Hell's Gate

by William W. Johnstone

  Could Hogan Lord shade me on the draw and shoot? Damn right he could and on my best day.

  “Well, now that we’re all reacquainted, tell us what you’re doing here, Flintlock,” Poteet said. “Be honest and straight up, like a white man.”

  “What I’m not doing here is murdering old men,” Flintlock said.

  “Self-defense, Sam,” Lord said. “McDonald was fixing to cut loose with the Sharps. Mr. Poteet here was in fear for his life.”

  “It took six of you to kill one old man?” Flintlock said.

  Poteet shrugged. “That’s the way his hand played out.” He looked past Lord to the other riders. “All right, boys, go earn your day’s pay.”

  Now that his quick anger had subsided and he no longer saw through a red haze, Flintlock realized that the four men who’d climbed out of the saddle and stepped onto the porch were of a different stripe than Poteet and Lord. Low-browed and coarse, these were common thugs, dark-alley specialists, skull-and-boot fighters more at home with a sap, billy club, brass knuckles or a knife than a Colt. All four wore plug hats and the townsman’s lace-up boots and when they talked to one another their accents were not of the West but of the rank, violent slums of the big northern cities. They were trash, but hideously dangerous and they’d attack in packs.

  “Tear the cabin apart, boys,” Poteet said. “If the map’s in there find it.” He stared at Flintlock, his eyes hard as stone. “You thinking of taking cards in this game?”

  “I reckon not,” Flintlock said. “I know when I’m facing a stacked deck.”

  “You, breed?” Poteet said as crashing, smashing and splintering sounds came from the cabin.

  “I’m not the law,” O’Hara said. “I’ve got no call to be involved.”

  “Wise man,” Poteet said, dismissing O’Hara with a disdainful glance reserved for anyone not of the white race.

  Poteet and Lord sat their saddles for the best part of an hour while the cabin was wrecked. They ignored the torrential rain as though it was a matter of no consequence.

  Finally, one of the thugs stepped out the door onto the porch and said, “It ain’t there, Mr. Poteet.”

  Poteet didn’t hide his disappointment. “You sure?”

  “Look for yourself, we tore the place apart. Two hundred dollars in a cigar box but no map.” The thug shook his head. “It just ain’t there.”

  Poteet, a big man whose claim to handsomeness was sabotaged by the cruel hardness of his mouth and his dead gray eyes, said, “Dave, you and the others share the two hundred among you, a bonus for getting wet.”

  “Obliged to you for that, Mr. Poteet,” the scarred bruiser named Dave said. Then, as the others three joined him, “You want us to ride to Mansion Creek with you?”

  Hogan Lord answered that question. “No. You four got too many wanted dodgers on your back trail and you could be recognized. And that goes for you too, Nathan. Stay close to town and I’ll send for you when I need you.”

  “Need him for what, Hogan?” Flintlock said. “Does he have more old men to kill?”

  Poteet’s face hardened into hewn rock. “Take my advice, don’t push it, Flintlock,” he said.

  “Listen to the man, Sam,” Lord said. “Mr. Poteet will take only so much.”

  “And then I get the urge to kill somebody,” Poteet said. “Keep that in mind.”

  “Sam, let it go,” O’Hara said, his voice urgent. “This isn’t the time or place.”

  “Listen to the breed, Sam,” Lord said. “If you stop in Mansion Creek look me up. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Poteet, you didn’t put the crawl on me,” Flintlock said. “What’s your opinion on that? Sum it up, now.”

  “We broke even, Flintlock,” Poteet said. “That’s my opinion.”

  “Sam, you can live with that,” O’Hara said.

  Flintlock nodded. “So be it.” But there was a rage in him that scalded like acid.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “We done well by the old man, buried him decent,” O’Hara said.

  Sam Flintlock nodded. “I reckon. He had two mourners and a marked grave, that’s more than most mountain men could hope for.”

