Flintlock (11 page)

He drew a .32 Smith & Wesson and two-handed it straight out in front of him, aiming at Flintlock.

Abe Roper drew, fired and blew the top of Cole's head clean off.

The man fell, perhaps wishing at the moment of death that he'd stuck to blades.

As Charlie Fong said later, “Jim Cole got his work in like a girl.”

A gunfight is long in the telling but short in the doing.

The railroad clock on the wall tick-tocked only three times from the moment Elliot made his gun move to the death of Jim Cole.

But to Flintlock it seemed like an eternity.

He turned his head and his eyes met Roper's through a drift of gray gunsmoke.

Roper shrugged. “I thought I'd help out.”

“You did,” Flintlock said. “Thanks.”

Chastity emerged through the curtain again, took one look at the dead men and promptly fainted.

When he hit the ground the trading post shook.

The buffalo soldiers of C Troop, 10th Cavalry, had been on campaign against Apaches for two months and exhaustion showed on their faces as they prodded their equally weary captives south toward Fort Defiance under an iron-gray sky that blustered the threat of rain.

Once at full strength, ninety-five men, four civilian teamsters and two Piute scouts, detached duties and casualties had reduced the troop to just fifty-eight, half of them raw recruits.

Captain Robert Gibbs rode at the head of the column with Sergeants Fogarty and Ryan and the guidon corporal. Second Lieutenant Wilfred Mansfield rode drag, in command of herding the hostiles.

Captain Gibbs, a fine-looking soldier with a set of vast muttonchop whiskers, was distantly related to Ambrose E. Burnside and he'd adopted the general's style of facial hair as homage to the great man.

“Keeping Uncle Ambrose's whiskers in the family, don't ye know,” he was wont to say. “I've recently heard men refer to them as sideburns, and I must say that it makes me quite proud.”

But Gibbs was not a mere frontier dandy, he was a competent, brave officer and right now he was worried.

The black troopers, normally sympathetic toward the Apaches, were in a bitter mood. Earlier that morning, the discovery of the bodies of six miners and their womenfolk, and the killing of one of their own, had made them as hostile toward Apaches as any of their white comrades.

The screaming madwoman now riding in the supply wagon was a constant reminder of what they'd found, and with every hysterical shriek angry whispers were exchanged between the grim-faced troopers.

Gibbs decided his first order of business was to get rid of the woman and then hopefully the troop's anger would cool and with it the very real threat of massacred captives.

The troop had pushed forward ten miles since daybreak and then as the sun began its slow descent to the horizon they'd come on the dead miners.

Three wagons were scattered across a grassy meadow that was thick with blue wildflowers, bordered by stands of pine and aspen. It was a pretty spot to be the scene of such a horrific catastrophe.

The Apaches had come out of the trees fast and struck hard.

According to the Piute scouts who read the signs, the miners had no time to mount a coordinated defense and most had been killed within minutes, right where they stood.

An older, gray-haired woman, perhaps the mother of one of the men, had been shot and had died quickly. The two other women, younger, had not been so lucky. Both had been raped and one of them, with bright red hair, was dead. The other wandered naked among the wildflowers and alternately screamed and muttered nonsense to herself.

Gibbs ascribed the death of the redhead as one of God's tender mercies. As for the other, she'd have to travel in the wagon all the way to Fort Defiance where the females at the post, who would understand the dreadful implications of what the girl had suffered, could care for her.

But then, disaster piled on disaster . . .

One of the young troopers, a raw recruit from the Boston slums, was detailed to help collect the naked bodies for burial, and along with five others he rode into the meadow.

The woman's screams were constant now, shrill and agonizing, and the trooper opened his mouth in horror and put his hands over his ears.

Captain Gibbs, who was there, later said he should've recognized the warning signs and relieved the man of duty, but didn't.

The trooper, a seventeen-year-old named Jackson, cried out like a man in pain and suddenly swung his horse around and galloped to the rear of the column. There eighty captive Apaches, all of them Chiricahua, sat in a circle, gazing at nothing. There were no warriors, just old men, women, several of them pregnant, and children.

Possessed by whatever demons the sight of the tortured, naked bodies had instilled in him, young Jackson rode among the captives and cut loose with his service revolver, shooting indiscriminately into them.

Sergeant Ryan said later that the trooper was screaming obscenities at the Apaches as he fired. He killed one old man, a woman and a couple of children before his Colt clicked on an empty chamber.

Jackson, raving, was reaching for the carbine under his knee when Ryan shot him out of the saddle.

Trooper Jackson had been buried with the rest, but now the troop was seething with anger toward the Apaches and resentment directed at Sergeant Ryan, a decent enough man who'd stopped the killing the only way he knew how.

Captain Gibbs told his men it had been Ryan's duty to stop the killing, but it didn't help much.

