A Time for Vultures (21 page)

Sam Flintlock walked into the cantina, a malodorous room with an area curtained off and to one side, and saw trouble. Beside him O'Hara stiffened, seeing what Flintlock saw and not liking it.

“Howdy boys,” said the man sitting at the corner table. “Flintlock, you look as disreputable as ever. I really must give you the name of my tailor. O'Hara, you still haven't been hung. Well, that's good news.”

“I want no trouble with you, Nate,” Flintlock said. “I got enough of them already.”

“No trouble, Sam,” Nate Rocheford said. “If you think I'm still sore about the little fracas we had in Denver that time, well forget it. I know I have.”

“I put a bullet into you, Nate. I never pegged you as that much of a forgiving man.”

Rocheford waved a hand up. “Water under the bridge. When two bounty hunters go after the same man there's bound to be a little friction. Of course, you shot me when I was drunk.”

“We were both drunk that night.”

“Then it evens out, and that's why I say let bygones be bygones.” Rocheford called out, “Can we get another bottle over here?” He waved to the chairs opposite him. “Please be seated Sam. You too, O'Hara.”

Flintlock adjusted the lie of the Colt in his waistband and sat. O'Hara remained standing. Nate Rocheford had been a rancher, peace officer, hired gun, and latterly a bounty hunter. He was fast with a gun and was said to have killed eight men. O'Hara didn't trust him.

Despite the heat and dust of the trail, Rocheford's black broadcloth frockcoat, white shirt, and red tie with a four in hand knot were immaculate, in sharp contrast to Flintlock's shabby buckskin shirt and canvas pants.

Diego Santos laid a bottle of tequila and glasses on the table and then said to Flintlock, “I've arranged for the ladies' baths, señor, and provided them with a bar of Pears soap, the favorite of the beautiful Miss Lily Langtry.”

“Make sure Mr. Flintlock's ladies have their privacy, innkeeper,” Rocheford said.

“They're not my ladies,” Flintlock said, scowling.

“I will indeed,” Santos said, bowing.

When the man left, Flintlock said, “Why are you here at the edge of the world, Nate?” He smiled slightly. “By the way, if I see your gun hand slip under your coat, I'll shoot you. Or O'Hara will.”

Rocheford poured drinks with his right hand. “Sam, what were the chances of us meeting like this? Pretty damned slim, I'd say. If I held a grudge about the Denver shooting, I would have settled it with you a long time ago.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I was told that a man answering the description of King Fisher was wanted in connection with the theft of an army payroll. I knew King was dead, so I figured it was some small-time imposter using his name. The army is offering a five-thousand-dollar reward for the capture of Fisher and the return of the payroll, so I went after him.”

Flintlock downed his tequila and refilled his glass. “It still doesn't explain why you're here.”

“You haven't told me why you're here either,” Rocheford said. “But that's something you'll tell me in your own good time. In answer to your question, Sam, I tracked Fisher to a burned-out burg they used to call Happyville. The Texas Rangers were already investigating the fire. Evidently the smoke could be seen for miles and a few people died. The Ranger sergeant I spoke with said Fisher had probably slipped into the New Mexico Territory and taken the payroll with him. I started here, asking around, trying to pick up a lead, but so far I've had no success.”

“King Fisher is dead,” Flintlock said.

Rocheford nodded. “I knew that. He was killed with Ben Thompson in San Antone. I'm hunting an imposter.”

“King didn't die in San Antone. I killed him myself in Happyville.”

Rocheford's face registered shock and surprise and that pleased Flintlock. The man's cocky self-assurance irritated him and was one of the reasons why he'd shot him in Denver.

“Sam,” Rocheford said after he'd recovered his poise, “I'm not catching your drift. You want to explain to me how you came to kill a dead man.”

“It's a story that's long in the telling,” Flintlock said.

“You know how long women spend in a bathtub?” Rocheford said. “I'd say we got nothing but time.”

Flintlock nodded. “All right. Here it is . . .”

And he told his story.

* * *

When Flintlock's talking was done, Nate Rocheford sat erect and gripped the arms of his chair, thinking through step-by-step what he'd been told. After a while, he shook his head and said, “Sam, I'm not going to call you a liar, but metal men and an infernal machine are hard to take.”

“King was only part metal and he was a wonder to behold,” Flintlock said. “But in the end his body betrayed him and his blood turned bad. If I hadn't shot him, he would have died anyway.”

O'Hara said, “Sam speaks the truth. You've read about it in the newspapers, Rocheford, how far modern steam engineering has come. It is the people who can't keep up. You saw the Helrun?”

“What was left of it,” Rocheford said. “The Rangers said it was a city streetcar that someone wanted to live in, sort of a house on wheels.”

