“Damned unsporting of them if you ask me,” General Elliot said.
Janowski nodded and said, “Indeed, sir. The British can be quite ruthless when it suits them.”
“Can you still raise a mercenary force, Colonel?” Senator Flood said.
“Even as we speak, I have fifty fighting men right here in Washington,” Janowski said. He noted the surprise on Flood’s face and said, “There’s been talk of an excursion into Mexico on behalf of President Porfirio Díaz and I wanted my men close.”
“Will they agree to join you for the Arizona Affair?” Flood said.
“Of course, if the money is right.”
“Good men?” General Elliot said, looking like a stern soldier.
“None better. Americans mostly, but there are a few Poles, Germans, British and French among them.”
“Will they stand?” Elliot said.
“They won’t break, General, if that’s what you mean. Mercenaries fight to the last man, that’s why they are paid so well.”
“You and your men will be well rewarded, Colonel Janowski,” Flood said. “You have my word of honor on that.”
It didn’t enter into Janowski’s thinking to doubt the senator. A gentleman had given his word of honor and he needed no more assurance than that.
General Elliot flicked cigar ash from the front of his surtout and said, “I must ask a question of you, Colonel, by your leave?”
“Please, ask away,” Janowski said.
“An expedition into the Arizona Territory’s mountainous region could prove exceedingly arduous, even for a young army officer,” Elliot said. “Somewhat infirm as you appear to be, are you sure you are up to the task?”
Janowski smiled. “Fear not, General, I still have a few more wars left in me.”
“I had to ask,” Elliot said. “You understand, I trust?”
“Of course, you had to ask. This expedition will cost the United States government a considerable amount of money and it’s your duty to make sure it is well spent.”
Elliot didn’t know it then, but within a short period of time he would witness firsthand how durable was Colonel Janowski’s bullet-shattered body.
Flood spoke again. “Within reason, General Elliot will supply you and your men with what you need. I mean horses, munitions and the like, but no regular troops.”
“I understand. What am I attacking, Senator?” Janowski said.
“A mesa,” Flood said. “An outlaw encampment within a mesa. Carved out of the heart of a mesa, I’m told.”
“Mesa?”
Elliot smiled. “A flat-topped hill with steep sides, Colonel. How high it is or how steep the slopes I do not know.”
Janowski pondered that last for a silent few moments and then said, “General Elliot, I’ll need a map of the area, two twelve-pound mountain howitzers, a supply of explosive ammunition and a dozen pack mules to carry the dismantled pieces of the cannon, ammunition and the food and water. Elephants would be better than mules, but I don’t suppose you have any of those.”
“No elephants,” Elliot said. “But I can supply the rest.”
“And for artillery spotting I’ll need an observation balloon, one of the tethered type used in your Civil War,” Janowski said. “And a gas generator, of course.”
“I think that can be arranged,” Elliot said. “Given time to pull it all together.”
“Speed is of the essence, General,” Flood said. “The president is most anxious that this affair be settled quickly.”
“I’ll need a couple of weeks,” Elliot said. “The observation balloon—”
“General, you have a couple of days,” Flood interrupted. “There’s a large arsenal here in the capitol where I’m sure you can find the cannon and munitions you need.”
“But, Senator—”
“No buts, General Elliot,” Flood said. “You will commandeer a train to take Colonel Janowski and his men to Flagstaff in the Arizona Territory. He can load his mules and make his way north from there. The president wants this sorry business concluded and in a very short time.”
“Yes, sir,” Elliot said. He looked worried and miserable at the same moment.
Flood got to his feet. “Colonel Janowski, you can contact General Elliot if you have any further needs. Now, it’s me to my bed. This has been a wearisome day.”
* * *
Elliot doused the oil lamp and trailed Flood and Janowski to the door. The senator was about to open it, but the colonel stopped him.
