William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

“I may be stupid, but even I can see that,” Flintlock said, still irritated. “We need the horses.”

It took an hour of cussin’ and discussin’ and many false tries before the ropes held and Flintlock and the two other men, all mounted, finally righted the wagon and freed its bedraggled occupants.

The four women staggered around working kinks out of their backs and other places. Biddy sported a new black eye, the result of being hit by someone’s head when the wagon fell. Hands on hips, the incensed ladies surrounded Flintlock and aired out their lungs, turning the air blue with their cusses as they assailed him for a barbarian, a brute, a thug, and a low person.

He decided to beat a hasty retreat and backed away . . . but in doing so, momentarily took his eyes off Davis. It was a bad mistake, giving the man all the time he needed to sprint to his horse, climb into the saddle, and light out at a gallop.

O’Hara aimed a revolver at the fleeing man and thumbed off three fast shots, but as far as Flintlock could tell, none took effect. Davis’s mount kicked up a dust cloud as it stretched into a flat-out run and he was soon out of revolver range.

But Flintlock’s horse was close.

He sprinted for the animal and tripped over Biddy’s extended foot, landing flat on his face with a heavy thud. Before he could collect himself and force his winded body to rise, the four women jumped on him. In a flurry of white petticoats, they pounded and kicked, scratched and bit, all the time yelling like enraged banshees. Almost invisible in the dust, Flintlock was getting the worst of the free-for-all. O’Hara ran to Flintlock’s defense and tried to pull the savage females off him, but it was like trying to stop a catfight with his bare hands. Just like Flintlock, O’Hara was clawed and bitten. Biddy landed a fair left hook to his nose, drawing blood.

Finally, the superior strength of the two men prevailed and they fought off the women. Flintlock managed to stagger to his feet. Like four harpies at bay, the ladies formed a line in front of his horse and dared him to mount. By then, Morgan Davis was long gone and Flintlock didn’t make the attempt.

Battered and bruised, he was irritated beyond measure. He stooped, picked up the fallen Colt, and said, “I’ve never shot a woman before, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“Yes,” Biddy said, “gun us down like you did Poke. Then see if the Rangers don’t catch up with you and hang you from the nearest tree. There’s a law in Texas against killing helpless women, you know.”

O’Hara wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand. “She has a point, Sam. Maybe now is not such a good time to gun them.”

Flintlock grimaced. “Thanks for the advice, O’Hara.”

The breed shook his head. “But I have to hand it to you, Sam. You sure got a way with women.”

Biddy spat and said, “He plans to shoot us all right, Injun. He’s a born killer if ever I seen one. You heard my name, but I’ll tell you anyway. I’m Biddy Sales.” She placed her hand on the shoulder of the plump young blonde next to her. “This here is Lizzie Doulan, as innocent a flower as ever lived. Maybe you’d like to shoot her first, Flintlock.” She moved to the next woman, a hard-eyed redhead. “Meet Jane Feehan, but let her say her prayers before you gun her. And this is Margie Tott.” Biddy laid her hands on the shoulders of a petite, hazel-eyed brunette. “She sends every penny she earns to her poor old mother in the Emerald Isle.”

Biddy then stepped in front of Flintlock, belligerent and brassy. Her head tilted back and a great deal of firm cleavage showed above her corset as she said, “All right, we’re ready. Open fire with your murderous revolver and be damned to ye! Let me be the first one to die.”

O’Hara said, a hint of a smile on his lips, “Seems like you’ve got a decision to make, Sam.”

“Damn it, O’Hara. Keep your opinion to yourself.” Flintlock waved his Colt. “Right, you gals into the wagon. Now!”

Biddy again put her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing. “Make us.”

“I won’t tell you again,” Flintlock said. The thought that he was entering into yet another losing battle was starting to nag at him.

She stood her ground. “And I said ‘make us.’”

“Yeah, make us,” Lizzie Doulan said.

All four took up the chorus, flouncing their skirts. “Make us! Make us! Make us!”

At a loss, Flintlock stood helplessly, his useless Colt hanging by his side.

Suddenly, the breed let out a loud, piercing shriek that abruptly stopped the female cries. He had Flintlock’s Barlow knife in his right fist, the blade open, and he launched into an unrestrained tribal dance, his voice raised in a wild chant. “Yi-hi-hi-hi-hi . . . yi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi . . .”

Saved by O’Hara, Flintlock caught on quickly. “Oh my God!”

Biddy was alarmed. “What’s the hell is he doing?”

“O’Hara is half Mescalero Apache,” Flintlock said, suitable awe in his voice. “That’s his scalp dance.”

Lizzie Doulan said, “Whose scalp does he want?”

“Yours,” Flintlock said. “And Biddy’s and everybody’s.”

O’Hara’s dance pace increased and his chanting rose in volume as he waved the knife above his head. His face, bloodstained from his swollen nose, bore an expression of unrestrained fury.

The four ladies were bold, but not all that brave. Screeching, they beat a hasty retreat to the wagon and piled inside. Then came a loud snick! as the door bolt slammed into place.

Flintlock grinned. “All right, O’Hara, you can stop playacting now.”

The breed stopped, waved the knife in Flintlock’s face, and said, “Who was playacting, white man?”

Chapter Five

While the woman were locked inside the wagon, Flintlock dragged away Poke Murray’s body and laid it in the brush beside the bushwhacker he’d killed in the first exchange of fire. The Hawken’s .50 caliber ball had blown a fist-sized hole in the man’s chest and Flintlock figured he’d died instantly.

“Admiring your handiwork, Sammy?”

Flintlock followed the sound of the voice and saw wicked old Barnabas, the old mountain man who’d raised him from a child, perched among the topmost branches of a wild oak.

“This is an unpleasant surprise. I thought I was finally rid of you,” Flintlock said.”

“Boy, you won’t get shot of me until you find your ma in the Arizony Territory and she tells you your rightful name,” Barnabas said. “I know you’re an idiot, Sam, but try to wrap your mind around this fact. You can’t spend the rest of your life called fer a rifle.”

“I’ll find her. Don’t you worry about that,” Flintlock said, irritated. He pointed to an object in the old man’s hand. “What the hell is that thing you’re holding?”

Barnabas held up the object that glinted in the sun. “This is an old-timey helmet, boy. See, you put it on your head like this.” He lowered the helmet onto his head. His voice sounding hollow, he added, “Then you lift the visor.” It was shaped like the bow of an iron steamship. He raised it and said, “There, now I can see you just fine.”

“What are you doing with that thing?” Flintlock said.

“Polishing it up for a feller.”

“What feller?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Sammy, but I’ll tell you anyway. This here hat belongs to Baron Boris Von Baggenheim. Back, oh, four hundred years ago, ol’ Boris made a career of galloping around the countryside slaughtering peasants and dragging maidens back to his castle to have his way with them.” Barnabas sighed. “Boris sure misses them good old days.”

“And that’s why he’s in hell?” Flintlock said.