A Time for Vultures Read online

  Luke Gamble told him he’d heard of a Texas gunman by the name of King Fisher, but he’d been killed in San Antonio a year ago. Could it be the same man? No, that was impossible. It had to be impossible.

  Usher looked up as Gamble stepped up to the fire and squatted on his heels. The scout picked up a cup, tossed away some grounds, and then filled it from the pot.

  “What did you hear?” Usher said.

  “It was King Fisher who shot the rube and made his pregnant wife die of shock,” Gamble said. “They’re burying them now.”

  “Who’s doing the burying?” Usher said.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I guess not. The riders have gone to bring back the citizens of the town. Seems that they ran away because of the smallpox.”

  “Yeah, that’s Charlie Brewster’s bunch that left to round them up. Brewster worries me.”

  “Why?” Usher said.

  Gamble lit a cigar. “For an officer and a gentleman you’re not too smart, Greg. Doesn’t it occur to you that an outlaw like Brewster could be after the payroll?”

  “I didn’t know they were outlaws.”

  “What other kind of gunmen would Fisher hire?”

  “Damn. There’s a dozen of them.”

  “Eleven, counting Charlie.”

  “Do you suppose the money is in the wagon?” Usher said.

  “It’s there all right. That’s why Fisher has two shotgun men guarding the livery.”

  Usher poured more coffee into his cup. “What do you think of him? Fisher I mean.”

  “I don’t want to think about him.”

  “What the hell happened to him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He doesn’t look like a man anymore.”

  Gamble looked Usher in the eye. “Listen up, Greg. I’ve fit Apaches, Comanches, Cheyenne, and Sioux and I’ve killed as many white men in gunfights as you have fingers. I’ve been shot three times, knifed once, caught the cholera as a younker and lived to tell the tale. Them’s my bona fides to prove that I’m not a coward. Well, King Fisher has made me a coward, because I’m scared of him.”

  “Stagg and Proud feel the same way?” Usher said.

  “You see them setting here with us? They’re hiding out in the saloon.”

  Usher nodded. “Then that settles it. We grab the payroll today and then light a shuck for Old Mexico.” Usher smiled. “And we’ll live like the gentlemen we are, Luke.”

  “I never laid any claim to be a gentleman and I reckon it’s too late to start,” Gamble said. “My share of the money will buy me whiskey and whores and that’s all I ask.” As cutting as a honed blade, he added, “You’ll never recapture your glory days in Washington, Captain. We’ll end up in the same stinking cantinas, drinking the same rotgut, and buying the same poxed women.”

  “If I thought that, I’d shoot myself,” Usher said.

  Gamble laughed but said nothing more.

  * * *

  “Here’s how we get it done,” Gregory Usher said. “We stroll up to the livery showing no guns, talk with the guards, and leave it to Luke to kill them.”

  “Kill them how?” Ethan Stagg said. “Shots will bring them tin men running.”

  “I’ve killed men with a knife before,” Luke Gamble said. “I’ll make it quick and I’ll make it clean.”

  “Then what, Captain?” Seth Proud said.

  “Call me Greg,” Usher said. “I stopped being an officer when I tore off my shoulder straps.”

  “Then what . . . Greg?” Proud said, his young face flushing.

  “We harness up Fisher’s wagon while you and Ethan stand ready with your rifles. Then we light out of this town rich men and don’t look back.” Usher smiled at the doubt he saw in the faces of Stagg and Proud. “A simple plan is often the best plan.”

  By his own admission, Usher was no longer an officer and Gamble seemed determined to take charge. “Ethan, you and Seth saddle the horses. We’ll want to dump the wagon and make the split as soon as possible. After that, we go our own ways. You follow me?”

  “Got it,” Stagg said.

  “All right. Take the horses to the livery. Greg, there’s a bottle of Old Crow in my saddlebags. Get it and then let’s you and me go make friends with a couple o’ guards.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “They’ve stopped,” O’Hara said.

