“Yeah, well it’s too late for second thoughts. If I figure you’re turning yellow on me I’ll—”
“I’ll stick, Asa,” Shaw said. “It’s . . . it’s . . . maybe it’s just that killing Major Ashton was easy, but the rest seems so hard.”
“Hell, it’s always easy to kill a man,” Pagg said. “But you’re right, making money is hard.”
“When will you come into the fort, Asa?”
“Right now seems as good a time as any. You got a place for me and the boys to spread our blankets?”
“Yes, there’s a civilian cabin you can have. Only problem is that three men are already living there.”
“That’s not a problem. We’ll take care of it.”
Pagg turned in the saddle and trilled a bird call.
Two men rode out of the trees and Pagg said to Shaw, “You remember my associates, Mr. Logan Dean and Mr. Joe Harte?”
“I remember,” Shaw said. He was uneasy—Dean and Harte were both named and deadly gunmen. He’d set this scheme in motion with the murder of Major Ashton, but now it seemed to be moving too fast, slipping beyond his control.
Two weeks before, after Asa Pagg had responded to Shaw’s wire and agreed to meet him in Gallup in the New Mexico Territory, the railhead for the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, Pagg had taken him aside and warned him about the gunmen.
“Logan Dean will cut any man, woman and child in half with a shotgun for fifty dollars,” he’d said. “Step careful around him. He’s poison with the Colt, lightning fast on the draw and shoot. Same goes for Joe Harte. He’s a quiet one all right, reads poetry an’ such, but he’s a contract killer and to my certain knowledge he’s gunned eighteen white men.”
Asa Pagg himself was a man to be reckoned with, an outlaw and sometime lawman who was fast on the draw and had killed more than his share. If he’d ever had a conscience it had shriveled up and died a long time ago. He was a hard, merciless man and there was no kindness in him.
Used to disciplined soldiers who obeyed his commands without question, Shaw was suddenly faced with men who would not accept orders and would choose their own way.
Could he control such men?
The captain had no answer to that question and it troubled him greatly.
“Well, Captain Shaw”—Pagg waved a hand toward the fort—“shall we proceed?”
“Asa, I need a drink,” Logan Dean said. He looked like a cross between a man and a rat. Then, to Shaw, “You got a saloon in your fort, soldier boy?”
Shaw let the disrespect go. Later there would be bigger things to argue about.
“There’s a sutler’s store with a bar,” he said.
“Suits us,” Pagg said. “First a drink or two then we’ll move into our cabin.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“The sutler is a Scotsman by the name of Angus McCarty,” Abe Roper said. “He’s a fair man, but I don’t know how much he’d charge you for powder and ball.”
“Well, I want to shoot the old Hawken, so I’ll have a word with him,” Sam Flintlock said.
“He’s got an old powder horn. I seen it hanging on his wall. He might sell it cheap.”
“Ol’ Barnabas could shoot a squirrel off a tree branch at a hundred yards with the Hawken,” Flintlock said. “Of course, there wasn’t much left of the squirrel after he got hit with a .50 caliber ball.”
“Talk to McCarty, Sam’l,” Roper said. “He’ll do you right.”
“I sure will after I get a few bucks ahead. Damn sheriff took all my money. Said it would pay for my bacon, beans and coffee.”
“Damned bandit,” Charlie Fong said. “Lawmen are all damned bandits.”
“Hell, Sammy, I’ll stake you,” Roper said. “You can pay me back when we find the golden bell.”
Flintlock shook his head. “Nah, Abe, borrowing money doesn’t set well with me. Barnabas always told me, ‘Neither a loaner nor a borrower be.’”
“It’s an investment, Sammy, not a loan. If that old cannon shoots as well as you say, it could come in handy if we run up against Asa Pagg an’ them.”
“And besides, a stroll over to the sutler’s will do us all good,” Charlie Fong said. “Get us some fresh air, like.”
“All right, Abe, but it’s a loan,” Flintlock said. “I’ll pay you back once I’m flush.”
