He inspected the hands of the corpses and as he expected all were soft and well cared for with clean fingernails, not the calloused hands of miners or laboring men—and they each had the same tattoo of three red triangles on a blue line he’d seen before. Whoever they were, these men had been an elite, and this close to the mesa it meant they were hired guns . . . Jacob Hammer’s hired guns, and they’d fallen foul of men as skilled and dangerous as themselves.
But who were they?
The spent rifle cartridges were all from Winchesters, not the Springfield .45-70, and that ruled out the army. A posse of lawmen was plausible, but unlikely. Deputizing enough civilians to ride into the red rock country and take on a feared enemy would be difficult, well-nigh impossible.
The whole affair was a mystery and Flintlock had no answers.
* * *
Deciding to wait until the fog lifted completely, Flintlock ate a meal of pan bread and a couple of slices of cold bacon. After an hour, in clear air, he mounted the buckskin and followed the tracks of the ambushers. They’d headed due north and had probably passed him, invisible in the murk. Another mile brought him up on a column of slanted rock that rose above the flat like the yellowed rib of a gigantic animal. Windblown sand and rain had polished the surface of the rock to a sheen that reflected the sunlight. But what caught Flintlock’s attention was that here the tracks of the men he followed merged with others, many mounted men riding north followed by the smaller prints of mules, heavily loaded, judging by the depth their hooves had sunk into the sand. The horse droppings were still fresh, so the riders and their pack animals were not far ahead of him.
But Flintlock had reason to be cautious.
It seemed that he was tracking a small army and seeing what they’d done to the six men back at Balakai Point, they were not inclined to be friendly.
But whose army?
Flintlock refused to speculate . . . whatever answer he came up with was bound to be wrong.
His curiosity roused, wondering how this turn of events would affect his mother and the other Hammer prisoners, for the rest of the day he shadowed the column, and when they camped at dusk he found a deep dry wash where he could spread his blankets and keep out of sight. Like himself, the mystery riders made a cold camp, and the thought came to Flintlock that they planned an attack on Jacob Hammer. He had no reason to believe that, but why else would a small army of men be in this country? But there was also the chance that they were allies, men hired by the Old Man of the Mountain for one of his villainous schemes. Flintlock decided to keep his distance and see what happened.
Pretty soon, Flintlock got into his blankets and, surprised by his tiredness, he fell asleep instantly.
* * *
Sam Flintlock woke with the dawn, saddled the buckskin and tied down his bedroll. Breakfast was a cigarette, a small piece of bread, the last of it, and a drink of water. He had his foot in the stirrup when three riflemen appeared on the bank of the wash and the meanest of them said, “Mister, step away from the hoss or I’ll drop you right where you stand.”
Flintlock did as he was told, turned and said, “What are your intentions?”
“My intention is to kill you,” the mean gent said. “Unless you can convince me otherwise.”
“And that ain’t likely,” the stone-faced gunman beside him said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A silent gunman pushed bread and a bowl of beans through the cell door into Viktor’s waiting hands. For a few moments the man stood there, sniffed, and walked away, shaking his head.
“How would you smell without a bath for days?” Jane McIntyre called after him. “Tell Hammer we need to bathe.”
The gunman ignored that, waved an uncaring hand and kept on walking.
“Son of a bitch!” Jane yelled, all her pent-up anger spiking each word.
She took a piece of bread from Viktor and sat beside Louise Smith, who lay on a cot. The girl’s eyes were closed and sweat beaded her forehead.
As gently as she could, Jane put her arm around Louise’s shoulders and lifted her head. “Eat some of this bread, Louise,” she said. “You must eat.”
“No . . . I don’t want to eat. I want to die.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” Jane said. “Because I have no intention of letting you die.”
The girl’s eyes fluttered open. “When . . . when they do it, cut off my head, I mean, will I feel pain? Will my eyes still see when my head rolls on the ground? Will I know?”
“I can’t answer that,” Jane said. “Don’t even think about it because it isn’t going to happen.”
“Your son will save us?”
