Flintlock

by William W. Johnstone

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “They’re penned up like cattle,” Jack Coffin said. “Old men, women and children guarded by rifles. Half of them won’t live to see Fort Defiance.”

  “Vae victis,” Charlie Fong said.

  Coffin looked at Abe Roper. “What the hell is your Chinaman saying?”

  “Hell if I know,” Roper said.

  “It’s Latin and it means ‘Woe to the conquered,’” Fong said.

  “The Apache are not conquered,” Coffin said. “Geronimo is still in the field.”

  “But they are a conquered people,” Flintlock said. “Soon the Apache will go the way of the Comanche and the Cheyenne.”

  Coffin’s anger would not let it rest. “Go where? The San Carlos?”

  Flintlock shook his head. “No, Jack, far worse than even the San Carlos. Old Barnabas said the Indians would be defeated and then sent to the ‘land of starvation.’”

  “Where is this land?” Coffin said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s because you are a white man and know nothing.”

  Coffin’s black eyes fixed on Roper. “How can we help the Apache?”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “I think a hundred. Maybe more.”

  “Then there ain’t nothing we can do to help them,” Roper said. “We came here for a reason, Jack, and that reason wasn’t to help Apaches. Or have you forgotten?”

  “The golden bell. I haven’t forgotten. I’ll find it for you.”

  “Right joyful to hear that,” Roper said.

  “Is there no one to help the Apache?” Coffin said.

  “I can’t bring dead men back to life,” Roper said.

  “I’ve heard rumors of a new dance that will resurrect all the dead Indian warriors and bring back the buffalo herds,” Flintlock said.

  Coffin nodded. “I have heard of this also. Among the Piute it is called the Ghost Dance.”

  Roper grinned. “Well, there you go, Jack. There’s hope for your people yet.”

  Coffin said nothing. He turned and walked away toward the bivouac where the Apaches were held.

  “Hard to figure a breed,” Roper said, watching him go.

  “Seems like,” Flintlock said. Then, “Damn, I need a drink.”

  When Sam Flintlock stepped into the post he caught the sawed-off end of a conversation between the miners.

  “. . . still worth taking with us is all I’m sayin’.”

  “I don’t know, Luke,” the other man said. “Depends what Chas wants for her. Women don’t come cheap in this country.”

  The man called Luke, big and burly with a bushy red beard, said, “What about it, Chas. How much will you take for her?”

  Chastity Gauley glanced at the girl who sat silent on a chair, her head bowed, thick waves of hair tumbled over her face. Her torn dress had fallen away from her shoulders, revealing the milky swelling of the tops of her breasts.

  “I dunno,” Gauley said. “A woman like that don’t come cheap here or anywhere else.”

  “Hell, man, she’s crazy. Why do you want her?” Luke said.

  “Why do you want her?” Gauley said.

  Luke sighed his exasperation. “Why do you think?”

  “The lady isn’t for sale,” Flintlock said.

  “Sez who?” Luke said.

  “Sez me,” Flintlock said.

  Luke sized up the man with the bird on his throat and the Colt in his waistband and decided he wanted no part of him. He’d seen him use that Colt once and had no desire to see it again.

  He backed off. “Sorry, mister, I didn’t know she was already took.”

  Flintlock ignored that. He didn’t blame the miners none. Any man would get horny who hasn’t seen a white woman in months.

  “Gauley,” he said, “you got a bathtub?”

  “Yes. But it’s for my own personal use.”

  “Then I’m borrowing it for the lady. Get it ready, good and hot.”

  “Why?” Gauley said.

  “She needs to get the smell of Apache bucks off of her, that’s why.”

  “Chas, twenty dollars if we can watch her bathe,” Luke said.

  Flintlock smiled, but only with his mouth. “Luke, after the lady is finished, I suggest you take a bath yourself. A cold one.”

  To his credit, the miner saw the humor in that and laughed. “Takin’ baths can kill a man quicker’n scat. Hell, everybody knows that.”

  Flintlock nodded. “You obviously do.” He looked at Gauley. “You keep women’s fixin’s back there in the store?”

