Hour of Death Read online

  The rear door opened and a man entered. The clerk stood up like a shot, announcing, “Mr. Justice of the Peace Virgil Applewhite. All rise!”

  The laughing and joking of the town hall insiders ended as the courtroom was silenced. Boot heels and shoe leather scuffled against the uncarpeted wooden plank floor, reminding Sixkiller of the clattering hooves of livestock in a stable barn. Those seated, stood.

  Braddock cut a side glare at the prisoners, but he needn’t have bothered. Sixkiller and Bull rose to their feet unprompted.

  Applewhite wore no judicial robes, but rather a black broadcloth suit that suggested a parson or undertaker. His gavel was an oversized wooden mallet as big as a bungstarter.

  He went behind the chair at the long table and sat down, placing the mallet within easy reach on the tabletop.

  The clerk cried, “Be seated!”

  Participants and spectators sat.

  Applewhite opened a folder, ruffling through some papers until he found the one he wanted and placed it on top of the pile. He studied the top sheet, frowning, whether because of the seriousness of the charges or nearsightedness, Sixkiller was unable to tell.

  Applewhite’s balding head featured a high shiny rounded dome speckled with faded freckles. Bloodshot eyes were too closely set together on either side of a turnip nose. He was chinless and pear-shaped.

  “Funny-looking, ain’t he?” Bull said in a hoarse whisper behind his hand to Sixkiller.

  “Like a freckled mud puppy,” Sixkiller whispered back.

  Braddock glared at them. “No talking!”

  Bull clamped massive jaws shut, cutting a withering side glance at the marshal.

  If looks could kill, thought Sixkiller.

  Applewhite faced the clerk. “Call the first case.”

  The clerk rose. “The People of Ringgold, Territory of Wyoming versus one Quinto. Quinto is charged with disturbing the peace, criminal mischief, brawling, public drunkenness, wanton destruction of private property, and resisting arrest.” He turned to Sixkiller. “The accused will rise while addressing the court.”

  Sixkiller stood up and stepped forward.

  “How do you plead to the charges? Guilty or not guilty?” Applewhite demanded.

  “Not guilty to resisting arrest, Your Honor,” Sixkiller said. “Guilty to all the rest. I had too much to drink and got into a fight. Things happened, though I didn’t set out to deliberately break the law.

  “I started the fight with Mr. Raymond. All he did was defend himself, Your Honor.”

  “The question of intent as regards the fight will be taken into consideration when this court passes sentence,” Applewhite said. “Let the clerk note that said Quinto pleads guilty to all other charges. We’ll return to them later, but attend to the matter of resisting arrest, now.”

  Braddock rose. “Me and my deputies will testify to resisting arrest, Mr. Justice Applewhite.”

  Sixkiller noted the marshal’s use of that “Mr. Justice Applewhite” title. It was a nice touch. Just the kind of crap a pompous little pettifogger like Applewhite like to hear.

  “Does the accused have any witnesses or evidence to present on his behalf?” Applewhite asked.

  Sixkiller intended to call Westbrook to the stand to back him, but before he could reply the proceedings were interrupted.

  Applewhite glared at the untimely intruder. The newcomer went up a side aisle to face the justice, who made no effort to hide his irritation.

  He was all puffed up like a bullfrog getting ready to vent a throaty croak, thought Sixkiller as he sat back down.

  “Permission to approach the bench, Your Honor,” the man said in flat businesslike tones, clearly unawed by the majesty of the court.

  “Apparently your request is unnecessary because you have already approached the bench,” Applewhite said.

  The man looked bored, impatient. He pressed thin lips together and pressed them out, then flattened them, a motion he repeated several times.

  “In any case, the court is pleased to recognize Mr. Milton Dash, special assistant to the Honorable Dawes Ivey, Mayor of Ringgold,” Applewhite said, not sounding at all pleased.

  Dash had wavy black hair, a thin mustache, and a profile akin to that of an Airedale hound. “Begging the indulgence of the court, but I have some information that will materially affect the proceedings.”

  “The court is always ready to recognize Mr. Dash, the special assistant to Mayor Ivey.”

  “Thanks,” Dash said, stepping up on to the dais and crossing to Applewhite. He leaned forward to talk to him, speaking so only Applewhite could hear him.