  The rain had stopped during the night and Flintlock and O’Hara had buried Jamie MacDonald by lantern light, neither feeling much inclined to sleep. Now, as they took to the trail again, the sky was serene and white clouds drifted across its blue depths like lilies on a pond. The air smelled fresh after the rain had settled the dust and was heavy with the scent of pine and juniper. An east wind rustled in the grass like the whispers of dead Navajo. Ahead of the two riders rose the twin peaks of the Pastora and Zibetod mountains. Nestled between them in a grassy meadow ringed by stands of juniper, pine and mountain oak, lay a one-street settlement that Flintlock decided must be Mansion Creek.

  O’Hara was of the same mind. “Maybe we can get breakfast. I should’ve shot the ranny who tipped out MacDonald’s stew.”

  “But you didn’t,” Flintlock said, drawing rein.

  O’Hara smiled. “I’ve lived among white men for a long time, but I’m still not completely crazy. Hogan Lord is not a man to antagonize.”

  “Unless you have to,” Flintlock said. “You’re the banker. How much money do we have?”

  “Enough for coffee, bacon and eggs, and then we’re done.”

  “Maybe we can find some work.”

  “Maybe. Saloon swampers are always in demand.”

  Flintlock grimaced. “I was thinking more of something in the restaurant trade. At least we’d eat regular.”

  “Dishwasher?”

  “If that’s all I can get.”

  O’Hara shook his head. “I’d rather rob the town bank.”

  “It may come to that,” Flintlock said. He kneed his horse forward. “Did you see Barnabas at the graveside?”

  “I saw him,” O’Hara said. “He didn’t seem to be cut up about MacDonald’s death.”

  “For Barnabas it’s way too late for sorrow,” Flintlock said. He shrugged. “Or maybe when he was alive he didn’t like the old man. Barnabas didn’t like many people.”

  O’Hara smiled. “Who did he like?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. I only know that whoever they were, I wasn’t one of them.” Flintlock’s eyes rose to the sky above Mansion Creek. “Hell, look at that, there’s buzzards drifting above the town.”

  “A bad omen for somebody,” O’Hara said.

  Flintlock sighed. “You know, I have the strangest feeling that we’re not heading into a happy time.”

  “But maybe your ma is there in town, Sam,” O’Hara said. “There’s always that possibility.”

  “Something is there, all right,” Flintlock said. “But I don’t think it’s my ma. I don’t think she’d turn the air black.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Wicked things,” Flintlock said. “Like hell has emptied out and all the devils are right there in Mansion Creek.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sam Flintlock mopped up a smear of egg yolk with a piece of bread, popped it in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully and then said, “Well, that hit the spot.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” O’Hara said. “It could be a long time before you taste bacon and eggs again.”

  Flintlock shook his head and frowned. “O’Hara, what half of you makes you so darned depressing, the Indian or the Irish?” Because of the pretty young lady who sat at another table, he’d gone out of his way to say darned instead of damned, but the girl didn’t seem to notice.

  O’Hara spoke again. “Sam, you haven’t seen depressing yet. If we don’t find some work and earn money soon both halves of me will really be woebegone.”

  “Woebegone? Where did you dig up that word?” Flintlock said, irritated that he didn’t know what it meant.

  “It means to feel unhappy. Heard a snake-oil salesman say it one time to some ladies. He said if they felt woebegone they should buy a bottle of his remedy, guaranteed to make them happier . . . instanter!�
��

  Flintlock was intrigued. “And did it?”

  “Since the stuff was about nine-tenths rotgut I guess it did.” O’Hara saw a glint in Flintlock’s eye and said, “Forget it, Sam. It takes money to start a business like that and we don’t have any.”

  “Well, maybe there’s some ranny with a fat reward on him on the scout in Mansion Creek,” Flintlock said. “That Nathan Poteet now, and the four with him look like they’re on the dodge, to say nothing of Hogan Lord. He’s killed more than his share and not all of them legal.”

  “My advice at the MacDonald cabin was not to take on six killers at a time,” O’Hara said. “It still stands.”

  “Maybe I’m overreaching at that,” Flintlock said. “But it’s something to keep in mind. Well, that and as you said, there’s always the town bank if things don’t start shaking our way soon.”