“Allow me to exit first,” he said. Flood looked mildly surprised and Janowski said, “On my way here I was followed by another cab. Then, about a block away, two men got out and proceeded on foot, but in this direction. A man in my line of work makes many enemies, and that pair might be two of them.”
“It’s late,” Elliot said. “Surely you saw revelers making their way home, Colonel. Drunks abound in this blighted neighborhood.”
Janowski nodded. “That might well be the case, but better safe than sorry.” He reached inside his coat and drew a beautiful French Modele 1874 Chamelot-Delvigne 11 mm revolver, then popular with several European militaries. “Push the door open and then stay behind me, gentlemen,” he said, holding the gun up alongside his head. “I’m more used to this kind of cloak-and-dagger work.”
“I’m armed,” General Elliot said.
“Then if I’m killed, use your weapon to defend yourself,” Janowski said.
He turned the handle of the door, kicked it open and stepped into the gaslit street.
For a moment, there was only the sound of the sweeping rain on the cobbles, falling like steel needles in the bluish-white light of the gas lamps. A stray dog limped along the opposite sidewalk and then vanished into darkness. A cab horse tossed its head and snorted.
A few tense moments passed and then a high, shrieking scream of rage splintered the night silence. Out of the murk two men ran at Janowski, firing Colt revolvers as they came. The distance between the colonel and his assailants was twenty yards and closing fast. Deliberate, unhurried, deceptively slow, the mercenary took up the duelist’s stance. He placed the inside of his right foot behind the heel of his left, turned his body sideways to the enemy, his left arm extended in a straight line from the shoulder, the French revolver steady in his fist.
He fired at a distance of five yards. Like a circle of red sealing wax, a bullet hole appeared between the eyes of one of the gunmen and he fell flat on his face onto the wet cobbles. The second man, tall and gangly, stopped, raised his gun and fired. The round tugged at Janowski’s empty right sleeve and at that moment the shooter knew he was a dead man. An experienced gunman can thumb back the hammer and fire in less than a second, but the tall man was not experienced. He was an Indian peasant of the untouchable caste and unused to the practice of arms. He died with Colonel Janowski’s bullet in his brain.
As the cab drivers fought to control their frightened horses, Janowski stood in the rain, his revolver hanging loose in his hand, gunsmoke drifting around him. In the distance, he heard a police whistle’s tinny shriek of alarm.
Elliot stepped beside the colonel, glanced at the bodies of the two young men sprawled on the cobbles and said, “My God, Colonel, who were they?”
“Indians, by the look of them,” Janowski said. “Maybe brothers of one of the harem women we killed at Uttar Pradesh. But who knows? I make so many enemies.”
“Quick, there’s no time to be lost,” Flood said. “Colonel, into a cab with you. General Elliot and I will handle things here.”
Janowski was bundled into a cab that drove away at a canter and a few moments later the police arrived.
“A street fight between foreign thugs,” Flood told the caped police sergeant who was first on the scene. “They killed each other.”
“Yes, indeed,” Major General Claude Elliot said. “The senator and myself witnessed the whole sorry affair.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sam Flintlock and Bridie O’Toole stayed awake the e
ntire night to keep vigil over O’Hara, who had developed a high fever and tossed and turned, muttering to himself, sometimes talking with Apache warriors who had died in battles many years before.
By sunup, O’Hara’s fever had not broken and his forehead was hot to the touch.
“He’s very sick,” Bridie said, fear squeezing her hard. “Sam, I’m worried about him.”
Flintlock nodded, said nothing. He’d seen strong men die of fever before and he knew exactly how sick O’Hara was.
“Strip him, Sam,” the woman said finally. She saw Flintlock’s face and said, “We must get the fever down.”
“How?”
“Take his clothes off, everything.”
“You mean, let O’Hara lie there naked?”
“No, not lie there. We’ll take him over there and put him in the water.”
“In the pool?”
“Such as it is, yes. The water cooled in the night. It may be cold enough.”
“Hell, we could kill him.”
“If we don’t break the fever he’ll die anyway.”
