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...