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  “None of my business, of course,” Bouchard went on smoothly. “I’ll venture to ask something else that’s none of my business: What brings you to Purgatory?”

  “I’m just passing through,” John Henry said. “I have to admit, though, I like the looks of the country around here, and Purgatory seems like a nice enough town . . . if you don’t mind a few vermin like Rudd and Logan. Wasn’t that their names? Anyway, I might stay awhile.”

  “You’ll be welcomed, at least by some of us. Gilmore and his men are tolerated around here, but they’re certainly not liked.”

  “This Billy Ray Gilmore, he’s the big skookum he-wolf in these parts?”

  Bouchard glanced toward the entrance, stiffened, and said, “You can ask him yourself. Here he comes now.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Without getting in a hurry about it, John Henry took another sip of his beer, then set the glass on the bar and turned to look at the man coming toward him. Billy Ray Gilmore wasn’t a big man. In fact, he was a couple of inches below medium height, and he was slender.

  But there was something about him that drew the eye and compelled men to be careful around him. He moved with a lithe, catlike grace that said if he decided to strike, it would be swift and deadly.

  Because of that, the men who’d crowded around the bar moved away in a hurry, putting some distance between themselves and the predator they’d suddenly found in their midst.

  Bouchard didn’t run, though. He stood his ground next to John Henry as Gilmore came up to them.

  “Hello, Bouchard,” Gilmore said as he nodded to the saloon keeper. He was surprisingly soft spoken.

  “Gilmore,” Bouchard said.

  “And you must be the hombre who shot my friends Duke and Sam,” Gilmore went on as he turned to John Henry. “They said the man was a stranger, and I don’t recall seeing you in Purgatory before.”

  “Just got here,” John Henry confirmed. He stood casually at the bar, but underneath that negligent pose he was ready to draw if Gilmore reached for his gun. He went on, “I can’t say as I care much for your taste in friends.”

  “Well, life has a way of bringing folks together who might not be, otherwise. Look at us. Without that bit of gunplay, we might never have met, Mister . . . ?”

  “Sixkiller.” John Henry smiled faintly. “Are you saying that you and I are going to be friends?”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, I shot those fellas in the foot.”

  Gilmore nodded and said, “Yes, and I’m afraid poor Duke’s going to lose a toe. He’ll live, though, and so will Sam, and I have a hunch that if you’d wanted to, you could have killed both of them. So, in one way of looking at it, you saved their lives.”

  John Henry had to laugh.

  “I suppose you could look at it that way, if you wanted to,” he said.

  “That’s what I’d prefer.” Gilmore held out his hand. “No hard feelings?”

  John Henry had been watching the room to make sure none of Gilmore’s men snuck in and tried to get the drop on him. As far as he could tell, Gilmore wasn’t trying to tie up his gun hand so somebody else could ventilate him, so he shook with the man and said, “None on my part.”

  “Good. Since you just got here, I wouldn’t want you to, ah . . .”

  “Get off on the wrong foot?” John Henry suggested.

  “Exactly.”

  “So you’ll see to it that Duke and Sam don’t hold a grudge? I’d hate to have them throw down on me from an alley some night.”

  “That won’t happen,” Gilmore said. “I’ll see to it.”

  “All right.” John Henry nodded. “I appreciate that.”

  “Enjoy your stay in Purgatory,” Gilmore said. He turned and headed for the bat wings. Some of the men had drifted back up to the bar. They made sure to stay well out of his way.

  “He seemed like a reasonable enough fella,” John Henry said to Bouchard once Gilmore was gone.

  “Don’t believe a word he says,” the saloon keeper advised. “He’s a vicious outlaw. The rest of his bunch is bad enough, but he’s the worst and everybody around here knows it.”

  “But nobody does anything about it.”

  Bouchard shrugged.

  “Our marshal can break up a fight if a couple of miners get too rowdy. That’s about all he’s good for. Besides, he has his sights set on bigger things. He wants to be sheriff of the whole county.”

