Showdown

by William W. Johnstone

  O’Hara kneeled beside Flintlock, grabbed him by the chin, and lifted his head. Flintlock’s eyes flickered open and O’Hara held his forefinger to his lips.

  “It’s you,” Flintlock whispered. “I must have died and gone to hell.”

  “Close. You’re still in Texas.”

  Uncertain that he had the strength to untie the tight knots that bound Flintlock to the wheel, O’Hara said, “Barlow?”

  “Right pocket.”

  “Hold still.” O’Hara found the folding knife and in a matter of moments cut Flintlock free.

  It was Flintlock’s turn to indicate silence with a finger to the lips. He rubbed his raw wrists and on cat feet stepped to the far corner of the wagon, studying the two men asleep under the lean-to. He nodded to himself, smiled, and returned to O’Hara.

  Under an ominous sky that darkened the morning, he moved a few yards back and made a close survey of the wagon. After a while, he broke into a wide grin and rubbed his swollen hands together. “O’Hara, I’ve pulled off some good jokes in my time, but this is gonna be great.”

  The conveyance was a converted farm wagon with a narrow wheelbase. The upper structure was made of slatted timber boards and had been built high to accommodate the tiered bunks inside. The roof was V-shaped, covered in wood shingles, and as a result the wagon was top heavy, suited more to dirt roads than open country.

  Flintlock, a man of medium height but stocky and big in the arms and shoulders, put his hands on the side of the wagon. His boots digging into the rain-softened ground for traction, he pushed with all his considerable strength.

  The wagon moved, tilted, and teetered on two wheels for tense moments and then slowly . . . slowly . . . overbalanced and crashed to the ground. From inside, shrill female shrieks shattered the silence of the morning. Pinned under the wreck, men cursed in anger.

  Flintlock stepped to the flattened lean-to. Just in time, he dragged out a black cartridge belt wrapped around a holstered Colt as a short, stocky man scrambled from under the tarp, rage on his face and a gun in his hand. He threw a vile curse at Flintlock and fired . . . but he hurried the shot and missed.

  Flintlock didn’t. Drawing fast from the black holster, he fired. His bullet hit the man in the chest at the V of his open undershirt, a killing wound that felled the shooter like a puppet that just had its strings cut.

  The tarp bulged as the man under it crawled around like a blind mole in a tunnel.

  Flintlock drew a bead but lowered the hammer as the trapped man yelled, “Don’t shoot! For God’s sake, can’t you see I’m done here?”

  “Git out from under there or I’ll perforate you,” Flintlock said.

  The tarp moved again and Morgan Davis wormed out from under the canvas on his hands and knees.

  “On your feet,” Flintlock said over the barrage of outraged yells and cusses from the women trapped in the wagon.

  Davis, looking mean, stood up. “Damn you, Flintlock. I should have plugged you.” He glanced at the dead man. “You done fer good ol’ Poke Murray.”

  “Yeah,” Flintlock said. “He’ll be sadly missed by all who knew and loved him. Now give me an excuse to kill you, Davis.”

  Ignoring that, the pimp looked at the overturned wagon and said, “You did that?”

  “I surely did,” Flintlock said, grinning. “At the time it seemed the right thing to do. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  “The damned wagon fell on its door. Them women are trapped inside.” Pushing that dire fact to the back of his mind, Davis looked at Flintlock and said, “Well, you got the drop on me. State your intentions but keep in mind that I saved your neck.”

  Flintlock nodded. “Literally.”

  “Huh?” Davis said.

  “I made another good joke, but you didn’t get it.”

  Davis nodded in the direction of the wagon. “That was a joke?”

  “Yep. One of my better ones.”

  “All right, Flintlock, you’ve had your laughs. Now what? ”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet, Morg. Probably I’ll just shoot you for the lowdown, dirty dog you are.” He smiled. “We’ll see.”

  O’Hara said, “Sam, we have to get those women out of there.”

  From inside the wagon a woman yelled, “Damn right you do, you rotten sons of bitches. We can’t move in here and Biddy’s got her foot in my face.”

  “We’ll get you out,” Flintlock said. “Once I figure how.”

  “This is Biddy. Are you Flintlock?”

  “Sure am, lady.”

  “Then let Morg figure it out. He’s a lot smarter than you are. Morg, make it fast. We’re dying in here.”

  Nettled, Flintlock said, “You heard the lady, Davis. Figure it out.”

  The man, thin and ashen as a corpse, looked at Flintlock, shifted his gaze to the wagon and said, “It’s too heavy for a straight lift.”

  “I may be stupid, but even I can see that,” Flintlock said, still irritated. “We need the horses.”

  It took an hour of cussin’ and discussin’ and many false tries before the ropes held and Flintlock and the two other men, all mounted, finally righted the wagon and freed its bedraggled occupants.

