Hell's Gate

by William W. Johnstone

  Nathan Poteet was surrounded by the tough punchers of Hawk Collins’s Rafter-H, and old Hawk himself carried a noosed rope and led a saddled paint cow pony. It looked like the rancher was making a beeline for the livery stable with its sturdy rafters.

  Fynes’s breath came in quick little gasps and he felt a cramping pain in his chest. This situation was bad, very bad. Then, unreasonably angry, where the hell was Hogan Lord? Probably still abed with that Kate Coldwell whore. Fynes’s hands trembled when he thought about Hawk Collins. Damn his eyes, the man owed him nothing, not a penny. The old rancher bought everything he needed with cash on the barrel-head and owed money to no man and never had. With a trembling hand Fynes mopped the sudden beads of sweat off his brow. He must intercede on Poteet’s behalf. Collins was a tough, relentless and pitiless man but surely he’d listen to reason from a wealthy and respected citizen like Tobias Fynes.

  Fynes hustled out of his office and waddled to the livery at the edge of town. He arrived just as Collins tossed his rope over a rafter.

  “Hawk Collins, you must stop this,” Fynes said, desperately keeping hold of his fading courage. “Mr. Poteet has friends in this town.”

  “That he has friends in this town doesn’t surprise me, Fynes,” Collins said. “Mansion Creek has been a lawless cesspit for long enough and it took the murder of one of my boys to push me to do something about it.”

  “Hawk, listen to reason, the kid ran out onto the boardwalk and cut loose on Mr. Poteet, who had to fight for his life,” Fynes said. “It was a fair fight, anybody in town will tell you that. Let them speak up and you’ll change your mind about taking this terrible course of action.”

  “My mind is made up, Fynes, and empty words won’t change it. If young Cass Wilson hadn’t ridden into this damned town he’d be alive today and there’s the bottom line,” Collins said. He looked up at Poteet, who’d been hoisted onto the horse. “And there’s the man who killed him. That’s all I need to know. I’ve read to him from the Book and it’s his time to die.”

  Desperately, Fynes tried a different tack. “Collins, if you hang Mr. Poteet I’ll bring the full force of the law down on you and you’ll swing yourself. That I swear.”

  Contempt showed in Collins’s chiseled, rough-hewn face. “You, Fynes, you damned scoundrel, you dare to talk about bringing in the law? If there was law in this town you’d have been strung up years ago. Now get the hell away from me before I do something I might regret and hang you next to Poteet.”

  Hawk Collins was a known man-killer, unrelenting when it came to his narrow view of justice, and Fynes was suddenly scared enough that he could almost feel the coarse hemp noose around his fat neck. He backed away, and then to save face he said, “Hawk Collins, you’ll be sorry for what you’re doing this day.”

  The rancher glared at Fynes, dismissed him and said to Poteet, “Do you have any last words, son? I can pray with you and ask for God’s forgiveness.”

  “Yeah, I have last words,” Poteet said. “You go to hell.”

  Collins nodded and a puncher slapped the horse out from under Poteet. The gunman dangled in the noose, kicking and gasping for long, agonized minutes before he died.

  Fynes beat a hasty retreat back to his office, his heart hammering in his chest, fear clutching at his belly. My God, it could be him dangling at the end of a rope.

  * * *

  For five long minutes the rope creaked as Poteet’s corpse swung in the rising wind that sighed mournfully through the open door of the barn. The owner, an army veteran named Cordell, finally stepped out of his tiny office and stared at the dead man, his face expressionless.

  “Did you know this man?” Collins said.

  “I only spoke with him when he left his horse here,” Cordell said. “Since he was a customer, if no one else claims the body I guess I can sell the horse and bury him.”

  “I bury my own dead,” Collins said. He spun Cordell a coin that the livery owner caught deftly. “Plant him decent.”

  But Hawk Collins still had an important task to complete.

  “Cut him down, boys,” he said. “Lay him out. Slim, come with me.”

  Slim Hart was forty years old, a tall drink of water with the long, lugubrious face of a suffering saint in a Renaissance painting. But his ability with a gun belied his appearance. He’d been a cowtown lawman, Texas Ranger and a Butterfield stagecoach guard and in his younger years had dabbled in train robberies with Jesse and Frank and them, but he quit the profession when he decided that he wanted to stay on the right side of the law. Hart was twenty years past it for cowboying but Hawk Collins kept him around because of his gun skills. He was fast with the Colt on the draw and shoot and a crack shot with a Winchester. His widowed mother was still alive and he sent her ten dollars out of his pay every month.