“Yes, he will. Sam will find a way.”
“No, he won’t. He won’t find a way because there is no way. You, me, Bridie and Viktor, we’re all going to die soon. I’d rather lie here in this terrible place and let my life slip away than face the headman’s sword.” Tears formed in Louise’s eyes. “Please, Jane, do me one last favor . . . let me will myself to die.”
“Eat the bread and stop feeling sorry for yourself, you damned slut,” Bridie O’Toole said, her eyes aglow with rage. “You may live or you may die, like the rest of us, but we’re not going to stand by and watch you kill yourself.” She snatched the bread from Jane’s hand, bent over and shoved it into the girl’s mouth. Louise clenched her teeth but Bridie shoved harder, grinding the bread against the girl’s lips with the palm of her hand. “Eat! Eat! Eat! Damn you, eat!”
“Bridie, no!” Jane yelled. She pulled the woman away and said, “Viktor, hold her.” Louise sat up on the cot. Her mouth was covered in saliva and bread crumbs and blood trickled from a cut on her lower lip. Jane again put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and said, “It’s all right. You’ll be just fine, I promise.”
Louise broke free of Jane’s arm and lay on her back, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh God, how I wish I was dead,” she said.
Viktor let Bridie go and sat on the cot. He took the girl’s hand, placed it against his lips and whispered, “Viktor will not let anything happen to you. Sleep now and later you will eat.” Louise closed her eyes and the giant gently brushed damp hair off her forehead with his massive paw.
Outside the steel gate someone applauded.
Jacob Hammer stood there, smiling in a shaft of morning light that angled from the hole in the mesa roof. “That was most entertaining,” he said. He wore a Chinese morning tunic of blue silk. “A scene worthy of Dante’s Inferno, played out by the damned.”
Jane stood close to the door. “Hammer, you’ve had your little joke, now release us,” she said.
The man shook his head. “This is no joke, Pinkerton lady. You must all die, and very soon.” He looked at Louise, who sat up on the cot, watching him. “Do not be afraid, my faithless bride. Decapitation by the sword is the most elegant of deaths. It is an exquisite thing and there is only a whisper of pain, there for a moment, and then gone.”
“Hammer, you’re a madman,” Jane said.
“Yes, of course I’m mad, but then the whole world is mad and there can be no great genius without a touch of madness.”
“You’re not a genius, Hammer,” Jane said. “You’re a cheap, violent thug who has lasted this long only because you hid yourself away in a wilderness and called yourself the Old Man of the Mountain. In a city, you’d be just another two-bit hoodlum and you’d have been hanged or jailed years ago.”
“Perhaps,” Hammer said. “But then, was choosing this remote mesa not a sign of my genius? Besides, I am planning a return to the city, where I’ll obtain riches and power that a churl like you can’t begin to imagine.”
“You damned fool, you’ll be dangling from a noose within a year.”
“Most unlikely.” Hammer sniffed. “Hmm . . . this cell will need to be cleaned out after you’re all dead.”
“You won’t kill us, Hammer.”
“That is an idle boast, Pinkerton, and now you bore me. But I’ll leave you with this thought . . . un
like beheading, burning is a terrible death and it is not quick. I so look forward to watching your last agonies as I dine.”
Hammer abruptly turned and walked away. Jane let loose a string of mountain man curses at his retreating back but he seemed not to have heard.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Do you know why my men didn’t shoot you down in the dry wash?” the little, one-eyed man said.
“My good looks?” Sam Flintlock said.
“Hardly,” Colonel Alfons Janowski said. “I must warn you not to make any further jocular remarks, sir. Your life hangs in the balance. They did not kill you because you said you were an enemy of Jacob Hammer, and the enemy of our enemy is a friend. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do,” Flintlock said.
“You may be a spy.”
“A man with a bird tattoo on his throat does not make a good spy. I don’t blend in, if you catch my drift.”
“No, you do not, that is certain. But the question remains, where do you blend in? With Hammer’s gunmen, perhaps?”
