Hell's Gate

by William W. Johnstone

  “O’Hara, can you hear me?” Flintlock said.

  After a few moments, O’Hara’s eyes fluttered open and through cracked, swollen lips he whispered, “I couldn’t save her, Sam. I saw Lucy at the top of the stairs and I couldn’t reach her because of the fire.” O’Hara’s burned hand grabbed the sleeve of Flintlock’s buckskin shirt. His eyes were wild, haunted, remembering a horror no man should ever see. “I saw her burn, Sam. Her hair . . . her hair was on fire, Sam . . . like a woman with red hair. I saw that, Sam . . . I saw Lucy burn . . .”

  “Easy, O’Hara, I’m going to get you to a doctor. Are you in pain?”

  O’Hara closed his eyes and did not answer and Flintlock saw that he was unconscious and he considered that a good thing.

  What was left of the house crashed in on itself, sending up sheets of flame, sparks and black smoke. Flintlock heard loud shrieks as nails tore loose and the structure collapsed, as though the house cried out in its death throes.

  Leaving the unconscious O’Hara where he was, Flintlock rounded up the horses and when he returned there was no change, although O’Hara’s skin had taken on a wet appearance from the weeping burns. Flintlock carefully lifted the injured man into the buckskin’s saddle and then mounted behind him. With one hand he held O’Hara in place and led his paint with the other.

  When he reached the trail that led to the mesa he looked back at the Cully mansion. It was no more, just a pile of smoking ash. Part of one wall still stood, black and ugly, and here and there stuck up thick beams of wood, blackened and charred by the flames. Flintlock saw the faint glow of still-burning embers, fluttering flames clinging to them like scarlet moths, and sooty dust hung in the air. Nothing had escaped the conflagration, shards of shattered glass littered the ground where the windows had blown out in the heat and the brass base of the grand chandelier that had hung in the entrance hall lay blackened and twisted on the ground.

  Like the house, Lucy Cully burned away to ash and no trace of her was ever found.

  In 1891 a letter written by a Mansion Creek matron named Cornelia Case to her sister in Boston mentioned that after a few weeks the ravens returned and flew around the ruin for several days before they left. But that cannot be verified since Mrs. Case was the only one to write about the phenomenon, and the return of the ravens was not reported in the Apache County Herald.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “The prognosis is good, but I want Mr. O’Hara to remain here with me for the next couple of days,” Dr. Theodora Weller said.

  Sam Flintlock said, “What have you done for him, Doc? Me and O’Hara go back a long ways.”

  “I’ve given him morphine for pain and I will apply a poultice of goose fat and calendula on his hands and face twice a day,” the doctor said. “The good news is that Mr. O’Hara will have no scars. His burns were not severe enough.”

  “What’s that calendula stuff?” Flintlock said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  Theodora smiled. “I’m not trying to poison your friend, Mr. Flintlock. Calendula oil is a member of the marigold family of flowers and it is used as a healing agent.”

  “Sorry, Doctor, I’m really worried about O’Hara is all,” Flintlock said.

  “He’s asleep now, but he’ll be just fine, Mr. Flintlock. Mr. O’Hara will be up and around in a couple of days,” the doctor said. She looked at Flintlock’s face. “You have some burns yourself.”

  Flintlock shook his head. “No goose fat and marigolds for me, Doc. I’m a fast healer.”

  He thought Theodora Weller a very attractive woman in her brown, corseted dress that was tightly laced and revealed a deep cleavage. But the wide puffed shoulders and the row of buckles instead of buttons that closed the back of the dress gave her a slightly mannish look, as did the brown top hat perched on her swept-up hair. Flintlock figured that the good doctor would be a handful, in bed or out.

  His pleasant speculations ended with the arrival of Marshal Slim Hart, who looked grim, his habitual expression. He looked at Flintlock with the cold eyes of a hanging judge and said, “I done two things before noon. I rode out to the Cully house, or what’s left of it, and I spoke to that old poet feller . . . what’s his name?”

  “Walt Whitman,” Flintlock said.