  “Looks like they found something,” Sam Flintlock said. “Look, somebody’s dismounting for a closer look. Well, let’s go join the party.”

  Charlie Brewster and his men saw Flintlock and O’Hara from a ways off. The rider swung back into the saddle, but the outlaws sat their horses and waited.

  The wind picked up stronger, making the prairie grass dance, and black clouds roiled the sky. The air smelled of ozone, but every now and again Flintlock caught a whiff of rot, of something long dead. O’Hara caught it, too, and he put the back of his hand to his nose and mouth.

  They rode into a sand and gravel wash where there were few stands of prickly pear and the skeletal remains of an ancient cottonwood. After they regained the flat, they settled down to a trot and soon rode up on Brewster and his men.

  A body lay on the ground, a heavy canvas satchel over its left shoulder. The man wore a Colt, and a Winchester lay close by.

  “Dead ’un,” Brewster said as Flintlock and O’Hara drew rein.

  Flintlock controlled his prancing horse, upset at the nearness of death, and then studied the bloated corpse. Despite the black flies that crawled over the face, he recognized the man.

  “Looks like you know him,” Brewster said.

  Flintlock nodded. “His name is Morgan Davis.”

  “Friend of yours?” Brewster said.

  “No. He was a pimp and a lowdown back-shooter, and I badly wanted to kill him.”

  “Too late now,” Brewster said.

  “Seems like. What killed him?”

  A man spoke up, the one who’d dismounted for a closer look. “Judging by his face, it was smallpox. Looks like he crawled a ways before he died.”

  “What’s in his poke?”

  “I don’t know,” the man said. “I didn’t want to touch him.”

  “He would have to breathe on you to give you the disease,” Flintlock said. “And he long ago used up his last breath.” He swung out of the saddle, hooked the strap of the satchel with his toe, and dragged it off Davis’s lifeless body. Flintlock kicked the bag and it made a soft, clinking sound. Taking a knee, he upended the satchel and tipped out its contents . . . a pile of gold watches, rings, brooches and about fifty dollars in coin and bills. “I should also have said Davis was a two-bit thief.”

  “Seems like he robbed the folks before he lit out,” Brewster said. “He hasn’t been dead long, a couple days at most.”

  Flintlock raised his nose and sniffed. “Then if it isn’t him, what the hell is that smell on the wind?”

  “Maybe the people Davis robbed weren’t alive anymore,” O’Hara said.

  Flintlock said, “If he robbed the dead, wouldn’t the living have stopped . . . him . . . oh, my God.” He looked at Brewster. “They’re all dead.”

  “No, it can‘t be.” The big outlaw turned in the saddle and stared east across the flat as though he hoped to see hale and hearty people walking toward him. There were none. The only movement was the ripple of grass and the scurry of clouds . . . and the flash of lightning and bang of approaching thunder.

  “They were crowded together and the sick spread the disease to the well,” Flintlock said. “Chances are they had little food and water and didn’t have the strength to fight the plague that had descended on them. Maybe they’re all dead, Charlie. They aren’t going back to Happyville or anyplace else.”

  Brewster managed a smile. “Or they’re all sitting around fires, drinking whiskey and wishing they had shelter from this rain that’s just started.”

  “There’s one way to find out, I guess,” Flintlock said.

  “You heard the man, boys,�
� Brewster said. “Let’s go find the nice folks of Happyville. And remember, ride into the camp like we was visiting cousins. We don’t want to alarm them. At least, right off we don’t.”

  A man who rides a horse across the flat in a thunderstorm is always acutely aware that he is the tallest thing for miles around and it causes him no end of worry. Brewster, as uneasy as any, had his men dismount and lead their horses and Flintlock and O’Hara followed suit.

  In a relentless raking rain, they began to find bodies, sometimes singly, others huddled together where families had perished. Smallpox was deadly. The people of Happyville had little defense against it. Crammed together, clinging to one another for comfort and support, they made themselves easy prey for a virulent, pitiless killer. Their camp was a field of bones where only the glutted vultures moved.

