“He deserves a medal,” Flintlock said.
“And I’m sure he’ll be awarded one of the highest order,” Howard said, a single tear rolling down his plump young cheek. “He’s a hero, like the gallant Custer.”
“Hey, how come I scouted this whole meadow and didn’t see any blood?” Flintlock said.
“Yeah, strange that,” Charlie Fong said, chewing on a stem of grass.
“What do you mean?” Howard said.
“Well, if the captain done all this here shootin’ and drove away Apaches who don’t quit easy, you’d at least think he winged a couple.”
“No blood on the grass,” Fong said. And again, “Strange that.”
The air was hot and close and smelled of distant rain.
“The reason is obvious to a thinking man,” Howard said, slightly angry. “Obviously Captain Shaw put up such a stout defense that, despite suffering no casualties, the cowardly hostiles fled in confusion.”
“Soldier boy, the Apaches are many things, most of them bad, but being cowards ain’t one of them,” Abe Roper said.
“Then I beg to differ,” Howard said. “Fort Defiance drove off with ease attacks by hostiles twice in half a dozen years. Note, I say, with ease, Mr. Roper.”
“Lieutenant, those were Navajo,” Roper said. “When it comes to sand and meanness, a hundred of them don’t stack up to a single Apache.”
“I’m here to return Major Ashton’s body to the fort, not to argue the point about savages,” Howard said. He turned to the two sullen privates who’d come with the wagon. “You men, load the major’s body. He’s an officer and a gentleman, remember. Treat him with all due respect for his rank.”
As the two soldiers struggled to load the major’s body into the wagon, Roper took Flintlock aside.
“What do you reckon, Sammy?” he said.
“The captain never fit Apaches here, I reckon that much. No bloodstains in the grass out there, no horse tracks, no spent shells.”
“Why the hell would he lie about it?”
“Well, he and the major were deer hunting. Shaw might’ve plugged the man by accident and then skedaddled.”
“Yeah, after he fired a few rounds over Ashton’s body to back up his Apache story and then shot himself in the leg,” then added, “Makes sense,” Roper said. “What do you think, Charlie?”
“Good an explanation as any,” Fong said. “Sam’s right, there’s no sign that Apaches were ever here.”
“He could’ve done it on purpose,” Roper said.
“You mean Shaw murdered him?” Flintlock said.
“Maybe so.”
“Why?”
Roper shrugged. “Who knows?”
“A woman maybe?” Flintlock said.
“You seen Ashton’s wife? Shaw didn’t murder his commanding officer over her.”
“Then it was an accident.”
“I don’t know what it was,” Roper said. “Do we care?”
“No, I guess not,” Flintlock said. “But I got the feeling there’s something mighty strange goin’ on around here.”
Roper grinned. “I declare, Sammy, you’re like an old maiden aunt who hears a rustle in every bush.”
“Maybe I am,” Flintlock said. “Or maybe I’m not.”
CHAPTER SIX
“So, how you like the Old Crow sippin’ whiskey, Sam’l?” Abe Roper said.
“Besides Robert E. Lee, it’s the best thing that ever came out of the South,” Flintlock said.
He set his glass on the floor beside his rickety chair, one of only two in the cabin. “Abe, tell me about the bell,” he said.
“Gettin’ gold fever, Sam?” Charlie Fong grinned.
“Gettin’ curious, Charlie,” Flintlock said.
“That’s what killed the cat, Sammy,” Roper said.
“So let the cat out of the bag and we’ll see what happens,” Flintlock said.
“All right, first the story, then I’ll tell you where it happened. That set fine by you?”
“Story away.”
“Once upon a time . . .”
“I like it already,” Flintlock said.
“There was a Spanish mission, at a place north of here,” Roper said. “For two hundred years the holy monks took care of the local Indians, converted them to the one true faith and did many good works.”
Flintlock ran an oily cloth over the barrel of the Hawken. “You should’ve been a preacher, Abe,” he said. “When you try, you’re a fine-talking man.”
