“Yes, Barnabas once said that I got the chestnut hair from my mother and my scarecrow body from him.” She smiled and her teeth were good. “I think, Sam, we’re a sore disappointment to one another.”
“You’re my ma, and I plan to love you,” Flintlock said, betraying a softer side that Bridie O’Toole didn’t think he possessed.
Jane shook her head. “No, Sam, don’t plan on loving me. One day I’ll move on and leave you again. Just be glad we finally met and let it go at that.”
“My pa’s name?”
“The day I leave, I’ll tell you, but not until then.”
“Why not now?” Flintlock said.
“Because I need Sam Flintlock the bounty hunter and sometimes outlaw for what has to be done. No one else.” Jane smiled. “Don’t look so surprised, Sam. I’ve heard about you. In Pinkerton circles, you’re quite famous. They say just the mention of your name makes fugitives from justice quake.”
“Quack?” Flintlock said.
“Quake. It means ‘to shake, tremble all over.’”
“I do that?”
“So I heard. But then people say all kinds of things about outlaws.”
“I’m not an outlaw,” Flintlock said. “Well, most of the time, I’m not.”
Jane sat by the fire and held out her cup to Bridie. “Enough of family matters. Refill that, Detective O’Toole, and what are those white things?”
“Chinese rice balls. They’re sweet. Would you like to try one?”
“I sure would, and while I’m eating tell me what’s going on with you.”
“What do I call you now?” Bridie said. “Still Miss Brown?”
“Call me Jane. I have a strong feeling the time for an alias is over.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sam Flintlock’s mother, now Pinkerton Detective Jane McIntyre, listened in silence as Bridie O’Toole recounted the private war she and Flintlock had waged on Jacob Hammer and the money they’d taken. She then told of the death of O’Hara and their plan to head for the safety of Fort Defiance.
Before she said anything else, Jane surprised Flintlock. “O’Hara was half Apache. Did he sing his death song?”
“No, he didn’t,” Flintlock said.
“Pity,” Jane said. “You can be sure he had one. Every Apache composes his own death song and keeps it secret until his time comes.”
“O’Hara just closed his eyes and died,” Bridie said. “I sang ‘The Minstrel Boy’ at his grave.”
“A fine song for a dead warrior, but it is not Indian and O’Hara’s spirit is not at peace,” Jane said. “That is one situation we can remedy before we do anything else. Take me to his grave.”
Flintlock seemed uneasy. “Ma, I don’t think—”
“Take me to the Apache’s grave, Sam.”
* * *
Jane carried the lantern to the pile of rocks that marked O’Hara’s resting place and said to Flintlock, “We will sing his death song to set his soul free to enter the spirit world.”
“We don’t know what it is, Ma,” Flintlock said. “Maybe we can just say a prayer.”
“I have another song that will suffice,” Jane said. She laid the lantern on the grave. “It’s a death song of the Shoshone that a shaman taught to your grandfather and your grandfather taught it to me. It tells of the battles the warrior fought, the scalps he took, the horses he stole, the women he loved and the tall sons he fathered. He says he will now go to the land where his father has gone and the old man’s ghost will rejoice at his prowess. He says death comes as a friend and relieves him of pain and he ends by saying that he will never complain that his time to die has come.”
Before Flintlock could say a word, in a strong, clear voice his mother sang the Shoshone death song, not a song the white man sings of grief and loss, but one that celebrated the dead warrior’s life and rejoiced in his journey to the spirit world.
When Jane finished, the lantern flame guttered in a rising wind and, suddenly appearing out of the darkness, an owl swept over the grave on silent wings and then vanished into the night.
Jane smiled. “All is well. The owl is a creature of the night and it speaks with the dead. It has told us that O’Hara’s spirit is now free.”
Flintlock’s eyes were fixed on a spot beyond the flickering lantern and he nodded and said in a strange, hollow voice, “Yes, I know, Barnabas. O’Hara is now following the buffalo.”
The two women stared at him, but neither spoke.
* * *
“I’ve given it some thought, Bridie, and I think your plan is the right one,” Jane said. “We’ll take the money to Fort Defiance and wire for further instructions.”
