Pitchfork Pass

by William W. Johnstone

  “Samuel, you rescued us in the nick of time,” Jane said. “Bridie and I were to be burned at the stake today.”

  “And I was to have my head cut off,” Louise said.

  Flintlock smiled. “Don’t thank me.” He brought the Prussian forward. “This is Captain Dieter Von Essen. Without him and his brave men you’d still be Jacob Hammer’s prisoners.”

  The Prussian clicked his heels and bowed over Jane’s hand. “And you, dear lady, are Herr Flintlock’s mother?”

  “Yes, I am, Captain.”

  “I am honored to meet you, Detective. Your son fought well.”

  “Thank you. I have no doubt he did.”

  Von Essen looked around at the smoldering buildings and the sprawled dead. “And now we must get you and the other junge Damen out of this terrible place, but first I must ask all of you to perform a distressing duty.”

  “You saved our lives, Captain,” Jane said. “You only have to ask.”

  “All Hammer’s men are dead, but we can’t identify his body as being one of them. Can you help us identify—”

  “Yes, we can,” Jane said. “His is a face we’ll never forget.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Colonel Alfons Janowski slurred his words from a slightly twisted mouth, but his eyes were as bright and alert as ever. “Your mother and the other women couldn’t identify Jacob Hammer?”

  “No, Colonel,” Sam Flintlock said. “Maybe he burned in one of the buildings.”

  “Or he escaped,” Janowski said.

  “Then he’s on foot without water and food,” Flintlock said. “I’ll find him.”

  “And when you do?”

  “I’ll kill him.”

  “The rest of us are returning to Flagstaff, where my men will be paid off by an army paymaster. You were not an official member of this force, so you will not be paid, which is unfortunate. But . . . you will receive a sixtieth share of the hundred thousand dollars we took from Hammer’s brigands, around sixteen hundred if my calculations are correct.”

  “You don’t have to pay me anything, Colonel,” Flintlock said. “If it wasn’t for you my mother would have been executed today.”

  “But I insist, Mr. Flintlock. You took part in this action and are thus entitled to a share in the spoils of war.” Flintlock opened his mouth to object, but Janowski said, “I will brook no argument. Mr. Griffiths, my artilleryman, is acting as paymaster. See him and he’ll give you what you’re owed.”

  “Colonel, maybe you should rest up for a spell before you head for Flagstaff,” Flintlock said. “You’re not well.”

  Janowski’s twisted mouth managed a smile. “My right arm lies on some foreign field and now my left is paralyzed. But Sergeant Nolan assures me he knows a way to tie me on my horse so that I won’t fall off and I’m taking his word for that.”

  Nolan, who kneeled beside the colonel said, “I’ll take good care of you, sir.”

  “There are doctors in Flagstaff,” Flintlock said.

  “Yes. For me and my wounded and I will bury my dead there.” Janowski looked up at the mesa. “I’ve given orders that Hammer’s dead be taken into the compound and laid out in a respectful manner. The army engineers will be here later to restore this part of the mesa and they can deal with the bodies then.” The old man was tiring and Nolan scolded him for talking so much, but he rallied and said, “Mr. Flintlock, you must never speak of this action. My mercenaries are sworn to secrecy and the soldiers—”

  “It never happened, Colonel,” Nolan said.

  “Good. Let Jacob Hammer’s criminal enterprise be buried in the mesa with his dead and forgotten,” Janowski said.

  * * *

  “Louise is leaving for Flagstaff with Colonel Janowski and his men,” Jane said. “He says he’ll make sure that she has enough money to travel east where she has kin.”

  “What about you, Ma?” Flintlock said.

  “Bridie and I talked it over and we feel it’s our duty as Pinkertons to see this case through to the end.”

  “And that will be when we see Jacob Hammer dead,” Bridie said.

  “After I told the colonel about Viktor’s bravery, he agreed to take him to Flagstaff for burial,” Jane said. “He promised he’ll receive the same military honors as his own dead.”

  Flintlock nodded. “The big feller died a hero, that’s for sure.”

