“She didn’t say,” Smith said. “As I told you, she was very tight-lipped about her past.” He smiled. “I guess all Pinkerton agents are like that.”
“I think Miss Brown is my mother. In fact, I’m sure of it,” Flintlock said. “Why was she here? Did she tell you?”
Again, Smith looked uncomfortable, and then he said, “It was all to do with the Old Man of the Mountain.”
“Hell, that name keeps coming up,” Flintlock said.
“And no wonder, he’s the richest, most powerful man in the Territory, if not the entire country. The situation is dire enough that President Arthur called in the Pinkertons,” Tom Smith said. “Miss Brown decided she could trust us enough to tell us that she and seven other agents were ordered to track the money trails in and out of Balakai Mesa. She said that the Old Man’s revenues come in from his criminal activities in two dozen major cities and then goes back out again.”
“Out to where?” O’Hara said.
“Some of it to pay his hundreds of employees, everybody from accounting clerks to opium dealers to hired toughs, but a large part goes to line the pockets of the crooked politicians who see to it that the Old Man stays in business. He grew richer after the Apaches were defeated and the railroads reached Flagstaff and Kingman and made it easier for his agents to travel across the country. Without the trains, the Old Man would be unable to conduct his affairs from his haven in the Arizona Territory.”
Flintlock said, “And how was my ma, I mean Miss Brown, involved in all this?”
“Of the seven male agents, four were murdered, two disappeared and one was badly crippled when he was beaten by a gang of toughs in Flagstaff. Miss Brown was ordered to Flagstaff to talk to the injured man and then things took a strange turn.” Smith lit his pipe before he turned to his daughter and said, “Louise, that night before bed Miss Brown told you what happened in Flagstaff. You can tell it better than me.”
The girl looked down and smoothed her skirt over her shapely thighs and when she raised her head again her beautiful, flirtatious eyes were serious.
“Miss Brown said the Pinkerton agent was at death’s door and his face was so badly smashed by boots and clubs he could hardly speak,” Louise said. “But he managed to whisper the name Molly Meadowlark, and died a few minutes later. I remember the name because it was so unusual. Miss Brown made inquiries and discovered that Molly Meadowlark worked as a prostitute at a house of ill repute and she had a story to tell.”
The girl fell silent, marshaling her thoughts, remembering . . .
Flintlock’s place at the table gave him a view through the cabin’s only window. In the distance, he saw a cloud of dust rise, still far off, two riders, maybe three. The sky was a mass of broken cloud, and thunder rumbled among the canyons to the south. Suddenly Flintlock felt uneasy, as though something was about to happen, but what it might be he couldn’t imagine . . . unless the horsemen rode closer and then all bets were off.
Louise was talking again, refocusing Flintlock’s attention.
“. . . he told her he was headed back north to the mesa country and—”
“Who was he?” Flintlock asked. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
Tom Smith smiled. “Watching the dust, huh? I’m keeping an eye on it myself.”
“I reckon two or three riders,” Flintlock said.
“Seems like. It could be tinpans, a few of them hereabouts, always hunting in the washes for the motherlode and never finding it.”
“Or the Old Man’s gunmen,” Flintlock said.
“Not like them to come this far north of the Balakai, but stranger things have happened.” Smith smiled when he said that, but lines of concern showed on his face.
“Is anyone listening?” Louise said, frowning.
“Yes, I’m listening,” Flintlock said. “Please, go on.”
“Well, one of Molly Meadowlark’s . . . ah . . . customers told her his name was Maxwell St. John and he’d just got back from a week’s stay in Carson City. He said he was headed back to the mesa country where he’d pick up money and go back on the road, probably east this time. ‘I work for the world’s richest businessman and he treats me right,’ the man said.”
“What manner of man was he?” Flintlock said. “The customer, I mean.”
“Miss Meadowlark told Miss Brown that Max St. John had a lot of money to spend, enjoyed gambling and carried a Colt’s revolver in a leather-lined pocket sewn into his frock coat,” Louise said. “When he got drunk, he said he’d killed seven men with the revolver and he let Miss Meadowlark touch it. That’s all Miss Brown told me about him.”
