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Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal: Eight Hours To Die
By William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
Copyright © 2012 William W. Johnstone
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-3971-5
CHAPTER 1
A telegram was waiting for Deputy United States Marshal John Henry Sixkiller when he got to El Paso. It was from his boss, Judge Isaac Parker in Fort Smith, Arkansas.
John Henry was on his way back to Arkansas from an assignment in the western part of New Mexico Territory. Before leading his horse, Iron Heart, into a stable car and boarding the Southern Pacific train in Lordsburg, he had wired Judge Parker to let the judge know that he was on his way home.
Parker must have immediately sent his telegram to the railroad station in El Paso, along with a request that when the train John Henry was on arrived, someone there should find the deputy marshal and pass along the message.
The porter who brought the telegram came along the aisle of the passenger car where John Henry sat, calling, "Lookin' for John Henry Sixkiller! John Henry Sixkiller!"
"I'm Sixkiller," John Henry said as he stood up from the bench seat. He was in the first of the passenger cars, which had saved the red-jacketed porter from having to search all of them. "Is something wrong?"
"No, sir, just got a wire for you."
The uniformed man held out a yellow telegraph flimsy. John Henry took it and gave the porter a half dollar. Then he sat down, thumbed back his hat, and unfolded the message to read it.
URGENT YOU MEET WITH LEW WALLACE GOVERNOR NMT IN SANTA FE STOP RENDER ALL DUE ASSISTANCE WALLACE REQUESTS STOP PARKER.
You couldn't get much plainer than that, John Henry thought.
The porter was still standing there, probably in the hope of getting another half dollar if John Henry wanted to send a reply, which was indeed the case.
First, though, John Henry asked, "When's the next train leaving for Santa Fe?"
The porter took out his watch and checked it.
"'Bout an hour and a half from now," he replied as he snapped the timepiece closed. "You need a ticket on it, sir?"
"I do. And I need to send a reply to this wire, as well."
"The Western Union office is on the other side of the depot lobby. If you'd like, I can get the ticket while you send your telegram, Mr. Sixkiller."
John Henry nodded and gave the man money for the ticket. He reached down to pick up his carpetbag.
"I've got a horse in the stable car, too, along with my saddle and rifle. They'll need to go on the train bound for Santa Fe."
"I'll take care of it."
John Henry gave the porter an extra dollar this time. He left the train and headed through the lobby toward the Western Union window.
When he got there he picked up a telegraph form and a stub of pencil and printed his reply to Parker, which was a simple one:
UNDERSTOOD STOP WILL COMPLY STOP SIXKILLER.
By the time he'd sent the message, the porter was there with his ticket for the train to Santa Fe, which appropriately enough would be an Atchison, Topeka, & Santa Fe train.
"I'll have your things brought to you here," the porter said. "You can wait in the lobby. Your horse will be tied up just outside."
"I'm obliged," John Henry told him.
He sat down on one of the hard benches to wait. It was a shame he hadn't gotten that telegram a few minutes earlier, he thought. His traveling companion from Lordsburg, Miss Sophie Clear water, had already left the train, saying that she planned to stay here in El Paso for a few days on business.
If John Henry had known he was going to have more than an hour to kill, he might have tried to prevail on Sophie to linger and keep him company until he left for Santa Fe. The time would have passed more pleasantly with her around, that was for sure, he told himself with a sigh.
But there was nothing that could be done about it now. He had said his good-byes to Sophie, and that was that. Someone had left a newspaper on the bench, so John Henry picked it up and began leafing through it instead.
He hadn't been looking at the paper for long when three young men came into the depot from the street entrance. They were dressed like cowboys, and the well-worn saddles they carried on their shoulders were further evidence that was their profession.
John Henry barely glanced at them when they came in, and that was only because they were talking loudly among themselves and laughing. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, they seemed to have been drinking.
He would have ignored them as they walked on past the bench where he sat, if not for the fact that one of the men stopped short and the other two then followed suit. All three of them set their saddles on the floor at their feet.
The one who had stopped first stared at John Henry for a moment and then said, "Look at that, boys. Unless I miss my guess, that there's an Injun in white man's duds."
John Henry heard the words but pretended to ignore them. He didn't want any trouble. These cowhands could say whatever they wanted to as long as they moved on.
"You sure about that, Wiley?" one of the other young men asked. "He don't really look like an Injun to me."
"You ever see anybody with red skin like that who wasn't?"
The third man laughed and said, "Yeah, me when I was blistered by the sun."
"And I think his eyes are blue, too," the second cowboy put in.
"That don't mean nothin' except that he's a stinkin' breed," Wiley insisted. He moved a step closer to John Henry and went on, "Hey, mister. You a stinkin' breed? Your mama get carried off by some Comanche or Apache buck?"
