Flintlock

by William W. Johnstone

“I’ll talk to Captain Shaw about that when we get back,” Flintlock said. He looked around him. “We can leave the horses right here.”

  “So what about the lieutenant?” Pagg said. “He’s the hero.”

  “When we move out, the burro will follow us,” Flintlock said.

  But it didn’t. The little animal wanted to stay with the horses.

  Finally Charlie Fong, his face empty, went back and led the donkey forward.

  Howard’s body looked as though it had been splashed with red paint.

  Booted and spurred white men don’t sneak up on Apaches.

  Unless the warriors were sound asleep in a tree-lined clearing because they feared no attack.

  The Chiricahua sprawled around a small fire, a string of smoke lifting from its ashy coals. Standing next to the tethered Apache ponies and the army mules in the darkness, Howard’s white charger looked like a ghost horse.

  Abe Roper, Asa Pagg and his gunmen and Charlie Fong had shaken out in a line on the edge of the clearing and crouched low in thick underbrush that smelled of rotten vegetation and mold.

  Fong was an unknown quantity, but Roper and the others were named gunfighters, and five of them made a force to be reckoned with. The distances were short and this would be a revolver scrape, the kind of fighting in which skilled gunmen excelled.

  The quiet that had descended around the Apache camp was such an uneasy thing, Sam Flintlock wondered if that uneasy nature itself would shatter the silence with a bang of thunder or would prod a dozing screech owl into an outraged shriek.

  But right then he needed silence. He needed a silence as quiet as the grave.

  Rising from his crouch, Flintlock rose and stepped to the burro that stood head down, oblivious to anything happening around it.

  Trying to avoid even a glance at the horror on its back, Flintlock led the burro forward. The body stank of blood and spilled guts, and now its mouth hung open, as though about to scream at this final indignity.

  Flintlock froze at the edge of the clearing as a warrior mumbled in his sleep and restlessly flopped from his back onto his side. The man finally settled and lay still.

  The thud-thud of his heartbeat loud in his ears, Flintlock led the burro into the clearing, as close to the sleeping Apaches as he dared. The little animal was placid, its huge brown eyes free of any thought or doubt, and it stood still when Flintlock dropped the lead-rope.

  He backtracked into the brush and whispered, “Get ready.”

  There was no sound and no movement from the Apaches. Young men sleep sound.

  Flintlock cast around and found what he was looking for, a piece of pine branch about a foot long. He measured the distance between him and the campfire, then chunked the branch. His aim was perfect. The branch thudded into the fire and shot upward an exclamation point of ash and flame.

  Then three events happened very quickly, one tumbling after the other.

  The Apaches woke, sprang to their feet and grabbed for weapons.

  The burro, a friendly creature, walked silently toward them on dainty feet.

  The corrupt gasses that had built up in Lieutenant Howard’s body escaped from his open mouth with a low, dreadful moan.

  Their eyes as round as coins, the horrified Apaches gazed at the corpse. Not one of them moved and their rifles hung at their sides.

  The man they’d tortured and skinned and killed had returned as a demon wraith to wreak his vengeance.

  “Now!” Flintlock yelled.

  He threw the Hawken to his shoulder and drew a bead on the Apache nearest him, a short, bandy-legged man wearing a blue headband that marked him as a former army scout.

  Flintlock fired as six-guns hammered to his right, streaking orange flame. For a moment Flintlock’s target was obscured by the cloud of gray smoke belched by the Hawken. When it cleared the Apache was sprawled, unmoving, on the ground.

  Four other bucks were down, the survivor sprinting for the horses.

  “Let him be!” Flintlock yelled. “Don’t shoot!”

  He heard Asa Pagg’s puzzled shout. “What the hell?”

  As the Apache galloped away, his heels drumming on the ribs of a paint pony, Flintlock stepped into the clearing and said loud enough that everyone could hear, “He’ll carry the word back to Geronimo not to mess with the soldiers at Fort Defiance, because even dead an’ skun, they’ll come back and even the score.”

  As he punched fresh cartridges into his Colt, Pagg stepped toward Flintlock and said, “Heard you touch off the old blunderbush. You hit anything?”

