Hour of Death Read online

  “News? Not much happens in Bitter Creek. Every now and then some renegade Arapahos or bandits jump a prospector, but you’re more likely to get killed by another prospector who figures you made a strike. I saw no color, no flash of that yellow gold so I decided to pack up stakes and try my luck here.”

  “Well, who knows? Ringgold may pan out for you yet.”

  “Never can tell.”

  They came to the Atlas Hotel, a modest two-story, wooden-frame building with a veranda bordering three sides of the building. The structure was white-painted with green trim on moldings, doors, window frames, and cornices.

  They went inside.

  Sixkiller looked around. The place was clean without making a fetish out of it, though a tad rundown at the edges. He crowded the front desk, filling the clerk’s field of vision with his big frame.

  The desk clerk flinched. He was balding, with his remaining hair cropped close to the scalp. He had bushy eyebrows and a neat mustache. He flinched as Sixkiller crowded the front desk, his big form filling the clerk’s field of vision with his physically imposing presence. “Ah . . . yes, sir?” the clerk said.

  “A room, please,” Sixkiller said.

  The clerk fiddled with the register, opening it while muttering to himself, running his finger down a column of names. He seemed distinctly unhappy. “We’re awfully full right now, very busy.”

  Westbrook put himself forward, smoothly interceding. “Mr. Quinto is a friend of mine and the Banner’s, Bert. I’m sure you can find some accommodations for him.”

  Bert looked relieved to see a friendly face and was reassured that someone he knew and respected vouched for the big stranger. “Oh! Didn’t see you standing there, Reeve. When you put it that way, the Atlas is always ready to extend its hospitality to any friend of yours, of course—”

  “Something in front, looking down on the street,” Sixkiller interrupted.

  “Sure you don’t want a room in the back of the house? It’s a lot quieter,” Bert said.

  “I like to watch the comings and goings.”

  “Very well sir, how long will you be staying with us?”

  Sixkiller paid a week in advance. “Got a place I can stow my rifle? I’m used to it. I’d hate to have to replace it if it got stolen.”

  “The Atlas is not a haunt of sneak thieves,” Bert said stiffly, giving him the key for room 203.

  “Sure, but crime never sleeps. Theft happens in the best hotels.”

  “We’ve got a storeroom here behind the desk. It’s locked. Only the manager, that’s me, and the night clerk have the keys.” Bert reached under the counter and retrieved a tag with numbers on two halves. He tore it in two, fixing one half to the rifle and handing the other half to Sixkiller. “Here’s your check. Just present this to me or the night clerk to retrieve your rifle. We also have a safe if you have any valuables or funds to secure.”

  “Just the rifle. The rest I’ll look after myself,” Sixkiller said.

  Bert used a key to unlock the storeroom door and went inside with the rifle. The space was an overgrown windowless closet, long and narrow with storage shelves lining both walls. Sitting against the rear wall was a short, square, combination safe, black and rough as a cast-iron skillet, squatting on four stubby legs. He put the rifle on a shelf and came out, locking the door.

  “Much obliged,” Sixkiller said, hefting his saddlebags. “I can find my way, thanks.”

  Like most stopping places in the West, there were no bellhops at the Atlas, the prevailing attitude being that the guests could carry their own damned bags.

  “I’ll stow my gear in my room and be right down, then we’ll go get that drink,” Sixkiller told Westbrook.

  “Or ten. I’ll pass the time shooting the breeze with Bert here.”

  Sixkiller climbed the stairs to the second floor. He unlocked the door to room 203 and went in, entering a small modest room with a stuffy musty smell. He could tell in a glance that the narrow bed with the square-shaped wooden bedstead would be too short to fit him unless he slept curled up on his side all night. It was a problem he ran into a lot. He knew he’d wind up putting the mattress on the floor and sleeping there.

  He opened the windows partway to air out the room. He had a couple clean shirts and pairs of socks in his saddlebags, also a shaving kit and some personal items, but he could put them away later. They’d keep. He could use a bath, but his attitude was What’s the rush?

  He had a quart bottle of red whiskey in one of the saddlebags. Thirsty, he took a couple long pulls from it.

