Pitchfork Pass

by William W. Johnstone

  “Probably Horn already has a buyer for them mules,” Sergeant Britton said. “My guess is he told Davies to ride out a ways and then halt at a place where they could meet up. Horn didn’t think the army would go after Davies after our scout died of the consumption a month ago. He didn’t count on you taking the job.” Britton turned his head and looked at Flintlock. “Here, why did the colonel offer you the scout job anyway?”

  “He’d heard my ma mention my name and he remembered stories that I was a bounty hunter who ran with a half-breed Apache,” Flintlock said. “He said I was in the right place at the right time.” He smiled. “But the cook at Fort Defiance could follow this man. He’s making no attempt to cover his tracks.”

  “Well, I couldn’t track him,” Britton said. “I was never much of a hand at it.”

  “You really think Horn was in on the theft of the mules?” Flintlock said.

  “You can bet the farm on it, Sam. Them two are responsible for most of the thieving and horse stealing around here, and now and then a killing and robbery, if the truth be known.”

  * * *

  After an hour Sam Flintlock reached the northern rim of the Defiance Plateau, riding into high land covered with juniper, pine and grama grass. There were also thick stands of yucca and Gambel oak as well as serviceberry and squawbush. The ancient cliff dwellers and later the Apaches and Navajo had gathered food there, but had left no marks on the land.

  Sam Flintlock smelled traces of smoke in the air and said to Sergeant Britton, “We’re close.” He turned to the young troopers. “You boys better get your carbines ready.”

  The soldiers looked to their sergeant and Britton said, “Do as he says.”

  “I suggest you give the order to dismount, Clive,” Flintlock said. “We’ll go on foot from here.”

  Britton left one soldier with the horses, and Flintlock led the way through the pines. He stopped and then in a whisper he said, “I’ll go ahead and try to surprise him. Clive, you hear shooting come a-running.”

  The sergeant nodded and he and the trooper waited while Flintlock glided through the trees on silent feet, as O’Hara had so patiently taught him.

  Jasper Davies had made camp in a clearing and sat by a hatful of fire, boiling coffee in a tin cup. The two mules and his mustang grazed nearby and showed no interest in what was happening around them. Flintlock took stock of Davies. The man was small, wiry, with a badly cut shock of black hair. He wore a belt gun and a sheathed knife at the small of his back. Davies’s face was pinched, mean and thin-lipped and his duds were shabby and ill fitting, as though they’d once belonged to a bigger man.

  Flintlock wiped sweat from the palm of his gun hand on his pants, pulled his Colt from the waistband, took a deep breath and stepped into the clearing.

  “Git your hands up, Davies,” he said.

  The man snapped his head around, saw Flintlock and blanched. “What the hell . . . ?” he said.

  “On your feet, Davies,” Flintlock said. “Do it now!”

  The little man rose slowly and said, “What the hell are you?”

  “Just a scout come to take back the army’s mules and the ranny that stole them.”

  “You ain’t taking me back to Fort Defiance,” Davies said. “They’ll hang me.”

  “Heard of a man getting hung for stealing a horse,” Flintlock said. “But I never heard tell of a man getting hung for stealing a mule.”

  “Two mules,” Davies said.

  “Never heard of a man getting hung for two mules, either,” Flintlock said. “Now unbuckle that gunbelt with your left hand, let it drop and take a step back. Be quick about it. I’m not a patient man.”

  Jasper Davies was thinking about making a play, figuring his chances. Flintlock could see it in the man’s eyes and he didn’t much care for it.

  “Don’t let it even enter into your thinking, Davies,” he said. “I can drill you square before you clear leather. Now, unbuckle the belt, like I told you.”

  “Who the hell are you, mister?” Davies said. The speculative light was gone from his eyes.

  “Name’s Sam Flintlock.”

  “The Texas bounty hunter?”

  “The same.”

  “I ain’t gunfighting you, mister.”

  “No, you ain’t. Now drop that belt before I drop you.”

  Davies’s left hand moved toward his belt buckle . . .

  And then disaster.

  A shot came from the trees and Davies’s thin chest seemed to cave in from the impact of the .45-70 bullet. The little man shrieked in pain and surprise and fell, dead when he hit the ground, his twisted face in the fire, boiling hot coffee beading his thick hair.