  Bridie O’Toole watched bloody corpses being carried into the mesa and said, “Let’s get away from here. I’ve seen enough of Pitchfork Pass to last me a lifetime.”

  Flintlock nodded. “We’ll go get my horse and see if we can round up mounts for you and Ma.”

  * * *

  By the time Flintlock and the women walked around the mesa to the horse lines, the howitzers had already been taken apart, ready for loading onto the pack mules. The empty shell casings had been picked up and the observation balloon and its winch had been placed to one side and would ride on the sturdy, two-wheeled gas wagon. All evidence of the artillery bombardment was gone. Only the thin drift of smoke from the hole in the mesa caprock remained and even that was rapidly dissipating in the wind.

  During the shelling, horses had stampeded from the Hammer compound and Flintlock had no trouble finding mounts and saddles for Jane and Bridie O’Toole and packhorses to carry the food and ammunition that a grateful Colonel Janowski had bestowed on them as well as the sixteen hundred dollars that he’d given Flintlock.

  As they rode away from the mesa and its horrific memories, Jane suggested they head for the warm-water seep where Flintlock had been introduced to Pears soap. “I need to wash off the stench of Hammer’s cell,” she said, and Bridie readily agreed.

  “And then we hunt for Jacob Hammer,” Flintlock said. “He could be anywhere by now. How the hell—”

  “Language, Samuel,” Jane said. “There’s no need for profanity.”

  “All right, Ma, then how the heck do we find him?”

  Jane answered without hesitation.

  “Samuel, hate is a terrible burden to bear, and right now I fancy that it’s driving Jacob Hammer. The only way he can free himself from it is to destroy the objects of his hate. Louise Smith is out of reach, but he still has us, and he hates us with a passion that by now is eating away at him like a cancer.”

  “Then we don’t have to find him?” Flintlock said. “He’ll come to us?”

  “I guarantee it. That’s why we’ll return to the hot spring and make ourselves visible.”

  “I don’t like that much, Ma,” Flintlock said. “You plan on making us targets.”

  “Exactly, Samuel. Clever boy, you catch on fast,” Bridie said.

  “We’ll be targets, but we’ll also be wary,” Jane said. “The thing to do is to make Hammer overconfident, because an overconfident man can make mistakes. He only has to make one . . . and then I’ll kill him.”

  “Or I will,” Flintlock said.

  “We’ll see,” Jane said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Jacob Hammer had gotten as far away from Balakai Mesa as his wounded left leg would allow. He had no water and no horse, and as he sat in the shadow of a rock wall and watched blood stain the sand under his thigh, he knew that his chances, like his luck, were fast running out. But the will to survive burned bright in the man, its flames fueled by his hatred of the Pinkerton women and the man with the tattoo on his throat.

  Hammer would not let himself think about dying until he’d exacted his revenge on those three . . . enemies. Then a thought struck him—what if they were gone? What if that very morning they were somewhere drinking coffee, laughing over the destruction of all his plans while he sat, wounded, in the sun and suffered? He shook his head, clearing his negative thoughts. No, that would not be the case. By now the army, if it had been the army and not some ragtag bunch of bounty hunters, the lowest trash on the frontier, had discovered that his body was not among the dead. Would they come looking for him? No, the army would assume that without a horse or water he’d perish in th
e wilderness. And bounty hunters would take what loot they could find and leave. They had destroyed the settlement and that was what they’d been paid to do. Searching a hot, barren wilderness for a single fugitive would not enter into their thinking.

  But the Pinkertons would think differently. And the tattooed man, the one they called Sam Flintlock. They would not leave until the job was done and Jacob Hammer, the Old Man of the Mountain, was dead. Their own hatred for him and all he stood for would drive them. Hammer’s smile was grim. Let them come, let them find him, and he’d be ready.

  He took stock of his situation.

  By his best estimate he was about three miles northwest of the mesa in rough and broken country dominated by high walls of red sandstone and deep gulches. He’d seen no sign of water. The bullet that hit him had taken a furrow of flesh out of his thigh but had not struck bone. The wound bled, but it was not serious, though his leg had stiffened up and made walking difficult. He’d lost his rifle, but still had his Colts and filled cartridge belts. He’d never met anyone faster than he was on the draw and shoot and considered himself more than a match for Flintlock and his women.

