Flintlock (2 page)

“Are you sure you saw deer out here, Captain Shaw? It might have been a shadow among the trees.”

“Look at the tracks in the wash, Major. Deer have passed this way and not long ago.”

“I see tracks all right,” Major Philip Ashton said. He looked around him. “But I'm damned if I see any deer.”

“Sir, may I suggest we move farther up the wash as far as the foothills,” Captain Owen Shaw said. “Going on dusk the deer will move out of the timber.”

Ashton, a small, compact man with a florid face, an affable disposition and a taste for bonded whiskey, nodded. “As good a suggestion as any, Captain. We'll wait until dark and if we don't see a deer we'll leave it for another day.”

“As you say, sir,” Shaw said.

He watched the major walk ahead of him. Like himself, Ashton wore civilian clothes but he carried a regulation Model 1873 Trapdoor Springfield rifle. Shaw was armed with a .44-40 Winchester because he wanted nothing to go wrong on this venture, no awkward questions to be answered later.

Major Ashton, who had never held a combat command, carried his rifle at the slant, as though advancing on an entrenched enemy and not a herd of nonexistent mule deer.

Shaw was thirty years old that spring. He'd served in a frontier cavalry regiment, but he'd been banished to Fort Defiance as a commissary officer after a passionate, though reckless, affair with the young wife of a farrier sergeant.

Shaw wasn't at all troubled by his exile. It was safer to dole out biscuit and salt beef than do battle with Sioux and Cheyenne warriors.

Of course, the Apaches were a problem, but since the Navajo attacked the fort in 1858 and 1860 and both times were badly mauled, it seemed that the wily Geronimo was giving the place a wide berth.

That last suited Captain Shaw perfectly. He had big plans and they sure as hell didn't involve Apaches.

The wash, dry now that the spring melt was over, made a sharp cut to the north and the two officers followed it through a grove of stunted juniper and willow onto a rocky plateau bordered by thick stands of pine.

In the distance the fading day painted the Chuska peaks with wedges of deep lilac shadow and out among the foothills coyotes yipped. The jade sky was streaked with banners of scarlet and gold, the streaming colors of the advancing night.

Major Ashton walked onto the plateau, his attention directed at the pines. His rifle at the ready, he stopped and scanned the trees with his field glasses.

Without turning his head, he said, “Nothing moving yet, Captain.”

Shaw made no answer.

“You have a buck spotted?” the major whispered.

Again, he got no reply.

Ashton turned.

Shaw's rifle was pointed right at his chest.

“What in blazes are you doing, Captain Shaw?” Ashton said, his face alarmed.

“Killing you, Major.”

Owen Shaw fired.

The soft-nosed .44-40 round tore into the major's chest and plowed through his lungs. Even as the echoing report of the Winchester racketed around the plateau, Ashton fell to his hands and knees and coughed up a bouquet of glistening red blossoms.

Shaw smiled and shot Ashton again, this time in the head. The major fell on his side and all the life that remained in him fled.

Moving quickly, Shaw stood over Ashton and fired half a dozen shots into the air, the spent cartridge cases falling on and around the major's body. He then pulled a Smith & Wesson .32 from the pocket of his tweed hunting jacket, placed the muzzle against his left thigh and pulled the trigger.

A red-hot poker of pain burned across Shaw's leg, but when he looked down at the wound he was pleased. It was only a flesh wound but it was bleeding nicely, enough to make him look a hero when he rode into Fort Defiance.

Limping slightly, Shaw retraced his steps along the dry wash to the place where he and Ashton had tethered their horses. He looked behind him and to his joy saw that he'd left a blood trail. Good! There was always the possibility that a cavalry patrol had returned to the fort and their Pima scouts could be bad news. The blood would help his cover-up.

He gathered up the reins of the major's horse and swung into the saddle. There was no real need to hurry but he forced his horse into a canter, Ashton's mount dragging on him.

It was an officer's duty to recover the body of a slain comrade, but Ashton had been of little account and not well liked. When Shaw told of the Apache ambush and his desperate battle to save the wounded major, that little detail would be overlooked.

And his own bloody wound spoke loud of gallantry and devotion to duty.

 

 

Lamps were already lit when Captain Owen Shaw rode into Fort Defiance, a sprawling complex of buildings, some of them ruins, grouped around a dusty parade ground.

He staged his entrance well.

Not for him to enter at a gallop and hysterically warn of Apaches, rather he slumped in the saddle and kept his horse to a walk . . . the wounded warrior's noble return.

He was glad that just as he rode past the sutler's store, big, laughing Sergeant Patrick Tone stepped outside, a bottle of whiskey tucked under his arm.

“Sergeant,” Shaw said, making sure he sounded exhausted and sore hurt, “sound officer's call. Direct the gentlemen to the commandant's office.”

“Where is Major Ashton, sir?” Tone said, his Irish brogue heavy on his tongue. Like many soldiers in the Indian-fighting army, he'd been born and bred in the Emerald Isle and was far from the rainy green hills of his native land.