  Flintlock glanced at the dead Apache. “Yeah, I killed my Indian,” he said.

  Abe Roper stepped out of darkness. He nodded in the direction of Howard’s body. “What about him?”

  “I’ll take care of the lieutenant,” Pagg said. “Least I can do since I’m takin’ his hoss.”

  “It’s army property, Asa,” Flintlock said.

  “Yeah, so it is. As though I give a damn.”

  Pagg walked to the burro, picked up the lead-rope and led the little animal into the trees at the opposite side of the clearing.

  A moment later a single gunshot fractured the deathly quiet of the night, then Pagg emerged and walked toward the Apache horses, holstering his revolver.

  He turned his head, cupped a hand to his mouth and yelled, “Lieutenant Howard is buried, boys.” He laughed, his teeth gleaming white. “About now I reckon he’s riding his burro through the gates of hell.”

  Roper said, “What say you, Sammy? Want to do it right?”

  “Hell, no,” Flintlock said. “Pagg said the man’s buried, so he’s buried.”

  “You’re a hard one by times, Sam’l,” Roper said. “I wonder if you’re any better than Pagg.”

  “Sure I am,” Flintlock said. “But not by much.”

  Roper and Charlie Fong walked across the clearing to collect the army mules. Pagg stood a distance away, showing off his new horse to Logan Dean and Joe Harte.

  Old Barnabas, smoking a clay pipe, sat on a mossy log in the trees.

  “Found your ma yet, boy?” he said.

  “Still lookin’, Grandpappy,” Flintlock said.

  “A man needs a name.”

  “I know it.”

  “Still got the old Hawken, I see,” Barnabas said. There was no wind, but the old man’s shoulder-length white hair tossed around his face.

  “I won’t part with it.”

  “More fool you,” Barnabas said. “Get yourself a Henry.”

  “You came to me in my sleep and told me to carry the Hawken,” Flintlock said.

  “Then you’re an eejit, heeding anything a dead man tells you in a dream.” Barnabas puffed on his pipe, then said, “Ask me what I do, Sam.”

  “What do you do, Grandpappy?”

  “I follow the buffalo, boy.” Barnabas’s lined face pruned in a frown. “I’ll always follow the buffalo. It’s a mountain man’s hell, like.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? It ain’t your fault.”

  Flintlock held out the rifle. “It shot well.”

  “Ain’t no big thing to kill an Injun with a one-ounce ball at ten yards, boy.”

  “It was a good shot in the dark, Grandpappy.”

  “Know what I think of that?”

  “No.”

  Barnabas cocked his ass and let rip with a tremendous fart.

  “That was a good shot in the dark as well,” he said.

  “Sam’l, who the hell are you talking to?” Abe Roper said.

  He stepped beside Flintlock and his eyes scanned the darkness.

  There was no one on the mossy log. No one anywhere.

  “Myself, I guess,” Flintlock said.

  “No, you weren’t. You were talkin’ to dead old Barnabas again,” Roper said.

  Flintlock thought about lying, but chose to be truthful. “He was here, asked me if I’d found my ma yet.”

  Roper shook his head. “Sammy, you’re nuts and getting nuttier with every passing
day. I’m gonna keep my eye on you.”

  Roper walked away, muttering, but Charlie Fong, his black eyes agleam with moonlight, stood beside Flintlock.

  “Following the buffalo, isn’t he, Sam?” Fong said.

  Flintlock was shocked. “How do you know that?”

  Fong smiled. “I have ears to hear. Eyes to see.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Sam Flintlock and them pulled out early this morning,” Asa Pagg said. “Chasing their dream, I reckon.”

  “Leaves us shorthanded if Geronimo attacks the fort,” Captain Owen Shaw said.

  “He won’t attack the fort,” Pagg said. “He lost five young bucks last night. That’ll scare him away for a spell and give us the time we need.”

  “I wish I had your confidence, Asa,” Shaw said.

  “Best Flintlock and Roper are gone,” Pagg said. “With the job we got planned comin’ down soon, them boys could have messed things up for us, lookin’ fer a share, like.”

