CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“They're burning dead people,” Luke Gamble said.
“You mean a dead person?” Captain Gregory Holden Usher said.
“Cap'n, look at my mouth. I said they're burning
people
.”
Usher was appalled. “How many?”
“Judging by the stink and the height of the flames, a lot. Maybe a dozen.”
“But . . . but why?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Gamble said. “Maybe ol' King Fisher done fer more bandits.”
“He's in the town?”
“Damn right he is, and plenty more with him. And he's got him some kind of steam locomotive that doesn't need rails. I seen it with my own eyes. Looks like a big egg.”
“Ain't nothing like that possible,” Sergeant Rollo Martin said.
Gamble's eyes hardened and his voice dropped. “I saw what I saw, Rollo. You callin' me a liar?”
“Sergeant Martin meant no offense,” Usher said. “How many with Fisher?”
“Too many, Cap'n. And they ain't rubes. Look like guns to me.”
“You were at a distance, Mr. Gamble,” Usher said. “How can you be sure?”
“I used your field glasses, Captain. And I can tell guns when I see them. All them boys are well set up and they ain't riding Texas scrubs. There ain't a hoss worth less than a thousand in the whole bunch.”
“Damn, that's bad news, rotten news,” Usher said. “They've got to be more of Fisher's gang.”
Sergeant Martin took the pot from the fire and said, “Here, sir, have some more coffee. Steady your nerves, like.”
Usher's dark eyes glittered in the light of the flames. “My nerves are steady enough, Sergeant.” Usher looked at Gamble. “How do we handle this?”
“What we don't do is stack ourselves up against a dozen hired guns,” the scout said.
“Please don't tell me something I already know, Mr. Gamble. I need ideas.”
“Sometimes the best idea is the simplest,” Martin said.
“Let's hear it,” Usher said.
“We become as bold as brass.”
“Huh?” the officer said.
“We're the army, ain't we? We have authority around these parts. We just ride into townâ”
“Bold as brass,” Private Seth Proud said.
“Right you are, boy, bold as brass,” Martin said. “We demand to search the Fisher wagon, find the gold, and then tell them to get the hell out of the way because we're taking it back to Fort Concho.”
“And then we all get shot,” Corporal Ethan Stagg said.
“You got a better idea?” Martin said.
“Your basic idea is a good one, Sergeant, if I had a whole troop with me,” Usher said. “I say we don't ride in and lay all our cards on the table right away. Mr. Gamble, you and I will ride into the town and masquerade as a down-on-his-luck gold prospector and an army deserter. We will study the lie of the land, and by that I mean the location of the payroll.”
Usher saw Gamble's face frown a question and he said, “I believe all those men you saw are newly hired mercenaries, men who fight for money, the only thing they care a hoot about. It's unlikely they know about the payroll, but we will mention it casually, inquiring if King Fisher is keeping it all for himself or sharing it. We will stir up unrest, Mr. Gamble, cause trouble. If my hunch is correct, our revelation will lead to gunplay and dead men. When the smoke clears we can meet up with Sergeant Martin, Private Proud, and Corporal Stagg and then claim what's ours.”
“You mean claim what's the army's,” Martin said.
“Of course,” Usher said. “That's exactly what I meant. What did you think? That I'd run off with the thirty thousand?”
“It's a possibility,” Martin said, hate loud and clear in his eyes.
Before Usher could respond, Gamble said, “It's thin, Captain. There's no way of telling if a gun battle will knock off enough of them boys to make it easy for us.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Usher's mouth. “Mr. Gamble, you and I will also be shooting, discreetly of course, but at both sides. Between us, I think we can do enough execution to ensure that the hireling numbers are whittled down to size.”
Gamble shook his head. “It's still thin . . . and damned dangerous.”
“We want the money, Luke,” Usher said. “Any great endeavor entails a degree of risk. Sergeant Martin, the original idea was yours. What do you think?”
Martin said, “I think I don't trust you, Captain Usher. If them boys in town believe one deserter, they'll believe four. I say we all go.”
“The idea has some merit, Greg.” Gamble saw the surprise in Usher's firelit face and grinned. “Deserters would be on first-name terms, don't you think? Besides, we can't keep on calling you
Captain,
because officers don't desert.”
