One stroke of luck that pleased Flintlock immensely was that their guard had been reduced to one. He suspected that the other one had deserted his post to grab a bottle and court a señorita. The remaining guard, his broad, peasant face bored and unhappy, squatted beside Flintlock and O’Hara, his rifle across his knees.
A moment later, the missing guard staggered drunkenly across the plaza, gave up the struggle, and stretched out on the table where Flintlock and O’Hara had been sitting earlier. Alarmed, they kept their eyes on him. The man had lost his rifle but carried a revolver at his side in a flapped holster. Once on his back he didn’t move and seemed to be unconscious.
His face showing his relief when the bandit lay on the table and snored softly, O’Hara nodded to Flintlock. It was time.
Flintlock clutched his belly and groaned, his boot heels gouging the ground. The guard looked at him but didn’t move. Groaning louder, Flintlock acted the part of a man with a bad bellyache, a fine performance he hoped would not go to waste. Finally, the guard took the bait. He stood and looked down at Flintlock .
O’Hara said, “Él ésta enfermo,” and then in English, “He is sick.”
The guard seemed perplexed. He took a knee beside Flintlock and stared into his face.
It was happening just as Flintlock hoped it would. He swung a left hook that slammed into the guard’s chin. The man didn’t make a sound. He toppled over, sprawled in the dirt, and lay still. Flintlock rose to his feet and looked around him, an alarm bell ringing in his head. Had he been seen?
The moonlit plaza remained quiet, the only sound the murmur of the old women praying for the dead. A skinny dog walked out of the gloom, stared at Flintlock for a moment, and then slunk away.
Flintlock tossed the unconscious man’s rifle to O’Hara, untied his bandana from around his neck, gagged the bandit, and then used the guard’s own belt to bind his wrists behind his back. Flintlock dragged the man into the shadows where O’Hara joined him.
“Sam, we have a rifle,” O’Hara said. “Should we make a play for the horses?”
Flintlock shook his head. “No, I’m not leaving here without the Hawken.”
O’Hara started an urgent whispered protest, but just as urgently Flintlock said, “O’Hara, the Hawken is both wife and child to me. I won’t go without it.”
O’Hara’s exasperation showed, but his tone was even when he said, “All right. Let’s go rescue your kinfolk.”
* * *
The firearms had been thrown haphazardly into the back of the wagon and in the darkness by the dim light of a match it took time for Flintlock to find the Hawken and then his battered Colt. O’Hara’s revolver was still in the holster and he picked it out it right away.
Behind the wagon lay vacant ground. Sandy and covered with cactus, it was full of shadows. Clouds brushed across the crescent moon and stars winked out and reappeared as they passed. The horse lines were clear on the other side of the mission. The shortest route was to walk across the plaza and risk being seen. The alternative was to loop wide around, stay to open ground, and come at the horses from behind. Neither held much appeal for Flintlock, especially a long circuit in the dark across unknown terrain.
“How do we play this, Sam?”
Flintlock decided to take their chances on the plaza.
“I’ll feel like a man walking to the gallows,” O’Hara said.
“It will be fine. Just walk slow and easy as though we’re going nowhere in a hurry. Nobody will even notice us.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Flintlock and O’Hara’s stroll across the plaza was uneventful except for a drunk who staggered toward them, stopped and stared, blinking like an owl, and then moved on. They passed the guttering torches where the old women knelt and reached the horse lines without incident.
It was dark there, the sliver of moon giving little light. A pole corral, set at a distance, held a single horse, a beautiful palomino stud with a flaxen mane and tail. An ornate silver saddle hung on the corral’s top pole.
Flintlock’s mischievous nature was immediately aroused. His teeth gleamed in the gloom as he grinned and said, “I bet that’s his Excellency’s hoss and saddle. I’m going to take him.”
“Hell, take what you want, Sam,” O’Hara said. “Just do it quick. We’re pushing our luck.”
