Flintlock looked down at the man and said, “That’s two more for O’Hara.” Then, to force home his message, “I hope you hear that in hell, you son of a bitch.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
According to Sam Flintlock’s mother and Bridie O’Toole the pass that led to the Hammer compound lay due south, but the entrance was difficult to see unless you were real close and Flintlock intended to do just that . . . get real close.
He rode out of the gulch as the Hammer riders’ dust cloud again stained the sky. The mesa country was a land of echoes and it was difficult to pinpoint the source of gunshots that racketed relentlessly around the rocks. But his pursuers were coming on steadily, beating the bushes for him, and Flintlock had to put a heap of git between himself and them or his scalp would decorate the Old Man of the Mountain’s parlor wall.
Once again he found himself among a lofty maze of sandstone rock that took on all kinds of fantastic shapes and cast strange shadows the farther south he rode. He depended on the big buckskin to pick its own way among the labyrinth and the horse did not fail him. After thirty minutes Flintlock found himself in yet another gulch, this one narrow and treeless, the looming bulk of Balakai Mesa forming a massive backdrop. Hammer’s horsemen had come from the southeast and he turned his horse in that direction.
His ma had been right, the entrance to Pitchfork Pass was well hidden, recessed into the mesa slope. But it was there. He’d found it.
Flintlock didn’t take time to consider how foolhardy his plan was. Uppermost in his mind was that he was about to take the war to Hammer’s doorstep and that pleased him . . . and he was sure it would’ve delighted the Apache in O’Hara.
He retrieved his Winchester, dried sweaty palms on his pants, took a deep breath, steadying himself, and then touched spurs to the buckskin’s flanks.
The big horse took off at a gallop. The mouth of the pass was fifty yards away . . . forty . . . thirty . . . twenty . . . then he was right on top of it. He yanked the buckskin to a skidding halt, threw the rifle to his shoulder and cranked off three fast shots, sending bullets into the gloom of the arroyo, heedless of where they hit. He cantered the buckskin for a short distance and then swung around. Flintlock’s blood was up and he grinned, ferocious as a lobo wolf. Now the fun was about to start.
He was not disappointed.
Like angry ants leaving a trampled nest, three men spilled out of the arroyo and he heard them cuss a blue streak, one of them with a flesh wound to his forehead that trickled blood.
Flintlock roared a war cry that was savage from his pent-up anger and charged, firing the Winchester from the shoulder. The range was short, the encounter brief, but he dropped two of the Hammer gunmen, one of them chawing up the ground with his kicking feet. Taken by surprise at the suddenness of Flintlock’s attack the bloodied man snapped off a shot from his Colt, missed and ran back into the arroyo.
Flintlock thought about another run but the sound of angry voices within the arroyo convinced him not to push his luck. He’d brought the fight to Hammer, killed one, possibly two of his gunmen, and the Old Man would never again sleep quite as easy in his bed.
Flintlock swung the buckskin north and lit a shuck, bullets cracking past his head as a dozen outraged gunmen wished him a fond farewell of flying lead.
* * *
In the late afternoon as the sun began its descent, Sam Flintlock cut his mother’s trail north, the passage of two horses and a pair of pack mules leaving enough scars on the land that even a fair-to-middling scout like himself could follow.
He had not seen any sign of Jacob Hammer and his men and that troubled him. Where were they? There were a couple of possibilities. After losing his scouts Hammer had called off the hunt. But that was unlikely. The second was he’d heard the gunfire at Pitchfork Pass and returned to investigate. Of the two options, the second made the most sense. Maybe the Old Man had feared that his fortress was under assault by lawmen or the army.
Flintlock was thankful that Hammer was nowhere in sight, yet he felt uneasy, as though something bad, something disastrous, had happened outside of his seeing. He told himself he was being foolish, an old maiden aunt who hears a rustle in every bush, but could still not shake the feeling that his ma and Bridie were in danger.