“Thought about it for a spell, but then I figured I was more suited to the bank-robbing profession.”
“You were cut out fer that, all right, Abe,” Charlie Fong said.
“Thanks, Charlie, I appreciate it,” Roper said, bowing his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.
“So, the holy monks are going about baptizing folks and doin’ good works, then what?” Flintlock said. His entire attention seemed to be focused on scraping a speck of rust off the Hawken’s barrel with his thumbnail.
“Well, suddenly the monks was in a heap of trouble,” Roper said. “Bad stuff comin’ down, if’n you catch my drift.”
“You don’t say?”
“I do say. See, how it come up, over the years the Indians brought the monks all kinds of gold as presents, like. I mean, they knew how all white men love gold and the monks were no exception.”
“Just like us, Abe,” Charlie Fong said.
“Truer words was never spoke, Charlie,” Flintlock said. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not just like us. You ain’t a white man, Charlie.”
“No, I’m a yellow man.”
“Close, but no ceegar,” Flintlock said.
“Now where was I? Oh yeah, the gold the Injuns was bringing was raw, nuggets and dust most likely, not golden rings and chalices an’ the like,” Roper said. “The monks ended up with quite a poke, but then they got nervous.”
“How come?” Flintlock said. “I never seen a nervous monk.”
“Well, them old monks was nervous right enough. It seems that the king o’ Spain’s tax collector got wind of the stash and it was in his mind to . . . what’s that word, Charlie?”
“Confiscate.”
“Oh yeah, confiscate the gold and send it back to Spain for the king to spend on women and whiskey.”
Flintlock laid the now gleaming Hawken across his knees. “Harsh thing that, robbin’ holy monks who did nothin’ but good works,” he said.
“It was all of that. But then the monks put their heads together and came up with a plan.”
“This is when the story gets good,” Fong said, grinning.
“So let me tell it, Charlie, huh?” Roper said.
“Go right ahead, Abe. Sorry, but I always get excited at this part.”
Roper glared at Fong for a few moments, then said, “Well, anyhoo, the monks did two things—they made a cast for a bell—”
“What kind of bell?” Flintlock said.
“A big bell. How would I know what kind of bell?”
“Well, there’s a hand bell and a—”
“A big bell, like I said. Sammy, it was a big bell, all right?”
Flintlock nodded. “Fine. A church bell. Go right ahead, Abe.”
“I swear, you’re a worse interrupter than Charlie,” Roper said.
“So the monks melted down the gold an’ cast it into a bell,” Flintlock said.
“Yeah, that’s what they did all right, made a big bell.”
“Wouldn’t the tax collector notice a big golden bell?” Flintlock said. “I mean, it would be pretty obvious.”
“The monks thought of that. They painted the bell black, rubbed rust onto the surface and then hung it above the entrance to the mission. The tax collector rode under the bell and never knew it was made of solid gold.”
Flintlock built a cigarette and without looking up, said, “How heavy was the big bell?”
“I knew you’d get around to askin’ that, Sam’l. Are you ready fer this?”<
br />
“I guess I am. But I’m holding my breath.”
“It weighs two thousand pounds of pure, shining gold.”
“How much is that in American money?” Flintlock said.
“Tell him, Charlie,” Roper said. “I want to see his face.”
“Sixty-five thousand dollars and a few cents, more or less,” Fong said. “Big bell, big money, Sam.”
“How did they get it up there?” Flintlock said.
Roper was puzzled. “Get what up there?”
“The big bell. If it weighs as much as you say it does, how did they hang it above the mission gate?”
“Pulleys and willing hands,” Roper said. “How the hell should I know? Sammy, you sure ask some dumb questions.”
“All right, then here’s another dumb question: Where do I come in?”
“That ain’t dumb, it’s a true-blue question as ever was,” Roper said.
“Then answer it,” Flintlock said.
“We need your gun, Sam’l. That’s how come I saved you from gettin’ hung. I mean, once I knowed it was really you.”
“I smell a rat,” Flintlock said. “Damnit, I’m sure I smell a rat.”