  A big-bellied man wearing a stained white apron stepped to the table and began to pick up the plates. He grinned and said, “You boys must have been almighty hungry on account of how you ate the flowers right off the plates.” He held up a dish. “Look, it’s down to white.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good joke,” Flintlock said. “But unless we can find some work real soon we’ll be mighty hungry all over again.”

  The restaurant owner shook his head. “If it’s honest work you’re looking for there’s nothing in this town or in the whole of Apache County,” he said. Then, looking wise, “You boys should head north, pick up the Old Spanish Trail and follow it west all the way to California. Plenty of work there for a man.”

  “We’d starve to death before we got to California,” Flintlock said.

  “You could kill your chuck along the way,” the man said.

  “Thanks,” Flintlock said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “Anytime. Happy to oblige.”

  Flintlock sat back in his chair and decided that his search for his mother was rapidly going nowhere, thwarted by a lack of funds. But then a man’s voice at his elbow gave him new hope. “Excuse my intrusion, I couldn’t help overhearing and I may be able to help you, young fellow.”

  Flintlock turned and saw the jowly, florid face of the man who sat at the next table. Opposite him was the pretty girl Flintlock had noticed earlier, a petite brunette with the wide dark eyes of a startled fawn. “Do you have work?” he said.

  “Possibly. Would you care to join us?” the man said. His thin black hair was combed over a bald crown, and his belly hung between his thighs like a sack of grain. Whereas the girl’s eyes were a lustrous golden brown tinged with green, the fat man’s were almost black, the color of Louisiana swamp mud.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Flintlock said. He dragged his chair over to the man’s table and O’Hara did likewise. “This here is my friend, O’Hara, and I’m Sam Flintlock.”

  The girl stared at O’Hara, at the long black hair falling over the shoulders of his beaded Apache vest and the holstered Colt on his hip, and then to Flintlock, her gaze moving from his great hooked nose to his stained buckskin shirt and finally lingered on the thunderbird tattooed across his throat. She seemed alarmed, almost fearful, and the fat man smiled and placed his huge, pudgy hand over hers.

  “Don’t be distressed, my dear,” he said, purring like a cat at the cream bowl. “I realize they look a pair of frontier ruffians but surprisingly their kind can be quite gentlemanly, even the half-breed savage. But just to set your mind at rest . . .” The man reached under his coat and produced a short-barreled Colt that he laid on the table. “You’ll be quite safe now, Lucy.”

  The girl had the good grace to blush. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Tobias,” she said. Then to Flintlock, “I meant no disrespect, sir. I . . . I fear I am not yet used to the ways of the West. My name is Lucy Cully of the Philadelphia Cullys.”

  “And I’m Tobias Fynes, this town’s only banker and Miss Lucy’s lawyer,” the fat man said. He glared at O’Hara. “You disapprove of me?”

  “I disapprove of any man who draws a gun on me,” O’Hara said, thoroughly disliking the fat man. “I make it a rule never to shoot women, children and most animals, but I got no trouble gunning a banker or a lawyer, come to that.”

  “O’Hara is a tad testy this morning, but he’s right pleased to make your acquaintance, Tobias,” Flintlock said. “Now, you said you could help us. Do you have work?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.” Fynes tore hostile eyes away from O’Hara and his smile was practiced and as slick as oil on water. “But let Miss Lucy give you a little background first.”

  “What I have to tell you is most singular in its content, so much so that I can scarcely believe it myself,” the girl said. She took a sip of coffee, composed herself and continued, “To the north of town there is a mesa, a remote spot of much beauty and tranquillity. After he retired from gold prospecting, it was near there, on a lofty crag or rock, that my grandfather Cully built a mansion in what is called the Gothic style.”

  “Mechan, Miss Lucy’s grandfather, didn’t build the mansion from scratch,” Fynes said. “He had the house moved from Philadelphia, brick by brick, and then hired workers to reassemble it on the very edge of the crag.”

  “When Grandfather died last year I discovered that he’d left the house to me in his will,” Lucy said. “I was his only living relative.”

  “There was no money, only the house,” Fynes said. “Mechan was penniless when he was killed.”

  “He was killed?” Flintlock said.

  “Murdered,” Fynes said. “His feet were burned and he was almost decapitated by an ax and viciously cut about with a knife. The killer was never caught.”