As the day shaded into evening, he rode through a gap between two towering crags and then picked his way across a boulder-strewn ridge before riding into a meadow bright with late-blooming wildflowers. Flintlock was halfway across the meadow when something at the far end caught his eye. Even in the growing darkness he made out the roofs of a couple of buildings and what was possibly a windmill. The tracks of the two women had led Flintlock in this direction. Maybe they’d decided to stay the night at an isolated ranch. There was one way to find out. He kneed his tired horse into a walk and headed for the ranch . . . or whatever it was.
* * *
Sam Flintlock rode into a ghost town.
That is, if a ruined hotel with an adjoining saloon, a blacksmith’s forge and a general store with a windmill could be called a town. But someone had given the place had a name. The fading words DEAD HORSE were painted on a sign nailed to a post that had tipped over years before.
Were the women here?
Flintlock slipped his rifle out of the boot and walked the buckskin to the hotel. He drew rein, stood in the stirrups and yelled, “Ma!”
The answering silence mocked him.
A hitching rail still stood outside the saloon. Flintlock tethered his mount and walked back to the hotel. He pushed the creaking door open and stood in what had been the lobby. “Anybody here?”
His voice echoed hollow in the quiet darkness and somewhere in a corner a rat rustled.
“Ma, are you here? Bridie?”
A solemn hush, as though the building were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
There was a rickety staircase to Flintlock’s left that gave access to the upper-floor rooms. He thumbed a match into flame and climbed steps that creaked and groaned, protesting his weight. There were three bedrooms and all were empty of furniture. But Flintlock’s exploration had not been entirely in vain. On the windowsill of one of the rooms stood a brass candelabra, still holding two of its original three candles. He lit the candles, made his way downstairs and walked into the saloon. Holding the candelabra high Flintlock’s eyes roamed over the place. There were no tables or chairs or a bar. But a battered, upright piano still stood against the far wall and above it, draped in black crepe, hung a portrait of an elderly, serious-looking gent with a gray beard down to his watch chain. Flintlock guessed he was either a former mayor of Dead Horse or the proprietor of this modest drinking establishment. Whoever he was, like the town, he was long gone.
Flintlock’s next stop was the general store . . . where he found the body of a dead man. It was a good-looking corpse. The man was a young towhead, well dressed, wearing an expensively tooled gunbelt, the revolver gone from the holster. Wear on the boots revealed that the youngster had worn spurs, but those, too, were missing. Even in the guttering candlelight, the cause of death was obvious, a neat, round bullet hole smack in the middle of the man’s forehead. The body had cooled, but was not yet stiff and Flintlock decided the man hadn’t been dead for long, maybe since late afternoon. Suspicious now, Flintlock examined the corpse more closely. As he’d half expected, the man’s hands were smooth, free of calluses, not the horny mitts of a laboring man, but, coupled with the pricey revolver rig and fine duds, obviously those of a man who made his living with a gun.
And the only hired guns in this neck of the woods worked for Jacob Hammer.
Flintlock stepped outside again, concern spiking at him. It had been dark when he’d ridden into the ghost town and he hadn’t examined the ground for tracks, but now in the light from the candelabra he kneeled and saw that the dusty street bore the hoof-prints of many horses. And booted men had been here, and faint, barely discernible among the rest, were the smaller prints of women’s feet.
Flintlock rose, his face stricken. The signs were obvious and had a story to tell. Jacob Hammer and his gunmen had been here and his ma and Bridie O’Toole had been taken. But not without a fight, as the body in the general store testified.
Were the women dead or alive?
Flintlock dreaded the answer to that question.
* * *
Sam Flintlock stepped into the general store and, holding the candelabra high, studied the floor for obvious signs of a struggle. There were none. His ma and Bridie had been there, all right, and one of them had shot down an attacker before they were overwhelmed and dragged outside. It had happened quickly. Killing the scouts had solved nothing. Hammer had no difficulty tracking the women, he’d had other scouts out, cut their trail and arrived in Dead Horse just after Ma and Bridie rode in. He’d taken a different route, probably coming in from the east, and that’s why Flintlock had not seen his dust.