  Hart followed his boss to the bank and then stepped inside with him. “I’m here to see Fynes,” Collins said.

  “Mr. Fynes is busy and can’t be disturbed,” a teller said, blocking the rancher’s path. Collins roughly pushed the man aside and charged into Fynes’s office.

  The fat man, still visibly shaken, sat with John Tanner, the wagon driver. He glared at the rancher and said, “I’m busy, Collins.”

  “You’re not too busy to hear this,” Collins said. “This here is Slim Hart, one of my punchers. He’s worked as a lawman afore and that’s why I’m making him the town marshal of Mansion Creek.”

  “By what authority?” Fynes said. He was outraged, his flabby face brick red.

  Collins drew his Colt and slammed it on the desk. “By this authority, Fynes. And I’ve got two dozen men backing me who also carry authority in their holsters.”

  Fynes got to his feet and retreated into bluster. “Now, see here—”

  “No, you see here, Fynes. Slim Hart is now the law in Mansion Creek,” Collins said. “He’ll answer to no one but me. Understand?”

  “About time we had some law around here,” Tanner said, earning himself an angry glance from the fat man.

  “Well, son, you got the right of it,” Collins said to Tanner. “And Fynes, if anything should happen to Marshal Hart, an accident of some kind—his fault, somebody else’s fault, nobody’s fault—I’ll blame you and by God I’ll hang you.”

  Fynes said, “It’s hardly my fault if—”

  “You heard me, Fynes. If Marshal Hart even comes down with the croup or has to lie abed because of the rheumatisms I’m blaming you.” Hawk Collins holstered his revolver. “I’d say that it’s in your interest to see that he stays alive and well. Slim will set up at the hotel until the town builds him an office with a couple of jail cells in back. Get it done, Fynes. And make sure Marshal Hart gets a star. I’m sure there’s one gathering dust around this town somewhere.”

  Collins turned and walked out of the office, but Slim Hart stopped at the door and said, “Been a right pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Fynes.”

  Go to hell. Fynes thought that, but didn’t say it. Then to Tanner, “The wedding must go ahead as planned.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost ten o’clock. Be ready to leave in an hour.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Flintlock and O’Hara spent an uncomfortable night in the stable behind the house and they were surprised when Lucy Cully stepped inside at first light bearing a tray loaded with coffee and a pile of bacon sandwiches.

  She handed the tray to Flintlock and said, “I’m so sorry about yesterday. Mr. Whitman said I should apologize for Roderick’s behavior.”

  Flintlock smiled. “I’ve been thrown out of worse places.”

  “Me too,” O’Hara said.

  Flintlock set the tray on an upturned crate and poured coffee for him and O’Hara.

  “What will you and O’Hara do, Sam?” Lucy said. She smiled. “I do worry about you two.”

  “Well, tomorrow I’ll go get the five hundred dollars Tobias Fynes owes us,” Flintlock said. “I don’t reckon you’re going to run screaming out of the house with a ghost at
your heels.”

  Lucy smiled slightly. Flintlock thought she didn’t seem happy. She said, “No, this is my home now, Sam. Haunted or not, I’ll never leave here.”

  Flintlock chewed on bread and bacon and then said, “I’m glad to hear you say that. A woman should have a home she calls her own. What about Roderick? How does he feel about the old house?”

  “I don’t know. I thought he would write poems here but he says the place doesn’t inspire his muse but does intimidate him. I even told him about the hidden treasure map, hoping that it would motivate him to put pen to paper but he dismissed the story as nonsense.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Flintlock said. It was lame but he couldn’t think of anything better to say.

  “When you get your money will you ride on, Sam, and find your mother?” Lucy said.

  “Yeah, that’s the plan,” Flintlock said. He decided not to mention his intentions regarding Jasper Orlov.

  “I wish you and O’Hara would stay around for a while, maybe in Mansion Creek,” Lucy said. “For just a couple of weeks, Sam.”

  “You’ve got Roderick now, Lucy, you don’t need us,” O’Hara said. He talked over the steaming rim of his cup, his blue eyes reading the girl’s reaction.

