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  That made Golliher stagger back a step. His hand slipped from his opponent’s neck. John Henry gasped and gratefully dragged a deep draft of air into his lungs.

  Golliher was quick to shake off the effects of being pistol-whipped. He lunged forward again and threw his arms around John Henry in a bear hug. Still light-headed and breathing heavily, John Henry wasn’t able to avoid the tackle.

  His hat flew off and his feet came off the platform as Golliher swung him around. Golliher rammed him into the iron railing around the platform. John Henry yelled in pain as the top bar of the railing dug into the small of his back. Golliher began bending him backward over it. John Henry’s spine creaked in protest.

  When he turned his head he could see the gravel of the roadbed rushing past below him. If Golliher kept pushing, John Henry was liable to flip up and over the rail. With the train racing along at close to sixty miles per hour, if he fell onto that gravel it would probably prove fatal. At the very least, the tumble would bust the hell out of him and maybe break most of the bones in his body.

  Of course, considering the tremendous pressure that Golliher was putting on his ribs with that bear hug, they might snap before the prizefighter even had a chance to throw him off the train . . .

  Since he couldn’t get his arms free to throw a punch, John Henry drew his head back and butted Golliher in the face. Blood spurted from the man’s nose as he howled in pain. John Henry butted him again. Golliher let go of him and reared back. Crimson flooded down over Golliher’s mouth and chin.

  That didn’t stop him from attacking yet again. He barreled toward John Henry.

  This time John Henry was able to get out of the way. Golliher’s momentum carried him past John Henry and into the railing. A startled bleat of fear came from the big man as his weight tipped him over it.

  Golliher clawed at the railing in an attempt to catch himself. His hands closed around it, but he couldn’t stop himself from tumbling off the train. That desperate grip was all that kept him from falling to the roadbed or even under the deadly wheels.

  John Henry took only a split second to react. He leaped forward, leaned over the rail, and grabbed hold of Golliher’s coat.

  “Hang on!” he shouted. “I’ll pull you up!”

  The problem was that Walter Golliher outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, and lifting that much dangling weight was going to be almost impossible. Golliher’s legs were kicking and flailing only inches above the speeding ground, and that didn’t make things any easier. If Golliher lost his grip on the railing, John Henry would have to let go of him or be dragged over, too.

  He grunted and strained as he worked to haul Golliher to safety. His pulse pounded in his head and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace of effort.

  It was no good. He wasn’t going to be able to make it, and he could tell that Golliher’s hold was weakening . . .

  Suddenly, someone appeared beside him. John Henry glanced over and saw the conductor’s blue uniform and black cap. The conductor leaned over the rail, reached down, and got hold of Golliher’s coat, too.

  Another man crowded onto the platform and came up to the railing on John Henry’s other side. With all three of them hanging on to Golliher, the prizefighter was able to start lifting himself. The three men hauled harder. Golliher got a foot onto the platform through a gap between the iron posts. He pushed up with that leg and took more of his weight on it.

  He came up and over the rail and sprawled forward onto the platform as the three men who had saved his life fell backward. All of them lay there panting with effort, a huddled heap of exhausted humanity.

  “Walter!”

  That was Emmaline Dolan’s voice. She rushed onto the platform and dropped to her knees beside Golliher, obviously not worried about getting her dress dirty on the grimy boards. She pulled his bloody head into her lap.

  “Oh, Walter, are you all right, darling?”

  With his chest still heaving, John Henry raised his head and looked at the way Emmaline was carrying on over Golliher. She leaned down, kissed his forehead, patted his bloody cheeks.

  “Walter, please be all right!”

  John Henry’s head fell back. He began to laugh. Everything was clear now. Emmaline wasn’t nearly as averse to Golliher’s affections as she had claimed to be, but she didn’t want the big prizefighter to take her for granted, either. She’d wanted to arouse his jealousy by fleeing and making him look for her.

