Hell's Gate

by William W. Johnstone

“Yeah, him.” Fynes grinned. “I want Reedy ready. Tell him that he’s got a marriage to perform tomorrow, once this damn rain clears.”

  “That soon, Tobias?”

  “Yeah, that soon.”

  “Suppose Lucy Cully says no?”

  “Why should she? She was planning to marry her poet anyway. All I’m doing is expediting the matter. Hell, I’m sure she’ll jump at the chance to get what Chanley will give her on her wedding night.”

  “If he’s mucho hombre,” Lord said.

  “And if he’s not, I’ll take care of the young widow myself when the time comes,” Fynes said. He saw the surprise on Lord’s face at his use of the word widow and said, “You don’t think I’ll let Roderick Chanley leave Mansion Creek with five thousand dollars of my money, do you?”

  “You got it all figured, Tobias, huh?” Lord said.

  “Damn right, I have,” Fynes said. He leaned back in his chair, settled his outspread hands on his great belly and grinned.

  * * *

  After Hogan Lord left, Tobias Fynes grabbed his umbrella and stepped out of his office. He told the bank tellers he was going home to retrieve some papers he’d left on his desk and would be back in fifteen minutes.

  Fynes stood on the boardwalk, opened the black umbrella above his head and looked around town. Because of the incessant rain the street was empty of all but a few tradesmen except for one of last night’s drunks who’d been tossed from the saloon and promptly fallen on his face in the mud. The man sat up, wiped gore from his eyes and then proceeded to sing a tortuous rendition of “O’er the Hills and Far Away.” Fynes, in a good mood, grinned at him, stepped along the walk a few paces and spun a silver dollar into the mud. It pleased him to watch the drunk scrabble around in the filthy mire searching for the coin, but after a few moments he grew bored with the spectacle and headed for home.

  Fynes’s gingerbread house lay a short distance behind the bank and was accessed by a nearby alley he’d spread with a foot of gravel to keep flooding at bay. He was pleased that his patent leather ankle boots were barely spattered with mud as he followed another gravel path to his house, shook the umbrella free of raindrops and stepped inside. But his good humor evaporated immediately as the smell of sickness assailed his nostrils. Without a word he stepped into his office, picked up a few papers from his desk and turned to leave.

  Dr. Theodora Weller blocked his way.

  “Aren’t you going to visit with your wife?” she said.

  “Why?” Fynes said. “She was dying this morning and she’s still dying now. Nothing has changed and I have nothing to say to her.”

  Fynes saw anger flash in Theodora’s eyes and he was struck by what a fine-looking woman she was, even in her mannish clothes. The brown skirt that ended just below the calves to reveal high-heeled ankle boots and the military-inspired fitted coat of the same color did nothing for her, nor did the tan derby perched on top of her piled-up hair.

  “Ruth is in a great deal of pain,” the doctor said. “And it grows harder for her to bear with every passing day.”

  “She hangs on and on and I tell her she should just roll over and die,” Fynes said. “But she doesn’t listen. Ruth only hangs on to life to torment me and she is succeeding. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Theodora stepped aside and Fynes walked to the door. He stopped and turned as the woman said his name, her voice strangely flat.

  “Tobias Fynes,” she said, “I never in my life thought I could be capable of hate. I was wrong. I hate you with my heart, my soul, with every fiber of my being. I want to see you in hell where you will suffer like your wife suffers.”

  Theodora’s mouth tightened. “One day I’ll kill you, Tobias, and I’ll dance on your grave.”

  “What you need is to open your legs to a man, and then you’ll see things differently,” Fynes said. “You’ve already failed as a doctor and now you’re failing as a woman. After Mansion Creek there’s no place left for you to go and you know it. That’s why I will very soon run you out of town.”

  Fynes opened the door then turned and touched the brim of his bowler. “Have a wonderful morning,” he said.

  The door slammed shut and Theodora swallowed hard, fighting back the bitter hatred and salt tears she knew to be self-destructive.

  “Doctor, who was that?” Ruth said from her bedroom, her voice as fragile as spun crystal.

