Pitchfork Pass

by William W. Johnstone

  The big German smiled. “You must tell me about him sometime.”

  Flintlock nodded. “Sometime.”

  He turned and vanished into the night, the muttering curses of the suffering cavalrymen soon silenced by distance and darkness.

  There was an eerie quality to the moon-misted gloom, a quiet so profound Flintlock could hear his own breathing, coming in shorter gasps the nearer he got to Pitchfork Pass. His boots made a soft . . . crump . . . crump . . . sound on the coarse sand and gibbering things scuttled away from him as he passed. Much closer now . . . close enough to see the torch-lit arroyo cast a rectangle of dim orange light on the ground in front of the entrance.

  Flintlock stopped and listened into the night.

  He heard the muffled voices of men, talking, laughing, cursing . . . drunken.

  On silent feet, walking across rock, Flintlock stepped closer to the pass. The voices were louder, heedless of the noise they made, guards who were not guarding. That puzzled Flintlock. It suggested a breakdown of discipline and of men who no longer felt the need to be vigilant.

  Why?

  Was the Old Man of the Mountain dead? That seemed unlikely. The guards were lax in their duty but they were still in place and that meant Hammer was still inside.

  Then the truth dawned on Flintlock. The presence of the Pinkertons had scared Jacob Hammer and he planned to pull up stakes. He was leaving, heading for pastures new, probably within days. Since the mesa fortress was soon to be abandoned, the gunmen guards no longer gave a damn. That was the way of human nature . . . and the way hired men thought.

  In the end, it didn’t matter that Hammer was lighting a shuck, since Janowski’s attack would begin at dawn, but were the Old Man’s gunmen prepared to defend the mesa to the death? Judging by the guards in the pass, they were not.

  It was something for Von Essen to think about.

  Keeping to the shadows, Flintlock scouted the low, brush-covered hills opposite the entrance. There was enough cover for twenty riflemen and probably twice that number. He’d seen enough. The guards in the pass were still carousing as Flintlock slipped into the night and made his way back to Von Essen.

  * * *

  Based on Sam Flintlock’s report, Captain Dieter Von Essen roused his men and ordered them to march again and deploy in the foothills opposite Pitchfork Pass. There was some grumbling from the horse soldiers who under normal circumstances steadfastly refused to walk anywhere, but even they saw the wisdom of the Prussian’s plan. When Hammer’s gunmen spilled out of the pass they would be cut down before they mounted any kind of assault. Von Essen had fought in the Battle of Sedan during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 and it had taught him the futility of attacking entrenched infantry over open ground. He hoped Jacob Hammer had not learned that lesson.

  In complete silence, moving singly and in twos, the mercenaries found cover among the hills. Oblivious, the gunmen in the pass grew noisier and neither saw nor heard anything.

  Von Essen threw himself down beside Flintlock and laid his ornate sword on the shallow rise in front of him. “Now we wait, mein Herr,” he whispered. “How long until dawn?”

  Flintlock glanced at the lowering moon. “I reckon three hours, Captain.”

  “Ach, is it so? A long wait for tired men, is it not?”

  “Will they stay awake?”

  “I warned them on pain of death to remain alert.” Von Essen turned his head and growled at a grizzled man a few feet away from him, “And no smoking, Herr Adams. It is verboten.”

  The man called Adams grinned. “Pipe’s cold, Cap’n.”

  “Then keep it that way,” Von Essen said. “Mein own pipe is in mein pocket.”

  “Hope it don’t burn a hole in that fancy coat o’ your’n, Cap’n,” Adams said.

  “Like yours, it is cold, Herr Adams.”

  The gray-haired man winked. “Then keep it that way.”

  Von Essen sighed and shook his head at Flintlock. “Americans are not Prussians.”

  Flintlock smiled. “No, Captain, we are not.”

  He looked at the cold, uncaring face of the moon and wondered if his mother was also looking at the night sky. Was she alive or dead? He refused to even consider that question.

  * * *

  Jacob Hammer woke from a terrible dream.

  His silk nightshirt soaked in sweat, he was so disturbed he threw on his robe and walked along dark corridors in search of Dr. Chiang, his personal physician and soothsayer.