  John Henry had been her unwitting pawn. Only he had done his job of being chivalrous almost too well. He had nearly gotten first himself and then Golliher killed.

  The conductor pushed himself up on an elbow and asked, “What . . . what’s going on here, mister? That young lady came rushing back to the caboose and said there was a fight.”

  “It’s a long story,” John Henry said. “You’ll have to get her to tell it to you.”

  He rolled onto his side and pushed himself to his feet. Once he was there he helped the conductor and the other man, who was a brakeman, to stand up as well. He spotted his hat lying upside down on the platform where it had fallen when Golliher grabbed him. Surprised but grateful that it hadn’t blown away, he picked it up, brushed it off, and put it on.

  Then he went back into the car where he’d been sitting before he’d gotten mixed up in this little farce.

  It was still a long way to Los Angeles, and he had reports to study.

  Chapter Seven

  John Henry saw Emmaline Dolan and Walter Golliher one more time, when the train stopped at a town up the line and he had to switch to a different one heading west. Some of the passengers going on to Kansas City got out to stretch their legs on the depot platform, and Emmaline and Golliher were among them.

  Walking arm in arm along the platform, they stopped short at the sight of John Henry coming toward them carrying his war bag.

  The simplest thing would have been for him to turn around and go the other way, but that smacked too much of running away from trouble. John Henry wasn’t about to do that. He continued toward them without breaking stride.

  Golliher had cleaned himself up and changed out of his bloodstained clothes, but his nose was red and swollen and a scowl darkened his face. Emmaline just looked uncomfortable and embarrassed.

  As well she should have been, thought John Henry. Her little game could have cost him and Golliher their lives. They could have both fallen off the train while they were fighting.

  As he passed the couple, John Henry touched a finger to the brim of his hat and said coldly, “Ma’am.” He moved on by without slowing down.

  “Sixkiller.”

  Walter Golliher’s voice was flat and hard. Obviously, Emmaline had told him John Henry’s name.

  John Henry stopped and turned to face them. He was in no mood for any more trouble. If Golliher wanted another fight, John Henry was going to put a stop to it before it got started by revealing that he was a deputy United States marshal on official business. He figured Golliher would back off rather than risk being arrested.

  Without saying anything, John Henry gave Golliher a cool, level stare and waited. The prizefighter surprised him by extending a big, knobby-knuckled paw, not in a threatening gesture but rather for a handshake.

  “I just wanted to say thank you,” Golliher went on. The words seemed to pain him, but he forced them out anyway. “I reckon you saved my life, and after what I did, you sure didn’t have any reason to.”

  John Henry clasped Golliher’s hand. The big man’s grip was powerful but not bone crushing.

  “I never wanted any trouble with you, Golliher,” John Henry said.

  “I know that . . . now.” Golliher glanced over at Emmaline, who looked even more embarrassed, if that was possible. “Things shouldn’t have gone like they did, but I reckon they could have turned out worse.”

  “I suppose so.”

  John Henry let go of Golliher’s hand, nodded to the man, and started to turn away.

  Emmaline said, “I�
��m sorry. I . . . I can’t let you go without saying that.”

  John Henry smiled thinly.

  “Reckon you had what you thought was a good reason for what you did, Miss Dolan,” he said. “I hold no grudges over that or anything else.”

  “Then you’re a very good man, Mr. Sixkiller.”

  “Marshal,” John Henry said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s Marshal Sixkiller.”

  Golliher said, “You’re a lawman?”

  “Deputy U.S. marshal out of Fort Smith.”

  “You mean . . .” Golliher swallowed. “You mean you work for Judge Parker?”

  “That’s right.”

  John Henry’s smile was more genuine now. Maybe it was a little petty of him, but he enjoyed the surprised expressions on their faces. They looked a little worried, too, and he didn’t mind that, either.

