Flintlock (27 page)

“The way I figure it, the bell weighs two thousand pounds,” Flintlock said. “And gold is worth twenty-one dollars an ounce.”

“That makes the bell worth six hundred and seventy-two thousand dollars,” Asa Pagg said.

“We split it five ways and each of us gets a hundred and thirty-four thousand, near enough,” Flintlock said. He pretended a camaraderie he didn't feel. “Enough to keep you in whiskey and whores for the rest of your life, Asa.”

“Can't beat that,” Joe Harte said, smiling.

“An' American money goes further down in Old Mexico, don't forget,” Logan Dean said. “We'll live like kings, I reckon.”

“Then it's done and done,” Pagg said. He extended his hand to Abe Roper who looked puzzled. “Let's shake on it, Abe. And you too, Sam.”

Flintlock felt a sickening revulsion as he took Pagg's hand. But he had to play the game to its end.

“But, the cave—” Roper said.

Flintlock fixed him with a glare, and Roper lapsed into silence.

“What about the cave?” Pagg said.

“We have to get the bell out of there is what Abe was about to say,” Flintlock said. Another dagger of a look, then, “Ain't that so, Abe?”

Roper wasn't stupid and he caught on quick.

“Yeah, that's the problem, all right,” he said.

“It's only a problem for idiots, not for me,” Pagg said. “I want to take a look at the bell and then I'll figure what's to be done.”

Again Flintlock silenced Roper, a talking man, with a glower.

“I'll take you up there, Asa,” Flintlock said. Then, to keep the outlaw off guard, “If anyone can come up with a solution, it's you.”

“Damn right, I can,” Pagg said. He rose to his feet. “Later we'll talk about sharing the women, but the gold comes first.”

“You're the boss, Asa,” Flintlock said.

“Just so you know it, Sam,” Pagg said. “Now show me the damned bell.” He turned to Dean and Harte. “You two come with me.”

 

 

Later Flintlock wondered if the tragedy that followed could've been averted if he'd gone into the cave with Pagg. But logic told him that he'd no way of knowing how much of a mad-dog killer Asa Pagg had become.

Evil was right in front of his face, but Flintlock didn't recognize it as such, a fact that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“Ain't you coming in out of the rain, Sam?” Pagg said.

“No. I've seen the bell enough times already, Asa. I'll wait for you here.”

Pagg shrugged. “Suit yourself. How do I get to it?”

“Just follow the cave.”

“Let's go, boys,” Pagg said. “Time to see how we're gonna get rich.”

Harte and Dean gave a little cheer, then followed Pagg up the slope.

Flintlock watched them go . . . and saw the old man step into Pagg's path, his arms outstretched in a fragile barrier.

Pagg hesitated, but only for a moment.

Then he drew and shot the old man in the belly.

It happened so fast, Flintlock had no time to react.

By the time the enormity of what Pagg had done hit him, the outlaw had already stepped over the murdered man's body and disappeared into the cave.

Flintlock climbed the remainder of the hill at a run, then took a knee beside the old man.

A man gut-shot by a large-caliber firearm suffers tremendous shock. When Flintlock lifted the old man's head in his arms, the guardian was beyond speech. But his milky eyes spoke volumes, wide open, staring up at Flintlock with a mix of fear, surprise . . . and relief.

The old man died without making a sound and probably with no pain. At least Flintlock hoped that was the case.

He laid the old man gently on the floor of the cave. Then he stepped outside.

He'd meet Asa Pagg in the rain. And kill him.

 

 

A gusting wind sprang up and drove sheets of rain into the mountains. Above the cloud-capped peaks, lightning scrawled and thunder crashed.

Flintlock was tempted to enter the cave and meet Pagg there. But he realized that it would be too confining and claustrophobic. If he didn't shade Pagg on the draw and shoot he'd need space to move and try to best him in a running gunfight.

The downpour drummed on Flintlock's hat and the shoulders of his slicker and he kept his gun hand inside where it would stay dry.

Drawing down on Asa Pagg was a mighty uncertain thing and there was a knot of fear in Flintlock's belly. The man was fast, maybe the fastest there ever was.

It was not a comforting thought.

Then old Barnabas sat beside him in the grass. It was raining hard but the old mountain man was as dry as Moses in the middle of the Red Sea.

“Why did I have such an idiot for a grandson?” Barnabas said.

“Go away,” Flintlock said.

“You can't shade Asa Pagg. You won't even be close,” Barnabas said.

He smelled of buffalo dung.

“I'll take my hits and outlast him,” Flintlock said.

“Idiot,” Barnabas said. “Remember this: falling rocks can kill a man like Pagg.”

“What falling rocks?” Flintlock said.

But the old man dissolved in the rain and only the smell of dung lingered.

Falling rocks . . .

Flintlock stared at the ledge above the cave. It looked as though it had moved since the last time he saw it, and it seemed there was now a foot-wide space between the top of the ledge and the cliff.

