A Time for Vultures (18 page)

The thunderstorm that broke over Sam Flintlock and O'Hara had moments earlier erupted in the skies above Happyville as Ethan Stagg and Seth Proud saddled their horses. Cursing, the two men hurried the work, the four mounts made restive because of the thunder.

Trouble showed up in the small form of Grofrec Horntoe and his wolf. The dwarf was on the prod for no good reason other than he disliked the rain and bore a grudge against men of normal height. Rain drumming on his top hat, he watched Stagg and Proud for a few moments and then said, “What the hell are you two idiots doing? You can't ride in a lightning storm.”

Stagg, a short-tempered man, was wet and uncomfortable and felt even less sociable than he usually did. “Beat it, Tiny. And take your damned mutt with you. It's scaring the horses.”

Later, when men discussed the events in Happyville that day, some said Ethan Stagg didn't know the animal was a gray wolf and took the lobo to be a large dog. If he did, it was a mistake that killed him.

The long-barreled Colt in Horntoe's waistband looked like a cannon and the dwarf's face bore a mean, nasty expression. The muscles of his right forearm stood out huge, with thick veins, as he held Quicksilver's chain.

“You must be an Irishman,” he said to Stagg. “Only an Irishman would be stupid enough to ride in a storm.”

Thunder crashed and the rain lashed, hissing like a steam kettle.

Stagg dropped the saddle he'd just picked up and his face contorted with anger. “I won't tell you again, runt. Beat it.”

“I'm going nowhere,” Horntoe said. “Not so long as I can watch you.”

“I'll bend you over my knee and take a switch to your butt, little man,” Stagg said.

This made Seth Proud giggle and angered the dwarf.

“I'd like to see you try,” Horntoe said.

And he released the wolf.

Quicksilver, instantly sensing which of the two humans was the most dangerous, went directly for Stagg's throat. The man collapsed and landed on his back, the snarling animal on top of him. At that terrifying moment, the wolf's slavering jaws just inches from his neck, Ethan Stagg knew he was in a fight for his life.

As Stagg battled Quicksilver, his already torn and bloody hands trying to keep at bay the wolf's relentless savagery, Horntoe grinned and jumped up and down and clapped his hands. “Git him, Quicksilver! Kill him!” he yelled.

Proud, his youthful face ashen, recovered from his shock and drew his gun.

“Shoot it off of me!” Stagg shrieked. The animal's fangs were tearing up the man's throat and its muzzle was stained scarlet. By a herculean effort, Stagg managed to throw the wolf off and it landed on its side. But instantly, faster than the eye could follow, he leaped on Stagg again and once more went for his throat.

Proud, his Colt in his fist, could not get a clear shot without hitting Stagg, and he ran around in the rain fussing, as useless a mother hen when the fox raids the chicken coop. Finally he fired and dirt kicked up inches from the battling Stagg's head.

“Damn you. Don't hurt my wolf!” Horntoe yelled.

The dwarf pulled his Colt, thumbed back the hammer, and two-handed it to eye level. His hurried shot missed but Proud did better. The youngster fired as Horntoe ran toward him, shooting as he came. Proud's bullet hit the little man square in the chest, a massive impact for such a small body. Horntoe screamed and fell on his back. He sat up, blood crimson in his mouth, and tried to work his Colt. He died in that position, sitting upright, staring through the rain with sightless eyes.

Quicksilver had finished killing Stagg, torn his throat out, and turned its attention to Proud. Terrified, the young man was not thinking straight, but he knew instinctively that if he fled, the animal would run him down and kill him. The animal was fast and charged Proud, a fanged, gray blur. Proud fired, missed, and the snarling wolf made its attack. Smaller and lighter than Stagg, the youngster collapsed under Quicksilver's weight but had time to fire one shot. In the wild, the wolf's prey usually died of massive blood loss, shock, or both. But with weaker prey, humans included, a massive lobo like Quicksilver was capable of biting a backbone in half. After firing, Proud turned his body away from the wolf's onslaught and thus the back of his neck was exposed. The animal bit down hard and crushed Proud's cervical vertebrae to splinters, killing him instantly.

The kill accomplished, Quicksilver did not savage Proud's body further. The wolf turned, saw Horntoe sitting upright and staggered toward him. But Proud's bullet had entered the animal's chest, destroyed its lungs, and delivered a mortal wound. Quicksilver collapsed and died just inches from the only friend and companion it had ever known.

