Flintlock (6 page)

Flintlock had his Colt in the waistband of his pants, otherwise he would've never asked the question that he did now.

“Asa,” he said, “you make light of the golden bell. You wouldn't be after it yourself, would you?”

The stunned, disbelieving expression on Pagg's face answered Flintlock's question.

“Didn't I already tell you idiots that there is no golden bell?” he said. “It's a . . . hell, what's the word I'm looking for, Charlie?”

“Myth,” Fong said.

“Yeah, that's it, a myth. The bell doesn't exist. It never existed. Now get that through your thick heads and go do something useful like robbing a bank.”

Pagg shook his head, turned and walked away. The he stopped and said, “Abe, I'll tell Jack Coffin that you want him to go into the mountains and lead you to a giant golden bell.”

He roared laughter through his words. “Hell, that ought to make him real happy.”

 

 

His name was Kuruk, a sixteen-year-old Mescalero warrior with black, glittering eyes that had watched the white men shooting in the gulch.

When the men left he crouched among the aspen for a while, then rose and walked silently to his horse.

Geronimo would want to hear of this, that there were white men at the fort that had not been counted before.

Kuruk smiled. Geronimo would tell him he'd brought good news . . . that there were now more whites to kill.

The land that lay around Sergeant Tim O'Neil and Privates Oscar Werner and Jacob Spooner was vast; endless distances in all directions that had never been measured, dominated by the blue and red mesas and skyscraping cliffs that made up the Sonsela Buttes country.

The mirrors had been talking for the past hour and O'Neil was worried. That went double for the two eighteen-year-olds under his command.

Spooner was an orphan from New York's Five Corners, a towheaded runt who'd missed too many meals as a child, and Werner hailed from a cuckoo-clock village in the Bavarian Alps and could speak little English.

They were thirty miles north of Fort Defiance, in a land without shadow. The sun was lost in a brassy sky and about them heat shimmered as though the earth was melting.

“Well, they're here all right,” O'Neil said. “Talking mirrors and Apache sign all over the place.”

“Maybe the column will show up, Sarge, huh?” Spooner said. He'd only been west for three weeks and his nose and cheeks were burned red.

“Don't count on it, lad,” O'Neil said. “Colonel Brent and the regiment may still be in the Red Valley. We must go to them.”

O'Neil's orders had been to scout for hostiles as far south as Sonsela Buttes. If he encountered Apaches he was on no account to engage the enemy but to immediately report back to the main column.

O'Neil smiled to himself at that. He'd no intention of engaging the enemy, but it seemed the Apaches had a different idea about that.

Now, pinned down and with no hope of assistance, the noncom swept the landscape with his field glasses, bringing into close-up focus desert, brush and the eternal mesas just as immovable and majestic as the mountains. Nothing moved and there was no sound. A lizard panted on a flat rock on the sandy bank of the dry wash near where O'Neil lay, and in the distance a buzzard glided and quartered the land with its scalpel eyes.

“You think they know we're here?” Spooner said.

“We're the lads the mirrors have been talking about,” O'Neil said. “Of course they know we're here.”

“Will they attack?” Spooner said. He touched his tongue to his dry lips.

“Apaches are notional, and there's no telling what they'll do,” O'Neil said. “But I reckon they'll at least feel us out, see if it's worth a throw of the dice.”

Werner was farther down the wash holding the horses. He didn't understand the talk, but the sergeant's tone and Spooner's scared face told him all he needed to know.

He moved closer, bending low to take advantage of the cover of the bank.

Thirty minutes passed and the noon heat was unbearable. About a pint of water sloshed in each of the three canteens and O'Neil gathered them together. They might be in for a siege and the water would need to be rationed.

He was content to stay where he was. The wash made a U-turn around a large sandstone boulder, and over the years the spring runoff from a nearby mesa had cut it a good four feet deep. O'Neil and the others had taken a position at the bend of the U and the rock was at their back.

The way O'Neil had it figured, if the Apaches attacked, Werner, a good marksman with his Springfield carbine, would take a position next to the rock and guard the rear while he and Spooner took care of a frontal assault.

Of course, they were facing Apaches, and O'Neil knew it wouldn't be that simple. They weren't like the Plains Indians he'd fought before, a bunch of mounted warriors coming at you all at once. Apaches were just as brave as the Sioux and Cheyenne, but considerably more cautious.

As though to reinforce that opinion, a probing shot kicked up a startled exclamation point of dust on the bank three feet to O'Neil's left.

Beside him Private Spooner cut loose a shot from his carbine.

“Did you see the Apache?” O'Neil said.

The soldier shook his head.

O'Neil wasn't a cursing man by nature, but he yelled, “Then damn your eyes, don't shoot at shadows. You hear me? Conserve your ammunition.”

“Sorry, Sarge,” Spooner said.

Another shot. Close enough to shower dirt into O'Neil's face.