  “I sure do. Got some gingham dresses, shoes and boots and cotton undergarments. All for sale at cost.”

  Flintlock studied the girl, who seemed to be in another place and time, and said, “I guess I can size her. Now get the bathtub ready”—he glared at the miners—“in a private place. I’ll be right back.”

  He stepped through the curtain and into the store.

  At first bewildered by the array of female fashion, aimed at pioneer women headed farther west and ranchers’ wives and daughters, Flintlock recalled the whores he’d known and based his choices on them.

  He settled on a blue gingham dress, bloomers, a camisole and a pair of high-buttoned boots. He added some hair ribbons and a brush and comb set.

  Meanwhile Chastity Gauley had been rushing in and out, carrying buckets of water to the tub that was set up behind a strung blanket screen.

  Finally the man stopped and said to Flintlock, “I put one bucket of hot water in the tub. If I’d try to heat them all, we’d be here all day.”

  He handed Flintlock a bar of yellow lye soap and a scrap of white towel.

  “Is that the only soap you got?” Flintlock said. “I want her washed, not skun.”

  “Ain’t much call for any kind of soap in this neck o’ the woods,” Gauley said. He rubbed his unshaven chin. The front of his dress was wet.

  “I have my own private stock,” he said. “It’s Pears soap, all the way from London town. It’s the kind the divine Miss Lillie Langtry uses. And me, of course.”

  “Well, if it’s good enough for you and Lillie Langtry, let’s have at it,” Flintlock said. “Leave it beside the tub.”

  He pushed aside the curtain and stepped into the saloon area.

  Abe Roper and Charlie Fong stood at the bar, their fingers hooked around shots of whiskey.

  “Sam’l, what the hell are you doin’?” Roper said.

  “Arranging a bath for the young lady and buying her some clothes,” Flintlock said.

  “You don’t have any money to pay for women’s fixin’s, remember,” Roper said.

  “No, you’re right, I don’t. That’s why you’re paying for them.”

  Gauley was taken aback at Flintlock’s insolvency.

  “Ahem,” he said, “one ladies’ dress, gingham, a dollar-fifty, camisole, cotton, fifty cents, bloomers, cotton, fifty cents, one bristle brush, seventy-two cents, an unbreakable rubber comb, two dollars and twenty-five cents and a pair of ladies’ boots, button, square toe, one dollar and fifty cents. That comes to a grand total of six dollars and ninety-seven cents.”

  Gauley looked from Flintlock to Roper and back again. “Who’s paying?”

  Flintlock had stepped beside the girl. He looked at Roper and said, “Pay the man, Abe.”

  “Sam’l, I’m starting to regret saving your neck,” Roper said. “I should’ve let you get hung.”

  “I’ll pay you back, Abe,” Flintlock said.

  “When?”

  “Oh, someday.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figgered.”

  Flintlock put his hand under the girl’s elbow and helped her to her feet but she was totally unresponsive, her dead eyes staring into nothing.

  “I’ve prepared a bath for you,” Flintlock said. “It will make you feel better.”

  “Hell, Sammy, you’re floggin’ a dead hoss,” Roper said. “That little gal is loco now she’s been with the bucks and now she�
�ll never be anything else but loco.”

  “I’m taking her with us, Abe,” Flintlock said, walking the girl slowly toward the curtain. “She can’t stay here.”

  “The hell we are taking her with us,” Roper said. “She’s a madwoman, Sammy. She’ll cut our throats in our sleep.”

  “She won’t do that, I think,” Charlie Fong said. “She walks in darkness, but perhaps Sam can lead her into the light again. It will take time, but patience is the wisdom of waiting.”

  Roper stared at Fong. “Charlie, you’re as nuts as she is,” he said. Then, to Flintlock, “She ain’t goin’ with us, Sammy.” And, to rub his point home, “And why the hell did you buy her boots at a dollar-fifty the pair?”

  “She’s barefoot, Abe. Or didn’t you notice?”

  “Well, what’s that to us?”

  “Well, since she’ll be with us, we may have to introduce her to folks,” Flintlock said. “We can’t do that if she’s got no shoes.”