  The clerk frowned, looking puzzled. Braddock, too.

  Whatever this new development boded, Applewhite didn’t look too happy about it. Dash didn’t talk long while making his pitch, whatever it was. He clinched his argument by handing Applewhite a piece of paper that looked like some kind of document.

  Applewhite cleared his throat. “This is, ah, all highly irregular. . . .”

  Dash leaned in for another private word then straightened up, stepping to one side. Apparently he was done saying his piece.

  Applewhite fastened a beady-eyed stare on Sixkiller.

  Sixkiller lowered his gaze, avoiding any direct eye contact which might be taken as a challenge. He tried to look humble and unassuming, nonthreatening. Not so easy when you’re a formidable slab of muscle and bone. The fist graffiti marking his face from yesterday’s brawl with Bull included a purple shiner, a gashed cheekbone scabbed over with dried blood, and assorted bruises and scrapes.

  Bull Raymond sported an equally marked-up face.

  Dash stepped down from the platform to talk to the clerk.

  “The accused will rise.” Applewhite swallowed hard as if reconciled to eating something he didn’t like.

  Sixkiller rose.

  “The court finds you guilty on all charges. However, sentence is suspended due to special circumstances.”

  The pronouncement produced no small hubbub in court. Nobody was more surprised than Sixkiller.

  Dash tried to keep a poker face, but a self-satisfied smirk kept creeping in around the edges.

  “Sentence is suspended on condition that said Quinto submit to the temporary custodianship of Mr. Dash, acting in his official capacity as special assistant to Mayor Ivey,” Applewhite continued.

  Dash winked at Sixkiller.

  Braddock had had all he could take. He leaped to his feet like he’d been goosed. “Now hold on a danged minute! You can’t throw the charges out!”

  “The court can and the court did, Marshal Braddock,” Applewhite said in an ominously quiet voice.

  Braddock plowed on, oblivious. “This man’s committed some serious offenses, not to mention expensive property damage!”

  “This court is not unsympathetic with your feelings, Marshal, but legally our hands are tied. There’s nothing we can do. After the morning’s session has completed all the business on the docket, I will be glad to enlighten you in a private conference in my chambers as to the legal precedent involved. The case of People of Ringgold versus Quinto is now officially closed!” Applewhite picked up the gavel, slamming it down hard on a small square wooden block apparently placed there for that purpose.

  It sounded as loud as if he were hammering a railroad spike into place.

  Braddock was startled, taken aback.

  Dash crossed to Sixkiller. “What all this legal mumbo-jumbo means is that you come with me, if you want to get out of here. Do you?”

  “Hell, yeah!” Sixkiller said.

  “Then let’s go. You’re a free man, apart from a few minor technicalities.”

  Sixkiller didn’t like that bit, but there was a time and a place for everything, and he judged it expedient to put some distance between himself, the court, and especially the seething Marshal Braddock . . . at least until he got his gun back. He could sort out the technicalities later with Dash. Still, he hung back.

  “Is there a problem?” Dash a
sked with a touch of sharpness upon noticing Sixkiller’s hesitancy.

  “Bull Raymond’s a good old boy,” Sixkiller said. “Can you get him off the hook?”

  Bull leaned forward in his seat, trying to keep a poker face, but unable to hide the eagerness to be away that showed in his eyes.

  “Sorry, but my special instructions concerned only you, Mr. Quinto.” Dash held out open arms in a gesture that said, What can I do? This is beyond my control. “It’s quite possible that arrangements can be made later, but there’s nothing I can do now.”

  “Sorry, Bull,” Sixkiller said.

  Bull sagged, downcast. “You did what you could. Thanks.”

  “I’ll keep working on it. Hang on to that bucking bronc and don’t let it throw you, Texas.”

  “Okay, Quinto,” Bull said, flashing a quick toothy grin.

  Dash gestured for Sixkiller to follow him and crossed to the side door. Sixkiller fell into step behind him, his long strides eating up the pace between him and the exit.

  Dash stepped through the doorway into a corridor, Sixkiller at his heels.

  “Would you mind telling me what this is all about?” Sixkiller demanded.

