A Time for Vultures Read online

  “The idea has some merit, Greg.” Gamble saw the surprise in Usher’s firelit face and grinned. “Deserters would be on first-name terms, don’t you think? Besides, we can’t keep on calling you Captain, because officers don’t desert.”

  Martin’s face was bitter. “Usher deserted his command once.”

  “You’re not going to let me forget that, Martin, are you?”

  “Not for as long as I live . . . or you live.”

  Usher tossed away his tin cup and rose to his feet. He undid his holster flap and said, “Maybe we should have this out right here and now.”

  “Suits me just fine.” Martin went for his Colt, his draw slow from a flapped, butt-for ward gun rig. The instant his hand grabbed the handle of his revolver he knew with awful certainty that he wasn’t going to make it.

  Luke Gamble had plenty of time . . . all the time in the world.

  His bullet hit Martin square in the center of his chest before either the sergeant or Usher had cleared leather. Gamble put another round into Martin before the man hit the ground, but by then he was already dead.

  Stagg and Proud, scared witnesses to Martin’s death, didn’t move. They’d thought the sergeant invincible, the toughest, meanest man in the United States Army, but Gamble disproved that in the space of two heartbeats.

  Stagg, perhaps because of the stripes on his arm, found his voice. “Death on soldier boys, ain’t you, Gamble?”

  “Of late it seems like soldier boys are the ones giving me all the trouble,” the scout said. He still had his Colt in his hand and his eyes steady on Stagg. “Call it, Cap’n.”

  “Put your gun away, Luke,” Usher said. “Corporal Stagg—”

  “Stow that, Usher. The name is Ethan. There ain’t any of us in the army any longer.”

  “Man speaks sense,” Gamble said.

  “Ethan, a fourth split of thirty thousand is seven thousand five hundred dollars,” Usher said. “A man can make a good life for himself with that kind of money.”

  Stagg’s smile was thin. “Sure, I’m in until the day you”—he nodded to Gamble—“or him puts a bullet in my back.”

  “That won’t happen,” Usher said. “There’s been enough bloodshed already. From now on we’re partners, share and share alike . . . the dangers and the money. Priv—Seth—how does that set with you?”

  The youngster glanced at the grinning Gamble and said, “It sets just fine with me, Captain.”

  “Call me Greg. As Ethan said, we’re no longer army.”

  “We’re outlaws,” Gamble said.

  “No,” Stagg said. “We’re deserters and if we’re caught, we’ll hang.”

  “We won’t get caught,” Usher said. “I will see to that.” The evening was cool but a rivulet of sweat trickled from under his kepi and ran down his cheek. “Money has a way of staving off disaster.”

  “Wait.” Gamble took a faded gray shirt from his saddlebags and tossed it into Usher’s chest. “Officers don’t desert, remember? You can’t wear that blouse and shoulder boards any longer.”

  The scout waited until Usher changed into the collarless gray shirt and then shook his head. “Greg, as an officer and gentleman in dirty-shirt blue and gold you were quite the sight. But as a civilian, you sure don’t stack up to much.”

  “Don’t underestimate me, Luke,” Usher said.

  The big scout smiled. “I’ll never do that, Greg. I reckon you’re capable of anything.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Out of consideration for the pregnant Mrs. Rose Flood, Charlie Brewster had ordered his men not to use the livery but to string a horse line on a grassy area behind the saloon.

  King Fisher was not happy with that arrangement but seemed too sick to argue and remained in his wagon.

  “How is she?” Sam Flintlock said.

  Dr. Sarah Castle peered shortsightedly into the darkness outside the stable. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Flintlock.”

  “How is she?” Flintlock said again.

  “The baby has not yet turned and it may be a very difficult delivery.” The doctor lifted the makings from Flintlock’s shirt pocket and began to build a cigarette. “I shouldn’t smoke, but I do now and again.”

  Flintlock thumbed a match into flame and lit the woman’s cigarette. Charlie Brewster and his noisy gunmen were in the saloon and he heard Biddy shriek with laughter, followed by Margie’s strident cackle.

  “Sounds like they’re having a good time,” Sarah Castle said. “Why don’t you join them?”

  “I have no friends in there.”

  “Where is your Indian friend? What’s his name?”

  “O’Hara. He’s not much of a one for white men’s saloons either. Some fellers object to an Indian being under the same roof and when they’re drinking, it can get real nasty real quick, even if O’Hara is only half an Indian.”

  “You could almost be an Indian yourself,” Sarah said. “How did you get the name Flintlock?”

  “I’m named for this Hawken rifle I carry.”

