Hell's Gate

by William W. Johnstone

  “I may twist his arm a little, Hogan, but I won’t kill him. I promise.”

  Lord smiled and said nothing. Then as Flintlock reached the door he said, “Sam, you did well today.”

  Flintlock raised a hand, acknowledging the compliment, and stepped outside.

  * * *

  “Mr. Fynes is in conference and he can’t be disturbed,” the clerk said, barring Flintlock’s path. He wore a bow tie and an eyeshade.

  The deaths of two men and the cold calculation of Lucy Cully weighing on him, Flintlock’s temper was short. “He’ll see me,” he said. He brushed past the man and stepped into Tobias Fynes’s office. The fat man was in conference, all right, talking pretties into the ear of a young girl sitting on his lap while his ringed right hand busily kneaded her breasts.

  When Flintlock entered, Fynes pushed the girl off his knee and she stood beside his chair. She was obviously in from the country, possibly a part payment on a loan, a pretty brunette with vacant brown eyes, dumbly accepting her fate.

  “Don’t you knock before you enter a man’s office?” Fynes said.

  “Sometimes, but not today,” Flintlock said.

  Fynes scowled. “You were only in town for a couple of minutes and you killed two men.”

  “New travels fast in Mansion Creek,” Flintlock said.

  “It’s a small town,” Fynes said. He waved a hand. “This is Violet. She’s a new friend.”

  Flintlock touched his hat brim and the girl said, “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

  “What can I do for you, Flintlock?” the fat banker said.

  “I can see you’re busy, so I’ll come right to the point,” Flintlock said. “I’m here for my five hundred dollars.”

  “I’ll have to think about that,” Fynes said. “Nothing worked out the way I hoped it would. All that ghost stuff just went away and Lucy Cully is still in the house.”

  “And here’s some more good news, Fynes. Roderick Chanley is dead. Lucy shot him.”

  Fynes slammed back in his chair, his face ashen. “My God, is this true?” he said.

  “Would I lie to you about something like that, Fynes?” Flintlock said, his eyes hard.

  Fynes grabbed Violet’s arm so hard she winced. “Get out,” he said. “Go to the hat shop for a while. I’ll meet you there.”

  The girl pouted, glared at Flintlock, walked out of the office rubbing her arm and slammed the door behind her.

  “Now what’s this about Chanley being killed?” Fynes said.

  “Lucy shot him. She didn’t want Chanley to sell her house to you, Fynes.”

  The banker said, “We’d better keep the law out of this. I’ll deal with Lucy myself.”

  “Deal with her, how?” Flintlock said.

  Fynes’s smile was an unpleasant leer. “In life there are always choices to be made. Lucy’s choice is to be nice to Uncle Tobias or face the noose when he reports her to the authorities. I’m sure she’ll agree that me in her bed is a better alternative than facing a United States Marshal in a hanging frame of mind.”

  “Didn’t take you long to get it all figured, Fynes,” Flintlock said.

  “I can foresee things going well for me,” Fynes said. “Hard times are always good times for Tobias. And make no mistake, Lucy Cully will face hard times. She’s penniless, you know.”

  “And that brings us back to my five hundred, Fynes. You hired me and O’Hara to do a job, now pay our wages.”

  “You brought me good news today, Flintlock, and I’m in a mood to be generous,” Fynes said. “I’ll pay the five hundred and I’ll put another five hundred on top of it if you’ll kill Lucy Cully.”

  It was Flintlock’s turn to be taken aback. “You just told me you wanted to play kindly uncle,” he said.

  “I know, I know, but damn it all, that takes time. I’d need to win her trust first. The little witch will be suspicious and God knows how long I’d have to court her. No, the more I consider it the more I’m convinced the . . . shall we say sudden death of Lucy Cully is the answer. That way the house will be mine in short order.” Fynes looked at Flintlock, his anger flaring. “I’ve been stalled long enough by that little whore. I want the treasure map and I want it now.”

  Flintlock shook his head. “Just pay me what you owe, Fynes. For fifty dollars you can hire a thug like the two I gunned today to do your dirty work.”

  “And if I refuse, since the services I paid for were not really needed at the Cully mansion?”