With less than two hours of daylight left, under a threatening sky, a flurry of gunshots carried in the rising wind added to Captain Gibbs's woes.

He halted the column and said to gray-haired Sergeant Adam Fogarty, since Sergeant Ryan had been temporarily relieved of duty, “Apaches, d'ye think?”

Fogarty, who'd fought with the 10th in the 1880 campaign against Victorio, said, “Yes, sir. And to the south of us, I reckon.”

“What's there, Sergeant? More wagons?”

“I doubt it, sir. But there's a trading post down that way.”

“So the hostiles could be attacking the trading post?”

“Could be, sir. But the firing has stopped already.”

“Maybe Geronimo got his fingers burned.”

“I couldn't say, sir.”

“How far is the trading post?”

Fogarty looked around him, fixing landmarks. “Two miles, sir. No more than that.”

Captain Gibbs was uncomfortably aware that this far from Fort Defiance if he brought on an engagement with Apaches he could expect no help. His orders were to duck a fight and deliver the captive hostiles in a timely manner. He'd been told that in any case the presence of so many blue coats would deter any attack.

But gunshots so close at least bore some investigation.

Gibbs nodded and said, “Sergeant, my compliments to Lieutenant Mansfield and ask him to join me at the head of the column.”

A few moments later, Mansfield, a fresh-faced youth with clear blue eyes and a peach-fuzz mustache, brought his mount alongside Captain Gibbs.

“You heard the shots, Mr. Mansfield?” Gibbs said.

“Yes, sir.”

Gibbs repeated what Fogarty had told him, then said, “Our orders are to escort the prisoners to Fort Defiance, not engage Apaches. But I will ride ahead to reconnoiter the situation with Sergeant Fogarty, one of the scouts and the first two pairs. You will bring on the rest of the column with all expedition.”

Mansfield saluted. “Yes, sir.” Then, “Ah, sir, the captives will slow us down.”

A gust of rain spattered over the officers and distant thunder rumbled.

“Then make them walk faster, Lieutenant Mansfield,” Gibbs said. He clapped his gloved hands. “Come on now, chop-chop.”

At Chastity Gauley's insistence, Flintlock and Abe Roper carried out their dead in a drizzling rain and laid them under a nearby pine.

Gauley decided to have another fit of the vapors and flopped into a chair on his tumbledown porch, fanning his flushed face with a lacy handkerchief.

He was still there when a cavalry officer and six troopers rode up to the post, the red and white guidon of the 10th Cavalry snapping above their heads.

Before Captain Gibbs could speak, Chastity, an ox in a frilly dress, ran from the porch, waving his arms. “Murder! Murder!” he yelled.

Taken aback, Gibbs took a few moments to answer. Then he said, “Calm yourself, ma'am . . . sir . . .” He looked totally confused before the soldier in him reasserted itself. “What happened here? Was it Apaches?”

Gibbs caught sight of Flintlock and his eyes lingered on his tattooed throat. Again he seemed bewildered.

“No, it wasn't Apaches,” Gauley said. “Two dead men lie under the tree over there.” He pointed to Flintlock and Roper. “Killed by those two.”

“Well?” Gibbs said to Flintlock. His eyes telegraphed that he badly wanted to mention the bird, but as an officer and a gentleman that would be uncouth.

“Those two were hunting me,” Flintlock said. “They found me.”

“Are they lawmen?” Gibbs said, glancing at the bodies.

“No, they're skunks,” Flintlock said.

“It was a fair fight, General.” This from one of the miners. “Them fellers drawed down on these gentlemen and they defended themselves.”

“That is a matter for the civil authorities, not the army,” Gibbs said. “I have more important problems at the moment.”

He glanced at Sergeant Fogarty, who sat his saddle stiffly, his face empty, then back to Gauley.

“I am Captain Robert Gibbs of the 10th Cavalry, escorting a number of hostiles to Fort Defiance. How do I address you?”

“Miss Chastity is fine, or just plain Chastity.”

Gibbs gave an “ahem,” then said, “Well, ah, Chastity, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Ask away, Captain, I'm always willing to help the army.” Gauley looked around him. “Where are the Apaches?”

“With the main column, that should be here shortly,” Gibbs said. “Now to the favor I need of you . . . ah . . . Chastity. Mine is a most singular problem, but it is of the greatest moment. It involves a young lady who was with a party of gold miners who were wiped out by Apaches.”

Flintlock and Roper exchanged glances, and Charlie Fong spoke for both of them when he said, “Where was this, Cap'n? And did they have wagons?”

“A few miles north of here in the Red Rock Valley. And yes, they had three wagons,” Gibbs said. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered,” Fong said.

Roper looked agitated.

Gold miners with wagons in the Red Valley was bad news. Had they got wind of the bell?