  “I don’t mind a bit, Mr. Quinto. Mayor Ivey wants to meet you. Something about a job offer.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sixkiller did not have to travel far after exiting the courtroom. He and Dash climbed a flight of stairs to the second floor. On the landing lay a door on the right with the words Mayor’s Office inscribed on the door panel in gilt letters. Dash knocked on the door.

  A voice on the other side said, “Come in.”

  They went in.

  The old saw about politics being conducted in smoke-filled rooms was true of Ringgold. The room was filled with blue smoke. Stale tobacco smoke. Most men of the era smoked or chawed. The air was a bit close, but Sixkiller didn’t mind. After a night in Ringgold’s jail-house, the mayor’s office was positively fragrant by comparison.

  The door opened on a reception room. It was a big space with a row of windows fronting the street. The shades were pulled down and the curtains were closed. Some of the windows were open, breezes ruffling the curtains. High-backed chairs lined a wall. A waist-high wooden rail balustrade fenced off the waiting room from the rest of the office.

  A hinged gate, serving as a door, accessed the inner space.

  A man sat with his feet up on a dark brown wooden desk, smoking a cigar. He didn’t lower them to the floor when Sixkiller and Dash entered from the landing.

  He was short, stocky, balding with a hard square face. The tips of a brown walrus mustache ran downward along the sides of his mouth, which was turned down at the corners, giving him a sour expression.

  He looked tough. A long-barreled, big-caliber revolver lay on the desk, along with a whiskey bottle and a half-filled glass . . . and the fellow’s booted feet.

  Dash opened the hinged gate in the wooden partition fence. “Hi, Sam.”

  The man behind the desk flipped Dash a casual two-fingered salute. Sam’s level-eyed gaze fell on Sixkiller, appraising him. “Yep, he’s big enough to tangle with Bull Raymond. And does his face show it!”

  “Want to make something out of it?” Sixkiller wasn’t in the mood for any guff. He’d had to stand for plenty when he was in jail and in court.

  Sam’s hard face got stonier. He took his feet off the desktop and placed them on the floor and started to get up.

  “No nonsense, boys,” Dash said, moving to get between the two men. “We’re all on the same side, remember?”

  “Are we?” Sixkiller asked.

  “The mayor didn’t get the charges dropped to give you a hard time.”

  Sixkiller wondered if that was true. Dash had spoken of a job offer. There were jobs and then there were jobs. Working undercover to get Bart Skillern was a job of work. Sixkiller wasn’t so eager to take on another. On the other hand, if it would move him closer to accomplishing his mission, he’d take it. It wouldn’t hurt to listen.

  Sam sat with his fists on the desktop. He stared at Sixkiller, the muscles in his jaws working.

  “You’re not here to pick fights with the mayor’s visitors, Sam. Relax and go back to your drinking.”

  The tip of the cigar clamped between Sam’s teeth glowed bright orange. He vented a cloud of blue-gray smoke. His fists unclenched. “Okay.”

  Dash entered a narrow passage beyond the desk, indicating by a tilt of the head that Sixkiller should follow.

  As Sixkiller drew abreast of Sam, he leaned over the desk, thrusting his face close. “I look like this from scrapping with Bull Raymond. What’s your excuse?”

  “Okay, okay,” Sam said again, taking no outward offense now that Dash had reminded him of his duties. “The mayor’s waiting for you. Go on in.”

  The tip of Sam’s cigar glowed bright orange again, and Sixkiller hurried past to avoid another cloud of blue-gray smoke.

  Room doors lined both sides of the passage. The one with the word Mayor painted on it in gold paint was partly ajar. Dash pushed it open and escorted Sixkiller inside.

  The room was large. Again, the windows were shaded and curtained, the air close.

  A big man, presumably the mayor, sat behind a massive pale-gold, wooden desk, its edges marred with scorch marks where lit cigarettes and cigars had been left, burning and forgotten. A green baize blotter covered most of the desktop. Numerous round circles—watermarks from drinking glasses—were visible on both.

  Two of the four big, overstuffed armchairs grouped in a half circle facing the desk were occupied.

  In the center of the carpet between desk and armchairs stood a four-wheeled serving cart, its top covered with a variety of bottles, most containing brown and clear liquors. Only one contained water. There were plenty of glasses, too.

