A Time for Vultures Page 3

  “I’ll find her. Don’t you worry about that,” Flintlock said, irritated. He pointed to an object in the old man’s hand. “What the hell is that thing you’re holding?”

  Barnabas held up the object that glinted in the sun. “This is an old-timey helmet, boy. See, you put it on your head like this.” He lowered the helmet onto his head. His voice sounding hollow, he added, “Then you lift the visor.” It was shaped like the bow of an iron steamship. He raised it and said, “There, now I can see you just fine.”

  “What are you doing with that thing?” Flintlock said.

  “Polishing it up for a feller.”

  “What feller?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, Sammy, but I’ll tell you anyway. This here hat belongs to Baron Boris Von Baggenheim. Back, oh, four hundred years ago, ol’ Boris made a career of galloping around the countryside slaughtering peasants and dragging maidens back to his castle to have his way with them.” Barnabas sighed. “Boris sure misses them good old days.”

  “And that’s why he’s in hell?” Flintlock said.

  Barnabas said, “Yeah, that and something to do with burning some holy man or other. But what you say is true, boy.” He nodded and the helmet visor clanged shut. He opened it again. “Boris’s corner of hell is reserved for them as You-know-who calls naughty noblemen, including that little puke the Marquis de Sade. Spends all his time talking about his female conquests, like anybody cares.” Barnabas lifted the helmet off his head. “Damn, this thing is heavy and hot. Of course, in hell it’s red hot, but Boris doesn’t seem to mind.”

  “Barnabas, why are you here?” Flintlock said.

  The old mountain man looked over his shoulder and then his voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “You-know-who has advice for you about them uppity females. He says you should tip the wagon over again and then set it on fire. Burn them four harridans alive and you’ll be rid of them.”

  “Yeah, that’s the kind of advice he would give. Tell him it’s not going to happen.”

  Barnabas polished the helmet with his buckskin sleeve. “Well, Sam’l, he’s smart and you’re a dunderhead, but suit yourself. Now I got to go. Hey, you ever hear of a bird they call a kingfisher?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” Flintlock said.

  “You will,” Barnabas said.

  He vanished in a puff of smoke that smelled of brimstone. Only the sound of his cackle lingered and then it too was gone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “The women are still in the wagon,” O’Hara said. “What took you so long?”

  “Barnabas,” Flintlock said.

  “What did he want?”

  “To tell me to burn the women alive and that I was an idiot.”

  “Sounds like Barnabas. His spirit is every bit as villainous as he was.”

  “Seems like.” Flintlock looped his rope together and tied it to the saddle. “You ever heard of a bird called a kingfisher?”

  “That’s a strange question.”

  “Have you?”

  O’Hara nodded. “The Sioux and Cheyenne respect the kingfisher because it is a mighty hunter.”

  “What does it hunt? Fish?” Flintlock said.

  “With a name like kingfisher, it doesn’t hunt rabbits.”

  “Barnabas said the bird is going to figure in my future.”

  “The old man is a prophet,” O’Hara said, “but you can’t trust him. His spirit wanders between heaven and hell.”

  Flintlock fingered the thunderbird tattoo across his throat. “You think it has something to do with this?”

  “I don’t know. You should’ve asked Barnabas.”

  * * *

  After several hours of waiting, someone banged on the inside of the wagon door and Biddy yelled, “Hey, you, Flintlock. Has that crazy Indian calmed down yet?”

  “Yeah, you can come out now, but don’t make him mad. He’s a mean cuss when he goes on the warpath.”

  The wagon door opened a crack and then wider. Biddy stuck her head outside, her eyes, round as coins, going to O’Hara.

  “Yip-yip!” O’Hara said.

  The door slammed shut again.

  Flintlock stepped to the wagon. “Come on out. O’Hara was making a joke.”

  “He’s loco,” Biddy said.

  “Yeah, he is, but right now he’s harmless,” Flintlock said. “Come out. I’ll make sure he doesn’t do you any harm.”

  Long moments passed and the door again opened and four timid women stepped outside, all eyes on O’Hara.

  The breed smiled and said softly, “Yip.”