  Hammer tolerated only two locks in his compound, the one that fastened the iron door of the dungeon and the other that secured his own bedroom.

  He burst into Dr. Chiang’s quarters and roughly shook the old man awake.

  The physician was startled. “What has happened in this house?” he said.

  “I had a terrible dream.” Hammer said. He dragged the man out of bed. “You must interpret it for me.”

  Chiang sat in a chair and bade Hammer take a seat in the one opposite. “Did you dream of China again?” he said.

  “No . . . I dreamed of men’s bodies, many bloody, naked bodies, surrounding me in a field of scarlet wildflowers. I tried to run, but fell down and I could not rise. Then the bodies rose and came toward me, their eyes shining like emeralds, and they chanted . . . chanted . . .”

  “Chanted what?” Chiang said.

  “‘Cursed . . . condemned . . . doomed . . .’ Just that, over and over again.” Hammer shook his head. “I woke in fear. My God, it was a terrible dream.”

  “Then fear no longer,” Chiang said. “To dream of the dead brings good luck, and each body represents one year of good fortune. This is the eve of the Hungry Ghost Festival and your honored ancestors visited you in your sleep.”

  “But why did they chant those dreadful words?”

  “The ancestors predict the fate that will befall your enemies, that they are cursed, condemned and doomed. Oh, what a happy dream you’ve had!”

  Hammer grabbed a handful of the old man’s nightshirt and pulled him closer. “Is what you tell me the truth? If you are lying to me, hiding the real meaning of the dream, I’ll have your tongue torn out.”

  “All is true. I would not lie to you. There is no point in concealing the truth. That is like wearing embroidered clothes and traveling by night.”

  Hammer let go of the physician’s shirt and said, “Then I am content that what you told me is the truth, that I will triumph.”

  “Yes, you will. I will give you a sleeping draft and then you can return to bed and slumber in peace. All will be well.”

  After Hammer left, Chiang sat for a while, his face troubled. Finally, he rose, pulled a carpetbag from his closet and began to pack.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Sleepless, Colonel Alfons Janowski awaited the dawn.

  Major General Elliot had provided him with a middle-aged infantry sergeant and a couple of privates who had worked with observation balloons during the war. The men assured Janowski that the contraption would be filled with gas and fired up, ready to go just before first light.

  Earlier Sergeant Tam Nolan studied the colonel with a measuring gaze, seeing a one-eyed man who was missing an arm and walked with a cane, and said, “Could get bumpy up there, Colonel. The cable is worn and the winch is rusty, hasn’t been used since the Battle of Chancellorsville.”

  “I’m sure I’ll manage, Sergeant,” Janowski said.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure the colonel will be fine.”

  “I can calculate the coordinates quickly,” Janowski said. “I will not be aloft for long.”

  “As the colonel says, he will not be up there for long.”

  “However, there will be snipers. I’ve detailed a dozen of our best rifle shots to clear the top of the mesa.”

  Nolan frowned. “Are all these men former soldiers, sir?”

  “Yes. All of them.”

  “In whose army?”

  “In a dozen different armies. That tall man you see asleep over there by the juniper wa
s a colonel in the army of the Queen Hazrat Mahal during the Indian Rebellion of 1857 against the British East India Company. And over there, sleeping with his rifle, is Bertrand Giroux. He was in the 1st Regiment of the French Foreign Legion in the Crimean War and was wounded at the Battle of the Alma River in the Ukraine. He carries Russian lead in his back, too close to the spine to remove.” Janowski smiled. “I have absolute faith in my men, Sergeant.”

  “As you say, Colonel.”

  “I admit they don’t look soldierly on parade, but, by God, sir, they can fight.”

  “They’re mercenaries, but I’m sure they’ll stand, sir.”

  “Depend on it, Sergeant Nolan.”

  “And what of the enemy?”

  “They’re also mercenaries.”

  “Hired gunmen, sir. I hate the breed.”

  “No quarter will be asked or given in the coming battle. Do you understand that, Sergeant?”

  “I’m a regular soldier, sir. I’ll have no truck with killing prisoners.”

