Flintlock (23 page)

The Navajo say the sandstone Sonsela Buttes that straddle the Arizona and New Mexico border were formed by stars falling to earth, their explanation for a remote, lost land marked by ancient lava beds, petrified forests and the ruined pueblos of the Old Ones who lived there thousands of years before the Navajo themselves.

Asa Pagg rode through brush and sage country a couple of miles west of the buttes. To his left lay the massive rift of the Canyon de Chelly, ahead of him soared White Cone Mountain, a triangular peak that looked as though a great wind had blown a pyramid all the way from the Giza plateau. To the east rose the Chuska Mountains, holding up a blanket of black rain clouds.

Pagg knew he had pursuers on his back trail. He'd watched their dust for the past hour.

The questions were: How many and how determined were they?

He'd soon find the answers.

Men like Pagg, outlaws who were always on the run, dodging, ducking, going to ground in some stinking prairie dugout or one-horse hell town, had a pathological fear and hatred of being hunted like an animal.

But those who were skilled gunfighters and man-killers could be pushed so far and no farther. Eventually they'd put their back to a wall and let their guns do the negotiating.

Asa Pagg was one of those.

He drew rein and scouted the flat country behind him with care and caution. He knew the manner of men he faced, leather-tough cavalrymen with experience fighting Apaches. They'd be no bargain.

But how many?

Rain now ticking on his slicker, he sat his horse in a patch of piñon and waited, his eyes constantly scanning the badlands.

Pagg reckoned he could let the soldiers come up on him, sudden-like, and he'd take them by surprise.

Again, it all depended on their numbers, probably many, given Colonel Andrew Grove's likely rage.

Well, Pagg wasn't about to take on a cavalry troop. If the army was coming at him in strength, he'd turn and run and trust to his horse.

The rain was settling the dust and Pagg no longer had a rising brown column to help him fix his pursuers.

All he could do now was wait....

A coyote skulked out of the brush then stopped, did a double take when it saw the rider, and trotted quickly away.

The animal rustled into the sage and then the only noise was the steady drum of rain and the jangle of the bit as Pagg's mount impatiently tossed its head.

And then the horse stiffened and stared across distance, its ears pricked forward.

Pagg saw them then.

Four riders, barely visible behind the falling rain. Thunder banged above the mountains, still far off.

Pleasant Tyrell's .44-40 Henry was in the boot under Pagg's left leg, but it didn't enter his thinking to use it. He was no dab hand with a long gun and in a rifle battle with trained soldiers he would surely come out the loser.

He'd rely on surprise . . . and the Smith & Wesson Russians in his holsters.

Aware that the slicker he wore was an encumbrance, Pagg shucked it and the rain fell cold on his naked chest and back. His beard, long untrimmed, hung in an unruly amber bib to his navel and his battered hat shaded his glittering eyes.

Looking more pirate than pistolero, Asa Pagg drew his guns . . . and readied himself....

 

 

The four cavalry troopers came on through a pelting rain, the soldier in front bending over from the saddle, scouting for Pagg's rapidly disappearing tracks in the sand.

Pagg grinned. Fifty yards away and they hadn't seen him yet.

Thunder boomed and lightning split the sky. Cloud piled on black cloud and the dark morning became a roaring, flashing bedlam of noise and shimmering light. The wind slapped hard against Pagg and under him his horse grew restive and nervously tossed its head.

Forty yards . . .

Pagg's hands were wet, slick on the smooth ivory of old Tyrell's revolvers. He set his chin. Well, he'd shot guns in rain before and killed his man. He'd manage.

Twenty yards . . .

And they'd spotted him!

The point rider threw up his hand, and the three behind him drew rein.

Asa Pagg charged.

Ten yards . . .

Time to get his work in.

The troopers had been surprised and it slowed them. They ignored their booted carbines and grabbed for sidearms.

It was a big mistake.

Pagg worked his revolvers with amazing skill and rapidity, the result of a lifetime of training.

One . . . two . . . three saddles emptied. The surviving trooper, a man with dark features and eyes, got off a shot then swung his horse away.

