A Time for Vultures Read online

  * * *

  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.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “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.

  * * *

  Chak-chak-chak-chak-chak!

  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 dunge
on 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.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “I guess we should say a prayer for this woman, O’Hara,” Sam Flintlock said. “Do you know any?”

  “God grant this woman eternal peace,” O’Hara said as Flintlock removed his hat. “May she follow the buffalo herds.”

  “That’s it?” Flintlock said.

  “It’s enough,” O’Hara said.

  “A half-breed prayer if ever I heard one,” Flintlock said. “But you’re right, it will do, get our message across.”

  The grave of the woman with the silver hands had been hastily dug a mile or so north of Happyville. Her beautifully crafted hands lay on top of the shallow mound.

  Flintlock ran a hand through his hair and then replaced his hat. “King Fisher murdered this woman, but I don’t know how. Her face was white, white as bone.”

  O’Hara picked up the silver hands and examined them. The fingers and thumb were articulated and a complex series of wires and rods had attached them to the muscles and tendons of the forearms.

  “Pah! These are filthy things.” He tossed the hands back on the grave. “Only the Great Spirit can make a woman’s hands.”

  Flintlock nodded. “Yeah, that’s always been my way of thinking.” He gathered up the reins of his horse and glanced at a threatening sky the color of gunmetal. “I was always told it never storms in West Texas.”

  “Coming down from the New Mexico Territory, Sam, and that’s mighty unusual at this time of the year. A big blow moving in from the western ocean, maybe so.”

  “Whatever it is, it looks like rain,” Flintlock said. “We’d better head for town.”

  * * *

  “What the hell?” Flintlock said. “Everybody’s gone.”

  “Seems like,” O’Hara said.

  The livery stable was empty, Helrun and Fisher’s wagon gone, but two dead men lay sprawled in the dirt outside. Flintlock dismounted and studied the bodies. “Both shot, O’Hara. One of them in the back.”

  Biddy Sales, the three other women in tow, crossed the street, hiking up her skirts free of the mud. “You and the Indian always manage to miss all the excitement, Flintlock.” Her angry eyes told him that this was an accusation.

  “We had some excitement of our own,” Flintlock said as rain pattered around him. “We can exchange stories in the saloon. Right now I need a drink.”

  All six moved quickly to the saloon.

  He and O’Hara sat at a table, sharing their company with a bottle of Old Crow. Biddy wrapped up her account of the gunfights and the escape of the army deserters with the wagon and Fisher’s pursuit.

  “After that, I don’t know what happened,” she said. “Fisher lit a shuck in the big locomotive thing, following their tracks.”

  Flintlock made the connection quickly. “I didn’t know King had stolen an army payroll. Damn. That’s why those Comancheros attacked us. They didn’t want horses and women. They wanted the payroll.”

  “Correct and correct, Flintlock,” Biddy said. “You’re such a clever boy.”

  “And I’m willing to bet the army deserters knew about the money,” Flintlock said.

  “That would be my guess,” Biddy said.

  “Did you see the bodies? Is the wolf dead?” Flintlock said.

  “Yeah. The wolf done for two of them soldier boys, but not before one of them got a bullet in Horntoe,” Biddy said.

  Margie Tott made a face. “I hated that little midget. He was always trying to grab my ass.”

  Biddy nodded. “He was a horny little cuss. His name suited him, I guess.”

  “He’s better off dead,” Lizzie Doulan said. “He had no life to speak of.”

  “Takes one to know one, Lizzie, huh?” Margie said.

  “Margie, leave her be,” Biddy said.

  “It’s all right,” Lizzie said. “Margie is right. I want so badly to be dead.”

  Blanche Jardine sat at another table and shuffled a pack of cards. Behind her painted mask, her eyes moved to Lizzie and she said, “That makes two of us, honey. Seems that everyone who visits Happyville is either dead or wants to be.”

  “I don’t,” Biddy said. “Neither does Margie or Jane.” Then, an edge to her voice she said, “Must you wear that damned mask?”

  “I was a faro dealer at the Silver Horseshoe in Denver and a sore loser threw acid in my face,” Blanche said. “Yes, lady, I have to wear this mask. You don’t ever want to see what lies under it.”

  “Hell, I do,” Margie Tott said, her pretty face eager.

  “No you don’t,” Biddy said. “Adults are talking, Margie, so sit there quietly and drink your gin.”

  The girl pouted her annoyance but said nothing more.

  Biddy directed her attention to Flintlock. “When is Charlie Brewster bringing in the townspeople?”

  “Never.” He had taken the time to reload his Hawken with powder and ball and it lay across his thighs, mostly hidden by the table.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means they’re all dead. Killed by the smallpox, unless a few of them made a run for it and died somewhere else.”

  All four of the women were shocked.

  Biddy gasped and lightly touched her left breast, a thing she did when she was under duress. “Oh my God.” As though she’d just remembered, she added, “Now what will King Fisher do?”

  “I don’t much care since he will answer to me,” Flintlock said. “After that, he won’t much care either.”

  Blanche Jardine spoke up again. “Flintlock, you’re a fool. Didn’t you see the skulls of men killed by King the first time you rode into our camp with Grofrec Horntoe? No one can beat King on the draw, and there’s no one alive who can outshoot him. He was created by science and only science can destroy him.” Then, as though she’d been taught to say the words, she added, “One day King Fisher will be the master of the world.”

  “Hell, lady, he ain’t even master of Happyville, Texas,” Flintlock said.

  “I heard wh
at you said about the people,” Blanche said. “King will find more in another town. He has recruited the bandit chief Charlie Brewster and his gunmen to be his strong right hand.”

  Flintlock shook his head. “Charlie isn’t coming in either. Last I saw of him, he was headed for Old Mexico.”

  Her mask was expressionless, but the way Blanche slammed her cards onto the table revealed her agitation. After a while she said, “King will hire more men and find a way. He always does.”

  “If he lives long enough,” Flintlock said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Dr. Sarah Castle removed the silver tube from her forearm and then the one from King Fisher. “The transfer is completed.”

  She felt weak and light-headed, but King Fisher’s breathing was better, and he no longer seemed to be in pain.

  The silver tubes were connected to a length of India rubber tubing with a stopcock at both ends and a bulb in the middle. When the doctor squeezed the bulb it acted as a pump to expedite the flow of blood from donor to recipient. The apparatus was state of the art and was hailed by surgeons in England and France as a great step forward in modern medicine. But clotting was always a problem, a complication le Strange intended to remedy after more research.

  As he took apart the apparatus for cleaning, he could not understand why King Fisher’s own body destroyed its own blood, necessitating what the European doctors were calling transfusions every week or so. The man’s metal parts were expertly engineered, some major organs replaced by exquisite replicas made of brass and in some cases bronze. His blood circulated but self-destructed and the problem had to be corrected soon if King was to take his rightful place in the world. And, as le Strange and Dr. Castle had learned, transfusions could be dangerous. Some people had bad blood and it made King very sick. That was another problem but nothing that modern science could not solve.

  Dr. Castle poured herself a glass of red wine, drank it down in one gulp, and poured another. She looked at her patient, who lay on a fold-down metal cot, and said, “King, can you hear me?”