  Janowski nodded. “Then leave that to my mercenaries.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are dismissed, Sergeant.”

  Nolan snapped off a salute, turned and vanished into the darkness.

  Colonel Janowski felt ill. He had shooting pains in his left shoulder and arm and he knew very well what they might portend. Too many wars . . . too many wounds . . . time was finally catching up to him. He glanced at the star-glowing sky and shook his head.

  My God, would this night ever end?

  * * *

  The sound of merrymaking had finally ceased in Pitchfork Pass.

  Sam Flintlock regretted that his Hawken was with his saddle back in Colonel Janowski’s camp. It would be fun to send a .50 caliber ball bouncing around the arroyo and wake everybody up.

  Captain Dieter Von Essen was also thinking about the men in the pass, but fun was not in his mind. He had something entirely different in mind . . . bloody, violent death.

  “Herr Flintlock,” he whispered, his mouth close to Sam’s ear. “There may be a way to demoralize the enemy before the battle even starts.” He saw the question on Flintlock’s face and said, “Do you think the men on guard are asleep?”

  “Dead drunk, I’d say,” Flintlock said.

  Von Essen rubbed his stubbled chin. “I wonder . . .”

  Flintlock waited for something further but when it was not forthcoming, he said. “Wonder what, Captain?”

  “If all the guards were found dead come morning, would not it shake the enemy to its core? Perhaps it would undermine their will to fight.”

  “It would make them feel mighty uncomfortable, that’s for sure,” Flintlock said. “If it was me and I found the guards dead, yeah, I’d be spooked.”

  Von Essen nodded. “Spooked. Yes, a good American word that I’ve heard before. Well, we will spook them. I think it’s a plan worth trying.”

  “Only problem is that shooting will alert Jacob Hammer and his gunmen,” Flintlock said.

  “This is not a task for guns, Herr Flintlock. It’s a job for cutthroats.”

  Von Essen turned to one of his men and whispered, “Bring me the Corsican brothers.”

  A few moments later a couple of swarthy, muscular men dropped to the ground beside Von Essen and he spoke to them in urgent French, with much pointing to the entrance pass. When he’d finished, the older man nodded and said, “Oui, mon capitaine.”

  The Corsicans bellied forward into the gloom, and Von Essen whispered to Flintlock, “The Giovannetti brothers are good soldaten, the same breed as the Emperor Napoleon, and they are demons with the vendetta blade.”

  Flintlock watched as the two men crouched and made their way across the open ground between the hills and the entrance to the pass. Each held a wicked-looking knife in his right hand, the blade gleaming in the moonlight. Unchallenged, they entered the pass entrance like lethal wraiths . . . and reappeared only moments later, again crouching low as they returned to the cover of the hills.

  “There was no one there,” Flintlock whispered to Von Essen.

  “Yes, the guards were there, mein Herr. The blade is quick.”

  One of the Corsican brothers dropped beside Von Essen, whispered, “Quatre,” and then faded back to his post.

  “What did he say?” Flintlock said.

  “Four. That’s how many were sleeping in the pass.”

  “They killed four men?”

  “Yes.” Von Essen ran a forefinger across his neck. “Four are now kaput. Their throats were cut.”

  “That’s gonna shake things up,” Flintlock said.

  “My wish is that it saps the morale of the defenders. Disheartened soldiers are easily defeated.” Von Essen put his cold pipe in his mouth. “Like the perfidious French at the Battle of Sedan, where I won the Iron Cross Second Class. Let me tell you about my gallant deeds that day, Herr Flintlock. It will only take an hour or two. It all began . . .”

  Sam Flintlock sighed.

  Would this night never end?

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Colonel Alfons Janowski stood by the basket of the observation balloon with Sergeant Tam Nolan and Wilfred Griffiths, the artilleryman.

  “I plan to be aloft just before dawn,” Janowski said. “Major Griffiths, with any luck I’ll be able to give you the firing coordinates early, depending on visibility. I want the bombardment to commence at first light.”

  Janowski’s face was ashen and his voice was weak, labored, as though talking had become a chore. Both Griffiths and Nolan realized that their commander was a very sick man.