“Sounds like a hired gun to me,” Flintlock said.
O’Hara said, “I recollect a 4th Cavalry corporal out of McAllen, Texas, by the name of Maxwell St. John. I don’t know anything about him, though.”
“It’s an unusual enough name, so it’s probably the same man,” Flintlock said. “I guess he swapped a dirty blue shirt for a frock coat.”
Louise said, “When St. John rode out the next morning he was accompanied by another man, and Miss Brown went after them,” Louise said. “She tried to arrest them but they fled and she later got into a running gunfight with those two and killed one of them.”
Flintlock smiled. “Yup, sounds like she could be my ma, all right.”
O’Hara nodded. “I think we’re finally on the right track, Sam.”
Tom Smith said nothing. He stood and stared out the window. He crossed the floor, picked up his shotgun and said, “Louise, you stay inside.” His voice sounded hollow, his face showing the sudden strain he was under.
Flintlock turned and looked out the window. Three riders had just uprooted the shooting sign, placed there by a previous occupant of the cabin, not Smith, and had remounted. Now they rode toward the cabin at a walk, three gun-belted men on blood horses, Winchesters under their knees, riding with the easy self-assurance of fighting men who were sudden and dangerous and knew it.
Smith opened the door and then turned. “Sam, you and O’Hara stay inside. I reckon this is about me and Louise and you’ve no call to get involved. It’s not your fight.”
Smith stepped outside, the shotgun in the crook of his left arm.
Flintlock looked to the riders, to Smith, and back again, not liking the signs that were there to be read plain. If this confrontation came down to a shootout, Smith was outclassed in every way a decent but untrained man could be when faced with three seasoned, hard-faced gunmen who’d no doubt killed more than their share.
Ignoring Smith’s order to stay inside, Flintlock stepped through the doorway, and O’Hara took up a position on his left.
For long moments, no one moved and there was no sound but for the chime of a bit as a horse tossed its head. The three gunmen slowly took measure of Flintlock and O’Hara, found them wanting, and dismissed them. One of the three, a big redhead with a hard-boned face and savage eyes, untied a burlap sack from his saddle horn and then tossed the bag at Smith’s feet. The heavy sack made a chinking noise when it hit the ground.
The redhead said, his tone clipped and arrogant, “There’s a hundred double eagles in there for the girl. Bring her out and we’ll be gone.”
Smith’s anger flared. “Tell whoever sent you that my daughter is not for sale. Now take your money and go.”
The man with the red hair and vicious eyes shook his head. “I’m not here to bandy words with a damned squatter.” He turned to the man beside him. “Steve, go get her and tell her to pack whatever women’s fixin’s she needs.”
The rider called Steve, a tall, lean man with a thick mane of yellow hair, was about to swing out of his silver-studded saddle when Flintlock’s voice stopped him, freezing him in place.
“I wouldn’t do that, Steve.” Flintlock’s Colt was in his hand and his expression was none too friendly. “From here, I can shoot you right out of that fancy saddle.”
The redhead looked at Flintlock as though seeing him for the first time. “What the hell are you?
” he said.
“Your death, if’n you choose that path.”
“Big-talking man, ain’t you?”
“Nope. I’m just saying things as I see them.”
“Ragamuffin man, that’s what you are. What’s that beside you?”
“An Injun.”
“He’s a breed.”
“A rare breed, the kind that’s a hundred different kinds of hell in a gunfight.”
The redhead spat over the side of his horse. “Mister, you’re all talk. Steve, do what I told you, bring the slut out here.”
Steve stayed where he was, his shoulders stiff and tense. “Charlie, he’ll plug me for sure. I can see it in his eyes.”
The redhead’s anger blazed. “You damned yellowbelly, I’ll do it myself.”
Then Charlie took Flintlock and everyone else by surprise.
He hollered a rebel yell, slammed his roweled spurs into his horse’s flanks and drew as the startled animal reared and hurled itself forward. Like a thrown lance, Charlie aimed his speeding mount straight at Flintlock.