“They're taking our measure,” he said. He rolled over on his left side and called out to Werner. “Leave the horses. Take up a position next to the rock and guard our rear.”

The German looked puzzled.

“Damnit, man!” O'Neil roared. “Learn how to speak American.”

He got to his feet, grabbed Werner and dragged him to the rock. He pushed the man down into a crouched position. “There,” he said.

Werner said nothing. But he looked frightened.

Behind O'Neil, Spooner fired again.

“I think I got him, Sarge!” he yelled. “Damnit, I reckon I nailed him. I'm gonna get a scalp for Custer!”

“Nooo!” O'Neil shrieked as he lunged for the soldier.

Too late.

Spooner climbed over the parapet and then sprang to his feet, grinning as he reached for the knife on his belt.

A bullet smashed the grin from his lips and the lower jaw from his skull.

His mouth a bloody cavern of blood, shattered teeth and splintered bone, the young trooper, his eyes wild, fell back into the wash. His booted feet gouged convulsively into the sand, once, twice . . . then he lay still.

Oscar Werner turned his head and saw the grotesque horror of what had once been Spooner's face. Far from his snow-capped land, surrounded by a scorching desert inferno and a skilled and ruthless enemy, the teenager broke.

He rose to his feet and ran past Sergeant O'Neil. Werner scrambled up the bank, raised his hands and ran in the direction of the hidden Apaches.

“Kameraden! Kameraden!”
he yelled, his teenaged voice high-pitched and frantic.

But Apaches had no word for
comrade
.

Horrified, O'Neil watched as strong brown arms struck like copper snakes and pulled Werner to the ground.

Alive.

O'Neil had no time to act. He could only react.

He stood, thumbed back the hammer of his Colt and fired.

His bullet crashed into Werner's blond head and for a moment it looked as though the young cavalryman had pinned an exotic red blossom in his hair.

Sergeant O'Neil could not look longer.

Screaming their anger and frustration, half a dozen Apache warriors rose from the earth like the resurrection of the dead and charged him.

O'Neil shoved the muzzle of his Colt into his mouth, angling upward, and pulled the trigger. Blood, bone and brain fanned above his head as he collapsed.

The Apaches, outraged at what they took to be a sign of cowardice, pissed on O'Neil's corpse.

Geronimo, old, wise and wizened, stared at O'Neil's body. The soldiers had not fought well, and it seemed that the taking and burning of Fort Defiance was well within his means. He had thirty warriors, more than enough if this shooting scrape was an indication of the fighting prowess of the white soldiers.

But Geronimo was cautious, a man with a wait-and-see attitude that had earned him the Apache name
Goyathlay
, The Yawner.

He knew the young bucks were primed for war and would press for an immediate attack on the fort. But, though he was not a chief, Geronimo's medicine was powerful because he talked with the spirits of the dead, and the young men would listen to him.

It came to him then that he should postpone the attack for a couple more days until he was sure of a victory....

The Yawner would wait and see.

Jack Coffin did not scoff at the plan to find the Golden Bell of Santa Elena. He said only, “It is guarded by a specter. His name is Death.”

Abe Roper smiled. “Do we believe that, Jack?”

“I believe it. What you believe is of no concern to me.”

The breed's black eyes moved to Flintlock. “I feel your hate, Samuel.”

“I don't hate you, Jack,” Flintlock said.

“I think you do. You hate me because you fear me.”

“We're all friends here,” Charlie Fong said quickly. “I mean, ain't we?”

“I have no friends,” Coffin said. “I had a few, many years ago, but I buried them.”

“Well, we're not your enemy, Jack,” Roper said. “Are we, Sam'l?”

Before Flintlock could answer, Coffin said, “You are white men. All white men are my enemy.”

“Here, Jack, you ain't throwin' in with ol' Geronimo, are you?” Roper said. “If you plan to go on the warpath, wait until you find us the goddamned bell.”

Coffin shook his head and his long black hair spilled over his shoulders. “Geronimo is doomed, as are all the Apaches. And me along with them.”

For reasons known only to himself, the breed had adopted the costume of the vaquero, much faded by harsh weather. He wore a tight
charro
jacket, silver-studded leather pants, the cotton shirt of the vaquero, and a wide sombrero.

“Hell, Jack, you're only half Apache. You got nothing to fear,” Roper said. “What's your white half?”

“I don't know. I don't care.”

“Too bad. But I've got your daddy pegged as a Frenchy. Wunst I shacked up with a French gal in El Paso for a spell, and you got the look. The Frenchy look, I mean. Kinda swarthy an' all.”

Coffin turned to Flintlock again. “What do you think, Samuel?”

“I'd say you're half skunk, but I could be wrong.”

For the first time since he'd ridden into the fort, Coffin smiled. “Better a skunk than a Frenchman.”

Roper, smiling affably, moved to smooth things over.

“Well, we all have different opinions,
n'est-ce pas
? That's what makes the world go round, I say. Now, Jack, will you find us the cave where the big bell is kept?”