Pagg, fighting his own animal, let him go.

The man now had a story to tell and others would listen to what he had to say and decide that maybe chasing a named gunfighter wasn't such a good idea after all.

Three men lay sprawled on the ground, two dead, the other clinging to life.

But not for long.

Pagg shot the man between the eyes, then reloaded his guns.

His cold eyes lifted from the Russian to the fleeing trooper who was flapping his chaps like the devil himself was after him.

Pagg smiled, reckoning that the three dead men would testify in hell that they'd indeed met a demon . . . the evil patron saint of six-guns.

 

 

Asa Pagg swung east past White Cone Mountain and at dusk made camp in the Chuska foothills. He managed to light a fire in a grove of juniper and piñon that sheltered him from the worst of the rain and dined on strips of jerky and a stick of peppermint candy he'd plundered from Pleasant Tyrell's pack.

He considered his options and they were limited.

Heading south was out of the question. Grove was still hunting him.

West lay some mighty rough country and heading east across the mountains didn't appeal to him either.

Then he remembered Sam Flintlock and Abe Roper.

Pagg sucked on the candy stick, thinking things through.

Flintlock and Roper were idiots, but it might just be possible that there was a golden bell up in the Red Valley. Call it a hundred-to-one chance.

It was thin, mighty thin. But worth a ride up there to see what was what.

A cold drop of rain dripped from a tree branch, got under the collar of his slicker and hit Pagg in the back of his neck. He hardly noticed.

If there was a bell, a big
if
, he could take it for himself and live like an English lord for the rest of his life.

It was a pleasant thought, a thought a man could build dreams around.

Pagg nodded. Right, it was a plan, not a great one, but a plan nonetheless. He'd move out at first light and head for the Red Valley.

After all, he'd nothing else to do.

Deer hunting in rain washes away human scent and a man with good eyesight can often make a kill in a downpour and put meat on the table.

But rain accompanied by lightning, and all bets are off.

“I never did know mule deer to come out in a thunderstorm,” Sam Flintlock said.

Ayasha looked at him blankly, tendrils of wet hair falling over her forehead. Flintlock was struck by how pretty she looked.

He smiled. “Well, anyway, that's a natural fact. We won't see any deer until this passes.”

After a glance at the lowering sky, Flintlock said, “Let's make our way back. I could use some coffee.”

They stood in the lee of a rock face no higher than a man on a horse, but it was slightly overhung and protected them from the rain and rising wind.

Flintlock took Ayasha's hand and said, “Let's go.” But the girl held back and he said, “What's wrong with you, girl? You don't want to get wet?”

Ayasha turned up her face and stared into Flintlock's eyes. Her fingertips traced the thunderbird on his throat and she smiled. Then her lips parted and her mouth hungrily sought his.

Flintlock shook his head and pushed the girl away.

“No, this ain't right,” he said. “You're tetched in the head, Ayasha. You don't rightly know what you're doing.”

The girl didn't look hurt. She didn't look anything.

Flintlock, trying to reach her, said, “Why?”

Ayasha mined her brain for words, the habit of speech no longer coming easily to her.

“I . . . wanted . . . to . . . know,” she said.

It was the first time Flintlock had heard the girl utter a complete sentence and he was both pleased and concerned. Above their heads thunder rolled and when it was quiet again, he said, “What did you want to know?”

“If . . . I could . . .” Ayasha, unable to find words, gave up on that and started again. “Can I . . . love a man? Can I . . . love you?”

Flintlock had little understanding of women, and finding answers to Ayasha's questions pushed him to the limit. The girl had gone through hell and her thinking was no longer as it should be.

In the end, he smiled and said, “Sure you can love a man. You'll meet a fine, upstanding young feller and get hitched and have kids. Hell, Ayasha, you'll have a house with a picket fence and window boxes and you'll forget that you were ever . . . well, you'll forget all the bad things that happened to you.”

The girl smiled. “You can do this . . . Sam?”