Martin's face was bitter. “Usher deserted his command once.”
“You're not going to let me forget that, Martin, are you?”
“Not for as long as I live . . . or you live.”
Usher tossed away his tin cup and rose to his feet. He undid his holster flap and said, “Maybe we should have this out right here and now.”
“Suits me just fine.” Martin went for his Colt, his draw slow from a flapped, butt-for ward gun rig. The instant his hand grabbed the handle of his revolver he knew with awful certainty that he wasn't going to make it.
Luke Gamble had plenty of time . . . all the time in the world.
His bullet hit Martin square in the center of his chest before either the sergeant or Usher had cleared leather. Gamble put another round into Martin before the man hit the ground, but by then he was already dead.
Stagg and Proud, scared witnesses to Martin's death, didn't move. They'd thought the sergeant invincible, the toughest, meanest man in the United States Army, but Gamble disproved that in the space of two heartbeats.
Stagg, perhaps because of the stripes on his arm, found his voice. “Death on soldier boys, ain't you, Gamble?”
“Of late it seems like soldier boys are the ones giving me all the trouble,” the scout said. He still had his Colt in his hand and his eyes steady on Stagg. “Call it, Cap'n.”
“Put your gun away, Luke,” Usher said. “Corporal Staggâ”
“Stow that, Usher. The name is Ethan. There ain't any of us in the army any longer.”
“Man speaks sense,” Gamble said.
“Ethan, a fourth split of thirty thousand is seven thousand five hundred dollars,” Usher said. “A man can make a good life for himself with that kind of money.”
Stagg's smile was thin. “Sure, I'm in until the day you”âhe nodded to Gambleâ“or him puts a bullet in my back.”
“That won't happen,” Usher said. “There's been enough bloodshed already. From now on we're partners, share and share alike . . . the dangers and the money. PrivâSethâhow does that set with you?”
The youngster glanced at the grinning Gamble and said, “It sets just fine with me, Captain.”
“Call me Greg. As Ethan said, we're no longer army.”
“We're outlaws,” Gamble said.
“No,” Stagg said. “We're deserters and if we're caught, we'll hang.”
“We won't get caught,” Usher said. “I will see to that.” The evening was cool but a rivulet of sweat trickled from under his kepi and ran down his cheek. “Money has a way of staving off disaster.”
“Wait.” Gamble took a faded gray shirt from his saddlebags and tossed it into Usher's chest. “Officers don't desert, remember? You can't wear that blouse and shoulder boards any longer.”
The scout waited until Usher changed into the collarless gray shirt and then shook his head. “Greg, as an officer and gentleman in dirty-shirt blue and gold you were quite the sight. But as a civilian, you sure don't stack up to much.”
“Don't underestimate me, Luke,” Usher said.
The big scout smiled. “I'll never do that, Greg. I reckon you're capable of anything.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Out of consideration for the pregnant Mrs. Rose Flood, Charlie Brewster had ordered his men not to use the livery but to string a horse line on a grassy area behind the saloon.
King Fisher was not happy with that arrangement but seemed too sick to argue and remained in his wagon.
“How is she?” Sam Flintlock said.
Dr. Sarah Castle peered shortsightedly into the darkness outside the stable. “Oh, it's you, Mr. Flintlock.”
“How is she?” Flintlock said again.
“The baby has not yet turned and it may be a very difficult delivery.” The doctor lifted the makings from Flintlock's shirt pocket and began to build a cigarette. “I shouldn't smoke, but I do now and again.”
Flintlock thumbed a match into flame and lit the woman's cigarette. Charlie Brewster and his noisy gunmen were in the saloon and he heard Biddy shriek with laughter, followed by Margie's strident cackle.
“Sounds like they're having a good time,” Sarah Castle said. “Why don't you join them?”
“I have no friends in there.”
“Where is your Indian friend? What's his name?”
“O'Hara. He's not much of a one for white men's saloons either. Some fellers object to an Indian being under the same roof and when they're drinking, it can get real nasty real quick, even if O'Hara is only half an Indian.”
“You could almost be an Indian yourself,” Sarah said. “How did you get the name Flintlock?”