  She barely reacted and then, her voice faint, she said only, “Yes, I have Roderick. Still, I’m scared, O’Hara. But of what I don’t know.”

  “It’s not ghosts, is it?” Flintlock said.

  “No, not ghosts. Something else . . . something that’s coming toward me and I’m afraid I won’t be able to step out of its way.”

  Flintlock reached out and took Lucy’s hand. “We’ll stick around for a while, depend on it.”

  The girl got up on tiptoe and kissed Flintlock’s stubbled cheek. “Thank you, Sam,” she said. “I feel much better already.”

  After the girl left, O’Hara said, “All right, what do we do now?”

  “Finish the coffee and sandwiches,” Flintlock said.

  * * *

  O’Hara saddled up and left the barn, saying he wanted to scout around to see if he could find a reason for Lucy’s fear. Flintlock poured the last of the coffee into his cup, lit a cigarette and scowled at old Barnabas, who sat in a stall polishing a black iron helmet with a bright yellow cloth.

  “What the hell are you doing here, you old coot?” Flintlock said.

  Barnabas stared at the helmet, saw a spot he didn’t like, breathed on it and then polished it again. “For your information, I’m shining up a helmet,” he said.

  “I can see that,” Flintlock said.

  “It belongs to the Black Knight of Augsburg, a disagreeable feller who spent all his mortal life a-killin’ and a-rapin’ and a-cuttin’ off of maidens’ heads.” The old mountain man leaned closer, put a hand to the side of his mouth and whispered, “You-know-who says he’s true-blue and should be a fine example to all of us.”

  “Go away, Barnabas,” Flintlock said. “I’ve a lot on my mind.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re still sore about me staking you down to face the grizz that time?”

  “Yes, I am. That and other things that left scars on me, both mental and physical.”

  “Sure hold a grudge, don’t you, boy? No, don’t answer that. I’m not going to bandy words with an idiot. Now listen up, and this is my last advice on the subject: Get yourself back into that house they threw you out of, gun them two scribblers and the pug and then have your villainous way with the girl. After you’re done with her, toss her over the side of the crag. Then you and the crazy Injun go find your ma.” Barnabas held up the helmet. “Ain’t that purty, shining like a new coin.”

  “I’m sure the Black Knight of Whatever-the-hell-you-said will be real pleased with it. Now beat it.”

  “Nobody’s ever pleased with anything in hell,” Barnabas said. He shook his head. “What an idiot you are, boy. Now go right away and do what I told you to do.”

  Then Barnabas was gone and the barn smelled of fire and brimstone.

  * * *

  O’Hara sat his horse outside the barn and sniffed. “Barnabas was here?”

  “Sure was,” Flintlock said. “Giving me Old Scratch’s advice again.”

  “Well, saddle up. You’ll want to see this.”

  “See what?”

  “I think it’s a wedding party,” O’Hara said. “I saw Tobias Fynes up on the seat of a wagon and Hogan Lord riding point, both of them dressed in their best. They got all kinds of stuff in the back, including a right pretty gal, a preacher and a fiddler who was playing ‘Fire on the Mountain’ when I first saw him and then ‘Cluck Old Hen.’” He nodded. “Plays real good, that fiddler feller.”

  “You sure it’s a wedding party?” Flintlock said.

  “What else could it be?” O’Hara said. “I don’t think a man as fat as Tobias Fynes would climb the mesa for a picnic.”

  “‘Cluck Old Hen,’” Flintlock said. “Yeah, that’s a hitching tune, right enough.” He made up his mind. “All right, we’ll go meet them.”

  Flintlock had both his Winchester and the Hawken booted on either side of the saddle. If he encountered Jasper Orlov he planned to be as well armed as possible.

  He and O’Hara met Fynes and his wedding party just as they reached the top of the mesa. Hogan Lord, riding up front, drew rein and said, “This is a friendly visit, Sam. We’re not here to do harm.”

  “And I’m taking it as sich,” Flintlock said. He looked over the approaching wagon and the fat, sweating form of Tobias Fynes and said, “Looks like a wedding. Sounds like a wedding.”

  “And it is a wedding,” Lord said.

  “Who’s getting hitched?”

  “Lucy Cully and her intended. At least that’s what Tobias Fynes intends it to be.”