Was it ready to come down?

Old Barnabas thought it would. But what did he know?

 

 

Ten minutes later Asa Pagg staggered to the cave entrance and roared his rage.

“The air is poisoned,” he yelled. “Logan and Joe are dead.”

“They'll be greatly missed, Asa,” Flintlock said.

He opened his slicker.

“You knew!” Pagg said.

“Of course I knew,” Flintlock said.

“You hoped the gas would kill me.”

“Ain't that the truth, Asa.”

The Smith & Wesson Russians on each side of Pagg's chest gleamed as lightning flashed. The man himself shimmered, as though he was made of crystal.

“You failed, Sam. Damn you, you failed,” Pagg hollered. “I didn't die and I'll come back for the bell after you and Abe Roper are dead.”

Pagg laughed, a strange, animal bellow. “I'm gonna gut-shoot you, Sammy. You'll lie on this hillside for a long time, screaming in pain and you'll curse me and the mother who bore you.”

“Asa, you talk too damned much,” Flintlock said.

He drew as he dived for the ground.

Pagg, taken by surprise, fired from both guns. One shot was a clean miss, the other bullet-holed Flintlock's hat and burned across the top of his skull, drawing blood.

Flintlock fired. A hit.

A scarlet flower of blood blossomed on Pagg's right thigh, but the man stood his ground, his guns hammering.

Mud spurted around Flintlock as he rolled to his right. He yelped in sudden pain as a bullet slammed into the top of his left shoulder and broke the collarbone.

He was losing this fight!

A glance at Pagg revealed that the man was steadying himself for a killing shot.

Desperate now, Flintlock rolled the dice.

He ignored Pagg and fanned his remaining four shots into the rock shelf.

Nothing . . .

Pagg lifted both his guns. The man grinned like a death's-head.

Flintlock rose, prepared to die on his feet instead of groveling on the ground.

“So long, Sam,” Pagg yelled.

He fired.

Or Flintlock thought he did.

But it was not the roar of a gunshot he heard, but the sharp crack of splitting stone. The entire rock ledge fell with a horrifying crash. Instantly the cave entrance was lost behind tons of shattered rock.

Flintlock thought he heard Pagg scream, but he wasn't sure.

Despite the rain, dust rose and a terrible hush descended on the hillside.

Asa Pagg was entombed as surely as any ancient Egyptian pharaoh.

A terrible man, he now faced a terrible death . . . and he'd die alone . . . in darkness.

The Chinese girls, with considerable skill, rigged a sling for Sam Flintlock's left arm. But he needed Abe Roper to help him saddle his horse.

The rain had stopped during the night and the morning was coming in bright and sunny.

“Hell, Sammy, you wouldn't know a cave was ever there,” Roper said.

Flintlock looked up the slope to the rock fall. It looked as though part of the mountain had come down with it.

“It's just as well,” Flintlock said. “I reckon the golden bell is buried forever.”

“And Asa Pagg with it,” Roper said. “He was good with a gun, was Asa.”

“Best I ever saw,” Flintlock said.

He stepped into the saddle. “Charlie, take care of them,” he said.

“Me and Abe will see them all right, Sam,” Fong said. “No harm will come to them as long as we're alive.”

“Then quit the train-robbing profession,” Flintlock said. “You'll live longer.”

“I was thinking that very thing,” Roper said. “I figure Charlie an' me will get into some line of business, so long as it's basically dishonest.”

“We thought we might prosper in the saloon trade,” Fong said.

“Never was truer words spoke,” Roper said. “I got some rich kinfolk down Laredo way who might bankroll a venture like that.”

“The Tong would advance me money, Abe,” Charlie Fong said.

“Then one way or t'other, we can give our three gals a good life, Sam'l,” Roper said. “Don't worry yourself about that.”

Ayasha stood beside Flintlock's horse, looking up at him, her eyes moist.

“Take me with you, Sam,” she said.

“I got to ride alone, Ayasha,” Flintlock said. “I already told you that.” He smiled. “Just set your heart on the house with the white picket fence and never lose sight of it.”

“I'll find her a good husband, Sam'l, a man kinda like myself,” Roper said.

“She could do worse,” Flintlock said.

“And what will you do, Sam?” Charlie Fong said.

“Find my mother and claim my rightful name,” Flintlock said.

“You still got to make a living, Sammy,” Roper said.

“I'm a manhunter. That's all I ever was and all I'll ever be,” Flintlock said. “And it's all I ever want to be.”

He kneed his horse into motion and said, “We'll all meet again. I know it.”

“Sam, come back,” Ayasha said. “Come back to me.”

But Flintlock didn't answer.

He rode into the golden heart of the day . . . the old Hawken rifle across his saddle horn.

William W. Johnstone was born in southern Missouri, the youngest of four children. He was raised with strong moral and family values by his minister father, and tutored by his schoolteacher mother. Despite this, he quit school at age fifteen.