“And no wonder. By anybody’s reckoning, it’s a real big rat,” Charlie Fong said.
“How big?” Flintlock said. For the first time that night he felt uneasy.
“How about Asa Pagg big?” Roper said.
Those words hit Flintlock like five hard jabs to the belly.
“You’ve got to be joking,” he said. “You want me to say ha-ha, right?”
“No joke,” Roper said. “He’s in this neck of the woods. How we know, we heard he’d killed a man at a settlement down in the Zuni Buttes country of the New Mexico Territory.”
“Asa always operates south of the Mogollon Rim,” Flintlock said. “It’s his home range and he never budges.”
“He’s budged,” Roper said.
“He still run with Logan Dean an’ Joe Harte an’ them?” Flintlock said.
“I don’t know.”
“Why is he here, Abe?” Flintlock said.
He figured he already knew the answer to that question and Roper confirmed it. “We think, me an’ Charlie, that maybe he heard about the golden bell.”
“How?”
Roper looked at Charlie Fong.
“Sam, the way it was told to us, a prospector was up in the Red Rock Valley when he got caught in a snowstorm,” Fong said. “Well, he headed west into the Carrizo Mountains and took refuge in a cave.”
“And he saw the bell,” Flintlock said.
“Yeah . . . a huge bell made of solid gold. He says the sight of it made him sick and he didn’t stay long.”
“Was he sober?” Flintlock said.
“Sober enough to know he couldn’t move two thousand pounds of gold by himself,” Roper said.
“So he came to you,” Flintlock said.
“Nope, we happened on him by chance in a saloon down Silver City way,” Roper said. “That was a two-month ago.”
“And he told you the story about the monks and the gold and you believed him?”
“Not right off, we didn’t. Ain’t that right, Charlie?”
“Damn right . . . until the old-timer showed us a map he’d made of the mountains and an X marking the cave,” Fong said. “Then we figured he was telling the truth.”
“Tinpans tell big stories, everybody knows that,” Flintlock said. “How much did you pay him for the map?”
“Not one thin dime,” Roper said. “He said his time was short, on account of how he couldn’t breathe, and if we found the bell and sold it, we were to send some of the money to his widowed sister in Richmond. Give us a paper with her address an’ all. Said the lady’s husband wore the gray and fell at Gettysburg. A man doesn’t lie about a thing like that.”
“Then how did Asa Pagg get wind of the bell?” Flintlock said.
Roper smiled as he admired the amber glow of his whiskey.
“Sammy,” he said, “a man can have an affaire d’amour with the wife of the president of these United States and keep it a secret. But if a man strikes pay dirt in a wilderness, within a week he finds himself in the middle of a gold rush.”
“In other words, when gold’s involved, word gets around,” Fong said.
“So your dying prospector got drunk an’ blabbed,” Flintlock said.
“Maybe so,” Roper said.
“Where the hell did you pick up fancy words like affaire d’amour? You goin’ back to school or something?” Flintlock said.
“Nah, an El Paso whore teached that to me,” Roper said. “I took a shine to it, like.”
“Educated whore,” Flintlock said.
“No, she wasn’t. She was a French gal, from up Canada way, and she was as dumb as dirt.”
“All right, then why me, Abe?”
“Call yourself a gift from heaven, Sam’l. I knowed it when I sprung you from that rube jail—”
“Blew me up, you mean.”
“Don’t be so harsh, Sam,” Charlie Fong said. “We figured you had one chance in ten of surviving the gunpowder. Them’s better odds than the hangman would’ve given you of walking away after the drop.”
“To anybody but a Chinaman, them’s lousy odds,” Flintlock said. “But go ahead, Abe. Why me?”
“Because I can’t shade Asa Pagg, but you can,” Roper said. “Charlie, can I say it any plainer than that? Am I right or am I wrong?”
“No, sir, you’re right and you can’t say it plainer,” Fong said.