  “Yeah, him. He told me what took place out there on the crag, murder, bedlam, strange cannibal folks, other high jinks too many to mention and you and the Injun always in the mix. Whitman never saw the house burn, Flintlock, but you did. Who burned with it? Tell me the truth now. A lie will not help you in your present situation. Oh, and I hesitate to mention it, I found a man’s dead body at the bottom of the crag.”

  Hart was not a complicated man. Not overly intelligent, he saw things in black or white, legal or illegal, with no shades of gray in the middle. He was stubborn, intolerant of others and brave to a fault. His loyalty lay not with the lawman’s star on his vest but out on the range with a hard, bitter old man named Hawk Collins who had taught him much about the frailty of human nature and the inherent evil in those who broke the law, knowingly or otherwise.

  Flintlock said, “Marshal, did Whitman tell you about the flying machine or Jasper Orlov or the man with the knife and sharpening steel?”

  “No, he didn’t,” Hart said, looking lost. “But I want to hear it from you.”

  Theodora Weller smiled and said, “I’ll get us some coffee. This should be interesting.”

  * * *

  Flintlock drank three cups of coffee as he sketched out the details of what had happened, from Tobias Fynes hiring him and O’Hara to guard Lucy Cully, through the cannibal horror and Roderick Chanley’s murder, up to Lucy’s horrific death in the fire.

  Hart interrupted only twice, once to say that he’d heard about Whitey Carson, the albino shootist, and the other time to observe that flying machines were a danger to everyone and should be banned by every government in the world.

  “O’Hara tried his best to save Lucy Cully but he was beaten back by the fire,” Flintlock said. “I brought him here to Dr. Weller to get his burns treated, and that’s the end of the story.”

  “Are you sure?” Hart said.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. There’s nothing else.”

  “It’s a tall tale, Flintlock, but I doubt you have the wit to make it up,” Hart said. He looked at Theodora. “How is O’Hara?”

  “He’ll be fine,” the doctor said.

  “When can he ride?”

  “In a couple of days.”

  Hart nodded, and then said to Flintlock, “You’ll leave town as soon as O’Hara can ride and I never want to see you back here again.”

  “Not much chance of that,” Flintlock said.

  “Good. Then we see eye to eye on that score.” Hart touched his hat brim to Dr. Weller. “Thank you kindly for the coffee, ma’am,” he said. He gave Flintlock a hard look and then stepped to the door. Before he opened it and without turning to face Dr. Weller he said, “Do you believe the story Flintlock just told us, Doctor?”

  Theodora spoke to the lawman’s back. “Yes, I do.”

  “Every word?”

  “Yes, Marshal, every word.”

  “Then I’m much obliged,” Hart said. He opened the door and walked into the sunlit afternoon . . . and he and Hogan Lord exchanged greetings as they passed each other on the gravel path that led to Dr. Weller’s surgery.

  * * *

  “I heard you’d brought in O’Hara, Sam,” Hogan Lord said. Then, to Theodora Weller, “How is he, Doctor?”

  “He was burned but not too badly. He’ll be up and around in a couple of days.”

  “Glad to hear that,” Lord said. He swept off his hat, held it to his chest as he bowed and said, “And may I say, Doctor, that you look lovely this afternoon.”

  Theodora dropped a little curtsy. “Why, thank you, kind sir. You are most galante.”

  Flintlock watched this exchange, slightly irritated at Lord’s practiced ease around women, the perfect Southern gentleman in action. He knew that i
f he ever tried to bow and talk pretties he’d make a total hash of it.

  “How did it happen, Sam?” Lord said after he’d regained his upright posture.

  “You didn’t hear about the fire and Lucy Cully’s death?”

  Lord’s shocked expression answered that question better than words.

  For the second time that day Flintlock told of the events that led up to the girl’s death. “The house was destroyed, burned to ashes,” he said. “Bad news for Tobias Fynes, huh?”

  “Yes, it’s bad news and I’ll have to go break it to him,” Lord said. “He isn’t going to like it.”

  “Nothing he can do except comb through the ashes for his treasure map,” Flintlock said.

  “That, I’d love to see,” Lord said. To Flintlock he said, “When O’Hara wakes give him my best wishes for a speedy recovery.” He touched his hat to Theodora—“Ma’am”—and stepped out of the surgery, eager to give the fat man the bad news.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Tobias Fynes was enraged, furious at the little Cully whore for burning his house down and angry at Hogan Lord for bringing him the bad news.