  “What about the sheriff?”

  “He stays up at the county seat, doesn’t get down this way very often.”

  “So you’re sort of on your own when it comes to the law.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Bouchard agreed. “Don’t get me wrong. I run a saloon. I don’t want some heavy-handed star packer coming in here and trying to clean up the town. But that doesn’t mean I like the way Gilmore and his men think they can do whatever they want and get away with it, either. Why, not that long ago, those two you tangled with today—” Bouchard stopped and shook his head. “Never mind. There’s no point in going into that. Let’s just say I won’t shed any tears over you plugging the both of them.”

  “You just wish it had been in the gizzard,” John Henry said.

  Bouchard grinned and gestured toward John Henry’s glass.

  “Meade, fill that up again. For today, your money’s no good in here, Mr. Sixkiller.”

  “I’m much obliged for that,” John Henry said. “I’ll try not to take advantage of your generosity.” He paused. “Does this mean any time I want a free drink, all I have to do is shoot one of Gilmore’s men?”

  “Shoot Gilmore. You’ll drink for free from now on.”

  “Hmmm,” John Henry said.

  * * *

  Bouchard was called over to one of the poker tables to settle a minor dispute. John Henry picked his newly refilled glass of beer and went to one of the empty tables to sit down. He made sure his back was turned toward a blank wall and that no one could get behind him without his noticing. Like just about everybody else in the country, he had heard about how the famous pistoleer Wild Bill Hickok had been killed up in Dakota Territory when he sat in on a poker game with his back to the door.

  He hadn’t been sitting there long when one of the saloon girls started toward him. She had taken only a couple of steps in his direction, though, when another woman moved in front of her, cutting her off. They exchanged icy stares in a stalemate that lasted only a moment before the first woman shrugged and turned away.

  The second one came toward the table where John Henry sat. He wasn’t surprised to see that she was the honey blonde who’d been watching him through the window.

  “Mind if I sit down?” she asked as she came to a stop on the other side of the table.

  “Not at all,” John Henry said. He stood up. He had already taken off his hat and placed it on the table next to his glass, or else he would have tipped it to her. As it was, he stepped around the table to hold the chair for her.

  “My goodness, I don’t encounter such gentlemanly behavior very often in a place like this,” she said.

  “My mother raised me to always be courteous, no matter what my surroundings,” he told her as he resumed his seat.

  “You weren’t very courteous when you shot Rudd and Logan.”

  “The way I see it, I gave them all the courtesy they deserved.”

  “No, you gave them more than they deserved. If those two got what they deserved, they’d both be dead, especially that weaselly little Rudd.”

  “He did seem a mite weaselly,” John Henry agreed. “Would you like a drink?”

  She surprised him by saying, “No, that’s all right. There wouldn’t be any real booze in anything Meade sent over for me, anyway.”

  “That’s one of the points of your occupation here, isn’t it?”

  “One of them,” she admitted. “My name’s Della. Della Turner.”

  “John Henry Sixkiller.”

  “That’s a very impressive name. Almost as impressiv
e as the way you handle your gun. I just wish your aim was a little better.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You should’ve hit those two a few feet higher.”

  “Your boss said about the same thing to me a few minutes ago.” John Henry leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I’m starting to get the idea that Purgatory’s a bloodthirsty place.”

  “If you had to put up with Billy Ray Gilmore and his bunch, you’d be bloodthirsty, too. Everybody in town is scared of them.”

  “I got the feeling that Bouchard isn’t.”

  Della thought about that for a second and nodded.

  “Royal isn’t scared for himself, but he worries about what would happen if they went on a rampage. A lot of innocent people might get hurt. And that would be bad for business.”

  “I get the impression that you’re not particularly scared of them, either,” John Henry said.

  “You’re wrong. I may hate them.... I do hate them . . . but they scare me, too. About the only ones around here who aren’t frightened of them are the men who own those gold mines up in the mountains.”

  “Mines?” John Henry repeated with a bland, innocent smile.