  “That idiot Grove has already messed things up,” Shaw said. “He brought five men with him. Have you seen them? All of them have fought Apaches and there’s isn’t one that looks like he’d be a bargain.”

  “Me and Logan and Joe will take care of them.” Pagg looked at the two gunmen, who were lounging against a wall in the captain’s quarters. “Ain’t that right, boys?”

  Joe Harte smiled and said, “We’re a sight worse hell in a fight than Apaches.”

  “Damn right we are,” Dean said. “A hundred times worse.”

  Pagg smiled. “See, Captain? The boys are primed.”

  “Where are Flintlock and the others headed?” Shaw said.

  “A breed by the name of Jack Coffin is scouting for them, taking them north to look for a golden bell.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s a big windy tinpans tell, about a huge bell made of gold that the old Spanish men left in a cave.” Pagg waved a negligent hand. “I wouldn’t put any stock in the story and only idiots like Roper and Flintlock would.”

  Shaw smiled. “You’re right. We have gold closer to home, Asa.”

  “No, we don’t, not until the coins are lying heavy in our palms.”

  “The pay wagon will be here any day now,” Shaw said. Because of his wound he’d been served breakfast in his quarters. He poured coffee into a cup from a silver pot, then said, “With the Apaches out, we can expect an escort.”

  “I can take care of them as well,” Pagg said.

  “You and those two, Asa?” Shaw said. “Maybe this job is getting too big, too complicated. Damnit, the fort is filling up and there’s more on the way.”

  “You wouldn’t yellow out on me, Captain, now would you?” Pagg said.

  “I’m just saying—”

  “I know what you’re saying, that the job is too big for you. Well, it ain’t too big, it’s that you’re too damned small.”

  “Hell, Asa, then reassure me,” Shaw said. “Say something to make me feel better.”

  Pagg smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile.

  “Here’s reassurance, Captain Shaw. I start to think that you’re turning yellow on me and I’ll kill you.” He made a gun of his hand and dropped his thumb like a hammer. “Bang! Right between them pretty brown eyes. Comprende?”

  “Harsh words, Asa,” Shaw said.

  “Yeah, and I meant every one of them.”

  A tense silence stretched taut and Joe Harte decided to lift the mood.

  “Hey, Cap’n,” he said, “would you do that Grove gal?”

  Shaw was surprised. “I never really thought about it. No, I don’t think I would.”

  “How about you, Asa?” Harte said.

  “Maybe. If I was drunk enough.”

  “Is she worth saving after the killing starts?” Harte said.

  “Hell, no. She has to die with all the rest. We’re gonna blame this on Apaches, remember?”

  “What about you, Joe?” Logan Dean said. “Would you do her?”

  “A beautiful woman is a poem, Logan,” Harte said.

  “Mrs. Grove ain’t beautiful,” Dean said.

  “No, she’s not. And she ain’t a poem either, she’s newspaper prose.”

  “Well?” Dean said.

  “Well, what?” Harte said.

  “Damnit, man, would you do her?”

  “Nah. Too scrawny.”

  “Did we get that settled?” Pagg said. “Or do you want to discuss it further, Logan?”

  “Yeah, I guess we got it settled,” Dean said. “I wouldn’t do her either.”

  “Then I got the last word,” Pagg said. “There are two women in this fort and when the time comes they die with the rest of them.”

  “Hell, Asa, shooting ol’ Mrs. Ashton will be like killing my own ma,” Dean said.

  “You never had a ma, Logan,” Pagg said.

  “Everybody had a ma, Asa,” Dean said.

  Pagg said, “There are exceptions to every rule.”

  “And you’re one of them, Logan,” Harte said, grinning.

  “Kiss my arse,” Dean said.

  Shaw picked up the coffeepot, looked inside and then let the lid fall, like a period at the end of a sentence.

  “I think our business is concluded,” he said. “Asa, we’ll meet again when the pay wagon gets here and plan our strategy.”

  Pagg got to his feet. “I got a hundred thousand dollars riding on you, Shaw,” he said. “Don’t let me down.”

  “If they catch me, I’ll hang,” Shaw said.