Then, a moment of dusty, hell-firing chaos.
Flintlock snapped off a fast shot. A miss. He was aware of O’Hara firing. Charlie’s horse hit Flintlock a glancing blow that knocked him on his back. He looked up, saw the redhead lean from his bucking mount and draw a bead on him . . . and in that split second Flintlock knew he was a dead man.
But he was not destined to die that day.
A moment of time contracted into a single heartbeat as a startling fan of blood haloed around Charlie’s head, followed by the distant report of a rifle. The big redhead fell out of the saddle and crashed onto the ground just feet away from Flintlock, the front of his head missing a chunk of bone.
Flintlock jumped to his feet and took stock of his surroundings. The man called Steve was sprawled in the dirt, a victim of O’Hara’s gun. The remaining rider, big and bearded, sat his saddle, his face ashen. His arms were raised and he desperately clawed for handfuls of sky.
“I’m out of this!” the man yelled. “Let me be.”
Flintlock, his narrow brush with death stoking his anger, thought about drilling the son of a bitch but Tom Smith’s urgent voice stopped him.
“No, Sam! He’s done. He’s surrendered.”
It took a while as Flintlock battled his baser instincts, but finally he forced himself to relax and holstered his gun. A few quick steps took him to the bearded man’s horse and he reached up and hauled the gunman out of the saddle by his belt. Flintlock shoved the man against the flank of his mount, grabbed him by the shirtfront and slammed a fist into his belly. All the breath hissed out of the gunman, and Flintlock hit him again, a looping right to the chin that dropped him to his knees. His blood up, still angry at letting the redhead outsmart him, he dragged the bearded man to his feet and backhanded him, a brutal slap that buckled the man’s knees. Flintlock hauled the gunman erect and, almost nose to nose with the man, he said, “Who sent you here?”
“Sam, let him alone. We know who sent him here.” This from Tom Smith, who stood at Flintlock’s shoulder. He pushed in between Flintlock and the gunman, allowing him to drop to the ground. “The Old Man of the Mountain sent him.”
Flintlock blinked, calming down now. “He wants your daughter?”
“Yes, he wants a bride,” Smith said.
Louise opened the door and stepped outside, walking through the dust cloud that still hung in the air like ragged burlap. She overheard what her father had told Flintlock and said, “Pa, I’d kill myself before I’d become that monster’s wife.”
Smith smiled reassurance. “It won’t come to that. We’re leaving this place and going back East. I’ve taught you all I can, Louise, and it’s time you started on a proper education.”
The girl looked crestfallen. “But, Pa, you love it here and your poetry . . .”
“I can still write poetry in Boston. Besides, that’s where my publisher is.”
Flintlock suddenly felt empty, washed out, the stress of the gunfight and his close call rebounding on him. Who had fired the rifle shot that killed the redhead? He’d find out later. Right now, he had a task to perform.
He picked up the money sack from the ground and said to the bearded gunman, “Git on your hoss.” Unsteadily, the man climbed into the saddle and Flintlock said, “Tell the Old Man of the Mountain that I’m keeping his money. Now see you get my name right. Tell him Sam Flintlock—got that?—Sam Flintlock took it and he’s not giving it back, not now, not ever. You understand what I’m saying?”
Blood trickling down his chin from a split lip, the man said, “I’ll remember. And you remember this day. Mister, you’ve just signed your death warrant.”
He swung away and set spurs to his horse.
Flintlock watched the man until he was out of sight and then stepped to Louise. He held out the money sack and said, “This will help pay for your education back in Boston town.”
The girl shook her head. “I don’t want it, Sam. It’s blood money.”
Flintlock nodded. “Yes, it is, and that’s why I’m giving it to you. You will put it to good, honest use.” He smiled. “Louise, you’re beautiful and you’re smart. You’ll make your mark one day and this money will help.”
“Louise, we can’t give it back,” Tom Smith said. “I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but keep the money. As Sam says, it’s yours now.”
The girl nodded, but said nothing. She carried the sack to the door and then turned to her father and said, “Until now, I’d never seen a dead body before.”