“Hell, Sam, there’s sixteen balls to the pound an’ powder’s cheap,” Fong said. “We’re not talking about a fortune here.”
Flintlock nodded. “Charlie, for a Chinaman sometimes you sure make sense.”
Four soldiers sat at a table and McCarty, a tall, lean man with cool gray eyes and a stern set of jaw, stood behind the bar, dusting bottles.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” he said. There was no friendliness in his voice, but no hostility either.
Flintlock laid the Hawken on the bar. “I need powder and ball for this here rifle,” Flintlock said. “I was told you have some.”
“A fine weapon,” McCarty said. “And well cared for.”
“Yeah, and it’s in .50 caliber.”
“Young man, back in the olden days, the mountain men did not speak of caliber.” McCarty picked up the rifle. “This rifle was referred to as a thirty-five gauge or a sixteen-balls-to-the-pound Hawken. Its caliber is in fact fifty-one, not fifty.”
“Well, McCarty, do you have any of them kind of balls?” Roper said.
“I do indeed. Old stock, since there’s not much call for them nowadays.”
“And powder and patches?” Flintlock said.
“Yes, I can supply those,” McCarty said. He eyed the thunderbird that covered most of Flintlock’s throat, his worn buckskin shirt, battered hat and general shabbiness and added, “If you have the wherewithal to pay.”
“He can pay,” Roper said. “And how much for the powder horn on the wall over there?”
“Ah, a rare item indeed,” McCarty said. “That one is made from buffalo horn and it’s seen some use.”
He crossed the floor, took the powder horn from the wall and returned to the bar.
The horn had yellowed from age, and carved into its side it bore the legend:
THOS. WATSON HIS HORN
“Ever hear of Thos Watson, Sam’l?” Roper said.
“He wasn’t one of Barnabas’s cronies,” Flintlock said.
“How much?” Roper said to McCarty.
“For a horn like that, with a name on it and all, I couldn’t let it go for any less than twenty dollars,” McCarty said.
“I’ll give you five.”
“Done.”
Roper stuck out his hand. “And done.”
McCarty shook Roper’s hand, then said, “Now I’ll fill the rest of the order.”
But he stayed where he was when the door opened and three men stepped inside.
Asa Pagg stopped in the doorway for a moment, glanced at the soldiers and gave a little grunting laugh of contempt. His eyes swept the sutler’s store and settled on Abe Roper.
Pagg nodded. “Abe.”
“Howdy, Asa,” Roper said. “Fer piece off your home range, ain’t you?”
“You could say that. I got business in this neck of the woods.” He waved a hand. “You know my associates.”
“Howdy, Joe. Logan.”
“How’s things, Abe?” Logan said.
“Oh, keepin’ busy, Logan. You know how it is.”
“I know how it is.”
“Chinese Charlie, ain’t nobody shot you fer bein’ an uppity Celestial yet?” Pagg said.
“Not yet, Asa,” Fong said, smiling. “I’m still here as ever was.”
“Maybe that’s just as well. Be a pity to gun a good cook,” Pagg said.
Pagg walked to the bar and said, “Three whiskeys.” Without turning his head, he said, “Howdy, Sam. Still got the thunderbird, huh?”
“Good to see you, Asa,” Flintlock said. “I can’t get rid of the bird, unless I get skun.”
“Maybe Geronimo will oblige you. The bird would look good on his rifle stock.” No
w Pagg glanced at the Hawken lying on the bar. “Armed to the teeth, I see.”
Dean and Harte grinned, and Flintlock said, “It’s a family heirloom.”
“Don’t go shootin’ off a thumb with that thing,” Pagg said.
“It’s happened,” McCarty said.
Pagg looked at the Scotsman as though seeing him for the first time. “How would you know?”
“I heard.”
“Yeah, well, you’re here to serve drinks, so shut your trap when white men are talking.”
McCarty, used to dealing with drunk and belligerent soldiers, would not step back from any man and his anger flared.
Flintlock moved quickly to defuse what could easily turn into a killing situation.
