Authors: William W. Johnstone

Flintlock (12 page)

BOOK: Flintlock

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Lieutenant Colonel Tyne Martin was a hard, unforgiving man.

And that was why the Apache named Gosheven, the Leaper, kneeled on the wet ground and sang his death song.

A hemp noose hung from the limb of an ancient cottonwood, surrounded by caped infantry with fixed bayonets. Near the soldiers stood Gosheven's wife and three children, one of them a babe in arms.

Behind her huddled a dozen old women, their faces networked with deeply cut lines. Their black eyes were empty and tearless, drained by all the violent deaths they'd already seen.

The cottonwood stood in the high desert country, on the bank of a narrow stream that had its origins somewhere near Beautiful Mountain. The volcanic peak, a solitary outpost of the Chuska range, lay a mile to the west of the execution site, but it was lost behind shifting sheets of racketing rain.

“You think he knows why he's dying, Colonel?”

“Yes, Major Lowery, he knows,” Martin said. He was a tall, thin man with a lined face as friendly as a honed hatchet blade.

“Seems a hard thing to kill a man for stealing some hardtack and a bag of flour,” Lowery said.

“Since when did Apache bucks become men, Major?” Martin said.

Lowery made no answer and Martin said, “If the thief had gotten away with the food, some of my soldiers would've gone hungry. That is tantamount to treason. I hang men for treason.”

“He was trying to feed his wife and children, sir.”

Martin glared at his subordinate, his eyes as cold and unfriendly as lead bullets in the cylinder of a Colt. “I don't give a damn who he was trying to feed. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir. I understand your feelings perfectly.”

“Good. Then enough of this damned heathen chanting. Proceed with the execution.”

Lowery saluted and as he stepped away he called out to his men to get the Apache on the back of the horse that stood head-down under the swaying noose.

Gosheven was manhandled onto the horse and there was a pause as Colonel Martin drew his sword and, as though he was on parade, marched closer to the condemned man to give the signal.

The Apache's eyes met his wife's and he managed a smile.

I remember, Ela, when I played the courting flute outside your father's wickiup and how beautiful you looked when you stepped outside and smiled on me. I remember the birth of our first son and the wayâ

“Broke his damned neck clean,” Martin said, sheathing his sword.

“Indeed, sir,” Lowery said. “He didn't suffer.”

The colonel snorted. “He didn't suffer! God save us from bleeding hearts.”

But Lowery said nothing. He was staring across the flat ground to a patch of piÃ±on and juniper.

Colonel Martin followed his gaze, then said, “Who the hell are they?”

“I don't know, sir. Looks like a monk and a young boy.”

“Spies for Geronimo, likely,” Martin said. He called out to the nearest junior officer, “Mr. Jerome, those two in the trees! Bring them to me!”

The young lieutenant stared into the pines, then saluted. “Yes, sir.”

“A strange business, Major Lowery,” Martin said as he watched a dozen soldiers with fixed bayonets follow the lieutenant into the juniper. “What's a monk doing in this wilderness?”

Lowery shook his head. “I can't even hazard a guess, sir.”

“Out trying to convert the heathen Apache, do you think?”

“It might well be, sir.”

“Impossible task, I should imagine,” Martin said. He thought for a few moments, then said, “No, they're spies, and by God they'll swing on the same rope as the Apache.”

“Gone, sir. It's as though they vanished off the face of the earth.”

“Did you search thoroughly, Lieutenant?” Colonel Martin said.

“Sir, if they were within a mile of here we'd have found them.”

“Damnit, two people don't just vanish. Incompetent searching, I'd say.”

Lieutenant Jerome looked miserable, the rain falling around him.

“Sir, we searched everywhere, behind every tree, under every bush. There was no sign of them.”

“Gone to ground, the rascals,” Martin said. “Well, it doesn't really matter.”

He turned to Major Lowery. “Get the hostiles on their feet and we'll resume the march. And take those damned wailing women away.”

“What about the Apache, sir?” Lowery said.

“What about him?”

“Should I cut him down?”

“No, leave the beggar swinging. It will serve as a warning to others.”

“A warning to which others, sir?” Lowery said.

“Don't be so damned impertinent, Major,” Martin said. “A warning to whoever needs a warning.”

The old man and the boy had walked through rain and crashing thunder for an hour before the boy spoke.

“Why didn't they see us, Grandfather?” he said.

“We were hidden by the trees.”

“But they should have seen us. Is it because you are a great lord and they fear you? Is that why they didn't see us?”

The old man smiled. “You ask too many questions, child.”

“The Apache died well,” the boy said.

“Yes, he did. His soul is now with his god.”

After a long silence broken only by the old man's heavy breathing and the dragon hiss of the rain, the boy said, “What of the man you saw in a dream?”

The old man didn't answer, and the boy said, “The one who wears animal skins and has a bird on his throat.”

“He comes,” the old man said.

“Will he take the bell?”

“I don't know.”

The boy looked at the lowering clouds and made a face, “Pah, why does it rain, Grandfather?”

“Because the sky weeps over the death of the sun.”

“Will you weep for the bell if it is stolen?”

“Heaven will weep for the bell if it is stolen,” the old man said.

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 âWoe 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 âland 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”âhe glared at the minersâ“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.

BOOK: Flintlock

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