“The fight was of their choosing,” Flintlock said. “They’re not the kind of men I’d mourn over.”
“I regret the death of any man,” Smith said. His smile was slight, weak. “But perhaps some more than others.”
“These two were fighting men,” Flintlock said. “They both knew that one day they’d meet a man faster on the draw, or just luckier, and they accepted that fact. Well, me and O’Hara got lucky. On this particular day that’s how the dice rolled.” Flintlock looked around him. “Speaking of O’Hara, where is he?”
Tom Smith said, pointing, “Look there, he’s heading our way.”
Flintlock watched O’Hara come, closing distance with the easy, graceful lope of an Apache warrior. “Where the hell have you been?” Flintlock said.
“Up on the ridge back there,” O’Hara said. “That’s where the shot came from that saved your life, Sam.” He dropped an empty cartridge casing into Flintlock’s hand. “It’s a .44 from a Henry rifle.” As Flintlock examined the shell, O’Hara said, “Saw boot prints up there on the ridge. They were made by a small man or a woman. My guess is a woman.” He held up a small cigar butt. “She must have been looking down on us for quite a spell, long enough to smoke a cheroot before she made the shot that killed the redhead.”
Flintlock’s brow furrowed in thought, then, “Can’t be my ma. She wouldn’t smoke cheroots.”
“I don’t know what she did in the past, but she sure as hell smokes them now,” O’Hara said.
CHAPTER NINE
That night Flintlock and O’Hara dragged the two dead men away from the house as Tom Smith and his daughter prepared to leave at first light the following morning.
“Tom, those boys left rifles and pistols and two good horses that will take you fast and far,” Flintlock said. “Fill your canteens and keep your guns close.”
“What about you, Sam?” Smith said.
“O’Hara and me will hold on here at the cabin for a spell, see if my ma shows up.”
“You’re sure it was her up on the ridge?”
“Pretty sure. But O’Hara is convinced she’s the one fired the shot that saved my life.”
“I sure hope that’s the case,” Smith said.
“That makes two of us,” Flintlock said.
* * *
Come first light Tom Smith and Louise mounted and headed east under a clear, lemon-colored sky. Before she left Louise kissed Flintlock on the cheek
and thanked him for saving her, and Smith shook his and O’Hara’s hand in turn. “If you’re ever in Boston town . . .”
“We’ll look you up. A famous poet shouldn’t be hard to find.”
Flintlock knew it would never happen but it was something to say, sincere but empty words to ease the parting and show confidence that father and daughter would survive the long and dangerous trail back to civilization.
Flintlock and O’Hara watched them go until they disappeared through a break in a sandstone bluff where scattered piñons grew.
“Think they’ll make it?” O’Hara said.
“I’m worried about them. It’s a long way to Boston town.”
“I reckon Smith can give a good account of himself in a fight. It took sand to leave the city and live all the way out here.”
“Louise spoke with my ma.” Flintlock shook his head. “That’s something I’ve never done, that I can remember anyway.”
“Pretty girl, Sam.”
“Uh-huh, she’s all of that. Some nice young city feller will come a-courtin’ and sweep her off her feet. They’ll get married and have lots of young ’uns.”
O’Hara grinned. “That’s how it’s gonna happen, huh?”
“Nope, that’s how I hope it happens,” Flintlock said, and O’Hara saw the concern in his eyes.
* * *
The morning, so bright with promise, gave way to a gray, overcast afternoon and the air held an ozone tang, the harbinger of a thunderstorm. Out in the rocky, sunbaked badlands nothing moved, but far in the distance almost invisible against darkening clouds a buzzard quartered the sky and scanned the ground below with eyesight so sharp it put the best French field glasses to shame.
Flintlock and O’Hara had carried out a pair of wooden chairs from the cabin and now sat outside, sharing a bottle of rye that Tom Smith, a reformed drunk, had bought but never opened.
“Maybe we should holler,” O’Hara said.
“Holler what?” Flintlock said.
“Ma,” O’Hara said. “Holler for your ma.”
“It wouldn’t do any good. She ain’t planning to show.”
Pitchfork Pass Page 5