  Flintlock smiled, a dangerous sign when he was on a slow burn. “Fynes, as you said, in life there are always choices to be made and this one is simple: You pay me what you owe or you’ll end your life right now in that chair.”

  “You threaten me, with Hogan Lord in town?”

  Flintlock ignored that and drew his Colt. “You have a choice to make, Fynes, and not much time to make it in. Speak up now. What’s your decision?”

  When he looked into Flintlock’s eyes the fat banker realized that this man would do as he threatened. Fynes faced a stacked deck, and he knew it. Under the shadow of Flintlock’s gun he opened a drawer in his desk and took out a tin petty cash box. Fynes counted out five hundred dollars in bills and said, “Take it, and be damned to you, Flintlock.”

  Flintlock picked up the money and shoved his Colt back in the waistband. “I’m obliged, Fynes,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Go to hell,” the fat man said.

  He needed to find Hogan Lord and even some scores.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Walt Whitman sat in the back of John Tanner’s wagon propped up by a couple of carpetbags and his wheelchair. An oilskin tarp covered his head against the rain as he stared at the house and the ever-present ravens.

  The house seemed taller and slenderer than it did when he first arrived. He fancied the roof was hidden in a cloud but knew it was only the gray mist that had surrounded the old place since morning. Level after level soared upward, spires, arches, miniature towers, diamond-paned windows, galleries that went nowhere and served no useful purpose, and everywhere black tiles reflecting the gray sky. Whitman stared and stared and shivered as though he was cold. The house looked like a thin widow dressed all in black, mourning at the graveside of some dear departed, her tears falling like rain. And always he heard the warning cries of the midnight-colored ravens that never slept.

  “Mr. Whitman, are you quite comfortable back there?”

  “Huh?” the poet said, an old man wakening from a bad dream.

  “Are you comfortable enough?” John Tanner said.

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Whitman said.

  “Well, let’s hope the rain doesn’t get any heavier,” Tanner said.

  “Amen to that,” Whitman said.

  The wagon lurched and creaked as Rory O’Neill, wearing an oilskin, climbed into the seat beside the driver. “We ready to go?” Tanner said.

  He slapped the reins and the Morgan team stepped forward, but were halted a moment later as Lucy Cully, wearing a slicker, ran out of the house and called out, “Mr. Whitman! Stop!”

  “No, drive on, Mr. Tanner,” Whitman said.

  The wagon moved forward again and Lucy walked alongside. “Mr. Whitman, come back to the house,” she said. “Please stay a few days longer.”

  Whitman shook his head. “I must go. I can’t stay in your house a minute longer, Lucy. It’s an evil place and it changed you.”

  The wagon drove on toward the end of the crag and Lucy’s voice grew in desperation. “I can’t stay by myself, Mr. Whitman. Come back. Mr. O’Neill, make him come back.”

  Rory O’Neill said, “Miss Lucy, you made your bed and now you must lie in it.”

  “Mr. Whitman, don’t leave me alone with Roderick’s ghost. Mr. Whitman, come back. Come back, Mr. Whitman . . .”

  The wagon drove on, leaving Lucy Cully behind. For a long time, she stood in the rain, a lonely, forlorn figure, and watched it go. Then she returned to the echoing h
ouse.

  The girl went to her room, unbuttoned the dripping slicker and let it drop to the floor. She sat in the wing chair, closed her eyes and let the creaking, groaning house embrace her, protecting her.

  * * *

  O’Hara saddled his horse and led it along the side of the house. He mounted only when he was sure that Lucy Cully would not come out again. The ravens had been warning him all morning of a coming disaster and he wanted to get far away from there. From a place of concealment behind a stack of firewood he’d seen Lucy try to get Walt Whitman to come back to the mansion. But the old man had refused and looked deeply troubled. The murder of Roderick Chanley had changed everything, and Whitman couldn’t wait to get away from Chanley’s killer. Lucy was alone now, alone with the ravens. O’Hara had no idea what the coming cataclysm might be, but like Whitman he wanted to get as far away from the old place as he could. Despite everything, had he grown to love Lucy Cully? Was that even possible? He’d never loved a woman in his life. And if he loved her should he try to save her? Finding within himself no answers to those questions he rode from the house at a canter and didn’t look back.