The Old Man of the Mountain had outfoxed him.
Despondent, an aching hollowness inside him, Flintlock decided to spend the night at the hotel for no other reason than that was what it was for, to accommodate travelers like himself.
He unsaddled his buckskin, staked him out on a patch of grass that had grown up around the windmill and carried his bedroll back to the hotel. He spread his blankets in the lobby and suddenly bone weary lay down on his back, the candelabra casting its fitful light over him.
But before he could drift off to sleep, the familiar odor of brimstone filled his nostrils and, without opening his eyes, he said, “Go away, Barnabas, I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Boy, you’re an idiot,” the old mountain man said.
“You’ve told me that before.”
“Yeah, and I’m telling you again. You found your ma and then lost her again. Only an idiot does that.”
Flintlock sat up. Barnabas squatted cross-legged on the floor, burnishing with a bright yellow cloth some kind of metal mask.
“I’ll find her again,” Flintlock said.
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will.”
“She’s my daughter,” Barnabas said.
“I know.”
“There’s a one-eyed man that might help you, Sammy.”
“Who is he?”
“I’m not telling you. That’s for you to find out. But there’s also a chance that he’ll kill you. Hey, boy, do you like this mask?”
Barnabas positioned the mask over his face, a brass effigy of an evil, smiling demon. “What do you think?”
“It doesn’t become you, old man.”
“Well, I have to wear it since I’ve been promoted.”
“Promoted? To what?”
“Gatekeeper. I have to terrify the damned, you understand. It’s my line of work.” Barnabas took the mask away. “Sammy, in hell there is only one emotion I’m allowed to feel, no happiness, no joy, no hope . . . only sorrow.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I felt sorrow over O’Hara’s death. As breeds go, he was one of the best.” Barnabas shook his head. “I never thought I’d have to say this again, but go find your ma.”
“I know where she is. I’ll find her.”
“I hope so.”
“Tell me about the one-eyed man,” Flintlock said.
“No, I can’t. He might help you, or he might kill you, that’s all I know.”
Barnabas got to his feet. “The gatekeeper of hell is a full-time job, so you won’t see me again.”
“Well, that’s a sore disappointment.”
“Afore I go, did your ma tell you your real name?”
“Not yet.”
“Pity. Now you may never know.”
“I’ll know, Barnabas. The one-eyed man won’t kill me and neither will Jacob Hammer.”
“It’s good to be confident, boy. Well, it’s against the rules for me to wish you good luck, so I’ll be on my way. If you’re ever in my neck of the woods, I’ll open the fiery gate for you.”
“Go to hell, Barnabas,” Flintlock said.
* * *
At dawn, Sam Flintlock saddled up and rode to the arroyo where he and Bridie O’Toole had found safety. He spent several hours standing silently beside O’Hara’s grave and only when his vigil was done did he finally talk.
“Why did you have to go and die on me, Injun?” he said. “Without your guidance, your support, I’m lost. What do I do, O’Hara? Where do I go?”
There was no answer, only the indifferent wind that whispered in Flintlock’s ear and offered no advice at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Old Man of the Mountain sat at the head of a U-shaped table. Four hard-bitten gunmen sat to his left, four to his right, ready to pass judgment on the accused, the Pinkerton detectives Jane McIntyre and Bridie O’Toole.
Jacob Hammer wore the traditional red judicial robe of China and a stern expression, the face of a man about to impose a harsh sentence.
“You, the guilty, have admitted that you are Pinkertons, that you murdered a number of my men and that you robbed me of monies that were rightfully mine,” Hammer said. “Have you anything to say in your defense before sentence is passed?”
“Yes,” Jane said. “Only this, Hammer . . . you’re a piece of low-life trash and I’ll see you in hell before I plead for my life with the likes of you, a common criminal.”
“Bridie O’Toole, have you anything to say to this court?” Hammer said, his face expressionless.
“Miss McIntyre took the words out of my mouth,” Bridie said. She’d battled her captors and the left side of her face was bruised.