  Flintlock stopped the stampede for the door, assuring Biddy and the others that O’Hara was no longer interested in scalps. “But he’s hungry and a hungry Injun is an angry Injun.”

  Margie Tott, the little brunette, tightened the laces of her red leather corset, and said, “Ain’t we heading for Happyville, bird man? We got business there.”

  “You locked yourselves in the wagon for most of the damned day and now it’s too late,” Flintlock said. “We’ll head out tomorrow at first light.”

  O’Hara, playing his role of wild man to the hilt, thumbed his chest and said, “Me hungry. Me getting angry.”

  “You women get a fire started,” Biddy said. “We’d best feed the crazy man before he scalps us all in our sleep.”

  * * *

  Sam Flintlock slept soundly in his blankets as the moon rose and silvered the grass and trees. As fragile as a bride’s veil, a mist hung close to the ground and from somewhere close an inquisitive owl questioned the night. Deer, stepping high on graceful hooves, came down to the creek to drink, their eyes pools of darkness.

  Flintlock slept on . . . dreaming of birds that hunted tiny silver fish . . . but O’Hara, a restless man, patrolled the night. Rifle in hand, he glided like a ghost through the gloom, his eyes searching for . . . he knew not what. His sleep had been troubled and the luminous night seemed to hold a thousand dangers lurking in the shadows.

  The kingfisher had wakened him, pecking at his eyes.

  O’Hara had sat upright in fear, remembering what the Ojibwa said of the kingfisher, that it was a bird of ill omen . . . a bearer of bad news.

  On soundless feet, O’Hara stepped close to Flintlock and stared at the slumbering man. Flintlock slept as white men sleep, deeply and unaware, hearing nothing. Yet it was he Barnabas had warned about the coming of the kingfisher. O’Hara squatted, his rifle across his thighs, and stared hard into Flintlock’s face with its sharp, hard planes, shaggy eyebrows, and great dragoon mustache. It was a strong face, but then Flintlock was a strong man, brave without cruelty, caring sometimes, harsh, unforgiving and uncompromising at others. He was a man a certain kind of woman admired and little children did not fear. Sometimes a lawman, oft times an outlaw, he rode hard trails across a pitiless land and did what was needed to survive. He was a man of his time and place, and lived his life according to its dictates.

  Why then the terrible dream about the kingfisher bird? What had Flintlock to fear? O’Hara had no answer to that question.

  But this much he knew . . . for good or evil, the time of the kingfisher was coming.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After a quick breakfast, Flintlock and the others took to the trail for Happyville. Biddy Sales was at the reins of the wagon. By mutual agreement, she and Flintlock planned to sell the horses, saddles, and traps of the three dead men and split the proceeds.

  “At least we’ll make a profit out of this trip, huh?” Flintlock said to O’Hara as they rode ahead of the wagon across rolling grassland. But the breed, still disturbed by his dream about the kingfisher, made no comment.

  “Hell, what’s bothering you?” Flintlock said, his eyes on O’Hara’s sour face.

  “Forget selling the horses, Sam.” The black hair that fell over O’Hara’s shoulders was tangled and uncombed, unusual for the breed, who usually took great pains with his appearance. “We should leave the women and head for the Arizona Territory like we
intended.”

  Flintlock glanced over his shoulder to make sure the swaying, jolting wagon was keeping up and then said, “All I want is one good meal and a soft bed to lie in. We’ll stay in town tonight and ride out tomorrow morning. How does that set with you?”

  O’Hara shook his head. “Sam, I got a bad feeling about this. Last night the kingfisher came to me in a dream. It was a bad omen.”

  “The bird? You mean the bird Barnabas talked about?”

  “Yes, Sam. The kingfisher.”

  “O’Hara, being around all them condemned folk has made old Barnabas crazy as a loon, so pay no heed to a word he says. A little tweety bird isn’t going to harm me . . . or you.”

  “I hope you’re right, Sam,” O’Hara said.

  “Of course I’m right,” Flintlock said. “Have you ever known me to be wrong?”

