Flintlock Read online

  “What do you think, Sam, will Coffin lead us to the bell like he said he would?” Charlie Fong said.

  “I believe he will. He says it’s guarded by Death.”

  “Yeah, I know he says that,” Roper said. He smiled. “I’ll gun Death like I’d gun any man who gets between me and sixty thousand in gold.”

  “Death can’t be killed, Abe,” Charlie Fong said. “He is not a man, he’s an immortal god, and some say a demon.”

  Roper shook his shaggy head. “Never expect to get a lick of sense out of a Chinaman,” he said.

  “Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Flintlock said.

  His eyes were troubled.

  Often swept by a north wind, the Chuska Mountains are restless, and around Flintlock the pines rustled, and higher the aspen trembled, made uneasy by the whispering night. Gibbering things haunted the darkness and squeaking things scuttled in the long grass.

  A slight summer rain ticked across the clearing where Flintlock lay awake in his blankets. Roper and Charlie Fong slept by the sputtering fire, but of Coffin there was no sign.

  Flintlock closed his eyes and wished for sleep.

  He was slipping into the dim twilight between wakefulness and slumber when he felt a rough hand shake his shoulder.

  Flintlock was alert instantly and his hand reached for the Colt at his side.

  Jack Coffin held a forefinger to his lips then waved Flintlock to rise and follow.

  Flintlock got to his feet and shoved the revolver into his waistband.

  “What the hell do you want?” he said.

  But Coffin, walking on feet that made no sound, had already stepped into the pines and Flintlock, wary and ready, went after him.

  The misty rain did not penetrate the pine canopy but the way ahead was lost in gloom. Coffin set a fast pace and Flintlock followed him, dogtrotting through patches of aspen and unexpected open areas here and there where a few spruce grew.

  The game trail Coffin followed left the aspen and again wound through pine, and Flintlock, his eyesight not keen in darkness, was slapped by low-hanging branches that stung his face and streaked cobwebs into his hair, and he cussed himself for ever leaving his blankets.

  Coffin led the way to an open meadow. Then he angled to his left toward a high rock cliff that over the ages had eroded into the vague shape of a man’s face—heavily lidded eyes, a wide mouth and a great V-shaped outcropping forming the nose.

  As he trotted after the breed, Flintlock fancied that the face had a passing resemblance to George Washington . . . or somebody’s maiden aunt.

  A moment later he saw the Apaches.

  Five of them stood at the bottom of the cliff, shadowy figures lost in the gloom and slanting rain. Far off thunder boomed and to the north above the Carrizo Mountains lightning scrawled across the sky like the signature of a demented god. The night smelled of ozone and wet stone.

  Alarmed, Flintlock’s hand moved for the Colt in his waistband, but Coffin stopped him. “Geronimo will not harm you,” he said. “He is honor bound to respect this truce.”

  “Why are we here?” Flintlock said. “What’s going on?”

  “I told him you were a great wonder and he wanted to see for himself.”

  “The bird?”

  “It is powerful medicine. Geronimo says his body bears the scars of seven great battle wounds, but even those don’t compare to a man with a thunderbird on his throat. Already he believes that the bird has flapped its wings with the noise of thunder and stirred the wind and rain. Geronimo will be afraid of you, but he will keep his fear hidden.”

  “I’ll ask you again, Jack, what the hell are you up to?”

  Coffin smiled, a rare event. “Barnabas says you’re an idiot, and that’s why you carry the old rifle. He told me you should meet with Geronimo, because he will spare your life one day.”

  “How did you speak to Barnabas?”

  “He came to me in a dream. He’s a rough old man and his ways are strange.” Coffin’s smile went away. “Now come, we will talk with the Apache.”

  “Geronimo says the thunderbird is a wondrous thing,” Jack Coffin said. “He is afraid of your medicine and that is why his knees tremble so.”

  The old Apache peered through the darkness, his stare fixed on Flintlock’s throat. The young warriors with him hung back, but their black eyes shone like obsidian and when thunder crashed they winced and clutched their rifles tighter.

  And they glanced uneasily at the sky. The thunderbird in flight is a terrible thing.