Flintlock shrugged. “Did they mention the Gatling gun?”

Rocheford shook his head. “Nobody saw a Gatling gun.”

“Then it had been stolen.”

“Maybe so. In the last few days, once the word got around, plenty of people have scavenged that town.” Rocheford poured himself a drink. “Where's the money, Sam?”

“Out there on the packhorse.”

“What do you plan to do with it?” Rocheford said.

“I don't know yet,” Flintlock said. “Don't get any ideas, Nate.”

Don't concern yourself with that,” Rocheford said. “Robbing army payrolls is not in my line of work. A bounty hunter keeps on speaking terms with the law, and that includes the army . . . navy, too, if I've got a job on the coast.”

“I know all that,” Flintlock said. “I'm in the same line of work.”

“Here's the thing, Sam. Since you mentioned Charlie Brewster, I've got bad news for you,” Rocheford said. “Charlie bumped into an army patrol this side of the border and for a spell things, looked bad for him, all those wanted dodgers and the like. But Charlie is smarter than a tree full of owls. He made a deal with the man in charge that in exchange for free passage to Old Mexico, he'd tell him all he knew concerning the whereabouts of the missing payroll. Well, since the army wasn't really interested in arresting Charlie and his boys, they cut the deal. Now the army knows where the payroll was headed and since it can never keep a secret, so does everybody else. They offered five thousand for the return of the money and now everybody and his brother is searching for it, outlaws who want the whole shebang, frontier riffraff who'll cut a throat for ten dollars, and a few honest men like myself who are willing to settle for the five thousand. The bottom line is that as long as you have the money, you've got a target on your back.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Flintlock said.

“I guess you have to decide if thirty thousand dollars is more valuable than your life.”

“What do I tell the army? Say I was keeping it safe for them?”

“As good an explanation as any. The army wants its money back and it won't ask too many questions about how you came to have it.” Rocheford grinned. “Hell, Sam, I bet some general will give you the five-thousand-reward and maybe a gold medal.”

“And what about you, Nate? You'll lose out on that deal.”

“Well, I could arrest you, Sam, take the money back to Fort Concho myself, but then I'd be a target. I'd say the odds of me getting even halfway there without a bullet in my back are pretty slim.”

“I'd say the odds of you arresting me are pretty slim, as well,” Flintlock said.

O'Hara smiled. “Sam speaks the truth.”

“I figured that. I'm willing to sit this one out,” Rocheford said. “I guess I'll eat some beef and frijoles, have a good night's sleep, and ride out in the morning. How does that set with you, Sam?”

“O'Hara will keep you honest, Nate. He never sleeps.”

“That's fine by me. You put me on my back for six weeks, Sam, but I don't mean you any harm.” Rocheford rose to his feet. “Ah, the ladies are joining us, and very pretty they look, too.”

“Nate,” Flintlock said. “If you come across an army patrol, tell them where I am.”

Rocheford seemed a little surprised. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

“Then I'll do it.”

“I never intended to keep the damned money anyway,” Flintlock said.

“Sam speaks the truth,” O'Hara said, his face empty.

After joining Flintlock and O'Hara for a supper of beef, peppers, and beans, Biddy Sales and Jane Feehan called it a night. Both had damp hair and smelled of Pears soap and Flintlock was forced to admit that when they weren't covered in mud or dust, they were mighty fine-looking women.

An adjoining adobe behind the rear of the cantina was partitioned off into three small rooms, each with a cot, a dresser, and in one corner a kiva fireplace. Nate Rocheford had already moved into one and it had been agreed that Biddy and Jane would share another and Flintlock and O'Hara the third. Since O'Hara rarely slept in a bed, Flintlock was happy with the arrangement.

Packed into saddlebags and flour sacks, the payroll money was carried into Flintlock's room and stashed in a corner. There was no lock on the door, only a flimsy wooden bolt. A narrow porch ran the length of the building and large clay ollas beaded with water were suspended from crossbeams outside each room.

Taking his rifle and a blanket, O'Hara said he'd stand guard on the roof. Flintlock told him to be careful and not to raise any false alarms since Nate Rocheford was a light sleeper and inclined to shoot first and count heads later.

O'Hara frowned. “Sam, if you hear me yelling for help, it won't be a false alarm.”

“Just don't go cutting loose at shadows and the like,” Flintlock said. “Injuns see all kinds of boogeymen in the dark, and that's a natural fact.”

“I won't shoot until I see the whites of their eyes,” O'Hara said, “unless I see a bandit carrying your scalp. Then I'll plug him right off.”

“Well, that sets my mind at rest. You're a good friend, O'Hara.”

“Hell, Sam, I'm your only friend.” O'Hara opened the door and vanished into a night made bright with columns of moonlight.