  Flintlock dragged Davies from the fire and turned him onto his back, but the man was as dead as he was ever going to be.

  The young trooper stepped out of the pines, his Springfield carbine in his hands. He had a round face, freckled like a sparrow’s egg, and looked to be all of sixteen years old. “He was going for his gun,” the boy said. “I saw it plain. Oh God, did I kill him?” He was white as a sheet and looked as though he was about to puke.

  Sergeant Britton stepped beside Flintlock and looked down at the body. “Gun’s still in his holster,” he said, flat, toneless, making no accusation.

  “I’ve never killed anyone before,” the trooper said. His eyes were red. “But he was going for his gun. Sergeant, I seen it plain.”

  “Sam?” Britton said.

  Flintlock looked at the trooper, way too young to be a soldier in any army.

  “Davies was going for his gun,” Flintlock said.

  Britton grinned. He slapped the youth’s back and said, “Private Corcoran, you done good.”

  “Sergeant, I don’t feel so good.”

  The trooper ran into the trees and retched and Britton smiled at Flintlock and said, “The first one is always the worst.”

  Flintlock nodded. “Let’s hope he doesn’t have to kill another.”

  “He’s a soldier, killing goes with the job,” Britton said.

  “I’m sure Private Corcoran is aware of that now,” Flintlock said.

  * * *

  Under a sky ribboned with scarlet and jade, Sam Flintlock and the soldiers rode into Fort Defiance with Jasper Davies’s body slung over the back of his mustang. The two troopers each led a mule, and Colonel Brand watched the procession from his office window and then stepped into the square, his tunic unbuttoned and a cigar between his teeth.

  Sergeant Britton drew rein and saluted his commanding officer. “Two mules, property of the United States Army, recovered and the thief killed while resisting arrest.”

  “Unfortunate,” Brand said. He looked at Flintlock. “Did you kill him, Sam?”

  Flintlock shook his head. “No. Private Corcoran did.”

  “Private Corcoran saw Davies draw down on scout Flintlock and to save scout Flintlock’s life Private Corcoran discharged his rifle and killed Davies.”

  Brand nodded. “Well done, Private Corcoran. Sam, you owe this young soldier a debt of gratitude for saving your life.”

  “Seems like, Colonel,” Flintlock said.

  Brand nodded. “Well, carry on, Sergeant Britton. A drink with you, Sam?”

  “Just as soon as I see to my horse,” Flintlock said.

  “Good. I look forward to it, and I have a proposition for you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Flintlock led the buckskin into a stall and was brushing him down when Reuben Horn walked into the stable. He stood hipshot against a post, tilted his head a little to one side and said, “I’m trying to figure what kind of fool chooses not to heed a fair warning. I told you not to come back here with Jasper Davies and you ignored me and brought him in dead.”

  Flintlock laid down the brush and turned to face Horn. The sutler was relaxed, confident of his gun skills and he had little regard for Flintlock. Contempt was obvious in his eyes.

  “Pity about Jasper,” Flintlock said. “But if you don’t want to get
shot, don’t steal the mules.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?” Horn said. “I don’t like saddle tramps making fun of my friends.”

  Flintlock’s face hardened as he stepped away from the buckskin.

  “Mister, it’s pretty obvious to me that you’re looking for a fight,” he said. “If that’s the case, shuck your pistol and get to your work.”

  Horn’s smile was not pleasant. “Is that an invitation to open the ball, tattooed man?”

  “I couldn’t make it any plainer.”

  “Then here beginneth the lesson.”

  Reuben Horn went for his gun . . . and instantly understood three facts as he cleared leather. The first was that he’d badly underestimated Sam Flintlock. The second was that the tattooed man was fast, faster than he’d seen before. And the third, and the most appalling, was that the bullet that had just crashed into his chest had killed him.

  Horn staggered, staring bug-eyed at Flintlock as he tried to bring up his gun. But he had no strength in his arm . . . no strength at all.

  As for Flintlock, never a man to leave well enough alone, he fired again, and again, his bullets smashing Horn to the ground, where the man died, straw in his beard and the smell of horseshit in his nose.