Hammer smiled his thin smile and said, “It is the inclination of this court to extend to the guilty parties a measure of mercy. Answer my question and I will give you both a swift and honorable death by the sword. Refuse to answer and you will burn.”
Neither Jane nor Bridie spoke, but their angry eyes blazed their defiance.
“Very well, you choose to be obstinate,” Hammer said. “But I will put you to the question nonetheless: A vile murderer with a bird on his throat attacked my home today and killed several of my men. Where is he and where is the Indian that sometimes rides with him?”
“I don’t know where he is,” Jane said.
“And I don’t know, either,” Bridie said.
“Is that your final word?” Hammer said. He waited, then, “I have no choice, that is, if the rest of the judges concur, to sentence you, Pinkerton McIntyre and you, Pinkerton O’Toole, to burn at the stake. Judges?”
There was a muttering among the gunmen and then one of them spoke for the rest. “Death at the stake,” he said.
Hammer nodded. “A wise decision.” He looked at the two women and said, “Sentence to be carried out this seventeenth of August during the Hungry Ghost Festival when the Chinese and all here present honor our ancestors.” Hammer waved a negligent hand. “Now I grow weary of their treacherous faces. Take them away.”
* * *
“Miss Brown!” Louise Smith helped Jane stay on her feet after she and Bridie were thrown roughly into the cell and the iron door clashed shut behind them. Then, the obvious question, “What are you doing here?”
“I was captured by Hammer’s men,” Jane said. “This is Pinkerton Detective Bridie O’Toole. We were both taken at the same time.”
“Are you hurt?” Louise said.
“Bruised,” Bridie said. “We were roughly handled.”
Louise said, “Miss Brown—”
“Jane McIntyre, Louise. The time for aliases is over.”
“Are you to be . . . harmed?” the girl said.
“Burned at the stake,” Jane said. “On the seventeenth of August.”
“And I’m to be beheaded,” Louise said. “I refused to be Hammer’s bride and one day he’ll take his revenge.”
Bridie managed a smile. “Then all three of us are in a pickle, aren’t we?”
“Four of us,” Louise said. She called out, “Viktor!”
>
The girl heard Bridie’s sharp intake of breath and saw the fright in her eyes when the giant stepped from the cave and into the cell. “This is Viktor,” Louise said. “He’s my friend.”
“Viktor frighten everybody,” the man said. “But he means no one harm.” His face hardened. “Except Jacob Hammer. Him, Viktor will kill one day.”
“Viktor, you surprised us,” Jane said.
“Yes,” Bridie said, swallowing hard. “I was very surprised.”
“Surprise, frighten, is all the same,” Viktor said. “Hammer say I am more animal than man. He makes me perform like a dancing bear.” The giant smiled. “Like a Russian dancing bear.”
“Hammer is the animal, Viktor,” Jane said. “Not you.”
“Tell us what happened to you, Jane,” Louise said. “How were you captured?”
Using as few words as possible, Jane told of the events of the past few days and the death of O’Hara.
“And now we’re also condemned to death,” Bridie said.
“But there is still hope,” Jane said. “My son is still out there and he’ll move heaven and earth to save us.”
“Your son?” Louise said.
“Yes, I’m Samuel Flintlock’s mother,” Jane said. She smiled. “I’ll tell you the story of that one day.” She swayed on her feet. “Suddenly I’m very tired.”
With amazing gentleness Viktor helped Jane to his cot. “Lady, you the oldest of us,” he said. “Get tired quicker.”
“Thank you, I think,” Jane said.
“We have bread and beans, Jane,” Louise said. “Perhaps if you ate you’d feel better.”
“No. Once I rest awhile, I’ll be fine,” Jane said.
Bridie looked around her. “Four of us crammed into this little cell with no bath. It’s going to get ripe in here.”
“Bridie, it’s ripe in here already,” Louise said.
* * *
Darkness fell and torches flickered around the compound.
Jane lay on Viktor’s cot, Bridie on the other while Louise and the giant stretched out on the floor.
Pitchfork Pass Page 14