A Time for Vultures (13 page)

Old Barnabas, in life as wicked as they come, stood under a gas lamp in an alley and called out to Sam Flintlock as he passed. “No, not there, idiot, over here.”

Flintlock shoved his Colt back in his waistband and stepped to the alley entrance. “I knew where you were, Barnabas, but I didn't know who you were.”

“Well, I'm me. Thanks to You-know-who, this here gas lamp comes all the way from London town. He says Jack the Ripper's cur dog cocked his leg on this lamp, but you can't believe a word he says.”

There was no gas supply in Happyville, but the lamp glowed with a dim, greenish light as it had when it stood in Whitechapel Road. The light fell on Barnabas's cloaked shoulders and on the crown of his top hat. The old mountain man held a long, slender cane in his right hand with an ornate golden handle in the shape of a snarling Chinese dragon. When he moved, he revealed that the cloak had a bloodred lining in contrast to the dazzling whiteness of his frilled shirt collar and tie.

“Why the fancy duds?” Flintlock said.

Barnabas's face was tinted green from the lamplight, his shadowed eyes and cheeks inky black. “We're all dressed up because there was a rumor that Jack the Jester was joining the fold, but You-know-who had it wrong as usual. Jack isn't due for a few years yet.”

Flintlock said, “Well, I guess that's why God is in his heaven and Old Scratch isn't. It must have been a sore disappointment to you, Barnabas. I mean Jack not showing.”

“Of course is was, but that's what hell is all about, Sammy. Disappointments . . . one after another. No dreams ever come true in hell, boy. Remember that.”

A large white moth fluttered around the gas lamp and Flintlock said, “Is that a Happyville moth?”

“Nah, it's an East End of London, England, moth. Now listen up, Sammy. Do you want You-know-who's advice on how to get rid of the pregnant lady and the rest of them? I should warn you, Sam, you being an idiot an' all, that it involves a knife and some plucky work with a club.”

“I'll handle my problems in my own way,” Flintlock said. “Thanks all the same.”

“Thought you'd say that, boy.” Barnabas shook his top-hatted head. “Son, you just ain't too bright.” His cloak swirled around him, flashing red. “Well, I got to go. I'll leave you with this thought, Sam—go find your ma. That Kingfisher feller plans to write his name across this here town and he'll dip his pen in blood. That's what he's all about, boy. B-l-u-d, blood.” Barnabas put a cupped hand to his ear. “Hear that? It's the coppers. I got to light a shuck.”

Flintlock stood to the side as Barnabas, his cape billowing, ran past him and became one with the night. The gas lamp glowed for a few moments longer . . . and then winked out and vanished.

* * *

“How is she?” Biddy said.

“She's holding up but feeling some pain,” Flintlock said. “Right now I can't say the same about her husband.”

“You got him drunk?” Biddy said, her eyes accusing.

“Only half,” Flintlock said.

“You and O'Hara are pulling out tomorrow?”

“That's the general idea.”

“I got news for you, big man.”

“What's that?”

“The Indian doesn't want to go.”

Biddy saw the question on Flintlock's face and said, “He had a bad dream.”

“O'Hara gets all kind of crazy notions about dreams. He's very high strung, you know. Is there coffee in the pot? I could sure use some.”

“On the stove where it always is,” Biddy said.

“Where is O'Hara anyway?”

“I don't know. Making big medicine somewhere, I guess.”

* * *

Flintlock took his coffee with him. He also carried his Hawken. Old Barnabas's warning about King Fisher had troubled him and suddenly the night seemed full of hidden dangers.

Walking clear of the stores and buildings where the smallpox dead lay unburied, Flintlock checked the alleys—anywhere O'Hara might go to commune with the Great Spirit or whoever the hell he'd decided to commune with. A sudden noise in the narrow alley between a boarded-up hardware store and the New York Hat Shop attracted his attention. His Hawken up and handy, Flintlock took a step into the darkness. Had Barnabas come back?

“Bang, you're dead.”

Something cold and round pressed into Flintlock's right temple just under the brim of his hat.

“O'Hara, someday that's going to get you killed.”

“And someday you'll learn how to walk into a dark alley,” O'Hara said.

Irritated, Flintlock said, “How about I blow a fist-sized hole in your belly with this here cannon, Injun? Just out of spite, like.”

“You came too late to the dance, Sam. I already shot you dead, remember?”

Now even more exasperated, Flintlock said, “How come you're scaring all the women with your crazy talk?”

“What crazy talk?”

“About dreams an' sich.” Flintlock looked to the west. A shooting star, bright as a hot coal, branded the night sky and he fancied that it would soon thump onto someone's tile roof in Old Mexico as a smoking, burned-out cinder. “And omens. Bad omens.”

“Walk with me, Sam.” After a few steps, O'Hara said, “In my dream we were walking across the prairie and then a man with the head of a bird flew from a wild oak tree and attacked the thunderbird on your throat.”

Flintlock smiled. “Hell, O'Hara, I would've plugged him for sure. I mean, flying down from a tree like that.”