“It’s going to be a dangerous trip, Ma,” Flintlock said.
“No more dangerous than staying here,” Jane said. “I found your camp easily enough and Jacob Hammer’s thugs can do the same. In a wilderness of stone, the smell of a wood fire and boiling coffee carries far.”
“Then we’ll ride out at first light,” Flintlock said. “Since we’ve added the smell of salt pork and—”
“Rice balls,” Bridie said, smiling.
“I was going to say fried bread,” Flintlock said. He helped himself to coffee and said, “Ma, you shot a man off of me at the Smith cabin. Where have you been since?”
“Not a mile from here on a rock shelf banking a dry creek bed,” Jane said. “I found the place after I got into a shooting scrape with one of Hammer’s gunmen and decided to lay low for a spell.”
“We saw the aftermath of that, me and O’Hara,” Flintlock said.
“I didn’t count it, but as near as I can guess I took twelve thousand dollars in gold and silver coin from the man, and his horse and pack mule. We’ll pick up the money tomorrow before we ride east.” She raised an eyebrow. “There’s a hot spring on the ledge, Samuel. It isn’t much, but maybe you could take a few minutes to use it before we leave for the fort.”
“Use it for what?”
“For bathing.”
“Well, I’ll study on it,” Flintlock said.
“Please do. I have soap in my saddlebags.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As he swung into the saddle in the gray light of dawn, Jacob Hammer seethed with rage. He’d lost men and more important he’d lost money. Somebody, probably some two-bit lawmen leading a posse of hayseeds, was trying to put him out of business. And at the rate his losses were piling up, that might not be long.
The two men who’d fled the fight with the posse said a woman was with them and one of the rubes used a muzzle-loading squirrel rifle. They were sure of that. The cowards looked a lot less sure when Hammer ordered them executed and soon their heads joined the others in Pitchfork Pass.
“If you can, take them alive, especially the woman,” Hammer told the thirty mounted gunmen who surrounded him. “We’ll bring them back here and have us some fun.”
This brought a cheer and after the noise subsided, Hammer said, “A five-hundred-dollar bonus to the man who brings me the head of the leader of the rabble.” He waited until another cheer died down. “We’ve enough grub and water to last a week, but I want this matter over before then.” He waved a hand and yelled, “Scouts forward!”
Two bearded men in buckskins detached themselves from the rest and rode into the pass. Dave Coombs and Pete Fox had scouted for the army and had murdered, raped and scalped their way through the Sioux and Cheyenne nations. Both badly wanted that five-hundred-dollar bonus.
When the scouts were out of sight, Jacob Hammer led his men forward.
The Old Man of the Mountain was on the hunt . . . a conscienceless killer who was as dangerous and merciless as a wounded cougar.
* * *
Jane’s hot spring was not a spring, it was a seep, and Flintlock, soaped up and irritated, tried to bathe in a basinful of water. Bridie O’Toole had the good manners to avert her eyes as she busied herself loading the mule, but Jane considered her son with a critical eye.
“Wash all of
your parts, Samuel, and then your hair and don’t forget behind your ears,” she said.
“It ain’t easy,” Flintlock said, scowling. “There’s hardly any water.”
“There’s enough, so do the best you can. Remember, cleanliness is next to godliness.”
Bridie had loaded both pack mules and Jane asked her to switch her saddle to the horse she’d taken from the Pitchfork rider, a better mount than her own. When that was done, Bridie took up her rifle and said, “Jane, I’m going to look around.”
The older woman’s eyes searched Bridie’s strained face and she said, “We’re safe here, at least for a short while.”
Bridie shook her head. “I feel something. My grandma always said I had the Irish gift of second sight, and right now I feel uneasy, as though a goose flew over my grave.”
Jane nodded. “Allan Pinkerton always told me to go with my gut. By that he meant follow my instinct. Yes, Bridie, take a look around and come hotfooting back here if you see any sign of Pitchfork riders.”
Bridie smiled. “You can depend on that.”
