Flintlock

by William W. Johnstone

  For the first time since he’d ridden into the fort, Coffin smiled. “Better a skunk than a Frenchman.”

  Roper, smiling affably, moved to smooth things over.

  “Well, we all have different opinions, n’est-ce pas? That’s what makes the world go round, I say. Now, Jack, will you find us the cave where the big bell is kept?”

  “I will find it, but it will be my death,” Coffin said. “This I know.”

  The breed was a tall man, wide shouldered and big boned, with the hard, lean face of a man who’d followed many desert trails. He had no softness in him and no deep well of human kindness waiting to be discovered. Ten years before, he’d buried his entire family, including his wife and three children, slaughtered by Mexican lancers, and he’d died a small death with every shovelful of dirt until only the hard shell of a man was left.

  Jack Coffin, scouting for American lawmen or Mexican Rurales, had killed twelve men, all of them white or Mexican. He’d never killed or caused the death of an Indian. He was fast with the Colt on his hip, a man to be reckoned with.

  But then, so was Sam Flintlock, as Coffin was well aware.

  “How come you’re so all-fired hung up on dying, Jack?” Flintlock said. “You got a hemp posse on your back trail?”

  “I was told about my death in a dream,” Coffin said. “An old man in a monk’s robe came to me from a mist and told me I’d die before the summer wildflowers bloom. But the way of it, he would not reveal. He said there are secrets Death keeps to himself.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Roper said. “We all have bad dreams, right, Charlie? Frijoles can do that to ya.”

  “A nightmare is a black dream because our soul wandered too far in sleep into a haunted place,” Charlie Fong said. “When we wake, and sit upright in our blankets, our heart pounding, gasping for breath, it’s only because our body rescued our soul and made it return home.”

  “Hell, Charlie,” Flintlock said, “you’re a strange one.”

  “I’m a Celestial, remember,” Fong said. He winked at Flintlock.

  “When I woke he was still holding my hand,” Coffin said.

  “Who?” Roper said.

  “Death. He’d taken my right hand and he still held it when I woke. My hand was cold, as though I’d been carrying ice.”

  “Enough of this, Jack, you’re spookin’ the hell out of me,” Roper said. “Let’s get back to talking business, huh?”

  “We will leave for the Carrizo Mountains at first light tomorrow,” Coffin said. “Now our business is done.”

  He turned and moved toward the door, but Flintlock stepped in front of him, his face like stone.

  “Jack, you try any fancy moves on this trip, I’ll take it personal and I’ll take it hard,” he said. “And when I take stuff personal, I do bad things. Understand?”

  “I have nothing to do with Geronimo,” Coffin said.

  “As far as I’m concerned, you’re an Apache,” Flintlock said. “That’s enough for me. I don’t trust you.”

  “Why do you hate me so much, Samuel?”

  “You know why.”

  “You talk of Barney Glennon and Sonora.”

  “I talk of Santa Cruz.”

  “Glennon was a bandit, a bank robber. He was wanted by the Rurales, dead or alive.”

  “He was my friend and a white man and you killed him.”

  “Yes. In the Coyote Azul cantina. He drew down on me.” Coffin’s eyes met Flintlock’s, clashed. “He’d been informed.”

  “He left a wife and two children back in Texas.”

  “How many of the men you killed left wives and children?”

  “As far as I know, none of them. They were all trash like you, Jack.”

  “Don’t push me any harder, Samuel.”

  Coffin’s hand was close to his gun. He was as fast as chain lightning and hard to handle.

  “Damn your eyes, I’ll be the death you fear if you sell us down the river to your Apache friends,” Flintlock said between gritted teeth. “Keep that in mind, breed.”

  “Sam’l, ease off, back up some,” Roper said. “Jack says he’ll lead us to the bell and that’s all he’ll do.” He beamed and placed a hand on both Coffin’s and Flintlock’s shoulders. “Four even shares once we break up the bell. How does that set with you, Jack? True-blue, huh?”

  “I don’t care about the gold,” Coffin said. “I go with you only because I follow my destiny.”