  He needed time to think.

  * * *

  Despite the rain, Jeptha Spunner, formerly Whitey Carson, was pleased.

  He’d mounted the steam engine in the stripped-down old rowboat that would serve as the gondola and the burner and nitrogen cylinder had performed perfectly. Already hot air had inflated the yellow silk envelope to half its size and by tomorrow morning he’d be ready to take a short test flight. Spunner had written off the propeller as unworkable, at least for now, but he had high hopes for its future. He’d prove to the doubters that the modern steam engine could be used to power a balloon, operating the main components, the burner, nitrogen cylinder and propeller. Of course since he lacked the propeller, for now he’d have to depend on the vagaries of the wind. But if it was still holding from the north he would fly the distance between his cabin and Mansion Creek and anchor in a suitable landing place just outside of town. Then he would wait for a south wind to take him home again. Oblivious to the rain, Spunner almost danced with joy as he tested the anchors, listened to the steady pound of the engine and watched the envelope slowly swell with hot air. There would be no sleep for him that night—he was too excited. Come morning he’d rise into the air and fly on the wings of the wind.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Hogan Lord’s loyalty to the brand had its limits and Tobias Fynes was pushing him to the edge. The fat man’s order was straightforward enough: Wait until Sam Flintlock rode out of town and then gun him and get back the five hundred dollars of Fynes’s money he carried.

  But Flintlock hadn’t left town, not yet. He was eating his lunch in the restaurant while he waited for O’Hara and that was where Lord found him.

  He sat opposite Flintlock, who was busily wolfing down slices of ham and boiled potatoes. Without looking up from his plate Flintlock said, “Hogan, it seems like we keep running into one another, huh?”

  Lord nodded and said, “Yup, seems like. Mansion Creek is a small town and people are forever bumping into each other and giving one another bruises.”

  Flintlock smiled. “Is that how it is?”

  “Most of the time,” Lord said. Then, “We go back a ways, don’t we, Sam?”

  “A fair piece,” Flintlock said, chewing. “Ten years off and on, I’d guess.”

  “I’ve forgotten about how you made off with the whole bounty that time in Chihuahua and left me flat broke,” Lord said. “It’s gone clean out of my mind.”

  Flintlock laid down his fork. It made a clinking sound on the plate. “And I don’t recollect that time when we were on opposite sides of the fence up on the Canadian and you shot my hoss. He was only a paint mustang but I set store by that little feller.”

  “I was aiming for you, Sam, and shot low. But I’ve forgotten all about that,” Lord said.

  “Good times, Hogan,” Flintlock said. “Do you recall Elena Casales, the Mexican Passion Flower?”

  “Yeah, the whore with a heart of stone down Laredo way. You got drunk and wanted to marry her and I talked you out of it,” Lord said.

  “That was a true-blue thing you did, Hogan. That, I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Good times, Sam,” Lord said.

  “Good times,” Flintlock said. He forked up the last morsel of potato left on his plate and popped it into his mouth. Without looking up he said, “Tobias Fynes wants his money back, huh?”

  Lord nodded. “Yes, that’s why I’m here. Any chance you’d give it back voluntarily, Sam?”

  “Not a chance, Hogan.”

  “He wants me to gun you and take the money.”

  “Where? Here?”

  “No. Out of town somewhere, but not too far. Tobias wants me close because our new marshal has him spooked. He’s terrified that Hawk Collins will come after him with a dozen tough riders and a rope.”

  “Well, I plan to wait here for O’Hara,” Flintlock said. “So I won’t be going out of town anytime soon.”

  “When it comes to money it’s easy come, easy go with you, Sam,” Lord said. “It’s a pity you lost the whole five hundred on the turn of a card in the saloon.”

  Flintlock smiled. “Is that how you want to play it, Hogan?”

  “You drew a trey of hearts against the queen of diamonds, Sam, and the gambling man who took your roll left town in a hurry.” Lord nodded. “Yeah, that’s the way we’ll play it.”

  Lord rose to his feet and said, “Sam, you and O’Hara ride out of here. There’s nothing in Mansion Creek for you. Tobias Fynes has turned this town into a cesspit.”

