Pitchfork Pass

by William W. Johnstone

  “Out! All of you out! Find him!” he roared. “I want the tattooed man alive. Bring him back alive! You hear? Alive!” Hammer laid about him with a riding crop, cutting furious blows at his startled gunmen. “What are you waiting for? Damn you, bring me the tattooed man!”

  Hammer watched his gunmen make a hurried departure, called out, “A thousand dollars to the man who brings me the tattooed man,” and then, without a glance, he stepped around the bodies of his men and stalked toward the dungeon.

  * * *

  The three women were awake and stood at the door looking into the torch-lit courtyard, wondering at Hammer’s scream. The man did not keep them in suspense for long.

  “Your fellow murderer killed three of my men tonight,” he said. “I will find him and”—he pointed at Jane and Bridie with his crop—“you two will die with him.”

  “You’ll never find him,” Bridie said. “Sam Flintlock has outsmarted you and your thugs before and he’ll do it again.”

  “Is that his name?” Hammer said. “A name for a scoundrel if ever there was one.”

  “No, you are the scoundrel,” Jane said. “And one day I hope to see you hang.”

  As though he hadn’t heard, Hammer said, “I will have this Flintlock skinned alive, right there in your cell while you watch and hear him scream, and then you will burn.” The man’s grin was demonic, Satan in the flesh.

  Jane felt a chill of fear. The monster was talking about her son, and suddenly she was a she-wolf protecting her cub.

  “Hammer, you sorry piece of trash, my son will kill you,” she said.

  “Your son?” Hammer said.

  “Yes, my son, and he’s more of a man than you will ever be.”

  “Wait . . . how exquisite,” Hammer said, his mood suddenly shifting. Almost dreamily he said, “How flawlessly charming. My Chinese headsman long ago perfected the death of a thousand cuts and to have it done to the tattooed man while his mother watches . . . oh, that will be so . . . divine.” He slapped the door with his crop and said, to Jane, “Dear lady, when the cutting starts there will be blood, much blood. Best you hike your petticoats when you watch.”

  Hammer walked away from the cell, laughing.

  Jane watched him go and her face was ashen.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The distant red rock country shimmered with heat, and under his buckskin shirt sweat trickled down Sam Flintlock’s back. He hurt everywhere. There was not a part of his body that did not hurt, especially his hands, which were stiff and painful from his climb to the top of the mesa. His rifle was gone, and holding on to his Colt in a gunfight with a shredded hand would be a mighty uncertain thing. He poured precious water from his canteen over his hands in an effort to ease the pain, but his palms and fingers were rubbed raw in places and the water did little to help.

  Flintlock had taken refuge in a shallow drainage basin close to a slender, thirty-foot hoodoo that offered at least an illusion of shade. Around him grew patches of prickly pear and ball cactus and a few thin patches of wild rye grass that the buckskin gratefully tore up and munched. The sun was at its highest point in the sky but Flintlock was exhausted and, his back against the base of the hoodoo, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the day’s warm embrace.

  Two hours passed, then Flintlock woke to the sound of a birdcall. Or was it? A long, low whistle of the sort a man sometimes uses when he wishes to attract the attention of another on a hunt. And Flintlock was the hunted . . . were the huntsmen close? A fly brushed his face and he waved it away and stood. He flexed his stiff, painful gun hand and wondered if it would hold up to the draw and shoot. Likely not. Then, to his left, from the corner of his eye he saw a flash. Not one caused by nature, the sun on rock, but the gleam of a gun barrel. A moment later he saw the man, the bright red bandanna he wore around his neck and the fancy buckle of his gunbelt, and then the black muzzle of the man’s rifle.

  Flintlock had often wondered how his death would come and now with stark certainty he knew. It would come from the barrel of a Winchester in the hands of a man with a fancy belt buckle.

  But the rifleman did not shoot.

  “Stay right where you’re at or you’re a dead man,” the gunman said. “Now ease that pistol out of your pants and lay it at your feet. I see a fancy move and I’ll shoot you in the belly.”

  Flintlock, aware that his fingers were so stiff he would have fumbled the draw, did as he was told.