  He looked around the room. It was wide-open to any thief or prowler who really wanted to get in. He reckoned the Atlas probably didn’t harbor too many sneak thieves. Prowlers and snoops wanting to get a line on him by searching his belongings, that was a different story.

  Well, let them look. His gear was clean of any telltales to betray his real identity and the purpose of his mission. Let them prowl. Nothing they could use to get a handle on him, on who he really was.

  He went out, locking the door behind him. He crossed the landing, went downstairs.

  Westbrook stood leaning across the front desk, an elbow on the counter, as he chatted with Bert. He saw Sixkiller enter the lobby. “All squared away? Let’s go. See you, Bert.”

  Sixkiller and Westbrook went out. The sun was low in the west.

  “Where to?” Sixkiller asked.

  “The Jackpot Saloon is across the street. That’s the one I was telling you about before,” Westbrook said.

  “It’s a go.”

  They walked west on Market into the strong bright rays of the setting sun. Entering the open square of the intersection, they were hit by a gust of north wind sweeping grit and street dirt with it. Sixkiller put a hand—not his gun hand—on his tall-crowned hat to keep it from being blown off.

  “You’re going to need a shorter hat. This one’s like a sail in a stiff wind,” Westbrook said.

  “I like this one,” Sixkiller said with characteristic stubbornness.

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I usually do.”

  The Jackpot Saloon was a big impressive place, a two-story structure fronting south with its long walls on the north and south. It was painted tan with dark brown trim and had dark green window shades. Twin bow windows with fancy gridded square panes flanked the arched front entrance. The hitching posts were already fully lined with horses, running the full length of the long front wall.

  “Doing a land-office business,” Sixkiller said, “and it’s early yet.”

  “Mason Rourke’s place. He’s a high-stakes gambler who’s run gambling houses in Colorado Springs, Denver, and Silver City. A good hand with a gun who’s killed his man—plenty of them. Mase setting up on a big scale like this is a real vote of confidence in Ringgold.”

  Westbrook pronounced Mase so that it sounded like mace, the kind of war club you use to knock somebody’s brains out, thought Sixkiller.

  They went inside. There was a long bar with a brass foot rail, tables and chairs, a dance floor, a modest stage, and a jumbo gambling area with wheels, keno, faro, and poker tables. The place was fairly well filled, but not yet roaring.

  The saloon girls were outfitted in black lace and purple satin dresses that showed plenty of flesh. A group of them immediately fastened their eagle eyes on Sixkiller and Westbrook, but most circulated and mingled among the crowd, making the rounds of “sociable” drinkers to encourage them to be more sociable and drink more.

  “High-toned place. No sawdust on the floor,” Sixkiller said, looking around.

  “That’s Mase Rourke for you. He lives it high, wide, and handsome,” Westbrook said. “The Jackpot is an oasis of civilization in the desert wastes of Wyoming Territory.”

  “You should put that in your paper.”

  “I did.”

  The two men sat down at a table.

  Several saloon girls started toward them, a tall long-legged brunette elbowing her sisters aside to come swooping down on
the table. “Reeve Westbrook, my favorite scribbler! You’re in early tonight,” the brunette said.

  “Brenda, darling,” Westbrook said.

  Brenda was in her mid-twenties with long, raven’s-wing black hair pinned up at the top of her head. She was attractive, but hard. She’d been around. Her features were perhaps a tad too sharp, the eyes too narrow and calculating. Small hard lines bracketed a ripe, red-painted mouth. But she was slender, supple, high-breasted, and long-legged. A red satin ribbon with cameo brooch was worn as a choker around her long, swanlike neck.

  Brenda looked Sixkiller over, her eyes widening with real or affected astonishment. “Lord, he’s a big one! Who’s your oversized friend, Reeve?”

  “Brenda, meet Quinto. Quinto, meet Brenda,” Westbrook said, taking care of the introductions.

  “Glad to know you, Brenda,” Sixkiller said with real enthusiasm.

  “You’ll be even gladder when you get to know me better,” Brenda said, winking saucily. “What’ll you have, gents? Name your poison!”

  “A bottle of redeye and two glasses,” Westbrook said.

  “That’ll do for me, but what’ll you have to drink?” Sixkiller said, not entirely joking.