  * * *

  Moving through the rain with lightning flashes glistening on their wet clothing, Flintlock and O’Hara drew off at a distance, upwind of the dead.

  Flintlock, badly shaken, tried to build a cigarette, but the downpour battered tobacco and papers from his fingers, and he gave up the unequal struggle. After a few minutes, a hollow-eyed Charlie Brewster joined them. His lips moved but no sound came. He made an effort and said finally, “Flintlock, I never seen the like. How many?”

  “Hundreds. Two hundred at least. I think some of them already walked away from it and died somewhere else.”

  “Children,” Brewster said, the dim, ashy light hardening in his eyes. “There are dead children.”

  Flintlock nodded. “Seems like.”

  Brewster said, “You seen that many dead white folk before, O’Hara?”

  O’Hara shook his head. “When I was a boy, and old age was respected, I saw old white people sitting on sunny doorsteps, playing in the sun with the children until they all fell asleep. Then, at last, an old person would not wake up. But it was only one death, one white person. No, I have not seen that many dead white people before.”

  “You’ve never been in a war,” Brewster said. “Many white people die in wars.”

  “This was not a war,” O’Hara said.

  “No it wasn’t,” Brewster said. “And I’m talking like a damned fool because I don’t know what else to say.”

  Flintlock said, “I’m sure King Fisher will have plenty to say. Those people out there were to be the start of his empire. He’ll be a mighty disappointed man.”

  Brewster said, “Do you think he’s really King Fisher?”

  “I think back in the day he was.” Flintlock shook his head. “He isn’t any longer.”

  “What is he?” Brewster said.

  “Monster? Creature? Demon? Insane tin man? Take your choice,” Flintlock said.

  “Employer?” Brewster said, grinning.

  As though the gods were angry over that statement, thunder crashed and the rain grew in intensity. O’Hara glanced at the sky and looked worried. The downpour was so heavy the horizon was invisible, lost in gray mist.

  “I’m heading back,” Flintlock said. “I plan to tell King the good news.”

  “I’m through here,” Brewster said. “King wanted me to help found his outlaw empire and take over the entire nation with him as president. That doesn’t set well with me. I like our country just the way it is.”

  O’Hara tore his gaze from the racked sky. “King Fisher’s dream is the vision of a madman. He fears hell and now plans to live forever.”

  “He told you that?” Brewster said.

  “Me, he told me.” Flintlock pointed to himself. “He said that after he got shot in San Antone, he died and got a glimpse of the condemned in hell.”

  Some of Brewster’s men were listening and they eyed him with a what-the-hell-did-you-get-us-into? expression. Their concern did not go unnoticed.

  “We’re heading south, boys,” he said. “Away from this damned rain and away from King Fisher.”

  Despite the miserable day, this drew a few cheers.

  “All right, mount up,” Brewster said. “And let’s ride.” He extended his hand to Flintlock. “Real pleasure to meet you, Sam. You ever want to get back into the bank-robbing profession, look me up.”

  “If hard times come down, I’ll keep that in mind,” Flintlock said.

  “You too, O’Hara,” Brewster said, touching his dripping hat brim.

  He climbed into the saddle and he and his men rode into distance making their slow way through the raging day.

  Flintlock watched them go and then said, “Right nice feller, Charlie, when he ain’t shooting folks.”

  “I reckon so.” O’Hara looked out over the lightning-glimmering grass. “What about the dead, Sam? Those people should have a Christian burial.”

  Flintlock nodded. “More burying than we can handle. First chance I get, I’ll tell the Rangers.”

  “They can scrape the bones together,” O’Hara said. “That’s what will be left.”

  “You know the real tragedy here, O’Hara? It’s the fact that all those people are dead and there’s not a damned thing we can do about it.”

  O’Hara said nothing.

  “All right then, there is one thing we can do,” Flintlock said. “We can ride away from it and not look back.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  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.