  “It was no one, Ruth,” Theodora said. “It was no one at all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The same rain that fell on Tobias Fynes as he walked to his bank pelted Sam Flintlock and O’Hara when they left their scant shelter and scouted into the gray morning. Flintlock was less than sociable. He wanted coffee, dry clothes and a considerable amount of git between him and the increasingly irritating O’Hara.

  He made his foul mood clear. “O’Hara, there’s nothing out here but trees, mud, rain, a man without a name and one crazy Injun.” He tripped over an exposed root, caught his balance at the last moment and let out a stream of cusses in English, French and, courtesy of old Barnabas’s tutelage, Ojibway.

  O’Hara suddenly crouched low and gestured at Flintlock to do the same. Then, after a few moments of silent listening, he made another hand signal for his companion to stay where he was.

  Annoyed, Flintlock said in a whisper, “O’Hara, what the hell?”

  “Blood,” O’Hara said. “Blood in the wind.”

  There was sufficient urgency in O’Hara’s voice to make Flintlock reach inside his slicker and draw his Colt. “I can’t smell it,” he said.

  “I know you can’t,” O’Hara said. He moved forward, one slow step at a time, and made no sound. Flintlock followed, gun in hand, his eyes scanning the wind-tossed trees around him. Thunder, a reminder that it was still the territory’s monsoon season, rumbled like a gigantic boulder hurled down a marble hallway, and lighting forked across the sky. It was, Flintlock would recall later, a dismal, dark, dreary and dangerous day, a day when all Christian white men should be safe at home. Drinking coffee.

  “Sam, come up here,” O’Hara said without turning, his eyes fixed on something ahead of him. When Flintlock got down on one knee beside him, O’Hara said, “Look there, under the tree.”

  Flintlock looked, looked again and said, “Is that blood?”

  O’Hara nodded. “Yeah, it’s blood, a lot of it.”

  “Maybe a wolf or a bear killed a deer there,” Flintlock said.

  “I don’t think so.” O’Hara rose to his feet and walked to the tree. He bent and picked up something from the ground that he held out for Flintlock to see. “Unless wolves are using field glasses to hunt.”

  Flintlock saw blood, a lot of blood. Something or someone had been slaughtered there. “O’Hara, you don’t suppose it was Spunner?”

  “I don’t know who it was,” O’Hara said. “The field glasses you’re holding are German and expensive. Whoever died here wasn’t a poor man.” He scouted around the base of the juniper where there were tracks in the mud, sheltered enough that they were not yet washed out by the rain.

  “Hard-soled moccasins,” O’Hara said.

  “Apache?” Flintlock said.

  “There are no Apache,” O’Hara said. “Not any longer.”

  “Maybe a few who escaped the roundup?”

  O’Hara shook his head. “Women and children, maybe so. But the warriors are all in Florida.”

  “We saw those same tracks before,” Flintlock said.

  “When we found what was left of Shade Pike’s boys. But this time the body has been taken.”

  O’Hara kneeled to take a closer look at the ground and rivulets of rain ran down the back of his slicker. Then, after a few moments of frowning concentration, “Sam, look here.” He pointed to an indentation in the wet earth. “What do you make of that?”

  Flintlock’s temper was short and he said, “Hell, I can’t see anything.”

  “Look closer,” O’Hara said.

  Then Flintlo
ck saw it, an indentation in the ground about three inches long, narrow and not too deep. He thought for a while and then said, “Made by a tomahawk?”

  “Or a white man’s ax,” O’Hara said. “Somebody swung and missed, maybe when the victim was trying to roll away.”

  “Then who was he and why was he here? And why the field glasses?”

  “One of them bird-watchers maybe?” O’Hara offered, but without much enthusiasm.

  “Old ladies and retired professors are bird-watchers,” Flintlock said. “They wouldn’t venture into this wilderness in a thunderstorm to watch a tomtit, especially with Jasper Orlov around.”

  O’Hara didn’t answer. He had the field glasses to his eyes and was intently looking up at the crag. “You get a good view of the house from here,” he said. He handed the field glasses to Flintlock. “Take a look.”

  Flintlock studied the house. O’Hara was right, the glasses gave an excellent view of the front and right side wall. As he watched, Lucy opened the front door a crack, stuck her head outside, watched the rain for few moments and then ducked inside again. Flintlock lowered the glasses and said to O’Hara, “Do you think someone stood under the tree and watched the house?”