  “Now get your hands up,” the man said. He motioned with the rifle. “Higher.”

  Flintlock raised his arms and said, “Hell, they don’t go any higher.”

  “That there big bird on your throat rings a bell with me,” the man said. “What’s your name? Would it be Flintlock?”

  “Yeah, Sam Flintlock.”

  “Then my memory serves me right.” Without taking his eyes off Flintlock, the gunman turned his head and yelled, “Hey, Loss, I got the son of a bitch dead to rights.”

  The other man appeared from between rocks about twenty yards from the rim of the basin. He was short with piggy eyes and he wore a brown leather vest and carried a brass-framed Henry. “Fifty-fifty, Brandt, that’s how it goes, huh? Friends, huh?”

  “Sure, Loss, sure,” the man called Brandt said. “A thousand dollars split right down the middle between friends for bringing in the tattooed man alive. That’s how it’s gonna go down.”

  “Brandt, you’re true-blue,” Loss said.

  “Ain’t I, though,” Brandt said.

  He grinned at Flintlock and fired.

  * * *

  The bullet hit Loss high in the chest and dropped him where he stood.

  Brandt watched the man fall and said, grinning, “Sorry, Loss. These days a thousand dollars ain’t near enough money to split two ways.”

  Flintlock shook his head. “I got to hand it to you, you’re some kind of friend.”

  “I don’t have no friends,” Brandt said. “Loss was a business associate and I cut him out of the partnership.” He levered his rifle. “I’m thinking about you, boy.”

  “What are you thinking?” Flintlock said.

  “Thinking that I heard about you, way back. Yeah, I recollect now, Sam Flintlock. You’re a Texas bounty hunter, ran with Apaches for a spell, or so they say.”

  “Only one Apache.”

  “One is enough.” Brandt smiled. “I don’t trust you, Flintlock, you’re too slick by half and you know how to make fancy Apache moves. I’m supposed to take you in alive but a lot can happen between here and Pitchfork Pass and that means you got a choice to make, tattooed man.”

  “Choice about what? Man, you talk in riddles.”

  “Then I’ll spell it out for you. I’m going to shoot you in a knee to slow you down some.” He shouldered the Winchester. “Left or right, the choice is your’n.”

  Lady Luck wears many disguises when she comes to a man, and sometimes he’s aware of her visit only when it’s all over and he finds his fortunes have changed. But the lady didn’t wear a mask that day and Flintlock was aware of her instantly.

  Brandt said, “All righty then, I’ll choose. Left it is.”

  But before he had time to trigger his shot, a bullet crashed into his temple and a fan of blood, brain and bone erupted over his head. As Brandt dropped, his rifle clattering onto the rock, Flintlock turned and saw Loss on his belly, a smoking revolver pushed out in front of him.

  “Now nobody gets a share, Brandt,” the man said.

  Then he was dead . . . grinning his way into hell.

  * * *

  Flintlock shoved his Colt into his waistband, stripped the two dead men of their cartridge belts, canteens and the beef jerky and pint of whiskey he discovered in their saddlebags. Brandt’s Winchester was damaged, and Flintlock picked up Loss’s Henry and then slapped the rumps of the two horses and they took off at a trot. They would find their own way back to Pitchfork Pass and deliver a message to the Old Man of the Mountain that all was not well.

  CHAPTER THIRTY
-TWO

  The Pitchfork riders returned at sunset and rode through the pass two and three at a time, all of them fearful of Jacob Hammer’s wrath. They were not disappointed. And an hour later when two horses wandered into the pass and were brought to Hammer, his anger exploded.

  Loss Secombe and Brandt Armstrong were a team of draw fighters out of the Texas Pecos River country. They’d fought and killed together in the Colfax County War in the New Mexico Territory, where they’d put the crawl on Clay Allison. Intensely loyal to each other, they were tough, dependable and took orders, and their deaths were a grievous blow. Hammer knew that the Sam Flintlock creature, damn his eyes, did not have the sand or the shooting savvy to kill two named gunfighters, so he must have had help, a lot of help. That thought troubled Hammer deeply. Who the hell was out there and how many? He was about to take a major step forward in his business and the last thing he needed now were more enemies on his doorstep.