Then Flintlock said, “That’s our only drinking water.”
Bridie gave him a long, steady look, one eyebrow raised.
“I’ll get him ready,” Flintlock said.
He was surprised. O’Hara’s face and hands were sunburned a deep mahogany color, but his body, protected by his clothes, was white, Irish white. If Bridie noticed she didn’t say anything.
Flintlock carried O’Hara to the rock pool and gently lowered him into water that was cool, much cooler than his fevered, sweating body. Bridie used a canteen to constantly pour water over O’Hara, frowning in concentration.
“Will this work?” Flintlock said.
“I don’t know. His wound looks very bad. Did O’Hara live with Apaches long?”
“His entire boyhood, but an Apache boy is a man at twelve. He needed to be if the tribe was to survive.”
“Did he ride with the Apaches and kill white men?”
“Before I met him? I have no idea. He was an army scout for a spell. Being half white, they didn’t send him to Florida with Geronimo and the rest of them. I heard the Apaches are dying in Florida, but I don’t know if that’s true or not. I suspect it is.”
“You like him a lot, don’t you?”
“O’Hara is my friend. The only one I have. We’ve gone through some hard times, me and him.” Flintlock smiled. “And some good times. Once we found a golden bell that the old Spanish men made.”
Bridie spilled water over O’Hara’s head. “Keep splashing him, Sam,” she said. “The pool is shallow. What about you, Sam? What will you do after you find your mother?”
“I haven’t thought about it much. The West is changing and the day of the bounty hunter is just about over. Now the telegraph catches more bad men than bounty hunters ever did. Well, I did have one thought about my future. There’s talk that a Frenchman by the name of Lesseps is building a ship canal down in South America that will join the Pacific and Atlantic coasts. They say he’s paying big money to laborers, enough that a man can work for a couple of years and then retire. I figure I can talk O’Hara into joining me, though by nature he normally shies clear of pick and shovel work or any kind of manual labor.”
“It sounds like an adventure,” Bridie said. “Building a ship canal in South America.”
“Like I said, big money. I could retire and buy a hardware store. A man can prosper in hardware. O’Hara could come work for me. He’d be good with customers because he can be right personable by times.”
“And the liquor trade is a lucrative business, or so they say,” Bridie said.
Flintlock shook his head. “No, if I owned a saloon I could be forced to use my gun again. Nobody gets shot in a hardware store. He feels cooler. Doesn’t he feel cooler to you?”
Bridie made no answer, but her stricken expression spoke volumes.
Shadows had gathered on O’Hara’s face. His eye sockets and cheek hollows were dark and his lips were very pale and his chest no longer rose and fell with his labored breathing.
“He’s starting to feel better,” Flintlock said. “I mean, look at him. He’s asleep. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”
Bridie’s face paled under her tan, her eyes wounded. Quickly she placed her ear against O’Hara’s chest and listened. She straightened, pulled her hair back and tried again. This time she listened for long moments and when she sat up all color had drained from her cheeks.
“Sam, oh God, Sam,” she said, then slowly, emphasizing each toneless word, “O’Hara is dead.”
Flintlock stared at the woman. “No, he’s not dead. He’s asleep.”
“He’s dead, Sam.”
Flintlock lifted O’Hara by the shoulders and held him close. “O’Hara, wake up! Wake up, damn you!”
Bridie reached out and laid her hand on Flintlock’s shoulder. “He’s gone, Sam. The bullet must have done more damage than we thought.”
As though he hadn’t heard, Flintlock shook O’Hara hard and cried out, “Damn you for a stubborn Apache Irishman! On pain of death, don’t you dare die on me.”
O’Hara’s head rolled loosely on his shoulders and then fell forward on his chest.
All the life that was in him had gone. It was obvious to Bridie O’Toole and now, despite his refusal to accept it, it became obvious to Flintlock. He’d seen enough dead men to know death when it came calling.