“I will find it, but it will be my death,” Coffin said. “This I know.”

The breed was a tall man, wide shouldered and big boned, with the hard, lean face of a man who'd followed many desert trails. He had no softness in him and no deep well of human kindness waiting to be discovered. Ten years before, he'd buried his entire family, including his wife and three children, slaughtered by Mexican lancers, and he'd died a small death with every shovelful of dirt until only the hard shell of a man was left.

Jack Coffin, scouting for American lawmen or Mexican
Rurales
, had killed twelve men, all of them white or Mexican. He'd never killed or caused the death of an Indian. He was fast with the Colt on his hip, a man to be reckoned with.

But then, so was Sam Flintlock, as Coffin was well aware.

“How come you're so all-fired hung up on dying, Jack?” Flintlock said. “You got a hemp posse on your back trail?”

“I was told about my death in a dream,” Coffin said. “An old man in a monk's robe came to me from a mist and told me I'd die before the summer wildflowers bloom. But the way of it, he would not reveal. He said there are secrets Death keeps to himself.”

“Well, I wouldn't worry about it,” Roper said. “We all have bad dreams, right, Charlie? Frijoles can do that to ya.”

“A nightmare is a black dream because our soul wandered too far in sleep into a haunted place,” Charlie Fong said. “When we wake, and sit upright in our blankets, our heart pounding, gasping for breath, it's only because our body rescued our soul and made it return home.”

“Hell, Charlie,” Flintlock said, “you're a strange one.”

“I'm a Celestial, remember,” Fong said. He winked at Flintlock.

“When I woke he was still holding my hand,” Coffin said.

“Who?” Roper said.

“Death. He'd taken my right hand and he still held it when I woke. My hand was cold, as though I'd been carrying ice.”

“Enough of this, Jack, you're spookin' the hell out of me,” Roper said. “Let's get back to talking business, huh?”

“We will leave for the Carrizo Mountains at first light tomorrow,” Coffin said. “Now our business is done.”

He turned and moved toward the door, but Flintlock stepped in front of him, his face like stone.

“Jack, you try any fancy moves on this trip, I'll take it personal and I'll take it hard,” he said. “And when I take stuff personal, I do bad things. Understand?”

“I have nothing to do with Geronimo,” Coffin said.

“As far as I'm concerned, you're an Apache,” Flintlock said. “That's enough for me. I don't trust you.”

“Why do you hate me so much, Samuel?”

“You know why.”

“You talk of Barney Glennon and Sonora.”

“I talk of Santa Cruz.”

“Glennon was a bandit, a bank robber. He was wanted by the
Rurales
, dead or alive.”

“He was my friend and a white man and you killed him.”

“Yes. In the Coyote Azul cantina. He drew down on me.” Coffin's eyes met Flintlock's, clashed. “He'd been informed.”

“He left a wife and two children back in Texas.”

“How many of the men you killed left wives and children?”

“As far as I know, none of them. They were all trash like you, Jack.”

“Don't push me any harder, Samuel.”

Coffin's hand was close to his gun. He was as fast as chain lightning and hard to handle.

“Damn your eyes, I'll be the death you fear if you sell us down the river to your Apache friends,” Flintlock said between gritted teeth. “Keep that in mind, breed.”

“Sam'l, ease off, back up some,” Roper said. “Jack says he'll lead us to the bell and that's all he'll do.” He beamed and placed a hand on both Coffin's and Flintlock's shoulders. “Four even shares once we break up the bell. How does that set with you, Jack? True-blue, huh?”

“I don't care about the gold,” Coffin said. “I go with you only because I follow my destiny.”

The breed's highfalutin talk about death and destiny was beyond anything in Abe Roper's experience. He fell back on what he did know.

“I tell you what, boys, there's a dugout saloon with a hog farm just two miles west of here,” he said. “Ain't that right, Charlie?”

“So I've heard, Abe. Sergeant Tone says the place is run by Saggy Maggie Muldoon, big gal, used to have her own house in Abilene. Tone says the whiskey is only twenty cents a shot and the gals are clean.”

“There you go, boys, made to order fer lively young gents like yourselves,” Roper said. “Why don't you two ride on over there and have a drink and a woman and let bygones be bygones?”

Charlie Fong nodded. “Words of wisdom, Abe. Yes, siree, words of wisdom as ever was.”

Coffin said nothing. He reached for the door handle and Flintlock took a step to the side.

“One day soon I'll kill you, Samuel,” the breed said as he opened the door and let a blast of hot, dusty air inside. “I will put a bullet through the thunderbird's head, depend on it.”

“Not if I see you coming.”

“You'll see me.”

“Then I look forward to it.”

“Hey, boys, don't forget Saggy—”

The slamming door cut off the rest of Roper's words, but Charlie Fong talked across the silence.

“Boy, this is gonna be a fun trip,” he said.