  Geronimo wore a Mexican peon’s cotton shirt, breechclout and knee-high moccasins. His headband, as befit a medicine man, was bright red. Slanted across his chest he held a Springfield rifle, a barrier between him and Flintlock’s medicine.

  The Apache said something and Coffin translated.

  “Geronimo wishes to know if the thunderbird was placed there by Usen, the creator of all things,” he said. “Humor him, Samuel, say it was. The Apaches don’t hold the Assiniboine in high esteem.”

  “Tell Geronimo that Usen came to me in the night and after we talked of many and great things, he left the thunderbird as a gift,” Flintlock said. “And damn me fer a liar.”

  “I won’t translate the last part,” Coffin said.

  He spoke to Geronimo in his own language and the young bucks looked at Flintlock with wide eyes, though the old medicine man’s face did not reveal his thoughts.

  Geronimo talked again, then Coffin said, “Geronimo says he will remember you.”

  Lightning gleamed like steel on the wet cliff and the face in the rock was shadowed. Now it looked more like a grinning skull than George Washington or anybody.

  There is no word in the Apache language for good-bye. Geronimo and his young men simply walked away and were soon swallowed by darkness and rain.

  “You did a good thing this night, Samuel,” Coffin said.

  “I did nothing,” Flintlock said. “I did nothing at all.”

  “Geronimo will protect you.”

  “From what?”

  “From death.”

  When Flintlock returned to his damp blankets the rain had stopped but thunder grumbled in the distance and the black clouds shimmered with inner light.

  Old Barnabas sat by the guttering fire, whittling a stick. He turned and stared hard at Flintlock and the blade of the Barlow gleamed in his right hand.

  “Go away, old man,” Flintlock said. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  Barnabas rose to his feet with the athletic grace he’d possessed even when he was eighty years old. He turned and silently walked into the trees.

  The old, lost smell of a great buffalo herd hung in the air.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Captain Owen Shaw looked out the window of his quarters and was horrified at what he saw.

  Drawn by four mules, the pay wagon had just rolled into Fort Defiance . . . but it was escorted by sixteen buffalo soldiers of the 10th Cavalry, fighting men who would not take a step back from anything or anybody.

  Shaw cursed under his breath as officer’s call sounded.

  Like the idiot Grove’s escort, the 10th were tough Indian fighters who’d stand their ground and be no bargain in any kind of fight.

  Damn, Geronimo and his hostiles were the cause of this, all the damned soldiers riding into the fort.

  He needed to talk to Pagg and hear the man’s reassurances. They would make him feel better.

  Damn, was his murder of Major Ashton all for naught?

  Despite his wound, Shaw was expected to attend officers’ meetings. He dressed quickly, strapped on his Colt and hurried in the direction of the headquarters building.

  The sun was full up in the sky and the day was already stinking hot. Shaw’s boots kicked up puffs of dust as he walked along the edge of the parade ground where the flag hung listlessly in still air and the framing sky was the color of burnished copper.

  Asa Pagg stood outside the mess hall, a cup in one hand, his first ci
gar of the day in the other.

  He watched the buffalo soldiers obey their sergeant’s order to dismount and like Shaw, he knew he was in a world of trouble.

  He stared at the captain as he passed, but Shaw either deliberately ignored him or was too caught up in his own worries to notice.

  First Lieutenant Frank Hedley, hungover and unshaven, met Shaw at the door to the commandant’s office. He decided to pass on a “good morning,” and instead said, “What the hell?”

  “Something to do with the pay wagon, I guess,” Shaw said. He stared at Hedley and said, “Stand closer to the razor next time you report for duty, Lieutenant. And for God’s sake suck on a mint. You reek of whiskey.”

  Without waiting to hear what Hedley had to say, Shaw opened the door and stepped inside.

  The corporal on duty waved in the direction of the door to Major Grove’s office. “They’re waiting for you, Captain,” he said.

  “Ah, Captain Shaw,” Grove said as Shaw entered with Hedley close behind him. He waved to a young, red-haired major who sat near the desk. “This is Major Karl Jaeger of the 10th Cavalry. Major, allow me to introduce Captain Shaw and First Lieutenant Hedley.”

