O’Hara wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand. “She has a point, Sam. Maybe now is not such a good time to gun them.”
Flintlock grimaced. ’Thanks for the advice, O’Hara.”
The breed shook his head. “But I have to hand it to you, Sam. You sure got a way with women.”
Biddy spat and said, “He plans to shoot us all right, Injun. He’s a born killer if ever I seen one. You heard my name, but I’ll tell you anyway. I’m Biddy Sales.” She placed her hand on the shoulder of the plump young blonde next to her. “This here is Lizzie Doulan, as innocent a flower as ever lived. Maybe you’d like to shoot her first, Flintlock.” She moved to the next woman, a hard-eyed redhead. “Meet Jane Feehan, but let her say her prayers before you gun her. And this is Margie Tott.” Biddy laid her hands on the shoulders of a petite, hazel-eyed brunette. “She sends every penny she earns to her poor old mother in the Emerald Isle.”
Biddy then stepped in front of Flintlock, belligerent and brassy. Her head tilted back and a great deal of firm cleavage showed above her corset as she said, “All right, we’re ready. Open fire with your murderous revolver and be damned to ye! Let me be the first one to die.”
O’Hara said, a hint of a smile on his lips, “Seems like you’ve got a decision to make, Sam.”
“Damn it, O’Hara. Keep your opinion to yourself.” Flintlock waved his Colt. “Right, you gals into the wagon. Now!”
Biddy again put her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing. “Make us.”
“I won’t tell you again,” Flintlock said. The thought that he was entering into yet another losing battle was starting to nag at him.
She stood her ground. “And I said ’make us.’”
“Yeah, make us,” Lizzie Doulan said.
All four took up the chorus, flouncing their skirts. “Make us! Make us! Make us!”
At a loss, Flintlock stood helplessly, his useless Colt hanging by his side.
Suddenly, the breed let out a loud, piercing shriek that abruptly stopped the female cries. He had Flintlock’s Barlow knife in his right fist, the blade open, and he launched into an unrestrained tribal dance, his voice raised in a wild chant. “Yi-hi-hi-hi-hi ... yi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi . . . ”
Saved by O’Hara, Flintlock caught on quickly. “Oh my God!”
Biddy was alarmed. “What’s the hell is he doing?”
“O’Hara is half Mescalero Apache,” Flintlock said, suitable awe in his voice. “That’s his scalp dance.”
Lizzie Doulan said, “Whose scalp does he want?”
“Yours,” Flintlock said. “And Biddy’s and everybody’s.”
O’Hara’s dance pace increased and his chanting rose in volume as he waved the knife above his head. His face, bloodstained from his swollen nose, bore an expression of unrestrained fury.
The four ladies were bold, but not all that brave. Screeching, they beat a hasty retreat to the wagon and piled inside. Then came a loud snick! as the door bolt slammed into place.
Flintlock grinned. “All right, O’Hara, you can stop playacting now.”
The breed stopped, waved the knife in Flintlock’s face, and said, “Who was playacting, white man?”
Chapter Five
While the woman were locked inside the wagon, Flintlock dragged away Poke Murray’s body and laid it in the brush beside the bushwhacker he’d killed in the first exchange of fire. The Hawken’s .50 caliber ball had blown a fist-sized hole in the man’s chest and Flintlock figured he’d died instantly.
“Admiring your handiwork, Sammy?”
Flintlock followed the sound of the voice and saw wicked old Barnabas, the old mountain man who’d raised him from a child, perched among the topmost branches of a wild oak.
“This is an unpleasant surprise. I thought I was finally rid of your,” Flintlock sad.”
“Boy, you won’t get shot of me until you find your ma in the Arizony Territory and she tells you your rightful name,” Barnabas said. “I know you’re an idiot, Sam, but try to wrap your mind around this fact. You can’t spend the rest of your life called fer a rifle.”
“I’ll find her. Don’t you worry about that,” Flintlock said, irritated. He pointed to an object in the old man’s hand. “What the hell is that thing you’re holding?”
Barnabas held up the object that glinted in the sun. “This is an old-timey helmet, boy. See, you put it on your head like this.” He lowered the helmet onto his head. His voice sounding hollow, he added, “Then you lift the visor.” It was shaped like the bow of an iron steamship. He raised it and said, “There, now I can see you just fine.”
“What are you doing with that thing?” Flintlock said.
“Polishing it up for a feller.”
“What feller?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, Sammy, but I’ll tell you anyway. This here hat belongs to Baron Boris Von Baggenheim. Back, oh, four hundred years ago, ol’ Boris made a career of galloping around the countryside slaughtering peasants and dragging maidens back to his castle to have his way with them.” Barnabas sighed. “Boris sure misses them good old days.”
“And that’s why he’s in hell?” Flintlock said.
Barnabas said, “Yeah, that and something to do with burning some holy man or other. But what you say is true, boy.” He nodded and the helmet visor clanged shut. He opened it again. “Boris’s corner of hell is reserved for them as You-know-who calls naughty noblemen, including that little puke the Marquis de Sade. Spends all his time talking about his female conquests, like anybody cares.” Barnabas lifted the helmet off his head. “Damn, this thing is heavy and hot. Of course, in hell it’s red hot, but Boris doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Barnabas, why are you here?” Flintlock said.
The old mountain man looked over his shoulder and then his voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “You-know-who has advice for you about them uppity females. He says you should tip the wagon over again and then set it on fire. Burn them four harridans alive and you’ll be rid of them.”
“Yeah, that’s the kind of advice he would give. Tell him it’s not going to happen.”
Barnabas polished the helmet with his buckskin sleeve. “Well, Sam’l, he’s smart and you’re a dunderhead, but suit yourself. Now I got to go. Hey, you ever hear of a bird they call a kingfisher?”
“Can’t say as I have,” Flintlock said.
“You will,” Barnabas said.
He vanished in a puff of smoke that smelled of brimstone. Only the sound of his cackle lingered and then it too was gone.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE was the author of over 220 USA Today and New York Times bestselling books, including The First Mountain Man, MacCallister, Eagles, Savage Texas, Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man, The Family Jensen, and The Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty, as well as the stand-alone thrillers Suicide Mission, The Bleeding Edge, Home Invasion, Stand Your Ground, and Tyranny.
Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.
NEW YORK TIMES AND
USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHORS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
with J. A. Johnstone
BLACK FRIDAY
From the bestselling authors of Tyranny and
Stand Your Ground comes the explosively charged story
of a full-scale terrorist attack on American soil—
on the biggest shopping day of the year . . .
DAY OF RECKONING
Black Friday. The American Way Mall is packed with
holiday shoppers and bargain seekers. Machine-gun fire
rings out, and within minutes hundreds are dead and
dying. Others are taken hostage by an army of fanatical
Middle Eastern terrorists ready to blast the American
Way Mall into a pile of rubble. But one man—Iraq War
vet Tobey Lanning—refuses to go down without a fight.
Separated from his fiancée, Lanning finds himself on the
frontlines of a new wa
r against terror. The FBI and the
local police are helpless. The battle is going to be lost or
won inside the mall. With thousands of innocent lives at
stake, Lanning assembles a makeshift platoon of Black
Friday shoppers. A teenage security guard. A retired
Chicago cop. A schoolteacher who’s never fired a gun.
A young ex-con who has. A soccer mom. A priest.
A wheelchair-bound World War II vet . . .
These brave everyday Americans will stand up
and meet the enemy face to face. Defend their land,
their values, their honor—and if necessary pay the
ultimate price for freedom ...
Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com
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