* * *
Except for the buckskin shirt, Sam Flintlock dressed in his duds that his mother had washed for him. Every item was damp and only served to increase his early-morning irritability. “Damn it, Ma, what kind of soap was that? I smell like a Denver brothel.”
“Have you ever been in a Denver brothel, Samuel?” Jane said, looking stern. “Or any other kind of brothel, for that matter?”
“No, Ma,” Flintlock said, blinking.
“Well, I have, when your father was traveling the gambling circuit, and they smelled nothing like Pears soap, I assure you.”
Flintlock saw a way out and took it. “Well, I’ll get used to it. It doesn’t smell so bad, I guess.”
“I should think not, since Sarah Bernhardt swears by Pears soap and I imagine she knows a thing or two about bathing.” Jane looked stern again. “Besides, in another three or four months you’ll smell like your old self again.”
Flintlock was spared a further discussion of his personal hygiene by the timely return of Bridie O’Toole, who had news . . . all of it bad.
* * *
“A big dust cloud to the southeast, a lot of riders,” Bridie said. “And they have a pair of scouts out. Those two I saw clear.”
“The army?” Flintlock said.
“I doubt it,” Jane said. “Someone would have told the Pinkertons if there was a plan to send soldiers into this area.”
“If it’s not the army, then it’s Jacob Hammer and his men,” Flintlock said.
“They’re out hunting for us,” Bridie said.
Flintlock thought about that and said, “Forget riding for Fort Defiance this morning. Hammer’s men are bound to spot our dust and head us off.”
“Then what do you suggest, Samuel?” Jane said.
“You and Bridie take the pack mules and ride north into the rough country up there. I’ll do what I can to hold Hammer here for a while and buy you some time.”
Jane was alarmed. “Samuel, you could be killed.”
“I’ll be careful. What we don’t want is the Old Man of the Mountain to recover his money. He has to get those ill-gotten gains back or his businesses will suffer and that’s why he’s out in force after us.”
“But Samuel—”
“Ma, you and Bridie head due north, away from Hammer. Keep the money safe and I’ll find you later and then we’ll make another plan.”
“I don’t like this, Samuel,” Jane said. “It’s very thin.”
“Can you think of a better plan?”
“Well, we could all head north and lose ourselves in the mesa country,” Jane said.
“Hammer is using scouts and you can bet the farm they know their business,” Flintlock said. “They’d catch up with us before noon.”
Another protest died on Jane’s lips as she faced the harsh facts. If they got caught in the open they couldn’t buck the odds. They’d all die and Hammer would have his money back and his evil empire would be saved. It was unthinkable. After a while she said, “Samuel, come back to us.”
“Sure, I will. I’m not about to let a two-bit scoundrel like Jacob Hammer cut my suspenders. Now go, both of you.”
Bridie O’Toole rose on tiptoe and kissed Flintlock on the cheek. “Good luck and be careful, Sam.” She smiled. “You smell real nice.”
Flintlock puffed up a little. “It’s Pears soap. Sarah Bernhardt swears by it and she knows a thing or two about bathing,” he said.
“Good luck, Samuel,” Jane said.
“You, too, Ma. Good luck.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Flintlock rode out of a dry creek bed as a rising wind talked around the rocks and despite the early-morning hour a heat haze shimmered to the south and a silence lay heavy on the land. After a while he drew rein and looked around, his every sense attuned to the dry, lonely country that surrounded him. He saw and heard nothing. But he knew that somewhere out there were two of Jacob Hammer’s scouts and behind those, and not too distant, a dust cloud marked the main force. Flintlock calculated at least forty riders, and maybe more, coming on at a trot.
From where he sat his buckskin a shelf of deeply split rock, bookended by dramatically high bluffs, sloped downward for several hundred yards to a flat, grassy canyon with heavy growths of piñon and mesquite. Finding the scouts was Flintlock’s first order of business. Put out Hammer’s eyes and he’d be riding blind, at least for a while . . . perhaps long enough for Flintlock to carry out the second part of his newly formulated plan.