  The house was burned to ashes so the treasure map was gone. If it was written on paper it could not survive. A fortune in gold had slipped through his fingers—no, not that, ripped from his hands—and all Fynes had left was a pauper’s portion, a miserable little bank in a miserable little town in the most miserable part of the whole damned country. Fynes slammed his fist onto his desk. Somebody would have to pay for this. He smiled. Yes, why not Estelle? He was in a foul mood and it was high time she vacated the cabin so he could move in his new ladylove, young, naive, eager to please and stupid, the way he liked his women.

  Fynes rose from his desk, told his clerks he’d be back in an hour and waddled to Estelle’s small cabin. No, it was his cabin, not hers. He’d bought the damned thing with his own good money.

  When Estelle slid back the bolt and opened the door to his knock and saw him she did what she always did, smiled and then let out a little squeal of delight. Fynes pushed the girl away and stepped inside. Estelle seemed hurt but only for a moment or two. “Did you bring me anything, Toby tum-tum?” she said in a little girl’s voice.

  “Yes, Estelle, I have. A notice to quit these premises immediately,” Fynes said.

  The girl smiled, but the expression on her face was uncertain. “Don’t tease me, Toby,” she said. “I don’t like it when you tease me.”

  Fynes grinned, a malevolent grimace that stretched his fleshy lips. “Who’s teasing? I’m not teasing, Estelle. I want you out of here. Now! Gather up your things except the jewelry I bought you and hit the road.”

  Fynes had said it, he’d made it abundantly clear, but still Estelle couldn’t believe him. She couldn’t believe her ears.

  “Toby,” she said, “please stop funning.” Estelle threw herself into Fynes’s arms. “Say it’s all right, that you’re just funning me, Toby.”

  “Get off me, you worn-out whore,” Fynes said. He pulled her arms off his shoulders and violently pushed her away from him. The cabin was small and it took only a couple of steps for Fynes to reach the clothes hanging in the open closet. He grabbed an armful, pushed Estelle aside and tossed the clothing out the door into a deep mud puddle left by the recent rains.

  If Estelle Redway had any doubts, the petticoats and dresses slowly sinking into the mud outside dispelled them. After three years Tobias was really pouring the coffee on the fire and throwing her out.

  Estelle experienced grief but reacted in anger. She picked up a crystal spray perfume bottle and pitched it at Fynes’s head. Moving with surprising speed, the fat man stepped to his right but he was a split second too late. The bottle hit him just under his left eye, split him wide open and drew blood that instantly ran in scarlet rivulets down his cheek.

  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Estelle was not done with Fynes yet. She backed off to the dresser, opened the drawer and pulled out the Forehand and Wadsworth .32 revolver. But Fynes was on the girl in a flash. He grabbed her wrist and tried to wrench the gun from her hand. But Estelle was surprisingly strong and she fought like a wildcat. She broke away from him and leveled the revolver. In a panic, Fynes grabbed the first weapon that was handy—a ten-inch-long letter opener made to look like King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur. Estelle triggered the revolver but it clicked on a dud round. Desperately, Fynes swung the opener at Estelle and Excalibur plunged hilt-deep into her neck, three inches under the left earlobe. Blood spurted as the girl dropped to her knees without a sound.

  When he saw what he’d done, Fynes was horrified. Estelle was choking on her own blood and he kneeled beside her and pulled out the letter opener and his hands and wrists were quickly covered in gore. Fynes grabbed the girl by the shoulders and, hysterical, pleaded, “Don’t die, Estelle. Don’t die. Think of me. Think of my poor wife.”

  But he was talking to a corpse.

  Estelle’s blue eyes were open, unblinking, and they stared at Fynes. In death they were not filled with fear but loathing and Fynes couldn’t bear to look into them again. He staggered to his feet and lurched out of the cabin, holding up his glistening, crimson hands in front of him, staring fixedly at them in stark horror.

  When Fynes reached the bank and staggered inside the clerks took one look at this blood-drenched madman and fled. The fat man made it to his office and collapsed into his chair. He put his elbows on the desktop and stared at his hands, his mouth working.