  “And what about you, Hogan?” Flintlock said. “Will you stay and wallow in the mud with him?”

  “No, no, I won’t. But I’ve got some chores to do before I leave,” Lord said.

  Flintlock extended his hand and Lord took it. “Well, good luck, Hogan.”

  “And you too, Sam. Good luck.”

  * * *

  The rain followed O’Hara into Mansion Creek. He saw no sign of Flintlock’s buckskin and he swung his horse toward the livery. O’Hara dismounted just inside the open doors, looked around and was greeted by the owner. Before the man could speak, O’Hara said, “I’m looking for a man, name’s Sam Flintlock.” He nodded in the direction of the stalls. “That’s his buckskin over there.”

  Boots thumped on the floor of the hayloft and Flintlock called out, “Is that you, O’Hara?”

  “It ain’t nobody else.”

  “I’ll come down.”

  Flintlock stepped down the ladder and said, “I was sleeping off my lunch.” He smiled, “Glad to see you, O’Hara, and I’ve got much to tell.”

  “First, did Walt Whitman come in yet with O’Neill?”

  “No, I haven’t seen them. Why?”

  “Because we left Lucy’s house around the same time. I didn’t want to talk to them about Lucy so I found an old game trail that took me the long way around the mesa. They should have been here by now.”

  Gate Cordell, the livery owner, said, “You want me to put up your horse?”

  O’Hara said to Flintlock, “Did you get our five hundred?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Then rub him down and give him a scoop of oats,” O’Hara said. “I’m rich.”

  “Coffeepot is on the stove in my office,” Cordell said. “He’p yourself if you have a mind to.”

  O’Hara availed himself of the offer and he followed Flintlock to the back of the barn, a steaming cup in his hand. He sat on an upturned crate and said, “What’s happened, Sam? I see a blackness around you. To the Apache that aura always means death.”

  Using as few words as possible Flintlock described his shooting scrape in the saloon and then his trouble with Tobias Fynes. He briefly mentioned his conversation with Hogan Lord but did not elaborate.

  O’Hara had listened intently, placed his coffee cup carefully at his feet and said, “You have to find your ma, Sam, so where
do you go from here?”

  “We buy supplies and ride,” Flintlock said. “Barnabas said my ma is west of the Painted Desert and that takes in a lot of territory but it’s the only lead I have.”

  “Can we trust Barnabas?” O’Hara said.

  “No. But when it comes to Ma, his daughter, he’s usually straight enough.”

  O’Hara picked up his cup, drained it and then said, “Sam, what about Lucy?”

  “We’re done with Lucy,” Flintlock said, his face stiff.

  “She’s all alone in that big house, Sam. We can’t just ride away and leave her.”

  “O’Hara, she’s a murderer, and a cold-blooded one at that. Now that’s a natural fact that you can’t step around. You can’t pretend the killing of Roderick Chanley never happened.”

  “Sam, you killed two men today. Does that make you a murderer?” O’Hara said.

  “They drew down on me and I killed them in a fair fight. No, it wasn’t murder and I’d nothing to gain by it,” Flintlock said. “And neither of them two rannies was a Yankee poet, if that makes a difference.”

  “Sam, Lucy changed. The house changed her quite quickly, as though it was impatient and couldn’t wait to make her a darker person and a murderer. Yes, maybe she can be blamed for the death of Roderick Chanley but I don’t think so. It was the house to blame.”

  “She pumped two bullets into him, O’Hara. I don’t think that blaming the house will hold up in court. No, if you want someone to blame try Tobias Fynes, the greedy banker. A jury of his peers would hate him on sight.”

  O’Hara rose to his feet. “Sam, I’m going back for her. Lucy needs to get far away from that house and find help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “Nowadays there are doctors who can treat illnesses of the mind. That’s the kind of help Lucy needs.”

  “Are you prepared to drag her out of the house by force?” Flintlock said.

  “Yes, if I have to.”

  “And take her where? There’s a lawman in this town who’ll either hang her or turn her over to a U.S. Marshal if he ever discovers that she hauled out a sneaky gun and killed her lover.”