  Roper looked from Flintlock, to Charlie Fong and then to the girl. “God help me, I’m surrounded by lunatics,” he said.

  “Get used to it, Abe,” Flintlock said. “We’re all in this together.”

  “Got the bath all ready for you, lady,” Flintlock said, smiling. “And fancy English soap donated by Lillie Langtry. And I got you new clothes and shoes.”

  The girl stood beside the zinc tub, her face expressionless, eyes registering nothing.

  “So you strip off now and relax in the warm water, huh?” Flintlock said. “Do you good, and I’ll wait outside.”

  From the girl . . . no response. A marble statue.

  Flintlock stood in front of her and stared into her beautiful blue eyes, but the girl didn’t see him. It seemed that she’d retreated to a hushed place where no one could ever hurt her again.

  “Given me a problem, haven’t you?” Flintlock said. “Yup, now I study on it, there’s no doubt about that, missy.”

  The female body holds no secrets for a man who has been much around women, and Flintlock knew his course of action was clear.

  Quickly, efficiently, he undressed the girl and then helped her sit in the bathtub. He washed her thoroughly, using the Pears soap that fascinated him because he could see right through it.

  After ten minutes he judged that the girl was as clean as a newborn.

  Chastity Gauley concurred.

  “She’s just as sweet and pretty as a speckled pup,” he said.

  When Flintlock helped the girl from the tub Gauley sprinkled her liberally with perfume from a tiny bottle. “This is my favorite,” Gauley said. “It’s French, you know.”

  Flintlock thought the stuff smelled like a New Orleans bawdyhouse, but he let it go. The man was only trying to help.

  Dressing the girl was like putting clothes on a doll. She didn’t cooperate in the least and Flintlock’s fingers weren’t made for dainties. Gauley took over the chore and when everything was hooked and buttoned, he sat the girl on a chair and began to brush her hair.

  “Us ladies will be out when we’re ready,” he said. “There’s no need for you to wait.”

  Flintlock nodded and pulled the screen blanket aside.

  He turned, looked at the girl . . . and she smiled shyly at him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It was in Geronimo’s mind that he head south into the high desert plateau country, then swing east to the Zuni Mountains and wait there for more warriors to join him.

  He now had twenty young men with him, a formidable force to be sure, but not sufficient to hurt the soldiers badly enough that they’d withdraw, licking their wounds, from this part of the country.

  Behind the warriors rode six young women and with them a few boys who laughed and jeered and tugged on the rope that was tied to the wrists of a soldier.

  Tonight, after the fires were lit, they would watch the women test the man’s courage, though he was young and already cried and slobbered and begged the Apache for mercy, ridiculous words that did not bode well.

  Geronimo rode deep in thought, wondering if his decision to retreat to the Zuni Mountains was the right one, or should he raid with the men he had and teach the whites a lesson they’d never forget?

  Faugh, it was a puzzle, and one that would bear more consideration. Perhaps the spirits would come to him in a dream and show him the way.

  The sight of the scout galloping toward him roused Geronimo from thought. The young warrior pumped his rifle above his head, a sure sign of excitement.

  The warrior drew rein on his buckskin pony and words fell from his mouth like rocks tumbling down a mountainside after an earthshake.

  There were white men, three of them, camped in the open not a mile ahead. They had a fire and—this was a great wonder—a white flag hung from a pole near where they sat.

  Geronimo listened and wondered what to make of this.

  Were they soldiers surrendering?

  The warrior shook his head. No, not soldiers.

  Was it a trap set for the Apache?

  No. There were just those three. None others.

  His warriors gathered around him as Geronimo thought of this strange thing.

  White men were not smart, as everyone knew, but could they really be so foolish as to think that the Apache had any respect for a white flag?

  None of the young men had an answer for that.

  The lines on Geronimo’s face drew fine and deepened. Such a thing had never happened before. Even the Mexicans weren’t this stupid.

  Finally he made up his mind.

  They would go and take a look at these white men, and if there was no sign of a trap, kill them and take their horses and guns.