  “Make that two bottles and two glasses,” Westbrook said, laughing . . . but meaning it, too.

  “Why bother with glasses when you can drink it straight from the bottle?” Brenda asked.

  “A single word my dear, and one not often heard in Ringgold. Class,” Westbrook replied.

  Brenda flounced away to fill the order.

  “A spicy morsel, Brenda. Tasty, but a trifle on the tough side,” Westbrook said breezily.

  “Saloon gal’s got a hard life. Got to make her way in the world,” Sixkiller said. “If she’s too soft, she won’t last long.”

  “It could be worse,” Westbrook said, waving aside the other’s observation. “The girls here are saloon girls, not prostitutes. They don’t have to sleep with the customers. They just have to hustle them into drinking more and spending all their money.”

  “Not sleep with the customers? I’m not sure I like that,” Sixkiller joked.

  “No, they don’t have to sleep with the clientele. . . unless they want to. If they do, Rourke makes it easy for them. Rooms are available upstairs and he splits the profits with them.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “If it’s a sure thing you’re looking for, Quinto, then it’s the Paradise Club you want. The girls there are all out-and-out whores. Of course, it’s also a pretty sure thing you’ll catch a disease from them.”

  “I’m not that hard up for female companionship, amigo.” Sixkiller slapped a ten-dollar coin down on the table. “When it comes to whiskey, though, I’m buying. This ought to cover us for a while.”

  “No, no. You’re my guest,” Westbrook demurred, not very forcefully.

  Sixkiller stood by his offer in a gruff but friendly way.

  “Well . . . since you insist,” Westbrook conceded. “Thanks. I appreciate it. It’s not easy to get along on a newspaperman’s salary. The Banner doesn’t even pay enough for me to drink myself to death.”

  “When the ten dollars runs out, you can buy the next round,” Sixkiller said.

  “The next round! I like that,” Westbrook said, laughing. “I have a feeling we’re going to get along fine, Quinto.”

  “Hell, ain’t that what we’ve been doing?”

  Brenda returned, carrying a tray on which was set two bottles of whiskey and two glass tumblers. She set them out on the table. “What, no water for a chaser?” she teased.

  “Water?! Too dangerous! You never know what’s in that stuff,” Sixkiller said, mock-shuddering.

  Brenda scooped up the gold coin.

  “Keep the change,” Sixkiller said, playing it big.

  “Thanks, sport!” Brenda leaned in. “I’ll give you fair warning, big man. Don’t underestimate Reeve here. He may be a skinny galoot who looks like a stiff gust of wind would blow him away, but he can really soak up the hooch. I’m not joking. If you’re not careful, he’ll drink you under the table.”

  “In the unlikely event that happens, you’ll know where to find me,” Sixkiller said. “Come on down and join me.”

  “Careful. I might take you up on that offer.”

  “Quit pestifying, Brenda, and let us get down to some serious drinking,” Westbrook said.

  Brenda stuck her tongue out at him and went away.

  The bottles were uncorked, each man filling his glass from his own bottle.

  “Here’s how,” Westbrook said, raising his glass.

  Sixkiller saluted. “Mud in your eye.”

  The first glasses were drained in a gulp. Sixkiller’s shudder was not so mocking. Glasses were quickly refilled and quaffed, a pleasant warmth blossoming in the pit of Sixkiller’s belly, spreading out to send white heat racing through his veins.

  “You must know something about Ringgold, being a reporter and all,” Sixkiller began.

  “I like to think so,” Westbrook said.

  “Who’s the top man? I mean, who runs the town?”

  “Curious question coming from a man like you, who says he’s just passing through, Quinto.”

  “I’ll be in town for a few days and up in the hills for a few months, longer if I strike pay dirt. I always like to know who runs the show. It generally saves trouble all around.”

  “The mayor is Dawes Ivey. He fronts for the Western Territories lead mines so he’s got plenty of pull. A big man in town, but not the only one. There’s Mase Rourke, always a factor to consider, and on the lower end there’s Hickory Ned Hampton with his Paradise Club—the bucket of blood joint and outlaw roost.” Westbrook drank some more and looked thoughtful, as if pondering the matter. “Cattle ranchers are the rising powers. Colonel Tim Donovan’s the biggest of the big ranchers with his B Square B spread. A war hero and straight as an arrow.