O’Hara chose a better paint than the one he rightfully owned as Flintlock stepped into the corral and said soothing words to the restive stud.
It seemed that Don Carlos Lopez de Peralta was a careful man, always ready for flight or fight, because a saddle and bridle lay on the ground in front of each horse.
O’Hara quickly saddled the paint and led it to the corral where Flintlock approached the palomino, the silver saddle ready in his hands.
He never made it.
The rattle of a dozen rifles thrown to shoulders stopped Flintlock in his tracks.
The palomino glared at him and pawed the ground as he dropped the saddle and slowly turned. He saw O’Hara with both hands raised as though he was trying to grab handfuls of stars. General de Peralta looked mad enough to bite the head off a hammer. A line of soldiers, all of them sober, had their rifle sights on Flintlock and two others he recognized as his former guards. They groveled at the general’s booted feet.
De Peralta raised his voice in an outraged roar. “What is the meaning of this? Why did you attack my men”—he kicked the guard nearest to him—“these pig dogs?”
Flintlock thought quick. “Excellency, we thought we heard voices out in the badlands and planned to investigate. We feared for your life.”
“And you decided to take my personal mount that no one but me is allowed to ride?”
“We didn’t know the horse was yours, Excellency,” Flintlock said. “He is indeed a fine animal.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” de Peralta said. “You took guns from the wagon and then tried to steal horses. I ask myself why you did these things. And the answer comes to me that you planned to go to the Americanos and tell them about the money and my whereabouts.”
Flintlock said, “But, Your Excellency—”
The general undid his holster flap and drew his Colt. “No, do not lie to me again. I cannot abide liars.” He gave a loud shriek, “Pig dogs!”
The sobbing, cringing men at de Peralta’s feet immediately threw up their hands and begged for mercy. But there was none. The general shot them both, one after the other, a single bullet to the head.
As gun smoke drifted he said to Flintlock, “For your treachery and betrayal you and your companion will suffer the same fate, but at a time of my choosing. I made you my beloved sons, but you threw that gift back in my face. Now I can’t bear to look at you.” De Peralta said something in Spanish and two soldiers stepped forward, manacles clanking in their hands.
As the chains were applied to O’Hara’s hands and feet he said, “I think it’s all up with us, Sam.”
Flintlock shook his head. “No, it’s not. I’ll think of something. Don’t worry.” He looked at the general and said, “Excellency, can I have my Hawken?”
A rifle butt to the back of his head was his only answer.
* * *
Sam Flintlock woke to find himself shackled to the wall in a tiny room with one small window high up the wall. A stone bench was opposite him. He figured it was a bed and that he was in what had been the cell of one of the brother monks who’d manned the mission for Spain. The room was cold and dark and the hard flagstone floor offered no comfort.
As his aching head cleared and his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he realized he was alone except for a shackled skeleton in the corner, still with shreds of rotting flesh attached to its bones. Whether the poor wretch was male or female he didn’t know, but it was obvious that the only way out of this prison was death.
His throat was dry and it took some effort, but he managed to throw back his head and shout, “O’Hara!” His voice sounded loud in the confines of the tiny room.
&nbs
p; An answering silence mocked him. The old Spanish men had built their missions to last. The brick walls of his cell could be two feet thick and the door was of sturdy oak reinforced with iron. No sound could penetrate such barriers and Flintlock didn’t try again.
The thin light glowing in the window told him the dawn had come. He yanked on his chains. They were securely stapled to the walls and locked with a massive iron padlock. There was no escape from this place. He could only hope for a miracle.
“Hoping for a miracle, ain’t you, boy?” Old Barnabas sat by the skeleton, his arm around its bony shoulders. “Well you ain’t gonna get one. Miracles are for some pale, puny, prattling preacher, not for the likes of you.”
“Leave me alone, Barnabas,” Flintlock said. “I’ve got a damned headache and you’ll make it worse.”