  The breed’s highfalutin talk about death and destiny was beyond anything in Abe Roper’s experience. He fell back on what he did know.

  “I tell you what, boys, there’s a dugout saloon with a hog farm just two miles west of here,” he said. “Ain’t that right, Charlie?”

  “So I’ve heard, Abe. Sergeant Tone says the place is run by Saggy Maggie Muldoon, big gal, used to have her own house in Abilene. Tone says the whiskey is only twenty cents a shot and the gals are clean.”

  “There you go, boys, made to order fer lively young gents like yourselves,” Roper said. “Why don’t you two ride on over there and have a drink and a woman and let bygones be bygones?”

  Charlie Fong nodded. “Words of wisdom, Abe. Yes, siree, words of wisdom as ever was.”

  Coffin said nothing. He reached for the door handle and Flintlock took a step to the side.

  “One day soon I’ll kill you, Samuel,” the breed said as he opened the door and let a blast of hot, dusty air inside. “I will put a bullet through the thunderbird’s head, depend on it.”

  “Not if I see you coming.”

  “You’ll see me.”

  “Then I look forward to it.”

  “Hey, boys, don’t forget Saggy—”

  The slamming door cut off the rest of Roper’s words, but Charlie Fong talked across the silence.

  “Boy, this is gonna be a fun trip,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The arrival at Fort Defiance of a middle-aged major and his young bride did nothing to ease Captain Owen Shaw’s fears about the success of his enterprise.

  Keeping Asa Pagg and his gunmen under control could prove to be difficult enough, but now the unexpected appearance of Major Andrew Grove threatened to upset the whole applecart.

  To Shaw’s irritation, Grove showed up like a potentate in a mule-drawn, army escort wagon converted for passengers, and an escort of five cavalrymen.

  His annoyance grew when the major sat behind the commanding officer’s desk, ushered his prim wife into the only other available chair, and before even uttering a greeting said, “Very sloppy, Captain. I wasn’t challenged by a sentry on my way in and the fort is run-down. Mister, it looks like it’s held together by baling wire and spit.”

  Shaw bristled. “May I remind the major that Fort Defiance has been abandoned for fifteen years and only recently has it been reactivated.”

  “That’s no excuse, Captain. It’s the commanding officer’s duty to see that everything is shipshape and Bristol fashion.”

  “That’s a nautical term, sir. It may apply to a British ship of war, but not to a United States Army frontier post.”

  “Damn your eyes, sir, don’t bandy words with me,” Grove said. “Where is your commanding officer?”

  “He’s dead, sir. I am . . . was . . . the commanding officer of this fort.”

  Grove raised a monocle to his right eye, an upper-class affectation Shaw loathed, then said, “Well? Identify yourself, man.”

  Shaw straightened to attention. “Captain Owen Shaw, at your service, sir.”

  “What happened to the other fellow?”

  “Major Ashton? He was killed by Apaches, sir.”

  “How very careless of him.” Grove’s monocle glinted in the sunlight. “What happened?”

  “He and I were hunting when the hostiles struck. The major fell in the first volley.”

  “Pah, hunting.” Grove turned to his wife. “Did you hear that, my dear Winnifred? The major was out hunting while his command was falling apart.”

/>   “It is easy to dodge our responsibilities, but we cannot dodge the consequences of dodging our responsibilities,” the woman said.

  Winnifred Grove had a V-shaped upper lip that overhung the lower one, but loosely, as though a button had once held it up and was now missing.

  Shaw badly wanted to kill her.

  “Once again your common sense educates us all, my dear,” Major Grove said. “Is that not so, Captain?”

  “Indeed, sir. A most edifying observation.” Shaw relaxed a little from his stiff pose, aware that his blue shirt was dusty and smelled heavily of sweat. “Does the major wish to tell me why he’s visiting Fort Defiance?”

  “Yes, the major wishes to tell you. General Crook has informed his field commanders that all hostiles, and I include women, children and old persons in that description, are to be brought to this post. From here they will be taken south to Fort Grant for disposal. My orders are that I will lead the . . . ah . . . exodus, though there may well be others at a later date.”