  Tobias Fynes was still in this posture when Dr. Theodora Weller walked into his office, her right hand down by her side. “You did it, Tobias, didn’t you? You finally killed her. You destroyed the woman I loved.”

  The fat man shook his head. “No, no, it was an accident. The letter opener was in my hand . . . she fell on it. Yes, that was it, she fell on the letter opener. It was a terrible accident.”

  Theodora raised the Colt and said, “Tobias, you’re a piece of trash who can’t be allowed to breathe the same air as other human beings.”

  “What are you going to do?” Fynes said. His face was gray, fear bright in his eyes.

  “Kill you, like you killed Estelle.”

  Fynes shrieked, “No! Show mercy! Mercy for Tobias.”

  “What mercy did you show Estelle? You tired of that beautiful creature and killed her when you no longer had need of her. You’re evil, Tobias, and I can’t let you live.”

  “Nooo!” Fynes yelled. His cry for mercy was drowned out by the roar of Theodora’s revolver. She pumped five shots into the fat man’s chest, killing him five times.

  Dr. Weller then left the bank and walked to her office. She poured herself a drink, lit a cheroot and waited for Marshal Hart.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Marshal Slim Hart inspected Estelle Redway’s body. She’d been pretty and young, no more than a girl, and she’d died horribly.

  “You sure it was him, Mrs. McGinty?” Hart said.

  A shack dweller who did other people’s laundry for a living, Rose McGinty said, “It was him, all right, Marshal. It was Tobias Fynes”—she spat as though mentioning the name left a bad taste in her mouth—“and I saw him clear. When he came out of Estelle’s cabin his hands were covered in blood, the damned, dirty swine.”

  “Where were you when you saw him?” Hart asked.

  She pointed across the dirt road to her frame-and-tar-paper shack, where a line of shirts waved, long johns danced and sheets billowed in a drying wind. “I was over there, hanging out my laundry as I always do on a Monday,” Mrs. McGinty said.

  She was Irish, hot tempered, and in half a dozen towns she’d fought a running battle with the Chinese for laundry rights. There were no Chinese in Mansion Creek and Mrs. McGinty said a rosary every night to ask that circumstances stayed that way. Currently her old man was down with the flu and she said a rosary for him as well.

  “And then Dr. Weller showed up?” Hart said.

  “Yes, she did, bless her, but Estelle wa
s already dead and there was no need for doctoring.”

  “And after Dr. Weller left, you heard shots,” Hart said.

  “Yes. They came from the street somewhere.” Mrs. McGinty laid a red, work-worn hand on the marshal’s arm. “Find Tobias Fynes, lawman. Find him and hang him.”

  * * *

  The clerks huddled together in a frightened group outside the bank when Slim Hart arrived. He ignored them and turned to one of the thirty or so onlookers, a respectable-looking man in a gray ditto suit. “What happened inside?”

  The man stepped closer to the marshal and in a low voice he said, “From what I heard from the bank clerks, Dr. Weller walked into Mr. Fynes’s office and shot him. At this time I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. No one does.”

  Hart nodded. “Much obliged. I’ll go take a look.”

  “Marshal, I knew nothing good would come of having a woman doctor in town,” the respectable man said. “I said that all along.”

  “Fynes murdered a young woman not thirty minutes ago,” Hart said. “Nothing good will come of that either.”

  The respectable man was so stunned he couldn’t speak and Hart left him there to adjust his attitude and stepped into the bank.

  * * *

  Tobias Fynes was sprawled in his chair, his open mouth trickling saliva, and his prominent dark eyes stared into eternity. He had five holes in his chest that could be covered by a playing card and any one of them would have killed him. Marshal Hart felt no sympathy for the man, just a twinge of disappointment. It would have been better if the doctor had just winged the fat man and saved him for the rope.

  Hart pulled down the office blinds and the office was immediately suffused with an amber-colored light. He reached inside the dead man’s coat, did not find what he was looking for, and then one by one he opened the desk drawers. The bottom drawer on the left side of the desk held what the lawman wanted, a Colt Sheriff’s model with a three-inch barrel in .44-40 caliber. Hart rotated the cylinder, checked the loads and then pushed the little Colt into Fynes’s blood-crusted right hand.