The old mountain man shook the skeleton until it rattled. “You’ll end up like this feller here, just skin and bones. You should have killed all them whores and the redskin and took the money while you had the chance. But no, you had to play the saint and you’ve ended up here. You-know-who says you’re such a dunderhead he doesn’t think he wants you in hell. He says all you’ll do is cause trouble.”
“Well, the feeling is mutual,” Flintlock said. “I don’t want to go to hell either.”
Barnabas rose to his feet. “Just for your information, Sam’l, we still don’t have that Jack the Ripper feller that all the folks are talking about. Pity. I look forward to meeting him. Well, I got to go.”
“That’s it? You’re just going to leave me here?”
“Nothing I can do, boy. Helping you would be a good deed and where I come from, we don’t do good deeds . . . only bad deeds, if you catch my drift. Say, if you do meet that Ripper feller, though I admit that your present circumstances make it unlikely, give him my regards.”
Barnabas vanished in a cloud of yellow, sulfur-smelling smoke.
* * *
Sam Flintlock measured time by the change of light through the tiny window and the once-a-day visit of two taciturn soldiers who brought him a meal of tortillas, beans, and water and placed an empty slop bucket in a corner. He asked about O’Hara, but his question was greeted with a stony silence.
On the third day—it may have been the fourth, Flintlock was not sure—his chains were unlocked and he was taken from his cell.
“Where are we going?” he asked one of the guards, a gray-haired man with a kind face.
The soldier understood enough English to reply, “His Excellency will consider your treason and pass judgment on you.” He would add nothing more, but his oddly pitying glance convinced Flintlock that his fate had already been decided.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Once again Sam Flintlock found himself facing General de Peralta in the man’s luxurious office. There was no girl on the man’s knee. She was replaced by a row of stern-faced officers who flanked his ornate desk chair. His Excellency wore his best uniform, all his French medals, and a scowl.
“Samuel Flintlock, you stand accused of high treason,” de Peralta said. “How do you answer this charge?”
“Where is O’Hara?” Flintlock said. He knew he wasn’t going to get out of this alive and dispensed with calling the lowlife, two-bit bandit Your Excellency.
“The savage has already been sentenced to death. He will be shot at dawn tomorrow,” the general said. “He knew my heart was hardened toward him and did not beg for clemency.”
“Mister, nor will I,” Flintlock said. “As far as I’m concerned you can go to hell.”
“Then I will meet your defiance with my terrible justice. You will be shot at dawn tomorrow.” De Peralta waved a hand. “Take this wretch away. He smells.”
Flintlock’s guards didn’t understand that last, but their leader’s meaning was obvious. Flintlock was bundled out of the office and to make himself look good in front of the boss, one of the guards kicked him hard in the butt. He knew it would do him little good, but on his way to the cell Flintlock studied the man’s face. It had a scar over the left eyebrow, just a few teeth and those rotten, and a nose that had been broken more than once. Not that it would do him much good, but it was a face he’d remember.
* * *
Flintlock was shackled to the wall again. A few minutes later the cell door creaked open and a monk wearing a heavy brown robe was allowed inside. Middle-aged, with a fine, ascetic Spanish face and bright blue eyes, he kneeled beside Flintlock and said in good English, “My name is Father Alfonso Giron. Are you a Catholic, my son?”
Flintlock shook his head. “I’m not anything, padre. I’ve never been much of a one for churchgoing.”
The priest smiled. “I will say a rosary for you tonight. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. God and me aren’t exactly on speaking terms so I need all the help I can get.”
“God will always hear you and speak to you, my son. This is a thing I know.”
A silence stretched between the two men, each seeking common ground, but then the priest said something unexpected. “If you were a Catholic I could hear your confession and give you the Last Rites, but since I am unable to deliver spiritual solace, perhaps I can cater to your physical needs.”
Father Giron reached inside his robe, produced a pewter flask, and smiled. “Brandy, my son, to ease your suffering.”