  Flintlock stepped through gray gunsmoke, glanced at Horn’s sprawled body and walked to the door of the stable. He attracted a swarm of soldiers. Leading them was the stalwart figure of Colonel Brand.

  “Flintlock, what the hell happened?” he said.

  “I shot Reuben Horn. He’s back there.”

  Brand brushed past Flintlock, stared at the dead sutler for long moments and then said, “How did it happen?”

  “He took offense that I brought in Jasper Davies.”

  “And you shot him?”

  “He showed his displeasure by drawing down on me.”

  “Damn it all, Sam, you were lucky. Horn was good with a gun.”

  Flintlock nodded. “He showed some promise.”

  Brand stared at Flintlock as though seeing him for the first time. Then, “You men there, take Reuben out of here. He’s upsetting the horses.”

  A gray-haired officer, wearing a captain’s shoulder boards on his fatigue blouse, glanced at the body as it was carried past him, shifted his gaze to Flintlock and said, “Colonel, do I arrest this man?”

  “No, it was a clear-cut case of self-defense,” Brand said. “Davies drew on Mr. Flintlock.”

  The captain looked surprised. “Davies was good with a pistol.”

  “Not quite good enough, it seems,” Brand said. “Carry on, Captain Brooke. Sam, I’ll see you in my office.”

  * * *

  Lieutenant Colonel Brand handed Sam Flintlock a glass of whiskey and said, “Cigar?”

  Flintlock took the makings from his pocket and said, “I’ll smoke this, if you don’t mind, Ben.”

  “Go right ahead. Some of my men are much addicted to the Texas habit, rolling cigarettes, cigarettes, all the time. I never could take to it. There’s nothing like smoking a good cigar.”

  “Reuben Horn sold me this tobacco,” Flintlock said. “Funny old world, isn’t it?”

  “Not funny for him,” Brand said.

  “Good bourbon, Ben.”

  “Horn sold me that, too. It’s Old Crow, not the usual frontier firewater.”

  Flintlock built and lit a cigarette and then said through a cloud of smoke, “You have a proposition for me, Ben?”

  “Ah . . . I had, Sam, not I have,” Brand said, looking uncomfortable. A white moth flew around the oil lamp on the colonel’s desk and made a tick . . . tick . . . tick noise on the glass chimney. “It was my intention to offer you a post as my regimental scout, but I’ve had a change of heart.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you seem to attract trouble, Sam, like . . . well, like the lamp flame attracts that moth. You’ve only been on the post a few days and already I have two dead men on my hands. Good Lord, man, how many bodies will you stack up in a month, or a year?”

  “I wouldn’t have taken the job, Ben,” Flintlock said. “But I will say this . . . I’m not by nature a troublemaker.”

  “And I’m not saying you are, but it seems that badmen just naturally find you. Maybe it’s because you’re fast with a gun, I don’t know, but I need a scout, not a shootist.” Brand poured more Old Crow into Flintlock’s glass. “Sam, no hard feelings, I hope.”

  Flintlock smiled. “Of course not, Colonel. I hope you find your scout, especially one that stays sober, at least some of the time.”

  Brand raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.” He and Flintlock drank and the colonel refilled the glasses. “Your mother is a fine woman, Sam, so here’s a toast to the ladies.”

  “To the ladies, God bless them,” Flintlock said.

  * * *

  “We’re not ladies, we’re Pinkertons,” Bridie O’Toole said. “A woman can’t be a lady and a detective at the same time.”

  “Well, you and Ma look like ladies,” Flintlock said. “A pair of fine ladies.”

  And as his mother and Bridie stood at the open door of the stage that would take them to the rail depot, that was the truth. The officers’ wives had gotten together and donated clothing for Jane and Bridie, who were happy to shed their worn and stained skirts and shirts for dresses, shoes and dainty hats.

  Jane said, “Sam, about what happened last night . . .”

  “Horn drew down on me, Ma,” Flintlock said. “I didn’t have any choice.”

  “Son, I know you didn’t, but this violent life you live is leading you nowhere.”

  “I’m a bounty hunter, Ma. That’s what I do.”

  “And now and then, an outlaw.”