  “If they catch us, we’ll all hang,” Pagg said. He scowled at the captain like an unhappy schoolmaster. “You scared?”

  “Of course I’m scared. What man can plan to murder a score of people, steal a pay wagon from the U.S. Army and not be scared?”

  “Then learn to live with it, Captain,” Pagg said. “It gets easier after a while.”

  “When the time comes, Asa, please, no killing until I give the word,” Shaw said. “I want to be damned sure we wrap this up without any loose ends.”

  “Sure, Captain, sure,” Pagg said. He shook his head. “God, you’re a pathetic excuse for a man. A damned scared rabbit is what you are.”

  Pagg turned to Harte. “Hey, Joe, he denies it, but Captain Shaw here would do Mrs. Grove.”

  “Or she’d do him,” Harte said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When a man reaches a certain age, he’ll sometimes catch a glimpse of himself in a mirror and stop and wonder and ask himself, “Can that old coot really be me?”

  Sam Flintlock was nearly forty, not quite old enough to seek out lying looking glasses, but his face reflected in the rock pool shocked him.

  Despite a growth of stubble, the thunderbird on his throat stood out in stark relief. Grotesque was the effect, a startling image that caused children to run from him and women to take a step back and stare, fascinated yet half afraid.

  Flintlock stared at himself, the reflection of the flaming scarlet sky framing his head like a man gazing into a mirror in hell.

  Why had old Barnabas done this to him?

  “So folks will remember you, boy,” the old man had said. “A man folks don’t remember is of no account.”

  Flintlock grimaced, as did the man in the rock pool.

  They remember me all right, Barnabas. But for all the wrong reasons.

  A rock splashed into the pool and threw water into Flintlock’s face. He came up fast, the Colt that had been lying beside him in his hands.

  Jack Coffin didn’t flinch, only glared at him.

  “Why the hell did you do that?” Flintlock said, angry. “I thought it was Apaches.”

  “If it had been Geronimo and his band, you’d be dead,” Coffin said. Then, “Why do you stare into the water, Samuel? What pictures do you see?”

  “This face. It was the only picture I saw.”

  Coffin looked behind him to where Roper and Charlie Fong were bent over, encouraging kindling to flame, then directed his attention back to F
lintlock.

  “The bird on your throat troubles you,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Sometimes it does. Tonight. It troubles me tonight.”

  Coffin nodded. “The Lakota call the thunderbird Wakiya. It means—”

  “I know what it means,” Flintlock said.

  “Then you know you bear sacred wings on your throat. It is not an evil thing.”

  Flintlock realized he still had the revolver pointed at Coffin. He shoved the Colt back into his waistband and said, “Why are you making this your business?”

  “You will not die soon, Sam,” Coffin said. “You will live long.”

  Flintlock smiled. “Well, that’s good to hear.”

  “You have great tribulations ahead and you will suffer a wound. But the thunderbird will bring you luck and you will not perish.”

  “Hey, Sammy, fill the coffeepot and bring it here, like I told you,” Roper yelled. “We got a fire goin’.”

  “Be right there,” Flintlock said. He picked up the pot he’d left by the pool as Coffin said, “Old Barnabas had lived with Indians and what they saw in dreams, he saw. He knew the thunderbird would one day save your life. That is why he had the Assiniboine put it there.”

  “I guess it’s good to think that way, Jack,” Flintlock said.

  He brushed past Coffin, but stopped and turned when the man said, “Samuel, will you steal the bell?”

  “Ain’t that why we’re here?” Flintlock said.

  “It is guarded by Death. That is what they say.”

  “So you told us already.”

  Coffin said nothing, but he nodded and walked into the pines.

  “What were you and the breed jawing about?” Roper said.

  “This and that. The bird on my throat, mostly.”

  “If that had happened to me, when I got big enough to hold a scattergun I would’ve cut that old man in half,” Roper said.

  “Coffin said Barnabas did it to save my life,” Flintlock said.

  “The breed is crazy, everybody knows that.”

  “Maybe so,” Flintlock said. “How’s the coffee?”

  Roper lifted the lid of the pot, the firelight red on his face.

  “We’ll let it bile some more,” he said. “She still won’t float a silver dollar.”