Flintlock grinned. “I reckon that will do the trick, padre.”
The priest held the flask to Flintlock’s mouth and let him drink. After fifteen minutes of this, the flask was drained and Flintlock was feeling no pain.
“Thank you, padre,” he said as the door opened and Father Giron was ordered to leave. “Are all priests like you?”
“I can only speak for myself, my son. I do what God dictates.”
“Thank Him for me, huh?”
Father Giron rose to his feet. “You can thank Him yourself. He’ll listen.”
Through the warm glow of the brandy working its amber magic, Flintlock said, “And don’t forget to say those prayers for me tonight. I don’t want to show yellow at dawn tomorrow.”
Smiling, the priest said, “I don’t think a man who wears a great bird on his throat will show cowardice in the face of death.”
“It’s a thunderbird,” Flintlock said.
“Yes, I know,” Father Giron said. “And you must never make it angry.” The priest made the sign of the cross over Flintlock and blessed him. “I’ll be with you and your companion tomorrow. I hope I can bring you some comfort.”
Flintlock hiccupped. “Padre, I reckon you’ve already done that.”
* * *
In due time the effects of the brandy wore off and Flintlock faced the lonely darkness of a night that seemed endless. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw the skeleton in the corner grin at him.
“How you doing, feller?” he said. “You look a little peaked, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
The skull grinned.
“I’m to be shot come dawn,” Flintlock said. “But I guess it’s better than starving to death. Is that what happened to you, huh?”
There was no answer.
Flintlock nodded. “I’m losing my mind. Talking to old Barnabas is bad enough, but trying to start a conversation with a pile of bones is plumb loco.” He rattled his chains. “Well, what do you think? Am I crazy? Ah, you have no opinion on that. I’m supposed to be looking for my ma, you know, but now I guess I’ll never find her. Yeah, I’m disappointed all right. Like a bride left at the altar.”
The skeleton showed no interest.
“Ah, well, you’re not one for conversation, so I’ll leave you alone.”
Flintlock looked at the window high on the wall where the spiders lived. It was still a rectangle of darkness.
My God, would this night never end?
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Sam Flintlock had fallen into a fitful sleep and missed the changing of the light. He woke to the slamming open of the cell door and the harsh voices of men tasked with t
he execution of another human being.
As Flintlock’s chains were unlocked, Father Giron stood to one side and read prayers from a small black missal. The priest’s face was gray as though he was the one facing the firing squad.
“Thank you for showing, padre,” Flintlock said as he was pushed and pummeled past. “I appreciate it.”
Father Giron nodded and managed a smile.
Despite the early hour, at least a hundred people—soldiers and civilians—had gathered in the plaza. Flintlock had wondered at the reason for the freestanding wall of mud brick built at the edge of an acre of waste ground. Now he knew.
O’Hara was already there, his hands tied behind his back. He had a bruise on his left cheekbone but otherwise seemed unharmed.
Flintlock was dragged to the wall, his hands were tied, and his back was shoved against the rough mud brick.
“Morning, O’Hara,” he said. “How did they treat you?”
“Badly. You?”
“Badly.” Flintlock looked at the sky. “Going to be a hot one today.”
“Seems like,” O’Hara said. “I’m glad. If it was a cold morning, I might shiver and they’d think it was from fear.”
“Him there with the prayer book is Father Giron. He’s a right nice feller. Brought me brandy.”
“And me.”
Flintlock nodded. “He’s a good man.”
“Seems like,” O’Hara said.
“Not much of a one for talking when you’re about to get shot, huh?”
“No. It does wear on a man.”
“Well, stand firm, O’Hara. We’ll show this rabble how Americans die.”
“Will they offer us a blindfold? I don’t want a blindfold. I want to look those sons of bitches in the eye when they pull the trigger.”
“You can refuse it. I know I will.” Flintlock smiled. “That’s the ticket, O’Hara. Look them in the eye.”
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