  The young men agreed with this strategy.

  But it was still a great marvel that the white men were there.

  The scout led the way to the white men’s camp, located in foothills at the western end of the Tohatchi Flats, where the featureless brush country meets the Chuska Mountains.

  Fort Defiance lay just ten miles to the west, but Geronimo had no fear of soldiers being in the vicinity in force. The cavalry and infantry regiments were still well to the north and fully occupied rounding up Apache women and children.

  But he was a cautious man and his warriors rode on the alert, their eyes everywhere.

  Under a sky the color of cardboard, the Apaches dismounted and left the horses and their prisoner with the boys and women.

  They fanned out and surrounded the white men’s camp, eyes on fire, hungry as wolves.

  Three good horses were tethered in a clearing within a clump of cedar and piñon and the white men carried repeating rifles and belted Colts.

  Such men were worth killing.

  “They’re all around us, Asa,” Logan Dean said. “Just settin’ out there, watching.”

  “I know it,” Asa Pagg said. “Keep your hand away from your gun and grin from your butt to your eyebrows.”

  “I don’t like it,” Dean said. “They’re planning to lift our hair.”

  Pagg smiled. “Could be. But it’s too late to do anything about it now.”

  “What’s the call, Asa?” Joe Harte said.

  Pagg said, “Like I just said, keep your hands away from your guns and grin like the Apaches were visiting kin.”

  “Hell, I knew this was a big mistake,” Dean said. “I figured we were riding into trouble.”

  “Just shut your trap and think of the army payroll,” Pagg said. “Keep your mind occupied, like.”

  “Yeah, well I’m scared, Asa,” Harte said.

  Pagg nodded. “Apaches will do that to a man.”

  He took a step forward, cupped a hand to his mouth and yelled, “Geronimo! I want to talk to you. Got a deal for ya.”

  Pagg knew better than to declare his friendship. The Apaches didn’t have a word for friend, because they never had any. Mention of a deal might swing it.

  A silence settled on the foothills and even the crickets were still. Rain clouds crowded the sky to the north and a
breeze picked up but as yet made no sound in the trees.

  Unnerved by the quiet, Pagg yelled, his voice no longer as confident, “Geronimo, did you hear me? We got things to talk about, you and me.”

  A bullet kicked up a fountain of dirt an inch in front of Pagg’s left boot and the rifle’s flat statement echoed among the hills.

  He heard the slap of hands on leather and yelled, “No! Stay as you are.”

  “Hell, Asa, they tried to kill you,” Dean said.

  “If they wanted to kill me I’d be dead right now,” Pagg said.

  To Geronimo, he yelled, “That was a good joke. Now come out and talk. We have business to discuss.” He threw in the kicker. “It’s about Fort Defiance.”

  A minute ticked past, taut as a fiddle string, then another. Thunder rumbled, still far off, and Asa Pagg listened to the thud of his heartbeat in his ears.

  Brush rustled and a couple of Apache boys appeared, dragging a white soldier behind them by a rope. The man was obviously terrified. Then Geronimo and a couple of warriors seemed to rise out of the ground like ghosts from a grave.

  The oldest of the bucks, a squat, wiry man with bowlegs and mean eyes, wore a broadcloth vest decorated with silver pesos. It was him who did the talking.

  He held up two fingers. “The soldier for two rifles. This is Geronimo’s deal.”

  Pagg shook his head. “No deal. The soldier means nothing to me.”

  “Please, mister, help me,” the trooper said. He was no more than a boy and had already been badly abused. His face was cut and bruised by blows from the Apache boys’ cudgels and his blue eyes were frightened.

  The warrior and Geronimo exchanged words and the warrior said again, “Two rifles.”

  Asa Pagg was smarter than most of his kind. By demanding the Winchesters, he knew Geronimo was trying to weaken his defensive power at no cost in Apache blood.

  “Mister . . . please . . .” The soldier whispered. “For God’s sake don’t let them torture me.”

  “The hell with this,” Pagg said.

  He raised his rifle and shot the young man between the eyes. The soldier dropped to the ground like a puppet that just had its strings cut.