Flintlock shook his head. “No . . . not with Hammer’s men. He holds my mother captive and his gunmen killed my best, my only, friend.”
Janowski turned to one of his men and said, “Give this man coffee. He has a story to tell and his own life to save.”
The colonel and his fifty mercenaries, three regular army soldiers and a few hired mule skinners were camped on the east side of Balakai Mesa. He’d chosen his camp wisely, hidden in a stand of juniper and sagebrush. The trees helped dissipate the smoke from the only fire in camp, where a huge pot of coffee hung over the meager flames.
After Flintlock tried his coffee and built a cigarette, Janowski said, “Now talk, and may God help you if I catch you lying.”
“I have many faults, but lying isn’t one of them,” Flintlock said.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Now proceed,” Janowski said.
Flintlock recounted his time in the Arizona Territory, his war on Hammer’s couriers and the death of O’Hara and the capture of his mother and Bridie O’Toole. He mentioned Louise Smith, adding that she was either Hammer’s bride or dead.
When Flintlock finished speaking, Janowski turned to the men who surrounded him, listening, and said, “Did you hear that, gentleman? The Pinkertons were here before us.”
This occasioned a babble of comment in half a dozen different tongues and one gray-haired man spoke for the rest when he said, “Just two women?”
Flintlock nodded. “Sometimes two women can be an army.”
This brought laughter and after it died away Janowski said, “When my attack on the mesa begins, I can’t guarantee your mother’s safety . . . Mr. . . . ah . . .”
“Flintlock. Sam Flintlock.”
“Do you understand what I just told you?” Janowski said.
“Yes. I understand. I’ll make myself responsible for my mother.”
“That is, if I let you take part in the attack,” Janowski said. “Most of my men were trained soldiers. They know how to fight and follow orders.”
“So do I,” Flintlock said.
Janowski looked doubtful, but once again Lady Luck smiled on Flintlock as though she’d adopted him as a son.
A tall, thin man with a heroic mustache had just joined the group around the colonel when he saw Flintlock and roared, “Damn your eyes . . . Sam Flintlock!”
Flintlock looked at the man and said, “Chester Drake. How the hell are you doing?”
“I’m doing fine. I heard you was dead, Sam, so seeing you sitting there is a sore disappointment to me.”
“You two know each other?” Janowski said.
“Well, we swapped lead once over to Caldwell way when we were bounty-hunting the same outlaw,” Drake said. “You was lucky that day, Sam. My shooting was off on account of too much whiskey the night before.”
“And you was lucky my Winchester jammed up,” Flintlock said. “As I recollect, by the time I shucked my Colt you were already flapping your chaps over the horizon.”
“With the two-thousand-dollar reward money fer Mexican Bob Becerra in my pocket,” Drake said, grinning. “Did you forget about that?”
“I didn’t forget. I spent quite a while looking for you, Chester,” Flintlock said. “For old times’ sake. But we never did cross tracks.”
“That’s because I stayed out of your way, Sam. You always were fast with the iron.”
“Mr. Drake, can you vouch for this man?” Janowski said.
“Colonel, Sam Flintlock is an ornery cuss and so mean he’d piss on a widow woman’s kindling, but he’s good with the Colt’s gun and he has sand.”
“Then you have the qualifications I require, Mr. Flintlock,” Janowski said. “You may join us or ride on. Whatever course you choose, I will not stand in your way.”
“I’d like to join you, Colonel,” Flintlock said.
“And I’m glad to have you as an auxiliary,” Janowski said.
“Colonel, I found six dead men south of here. Were they Hammer’s men?”
“Yes, they were. After they identified themselves to one of my patrols, they decided to make a fight of it. A bad mistake.” The colonel watched a V of geese fly over the camp, and then said, “Those scoundrels were carrying a hundred thousand dollars, presumably some of Jacob Hammer’s ill-gotten gains. Well, that money is now part of the spoils of war and will be distributed among my men, those that survive.”
