A Time for Vultures (16 page)

O'Hara shook Sam Flintlock awake and handed him a cup of coffee. “I saw something this morning.”

Grumpy, his mouth dry as mummy dust, Flintlock said, “Tell me in another hour when I wake up, huh?” But like all men who lived hard lives on the frontier Flintlock had conditioned himself to wake instantly and he was fully alert. He tested the coffee, made a face, and began to build a cigarette. “All right, now tell me.”

“I saw a woman with silver hands.” O'Hara stared at Flintlock, expecting him to register shock, or at least surprise, but he was disappointed.

“She lost her hands somehow and the engineer feller, le Strange, made her new ones,” Flintlock said. “At least that's the story.”

“Two of Charlie Brewster's men carried her out of Fisher's wagon,” O'Hara said.

“Carried her out?”

“Yeah. And she was white as a boiled sheet.”

“She's a white woman.”

O'Hara said, “Then I reckon she was whiter than any white woman I ever saw.”

“Did you see King?”

“Sure did. He was stomping around yelling orders. He wants all the bedding and furniture removed from the smallpox houses and burned and he told Adam Flood to get his wife out of the livery.”

That last disturbed Flintlock, but he let it go. “Does King still look poorly?”

O'Hara shook his head. “No, he looks just fine. Well, as fine as a man with a tin arm and leg can look. Wearing his gun. I saw that.”

Flintlock returned to the livery. “Why does he want Mrs. Flood out of the stable?”

“As far as I can tell, he wants to make room for his wagon and locomotive. By the look of things he's got the Gatling all loaded and ready.”

Flintlock stubbed out his cigarette butt on the saloon floor, put on his hat, and then pulled on his boots. He rose, deciding to have it out with King about Mrs. Flood, but the smell of frying bacon stopped him cold and sent him toward the stove.

Biddy said, “This is the last of it, Flintlock, and there will be no more biscuits after these.”

“Weevils in the rest of the flour.” Margie wrinkled her nose. “It's disgusting.”

Like Biddy and Jane Feehan, Margie's face was painted and she'd made an effort to make her clothes presentable. She'd hiked her skirt up a few inches the better to show her legs in her calf boots. The arrival of close to a dozen young, virile men had not gone unnoticed among the women. All, that is, except Lizzie Doulan. Her blond hair was unbrushed and she had dark circles under her eyes. The girl looked exhausted. She had the exhaustion of a person who no longer wanted to live. She looked as though every waking day was not be embraced with joy, but a thing to be endured.

Biddy handed Flintlock a biscuit and bacon, looked into his eyes, and said, “Lizzie is tired. She's been spending a lot of time with Mrs. Flood, poor thing.”

Her next statement shocked Flintlock. “I'm scared. I saw two men out there in the street this morning. They didn't look human.”

“King Fisher and Clem Jardine,” Flintlock said. “Obadiah le Strange the engineer fixed them up with artificial legs and arms.”

“And eyes,” Biddy said.

“Both of them were shot to pieces. Le Strange saved their lives.”

“He's not God. He's not even a doctor,” Biddy said. “He's an engineer.”

Flintlock took time off chewing to smile. “Tell him that.”

“What is the metal egg? Is it a locomotive of some kind?”

“Yeah, but it doesn't need rails. King Fisher calls it Helrun, the Black Howler, and it's a machine to be reckoned with.” Flintlock flashed back to the massacre of the Comancheros. “It's got a Gatling gun.”

Lizzie Doulan spoke for the first time that morning. “A terrible evil has come to this town and it has trapped us here.”

“We're not trapped,” Flintlock said. “I'll shoot our way out of here if—”

A gunshot shattered the fabric of the morning and his words died on his lips.

Flintlock shoved his Colt into his waistband and hurried out of the saloon and into the street. A crowd—Charlie Brewster, his men, and a couple other guns that Fisher had brought with him—had gathered outside the livery.

As Flintlock crossed the street, he heard Sarah Castle say, “Stand back. Give me room.”

Brewster heard hurried footsteps behind him and turned. He stepped in front of Flintlock. “No, Sam.” He jerked the gun out of Flintlock's pants and then with his mouth close to his ear, whispered, “You can't draw down on him. He'll kill you.” Brewster stepped back.

Flintlock was facing him and a couple other gunmen. “Give me my gun, Charlie.”

“You'll get yourself killed,” Brewster said.

“Then I'll take it from you.” Flintlock, his fists ready, moved in on Brewster.