“What brings you to Fort Defiance, Asa?” he said. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Pagg scraped his eyes away from McCarty, but they were still burning with black fire as he looked at Flintlock and said, “A business opportunity.”
Flintlock was aware of Roper and Fong exchanging glances.
“What kind of business?” Flintlock said. “Anything that might ring a bell with me?”
The expression on Pagg’s face didn’t change. “Still a questioning man, ain’t you, Sam? Well, my business here is confidential.” Then, a nod to Flintlock’s own commercial interests. “I’m not hunting a bounty on this trip.”
“Glad to hear that, Asa,” Flintlock said. But Pagg was already talking over him. “Abe, you the feller that lives in a cabin here at the fort?”
“Sure do, Asa, me and Charlie and Flintlock,” Roper said. “We’ll be moving on in a couple of days.”
“The captain feller told me I could have that there cabin,” Pagg said. “Me and the boys need a place to bed down, like.”
Like a man stands on his porch and sees the lightning coming, Flintlock was suddenly wary. If Pagg pressed a claim to the cabin, Roper would resist and guns would be skinned.
Mentally, Flintlock calculated what could happen next.
The sutler’s store was small, close and windowless, lit by three oil lamps that hung from the ceiling. If shooting started the concussion of the guns would blow out the lamps and six men would gunfight in pitch darkness.
If there was anybody left standing after McCarty opened his door to let the smoke clear, it would be a miracle.
But Asa Pagg was no fool. He knew as well as Flintlock did what pushing a gunfight might mean.
Abe Roper was good with a gun, Flintlock better, and the Chinaman could be sneaky. All three had sand and there was no back-up in any of them.
“Well, hell, we got an empty old fort here,” Pagg said, smiling, as though he was everybody’s friend. “I’m sure the captain can find us another place to bunk.”
Roper, a thinking man, figured that for now at least he should extend an olive branch. “You’re welcome to bed down with us, Asa,” he said. “But six men in my small cabin could be a crowd.”
“Nah, I’ll talk to the officer.” He drained his glass. “Let’s go, boys.”
Pagg stepped to the door, then turned. “Hey, Sam,” he said, grinning, “I ain’t near as stupid as you think. Anything that might ring a bell with me, you said. Well, that tickled me. The story of the golden bell is just that, a story, and only a rube would fall for it. If you boys reckon you’ll find it, think again. The army and every damned gold hunter in the West has searched for the bell for years and nobody’s found it yet.”
Pagg grinned. “And you know why? Because it ain’t there.”
He followed Dean and Harte out the door, but before slamming it shut behind him he turned his head and threw over his shoulder, “Go home, boys. You’re wasting your time.”
CHAPTER NINE
The boy led the old man to the cave entrance where the woman waited.
When the man appeared, the woman bowed low and extended the round loaf of bread she held.
“For you, great lord,” she said. “It is but a small offering.”
The boy took the bread and placed it in the old man’s hands because he was nearly blind and his eyes were the color of milk.
After a while the man smelled the bread and he smiled. “It is a fine gift,” he said.
“The loaf is made from the finest wheat flour and I baked it myself, great lord,” the Mexican woman said. She bowed again. “I hope you will enjoy the bread, lord, and I ask that you do not enter my home where my husband lies very sick.”
“Why do you ask me this thing, child?” the old man said.
“Because you are the Angel of Death sent by the holy Santa Muerte to collect the souls of those who have passed away. This is well-known in my village and it has been so for many years.”
The woman was very afraid, but she said, “Aiii, you are truly a great and powerful lord and I beg you not to take my poor husband from me.”
The old man wore the rough, brown robes of a monk. He was very thin and the skin of his face was tight to the bones so that he bore the same features as the holy Santa Muerte . . . a yellow skull.
“Woman, don’t you know why the great lord is here?” the boy said. He was ten, with a shock of black hair and eyes of the same color.
“Yes, chico, he guards the golden bell that the devil cast down from heaven in a rage,” the woman said. “But he is also the Angel de la Muerte and is to be feared by such as me and mine.”
“Woman, you have nothing to fear from me,” the old man said. “Go back down the mountain to your village. No harm will come to your husband. He will rise from his bed and be well again.”