  The four women staggered around working kinks out of their backs and other places. Biddy sported a new black eye, the result of being hit by someone’s head when the wagon fell. Hands on hips, the incensed ladies surrounded Flintlock and aired out their lungs, turning the air blue with their cusses as they assailed him for a barbarian, a brute, a thug, and a low person.

  He decided to beat a hasty retreat and backed away ... but in doing so, momentarily took his eyes off Davis. It was a bad mistake, giving the man all the time he needed to sprint to his horse, climb into the saddle, and light out at a gallop.

  O’Hara aimed a revolver at the fleeing man and thumbed off three fast shots, but as far as Flintlock could tell, none took effect. Davis’s mount kicked up a dust cloud as it stretched into a flat-out run and he was soon out of revolver range.

  But Flintlock’s horse was close.

  He sprinted for the animal and tripped over Biddy’s extended foot, landing flat on his face with a heavy thud. Before he could collect himself and force his winded body to rise, the four women jumped on him. In a flurry of white petticoats, they pounded and kicked, scratched and bit, all the time yelling like enraged banshees. Almost invisible in the dust, Flintlock was getting the worst of the free-for-all. O’Hara ran to Flintlock’s defense and tried to pull the savage females off him, but it was like trying to stop a catfight with his bare hands. Just like Flintlock, O’Hara was clawed and bitten. Biddy landed a fair left hook to his nose, drawing blood.

  Finally, the superior strength of the two men prevailed and they fought off the women. Flintlock managed to stagger to his feet. Like four harpies at bay, the ladies formed a line in front of his horse and dared him to mount. By then, Morgan Davis was long gone and Flintlock didn’t make the attempt.

  Battered and bruised, he was irritated beyond measure. He stooped, picked up the fallen Colt, and said, “I’ve never shot a woman before, but there’s a first time for everything.”

  “Yes,” Biddy said, “gun us down like you did Poke. Then see if the Rangers don’t catch up with you and hang you from the nearest tree. There’s a law in Texas against killing helpless women, you know.”

  O’Hara wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand. “She has a point, Sam. Maybe now is not such a good time to gun them.”

  Flintlock grimaced. ’Thanks for the advice, O’Hara.“

  The breed shook his head. “But I have to hand it to you, Sam. You sure got a way with women.”

  Biddy spat and said, “He plans to shoot us all right, Injun. He’s a born killer if ever I seen one. You heard my name, but I’ll tell you anyway. I’m Biddy Sales.” She placed her hand on the shoulder of the plump young blonde next to her. “This here is Lizzie Doulan, as innocent a flower as ever lived. Maybe you’d like to shoot her first,
Flintlock.” She moved to the next woman, a hard-eyed redhead. “Meet Jane Feehan, but let her say her prayers before you gun her. And this is Margie Tott.” Biddy laid her hands on the shoulders of a petite, hazel-eyed brunette. “She sends every penny she earns to her poor old mother in the Emerald Isle.”

  Biddy then stepped in front of Flintlock, belligerent and brassy. Her head tilted back and a great deal of firm cleavage showed above her corset as she said, “All right, we’re ready. Open fire with your murderous revolver and be damned to ye! Let me be the first one to die.”

  O’Hara said, a hint of a smile on his lips, “Seems like you’ve got a decision to make, Sam.”

  “Damn it, O’Hara. Keep your opinion to yourself.” Flintlock waved his Colt. “Right, you gals into the wagon. Now!”

  Biddy again put her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing. “Make us.”

  “I won’t tell you again,” Flintlock said. The thought that he was entering into yet another losing battle was starting to nag at him.

  She stood her ground. “And I said ’make us.’”

  “Yeah, make us,” Lizzie Doulan said.

  All four took up the chorus, flouncing their skirts. “Make us! Make us! Make us!”

  At a loss, Flintlock stood helplessly, his useless Colt hanging by his side.

  Suddenly, the breed let out a loud, piercing shriek that abruptly stopped the female cries. He had Flintlock’s Barlow knife in his right fist, the blade open, and he launched into an unrestrained tribal dance, his voice raised in a wild chant. “Yi-hi-hi-hi-hi . . . yi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi . . .”

  Saved by O’Hara, Flintlock caught on quickly. “Oh my God!”

  Biddy was alarmed. “What’s the hell is he doing?”

  “O’Hara is half Mescalero Apache,” Flintlock said, suitable awe in his voice. “That’s his scalp dance.”

  Lizzie Doulan said, “Whose scalp does he want?”

  “Yours,” Flintlock said. “And Biddy’s and everybody’s.”

  O’Hara’s dance pace increased and his chanting rose in volume as he waved the knife above his head. His face, bloodstained from his swollen nose, bore an expression of unrestrained fury.

  The four ladies were bold, but not all that brave. Screeching, they beat a hasty retreat to the wagon and piled inside. Then came a loud snick! as the door bolt slammed into place.