He rode down the slope onto the flat and drew rein again as, unbidden, the thought came to him: What would O’Hara do? The answer came back quickly, as though O’Hara were here by his side . . . Dismount, hide among the trees and let the scouts come to you. It made sense. The canyon was a natural thoroughfare that cut through a copper-colored wasteland of dizzying heights and plunging gorges. The scouts were bound to ride this way—if they hadn’t done so already.
Flintlock stepped from the saddle and led his horse into a thick stand of juniper and piñon where he was concealed but still had a good view of the canyon. The sun rose, the heat became intense and Flintlock smelled his own sweat mixed with the lingering fragrance of Miss Bernhardt’s favorite soap. To the southeast the blue arch of the sky showed no sign of a dust cloud. Had Hammer and his gunmen stopped, waiting on a report from the scouts? It was possible. Hunting a few people in that immense, lost land was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
The best part of an hour passed and Flintlock’s eyes burned from the strain of searching the canyon through the sun glare. Above his head, visible through the tree canopy, a flock of quarreling crows flapped across the sky and insects droned their small music in the brush.
Then suddenly, the scouts appeared, but not in the canyon as he’d expected, but riding down the sloping rock shelf that he’d taken earlier. One of the men led the horse that Jane had left at her hideout. If the scouts were good, and Flintlock had no reason to believe they were not, they already knew that two women with pack mules had headed north and a man had ridden south. Based on that information Hammer would probably split his command, most of them following the tracks of the women, the rest hunting the fugitive male.
There was a bottom line to all this and it was starkly defined—the scouts had to die.
* * *
When you’re forced to kill a man who needs killing, there are no niceties involved, no chivalrous code of triggerometry, you do whatever it takes to get the job done. And that was Flintlock’s philosophy as he slid his Winchester from the boot and then lay flat on the ground, the rifle at his shoulder.
The scouts, big, bearded men wearing bowler hats, both with army-issue field glasses hanging on their chests, navigated the slope, talking, grinning to each other, the possibility of getting bushwhacked the last thing on their minds. Hammer had told them they were hunting rubes, and a rube doesn’t scare men who’d killed more than their share.
Sweat broke out on Flintlock’s forehead as he took up the slack on the Winchester’s trigger, his sights laid on the man to his left, the one doing most of the talking, his head continually turning to his companion.
Flintlock smiled.
Mister, you should be watching the trail ahead of you. Big mistake.
Flintlock held his breath, let a little of it out, and then squeezed the trigger. The butt plate slammed against his shoulder as the rifle roared its flat statement and the scout jolted in the saddle as the bullet slammed into his chest. For a second he sat tall and erect, like a soldier on parade, and then slowly . . . slowly . . . he toppled over the side of his horse.
The surviving scout was stunned, but only for a moment. He shucked his rifle and charged. Down the slope and onto the flat he came on at a gallop, riding for the drift of smoke lacing among the trees.
Flintlock fired, missed, then jumped to his feet, levering the Winchester. He and the scout fired at the same time. The man’s bullet burned Flintlock across his right thigh, drawing blood; his own round went nowhere. Never a great hand with a long gun, Flintlock dropped the rifle and drew his Colt. The range was now short, twenty yards separating the two men. The scout levered his Winchester from the shoulder and fired. It was a hurried shot that splintered bark from the tree at Flintlock’s side. Flintlock worked the Colt, shooting very fast. His first bullet missed the mark, but the remaining two took effect, one plowing into the scout’s left shoulder and the second raked across the man’s neck. But now the rider was right on top of him. The horse reared and shied away from Flintlock as the man on its back tried to work his rifle. Unbalanced, he was thrown from the saddle, landed on his back and lost his grip on the Winchester. He sprang to his feet, his hand going for his belt gun that was butt forward and unhandy in an army flap holster. The scout looked into the muzzle of Flintlock’s revolver and right there and then gave up the fight.
“All right, I’m done,” he said.
“I’m not,” Flintlock said.
He triggered his remaining two shots. At a range of five feet, both bullets slammed into the scout’s chest and dropped him dead as yesterday’s mutton when he hit the ground.
Pitchfork Pass Page 13