The woman bowed. “Thank you, great lord.”
“I will say a prayer for him,” the old man said. “I will ask our God that your husband will soon be in good health.”
The old man watched the woman walk through spring wildflowers down the hill that led to the cave, her bright red skirt eddying around her legs in the high country wind.
That same wind tossed the old man’s white, shoulder-length hair as he placed his hand on the boy’s head and said, “We will go into the cave. I have a story to tell.”
“You must eat first, Grandfather,” the boy said.
He led the old man inside the cave and settled him into a finely carved chair that once belonged to a noble Spanish conquistador. He tore a piece from the bread and then found some goat cheese. These he placed in the old man’s hands. His hands were the color of ivory, seamed with blue veins.
“Eat,” the boy said. “You must keep up your strength, Grandfather.”
And so the old man ate, and when he was finished he said, “I had a dream last night that troubled me so much, I woke from sleep with a start and felt afraid.”
“What kind of terrible dream could trouble you so?” the boy said.
“I saw a man, a fearsome man who bore an ancient rifle.”
“And what did this man say to you?”
“Nothing. He said nothing.”
“Then what did he do, this man?”
“He sat in a chair, as I sit in this one, and the rifle leaned against the chair and the rifle stock was bright with polished brass.”
“Aiii, it was a fine rifle.”
“Indeed, little one, a very fine rifle and of great age. But the man did not touch the rifle because he held a green apple in his hands and he peeled the skin with a sharp steel knife.”
“But this is not a bad dream, Grandfather,” the boy said.
“Until then, it was not. But I walked into the room where the man sat and he wore a shirt of animal skin and his eyes were the color of smoke.”
“Ah, then he was a fearsome man,” the boy said.
“Yes, and he turned to me and he smiled and said, ‘Soon I will come and steal your bell.’”
“And what else did he say?”
“Nothing more, for then I woke in the dark and was afraid because the man had a great thunderbird tattooed on his throat and it was a terrible sight to see.”
The boy reached out and took the old man’s frai
l hand in his. “We will fight him,” he said.
“I am too old to fight, and you are too young. But I will pray that I find a way to defeat this man.”
The boy was silent for a while, and then he said, “The holy bell of Santa Elena is very precious, is it not?”
“Yes, it is. We will guard it until the day the Spanish monks return and take it away.”
“Then God surely will help us,” the boy said.
“A green apple,” Abe Roper said. “Is that your breakfast?”
Flintlock shook his head. “There’s a barrel of them in the sutler’s. I figured I’d give one a try.”
He finished peeling the apple, held a slice between the Barlow blade and his thumb and popped it into his mouth.
“Ahh . . . hell . . . the damned thing’s sour enough to pucker a hog’s butt,” Flintlock said, making a face.
“Them green apples are for pies, Sam,” Charlie Fong said. “They need sugar. You should know that.”
Flintlock grinned and threw the apple at Fong’s head. “Then make a pie with that one, Charlie.”
Fong ducked, the apple hit the wall, and Roper said, “I hope your aim with the Hawken’s better than that.”
“I didn’t much reckon on shooting it,” Flintlock said.
“Hell, after you got all that powder and ball, you’re gonna shoot it,” Roper said. “After breakfast we’ll head out and see how you do with the old smoke pole.” He smiled. “Make your old grandpappy proud, Sam’l.”
“Barnabas had a good eye,” Flintlock said as he pulled on a boot.
“So do you, Sam,” Fong said.
“Yeah, at spittin’ distance. All the men I’ve killed, I killed real close.”
“Like me, you’re a draw fighter, Sammy,” Roper said. “Real close goes with the profession. I never met a one that was any good with a long gun, an’ that includes ol’ Wild Bill hisself.”
“Close up, you look into a man’s eyes when your bullet hits him, right at the moment he knows it’s all up with him,” Flintlock said. He shook his head. “That’s not a sight for a white man to see.” He looked at Charlie Fong. “Or for a yellow man to see either.”
Flintlock Page 4