  For a while Hammer ranted and raved at his gunmen and cursed the name Sam Flintlock, but he didn’t go too far because he planned to send four of the gunmen out on a new quest that was of the utmost importance and now was not the time to raise the alarm.

  Ten years before these events a German chemist had invented a new opium derivative, a potent and highly addictive drug he named heroin. Now it was making its way into United States cities and Hammer quickly saw there were vast profits to be made by shipping it west. He already controlled a large portion of the opium trade and now he wanted a piece of the heroin pie that promised to be a big moneymaker.

  At first his assembled gunmen were a cowed, chastened group but Hammer, to prove there were no hard feelings, had invited them into his house and supplied bourbon and cigars that considerably lightened the mood. He gave them an hour and then rose to his feet at the head of the table, getting instant silence as conversations were abruptly terminated.

  “I have news to impart,” Hammer said. “First, you know what has been happening around the mesa of late. A criminal element has been murdering and robbing my couriers and threatening our business interests.”

  This brought a growl of outrage from the assembled gunmen and the few women who had followed their men to the Territory.

  Hammer waited until the uproar died away and then said, “The good news is that two of the scoundrels, both Pinkerton agents, are now in custody and will pay the ultimate penalty for their crimes.”

  Cries of “Hear! Hear!” and “Serves them right!” followed this announcement.

  Again, Hammer waited for silence and then said, “Fortunately my latest courier from New York successfully ran the gauntlet and had exciting news to impart that will benefit all of us.”

  Hammer went on to talk about the fortunes already being made from heroin in major eastern cities and as far south as the port of New Orleans, and he laid out his plan to move in on the new and lucrative drug trade.

  “Our contact in New Orleans is a Sicilian gentleman called Giuseppe Morello, who was extradited for his criminal activities in 1881 and returned to his native Italy. He’s now back in the country and will advise me on how to proceed in the heroin business.” Hammer took a sip of bourbon and over the rim of his glass studied his gunmen and then said, “In light of recent happenings I will choose four of you married men to make the journey to New Orleans. You will leave tomorrow and carry a hundred thousand dollars seed money that you will pass on to Mr. Morello. Do I trust you with that large amount of money? No, I don’t, not you, not anybody, and that is why your women will remain here as . . . not hostages . . . but my guests.” Hammer flashed his demonic smile. “But that will change quite rapidly if the money is not delivered.”

  “You can trust me, boss,” a man said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dawson. I’m sure your young wife is glad to hear that.”

  The woman sitting beside Dawson, a pretty brunette, blushed.

  “We won’t let you down, boss,” another married man said. “We know you’ll take care of us.”

  “And I will, Mr. Sherry. Every man jack of you who joins in this great endeavor will retire from business as a rich man.”

  This brought a cheer and Hammer raised his hands for silence.

  “Now my last piece of news that I’m sure will please most, if not all, of you,” he said. “Our sojourn in the middle of this mesa is soon coming to an end.” Hammer expected a cheer and got one, then, “The Pinkertons are already nosing around and it’s only a matter of time before the army moves against us in force. For that reason, and many others, I am moving our place of business to the great city of New Orleans, where we can take advantage of its port and rail services.”

  More cheering.

  “This facility will be burned before we leave, and with it the Pinkertons,” Hammer said. “I’ve reserved the headman’s sword for my faithless bride. She will be executed during our farewell feast, a piquant sauce to enliven our repast.”

  “Boss, when will that be?” a gunman asked.

  “Are you so impatient, Mr. Malone?” Hammer said. “Anxious to witness the spectacle?” Then, after the laughter died away, “The Pinkertons will be burned at the stake on the seventeenth of August, the day of the Chinese Hungry Ghost Festival when we honor our ancestors. My treacherous bride will meet her fate the following day during our banquet.”

  “And then we burn this place,” the man named Malone said.