  Lucy dabbed tears from her eyes with a scrap of lace handkerchief, and Fynes reached over the table and patted her on the shoulder. Flintlock noticed that the fat man made the gesture in such a way that the heel of his hand lingered a few seconds too long on the topmost swell of the girl’s breast.

  “May I continue, Mr. Fynes?” Lucy said, her cheekbones tinged pink, aware of what the lawyer had done to her. “After all, my present situation is of the greatest moment.”

  “Yes, my dear, please continue,” Fynes said. “You do indeed have a harrowing story to tell.”

  Lucy said, “Mr. Flintlock—”

  “Call me Sam.”

  “Sam, I fear that when my grandfather moved his house out here he brought something else from Philadelphia besides bricks, tiles and paneling . . . something evil, something wicked.”

  “I sensed that when I rode into town, but it sounds like nothing a Colt can’t get rid of,” Flintlock said.

  “Sam,” Lucy said, “you can’t shoot what’s not alive.”

  “What do you think of all these ha’ants and sich, Fynes?” Flintlock said.

  “Indeed, there have been rumors of strange happenings in and around the house,” the fat man said. “All of them started after old Mechan died.” Fynes smiled. “But it’s a very old house, floorboards creak, loose windows rattle, unlatched doors bang open and shut and the wind sighs around the eaves. It’s just that and nothing more.”

  “Have you spent a night in the house, Fynes?” O’Hara said.

  “No, I haven’t. The house is not mine, though I fervently wish Miss Lucy would sell it to me.”

  “Sam, when I arrived in Mansion Creek a week ago I was told the house was haunted and that the couple that Mr. Fynes had hired as housekeepers had spent only two days in the old place before they fled into the night, leaving their belongings behind them.”

  “Did you speak with them, Fynes?” Flintlock said.

  “I didn’t get a chance. As far as I know they’re still running.”

  Flintlock grinned. “Now I get it. You want me and O’Hara to go into the house and chase off the ghosts or whatever they are. How much will you pay?”

  Lucy said, her pretty face troubled, said, “It’s not that simple. Being of a somewhat timid nature I’m hesitant to take possession of the house. My plan had been to inspect th
e property and then return to Philadelphia to wed my fiancé, Roderick, a Romantic poet of considerable renown. But he has weak lungs and both his doctor and Roderick’s best friend, Walt Whitman, advised him to return to the West with me where the clean air would soon make him strong again. But now I’m not so sure of my plan. If the house is really haunted by evil spirits, I will sell it to Mr. Fynes and return back East, hopefully to happier times.”

  “And I will purchase at fair market value, my dear,” the banker said, sweat beading the blue jowls of his eager face. “You may rest assured of that.” Tobias Fynes sat back in his chair, studied Flintlock over the tips of his steepled fingers and then said, “And now we come to the crux of the matter, the very essence of the problem, and you, Mr. Flintlock, could well be the solution.”

  “How much does being the solution pay?” O’Hara said.

  “Five hundred dollars,” Fynes said. “Cash in your hand.”

  “It’s thin,” Flintlock said. “Five hundred will not go far.”

  “Ah yes, perhaps so, but for a week, seven full days, you will live in luxury in a beautifully appointed house stocked with plenty of grub, tobacco and whiskey. I know that a loose woman or two would help seal the deal with men of your stripe, but there are none to be had.”

  Lucy Cully gave Flintlock a sympathetic glance as he said, “You want men of our stripe, me and O’Hara, to spend the week in the Cully mansion?”

  “Exactly. At the end of that time you will either tell Miss Cully that her house is free of ghosts and other evils and she will take possession, or you will declare that the home is indeed haunted and on no account should she live there, especially with an ailing husband.” The fat banker stared into Flintlock’s eyes. “So, will you do it? Come now, speak up, give me a yes or no.”

  “When do we get the five hundred?” O’Hara said, his dislike for Fynes so palpable that the harsh tone of his voice made others in the restaurant turn to look at him.

  “You will take residence tomorrow,” Fynes said. “Seven days later, when the job is done, you will be paid in full.”

  “If we’re still alive?” Flintlock said.