  Shaw felt a surge of relief. It would take time to round up every Apache in the Arizona and New Mexico territories. More time than he needed.

  But he asked the question anyway. “When can we expect the first of them, sir?”

  “I’m told I should expect the women and children to arrive first, possibly in as little as two weeks. The young bucks will follow soon thereafter, those that are still alive.”

  Shaw nodded. He had plenty of time. Then another thought came to him that made him smile inwardly . . . he had time to kill.

  Grove spoke again. “How many men in the garrison, Captain Shaw?”

  “Two officers and fourteen enlisted men, sir. None of them are of the best quality.”

  “Does that include the officers?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Well, I’ll soon whip them into shape, officers and enlisted men. I want the officers to join me and my lady wife for dinner tonight.”

  “Does that whipping into shape include me, sir?”

  “Should it?”

  “I do my duty, sir.”

  “Then your duty lies in getting this fort fit for the arrival of the hostiles. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly. But there is the matter of Geronimo.”

  “What about him?”

  “He could be a danger to this post, sir.”

  “I think with my escort and driver to reinforce the garrison, we have enough fighting men to deal with savages.”

  “As you say, sir.”

  Winnifred Grove coughed and her husband said, “Yes, my dear?”

  “We haven’t spoken yet of those important matters we discussed,” the woman said. “Andrew, they are of the greatest moment.”

  The major feigned a look of surprise and his monocle popped out of his eye socket and dropped onto his chest. “How remiss of me, my dear,” he said. “Please inform Captain Shaw of your wishes.”

  Winnifred sat on the edge of her chair with her knees pressed close together, as though guarding a treasure she considered constantly under threat. She had a pale, pinched face, muddy brown eyes, and the hair that showed under her straw bonnet was so blond as to be almost colorless.

  “Captain Shaw, what I am about to say to you is of singular importance and, as I have already indicated, of the greatest moment,” Winnifred said.

  Shaw gave a little bow. “Your obedient servant, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Captain. First, I wish to mention demon drink. Yes, Captain, those tools of the devil, the whiskey and beer that poisons the mind, pollutes the body, desecrates family life and inflames sinners to lustful fantasies.” She tightened her knees. “I am against demon drink in all its forms and disguises.”

  Shaw bowed. “I understand, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Secondly I am against the presence of loose women, and yes, I will say it, whores, on or near an army post. Without her purity, a woman is no woman, but rather a lower form of being, a fallen female, unworthy of the love of her sex and unfit for their company. A woman, even a married woman, must be willing to guard her sweet treasure with her life. Do you understand me, Captain?”

  “Perfectly, ma’am.”

  “I will not tolerate any fallen . . . creatures . . . anywhere near this fort while my dear husband is in command. They may flaunt their”—Winnifred lightly touched her small breasts—“dumplings of the devil where’er they please, but not at Fort Defiance. I am very adamant on these matters and I assure you, so is Major Grove.”

  “Indeed I am, my dear,” Grove said. “On that wondrous day we first became betrothed I vowed that my lips would ne’er touch alcohol or my loins be stimulated by impure or lecherous thoughts. Under your sweet guidance I have kept both those vows.”

  “And I have not forgotten that in whatever situation of life I find myself, from the cradle to the grave, a spirit of obedience and submission to my husband, as well as pliability of temper and humility of mind, are required of me.”

  “My darling,” Grove said.

  “Beloved,” Winnifred said.

  Shaw smiled. All right then, first the wife, then the major. When the time came he’d kill them in that order.

  “Do you understand, Captain? No loose women and no alcohol are to be permitted at Fort Defiance. My lady wife has made her feelings clear on these critical points, has she not?”

  “Indeed she has, sir, perfectly clear. I will obey your . . . wife’s . . . orders, Major.”

  “Good, now take me on a tour of the fort. I wish to see how badly it’s been run recently.”

  “Yes, sir,” Shaw said.