  Grove’s disapproving eyes lingered on Hedley’s stubbly, bloated face as he said, “Major Jaeger is in command of the pay wagon.”

  The major rose, smiled, and shook hands with both officers. He was a tall man, lean and slightly stooped, with the rakish, devil-may-care look of the fighting frontier cavalryman. He wore a fringed buckskin jacket, decorated by beadwork in the abstract, floral design of the Kiowa, a loosely knotted yellow bandana around his neck and on his head a wide-brimmed straw hat. Jaeger’s eyes were navy blue in color and he spoke with a distinct German accent. He looked to be about forty years old, but could’ve been older.

  Jaeger had fought with distinction in the Franco-Prussian War and, after some youthful indiscretions, had later served four years in the French Foreign Legion where he won a medal for gallantry, pinned onto his tunic personally by the great French soldier and patriot Marshal Patrice Mac-Mahon.

  Shaw knew none of these things, but he’d pegged Jaeger as a first-rate fighting man and that did not bode well for his schemes.

  For his part, Major Jaeger noticed that Shaw was disturbed but he took the wrong tack when he said, “Perhaps you’re concerned that there is no paymaster present, Captain?”

  Shaw played the game. “Yes, I did think it unusual, Major.”

  Jaeger smiled. “Orders. Somebody higher up decided that only fighting soldiers should accompany the pay wagon because of the Apache trouble.”

  Grove said, “Probably just as well. There’s a hundred and twenty thousand dollars in gold and silver coin on the wagon.”

  “Indeed, Major,” Jaeger said. Then, his tone joking, “If the word gets out to the lawless element I could have hell on wheels on my hands.”

  That drew a laugh from Grove and Hedley, but none from Shaw.

  A hundred and twenty thousand was more than he’d expected.

  But how to get at it? Once he thought it would be easy, but it was getting harder all the time.

  Shaw forced himself to breathe easy again. Asa Pagg would have the answer. After all, robbing and killing was his line of work. He was the expert.

  But even so, stealing the pay wagon was still a tall order.

  Grove was talking again. “Where do you want to park the wagon, Major Jaeger?”

  “Right outside where it is at the moment,” Jaeger said. “I’ll mount a twenty-four-hour guard. Have you any idea when the troops will start to bring in the Apaches? I reckon I’ll pay out as the opportunity arises.”

  “Soon, I hope,” Grove said. “I’m ordered to accompany the hostiles to Fort Grant and that can’t come fast enough. My lady wife hates this godforsaken post and I don’t blame her.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Major,” Jaeger said. “Frontier outposts like this one are no place for women of gentle upbringing and refinement.”

  “You’ll meet Winnifred at dinner tonight,” Grove said. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear of your exploits with the fighting 10th.”

  “Then I’ll be delighted to entertain her,” Jaeger said. “And I have tales from North Africa that never fail to enthrall the ladies.”

  “I’m sure Winnifred will add a piquant sauce to my poor table,” Grove said. “Salt beef, boiled potatoes and onions followed by plum duff is hardly a fitting meal for a cavalry hero like yourself.”

  “Hardly a hero,” Jaeger said. “And meine Soldaten . . . sorry, my soldiers . . . and I have been living on bacon and biscuit for weeks. Beef, even salt beef, will come as a welcome change.”

  Grove rose to his feet and inserted his monocle. “Then, until this evening, Major Jaeger. First Lieutenant Hedley will show you around the post and help with the disposition of your nigras and their horses.”

  “My soldiers,” Jaeger said, with heavy emphasis on the second word, “are experts at making do and will fend for themselves.”

  “As you wish, then,” Grove, an insensitive man, said. “Just remember that we have two white women at Fort Defiance, Major, so keep your darkies in line.”

  Despite everything, Shaw was at heart a soldier, and a cavalryman at that. “I’m sure Major Jaeger’s troopers will behave in an exemplary manner, as the 10th always does.”

  “Perhaps,” Grove said, “but I just don’t trust blacks not to sniff around my wife.”