O'Hara ignored that. “I threw a lance at the bird man but missed and when I told him he was an unclean spirit and to leave you be, he said he wanted your blood. He said he needed it for the kingfisher.”

Flintlock stopped, a spasm of unease niggling at him. “And then what happened?”

“The bird man filled his beak with blood and flew away and drops from his beak fell on me like a red rain. Sam, it was a dreadful rain and I fell on my face and begged the Great Spirit to protect me.”

“And what about me?” Flintlock said, nettled.

“You lay on the ground on your back, and your throat was torn out and your face was white as wood ash.”

Flintlock stopped walking. “O'Hara, did you eat Biddy Sales's beef and beans before you had that dream?”

“It wasn't Biddy's cooking that spoke to me, Sam. It was the voice of a spirit,” O'Hara said.

“So what do we do about it?” Flintlock said.

“I don't know. The spirit doesn't advise. It warns.”

“Biddy says you don't want to leave Happyville. Is that true?”

“I believe we'll be attacked if we ride into the open country,” O'Hara said. “And I think the spirit warned of your death if we do.”

“And if we stay here in town, King Fisher will kill us for sure,” Flintlock said. “I don't know what he has in mind for Happyville, but now he knows we're in his way. It sure doesn't seem that we have much of a choice . . . damned if we do, damned if we don't.”

“I'd rather take my chances in town,” O'Hara said. “Out in the open, we'll be like ducks in a shooting gallery.”

Flintlock shook his head. “Fisher will be slowed by the steam carriage and the wagon. If we ride out at first light, we can outdistance him and his big gun.”

“I hope you're right,” O'Hara said.

“So do I.”

“Is it Brewster? Is it Charlie Brewster?” King Fisher said.

Clem Jardine palmed shut the telescope in his hand and said, “It's Charlie all right. He's made good time.”

Fisher squinted into the heat haze. “How many does he have with him? Can you see?”

“I count ten,” Jardine said.

Fisher nodded. “It's enough. Charlie hires only the best.”

“Will he bring them in, King?” Jardine said.

“He'll round them up all right. He may have to gun a few to get the rubes to sit up and pay attention, but he'll bring them in.”

“He's signaling,” Jardine says. “He's seen us.”

“Clem, those boys will be thirsty. Get the women to break out the whiskey jugs.”

“Sure thing.” Jardine hesitated a moment and then said, “How good is he?”

“Among the best there is, apart from me. Charlie is fast enough.”

Jardine smiled. “Then he's as fast as me.”

Fisher shook his head. “I don't know, Clem, but I think in a drawdown with Charlie, you wouldn't even come close.”

If that hurt, Jardine didn't let it show. He called to the woman with the silver hands to get the jugs, enough for ten thirsty men. “It's Charlie Brewster and his boys.”

The woman with the silver hands smiled but said nothing.

* * *

“Hell, King, when I first saw you I was took by surprise,” Charlie Brewster said. “I mean that strange bug eye you got, and now you say you have a mechanical arm. I don't believe what I'm seeing.”

“Believe it.” Fisher waited until the big outlaw took a swig from the jug before he rolled up his right sleeve and showed the inside of his forearm. “My hand and forearm were hit with three bullets, pretty much shot to pieces. An engineer repaired my arm with steel and brass and it's as good as new.”

Brewster's eyes got big. “Hell, King, can you draw with that thing?”

“Better than before. Maybe ten times faster.”

The big outlaw smiled. “Ah, then I think I'll get the feller to do mine. I'm quick on the draw, but every men wants to be faster.”

“Stick with me, Charlie, and that could happen. You'll still be slower than me, but ten times faster than you are now.”

Brewster took another look at Fisher's arm and then shook his head. “Ah, hell, I reckon not. I hit what I aim at and I'm content with that.”

“You've killed eight men, Charlie,” Fisher said. “Seems to me you're doing all right.”

“Nine. A month ago down Fort Stockton way, I shot Diamond Johnny Hopewell. I reckon he figured I couldn't count up to five.”

“Johnny always loved slipping that extry ace into the deck,” Fisher said. “He was mighty slick with it, too.”

“My bullet blew his watch clean into his belly. Undertaker said he was still ticking when he planted him.” Brewster gave Fisher a sidelong look. “Passed a heap of dead men and horses couple miles east of here. That anything to do with the big gun you got on top of that armored stagecoach of yours?”

“Mexican bandits. They attacked us and the Gatling took them by surprise,” Fisher said.

“They were surprised all right. Never knew what hit them. After the coyotes get through there's going to be ten acres of scattered bones back there.”

Fisher waved a dismissive hand. “Like I give a damn.”

Brewster smiled. “That's the King Fisher I remember. You always were a hard-feeling man.” He took another long pull from the jug and then tugged at his bandana. “Damn, it's hot in this tent. Don't you feel it?”

“No, I don't feel it,” Fisher said. “My blood is not good. It's thin.”