  “Harl Endicott’s another coming man on the Glint. He heads the Highline outfit. The local wits call it ‘the Highbinder,’ but none dare say it to his face or to any of his riders. They’re a bad bunch, more gun hands than ranch hands. Endicott’s been crowding Colonel Tim pretty hard lately. A range war could break out any day between the two.

  “And there’s one more power that has to be taken into account on the Glint. That’s Bart Skillern, the Utah Kid. The valley’s thick with robbers and killers, but the Kid’s gang is the wildest and woolliest of all. He’s made life hell for the mine owners and big ranchers alike . . . although the inside is that Endicott’s Highline ranch has been curiously free from Skillern’s depredations. Make of that what you will, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Whew! Sounds like I’ll be safer rock hunting in the hills than anywhere’s else.” Sixkiller paused, mulling over the players Westbrook had identified.

  “Of course, a prospector’s got to walk soft with eyes open. There’s always plenty of rannies looking to dry-gulch him for his outfit and horse, especially out in the brush where there’s no law and no witnesses.”

  “That’s right,” Westbrook agreed. “Why, not long ago a whole party of gold hunters disappeared up in the hills. Vanished without a trace.

  “They were headed by Dennis Bletchley, a titled English lord no less. I interviewed him when he first came to town. He was looking to get in on the cattle boom, but then he got bitten by the gold bug, some Lost Gold Mine razzle-dazzle.”

  “I do believe I’ve heard tell of some such story,” Sixkiller said, too casually. “That’s the Frenchman Woods-runner’s Lost Gold Mine, no?”

  Westbrook burst out laughing. “Oh no! Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for that old chestnut, Quinto!”

  “I’ve heard the legend, sure. What prospector hasn’t?”

  “Then you should know that hoary old myth’s long been exploded. Men have been hunting for that mine for a hundred years without finding a trace of it.”

  “That don’t mean it ain’t there, only that it ain’t been found. Must
be something to it to set all those folks searching for all those years.”

  “That’s what they said about the Fountain of Youth, El Dorado, and the Seven Cities of Gold, too.”

  “Hell, Westbrook, that Lord Somebody you was talking about must’ve thought there was something to it or he wouldn’t have been after it.”

  “Sure, and look what happened to him,” Westbrook said.

  “What did happen to him?” Sixkiller asked.

  “Who knows?” Westbrook shrugged. “Search parties were unable to turn up any sign of Bletchley and his party, over a dozen souls in all. Dead, of course, but nobody knows who, how, or where.”

  “Somebody knows—the killers.”

  Westbrook nodded. “It was quite a sensation for a while. Sold a whole lot of extras of the Banner. Lord Dennis was twice crazy. He was an aristocrat and a foreigner. In the end, he came a long way to die.”

  “But I can take care of myself,” Sixkiller said dryly.

  “If you think you can find the Lost Gold Mine, you need a keeper,” Westbrook scoffed.

  They drank some more. While they’d been talking, the room had gotten noisier and noisier, forcing them to talk progressively louder to be overheard. Like the buzzing of a fly that keeps circling closer and closer to a man’s head, the clamor nudged its way into Sixkiller’s awareness. He looked up for the source of the disturbance.

  He did not have to look far.

  Seated at a nearby table was a clutch of hard-looking cowboys, a half-dozen or more. They sized up as a pretty rough bunch, shifty-eyed, whiskey-guzzling, cigar-smoking rowdies with their gun belts worn low. At the epicenter of the racket was a big man and big noisemaker, “a real stampeder” in the argot of the West. He was a head taller than his fellows, themselves large-sized.

  He wore a black leather vest studded with silver conchas and black leather batwing chaps. His head was seemingly almost as wide as it was long. Bushy black eyebrows met in the center of his forehead, forming a uni-brow. Blue-black beard stubble bristled on his granite chin and jutting jaw.

  The big fellow was hitting the whiskey hard, starting to get well-oiled. He showed all the signs of a man setting out on a mighty big tear. Everything about him was outsized. When he talked, he bellowed. When he laughed, he roared, drowning out his raucous fellow booze hounds.