  “And then was attacked? Yeah, it’s possible,” O’Hara said.

  “But why? I mean, why all of it. Why did he watch the house and why was he killed? There’s a lot of blood but we don’t know for sure if he was killed.”

  O’Hara shook his head. “No, we don’t, Sam.” He kicked at the scarlet ground, now slowly turning pink in the rain. “But I doubt that a man can lose this much blood and live.”

  A moment later a rifle roared and a bullet chattered through the brittle branches of the juniper.

  * * *

  Flintlock and O’Hara dived for the ground at the same time. A drift of gunsmoke ghosted from a stand of pine to their left and was quickly shredded by the wind. Flintlock estimated the range was about twenty-five yards, too far for revolver work, but beside him O’Hara cut loose with his Winchester. He sent a bullet into the thinning smoke then bracketed that area with shots, working the lever from his shoulder. Flintlock didn’t shoot, his narrowed eyes seeking a target. There was none. O’Hara ceased firing and said, “You see anything?”

  “Not a damn thing,” Flintlock said. He dashed rain from his eyes with the back of his gun hand. “It’s uncivil and low-down to bushwhack a man on a day like this.”

  Then, like a jack-in-the-box, a figure popped up from the brush, a rifle to his shoulder. Flintlock and O’Hara fired at the same time. A yelp of surprise and pain and the man dropped.

  “We got him, Sam,” O’Hara said. “Do you think we got him?”

  “We winged him at least,” Flintlock said. “Or you did. I’m not much of a hand for target shooting with a Colt.” Then, his hand cupped to his mouth, he yelled, “Hey, you out there, show yourself.” Flintlock baited his trap. “We have coffee.”

  There was no answer and no sound but the fall of the rain and the grumbling growl of thunder. Lightning flared and for a moment silvered the bleak landscape.

  “Unless we know whether or not that ranny is dead, he’s got us pinned down here,” Flintlock said. “Go take a look, O’Hara.”

  “You take a look—walk into his rifle your ownself,” O’Hara said.

  “I got a bum ankle and I can’t walk that far,” Flintlock said.

  O’Hara shook his head. “I’m not going out there.”

  “Hell, you’re half Apache. You can sneak up on him.”

  “Maybe so, but the Irish half of me is telling me to stay right where I’m at.”

  His eyes scanning into the distance, Flintlock didn’t turn his head as he said, “You’re one ungrateful Injun, O’Hara. I mean, after all I’ve done for you.”

  “What did you ever do for me, Sam?” O’Hara said.

  “Plenty of stuff.”

  “Name one thing.”

  “Well, I can’t bring anything to mind right now, but—”

  A rifle shot, a puff of smoke and then an echoing silence.

  After a few moments Flintlock said, “I think somebody just done for the bushwhacker. Seems like we have a friend out there.”

  O’Hara said nothing, frowning as he thought through this new development.

  “Well, I’m damned tired of lying here in mud and rain,” Flintlock said. “Let’s go take a look-see.”

  This time O’Hara made no objection. He rose to his feet, his rifle at the ready, and he and Flintlock walked across the open ground between them and the trees. Lightning cracked across the sky and thunder banged directly overhead as they reached the pines. Because of thick undergrowth it took a few minutes before they found a body of a young man. Flintlock saw at a glance that he’d taken his own life. He had two bullet wounds. One in the belly and the other was self-inflicted. The man had lain on his side, shoved the muzzle of a .44-40 Henry rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The back of his head was blown away.

  “He done for himself,” O’Hara said, stating what was obvious.

  Flintlock nodded. “He took one of our bullets in the belly and then killed himself right quick. Now, why would he do a thing like that?”

  “He was gut-shot, Sam. You know better than me how long it takes a gut-shot man to die. I guess he couldn’t bear the thought of going through all that pain,” O’Hara said. Then, “He’s a white man but he wore Apache moccasins.” He took a knee beside the body. “He’s young, Sam, a beardless boy. He can’t be any older than fifteen or sixteen.”

  “He’s sure wearing strange duds,” Flintlock said.