“And study on this, Sammy,” Roper said. “If for some reason we don’t find the big bell, last time I looked, Asa had a five-thousand reward on his head, dead or alive. Gun ol’ Asa and in a manner of speakin’ you’d be mixing business with pleasure. Ain’t that right, Charlie?”
“Truer words was never spoke,” Fong said.
“So what do you say, Sam’l?” Roper said.
“Like you said, I’ll study on it,” Flintlock said. “I admit that the bounty on Asa Pagg kinda tilts the scales in your favor.”
“Just don’t sit on your gun hand too long,” Roper said. “We’re riding out as soon as Jack Coffin gets here.”
“I never liked that breed,” Flintlock said. “He still collect trigger fingers?”
“As far as I know,” Roper said. “You don’t have to like him, Sammy. Who the hell does? But if the tinpan’s map ain’t exact, he’ll find that cave for us.”
“I may gun him,” Flintlock said. “He’s a disgrace to the bounty-hunting profession.”
“Sure, but wait until after he finds the cave.”
“And the golden bell,” Charlie Fong said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Captain Owen Shaw sat his horse in a moonlit glade among the pines.
Nearby an owl asked his question of the night and in the distance a pair of hunting coyotes yipped one to the other in the shadowed foothills. The shallow depth of the meadow’s lilac light did not extend beyond the trees, and darkness lay among them like spilled ink.
Through this gloom appeared a rider who bulked large in the saddle, his mount picking its way like an antelope through the pines.
Shaw let the man come. He’d left his revolver behind so as to present no threat, real or imagined.
The rider drew rein. He was a tall, bearded man, the upper half of his face lost in shadow under his wide-brimmed hat. He wore a long, Confederate army greatcoat, much frayed and patched, and his two Remingtons in shoulder holsters made his wide chest look even broader.
Now he lifted his head to the moonlight, smiling, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes drawn tight as cheese-cutting wire.
“Howdy, Captain Shaw,” the rider said. He smiled. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Asa. Good to see you again.”
“The feeling’s mutual, I’m sure,” Asa Pagg said. “You got a bandage on your leg. You stop a bullet?”
“Had to make the killing of Major Ashton look good.”
Pagg took time to light a cigar, then said, “Talk to me.”
“Everything is going to plan, Asa. We take the money at the fort, head for Mexico and live high on the hog for the rest of our lives.”
“What are the chances of the cavalry coming back?”
“None. They’re still in the field and will be for another month at least.”
“Unless they catch up with Geronimo.”
“They won’t.”
“How many fighting men at the post?”
Shaw snorted a laugh. “Fighting men? None.”
“Don’t bandy words with me, Captain,” Pagg said, his voice edged. “How many?”
“Two officers and fourteen enlisted men, three of them in sick bay.”
“I don’t like the odds.”
“Clerks, cooks and malingerers,” Shaw said. “Like I told you, they’re not fighting men.” His horse tossed its head and the bridle chimed. “How many of your boys can I expect?”
“Just me and two others.”
“That’s it? That’s all?”
“If your garrison is as useless as you say, it’s enough.”
“What about the escort?”
“We’ll take care of them first.”
Shaw looked worried. “Asa, I don’t like it. We’re too thin on the numbers.”
“Then there’s more to go around, I say,” Pagg said. As though he’d suddenly made up his mind about something, he added, “I’m coming into the fort.”
Shaw looked more worried still. “Is that wise?”
“Who the hell knows me at Fort Defiance, a damned wart on the ass of the U.S. Army? I need to get the lie of the land, see what I’m facing once the shooting starts. Maybe I’ll organize a few killings to whittle down the numbers, like.”
Pagg stared at Shaw, then grinned. “Look at you, a fine officer and a gentleman so scared you’re about to piss your pants. What did you expect when you threw in with the likes of me?”
“Maybe we’re wrong about this, Asa. Maybe it’s too big for us.”
“It ain’t too big. A hundred thousand dollars split four ways ain’t too big.”
“If I’m caught, the army will hang me,” Shaw said.
Flintlock Page 3