  * * *

  A day’s ride south of the New Mexico border, the town of Happyville lay in a deep depression that looked as though it had been scooped out of the earth by the gigantic hands of God. A tall, tree-covered ridge rose to the west of town and then curved like a bent bow to the north. Unique among western cow towns, Happyville’s single street was lined on both sides with carefully trimmed wild oak that provided the boardwalks with dappled shelter from the sun.

  Flintlock and O’Hara sat their horses on slightly higher ground that overlooked the town. From that distance, it looked settled, peaceful, and prosperous . . . but O’Hara’s sharp eyes noticed something that jarred him.

  “Sam,” he said, “take a looksee all the way to the end of the street.”

  From her perch on the wagon seat, shortsighted Biddy Sales said, “What do you see, Injun?”

  “Sam?” O’Hara said.

  Flintlock’s eyes searched into distance. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “What do you think it is?” O’Hara said.

  “I think it’s a gallows with a man hanging from a noose,” Flintlock said.

  O’Hara nodded. “I think you’re right.”

  Biddy Sales shrieked. “Oh my God, it’s not Morgan, is it?”

  “I hope so,” Flintlock said. “But I can’t tell from here.”

  The three other women got out of the wagon and stared at the town.

  “They’ve hung somebody,” Jane Feehan said. “Is it Morgan?”

  “We don’t know,” Biddy said, her face stricken. “It could be him. I just can’t tell.”

  “Well there’s one way to find out,” Flintlock said. “We go down there and have a look.”

  “If it is Morgan, I’ll miss the dear soul,” O’Hara said.

  Biddy glared at him, but the breed stared ahead of him as impassive as a cigar store Indian.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Flintlock led the way down the rise, rode through a stand of piñon, and then swung north, where he met up with the dirt road that led into town and provided easier going for the wagon. As he got closer, he saw something he’d missed because of the trees lining the street. A dozen or more tables covered with white cloths had been laid out alongside the boardwalks, groaning under the weight of food piled high in huge serving platters, bowls, and baskets.

  O’Hara saw what Flintlock saw and grinned, “Fiesta.”

  Flintlock looked at Biddy and winked. “If they hung Morgan, they’re making a day of it, huh?”

  The woman bit her lip and said nothing.

  Carried on the breeze came the smell of rot . . . and the sweet, carrion stench of dead things.

  Flintlock drew rein and raised a hand to halt the wagon and the three jostling horses tethered to its rear.

  Biddy Sales made a face. “What’s that stink?”

  “Maybe it’s ol’ Morg,” Flintlock said. “I always had him pegged for a stinker.”

  She frowned. “Flintlock, I surely do hate you.”

  He grinned. “And I love you, Biddy.”

  “Of course you do,” she said. “And so does your Injun.”

  “O’Hara? He’s crazy about you, Biddy. Now we’ll go say howdy to the hanging man and the good, well-fed folks of Happyville.” Flintlock kicked his horse forward.

  * * *

  O’Hara rode straight to the gallows. The others stopped at the tables of food.

  The buzzing drone of fat black flies provided a counterpoint to Biddy Sales’s disgusted voice as she wrinkled her nose and said, “It’s rotten. All the grub is rotten.”

  Every scrap of food in the bowls and on the platters—chicken, beef, potatoes, corn, cakes, and pies—was covered in a heaving black mass of carrion flies and the air was thick with a putrid, stomach-churning reek.

  Talking from behind the hand that covered her pretty mouth, Margie Tott said, “Where are the people? There are no people.”

  Used to shouting above the din of dance halls and a few of the noisier brothels, Biddy yelled, “Hey! Where the hell are you? Where is everybody?”

  There was no answer but the sigh of the rising wind . . . and something else.

  Toward the end of the street in the direction of the hanged man, a player piano tinkled out the tune of “Home Sweet Home.” It was a song regaining popularity after the Union had banned it during the War Between the States for being too suggestive of hearth and home and likely to incite desertion, but its cloying sentimentality seemed tailor-made for a town named Happyville.

  O’Hara returned and said, “You better come see this, Sam’l.”

  “Is it Morgan Davis?” Flintlock said.

  “No. It’s somebody else. I don’t know who he is.”