“Don’t let Chester get anywhere near that cash, Colonel,” Flintlock said, looking at Drake. “He has a habit of taking all the money and then lighting a shuck for the horizon.”
Janowski allowed himself a rare smile. “I’ll bear that in mind,” he said.
* * *
After supper that night Colonel Alfons Janowski, who looked pale and seemed to be ailing from his march across some of the most rugged country on earth, called a council of war and outlined his plans for the coming attack.
He gave most of his attention to a scholarly looking, middle-aged man who wore round eyeglasses and a serious expression. Wilfred Griffiths looked like an aging Midwest college professor but he’d fought with distinction as a major in the 1st Kentucky Artillery in the War Between the States. Acknowledged to be one of the best light artillerymen in the nation, he had written several scholarly books on the subject.
“Major Griffiths, I will state my plan in regard to the howitzers and you will make your comments or ask questions after I am done,” Janowski said. “Is that clear?”
“Your obedient servant, Colonel,” Griffiths said.
“Very well then, I’ll begin,” Janowski said. “There is a man-made opening in the roof of the mesa that will be the target of your initial bombardment. I will ascend in the observation balloon and relay to you the coordinates before you open fire. Your comments?”
“I have studied the mesa and with the howitzers at maximum elevation I can drop my shells into the opening as planned. Of course, it all depends on the size of the hole.”
Flintlock said, “I’ve been up there and the opening is pretty big.”
Janowski was surprised. “Mr. Flintlock, you climbed the mesa?”
“Yes. I was looking for a way to rescue my ma,” Flintlock said. “But I had no chance of getting down into the Hammer compound from there. It’s a deep hole.”
“How deep?” Griffiths said.
“Thirty feet, maybe more,” Flintlock said.
“And how big is the opening?”
“It’s a circle. I’d say ten paces across.”
“About twenty feet?”
“Yeah, about that.”
“Major Griffiths, can you hit a target that small?” Janowski said.
“Yes, Colonel. Once I have the coordinates I believe I can.”
“Believe you can, Major?”
Griffiths smiled. “I know I can.”
Janowski nodded. “Good . . . then that is settled.” He turned his attention to a man who wore the blue frock coat of the Prussian army though i
t was much faded and missing buttons. “Captain Von Essen, any counterattack will come from the north along this valley. You and a thirty-man infantry force will deal with this exigency.”
Dieter Von Essen, a tall, robust soldier of fortune who was cashiered from the Prussian army for pilfering funds from the officers’ mess, said, “Mein Oberst, there is an entrance to Herr Hammer’s compound, a narrow pass. We do not as yet know the enemy numbers. Rather than meet them in the open field I suggest we lay siege to the pass and shoot them down as they try to leave.”
“Mr. Flintlock, are you familiar with this pass?” Janowski said.
“Yes, I am. It’s called Pitchfork Pass and it leads into the compound. It’s a narrow arroyo that will allow only two mounted men to ride side by side. Captain Von Essen is correct, that’s the place to defeat Hammer’s gunmen.”
“Then deploy your men outside the pass entrance as you suggest, Captain,” Janowski said.
“I’d like to join him,” Flintlock said.
“I have no objection,” Janowski said. “Captain Von Essen?”
The German smiled at Flintlock. “You are most welcome, mein Herr.”
“Then I suggest you march north now and move into position under the cover of darkness, Captain Von Essen,” Janowski said. “Much depends on you.”
“I will not fail you, mein Oberst.”
“Good . . . then we attack at dawn,” Colonel Janowski said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Captain Dieter Von Essen was a hard taskmaster and he drove his men mercilessly on the night march northwest, following the contour of the mesa. By the time he called a halt, half his men, all of them cavalrymen, hobbled on blistered feet. They were now close to Pitchfork Pass and Sam Flintlock volunteered to scout the entrance and the hilly ground opposite.
“Do not allow yourself to be seen, Herr Flintlock,” Von Essen said. “We must depend on the element of surprise.”
“No one will see me, Captain,” Flintlock said. “When it comes to sneaking around in the dark I had a great teacher.”
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