Flintlock raised Ayasha's hand and kissed it gently. “No, I can't give you those things. I'm a rough-living man and I lead a desperate, violent life. I'm not the husband for you, but don't worry, the right young feller will come along. I guarantee it. He'll play the geetar an' sing ‘Sweet Violets' to you on the garden swing. You bet he will.”

“Can that still happen to me, Sam, after . . .”

“Yes, it can. Just have faith, Ayasha. Know that it will happen.”

“My name is Prudence, Prudence Walsh.”

“Good to know you, Prudence.”

“I think I prefer Ayasha.”

“There you go. Then that's what I'll keep on calling you.”

The hiss of the rain grew louder and Flintlock said, “This isn't going to pass over any time soon. Best we make tracks back to camp.”

Ayasha put her tiny hand on his arm. “Sam, you could've taken me.”

“Yeah, I know. It would've been a big mistake on both our parts.”

“Sam . . . thank you for not being . . . an Apache.”

Flintlock smiled. “I reckon that young feller you'll meet will count himself among the luckiest men in the world, Ayasha.” He swallowed hard. “Damn right.”

“Damn right they was here,” Chastity Gauley said. He fussed with the neckline of his peasant blouse. “Picked up a young gal that was undone by Apaches and took her with them.” He pulled out the top of the blouse. “Damn loose threads.”

“When was that?” Asa Pagg said.

“Oh, 'bout a week ago, maybe more.”

“They say where they were goin'?” Pagg said.

“North into the valley. At least that's the way they was headed.”

Pagg nodded. “Got any grub? And I need a shirt.” “Stew in the pot. Men's shirts, at cost, in the store at the back.”

“Whiskey?”

“You could call it that.”

“Seen anything of two men, call themselves Logan Dean an' Joe Harte? Real desperate-looking characters.”

“That's the only kind I get around here, but I can't say I've met them two.” Gauley settled the hang of his red skirt, then, without looking up, said, “You're Asa Pagg, ain't you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Well, like, I seen your face in the newspaper, a drawing, mind, but a good likeness. So if you are, or if you ain't, you know the grub an' the shirt you want?”

“What about them?”

“I'd wait until Bear Blodwell clears the premises,” Gauley said. “He ain't in a sociable mood today an' that's why I'm out here, even though it's raining on my nice new outfit. The skirt and blouse are Mexican, you know.”

“You see a foundling swatch on me, like I'm some poor orphan afraid of his shadow?” Pagg said.

“Bear ain't a nice man, Mr. Pagg if you are, Mr. Nobody if you ain't. He's drinking an' threatening to drop the hammer on somebody.”

“Then wait 'til he gets a load of me,” Pagg said.

Gauley shrugged. “Your funeral.”

“Come inside and dish me up some o' that stew and a bottle of Bass if you got it,” Pagg said.

“I got a bottle somewhere. I also got a shovel and I think I'm gonna need it afore too long.”

 

 

Asa Pagg was a killer and he recognized Bear Blodwell as a blood brother.

The man was big, as big as Pagg, dressed in the plaid shirt and mule-eared boots of a prospector. He wore a brown canvas coat and a battered railroad hat with a high crown and stingy brim. His Colt was holstered in a cross-draw gun rig. Like Pagg, he had a full, spade-shaped beard, as black as his eyes.

When Pagg bellied up to the bar, Blodwell, bent over a whiskey bottle, glanced at him and said, “What the hell do you want?”

“The proprietor has my order,” Pagg said. He smiled. “Rainy out today, but I reckon it might clear up by suppertime.”

Blodwell ignored that and said, “Hey, Gauley, don't serve this pilgrim nothin' until you see his money. Hell, he can't even afford to put a shirt on his back.”

Gauley laid a bowl of stew and a dusty bottle of Bass ale in front of Pagg. “Man's hungry, Bear,” he said.

“Take that grub away, like I told you,” Blodwell, said, straightening up.

“Leave it,” Pagg said.

Gauley hesitated. “I'll get shot if I do an' shot if I don't.”

“Try to lift my meal and you'll very definitely get shot,” Pagg said.