The incident ended when King Fisher pushed his way through the crowd and stepped between the two men. His strange artificial eye glowing green, he said to Flintlock, “I will not tolerate defiance in a man. I made him aware of my feelings, but he chose to ignore me.”

“Damn you. Who did you kill?” Flintlock said.

That question was answered by a woman's hysterical cry from the livery and in that moment Flintlock knew with terrible certainty who was dead.

“Listen to me, Sam,” Fisher said. “I want to—”

“I'm all through listening to you, King.” Flintlock brushed past the man.

Fisher threw at him, “Damn you. You'll regret this slight.”

Flintlock ignored that and pushed his way through the circle of Brewster gunmen. Their hard faces revealed little, but the solemn silence they maintained as they stared at the lanky body of Adam Flood was suggestive of men who figured an injustice had been done. Rose Flood had thrown herself on top of her husband's body and she sobbed uncontrollably. An ominous pool of blood surrounded the pair, but Flintlock couldn't tell from whom it came. Perhaps from both . . . wounded husband and grieving wife.

He turned and said to a man standing next to him, “Get Biddy Sales. Tell her to hurry.”

The man hesitated for just a moment and then flung himself through the crowd.

Flintlock kneeled beside the dead man and placed his hand on Mrs. Flood's back and whispered to Sarah Castle, “How is Adam?”

Before the doctor could answer, Rose lifted her tearstained face and said, “My husband is dead. Adam was murdered by that . . . that abomination.”

An older man with eyes quieter than the others squatted beside Flintlock. “He had a Smith & Wesson belly gun in his pocket. He tried to run a bluff with the piece and King Fisher shot him.”

“He draw down on Fisher?” Flintlock said.

“No, just showed it as a warning, like.” The gunman shook his head. “Sure way for a man to get hisself killed.”

Flintlock reached down and took a Smith & Wesson. 38 from the dead man's pocket. He broke it open and said, “It isn't loaded.”

The gunman sighed and rose to his feet. “Rube ran a bluff with an empty gun and left his pregnant wife a widow.” He shook his head. “Hell, I'm getting too old for this business.”

Rose Flood screamed and screamed and as one, the surrounding ring of men shrank away from her, unable to face a thing so harrowing and so far beyond their experience.

“Make way there. Give her room to breathe.” Dr. Castle pushed some of the onlookers out of her way. “You men be about your business and that includes you, Flintlock.” She took a knee beside the screaming woman and the legs of her coveralls were instantly stained with blood. “Is Biddy Sales here yet? I'm sure she's seen a woman miscarry before.”

Flintlock stumbled away with the other men then sought out Charlie Brewster and grabbed him by the shirtfront. “Give me my Colt, Charlie.”

“Don't be a fool,” Brewster said. “King Fisher will kill you. Nobody alive can shade him and I just saw that for a fact.”

“Charlie, I won't ask you again.” Flintlock turned away from the outlaw for a moment to yell, “One of you men give me a gun.”

Brewster drew—practiced, fast, and smooth. The gun slammed into the side of Flintlock's head and dropped him like a poleaxed ox.

Flintlock didn't know what hit him.

The outlaw stepped back and saw O'Hara eying him. “You taking a hand in this, Injun?”

“Not this time,” O'Hara said. “A couple of you men help me carry Sam into the saloon.”

Suddenly, Rose Flood stopped screaming . . . but the resulting silence shrieked even louder.

Sam Flintlock woke to a splitting headache and the concerned, worn face of Lizzie Doulan.

She removed a wet cloth from his forehead and said, “Are you all right, Mr. Flintlock?”

Flintlock groaned. “What the hell did Charlie Brewster hit me with?”

O'Hara's voice sounded mildly amused. “His hogleg.”

“Damn near killed me,” Flintlock said.

“I guess he buffaloed you pretty good at that, Sam. You were so plumb loco out there in the street you didn't give him much choice.”

“Hell, O'Hara, why didn't you plug him?”

“That would have been impolite, Sam. Charlie was only trying to help, being a good Samaritan, an' all.”

Flintlock struggled into a sitting position. “I'm sure there's some Injun logic there. When I find it, I'll let you know.” He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Damn. The whole room is spinning.”

“It's dark out,” Lizzie said.

O'Hara glanced at the railroad clock on the wall that Margie Tott had compulsively kept wound. “It's near midnight, Sam. You've been out for hours.” After a few moments, his voice was strangely expressionless. “You missed all the excitement. Mighty big doings in Happyville.”