  And you’ll get your bullet in the belly, Major.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It had been too late in the afternoon to send out a wood detail, and everybody at Fort Defiance knew it—except Major Andrew Grove.

  He’d demanded that the woodpile be replenished so that there would be plenty at hand when the fighting soldiers returned with their prisoners.

  “Gonna be dark soon, Lieutenant, and the wagon ain’t half full yet,” Sergeant Pat Tone said. He spat into the sand at his feet. “Damn desk major who knows nothing.”

  “Hold your tongue, Sergeant,” Second Lieutenant Miles Howard said. “Major Grove is a fine officer and he’ll bring discipline and order to the post, something that up until now has been sadly lacking.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tone said. He scowled. Grove and the lieutenant were two of a kind.

  Privates Liam Mahoney and Lee Webster were using a two-man saw to cut timber in a pine grove a mile to the east of Window Rock, an arched sandstone rock formation the Navajo held sacred. When the tree was felled, they’d use a shorter bucking saw to cut the trunk into logs.

  It was hard, grueling work, especially for Webster, a forty-year-old who’d pushed a pen for years and had pimp-soft hands.

  As the day began its slow summer shade into night, the only sound was the rhythmic rasp-rasp of the saw, Webster’s quiet cursing, and the occasional jingle of harness when a mule moved impatiently in the traces.

  A few lilac clouds hung motionless in the lemon sky and a breeze from the north was cool and smelled of freshly sawn lumber.

  Tone lit his pipe then left the wagon to check on the progress of the sawers.

  Lieutenant Howard struck a gallant figure. Mounted on his white charger, he had drawn his saber, the blade resting on his right shoulder, and patrolled the area at a walk. He had seen enough tintypes and drawings of battles during the War Between the States to know that this was how the ideal combat officer should act, straight in the saddle, saber drawn, eagle of eye.

  That he was an ideal target for an Apache bullet didn’t enter his thinking. But it would later, and by then it wouldn’t matter.

  The five Apaches were Chiricahua and a week before they’d broken off from old Geronimo’s band to raid farther south, but had met with little success. The army was out in force and the lost, lonely land along the length of the Chuska Mountains had presented few
opportunities for killing and horse stealing.

  They’d slaughtered a few Mexicans and enjoyed their women for a while, but the peons were poor and although a donkey made a good feed, it was not a prize they could boast of in front of the others who’d remained behind with The Yawner.

  But now the great god Usen, the Giver-of-Life, had smiled on them.

  The soldier with the yellow officer straps rode a fine white horse, and there would also be guns and mules. Those were things worth fighting for.

  And what of the coyote and the owl?

  Surely those were good omens?

  Last night a coyote bitch had walked into the Apache camp and stared into a tree where an owl called. There could be no better luck, for the bitch and the owl had been sent by Usen, to tell the Apache that they were mighty warriors and to be of good cheer. That great booty would soon come their way.

  Thus emboldened the six warriors watched the wood detail and waited with the patience of hunting cougars for their chance.

  “Be dark in an hour, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Tone said.

  “I’m well aware of that,” Howard said. He checked his pocket watch, and then eyed the wagon. “Another half cord or so and we’ll be on our way, so tell the men to put their backs into it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tone said. Mentally he added, And may you go to hell and not have a drop of porter to quench your eternal thirst.

  Tone, his face stormy, stepped into the clearing to tell Mahoney and Webster the bad news.

  Lieutenant Howard watched the sergeant go, then sat his horse and listened into the twilight’s lilac silence. A thin gray mist hugged close to the ground, here and there tinged pink by the reddening sky. Soon the night birds would peck at the first stars and in the brush the members of the insect orchestra were already tuning their instruments. The air smelled only of wood and . . .

  Apaches!

  Howard swiveled his head in the direction of the clearing. After the first flurry of shots, the two privates were down; their bodies sprawled like rag dolls across the pine trunk they’d been sawing.

  Sergeant Tone, his mouth and chin bloody, backed toward the wagon, his well-handled Colt bucking in his fist.