  Jaeger and Shaw exchanged glances, the contempt, disgust and anger in their eyes mirror images.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  After Shaw and Jaeger stepped outside, the major’s face was still stamped with anger and his eyes, normally good-humored, were dark.

  “I’m sorry about all that,” Shaw said.

  “I suppose I should get used to it, but I never do,” Jaeger said.

  “Grove is an idiot,” Shaw said. “I wouldn’t let him trouble you.”

  A disciplined soldier, Jaeger would not allow himself to belittle a fellow officer. He let his face go blank and said nothing.

  “Lieutenant Hedley will show you around and help get your men settled,” Shaw said. “Your quarters will be next to mine, Major.”

  Jaeger nodded his thanks, his eyes idly moving over his men, who were leading their horses toward the stables under the stern gaze of a graying sergeant whose skin had the color and sheen of polished ebony.

  The troopers’ mounts kicked up gray dust that a hot wind drove across the parade ground like mist, filming the rusty old cannon that stood on guard under the flagpole.

  “May I have your permission to attend to my duties, Major?” Shaw said.

  “Yes, of course, Captain.”

  Shaw’s right arm angled a snappy salute and he turned and walked back to his quarters. As he knew he would, Asa Pagg followed him.

  “A hundred and twenty thousand dollars for the taking,” Owen Shaw said. He was silent for a moment, fuming, and then spat out, “Only we can’t take it.”

  “Who says we can’t take it?” Asa Pagg said.

  “Come again?”

  “You heard me, Captain,” Asa Pagg said. “And in case you didn’t, I’ll say it again. Who says we can’t take it?”

  “Did you see the size of the escort? Those are fighting soldiers and the man in charge is no fool,” Shaw said. “How can we beat odds like that?”

  “Geronimo.”

  The captain sank into a chair. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Pagg reached inside his coat and came up with a cigar. He bit off the end, spat it onto the floor and thumbed a match into flame. Holding the burning match in his fingers, he said, “We talk to Geronimo and ask for his help.”

  “And ask for his help? Asa, are you out of your damned mind?”

  Pagg took time to light the cigar, then said through a cloud of blue smoke, “I’m talking massacree. The death of everybody in Fort Defiance, including them nigras that have you showing your yellow streak again.”
r />   “You’re talking nonsense,” Shaw said. “I mean, utter nonsense.”

  “Well, how about you shut your trap and listen, soldier boy,” Pagg said. “We know the Apaches are in this neck of the woods, on account of how they done for Lieutenant Howard and we done for a passel o’ them. Right?”

  Shaw looked into Pagg’s face, his eyes confused.

  “Right?” Pagg said again.

  “Yes, I guess that’s right,” Shaw said. “So what’s your drift?”

  “We meet with Geronimo and tell him we’ll help him take Fort Defiance. All we want in return is the pay wagon. The Apaches don’t set store by American money, so Geronimo won’t give a damn about the wagon.”

  Shaw flinched, as though he felt a sudden pain.

  “You mean . . . you mean we’ll help savages murder everyone in the fort?”

  Pagg smiled. “Yup, that’s what the man said. Hell, do you care? All we’ll kill is a bunch of folks you don’t even like.”

  Shaw let his head drop into his cupped hands. His voice muffled, he said, “I’m an officer in the United States Army and I took an oath to protect our nation from all enemies, foreign or domestic. I can’t break my oath and help a savage like Geronimo kill Americans.”

  “Hell, you broke that oath when you decided to steal the pay wagon and shot your commanding officer,” Pagg said. “Don’t sit there crying on my shoulder, Owen, boy. You’re in all the way and your only way out is with me.”

  Shaw suddenly looked twenty years older. “There’s got to be another way,” he said. “We must find another way.”

  “There is no other way.”

  “Then we walk away from it, Asa. Let’s just shake hands and part company. Maybe we’ll have better luck next time.”

  “Like I told you, you’re already in this thing too far to back out now. Hell, did you even think of your damned oath when you shot Major Ashton, huh?”

  “Geronimo won’t talk to us,” Shaw said. “He shoots white men on sight.”

  “We go in under a flag of truce. Geronimo has fought Mexicans long enough to know what a white flag means.”