  A writing table and chair were tucked off to one side in a corner. The floor was mostly covered by a maroon oriental rug decorated with yellow and orange curlicues and bordered on the edge by gold-covered fringe.

  It was the most gold he had seen since coming to town, and probably the most he was likely to see during his sojourn in Ringgold, Sixkiller noted.

  From chatter he’d overheard before court was in session, Sixkiller knew that Mayor Dawes Ivey was generally regarded as a “man of the people” and “the people’s mayor.” Sixkiller didn’t know if that was complimentary or a good thing. From what he had seen of the people of Ringgold, their ideal representative would be a hard-fisted, avaricious taker out to grab what he could. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. At least you’d always know where you stood with the administration.

  Dawes Ivey was burly, with a craggy potato face, a meatball nose with a red bulbous tip, and hooded reptilian eyes. He wore a loud green and black checked jacket and light colored orange and yellow plaid pants. His garments were rumpled, his cravat was undone, and flecks of cigar ash left gray smears on his wide lapels. A couple buttons on his vest were missing. A thick gold watch chain with an elk’s tooth ornament hung out of his watch pocket.

  Milt Dash quickly handled the introductions. “Mr. Mayor, Mr. Quinto. Mr. Quinto, Mayor Ivey.” He went to the serving cart to fix himself a drink. He seemed mighty thirsty.

  Ivey proved he was a politician, all right. He jumped up from his chair and came around the desk. A lit cigar was stuck in his kisser. “Glad to meet you, Quinto.” He gestured toward the men in the armchairs. “Meet my associates Jared Raffin and Milo Tapper. Jared’s the town tax collector and Milo’s his assistant.”

  Raffin was long and lean, with wavy black hair, dark eyes and a Mephisto-style goatee. He reminded Sixkiller of pictures he had seen of Texas bad man Bill Longley, although he was sure there was no relation. Longley had died on the gallows years ago, but nobody could say that he hadn’t died game.

  Tax collector. That’s a good one, thought Sixkiller.

  Raffin wore a natty sharp-edged suit and white ruffled shirt front. An ivory-handled .44 pistol hung low on his hip in a
black leather rig. He looked the very image of what he almost certainly was, a professional gunman. A good choice for tax collector. He could back up his play when citizens kicked about the tax rate.

  Tapper was a short, stocky, balding, square-faced man with a whiskery brown handlebar mustache. He looked like a more easygoing version of Sam at the front desk. Maybe because the tips of his mustache were upturned, giving the illusion of a smile, while the tips of Sam’s mustache were downturned, giving him a more sullen aspect.

  A gun slick and a tough as official tax collector and assistant. Quite a combination, Sixkiller thought.

  The mayor and the tax collectors were all drinking. Ivey and Tapper puffed big fat cigars while Raffin favored a variety of long, skinny, gnarly, brown cheroot that looked like a twig of a tree branch, similar to the kind of smoke Vandaman favored.

  Ivey held a whiskey glass in his right hand. He transferred it to his left hand and extended his right for a handshake. “Put ’er there Mr. Quinto, put ’er there.”

  Sixkiller generally wasn’t a big one for shaking hands. It put his dominant gun hand out of action however temporarily, but temporary could easily become permanent on the violent frontier.

  He figured he could risk it in the mayor’s office. If the mayor wanted to get rid of him for some unknown reason there were likelier places to do it than in his office. He didn’t want to offend Ivey by not shaking his hand. After all, the man had gotten him out from under Applewhite’s thumb and away.

  Sixkiller shook the mayor’s hand.

  Ivey’s palm was moist from the condensation that had beaded up on the whiskey glass. His grip was firm, energetic, yet not overbearing. “Dawes Ivey. Glad to know you, Mr. Quinto, very glad indeed! Hmmm, good strong grip—I like that. I’d expect nothing less from the man who whupped Bull Raymond. By heaven, that must have been some scrap. I’m sorry I missed it. I would like to have seen it. Maybe you’ll favor us with a return bout soon!”

  “I’m still trying to get over this one.” Sixkiller thought of Bull being stuck under the sway of Applewhite’s domination and felt bad. It was basically Sixkiller’s fault. He had picked the fight with Bull, not the other way around.