  “Colonel, let me make the observations,” Griffith said. “I have younger eyes.”

  “Out of the question,” Janowski said. “I can’t afford to lose you, Major. The howitzers will win this battle for us and there’s no experienced artilleryman to take your place.”

  “Beggin’ the Colonel’s pardon, but keeping balance in an observation balloon is a difficult task for a man with both arms,” Nolan said. “Sir, you’ll be holding a telescope up there and—”

  “And returning fire, if need be, Sergeant. It’s amazing what a one-armed man can do when he rises to the occasion.” Janowski smiled. “A little humor there.”

  Sergeant Nolan stood to attention and said formally, “Sir, I request permission to make the balloon ascent.”

  “Permission denied, Sergeant.”

  “Sir, I can judge the fall of shot as well as any man.”

  “I’m sure you can, but you are a large man and heavy,” Janowski said. “I believe I’m correct in saying that I’m the lightest man in this force. I’ll be nimble, sir. Fast up, fast down, with no undue strain on the winch.”

  “But sir—”

  “No buts, Sergeant Nolan.” The colonel glanced at the still-dark sky. “Be ready to send me aloft in an hour.”

  * * *

  A smear of pale light showed low in the eastern sky but there were stars as Sergeant Nolan assisted Colonel Janowski into the balloon basket. He carried a brass telescope, and his holstered French revolver was buckled around his waist. In the pocket of his greatcoat was a notebook, pencil and a large rock.

  “If you please, Sergeant Nolan, you may send me aloft.”

  The balloon was very small, made for a single airman, and a portable, two-wheeled wooden tank lined with copper carried the water, iron and sulfuric acid that supplied enough hydrogen gas to send it aloft. The ascent was rapid and the steel tether cable was taut as a fiddle string when Nolan judged that the colonel was high enough to overlook the top of the mesa.

  * * *

  The morning was still dark, persistent stars still bright in a sky the color of new denim dungarees. There was no breeze but the air held a chill and Colonel Janowski shivered as he swept the mesa caprock with his telescope. He saw nothing but darkness, no darker shadow that would betray the location of the opening. But a fire winked red in the distance, so there were sentinels present, as Janowski had expected. How long did he have before the
balloon was spotted and fired upon? He had no way of knowing since it all depended on the alertness of Jacob Hammer’s gunmen. His only course now was to wait, his fate dependent on the awakening sun . . .

  * * *

  The sky to the east brightened and one by one the stars blinked out as the light slowly changed. Now Colonel Janowski saw the opening in the mesa top spread like a dark stain as the night shaded into morning. Quickly he scribbled the range and trajectory in his notebook, tore out the page, wrapped it around the rock he carried and dropped it over the side.

  Seconds later, the first bullets from the sentries cracked past the balloon, and then as the riflemen found the range, rounds zipped through the canopy and splintered pieces of wicker from the basket.

  The winch began to wind Janowski lower just as the first twelve-pounder shells burst on top of the mesa, erupting high Vs of flame, smoke, rock and flying chunks of iron. Janowski saw explosions inside the shaft and he was sure some of the shells had fallen all the way to the bottom and were detonating within the compound. Despite his pain, the little colonel smiled. He was sure the howitzers were bringing a hundred different kinds of hell down on Jacob Hammer and his outlaw band.

  And in that, he was entirely correct.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Jacob Hammer woke to the sound of exploding shells and the smell of fire and smoke. He jumped out of bed, just as his house rocked from a shell hit and part of his bedroom ceiling collapsed onto the floor, bringing down with it shattered timbers, thick dust and huge chunks of plaster. Moments later the wall behind his bed burst into flame as the room beyond was ravaged by fire. Fear shivering through him, Hammer ran to his closet and hurriedly dressed in riding breeches, English boots and a white shirt. He crossed a couple of gunbelts across his hips, a Colt in each holster, and ran through a fog of smoke out of the room.

  Hammer’s house was aflame, its ornate roof caving in many places, and the roaring shells continued to fall. He ran for the door, almost colliding with Dr. Chiang, who carried a carpetbag and looked terrified.