  “Ma, I—”

  “Samuel, you’re getting older and you no longer have O’Hara to watch your back,” Jane said. “How long before one of those men you hunt proves to be faster on the draw than you, or a lawman arrests you and sends you to prison for the rest of your life?” The woman’s voice was pleading. “Samuel, turn away from all that and settle down someplace, marry a nice girl and earn a respectable living. Hang up your gun before it’s too late. I don’t want my only child to die before me.”

  Bridie said, “Listen to your mother, Sam. Look at you standing there in dirty buckskin with a revolver stuck in your pants. You don’t look like Jane’s son, you look like a dangerous frontier desperado. I think I’ve gotten to know you these last weeks, and I know you can do better.”

  “Samuel, you played a noble and courageous role when you helped take down Jacob Hammer,” Jane said. “Now let that be your swan song.”

  “I’ll study on what you’ve said, Ma,” Flintlock said. Then, “I always thought I might prosper in the dry goods business.”

  “Yes, Samuel, you’ve told me that before,” Jane said. “And if you feel that’s where your future lies, then do it before it’s too late.”

  The stagecoach driver climbed into his seat, leaned over and said, “Five minutes, ladies. We got a schedule to keep.”

  “Ma, what about you?” Flintlock said. “I’ll worry about you in New Orleans.”

  Jane smiled. “Detective work isn’t quite as dangerous as that business at Balakai Mesa. I’ll be fine. But don’t follow me to New Orleans, Samuel. I’m a Pinkerton and I need to do my job alone. Do you understand?”

  “Then how do I get in touch with you?”

  “You can write to me care of the Pinkerton Agency, 80 Washington Street, Chicago, Illinois.”

  “Here, Sam,” Bridie said, handing Flintlock a slip of paper. “Last night, I wrote the address down for you. I knew you’d want it.”

  “Ma, about New Orleans, I—”

  “No, Samuel. I can’t have you following me around the country. You must live your own life. We’ll meet again, I promise.”

  “All aboard, ladies,” the stage driver said.

  Jane kissed her son on the cheek and said, “Until we meet again, Samuel.”

  Bridie did the same and th
en Flintlock helped them into the coach. He was relieved to see a tough-looking soldier was already aboard.

  A whip cracked and the coach lurched into motion, six horses in the traces.

  “Wait!” Flintlock said.

  The coach gathered speed and Flintlock raced alongside. Jane stuck her head out the window, and he yelled, “My name! Ma, what’s my name?”

  “Your father’s name was Archibald Dinwiddie,” Jane said. She waved a hand. “I’ll tell you about him one day.”

  Flintlock watched the coach disappear in a cloud of dust and then he stood in the middle of the parade ground, head bowed, his face stricken. He couldn’t believe his ears, but there was no mistake . . .

  After all those years of searching, his name was Sam Dinwiddie.

  The hurt was almost too much to bear.

  His head snapped up as he heard a sound . . . there it was again . . . uproarious laughter in the wind that sounded suspiciously like O’Hara and wicked old Barnabas . . .

  * * *

  In Austin, Texas, six weeks later, Sam Dinwiddie stepped into the store of Elias Appelbaum, Gentlemen’s Clothier, and his instructions were straightforward, “I need everything from the skin out, twice over.”

  If Appelbaum was intimidated by the man in the buckskin shirt with the big bird tattoo on his throat he didn’t let it show. He took the measuring tape from around his neck and said, “Certainly, sir. Let me just take your measurements.” He studied Sam Dinwiddie with a critical eye and added, “Something in a clerical gray for the city, I think, and a Scottish tweed for more informal, country wear. Will this be cash or charge?”

  “Cash on the barrelhead,” Sam Dinwiddie said. “And I want to look like I’m the proprietor of a dry goods store.”

  * * *

  Several hours later, after swift alterations were made to ready-to-wear garments, Sam Dinwiddie admired himself in the Appelbaum full-length mirror. He wore a clerical gray ditto suit, elastic-sided ankle boots, a white shirt with celluloid collar and red tie and a fine derby hat. A pair of kid gloves completed that vision of sartorial splendor and Sam was mightily pleased, and so was Elias Appelbaum.

  “You do look splendid, sir,” the tailor said. “The . . . um . . . high celluloid collar covers most of the . . . um . . . most tastefully done bird. Does that present a problem?”