  But Hammer had no horse and no water and that worried him.

  He tried standing. His wounded leg supported him pretty well, but how far he could walk on it was a question that troubled him.

  What was that?

  The faint sound of a steel-shod hoof on rock.

  Had his enemies found him? If so they’d pay dearly for their boldness.

  Hammer backed farther into the rapidly narrowing shadow of the rock wall and drew both his Colts. His mouth was dry and his eyes burned from the sunlight, but he was ready.

  The sound of hooves came closer. It sounded like only one horse, not three as he’d expected. Maybe it was only one of the women. Perhaps Flintlock and one of the Pinkertons had been killed or wounded in the fight. Hammer smiled. A lone Pinkerton woman. Now, that opened up a world of delightful possibilities. Of course, it could be a cavalryman or a bounty hunter. Either way, Hammer was relaxed, confident he could handle either situation.

  A few moments dragged past and the sound of hooves grew closer. Then a man’s voice. “Damn you, water mule, for the most stubborn critter that ever was. I don’t aim to haul you all the way to Canada and there’s the truth of it.”

  A bearded man pulling a mule behind him walked onto the flat, sandy area that led to the rock wall where Hammer stood in shadow. As the man walked closer, the balky mule fighting him every inch of the way, Hammer stepped out in plain view.

  “Whoa, you startled me there,” the bearded man said, halting in his tracks. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Hammer said.

  The man smiled. “I’m an explorer, on my way to Canada, but I got lost. Fact is, I get lost all the time. Name’s Lon Stringer and this here is my water mule.”

  “Why do you call it that?”

  “Because he can nose out water from ten miles away.”

  “I could use some water,” Hammer said.

  “Traveling light, huh?” Stringer said. “Here, you’re wounded.”

  “Shot myself by accident, drawing down on a cougar.”

  Stringer nodded. “That can happen. I’ve never been much a one for gun handling my ownself. Like you, I’m not much good at it.”

  Hammer found that amusing, but didn’t let it show. “Water?” he said.

  “Oh, sure.”

  Stringer took his canteen from the water mule’s pack and handed it over. “There you go, Mr. . . .”

  “My name is Jacob Hammer.”

  “Right pleased to meet you, Jacob—”

  Hammer saw the man’s face change as his name rang a bell with him . . . an alarm bell, judging by Stringer’s stricken expression.

  Hammer took a swig of water, and another and then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Heard that name before?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” Stringer said.

  “Lying in your teeth, aren’t you?”

  Stringer managed a smile. “Well, maybe I’ve heard folks mention it a time or two.”

  “What folks?” Hammer said.

  The bearded man shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Just folks.”

  “Like Pinkerton detectives, maybe?”

  Stringer shook his head. “Don’t know any of them.”

  “How about a man with a bird on his throat?”

  This time Hammer knew he’d struck a chord, though Stringer denied all knowledge of such a man. “I think a man with a bird on his throat is a thing I’d remember,” he said. “Here, let me take a look at that leg.”

  “My leg is doing fine,” Hammer said. His smile was chilling. “You’re not doing fine, explorer man.”

  “I mean no harm,” Stringer said.

  “Did Sam Flintlock send you? Did he ask you to spy me out?”

  “I don’t know anybody by that name.”

  “You’re a damned liar.”

  “Sorry you feel that way. Well, now me and the water mule got to be moving on, see if we can get unlost and then go find Canada.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Hammer said. “Where is Flintlock? Does he have two women with him?”

  Stringer shook his head. “I don’t know the man.”

  Hammer drew and fired. His bullet hit Stringer’s left shinbone and dropped him.

  “Where are Sam Flintlock and the Pinkerton women?” Hammer said.

  Stringer’s face was twisted in pain but his eyes blazed defiance. “I don’t know him.”

  Hammer fired again, and this time Stringer’s right shin splintered and the little man cried out in agony.

  “Where are Sam Flintlock and the Pinkerton women?”

  “I . . . don’t . . . know . . .”