  Flintlock grinned. “All right, O’Hara, you can stop playacting now.”

  The breed stopped, waved the knife in Flintlock’s face, and said, “Who was playacting, white man?”

  Chapter Five

  While the woman were locked inside the wagon, Flintlock dragged away Poke Murray’s body and laid it in the brush beside the bushwhacker he’d killed in the first exchange of fire. The Hawken’s .50 caliber ball had blown a fist-sized hole in the man’s chest and Flintlock figured he’d died instantly.

  “Admiring your handiwork, Sammy?”

  Flintlock followed the sound of the voice and saw wicked old Barnabas, the old mountain man who’d raised him from a child, perched among the topmost branches of a wild oak.

  “This is an unpleasant surprise. I thought I was finally rid of your,” Flintlock said.“

  “Boy, you won’t get shot of me until you find your ma in the Arizony Territory and she tells you your rightful name,” Barnabas said. “I know you’re an idiot, Sam, but try to wrap your mind around this fact. You can’t spend the rest of your life called fer a rifle.”

  “I’ll find her. Don’t you worry about that,” Flintlock said, irritated. He pointed to an object in the old man’s hand. “What the hell is that thing you’re holding?”

  Barnabas held up the object that glinted in the sun. “This is an old-timey helmet, boy. See, you put it on your head like this.” He lowered the helmet onto his head. His voice sounding hollow, he added, “Then you lift the visor.” It was shaped like the bow of an iron steamship. He raised it and said, “There, now I can see you just fine.”

  “What are you doing with that thing?” Flintlock said.

  “Polishing it up for a feller.”

  “What feller?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, Sammy, but I’ll tell you anyway. This here hat belongs to Baron Boris Von Baggenheim. Back, oh, four hundred years ago, ol’ Boris made a career of galloping around the countryside slaughtering peasants and dragging maidens back to his castle to have his way with them.” Barnabas sighed. “Boris sure misses them good old days.”

  “And that’s why he’s in hell?” Flintlock said.

  Barnabas said, “Yeah, that and something to do with burning some holy man or other. But what you say is true, boy.” He nodded and the helmet visor clanged shut. He opened it again. “Boris’s corner of hell is reserved for them as You-know-who calls naughty noblemen, including that little puke the Marquis de Sade. Spends all his time talking about his female conquests, like anybody cares.” Barnabas lifted the helmet off his head. “Damn, this thing is heavy and hot. Of course, in hell it’s red hot, but Boris doesn’t seem to mind.”

  “Barnabas, why are you here?” Flintlock said.

  The old mountain man looked over his shoulder and then his voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “You-know-who has advice for you about them uppity females. He says you should tip the wagon over again and then set it on fire. Burn them four harridans alive and you’ll be rid of them.”

  “Yeah, that’s the kind of advice he would give. Tell him it’s not going to happen.”

  Barnabas polished the helmet with his buckskin sleeve. “Well, Sam’l, he’s smart and you’re a dunderhead, but suit yourself. Now I got to go. Hey, you ever hear of a bird they call a kingfisher?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” Flintlock said.

  “You will,” Barnabas said.

  He vanished in a puff of smoke that smelled of brimstone. Only the sound of his cackle lingered and then it too was gone.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE was the author of over 220 USA Today and New York Times bestselling books, including The First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Eagles, Savage Texas, Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man, The Family Jensen, and The Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty, as well as the stand-alone thrillers Suicide Mission, The Bleeding Edge, Home Invasion, Stand Your Ground, and Tyranny.

  Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.

  NEW YORK TIMES AND

  USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHORS

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  with J. A. Johnstone

  BLACK FRIDAY

  From the bestselling authors of Tyranny and Stand Your Ground comes the explosively charged story of a full-scale terrorist attack on American soil—on the biggest shopping day of the year . . .

  DAY OF RECKONING

  Black Friday. The American Way Mall is packed with holiday shoppers and bargain seekers. Machine-gun fire rings out, and within minutes hundreds are dead and dying. Others are taken hostage by an army of fanatical Middle Eastern terrorists ready to blast the American Way Mall into a pile of rubble. But one man—Iraq War vet Tobey Lanning—refuses to go down without a fight. Separated from his fiancée, Lanning finds himself on the frontlines of a new war against terror. The FBI and the local police are helpless. The battle is going to be lost or won inside the mall. With thousands of innocent lives at stake, Lanning assembles a makeshift platoon of Black Friday shoppers. A teenage security guard. A retired Chicago cop. A schoolteacher who’s never fired a gun. A young ex-con who has. A soccer mom. A priest. A wheelchair-bound World War II vet . . .

  These brave everyday Americans will stand up and meet the enemy face to face. Defend their land, their values, their honor—and if necessary pay the ultimate price for freedom ...

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

 

 

 
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