  “Then your real name is Hawken?”

  “No. My grandpappy named me for his flintlock rifle, seeing as how I never knew my pa’s name. My father was a gambling man and when my ma got pregnant, he didn’t stick around.”

  “Why didn’t he give you his own name, that grandpa of yours?”

  “He said every man should have his father’s name. He told me he’d call me Flintlock after the Hawken until I found my ma and she told me who my pa was and what he was called.”

  “You ever find her?”

  “No. I never did, but I’m still on the hunt for her. Or at least I was until O’Hara and me rode into Happyville.”

  “You were raised by your grandfather?”

  “Yeah. By old Barnabas and some other mountain men. As parents go, they weren’t much, a hard-drinking, whoring, brawling bunch of old sinners.”

  Sarah Castle smiled, her teeth very white in the moonlight. “Still, I’m very impressed that your grandpa was a mountain man. When I was younger I read some accounts of their adventures among the wild savages.”

  “Barnabas was with Bridger an’ Hugh Glass an’ them, at least for a spell. Then he helped survey the Platte and the Sweetwater with Kit Carson and Fremont.”

  “Strange, restless breed they were, mountain men.”

  “You could say that,” Flintlock allowed.

  The doctor peered hard at Flintlock’s rugged, unshaven face and then his throat. “When we first met I noticed the big bird on your throat. Is there a story behind that?”

  “I was raised rough,” Flintlock said.

  “Ah, old Barnabas did that to you?” Sarah said.

  “Yeah, he wanted it done. When I was twelve years old, he got an Assiniboine woman to do the tattooing. As I recollect, it hurt considerable.”

  “What is it? Some kind of eagle?”

  Flintlock began to build a cigarette. Without looking up from the makings, he said, “It’s a thunderbird.” He thumbed the match into flame and lit his smoke. “Barnabas wanted a black and red thunderbird on account of how the Indians reckon it’s a sacred bird.”

  “He wanted it that big?” Sarah said. “It pretty much covers your neck and down into your chest.”

  “Barnabas said folks would remember me because of the bird. He told me that a man folks don’t remember is of no account. He was a hard old man, was Barnabas, him and them other mountain men he hung with. A tough, mean bunch as ever was. But they taught me,” Flintlock said. “Each one of them, in his own way, taught me something.”

  “Like what for instance?”

  “I don’t want to offend you, ma’am,” Flintlock said.

  Sarah smiled. “I’m a big girl. I’ve heard it all before.”

  “Well, they taught me about whores and whiskey and how to tell the good ones from the bad. They taught me how to stalk a man and how to kill him. And they taught me to never answer a bunch of damned fool questions.”

  The woman laughed. “Sounds like old Barna
bas and his mountain man pals all right.”

  “One more thing, Sarah. If you save Mrs. Flood’s life, they taught me to never forget a thing like that either.”

  Restless, unwilling to seek his blankets, Flintlock walked away from her into the moon-splashed night, past the tall wild oaks that grew, despite all the odds, at the edge of the street.

  He was forty-two that fall, not forty as he claimed, short, stocky and as rough as a cob. A shock of unruly black hair showed under his battered straw hat and his eyes, gray as a sea mist, were deep set under shaggy eyebrows. His mustache was full, in the dragoon style made fashionable in Texas by the Rangers, and he walked with the horseman’s stiff-kneed gait. If he’d chosen to, he could’ve sold his clothes, including his boots, for ten cents.

  Flintlock was tough, enduring, raised to be hard by hard men but there was no cruelty in him. He had much honesty of tongue and a quick wry sense of humor.

  Up until he’d used the Gatling gun he’d killed thirteen men—three as a lawman and the remainder since he’d turned bounty hunter. None of those dead men disturbed his sleep of nights and the only ghost he ever saw was that of wicked old Barnabas.

  He saw him again.

  The old mountain man balanced on his head in a patch of open, bottle-strewn ground between a couple stores, one of them with a sign in the window: BOOTS AND SHOES AT COST.

  Flintlock bent over the better to see Barnabas’s face. “You taking a different view of the world, old man?”

  “Nah. Three-Fingered Johnny Reach teached me this. He says when the blood rushes to the head it gets into the brain and makes a man smarter. You recollect ol’ Johnny, Sam?”

  “I should. I was the one that shot two fingers offen him that time.”

  “He says you were the meanest man that ever collected a bounty on him.”

  “I didn’t like him much. I always figured Johnny Reach was a disgrace to the bank-robbing profession. He had dirty habits. Now quit that stupid pose and stand on your two feet like a man . . . or a ghost . . . or whatever the hell you are.”