“He's dead. Apaches. Now carry out my order.”

Tone shifted the bottle from his right to his left underarm and snapped off a salute. Then he stepped quickly toward the enlisted men's barracks, roaring for the bugler.

Shaw dismounted outside the administration building, a single-story adobe structure, its timber porch hung with several large clay ollas that held drinking water. The ollas' constant evaporation supposedly helped keep the interior offices cool, a claim the soldiers vehemently denied.

After leaning against his horse for a few moments, the action of an exhausted man, Shaw limped up the three steps to the porch, drops of blood from his leg starring the rough pine.

He stopped, swaying slightly, when he saw a woman bustling toward him across the parade ground, her swirling skirts lifting veils of yellow dust.

Shaw smiled inwardly. This was getting better and better. Here comes the distraught widow.

Maude Ashton, the major's wife, was a plump, motherly woman with a sweet, heart-shaped face that normally wore a smile. But now she looked concerned, as though she feared to hear news she already knew would be bad.

Maude mounted the steps and one look at the expression on Shaw's face and the blood on his leg told her all she needed to know. She asked the question anyway. “Captain Shaw, where is my husband?”

As the stirring notes of officer's call rang around him, Shaw made an act of battling back a sob. “Oh, Maude . . .”

He couldn't go on.

The captain opened his arms wide, tears staining his cheeks, and Maude Ashton ran between them. Shaw clasped her tightly and whispered, “Philip is dead.”

Maude had been a soldier's wife long enough to know that the day might come when she'd have to face those three words. Now she repeated them. “Philip is dead . . .”

“Apaches,” Shaw said. He steadied himself and managed, “They jumped us out by Rock Wash and Major Ashton fell in the first volley.”

Maude took a step back. Her pretty face, unstained by tears, was stony. “And Philip is still out there?”

Boots thudded onto the porch and Shaw decided to wait until his two officers were present before he answered Maude's irritating question.

First Lieutenant Frank Hedley was in his early fifties, missing the left arm he'd lost at Gettysburg as a brevet brigadier general of artillery. He was a private, withdrawn man, too fond of the bottle to be deemed fit for further promotion. He'd spent the past fifteen years in the same regular army rank. This had made him bitter and his drinking and irascible manner worsened day by day.

Standing next to him was Second Lieutenant Miles Howard, an earnest nineteen-year-old fresh out of West Point. His application for a transfer to the hard-riding 5th Cavalry had recently been approved on the recommendation of the Point's superintendent, the gallant Colonel Wesley Merritt, the regiment's former commander.

Howard had a romantic view of the frontier war, his imagination aflame with flying banners, bugle calls and thundering charges with the saber. He'd never fought Apaches.

“Where is the major?” Hedley said.

“He's dead,” Shaw said. “We got hit by Apaches at Rock Wash and Major Ashton fell.”

Hedley turned and saw the dead officer's horse. “Where is he?”

Shaw shook his head and then stared directly and sincerely at Maude. “I had to leave him. The Apaches wanted his body but I stood over him and drove them away. But I was sore wounded and could not muster the strength to lift the gallant major onto his horse.”

Lieutenant Howard, more perceptive and more sympathetic than Hedley, watched blood drops from Shaw's leg tick onto the timber.

“Sir, you need the post surgeon,” he said.

“Later, Lieutenant. Right now I want you and Mr. Hedley in the commandant's office,” Shaw said, grimacing, a badly wounded soldier determined to be brave.

“Something going on with the soldiers,” Charlie Fong said. He stood at the open door of the cabin, smoking a black cheroot. “They got cooks and clerks lined up with rifles and the headquarters building's all lit up.”

Sam Flintlock stepped to the door and looked over Fong's shoulder.

A dented moon hung high in the night sky and spilled weak, white light across the parade ground. The air was cool and smelled of dust kicked up by the dozen troops who stood at shabby attention outside the commandant's office, spiced by the faint horse odor of the empty cavalry stables.

Flintlock turned his head and looked at Abe Roper, who sat at smiling ease on a wooden rocker by the iron stove, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“They ain't coming fer you, Abe, are they? Or me?” Flintlock said.

“Hell, no, we ain't done nothing in this neck o' the woods,” Roper said. “Well, me an' Charlie drove a few rustled head down into Mexico a couple of weeks back, but that shouldn't bother the army none.”

“The doctor's wearing his white coat and he just went into the major's office at a trot,” Fong said.

“Maybe the major's feelin' poorly,” Roper said. “Don't he get the croup now and then?”

“Hell, they wouldn't turn out the troops fer the croup,” Flintlock said.

“If you're so all-fired interested, why don't you wander over there an' see what's goin' on, Sammy,” Roper said. “Could be Indian trouble.”

“God help us if ol' Geronimo attacks the fort,” Flintlock said. “You should see what's passing for soldiers out there.”