  “Yes. That will be two weeks from now and afterward we leave the accursed Arizona Territory forever and return to civilization. Now, eat, drink and be merry and look forward to better times to come.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Sam Flintlock was holed up, fully conscious of the fact that hard times had come down and it was useless trying to buck a stacked deck any longer. By rights he should be dead. The Brandt feller had gotten the drop on him too easily and his life had been saved by a man who was already half dead himself.

  It was not a comforting thought.

  Like a wandered horse that will return to the barn because it’s the only home he’s ever known, Flintlock had made his way back to the arroyo and O’Hara’s grave. He told himself it was because of the grass and water, but he knew that was a lie. He was there because he was beaten, whipped, and he’d nowhere else to go. Another attack on the mesa was out of the question. This time they’d be waiting for him. He had no chance of rescuing his mother and Bridie and the Smith girl, no chance at all. The only course open to him was to continue waging war on the Old Man of the Mountain by attacking, killing and robbing all those coming and going through Pitchfork Pass. Well . . . he’d already tried that and the only result was a lot of dead men, including O’Hara. Jacob Hammer had all his money back, his criminal activities had been barely damaged, and now his ma was the madman’s prisoner.

  Good going, Sam. You’re doing great.

  Unshaven, unkempt, Flintlock angrily tossed the empty whiskey bottle away. For a short while it had helped, helped him sleep anyway, a temporary crutch to support a mentally paralyzed man.

  He faced the truth. It was finished. He was all used up. Done.

  For the third time since he entered the arroyo Sam Flintlock curled up in his blankets at sundown and slept.

  He dreamed of white, ghost horses ridden by dead men and woke with the cold edge of a bowie knife pressed against his throat.

  * * *

  “Easy there, feller,” a man’s voice said. “Wake up nice and slow.”

  Flintlock saw a bearded face above him and a pair of bright blue eyes. “Damn you for a bushwhacker,” he said. “Did Jacob Hammer send you?”

  “Never heard of the gent,” the man said. “But I’m sure he’s a fine gentleman.”

  “What are you doing here?” Flintlock said, remaining on his back, still with the knife edge against his throat. His Colt lay beside him, but he’d be cut bad before he got to it.

  “My mule brung me here,” the man said. “He’s what you might call a water mule.”

  “What’s a water mule?” />
  “A mean, ornery son of a bitch that can scent a spring from a mile away.”

  “Handy in this country,” Flintlock said.

  “Handy in any country.”

  The bearded man took his knife away. “Sorry about the blade, but it’s never a good idea to wake up a man who sleeps with his gun. No telling what he’ll do when he wakes up an’ sees another feller looking at him. Name’s Lon Stringer and I’m new to these parts. Oh hell, lookee there. My mule pushed your hoss out of the way so he can drink. He’s a mean one, that water mule. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind.” Flintlock sat upright and held out his hand. “But you’d better ask my horse. Name’s Sam Flintlock.”

  “That’s a grand name,” Stringer said.

  “Well, it will do until I find one better. You on the scout, Mr. Stringer?”

  “Call me Lon. No, Sam, I’m an explorer. Been exploring the wild country since . . . oh, I don’t know . . . close on twenty years.”

  Stringer’s beard and hair under his pith helmet were bleached from too much time spent in sun, sleet and snow, and a network of deep lines were etched on his face. Only the bright eyes gave the lie to his features. The man was probably years younger than he appeared.

  Apparently feeling that some kind of explanation was necessary, Stringer said, “I was a tinpan for a spell, oh, a ways back, but then I realized I loved the land more than I did gold, not that I found much. Well, anyhoo, I quit prospecting and I been exploring ever since. Had a woman once, but she didn’t like my way of life and left me. Married a drummer, I was told, but he dumped her in Deadwood and I don’t know what happened to her after that. She was a fine woman though, was Clare, but the love of exploring just didn’t enter into her thinking.”

  “What have you explored?” Flintlock said, prepared to be sociable.

  “I’d like to say the Dark Continent and Cathay and maybe the Amazon River down South America way, but I didn’t explore any of them. Mostly I just explore our very own deserts and mountains and such. I explored Old Mexico a while back and then Texas, where I bought the water mule, and now the Arizona Territory. Later I figure to make my way north and study the wild Canadians in their natural habitat.”