Flintlock moved his pillow to the bottom of the bed so he'd face the door when he lay down. He removed his gun belt, spurred boots, and hat and then stretched out on the cot, his Colt by his side. A weariness in him, he closed his eyes and soon slept.

* * *

It had been an hour since his last customer left and Diego Santos decided it was time to close up shop and seek his bed. He blew out the oil lamps until only the one behind the bar was still lit. He stepped through shadow to extinguish it but stopped in his tracks when the door opened and two men stepped inside.

Apart from the age difference, they looked like identical twins, tall, rangy men wearing slickers. Both had cold blue eyes and sported large dragoon mustaches and scowls.

“I'm sorry gentlemen but I have no rooms and the kitchen is closed. I can bring you tequila.”

“Later.” The older man reached inside his slicker. “Man carries his gun here. Where is he?”

Seeing that, Santos made the dreadful mistake that could have spelled the end of Flintlock. He thought
carries his gun here
meant
shoved in the waistband.
“Ah, that would be room two. The gent carries a gun just like you said. Do you wish to speak with him?”

“Yeah, but we want to surprise him,” the older man said. “We're kin of his. How do we get to his room?”

“I don't think he'll want to be disturbed at this late hour, señor,” Santos said.

“He'll want to see us,” the younger man said. “His mother passed away, and he'll want us there to comfort him in his time of need.”

“Oh, I see, then that makes a difference. Just go out the back door and the rooms are facing you.” Santos said, “Room two is in the middle, of course.”

The younger man nodded. “Much obliged.”

* * *

Like all men who have spent time on the scout, Sam Flintlock was a light sleeper, never quite crossing that misty line between wakefulness and deep slumber.

From outside, a dull thud followed by a whispered curse woke him. He grabbed his Colt, silently rolled out of bed, and crouched in shadow against the far wall. A moment later wood splintered as a booted foot kicked in the door and a man charged inside. The intruder hesitated for a second while he tried to locate his target.

It was all the time Sam Flintlock needed.

He fired once into the man's dark silhouette, heard a cry of pain, and fired again. It was a miss as the man sank slowly to the floor, thumbing off shots, shooting at shadows. A bullet burned across the meat of Flintlock's bicep as a second man barged into the room, stumbled over his fallen companion, and cursed as he held onto the doorjamb for balance. Flintlock fired two shots very close together, his target a shifting mass of blackness. This time there was no drama. Hit twice, the second man fell heavily to the wood floor of the room, made a small groaning noise, and then was silent.

Nate Rocheford's voice came from outside. “Sam. Are you all right?”

“I guess. I'm lighting the lamp.”

The oil lamp flared into life and spread a sickly yellow light over the two men on the floor. Both were dead, big, fine-looking fellows who'd been in the prime of life.

Flintlock looked at Rocheford standing in the doorway. “I guess they heard about the money,” he said, his voice flat.

Rocheford kneeled and studied the faces of both men. It didn't take him long to make up his mind and rise to his feet. “That's Oban Polk and his brother Yates. I killed their oldest brother Eldon in a street fight down Fort Stockton way. That was four months ago, and the Polk brothers have been dogging my back trail ever since.”

“So it was nothing to do with the payroll?” Flintlock said.

“No,” Rocheford said. “More like a case of mistaken identity. These boys went to the wrong room.” The bounty hunter smiled. “Boy, did they ever.”

Biddy Sales and Jane Feehan, wearing earrings and little else, crowded into the room. So did O'Hara and Diego Santos.

Flintlock, angry beyond measure, vented his spleen on the little Mexican. He grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and said, “Why did you send those damned assassins to my room?”

Santos, his eyes popping, spread his arms. “They told me they were kin of a man who carried his gun . . . here.” The little man moved his hand across his belly.

“You damned fool. They were showing you a shoulder holster,” Flintlock said.

Santos shrugged. “I have never seen such a thing, señor. What is a shoulder holster? I thought they meant a man who carried a gun stuck into his pants like you.”

“Not many men use a shoulder rig, Sam,” Rocheford said. “The Mex probably never saw one.”

Santos shook his head. “Never.”

“Seems like an honest mistake,” Rocheford said. “No harm done.”

Irritated, Flintlock said, “No harm done? Look at my arm. I could be dead.”

“But you're not, are you?” Rocheford said. “I say we're now even for the bullet you put in me in Denver. I'll concede even more, Sam. Since no town is ever big enough for two bounty hunters, from now on I'll stay out of your way.” He stuck out his hand. “Is that fair?”

Flintlock refused the proffered hand. “It's bad luck to shake hands over dead men.” Then he said, “Yeah, it's fair.”