidly fading chances of him getting his hands on any of that bullion.
Gilmore was already too far away for John Henry to waste a shot with his Colt. He ought to just let the outlaw go, he told himself. After all, Judge Parker had sent him here to protect the gold, and clearly Gilmore’s plans to steal it were wrecked.
John Henry knew that . . . but he grabbed the reins of another riderless horse anyway and leaped into the saddle. Leaving things unfinished went against the grain for him. He sent the horse lunging after Gilmore.
Purgatory fell behind the two men as the shooting began to dwindle. John Henry wouldn’t have left if he hadn’t seen that Gilmore’s gang was practically wiped out and no longer a real threat.
Gilmore headed west out of town, toward the mountains. He was following the same road the wagons had used to bring the gold down from the mines. The road quickly began to slant upward, and John Henry felt the horse laboring underneath him.
Gilmore’s mount was struggling, too, though. As his horse slowed, he twisted in the saddle to look behind him. John Henry saw a couple of jets of flame and smoke as Gilmore fired down at him. The shots didn’t come anywhere close. They struck rock and whined off harmlessly into the distance.
John Henry holstered his Colt. The hurricane deck of a galloping horse was no place for accurate shooting. Let Gilmore waste bullets if he wanted to.
John Henry didn’t know if his mount was fresher or just stronger to start with or both, but he began to cut into Gilmore’s lead. Gilmore slammed his heels against his horse’s sides and slashed at the animal’s head with the reins, but the animal could only go so fast, especially uphill like this. John Henry continued to close in.
They had actually climbed quite a bit, he saw when he glanced to his left. The ground fell away from the road at a steep slant, dropping seventy or eighty feet to a point where it leveled off. That drop continued to increase slowly.
Gilmore kept shooting. He emptied his revolver, but none of the bullets came close enough to worry John Henry. He saw Gilmore jam the iron back into its holster, then lean forward to concentrate on his riding.
The road took a bend up ahead. Gilmore had to slow down for that. John Henry closed in even more. He could see the sweat on Gilmore’s face now when the outlaw looked back over his shoulder. John Henry urged the last bit of speed out of his horse.
He drew even with Gilmore, to the outlaw’s right. Gilmore had drawn a knife from somewhere and slashed at John Henry with it. John Henry ducked the blade, kicked his feet free of the stirrups, and left the saddle in a diving tackle that sent him crashing into Gilmore.
Both men fell, and for a split-second John Henry wondered if they were both going to go off the side of the drop-off. Then they slammed into the ground at the side of the road, with a hundred feet of mostly empty air only a couple of yards away from them.
Gilmore had managed to hang on to the knife. John Henry saw steel glitter as the blade came flashing toward his face. He got his left hand up and grabbed Gilmore’s wrist, stopping the thrust when the knife was scant inches from his throat. He brought up his right fist in a straight punch that landed solidly on Gilmore’s jaw and twisted him to the side.
John Henry rolled after him, holding on for dear life to the wrist of Gilmore’s knife hand. Gilmore brought a knee up in a crushing blow that would have incapacitated John Henry if he hadn’t writhed aside at the last second to take it on his hip and thigh. As it was, the vicious attack left his leg momentarily numb.
With his free hand he hammered punches into Gilmore’s head and body. Gilmore was fighting with the strength and rage of the insane, though, and he threw John Henry off. A quick roll put him on top of the lawman. He drove the knife down with all his power. John Henry was barely able to hold it off. The blade’s razor-sharp point pricked John Henry’s throat and drew a drop of blood.
“You . . . double-crossed me!” Gilmore panted. “Were you . . . workin’ for the mine owners . . . all along?”
“I work for . . . Uncle Sam,” John Henry responded, equally breathless. “I’m a . . . deputy . . . U.S. marshal!”
That took Gilmore by surprise. John Henry could tell by the way the outlaw’s eyes widened. But the revelation didn’t shock Gilmore into slipping. If anything, he struggled even harder to plunge the knife into John Henry’s throat.
In a desperate move, John Henry brought his right leg up and hooked it in front of Gilmore’s throat. He arched up off the ground as he straightened the leg and drove Gilmore backwards.
John Henry scrambled to his feet, and Gilmore did likewise. Gilmore still had the knife. He swung it wildly. John Henry ducked under the sweeping blow, stepped closer, and brought his right fist almost from the ground in an uppercut that caught Gilmore under the chin and lifted him as he flew backwards.
When he came down, there was no ground under his feet anymore. John Henry had knocked him right off the edge of the road.
Gilmore had time to scream for a couple of heartbeats before he struck the steeply slanting slope about halfway to the bottom. He bounced, flew into the air, and hit a couple of more times, turning as limp as a rag doll by the time he came crashing down on the level ground. John Henry, chest heaving as he dragged air into his lungs, looked down at the sprawled form, saw the grotesquely sharp angle at which Gilmore’s head now rested on his neck, and knew that the outlaw hadn’t survived the fall.
The horses hadn’t gone very far. When he had caught his breath, John Henry mounted one of them and led the other as he started back down toward Purgatory. He could see the town below him. The late afternoon air was quiet now. The battle against Gilmore’s gang was over.
He thought suddenly about all that gold bullion, and about Sophie Clearwater and Doc Mitchum as well. Then he heeled the horse to a faster pace, feeling an urgent need to get back to town and make sure everything was all right.