John Henry sighed. The young cowboy called Wiley was drunk, stubborn, and obnoxious ... a bad combination. John Henry folded the newspaper in fourths longwise, set it in his lap, and said, "I'm half Cherokee, and I don't appreciate your comments. I'd take it kindly if you wouldn't say anything else about my mother."
"Cherokee, eh?" Wiley said. "Hell, from what I've heard they ain't even real Injuns. Of course, they ain't white, neither. I don't know what that makes you, mister. Some sort of mongrel dog, I reckon."
Wiley's companions must have gotten the idea that harassing this calm, powerfully built, gun-toting stranger probably wasn't a very smart thing to do. One of them tugged at his friend's arm and said, "Come on, Wiley, we got a train to catch."
Wiley pulled free with a violent shrug.
"Hell with that," he snapped. "Did you hear the way this redskin talked to me? Like he thought he was better than me? I ain't gonna stand for that!"
John Henry thought about pushing back the lapel of his coat to reveal the badge pinned to his shirt. He had concealed his true identity as a federal lawman for much of his just-concluded assignment, but there was no reason for him to do so here in El Paso. Usually the sight of a tin star would make even a drunk think twice about raising a ruckus.
Before he could do that, however, Wiley kicked at the sole of John Henry's boot and said, "Get up on your feet, you son of a bitch. You're wearin' a gun like a white man, so we'll settle this like white men! I'm callin' you out!"
"Wiley, you damned fool —" one of his companions began.
John Henry stood up, still holding the folded newspaper in his left hand.
"Mister, please don't kill him," the other young cowhand pleaded. "He's just drunker'n a skunk."
"I know that," John Henry said. "You should take him somewhere and let him sober up."
"Damn your red hide!" Wiley howled, drawing the attention of everybody in the lobby now. "Stop talkin' about me like I ain't here!"
He clawed at the butt of the revolver holstered at his hip.
CHAPTER 2
John Henry took a quick step forward and whipped the newspaper across Wiley's face. The blow didn't do any real damage, but it stung and took the young cowboy by surprise. Blinking, he stepped back.
That gave John Henry room to swing a hard punch with his right hand. His fist connected solidly with Wiley's jaw and jerked his head to the side. Wiley staggered back a step.
John Henry tossed the paper onto the bench behind him and bored in, hooking a left to Wiley's stomach, then hitting him with another right to the jaw.
That was enough to make Wiley's knees unhinge. He fell on them, then pitched forward to land facedown on the depot floor.
Instinct made John Henry glance toward the other two young men. They might have tried to steer their friend away from the fight, but now that the ruckus had started, their rough code of honor forced them to back Wiley's play. They came at John Henry from both sides, their fists swinging.
He ducked a punch from the closest of the young cowboys, grabbed the front of the man's shirt, and swung him around so that he crashed into the third puncher. Their feet got tangled up with each other and they went down, sprawling on the floor close to their unconscious pard.
As the two men struggled to get up, John Henry stepped back and rested his right hand on the butt of his Colt. He used his left to pull back his coat as he said, "Better just let it go, fellas. There's been no real harm done so far, and I'd like to keep it that way."
Their eyes got wide when they saw the badge. One of them said, "Good Lord, Phil, he's a lawman!"
The other puncher groaned.
"You ain't gonna arrest us and throw us in jail, are you, Sheriff?" he asked. "We got ridin' jobs waitin' for us at Sierra Blanca, and we sure do need 'em."
"I reckon a sore jaw's punishment enough for your pard," John Henry said with a faint smile. "And I'm not a sheriff, I'm a deputy U.S. marshal. The last time I checked, being young and obnoxious wasn't a federal offense, so we'll just let it go at that."
As a matter of fact, in terms of years he wasn't that much older than the three cowhands. But he had seen and done a lot in his time as a lawman, first as a member of the Cherokee Lighthorse, then as chief sheriff of the Cherokee Nation, and now as a federal deputy. That sort of life sometimes made a man older than his years.
The two cowhands climbed to their feet and picked up Wiley, who was starting to come around. They held him between them as he moaned and shook his head groggily.
"We're sure obliged to you for not arrestin' us," one of the men said.
"Don't worry about it," John Henry told them. "Just go on and catch your train. And maybe don't drink quite so much the next time you're in a saloon."
"You can count on that, Marshal," the other cowboy promised.
They helped Wiley from the lobby onto the platform. John Henry sat down and picked up the newspaper again. He was aware that a number of people in the station were looking at him and obviously trying not to stare. The fight had been a short one, but the way he'd handled the three cowboys had been impressive.
A couple of uniformed policemen wearing black-billed caps came into the train station from the street. They moved briskly, like they were there on business, and John Henry wasn't surprised when they spoke to a ticket clerk and then came across the lobby toward him.
"Stand up, mister," one of the policemen said when they reached John Henry.