  He added to Golliher, “Good luck on your bout,” and this time when he turned to walk away, they didn’t stop him. He chuckled, then put the whole incident out of his mind.

  He had work to do, after all.

  * * *

  The rest of the reports the judge had given him made for pretty dry reading. They told about how counterfeit ten- and twenty-dollar bills had been found first in Wichita and then in other cities across the Southwest. Judge Parker had mentioned a few of those cities, but there were a number of others involved as well.

  As John Henry read, a small frown formed on his face. He thought about the places where the bogus bills had been found and realized that they were all located along the railroad. Some of them were on the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe line, the one he was riding now. Others were stops on the Southern Pacific, with which the AT&SF merged in El Paso. The Southern Pacific then ran on west to Los Angeles.

  It seemed highly likely to John Henry that whoever was passing the counterfeit money had ridden the train. Knowing that might come in handy. The Southern Pacific ran on up the California coast from Los Angeles to San Francisco and then on into Oregon. It didn’t take any great stretch of the imagination to figure that O’Reilly would probably continue riding the train when he left southern California.

  The railroad car he was in now wasn’t any more comfortable than the one he’d been in earlier. As night fell, weariness gripped him, and that, coupled with the gentle motion of the train, lulled him to sleep. The slumber wasn’t very restful, but it was better than nothing. He dozed through the night as the train rolled on toward Los Angeles.

  The next morning he had breakfast in the train’s dining car, then paused on one of the platforms between cars to gaze out at what seemed like mile after endless mile of orange groves. He’d heard that a lot of tropical fruit grew here in California because of its climate, but now he was seeing it with his own eyes. This was the first time he’d been this far west. He was grateful now that Judge Parker had assigned him to this case.

  He wondered if he would have a chance to see the ocean while he was here. Having grown up in Indian Territory and spent most of his life there and in Arkansas and Kansas, he had never laid eyes on the ocean, and he wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity. Although his job came first, of course.

  The train pulled into the station at Los Angeles at midmorning. The town, which had been a sleepy little farming community only a few years earlier, was now a bustling, booming city. John Henry had read about how people from all over the country were moving out here, drawn by the good weather.

  He couldn’t fault the climate, that was for sure. It was sunny and warm, but there was a nice breeze off the ocean a few miles away. Puffy white clouds hung in the blue sky over the mountains north of the city. The air was clear as a bell.

  John Henry had no desire to uproot himself and move halfway across the country . . . but if he did, this wouldn’t be a bad place to go, he thought.

  As he was crossing the depot’s cavernous lobby, he was surprised to hear his name called. He stopped and turned around and was surprised again to see a uniformed law officer hurrying after him.

  The man was young, with an earnest, open face and a shock of sandy hair under his black-billed cap. He came up to John Henry and said, “Excuse me, sir, but are you Marshal Sixkiller?”

  “That’s right, son,” John Henry said. “How did you recognize me? We’ve never met before, have we?”

  “No, sir. I was given your description and told that you should be on the train that just came in. I’ve been watching all the passengers get off. The chief of police received a telegram from Judge Isaac Parker in Fort Smith, Arkansas, and requested that someone meet you and pass it along to you.”

  “From Judge Parker, eh? You’ve got that wire with you?”

  “Yes, sir.” The young officer started to reach inside his blue coat but then paused. “I suppose the proper thing to do would be to see some identification.” He seemed uneasy about saying that. “So if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  “Sure,” John Henry replied with a smile.

  He took out the leather wallet with his badge and identification papers, opened it, and handed it to the officer, who took it with some obvious trepidation, looked at the bona fides, and handed it back quickly.

  “Satisfied?” John Henry asked.

  “Yes, sir. I just wouldn’t have wanted to hand over that telegram to the wrong person.” The young officer let out an awkward chuckle. “I mean, Judge Parker, he’s the one they call the Hanging Judge, right? The one I’ve read about in Harper’s Weekly?”

  “He’s the one,” John Henry agreed.