  The body was dressed in a sleeveless tunic made of sackcloth or some other coarse material, and it came down to the middle of his thighs. The waist was gathered tight by a deerskin belt, and a bandolier of ammunition for the rifle crossed his chest.

  “Look, he’s got a tattoo on his forehead,” Flintlock said. “What the hell is that . . . a snake?”

  O’Hara nodded, his face like stone. “Yes, it’s a serpent, the bringer of chaos, corruption and darkness and all that is evil.”

  “Then why does this feller have it on his forehead?” Flintlock said.

  O’Hara looked up at the dreary sky. “Sam, that I do not know,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Do you think the young man you shot is connected in any way to the death of whoever sat under the tree?” Lucy Cully asked Flintlock.

  “We don’t know for sure if anyone died there,” Flintlock said. “We found blood and field glasses and put two and two together.”

  “Do you think he was watching my house?” Lucy said.

  “He had a good view of it from where he was located,” O’Hara said. “Yes, my guess is he was watching the house but then somebody attacked and killed him. The attackers wore moccasins and so did the young man who killed himself after we shot him.”

  “Was that strictly necessary? Shooting him, I mean?” Roderick Chanley said. “Surely there was another way that didn’t involve violence.”

  Flintlock, a towel over his naked shoulders and his back to the warmth of the kitchen fire, looked at the man over the rim of his coffee cup. “Out here when a man bushwhacks you, then yeah, shooting him becomes strictly necessary.”

  “Sam, you can’t leave the body out there unburied,” Lucy said.

  “Yes, I can,” Flintlock said.

  “The soul of an unburied man will never rest,” Walt Whitman said. “It is our duty to see that he’s laid under the earth.”

  “You know what the northeast Arizona Territory is?” Flintlock said, his irritation growing. “It’s bedrock that the good Lord tossed a handful of soil on top of. How the hell do we lay him under the earth? There is no earth.”

  “I’m sure we can find a way,” Chanley said. He adjusted his black eyepatch and smiled. “Where there’s a will there’s a way. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”

  “We? There is no we.” Flintlock sighed deeply. “All right, me and O�
�Hara shot him, we’ll bury him.”

  O’Hara looked surprised. “Bury him where?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe in the holler where we spent the night. There’s room for a body in there.”

  Lucy nodded her approval. “You’re true-blue, Sam Flintlock, and you too, O’Hara.”

  “I didn’t say I was going to bury him,” O’Hara said. He pointed to Flintlock. “He did.”

  “I know what I said and I said it for you as well,” Flintlock said.

  “O’Hara, I’ll never sleep a wink knowing there’s an unburied body almost on my doorstep,” Lucy said. She looked very pretty that morning, her dark hair done up with blue ribbons, rouge highlighting her good cheekbones. “Please do it for me.”

  Chanley said, “No, not just for you, darling, do it for all of us.”

  “It’s still raining,” O’Hara said.

  That was met by an unsympathetic silence.

  * * *

  As Flintlock and O’Hara saddled up, Rory O’Neill stepped into the barn. He wore a yellow oilskin that must have belonged to old Mechan Cully because it was a couple of sizes too small for him. “I’d like to go with you gentlemen,” he said.

  “You’d be welcome, if you had a horse,” Flintlock said.

  O’Neill smiled. “I can run.”

  O’Hara said, “You can’t run as fast as a horse.”

  O’Neill nodded. “No, I can’t. But I can run longer.”

  “Suit yourself, Rory,” Flintlock said. “But if you can’t keep up we’re leaving you behind.” He looked for a bulge under the oilskin. “You’re not wearing a gun?”

  O’Neill held up his fists. “I don’t need a gun. I’ve got these.”

  “It seems to me that when a prizefighter goes up against a man with a Colt, the Colt wins and he loses,” Flintlock said.

  “No, both of us lose,” O’Neill said. “I’ll take my hits, keep on coming and kill him in the end.”

  O’Neill stood there without any hint of brag, an unsmiling, immovable pillar of hard bone and muscle, a man who could take a terrifying, dreadful amount of punishment and still come up to scratch. Looking at him, Flintlock said, “And maybe you could, at that.”