“I'm named for this Hawken rifle I carry.”
“Then your real name is Hawken?”
“No. My grandpappy named me for his flintlock rifle, seeing as how I never knew my pa's name. My father was a gambling man and when my ma got pregnant, he didn't stick around.”
“Why didn't he give you his own name, that grandpa of yours?”
“He said every man should have his father's name. He told me he'd call me Flintlock after the Hawken until I found my ma and she told me who my pa was and what he was called.”
“You ever find her?”
“No. I never did, but I'm still on the hunt for her. Or at least I was until O'Hara and me rode into Happyville.”
“You were raised by your grandfather?”
“Yeah. By old Barnabas and some other mountain men. As parents go, they weren't much, a hard-drinking, whoring, brawling bunch of old sinners.”
Sarah Castle smiled, her teeth very white in the moonlight. “Still, I'm very impressed that your grandpa was a mountain man. When I was younger I read some accounts of their adventures among the wild savages.”
“Barnabas was with Bridger an' Hugh Glass an' them, at least for a spell. Then he helped survey the Platte and the Sweetwater with Kit Carson and Fremont.”
“Strange, restless breed they were, mountain men.”
“You could say that,” Flintlock allowed.
The doctor peered hard at Flintlock's rugged, unshaven face and then his throat. “When we first met I noticed the big bird on your throat. Is there a story behind that?”
“I was raised rough,” Flintlock said.
“Ah, old Barnabas did that to you?” Sarah said.
“Yeah, he wanted it done. When I was twelve years old, he got an Assiniboine woman to do the tattooing. As I recollect, it hurt considerable.”
“What is it? Some kind of eagle?”
Flintlock began to build a cigarette. Without looking up from the makings, he said, “It's a thunderbird.” He thumbed the match into flame and lit his smoke. “Barnabas wanted a black and red thunderbird on account of how the Indians reckon it's a sacred bird.”
“He wanted it that big?” Sarah said. “It pretty much covers your neck and down into your chest.”
“Barnabas said folks would remember me because of the bird. He told me that a man folks don't remember is of no account. He was a hard old man, was Barnabas, him and them other mountain men he hung with. A tough, mean bunch as ever was. But they taught me,” Flintlock said. “Each one of them, in his own way, taught me something.”
“Like what for instance?”
“I don't want to offend you, ma'am,” Flintlock said.
Sarah smiled. “I'm a big girl. I've heard it all before.”
“Well, they taught me about whores and whiskey and how to tell the good ones from the bad. They taught me how to stalk a man and how to kill him. And they taught me to never answer a bunch of damned fool questions.”
The woman laughed. “Sounds like old Barnabas and his mountain man pals all right.”
“One more thing, Sarah. If you save Mrs. Flood's life, they taught me to never forget a thing like that either.”
Restless, unwilling to seek his blankets, Flintlock walked away from her into the moon-splashed night, past the tall wild oaks that grew, despite all the odds, at the edge of the street.
He was forty-two that fall, 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 made fashionable in Texas by the Rangers, 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. He had much honesty of tongue and a quick wry sense of humor.
Up until he'd used the Gatling gun he'd killed thirteen menâthree as a lawman and the remainder since he'd 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.
He saw him again.
The old mountain man balanced on his head in a patch of open, bottle-strewn ground between a couple stores, one of them with a sign in the window: B
OOTS AND
S
HOES AT
C
OST
.
Flintlock bent over the better to see Barnabas's face. “You taking a different view of the world, old man?”
“Nah. Three-Fingered Johnny Reach teached me this. He says when the blood rushes to the head it gets into the brain and makes a man smarter. You recollect ol' Johnny, Sam?”
“I should. I was the one that shot two fingers offen him that time.”
“He says you were the meanest man that ever collected a bounty on him.”
“I didn't like him much. I always figured Johnny Reach was a disgrace to the bank-robbing profession. He had dirty habits. Now quit that stupid pose and stand on your two feet like a man . . . or a ghost . . . or whatever the hell you are.”
“Testy, ain't we?” Barnabas did something fast and was suddenly standing again. “Why ain't you looking fer your ma, boy?”
“A situation came up,” Flintlock said.