“I have the highest respect for education,” he says, “but such is the folly of youth, and wanting to see the world beyond the four walls and the blackboard.”

True to this vow, Bill attempted to enlist in the French Foreign Legion (“I saw Gary Cooper in
Beau Geste
when I was a kid and I thought the French Foreign Legion would be fun”) but was rejected, thankfully, for being underage. Instead, he joined a traveling carnival and did all kinds of odd jobs. It was listening to the veteran carny folk, some of whom had been on the circuit since the late 1800s, telling amazing tales about their experiences, which planted the storytelling seed in Bill's imagination.

“They were mostly honest people, despite the bad reputation traveling carny shows had back then,” Bill remembers. “Of course, there were exceptions. There was one guy named Picky, who got that name because he was a master pickpocket. He could steal a man's socks right off his feet without him knowing. Believe me, Picky got us chased out of more than a few towns.”

After a few months of this grueling existence, Bill returned home and finished high school. Next came stints as a deputy sheriff in the Tallulah, Louisiana, Sheriff's Department, followed by a hitch in the U.S. Army. Then he began a career in radio broadcasting at KTLD in Tallulah, Louisiana, which would last sixteen years. It was there that he fine-tuned his storytelling skills. He turned to writing in 1970, but it wouldn't be until 1979 that his first novel,
The Devil's Kiss,
was published. Thus began the full-time writing career of William W. Johnstone. He wrote horror (
The Uninvited
), thrillers (
The Last of the Dog Team
), even a romance novel or two. Then, in February 1983,
Out of the Ashes
was published. Searching for his missing family in the aftermath of a post-apocalyptic America, rebel mercenary and patriot Ben Raines is united with the civilians of the Resistance forces and moves to the forefront of a revolution for the nation's future.

Out of the Ashes
was a smash. The series would continue for the next twenty years, winning Bill three generations of fans all over the world. The series was often imitated but never duplicated. “We all tried to copy
The Ashes
series,” said one publishing executive, “but Bill's uncanny ability, both then and now, to predict in which direction the political winds were blowing brought a certain immediacy to the table no one else could capture.” The Ashes series would end its run with more than thirty-four books and twenty million copies in print, making it one of the most successful men's action series in American book publishing. (The Ashes series also, Bill notes with a touch of pride, got him on the FBI's Watch List for its less than flattering portrayal of spineless politicians and the growing power of big government over our lives, among other things. “In that respect,” says collaborator J. A. Johnstone, “Bill was years ahead of his time.”)

Always steps ahead of the political curve, Bill's recent thrillers, written with J. A. Johnstone, include
Vengeance Is Mine, Invasion USA, Border War, Jackknife, Remember the Alamo, Home Invasion, Phoenix Rising, The Blood of Patriots, The Bleeding Edge,
and the upcoming
Suicide Mission
.

It is with the western, though, that Bill found his greatest success and propelled him onto both the
USA Today
and the
New York Times
bestseller lists.

Bill's western series, co-authored by J. A. Johnstone, include
The Mountain Man, Matt Jensen the Last Mountain Man, Preacher, The Family Jensen, Luke Jensen Bounty Hunter, Eagles, MacCallister
(an Eagles spin-off),
Sidewinders, The Brothers O'Brien, Sixkiller, Blood Bond, The Last Gunfighter,
and the upcoming new series
Flintlock
and
The Trail West
. Coming in May 2013 is the hardcover western
Butch Cassidy, The Lost Years
.

“The Western,” Bill says, “is one of the few true art forms that is one hundred percent American. I liken the Western as America's version of England's Arthurian legends, like the Knights of the Round Table, or Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Starting with the 1902 publication of
The Virginian
by Owen Wister, and followed by the greats like Zane Grey, Max Brand, Ernest Haycox, and of course Louis L'Amour, the Western has helped to shape the cultural landscape of America.

“I'm no goggle-eyed college academic, so when my fans ask me why the Western is as popular now as it was a century ago, I don't offer a 200-page thesis. Instead, I can only offer this: The Western is honest. In this great country, which is suffering under the yoke of political correctness, the Western harks back to an era when justice was sure and swift. Steal a man's horse, rustle his cattle, rob a bank, a stagecoach, or a train, you were hunted down and fitted with a hangman's noose. One size fit all.

“Sure, we westerners are prone to a little embellishment and exaggeration and, I admit it, occasionally play a little fast and loose with the facts. But we do so for a very good reason—to enhance the enjoyment of readers.

“It was Owen Wister, in
The Virginian
who first coined the phrase
‘When you call me that, smile.'
Legend has it that Wister actually heard those words spoken by a deputy sheriff in Medicine Bow, Wyoming, when another poker player called him a son-of-a-bitch.

“Did it really happen, or is it one of those myths that have passed down from one generation to the next? I honestly don't know. But there's a line in one of my favorite Westerns of all time,
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance,
where the newspaper editor tells the young reporter, ‘When the truth becomes legend, print the legend.'

“These are the words I live by.”