Flintlock (4 page)

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.

“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.”

“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:

“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.” Now 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.”