Outside, the wind, flecked with rain, blew hard and lifted shrouds of dust from the street. Flintlock cocked his aching head, listening.

“Mrs. Flood is dead and her baby with her,” O'Hara said. “Bled to death while trying to birth that baby, or so Dr. Castle says. Happened a couple hours ago. Biddy told me the doctor did all she could.”

Flintlock was silent for a while, absorbing that. Then he said, “King Fisher took three lives with one bullet.”

“You could say that,” O'Hara said.

“I hate this town,” Lizzie Doulan said.

The skin tightened against the hard bones of Flintlock's face. “King just made himself a moving target.”

“Just don't brace Fisher, Sam,” O'Hara said. “I swear, I hear you talk about a drawdown and I'll give you another headache.”

“There's more than one way to skin a cat,” Flintlock said.

“Or a louse,” Lizzie said. “Hear that sound out there?”

Flintlock listened into the night. “What is it? A woman sobbing?”

“Yes, her name is Blanche Jardine. She's—”

“I know who she is,” Flintlock said.

“She's grieving for Mrs. Rose and her child,” Lizzie said. “Her face is made of porcelain and she drops water on it for tears. The night before she died, Mrs. Rose told Biddy she planned to call the baby Louisa if it was a girl or Jonas if it was a boy. It was a girl and Biddy says she'll put the names of all three Floods on the grave marker.”

O'Hara said, “I didn't even know this town had a graveyard.”

“It's small, to the north of town among some wild oak,” Lizzie said. “There's only a couple graves and they're hard to find because of the brush.”

“Now there will be five.” Flintlock was not a man to be handled or helped, but he made an exception. “Help me to my feet, Injun.” O'Hara, a man who'd shared the hardships of some of his most dangerous trails, was a man he respected. “I need to see if I can still stand.”

O'Hara grabbed Flintlock by the arm and effortlessly raised him to his feet.

Doing what had become second nature to him, Flintlock's gun hand strayed to his waistband. “Damn him.”

“If you're talking about Charlie Brewster, he gave me your gun. Told me to give it to you when you'd cooled down and were less liable to go off half-cocked looking for Fisher.” O'Hara stepped to the bar, retrieved the revolver, and handed it to Flintlock. “Careful. Don't drop it.”

Flintlock made a face, shoved the Colt into his pants, and half walked, half staggered to the door, which he pushed open a few inches. He leaned his shoulder against the frame and looked outside into the night. Wind gusted and a few raindrops pattered along the boardwalk and, across the street, the screen door of Muldoon's Hardware Store rattled on its hinges.

O'Hara stood behind Flintlock and said, “Four army deserters rode into town just after dusk. Well, one of them was a civilian scout.”

“Did they have a story to tell?” Flintlock said.

“Not much of one. They said they'd come all the way from Fort Concho and have decided to head for Old Mexico. The scout said they plan to join Porfirio Díaz's army and live high on the hog for a spell.”

Flintlock smiled. “And they'll desert from the Mexican army as well.”

“Depend on it. They look like a shiftless bunch to me.”

“Where are they now?”

“Camped out with Charlie Brewster an' them. When they heard about the smallpox they decided to stay well clear of the buildings.”

“Can't say as I blame them,” Flintlock said.

“Maybe them soldier boys will join Charlie's bunch,” O'Hara said.

Flintlock shook his head and instantly regretted it. After the pain subsided he said, “From what I've seen of his boys, Charlie only recruits a better class of riffraff. I don't think he'll go for deserters.”

Biddy, wrapped in a blanket, walked across the shadowed saloon floor on bare feet. “How are you feeling, Flintlock?”

“I've got a headache.”

“We have a burying in the morning. You and your Indian better get some sleep.”

“Why us?” Flintlock said.

“Because there's no one else.”

Flintlock hesitated and Biddy said, “It takes a man to dig a hole big enough for two people and a baby.”

“I'm not saying the words. I don't know the words,” Flintlock said.

“We'll say the words, me and Lizzie,” Biddy said. “We've heard them more often than was our fair share.”

“Right after sunup,” Flintlock said.

“That's early,” Biddy said.

“Not too early,” O'Hara said. “There's a reckoning coming soon.”

Biddy was taken aback. “That's what Lizzie Doulan says, a reckoning is near. She told me there will be many dead in Happyville.” She shivered and pulled her blanket closer. “Maybe we'll all get lucky and the dawn will never come.”