Blodwell pushed himself away from the bar. He moved easily for a big man, wide of shoulder, slim of hip, he was well-balanced on his feet.

“I'll lift the damned thing,” he said.

Blodwell reached across for Pagg's bowl and gave the outlaw the only chance he needed.

Pagg's massive right fist swung and crashed into Blodwell's face, just under his left eye, splitting skin, drawing blood. Blodwell staggered back, cursing. He went for his gun but Pagg wanted none of that, not when his blood was up and he was fighting mad.

He grabbed Blodwell's wrist before he could bring up the Colt, twisted hard and spun the big man around. Pagg pushed Blodwell's right arm hard and high up his back until the shoulder locked.

Blodwell screamed and dropped his gun. Pagg kept his grip on the man's arm, grabbed him by the back of his coat and charged him into the cabin wall. Blodwell hit headfirst and dropped, his eyes rolling.

He shook his head to clear his fogging vision and drops of scarlet blood flew from the cut under his eye.

But the big miner was game.

Blodwell staggered to his feet, stepped forward and swung a looping right that hit Pagg on his bearded chin and staggered him. Pagg crashed against the bar, but bounced back swinging. He was grinning for the sheer love of knuckle and skull fighting.

Both were big men and they stood toe to toe exchanging blows with big-knuckled iron-hard fists that battered their faces to bloody pulp.

Gauley yelled at them to “Stop or I'll scream,” but they ignored him.

Finally after a minute of moving back and forth over the timber floor, Blodwell broke loose. He feinted a left, then as Pagg slipped the blow, met him with a ripping uppercut that plowed into Pagg's belly. Retching bile, Pagg held on for grim life, hugging Blodwell to him. Then he drove his boot heel onto the miner's instep and Blodwell roared in and pushed Pagg away, breaking the clinch.

Warily now, their faces scarlet masks, the two big men circled each other, fists flicking like snake tongues as they probed for an opening.

Pagg missed with a straight right that unbalanced him and the two men clinched again. Pagg saw his opportunity and took it. He smashed the top of his forehead into the bridge of Blodwell's nose and was overjoyed to hear bone shatter.

Blodwell staggered back, badly hurt, and Pagg went after him.

He jabbed another straight right into the other man's splintered nose and when Blodwell flinched, followed up with a powerful left hook into the miner's ribs. Blodwell gasped like a stranded fish and tried to break. But Pagg wasn't about to let him off the hook.

He stepped forward, swinging, every punch finding its target.

Blodwell was weakening fast. His stamina had never been tested in a long fight and now he knew he needed to end this . . . and quickly.

He swung a right into Pagg's battered face, but the outlaw shrugged it off and counterpunched, another right to Blodwell's ruined nose.

Desperate now, his legs weakening, Blodwell wrapped his powerful arms around Pagg's waist in a bear hug and forced Pagg back, trying to break his spine.

Pagg's thumbs jabbed into Blodwell's eyes and gouged deep. To protect himself, the miner broke his hold and took a step back. He didn't cover up and it was a bad mistake.

Pagg, his fist coming up from his knees, smashed a roundhouse right into Blodwell's chin. The man dropped like a felled ox. He got up on one elbow, raised a surrendering hand to Pagg and gasped, “Enough. I'm done. It's over.”

It was a testament to the quality of Pleasant Tyrell's holsters that both Pagg's guns had stayed in place during the rough-and-tumble.

Now he drew and shot Blodwell between his horrified eyes.

“Wrong,” Pagg said. “Now it's over.”

Gauley stepped to Pagg's side and lifted his skirt to avoid Blodwell's blood. “Mister, you sure hold a grudge,” he said.

“My stew still warm and the beer cold?” Pagg said.

“I don't know.”

“Then go find out,” Pagg said.

“What about him?” Gauley said.

“What about him? He got kin around here?”

“No.”

“Then bury him.”

“Look at the size of him,” Gauley said. “He's going to take a heap o' burying.”

“I don't know about that,” Pagg said. “There ain't much of him left.”