“It's funny,” Charlie Fong said, grinning. “Hank Long the mess cook's out there and he can't button his soldier tunic over his big fat belly. Looks like that young Lieutenant Howard is yelling at him.”

“He's a good cook though, Hank is,” Roper said. “When he puts his mind to it, like, and stays sober.”

“I hope he's a better cook than he is a soldier,” Flintlock said. Then, after a moment, “Hell, I'm going over there.”

“Wait, Sammy,” Roper said. “You better take a real gun with you. If Geronimo attacks, your old Hawken won't do you any good. Hey, Charlie, give him Vince Lawson's guns.”

As Fong stepped inside the cabin again, Flintlock said, “Won't ol' Vince need his guns?”

“Not in hell, he don't,” Roper said. He read the question on Flintlock's face and added, “Vince got hung by a hemp posse.”

“Friend of yourn, Abe?” Flintlock said.

“Business associate.”

“Ah, then that explains it,” Flintlock said.

Fong opened a brassbound trunk, unwrapped an oily green cloth and produced a blue Colt with a yellowed bone handle. The barrel had been cut back to the length of the ejector rod and there was no front sight.

“It's handy,” Roper said. “You'll find cartridges on the shelf over there by the door.”

Fong handed the Colt to Flintlock and laid a Winchester on the rough pine table. “Both .44 caliber, Sam'l. There's no leather for the revolver on account of how ol' Vince was a waistband-carrying man.”

“Hell, if it was good enough for ol' Vince that got hung, then it's good enough fer me.” Flintlock examined the Colt and the rifle, then said, “I reckon I owe you twenty-five dollars, Abe.”

“Sammy, you're gonna help make me rich, so forget about it,” Roper said. “Call them guns a gift out of the goodness of my heart.”

“You getting rich? You talking about the Golden Bell of Saint What's-Her-Name?” Flintlock said.

“Yeah, but we'll discuss it later, if the Apaches don't scalp us afore then.”

Flintlock shoved the Colt in his waistband then pulled his buckskin shirt over the handle. “Then I'll mosey over to the soldiers and find out what's happening,” he said.

“I'd load that revolver first if'n I was you, Sammy,” Roper said.

“Damn, I plumb forgot,” Flintlock said.

“You been carrying that damned Hawken too long, you ask me,” Roper said.

 

 

Sam Flintlock walked into the moon-splashed night, past the tall wild oak that grew, despite all the odds, at the edge of the parade ground.

He was thirty-eight that spring, not forty as he claimed, short, stocky and as rough as a cob. A shock of unruly black hair showed under his battered straw hat and his eyes, gray as a sea mist, were deep set under shaggy eyebrows. His mustache was full, in the dragoon style, and he walked with the horseman's stiff-kneed gait. If he'd chosen to, he could've sold his clothes, including his boots, for ten cents.

Flintlock was tough, enduring, raised to be hard by hard men. But there was no cruelty in him, much honesty of tongue, and he had a quick, wry sense of humor. He liked whores, children and dogs and was kind to all of them.

He'd killed eight men, three as a lawman, the remainder since he turned bounty hunter. None of those dead men disturbed his sleep of nights and the only ghost he ever saw was that of wicked old Barnabas.

But Lieutenant Miles Howard was aware of none of these things.

As Flintlock walked toward him that night he made the snap judgment that here was a typical frontier tough, all horns and rattles, a far cry from any kind of gentleman. The man's throat was grotesque, tattooed with a bird of some kind. He was not the sort the lieutenant would care to meet at any kind of social gathering.

Flintlock's opening words did nothing to dispel that opinion.

“What the hell's happening?”

Howard looked Flintlock up and down before he answered, taking in the man's stained woolen pants, down-at-heel boots, battered shapeless hat and buckskin shirt, shiny black at the armpits and chest from ancient sweat. He didn't like what he saw.

“And you are?” he said.

“Sam'l Flintlock, me and my two compadres just rode in. And your name, sonny?”

Howard was outraged and he noisily slammed his saber closer to his side. “Second Lieutenant Miles Howard at your service.” Then, after a pause, “What can I do for you?”

“We saw all you soldier boys lined up and wondered what the hell happened,” Flintlock said. “You borrowed yourself some Indian trouble?”

The soldier's disdain for inquisitive civilians showed on the lieutenant's face. “Hostile Apaches attacked a hunting party from this post,” he said. “Major Ashton was killed in the engagement and Captain Shaw was wounded. We fear an imminent attack by the hostiles.” Howard's next words sounded more like a question than a statement of fact. “Though Apaches don't fight at night.”

“They do when it suits them, Lieutenant,” Flintlock said. He waved toward the motley collection of soldiers, still standing at shambling attention. “Is that all you've got?”

“Yes. Should the hostiles attack, my flying column will be more than enough to mount a stout and spirited defense.”

Flintlock shook his head. “Then God help us,” he said.