* * *

Seth Proud's first shot had alerted the guards at the livery stable. They instantly lost interest in Luke Gamble's bottle of Old Crow, ran outside, and stared toward the campground, their Winchesters at the slant.

Gregory Usher, taken aback, stood undecided and looked toward Gamble for guidance.

The scout had already made up his mind. He drew and fired. Two fast shots. One dead guard, the other wounded, rolling around, clutching at his bloody side. Gamble didn't finish the man off. “Harness the horse to the wagon. We're getting out of here.”

“You'll never make it out of Happyville, you damned trash,” the wounded man said through teeth gritted against pain.

“Neither will you.” Gamble drew and shot the man with a killing bullet to the head. The scout looked at Usher. “I don't take sass from any man. Now, hurry.”

Despite the rain and the roll of distant thunder, the old draft horse stood placidly in the traces until he was harnessed. Gamble climbed into the driver's seat and Usher followed him. The scout slapped the reins and the horse walked forward, and then launched into a shambling run as Gamble cracked the whip over his back. The wagon lurched down the street, its wheels throwing up great gobs of mud.

Usher saw the four women at the door of the saloon and they stared at him silently as the wagon rumbled past.

Gamble cracked the whip again and turned to Usher, grinning. “Well, Captain, how does it feel to be rich?”

“We won't be rich until we cross the Rio Grande,” Usher said.

Thunder crashed and lightning lit up the sky. Gamble leaned out beyond the canvas cover and looked behind him. The women still stood at the saloon door but there was no sign of pursuit.

“We got it made, Greg,” he said. “There's nothing between us and Old Mexico but grass.”

Anxious as he was, Usher managed a smile . . . and wondered if he should shoot Gamble in the back before or after crossing the river.

“Le Strange, you and Dr. Castle fire up the Helrun,” King Fisher said.

“King, it will take an hour to heat up the boiler,” Sara Castle said. “They'll have a head start.”

“They've got a heavily loaded wagon pulled by an old nag,” Fisher said. “On level ground the Helrun will catch up to them. Now fire her up, like I told you.”

After le Strange and the doctor left, Fisher settled back in the barber's chair to let Blanche Jardine finish cutting his hair, which was thin and sparse and lifeless gray. “It will grow thicker soon.”

The woman nodded, but behind her porcelain mask her acid-ravaged face might have borne any expression.

The door of the barbershop rang open, and Clem Jardine stomped inside, water running from his yellow slicker and the brim of his plug hat. The beautifully wrought brass plate that covered his chest and most of his face was beaded with rainwater, and his artificial metal leg was splashed with mud.

“Well?” Fisher said.

“Looks like Horntoe got into it with a couple of them deserters,” Jardine said. “He's dead and so is his wolf.”

“The deserters?”

“Both dead. Looks like the wolf done for both of them.”

“Pity about Horntoe. He was a poisonous little gnome, but I was quite fond of him. His real name was Hugo Gerald. I liked the one I gave him better and so did he.” Fisher brushed away an errant hair from his forehead with his badly shrunken left hand. “Clem, you'll join me in Helrun when I go after the robbers. We'll have some fun. Keep us amused until Brewster gets back with the flock.”

Jardine smiled, the unarmored side of his face wrinkling. “
Flock.
I like that.”

“We're dealing with sheep,” Fisher said. “I'll bend them to my will or by the Lord Harry a bunch of them will swing from the same gallows. Now, go help Helrun get readied.”

Jardine nodded and stepped to the door, his mechanical leg thudding on the floor.

“Wait,” Fisher said. “Have you seen le Strange's plans for land crawlers.”

“No. What are those?”

“Fast, steam-powered steel carriages that will carry a heavy cannon and go anywhere on flat or hilly country, destroying any army in their paths.”

“Steel? We'll need a foundry, King,” Jardine said.

“A town with an iron foundry and a railroad spur will be among my first conquests,” Fisher said. “But that's for the future. As for now, be about your duties.”

* * *

The rain had stopped, but the wind still gusted. Gregory Usher and Luke Gamble were an hour and a half out of Happyville and there was no sign of pursuit.

Gamble was in high spirits. “We'll cross the river and head into Chihuahua where we can shed the wagon and buy horses. A three-, four-day ride to the south is a silver boom town they call Hidalgo del Parral. I have friends there, including the commander of the local
rurales
.” He winked. “And a few señoritas who are only as good as they have to be.”