Bridie said, “Sam, I’m so sorry. I just don’t have the words . . .”
Flintlock made no answer. He held O’Hara’s lifeless body in his arms, silent in his grief, his face carved from white marble.
“I didn’t want him to die,” Bridie said. “I did what I could to make him live.”
Cocooned by his terrible grief, Flintlock neither heard nor saw.
“O’Hara was brave, Sam. Brave to the end.”
Flintlock rocked back and forth and made a strange, keening sound. Bridie sat beside him, her hand on his broad back . . . and so a moonlit hour passed . . . and then another.
* * *
After a while Bridie got to her feet, picked up her rifle and explored the perimeter of the clearing. Within minutes she found what she was looking for, a talus slope to the right of the arroyo that had brought down the rocks that covered the ground at its base. The woman cleared away brush and rubble from a flat spot nearby, the work of an hour that left her with a sore back and a broken fingernail. When she returned to the pool Flintlock had not moved, O’Hara still in his arms.
“Sam,” she said.
No answer.
“Sam. We’ve got a burying to do.”
Flintlock didn’t respond. Silent. Lost in some dark place.
“Sam, we must lay O’Hara to rest.”
This time Flintlock’s eyelids flickered and he looked up at Bridie and said, “Then help me dress him. I will not let O’Hara stand before his Maker naked.”
After he and Bridie clothed O’Hara, Flintlock said, “Bring his rifle and his pistol and his knife. An Apache warrior should be buried with the arms he used in life.”
Flintlock carried O’Hara to the spot by the talus slope and laid him on the patch of ground Bridie had cleared. He placed the dead man’s weapons beside him and then used the fallen rocks to cover his body and when it was done he said, “I wish I could sing his death song, but I don’t know how.”
“Nor do I,” Bridie said. “But I will sing for the Irish warrior in him and help him find peace.” Then, in a fine, clear voice she sang for O’Hara.
The Minstrel-Boy to the wars is gone
In the ranks of death you’ll find him;
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
“Land of song!” said the warrior-bard,
“Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!”
Then, as though the song had become
too much for her to bear, she said, speaking in her normal voice, “The Minstrel fell, but the foeman’s chain could not bring that proud soul under. The harp he loved ne’er spoke again for he tore its chords asunder; and said, ‘No chains shall sully thee, thou soul of love and bravery . . .’ Bridie faltered, swallowed hard and continued, “‘Thy songs were made for the pure and free, they shall never sound in slavery.’”
* * *
Slow seconds ticked by before Flintlock said, “That was a warrior’s song, all right. O’Hara would have loved it.”
A wind rose and swirled around the clearing and stirred the trees and Bridie said, “I’m sure he heard it.”
* * *
When the dawn came, Bridie made coffee, thin and watery, using the last few beans, and they shared some pan bread fried in bacon grease.
If the coffee was thin, Flintlock’s cigarette was thinner. He lit it with a brand from the fire and said behind a drift of blue smoke, “Did we kill O’Hara? Did we cause the fever that caused his death?”
Bridie looked as though she’d been half expecting the question. “No, we didn’t. We didn’t cause his death, Sam.”
“Getting the bullet out, I mean. You dug deep.”
“But I didn’t kill him, nor did you.”
Flintlock’s face was cut through with deep lines, as though he’d aged a decade in a single night, and the thunderbird on his throat stood out in stark relief, as though it was about to take wing and flutter skyward and proclaim the death of a warrior.
“Do you want to know who killed O’Hara?” Bridie said.
“Yes, tell me.”
“Jacob Hammer killed him.”
Flintlock thought about that for a few moments and then he said, “Then I’ll bring hell to Pitchfork Pass. That I swear to God and to O’Hara’s spirit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Louise Smith made her way from the cave behind her cell, a place she visited for some privacy and its relative coolness. When she returned to the cell, Viktor beckoned her to the iron door.
“Man leaving this place, riding somewhere.”
Pitchfork Pass Page 11