  “Mr. Stringer, you’ll never walk again, but you can still do your exploring from a wheelchair,” Hammer said. “Where are Sam Flintlock and the Pinkerton women?”

  “Damn you, go to hell,” the little man said.

  Hammer fired another shot, this time into Stringer’s left thigh.

  “Where are Sam Flintlock and the Pinkerton women?”

  Stringer was in serious pain but he had sand. His teeth clenched, he said, “I don’t know.”

  A bullet clipped three fingers off Stringer’s left hand.

  “Where are Sam Flintlock and the Pinkerton women?”

  But now the little man was incapable of answering, blood pooling in the sand around him. But he looked up at Hammer and whispered, “Take care of the water mule . . .”

  “You’re not fit to live, you traitorous dog,” Hammer said.

  And he shot Lon Stringer, explorer, between the eyes.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The hot-water seep was as Sam Flintlock remembered it, except that it was a little deeper and a few degrees cooler. His mother and Bridie made bathing and clothes washing their first order of business while he was banished and told to stand guard at a distance. When it came his turn to take a bath Flintlock pointed out that he’d washed all over not a week before and still smelled of Pears soap and Sarah Bernhardt.

  Later Flintlock scrounged as much wood as he could from the trees that grew here and there and built a fire. He made no effort to keep the smoke to a minimum since his purpose now was to draw in Jacob Hammer . . . if the man was still around.

  Jane was sure Hammer was still in the area and would take the bait, but Bridie had her doubts, voicing the hope that Hammer had crawled away and died somewhere.

  But it wasn’t in Flintlock’s nature to wait for the man to show up and attack at a time of his choosing. If he was out there and had gone to ground, Flintlock aimed to find him.

  “Sam, you’re a grown man and although I’m your mother I’m not going to tell you what to do, but I think you’re putting your life in danger,” Jane said. “We’re in a good defensive position here and we can wait him out.”

  “I won’t let Hammer p
en us up, waiting for him to strike at his leisure, Ma,” Flintlock said as he swung into the saddle. “I’m going out to shake the bushes. I’ll be back before dark.” He smiled. “Don’t wait up.”

  “There will be no sleep around here until Hammer is dead,” Jane said.

  “Then let’s hope I kill him today and we can all get some shut-eye,” Flintlock said.

  “Be careful . . . son,” Jane said. “I’ll worry about you.”

  “I can take care of myself, Ma,” Flintlock said. “Old Barnabas and his cronies taught me a thing or two about how to stalk and kill a man.”

  “Your grandfather lost seven men, eighteen horses and a wagon in one expedition to the Cache Valley in the Idaho Territory,” Jane said. “Take what he taught you with a grain of salt.”

  “He never told me that,” Flintlock said.

  “He never told you a lot of things,” Jane said.

  * * *

  There was a slim possibility that Jacob Hammer had returned to the scene of his crime at Balakai Mesa and was holed up there nursing his wounds, if he had any. It wasn’t likely, but Flintlock decided it was a place to start.

  A thunderstorm was piling up massive ramparts of black clouds to the south as Flintlock reached Pitchfork Pass. The place was deserted. He dismounted, slid his rifle from the boot, and led the skittish buckskin into the arroyo. The big horse smelled death and as Flintlock led him deeper into the pass he became more and more agitated and constantly tossed his head, the only sound in that dark, soundless space the chime of his bit.

  Yellowed, grinning skulls still adorned the walls of the pass and once a pack of rats scampered around Flintlock’s feet, like himself, heading for the compound.

  Hemmed in on three sides by blackened, burned-out buildings, the floor of the compound was littered with dead, swollen bodies with blue faces, some with open eyes that stared at Flintlock but saw nothing. There was no sign of army engineers and the corpses still lay where they’d been dumped by Colonel Janowski’s mercenaries, the stench unbearable in this arena of death. Only the busy rats moved and the only sound was their sated squeaks and Flintlock’s labored breathing. He turned away from the dreadful scene and led his horse into the pass. It was all too obvious that Jacob Hammer wasn’t there. The man belonged with the rats because he was one of them . . . but even he shunned that place.