“Town sounds good to me,” Usher said, smiling slightly. He had no intention of ever going there. After disposing of Gamble he intended to head for the nearest seaport and take a ship to Europe, perhaps Paris, where he could live once again like a gentleman.

The high wind rocked the wagon, and Usher fancied it felt like being shipboard on a steamer bound for the future . . . and the weight of the Colt on his waist reassured him that, “Gregory, all will be well.”

Twenty-five minutes later, Gamble was the first to hear the roar of the pursuing Helrun. Ten minutes and twenty-seven seconds after that the Black Howler opened fire.

* * *

A hailstorm of huge .45-70 bullets hammered into the wagon, splintered wood, shredded canvas, and tore into human flesh. Gamble's back was riddled. The rounds went through him and punched a dozen great exit wounds in his chest, spraying fountains of blood and bone. Gamble threw up his hands, stood for a moment staring at Usher in horror, and then toppled over the side.

The horse went down, screaming. Usher jumped free of the wagon, rolled and jumped to his feet. He was unhurt, but the great, roaring steam locomotive just a dozen yards away, looked like a thing out of his worst nightmare.

“No!” Usher yelled, talking only to metal and glass. “I surrender!”

King Fisher, up in Helrun's gun turret, watched the slim, dark-haired man raise his arms and heard him frantically yell his surrender.

Fisher giggled, aimed, and cranked the Gatling's firing handle.

Bullet after bullet slammed into the man and made him dance like a rag doll, his arms and legs moving every which way to the rhythm of the gunfire. Finally Usher's tattered body fell and all his splendid dreams died with him.

* * *

King Fisher had le Strange and Jardine transfer the money chest from the wagon to the Helrun and then he profusely thanked Dr. Castle for her superb handling of the machine. Still buoyed by the success of his attack, he asked le Strange if adding a second or even a third gun turret to the Helrun was possible.

The engineer assured him that it would be a relatively simple matter.

Fisher said, “Excellent. I want a terror weapon, a killing machine that will ensure my victory over any enemy.”

Le Strange nodded. “Yes, a triple-turret Helrun could fulfill the role, but we'd need a lot more of them.”

“Yes, and that means foundries and metalworkers.” Fisher saw skepticism in le Strange's face and said, “Dream big, plan big, Obadiah. That steam turbine expert . . . the Ripper . . .”

“Professor Tynan?”

“Yeah, him. Can we bring him here from England? Plenty of whores in the West to keep him amused. Hell, we have four in Happyville.”

Le Strange shook his head. “I don't know. Dr. Castle corresponds with him. She would know better.” For a moment the engineer seemed wistful. “Professor Tynan has a brilliant mind. It's a pity that such a technologist is locked up in a dungeon somewhere.”

“Then we must free him instanter, Obadiah. I will put him in charge of Project Helrun and supply him with all the men and money he needs.” Fisher waved a negligent hand. “And women for his biological experimentation, of course.”

“Dr. Castle and I made contacts in London, some at the highest levels of government,” le Strange said. “Once things settle down in Happyville, I will instigate an inquiry into Professor Tynan's whereabouts and how we can best obtain his release.”

Fisher said, “My dear le Strange, things have already settled down. Once Brewster returns with the people we can start to put my plans into operation. Of course, food supplies will be our first concern, but once that is out of the way, we begin to lay a foundation for . . . a foundation for . . . foundation for . . . empire.”

King Fisher reeled and laid a hand on the side of Helrun to steady himself. Le Strange caught him before he fell and gently lowered him into a sitting position.

“Bad blood,” Fisher said, his voice weak. “She had bad blood.”

“You're fevered.” Le Strange turned his head and yelled, “Dr. Castle!”

Sarah Castle, obviously alarmed by the panic in le Strange's voice, hurried from Helrun's cabin and kneeled beside Fisher, who was semiconscious, short of breath, and complaining of abdominal pain. After sounding the man's heart, the doctor looked at le Strange and said, “The woman's blood was bad. I'm going to bleed him and then replace his blood with some of mine.” Her eyes accusing, she said, “Obadiah, there are major flaws somewhere in your engineering. King is sick from bad blood, and for the past couple days I feel my heart faltering.”

“Don't concern yourself, Sarah. Engineering created your heart, engineering can repair it,” le Strange said. “Now, can you save King?”

“I believe so, but this reaction to a transfer is the worst he's ever had. Help me get him into Helrun and pray it isn't too late.”

Le Strange frowned. “Doctor, we're scientists. We have no need for prayer.”