  “Good,” Flintlock said. “I aim to punch Morgan’s ticket personally. Are there men in the saloon?”

  “Like I said, you’d better come see.” The breed’s face was grim and Flintlock didn’t push the question.

  He kneed his horse forward but didn’t follow O’Hara directly. He turned to his right, mounted the boardwalk and walked his horse slowly past the stores and offices. His bay’s hooves thudding on timber, he rode as far as the saloon with the player piano and drew rein. He sat his saddle and looked over the batwings into the interior. The saloon looked like any other on the frontier, but was better than most. A substantial mahogany bar ran the length of the room and half a dozen tables with their attendant chairs were placed around the floor. One of the chairs was tipped on its back, suggesting that its occupant had left in a hurry. Above the bar hung a painting of a naked lady with fat thighs reclining on a sofa. Beside her, holding a salver that bore a champagne glass, stood a small black boy in a red turban who looked out from the canvas, his unsmiling face a study in boredom.

  On the opposite wall, glaring at the nude in prim disapproval, was a portrait of the gallant Custer. It was draped in black crepe. Above the crown of his campaign hat were the Latin words Maximo Heros Noster. The bar and tabletops were littered with glasses, some of them still holding beer and whiskey. The saloon was empty of people but “Home Sweet Home” continued to play on the piano against the far wall. The effect of deserted tavern and perpetual tune made Flintlock think of haunts and death and Judgment Day.

  The face he turned to O’Hara was worried. “Nobody inside,” he said. “Looks like they all got up and lit a shuck.”

  “Nobody anywhere,” the breed said. “The town is deserted.”

  Flintlock frowned. “What the hell?”

  “Seems like that’s a question for old Barnabas, not me,” O’Hara said. “Now come see the hanging man. He’s a sight.”

  * * *

  Sam Flintlock stared at the man hanging from the noose for long moments. Whoever he’d been, he looked tough. His duds and boots were of good quality, better than a puncher could afford.

  After a while Flintlock said, “What’s that stuff all over his face and his hands? What the hell is that?”

  “I think it’s smallpox,” O’Hara said. “And if that’s what it is, it can be deadly.”

  “What kind of pox?” The man who could be downright testy at times added, “That damned ‘Home S
weet Home’ is driving me crazy.”

  “Smallpox, Sam. One time I saw it wipe out an entire Apache village after they’d gotten their hands on infected blankets from a crooked Indian agent.”

  “It’s catching?” Flintlock said.

  “Only if you come close to somebody who has it. If this man had breathed on you the chances are you’d get it.” O’Hara read Flintlock’s alarmed face and said, “Don’t worry, Sam. He stopped breathing days ago.”

  “Is that why they hung him? Because he had smallpox?”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it,” O’Hara said. “My guess is they didn’t know he had smallpox or they saw it on him and didn’t realize what it was.”

  Flintlock said, “They planned to celebrate the hanging with a big feast but then somebody warned them there was smallpox in the town and they up and left.”

  “Or when folks started dying,” O’Hara said.

  “Hey, Flintlock! Get your ass the hell down here!” Biddy Sales stood on the boardwalk under a painted wooden sign that said SHERIFF.

  “Now what?” Flintlock said to O’Hara.

  The breed only shook his head in reply.

  “What did you find, Biddy?” Flintlock yelled.

  “Dead man,” the woman said. “And he’s wearing a lawman’s star.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “His face is covered in sores, but I recognize him,” Biddy said. “It’s Sheriff Barney Morrell. Looks . . . smells . . . like he died two or three days ago.”

  “You didn’t touch him, did you?” Flintlock said.

  “Hell, no. I only touch men who pay me.” Biddy frowned. “Why did you ask me that?”

  “Because he probably died of smallpox and it’s catching,” Flintlock said. “I think the whole damned town lit out as soon as the dying started.”

  “Flintlock, this will come as a surprise, but I already lived through a smallpox plague,” Biddy said. “I was in Deadwood during the epidemic of seventy-six when I was new to the whoring profession and but fourteen years old. When we caught the disease a gal by the name of Calamity Jane Canary—”