Gibbs was talking again. “The young lady in question was ravaged most mercilessly by the Apaches and now, as a result, is quite mad. Her pitiful cries and screams are undermining the morale of my men and I can no longer deal with her.”

“So you want to leave her here?” Gauley said.

“In a word, yes.”

“Soldiers can just about stand more'n they think they can, Captain,” Chastity said.

“My troopers, for reasons I won't go into here, are already on edge,” Gibbs said. “The woman is making things much worse.”

The captain's shoulders slumped. “If you can't take her in, I'm afraid all I can do is abandon her to her fate. I can't let her undermine morale any longer.”

“Is she a white woman?” Gauley said.

“Yes. And very pretty . . . or she was.”

“You can't leave a white woman by the trail at the mercy of Apaches and wild animals,” Gauley said. “All right, then bring her here. It will be nice to have another woman I can talk to.”

“Yes. Quite.” Gibbs's saddle creaked as he adjusted his seat. “But I'm afraid all she does is scream. She won't talk.”

“Never underestimate the power of a woman,” Gauley said.

Gibbs had no idea how to take that, but he was spared the need to reply when Fogarty said, “Column coming up, sir.”

 

 

Heads bent, C Company came on through a lashing rain. Above the troopers the sky looked like sheets of curled lead, branded by dazzling scrawls of lightning. Clouds blanketed the Carrizo Mountains like black gauze, but here and there green pine tops arrowed above the gloom.

Lieutenant Mansfield, wearing a slicker that gleamed in the fading light, rode at the head of the column, behind him the troopers, then the wagons and bringing up the rear the Apache prisoners, chivvied forward by soldiers just as wet and miserable as they were.

Because of the coming darkness and bad weather, further travel was impossible. Gibbs ordered Mansfield to bivouac the men in the trees and keep the Apaches under strong guard. He warned the lieutenant that the captives were to be fed only hardtack and water so that, according to his orders, “The hostiles should thus be rendered weak, passive and pliable, present no threat and be incapable of either fight or flight.”

The old were already weak, as were the children. Only the young women had any reserve of strength, but the bread and water diet and the hard trail were steadily draining them.

 

 

Sam Flintlock and Abe stood on the post porch, rain ticking from the rickety roof, when a couple of troopers brought a woman from one of the wagons and headed in their direction.

She wasn't screaming, not then, but she walked with empty eyes, unseeing, uncaring. The woman, a girl really, was pretty, with a mass of auburn hair and dazzling blue eyes. Her calico dress was torn and stained and she bled from a cut on her forehead.

As she passed Flintlock she pointed at herself and said, “Seventeen.” Then the soldiers took her inside.

“She ain't ever gonna be right again,” Roper said. “Apaches can do that to a woman.”

“She's pretty,” Flintlock said.

“Yeah, but she won't stay like that much longer.”

Captain Gibbs left the bivouac in the trees and stepped onto the porch.

“Did you see the madwoman?” he said.

“Yeah,” Flintlock said, “she's inside.”

“A tragic case,” Gibbs said.

“I reckon,” Flintlock said.

Flintlock saw the soldier's eyes go to his face, then his throat and slide away quickly as though they'd been burned.

“It happened when I was a boy,” Flintlock said.

Gibbs looked relieved that he could finally mention the bird. “Who did that to you?” he said.

“Well, I reckon the Assiniboine,” Flintlock said. “But it was my grandpappy's idea. He was a retired mountain man, rode with Jim Bridger an' them.”

“He should've been horsewhipped,” Gibbs said. “Even wearing a cravat, you can never appear in polite society. Did he realize that?”

“I don't know,” Flintlock said. “Ol' Barnabas didn't know any polite society.”

“What did your parents say?”

“They weren't around back then.”

“You have my sympathies.”

“Thank you, but I've grown used to it and so have my friends,” Flintlock said. “Ol' Geronimo says the thunderbird on my body is good medicine.”

“You met him?” Gibbs said, surprised.

“Only once.”

“‘Good medicine' . . . it's the kind of thing a painted savage would say.”

“When I met him he wasn't wearing paint.”

Gibbs smiled. “They say he's so evil, he's grown horns. But I don't put any stock in that.”

“Hell, Captain, he's got a spread like a Texas longhorn,” Flintlock said.

Gibbs's gaze searched Flintlock's face, saw a crooked, amused smile, then he said, “You had me going there for a minute.” He laughed. “‘A spread like a Texas longhorn.' Good. Jolly good.” He touched the brim of his kepi. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

After Gibbs brushed past and stepped into the post, Roper said, “Them two dead men need buryin'.”

“Come morning I'll ask the captain if I can get a couple of his boys to help,” Flintlock said.

Roper was about to say something but the words died in his throat.

Jack Coffin was walking toward them through the rain, his face like thunder.