Telling himself to be patient, he laid the newspaper aside again and stood up, making sure his coat was open enough that they could see his badge. They noticed it right away, and he saw the change that came over them when they did.
"Sorry to bother you, Marshal. We got a report that somebody was brawlin' in here, and it's our job to keep the peace."
"Of course it is," John Henry agreed. "You can see for yourself, though, the fight's over. It never really amounted to much."
"You were the hombre who was attacked?"
"It was just a misunderstanding," John Henry said.
"We can arrest the fellas who jumped you," the other policeman said.
John Henry shook his head.
"There's no need for that. No harm was done. I'd just as soon let the matter end."
"Well, if you're sure ..."
"I'm certain," John Henry said. "I'm just waiting for a train."
"Where are you bound for, if you don't mind my askin'?"
"Santa Fe." John Henry didn't mention that he was supposed to see the governor once he got there.
"Beautiful town."
"So I've heard. I'm looking forward to seeing it."
And he was mighty curious why Governor Lew Wallace wanted to see him, too.
* * *
Santa Fe was indeed pretty, nestled as it was in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Rugged, snowcapped peaks loomed in the distance, and the sky was one of the bluest blues John Henry had ever seen.
Santa Fe was also an old, old town, and that air of antiquity clung to many of the adobe buildings lining the narrow, crooked streets. John Henry had saddled Iron Heart when he left the train, and now he rode along looking for the Palace of the Governors, where the territorial government was headquartered. One of the ticket clerks at the train station had given him directions to the place.
In the meantime, he enjoyed the colorful, bustling scene. The streets were busy and crowded with people of all ages, shapes, colors, and sizes. Although New Mexico Territory was now part of the United States, it had spent a long time under Spanish rule and then had been a part of Mexico until only a few decades earlier. Most of the faces John Henry saw were brown, and most of the voices he heard spoke in rapid-fire Spanish. He understood some of it, but not much.
Mixed in with the descendants of the town's original settlers was a sizable percentage of whites, many of them dressed like businessmen. Ever since the opening of the Santa Fe Trail while this was still part of Mexico, trade had been the most important part of life in this settlement. There was still a steady flow of goods back and forth, but most of it was shipped by rail now, rather than in long wagon trains.
John Henry found the Palace of the Governors without much trouble, although navigating the labyrinth of streets was kind of a challenge. The Palace was a long, low, sprawling adobe building with a covered gallery along its front and a number of different doors. John Henry dismounted, looped Iron Heart's reins around one of the hitch racks, and went to the nearest door. It opened into a wide lobby.
A few minutes of being passed from functionary to functionary brought him to Governor Lew Wallace's office. The governor had quite a reputation as a general in the Union Army during the Civil War. John Henry had fought on the other side during that conflict, as many of the Cherokee had, but he bore no grudges now toward the North and the men who had served the Union.
A smoothly handsome, expensively dressed man stood up from a chair in the governor's outer office and extended a hand to John Henry.
"Marshal Sixkiller?"
"That's right," John Henry said as he gripped the man's hand for a moment. "And you are ...?"
"Filipe Montoya, one of the governor's aides. I'm told that you're here on official business?"
"I suppose. I don't really know much about it, Señor Montoya. I got a telegram from my boss asking me to come here and meet with the governor."
"You would think that I'd be aware of this, as closely as I work with Governor Wallace on territorial matters." Montoya seemed a little put out by the fact that he hadn't been informed of John Henry's visit until now, but he forced a smile and went on. "Ah well, I suppose I'll find out soon enough, if this is something the governor needs my assistance on. Please, come this way."
Montoya ushered John Henry over to a massive wooden door and knocked on it. When a voice called from the other side of the door and told them to come in, Montoya opened it and held out a hand to indicate that John Henry should go first.
"This is Marshal Sixkiller, Governor," Montoya said as he and John Henry entered Wallace's private office.
Wallace sat at a large desk with a window behind him that looked out across the plaza on which the Palace was located. He had a pen in his hand and was writing on a piece of paper. Without looking up from what he was doing, he said, "I'll be with you in just a moment, Marshal." As an afterthought, he added, "That'll be all, Filipe."
"Yes, sir," Montoya said, and again he sounded slightly annoyed. John Henry figured he was one of those bureaucratic types who felt like he had to be kept up to date on everything that was going on.
Without being asked, John Henry hung his hat on a hat tree to one side of the door. Wallace finished his writing and put his pen back in its holder. He picked up the sheet of paper, blew on it to help dry the ink, and set it on a fairly thick stack of similar pages. He stood up and came around the desk.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Marshal," he said as he shook hands with John Henry. "I'm writing a novel, you see, and I feared losing my train of thought if I failed to complete that paragraph before setting it aside."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal: Eight Hours To Die by William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone. Copyright © 2012 William W. Johnstone. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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