  “Yes, there are several pretty good mines up there. If there weren’t, Purgatory probably wouldn’t be here. Most of the businesses are supported by the mines and the men who work there.”

  “That’s interesting. I’d heard there was gold and silver in these parts.”

  “You’re not a prospector, are you?”

  “Me?” John Henry laughed. “No, that’s too much work for me. There are easier ways to make a living than with a shovel and pickax.”

  “Like with a gun?” Della said.

  John Henry didn’t respond right away. He hadn’t made any firm plans about how he was going to proceed once he got here, but fate seemed to have stepped in and mapped a course for him. Della clearly thought he was a drifting gunman, and Bouchard had seemed to be of the same opinion. Pretty much the whole town had either witnessed or heard about that ruckus with Rudd and Logan, two members of the outlaw gang that was responsible for his being here. So even though he had been in Purgatory only a short time, he already had a dangerous reputation whether he wanted one or not.

  He might as well take advantage of that if he could, he decided. He was here to stop Gilmore from stealing that massive gold shipment, and the best way to do that might be from the inside.

  So he just smiled and said in reply to Della’s question, “A gun’s a lot lighter than a shovel or a pickax. You don’t have to swing it all day to make a living, either.”

  She could take that however she wanted to, he told himself.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “I’ve got another question for you.” She leaned forward, giving him a nice view of the creamy valley between her breasts. “Would you like to go upstairs with me, Mr. Sixkiller?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  That was certainly plain enough, he thought. To buy himself a little time, he said, “You should call me John Henry.”

  “The question’s still the same, John Henry,” Della said. “Would you like to go upstairs with me?”

  “The invitation has a definite appeal,” John Henry allowed. “But just because I’d like to do something doesn’t mean it would be the right thing.”

  “You don’t make it easy to get a straight answer, do you?”

  “Life’s questions are often quite complex.”

  Della rolled her eyes.

  “All right, forget it,” she said. “You must have a girl back where you came from.”

  As a matter of fact, John Henry was very fond of Sasha Quiet Stream. But neither of them had committed to the other just yet, and it might help his cause here in Purgatory to have Della on his side....

  No, he was just trying to talk himself into something, he realized. He said, “I’m sorry. Don’t take it personal.”

  “When a girl offers to take you upstairs and you turn her down, there’s no other way to take it but personal.” She shrugged, making the neckline of her dress do interesting things. “But it’s your loss, cowboy.”

  John Henry nodded slowly and said, “That’s what I figure. And I may regret it later on.”

  “Oh, you will,” she said. “I can guarantee that.”

  The words could have been taken as a threat, but she was smiling so he didn’t think she meant them that way. If she did, that was just something he would have to deal with.

  “Tell me more about that fella Gilmore,” he said. “Can I trust him to keep his dogs called off, like he said he would?”

  “I don’t know. He’s never said anything to me that I was sure was an outright lie, but that doesn’t mean he’s not capable of it.”

  “What about Rudd and Logan? Would they come after me even if Gilmore told them not to?”

  “I don’t think Duke Rudd would stop at anything,” Della said sharply, and once again John Henry got the feeling that there was some bad blood between her and Rudd. “And Sam Logan just goes along with whatever Duke tells him to do. I’m not sure if he’s dumb or just too lazy to do his own thinking. So if I was you, John Henry . . . I’d sure keep an eye out behind me. Unless you’re thinking of leaving Purgatory right away, while they’re still laid up.”

  John Henry sipped his beer and then shook his head.

  “Nope,” he said. “I’m going to be around here for a while.”

  * * *

  Henry Hinkle was filing the latest batch of wanted posters he’d received. Some lawmen just crammed those reward dodgers in a desk drawer and left them there, but Hinkle believed that organization was important. He sorted them out according to the crimes with which the miscreants were charged, then put them in alphabetical order by the outlaws’ last names. That way he could find anything he wanted in a hurry.