  “Is it true? About the gallows, I mean? You can hang a dozen men at once?”

  “Oh, that’s just some wild yarn,” John Henry said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “A dozen executions at once? Shoot, we can only hang ’em six at a time. We have to run ’em through in shifts.”

  The young man’s eyes widened.

  “What’s your name, son?” John Henry went on.

  “My name? It’s, uh, Wendell. Wendell McCormick.”

  John Henry held out his hand and said, “Well, Wendell, I believe you have something for me.”

  “I do? I mean, oh, yes, sir, Marshal Sixkiller, I do!”

  Wendell reached in his pocket and brought out a folded telegraph flimsy. He handed it to John Henry, who unfolded it and scanned the words printed on it in pencil.

  TO SIXKILLER STOP ADDITIONAL INFORMATION RE O’REILLY STOP REPORTED TO HAVE OPIUM HABIT STOP SUGGEST CHECK WITH SUPPLIERS IN LA STOP PARKER

  John Henry folded the telegram again and slipped it in his own pocket.

  “I’m obliged to you, Wendell,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, my pleasure. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Well . . . ” John Henry thought about it, then drawled, “I reckon you could tell me how to find the nearest opium den.”

  Chapter Eight

  Wendell McCormick had no idea how to answer that, so he did the next best thing. He took John Henry back to police headquarters with him and introduced him to Captain Ed Sawyer.

  Sawyer was a stocky, blunt-faced man with graying dark hair. He had an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth and didn’t remove it when he shook hands with John Henry and waved him into a chair in front of a paper-littered desk.

  “So you’re a deputy U.S. marshal,” Sawyer said as he leaned back in his own chair and laced his fingers together over his ample stomach. “You look more like a cowboy.”

  “I’ve done a little cowboying,” John Henry admitted. “Most of my adult life I’ve been a lawman, though.”

  “Sixkiller’s an Indian name, ain’t it?”

  “I’m half Cherokee.”

  Sawyer grunted.

  “Don’t really look it,” he said.

  John Henry shrugged.

  “I am what I am,” he said. To change the subject, he went on, “Officer McCormick seemed to think you could tell me something about the opium trade in this city.”

  “Why’s Uncle Sam interested in opium? If the
government’s gonna try to shut down the fellas bringing the stuff into the country, that’s gonna be a mighty big job. There are China clippers full of it landing at isolated coves up and down the coast every night.”

  “My job isn’t to stop the Chinese from bringing in opium,” John Henry said. “I’m looking for a man who has an opium habit. He was here in Los Angeles not long ago. Maybe he still is, or maybe he’s moved on. I’m just trying to get on his trail.”

  He didn’t give Sawyer any other details about the case. The local lawman didn’t really need to know about the counterfeiting, at least not at this point.

  Sawyer used his tongue to roll the unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, then chewed on the stogie for a moment while he frowned in apparent thought.

  Then he said, “We’ve got our own Chinatown here, of course. Reckon every city of any size along the coast does. Plenty of joss houses and opium dens. From time to time we’ll raid one and close it down, but another one just pops up somewhere else by the next night. What you need to do is talk to Wing Ko.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Some sort of Chinese muckety-muck. He runs things in that part of town.”

  “You mean the law doesn’t run things?” John Henry asked mildly.

  That put a scowl on Sawyer’s beefy face, as John Henry had figured it would. Sawyer finally took the cigar from his mouth and set it on a tin ashtray as he leaned forward in his chair.

  “Part of upholding the law is knowing what you’ve got to work with,” he snapped. “Sometimes you can do more good in the long run by acknowledging that you can’t solve every problem right away.”

  “That’s fair enough,” John Henry said.

  “Wing Ko knows there are certain lines he can’t cross,” Sawyer went on. “But we don’t waste his time and he doesn’t waste ours. He’ll give us a hand from time to time as long as it doesn’t hurt any of his people.”