“That pregnant woman?”
“Her and other things.”
“You-know-who said he'd tell you how to handle the woman thing.”
“Barnabas, I don't need advice from Beelzebub, especially when it involves knives.”
“And saws. I declare, but you was always an ungrateful whelp, Sammy.”
“Why are you here, Barnabas?”
The old man made a face. “You always think it's about you, don't you, boy? Well it ain't. I was just passing this way and decided to stand on my head.”
“I don't believe you, Barnabas,” Flintlock said. “Say what you came to say.”
“All right, Sam, here it is. If you don't get the hell out of this town, you'll be dead before the night of the next full moon. That's less than a week from now.”
“I'll keep that in mind, Barnabas.”
“You'd better, because I ain't joshing you, boy. Now beat it. I want to stand on my head some more. Hell, I feel myself getting smarter already.”
Then the old man was gone and all that remained was the lingering smell of brimstone that always marked his departure.
* * *
It was Flintlock's intention to call it a night and return to the saloon, but he stopped in his tracks, his eyes on the looming bulk of King Fisher's wagon. An oil lamp burned inside and the canvas glowed with pale orange light.
He stepped closer, the old Hawken up and ready, wary of . . . he knew not what. He heard a woman in the interior sob and then a man talked low, soft, reassuring words. It was the voice of Obadiah le Strange.
Who was the woman and why was she so distressed?
Grofrec Horntoe appeared from behind the wagon, his restraining hand on the chain around his wolf's neck. Quicksilver carried its head low and a soft growl grumbled in its throat.
“You looking for something, Flintlock?”
“I thought I heard a woman crying.” His voice sounded hollow in the darkness.
“Women cry all the time,” Horntoe said. “Be on your way.”
“Is she all right?”
“I said be on your way.”
The wolf peeled back its lips and snarled, lunging. The chain around its neck chimed.
“The woman is sick, that's all,” Horntoe said. “Women get sick, same as men.”
Quicksilver's slanted eyes glowed red and Flintlock felt something spike in his belly. The feeling puzzled him at first, but then he realized that it was fear.
The woman's sobs had stopped and Flintlock recognized le Strange's sound of humming that was meant to be soothing.
Then he heard King Fisher's voice, loud and commanding, not the voice of a sick man. “Will she live?”
“She's a bleeder,” le Strange said. “I knew that from before, but I had to take the chance.”
“Can you stop it?”
“I need Dr. Castle,” le Strange said.
“Grofrec!” This came from Fisher.
The dwarf said, “I hear you, boss.” He never took his eyes off Flintlock.
“Bring Dr. Castle. Hurry.”
“Right away, boss.”
In the gloom, wolf and man were as one. Only Quicksilver's fangs gleamed amid the shadow.
“Will you give me the road, Flintlock?” Horntoe said. “Better for you if you do.”
The wagon was silent. Flintlock lowered his rifle and stepped aside. “Little man, I swear I'll kill you one day.”
“Or I will kill you.” The dwarf grinned. “Quicksilver will tear the big bird from your throat. Depend on it.” The smirking Horntoe dragged his snarling wolf past Flintlock. Man and animal smelled feral, wild, like the inside of a dragon's den.
* * *
Flintlock had not been asleep for long when he jerked into a sitting position, his frightened eyes searching the darkened saloon. Was it the wolf come for him? The one called Quicksilver? The one with a ravenous appetite for human flesh?
His head sank slowly back to the floor. Suddenly he was very tired, used up by the events of the past few days. He badly wanted this waking nightmare to end. He closed his eyes again, forced himself to empty his mind of all thought and for the rest of the night he drifted in and out of consciousness.
Once, in restless slumber, he saw his mother again.
Her hair was bright red, but her features were blurred because he could no longer remember her face. She was lost in a swamp and cried out to him. Suddenly, her hair was no longer red but gray, and she beckoned to him, her voice pleading, begging him to save her, her arms moving like willow branches in a wind.
He moved toward her, but slowly, slowly, as though he walked through thick molasses. He called out to her. “Ma, what's my name? Ma, tell me my father's name.”
A mist came down like a gray cloud and his mother vanished from sight.
The dream within a dream ended.