  Not that he’d ever really needed to do that. He didn’t particularly want to know that a wanted desperado was in his town. If he did, he might have to do something about it.

  Hinkle was a stocky man in his thirties with slightly wavy dark hair. His face had the heavy look of a man who enjoyed good food and drink maybe a little too much. He usually wore a white shirt and black vest and had a string tie around his neck in an attempt to look dapper. The nickel-plated revolver in his holster had ivory grips, and Hinkle liked the way it looked. He rode out of town once a month and shot a few rounds with it, to make sure that it stayed in good working order, even though he had never used it otherwise and had no plans to do so.

  He was big enough that his size, along with the badge pinned to his vest, intimidated most drunks and petty criminals, and he wasn’t going to deal with anything worse than that. The marshal’s job didn’t pay much, but his needs were simple and few, at least for the moment.

  Henry Hinkle wasn’t completely unambitious, though. He had his sights set on Sheriff Elmer Stone’s job. The wages were better, and he would have plenty of deputies to take care of the actual work. Mayor Cravens and the town council wouldn’t let him hire any deputies here in Purgatory. They claimed the town didn’t have enough money for that.

  As much gold as passed through here, it seemed like the town ought to be rich, Hinkle had thought on more than one occasion.

  He picked up a stack of the reward posters he’d been sorting and tapped it against the desk to straighten the edges. As he was doing that, the door of the marshal’s office opened. Hinkle looked up and saw Billy Ray Gilmore lounging in the doorway with a shoulder propped against the jamb. At the sight of the outlaw, Hinkle’s heart slugged in alarm inside his chest.

  “Marshal,” Gilmore said in that soft, scary voice of his. “How you doin’?”

  “I . . . I’m fine,” Hinkle replied, wishing that his voice hadn’t caught that way and revealed how nervous he was. “What can I do for you, Mr. Gilmore?”

  “I suppose you know there was some trouble earlier?”

  Hinkle swallowed and said, “I heard something about that.”

  “You didn�
�t hear the gunshots?”

  “I . . . might have,” Hinkle admitted. “But by the time I had a chance to check on it, everything was all over.”

  “That’s a shame. You might have been able to arrest the troublemaker on the spot. He shot two of my friends.”

  “I heard a rumor.... I’ve been meaning to check it out. . . .”

  “Let me save you the trouble,” Gilmore said. “Duke Rudd and Sam Logan were both shot. In the foot.”

  “In the foot,” Hinkle repeated. “Then they’re not . . . dead?”

  “No, but they’re in a heap of pain. One of Duke’s toes was shot half off, and the doc says he’s gonna lose what’s left of it. It doesn’t seem right that a fella should get away with doing that.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know the details,” Hinkle said. “I’ll have to investigate the case—”

  “Again, I’ll save you the trouble, Marshal. My pards weren’t doin’ anything, just havin’ a little sport with the mayor, you know, just some good clean fun, when this stranger gallops up, nearly tramples them, and then up and shoots ’em both with no warning. It’s just not right, Marshal. Something’s got to be done about it.”

  “What . . . what do you want me to do?”

  Gilmore ignored that question for the moment. He said, “I went and talked to the man myself. His name’s Sixkiller, John Henry Sixkiller. Might be an Injun, I ain’t sure about that. But he’s unrepentant. Threatened poor ol’ Duke and Sam again, in fact. I assured him they wouldn’t come after him seekin’ revenge, but he pretty much came right out and said that if he sees ’em again, he intends to kill them. I think you need to step in and keep the peace here, Marshal.”

  “You . . . you want me to ...”

  “Arrest this varmint Sixkiller,” Gilmore said. “I promised that me and my friends wouldn’t bother him, but I didn’t say anything about the law catchin’ up to him for his misdeeds.”

  Hinkle felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead. One of them trickled down into his left eye, making him blink and grimace. He swiped a hand across his forehead and said, “I’m not sure I can do that, Mr. Gilmore. Like I said, I didn’t see the incident take place myself—”