  “Suppose she don’t want to get hitched?” Flintlock said.

  “Then I guess we’ll cart everything back, the champagne, the wedding cake and ourselves,” Lord said. “That’s a mighty discouraging prospect, Sam.”

  “Hogan, if this turns out to be a shotgun wedding I’ll take it hard,” Flintlock said. “Lucy has to say, ‘I do,’ of her own accord. You catch my drift?”

  “Sam, I don’t have a shotgun and I won’t draw my gun today,” Lord said. “You have my word on that.”

  “Your word on it is good enough for me,” Flintlock said. “Just make sure you keep it.”

  And then, as though he’d just remembered, Lord said, “Nathan Poteet is dead, hung for a murderer.”

  Flintlock was shocked. “Who hung him?”

  “Rancher by the name of Hawk Collins. Rousted ol’ Nathan out of bed, dragged him to the livery and strung him up. Nathan was a tough man and it took him a long time to die. He kicked and strangled for quite a spell, so I was told.”

  “Poteet murdered a lot of folks in his time. What done for him in the end?”

  Lord told Flintlock about the shooting of Cass Wilson and said, “Seems to me that Nathan got hung for the only killing he ever done that wasn’t his fault. He got a raw deal, that’s my take on the situation.”

  Flintlock shook his head. “Well, well, doesn’t that beat all. Nathan Poteet hung by a bunch of waddies. It’s hard to believe.”

  “Believe it, Sam. Hawk Collins is a hard old man and he doesn’t take any sass. And now thanks to him we got a new town marshal in town.”

  Lord didn’t explain any further as Fynes hailed Flintlock from the wagon.

  “Well met, Mr. Flintlock,” he said. “Will you join us for the feast?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it, and that’s a natural fact,” Flintlock said. “By the way, me and O’Hara will come see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, yes, we’ll discuss that later,” Fynes said. “Right now my mind is on the forthcoming nuptials. Now, will you give us the road?”

  Flintlock backed his horse away and the wagon rumbled past, a grinning John Tanner at the reins. The fiddler struck up with “Golden Slippers” and beside him preacher Uriah Reedy clapped to the beat and looked
as though he was already half drunk. The pretty girl at the back of the jolting wagon seemed both sad and miserably uncomfortable.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “But this is too sudden,” Lucy Cully said. “I . . . I need a few days, Roderick.”

  “Nonsense, dear one,” Chanley said. His one good eye shined. “Our return to Philadelphia will be our honeymoon.”

  “An excellent plan, Roderick,” Walt Whitman said. “The grand old city will welcome such a lovely married couple with open arms, myself included.”

  “I don’t want to return to Philadelphia,” Lucy said. “This house is now my home. I’ll never leave it.”

  Chanley’s smile slipped and gave way to a frown. “Lucy, we will talk about that after the wedding,” he said. “Ah, and right on cue here is Mr. Fynes come to give away the bride.”

  The fat man, perspiring heavily, stepped into the parlor and said, “Your guests are assembled in the library.” He hoped his smile was sincere. “Now all we need are the bride and groom.”

  Lucy had the eyes of a startled deer. “But I wanted a wedding dress, a white wedding gown,” she said. “I can’t get married in this old house dress.”

  “Of course you can, my dear,” Chanley said. “You look quite ravishing. Does she not, Mr. Fynes?”

  “Yes, a vision of loveliness.” Fynes reached into a pocket and came up with a plain gold band. “Look, my dear Lucy,” he said, “I even have your wedding ring.”

  Chanley looked stern. “A noble gesture, Mr. Fynes,” he said. “Lucy, you look just fine, pretty as a picture. After all the trouble your guardian Mr. Fynes has gone to, you will marry me now or not at all.”

  “Fynes is not my guardian and I need some time to think, Roderick,” Lucy said.

  “Think about what?” Chanley said. “There’s nothing to think about. We love each other and we’re going to get married, that’s all. It’s very simple.”

  “Think about whether or not I want to marry you,” Lucy said.

  Chanley looked as though the girl had just slapped his face. He said, “That is an insulting thing to say to me, Lucy. The impression you give is that I’m no longer good enough for you and such a sentiment makes my heart turn cold toward you. Who is the man? Is he the ruffian who calls himself Flintlock, or is it the breed or perhaps Rory O’Neill?”