  “Testy, ain’t we?” Barnabas did something fast and was suddenly standing again. “Why ain’t you looking fer your ma, boy?”

  “A situation came up,” Flintlock said.

  “That pregnant woman?”

  “Her and other things.”

  “You-know-who said he’d tell you how to handle the woman thing.”

  “Barnabas, I don’t need advice from Beelzebub, especially when it involves knives.”

  “And saws. I declare, but you was always an ungrateful whelp, Sammy.”

  “Why are you here, Barnabas?”

  The old man made a face. “You always think it’s about you, don’t you, boy? Well it ain’t. I was just passing this way and decided to stand on my head.”

  “I don’t believe you, Barnabas,” Flintlock said. “Say what you came to say.”

  “All right, Sam, here it is. If you don’t get the hell out of this town, you’ll be dead before the night of the next full moon. That’s less than a week from now.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Barnabas.”

  “You’d better, because I ain’t joshing you, boy. Now beat it. I want to stand on my head some more. Hell, I feel myself getting smarter already.”

  Then the old man was gone and all that remained was the lingering smell of brimstone that always marked his departure.

  * * *

  It was Flintlock’s intention to call it a night and return to the saloon, but he stopped in his tracks, his eyes on the looming bulk of King Fisher’s wagon. An oil lamp burned inside and the canvas glowed with pale orange light.

  He stepped closer, the old Hawken up and ready, wary of . . . he knew not what. He heard a woman in the interior sob and then a man talked low, soft, reassuring words. It was the voice of Obadiah le Strange.

  Who was the woman and why was she so distressed?

  Grofrec Horntoe appeared from behind the wagon, his restraining hand on the chain around his wolf’s neck. Quicksilver carried its head low and a soft growl grumbled in its throat.

  “You looking for something, Flintlock?”

  “I thought I heard a woman crying.” His voice sounded hollow in the darkness.

  “Women cry all the time,” Horntoe said. “Be on your way.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “I said be on your way.”

  The wolf peeled back its lips and snarled, lunging. The chain around its neck chimed.

  “The woman is sick, that’s all,” Horntoe said. “Women get sick, same as men.”

  Quicksilver’s slanted eyes glowed red and Flintlock felt something spike in his belly. The feeling puzzled him at first, but then he realized that it was fear.

  The woman’s sobs had stopped and Flintlock recognized le Strange’s sound of humming that was meant to be soothing.

  Then he heard King Fisher’s voice, loud and commanding, not the voice of a sick man. “Will she live?”

  “She’s a bleeder,” le Strange said. “I knew that from before, but I had to take the chance.”

  “Can you stop it?”

  “I need Dr. Castle,” le Strange said.

  “Grofrec!” This came from Fisher.

  The dwarf said, “I hear you, boss.” He never took his eyes off Flintlock.

  “Bring Dr. Castle. Hurry.”

  “Right away, boss.”

  In the gloom, wolf and man were as one. Only Quicksilver’s fangs gleamed amid the shadow.

  “Will you give me the road, Flintlock?” Horntoe said. “Better for you if you do.”

  The wagon was silent. Flintlock lowered his rifle and stepped aside. “Little man, I swear I’ll kill you one day.”

  “Or I will kill you.” The dwarf grinned. “Quicksilver will tear the big bird from your throat. Depend on it.” The smirking Horntoe dragged his snarling wolf past Flintlock. Man and animal smelled feral, wild, like the inside of a dragon’s den.

  * * *

  Flintlock had not been asleep for long when he jerked into a sitting position, his frightened eyes searching the darkened saloon. Was it the wolf come for him? The one called Quicksilver? The one with a ravenous appetite for human flesh?

  His head sank slowly back to the floor. Suddenly he was very tired, used up by the events of the past few days. He badly wanted this waking nightmare to end. He closed his eyes again, forced himself to empty his mind of all thought and for the rest of the night he drifted in and out of consciousness.

  Once, in restless slumber, he saw his mother again.

  Her hair was bright red, but her features were blurred because he could no longer remember her face. She was lost in a swamp and cried out to him. Suddenly, her hair was no longer red but gray, and she beckoned to him, her voice pleading, begging him to save her, her arms moving like willow branches in a wind.

  He moved toward her, but slowly, slowly, as though he walked through thick molasses. He called out to her. “Ma, what’s my name? Ma, tell me my father’s name.”

  A mist came down like a gray cloud and his mother vanished from sight.

  The dream within a dream ended.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  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.”