Brewster used an end of his bandana to wipe his sweaty face. “Your blood is thin because you've spent too long in the Texas heat.”

“Maybe so,” Fisher said, his flat tone indicating that the subject was closed. “A thousand for you, Charlie, and five hundred each for your boys. Payable when the job is done. My offer hasn't changed.”

“Round up a bunch of rubes and return them to . . . what the hell is the name of that town of yours?”

“Happyville.”

“Yeah, that's right. Bring them back and everybody lives happily ever after, is that it?” The outlaw grinned. “Be happy in Happyville, huh?”

“Charlie, I don't give a damn if they're happy or not. I just want them there. And I want you to ride for the town this afternoon.”

“You're in a big hurry,” Brewster said.

“Damn right I am. I'll feel a sight better when you and your boys are in Happyville looking after my interests.”

“We'll be there. Now for God's sake open the tent flap,” Brewster said. “I'm dying in here.”

Fisher pushed the flap open and then said, “This is a private talk, Charlie, so keep your voice low. There's bound to be a few fighters among the rubes. If they give you trouble, you kill them. No questions asked.”

“I don't mind a killing or two,” Brewster said. “But I sure can't figure why a bunch of storekeepers and pumpkin rollers are so damned important to you.”

“I told you, Charlie. I have bad blood. That's why I need those people.”

Brewster shook his head. “I still don't understand.”

“You don't have to understand, Charlie. Just do your job and leave and I'll take care of the rest.” Fisher thought about that last a moment. “But do your job well and there's always a possibility that I may offer you a new contract. I can make you rich, Charlie, rich and powerful beyond anything you can imagine.”

“Tell me about it. That sounds real interesting.”

“No, not now,” Fisher said. “We'll talk about it at length in Happyville.”

“All right, King, but for now change places with me. Let me sit by the flap where there's a breeze,” Brewster said.

“We'll leave in a minute after you tell me if you're in or out.”

“Of course I'm in, in for a thousand dollars. But I need to know more about the big contract you're offering before I can make a decision on it.”

“Round up the citizens of Happyville and you'll soon find out, Charlie. I need them . . . to survive and if I'm to accomplish great things.”

Brewster grinned. “What kind of great things. King?”

“You really do want to know, don't you? All right then, I'm talking about an outlaw empire, Charlie. Think of it.” Fisher flexed his hand and it looked like an iron claw. “Given enough time, I can take over the whole country. The West first and then move east to the big cities where crime already flourishes. Within a few years, I can make myself the most powerful man in the United States and quite possibly the whole world.” Fisher laid his withered left hand on Brewster's shoulder.

The big outlaw could not disguise his cringe.

“And you can be a part of it.”

“Part of it, how?” Brewster said.

“You'll be the leader of my outlaw army,” Fisher said. “You will recruit others of your kind and lead them to rob and plunder far and wide. Soon the hick town of Happyville will become the new capital of the South, a metropolis grown rich as you and your thousands of fighting men fill its coffers with gold and silver.”

Brewster looked incredulous, but with a straight face he managed to say, “And you, King? What will you be?”

“Why Charlie, what I've always been . . . King Fisher. Before, I was nothing, just a frontier ruffian destined to die with my beard in the sawdust of some saloon. Now that I'm returned to life, I see the way and the way is power.”

“This country don't take kindly to kings with power,” Brewster said.

“That does not concern me. They had a king once. They can have a king again.”

Brewster grinned. “I got to hand it to you. When you plan a thing, you plan big. Now all you have to do is rule over them folks in Happyville, defeat the Texas Rangers, and then take on the whole United States Army.” He shook his head. “That's a tall order, King, and suddenly I need another drink.”

“Listen to me, Charlie. The Rangers are few in number and can be swept aside. The army has already fought one civil war and has no belly for a second. Some well-placed money in Washington will ease my way to the presidency, and then I will have no further need for private armies and criminality.”

Shocked, Brewster said, “King, none of that is going to happen. What you're saying is impossible.”

“It's not impossible. Throughout history people of humble origins have risen to great power. An orphaned peasant girl named Catherine became empress of all the Russias and our own Abraham Lincoln was born dirt poor in a log cabin. It can be done and I will do it.”

“Whatever you say,” Brewster said. “I wish you luck.”

“You will join me in this great venture, Charlie?”

“Nope,” the outlaw said. “Lookee here, King, here's how it's going to be. I'll round up your townsfolk for you and gun them as need to be gunned. Then you'll pay me and my boys and we part ways with no hard feelings. Are you all right with that?”

“I'm fine with that arrangement, but there's another, greater reason I seek power, Charlie. Are you willing to hear it?”

“I've heard some pretty wild stuff already,” Brewster said, smiling. “I guess I can listen to a little more.”

“I will use the modern engineering knowledge of this great nation to extend my life as long as possible,” Fisher said. “Obadiah le Strange, my engineer, says a hundred more years is a probability and maybe even longer as our technical knowledge grows.”

“Hell, you don't even talk like the old King Fisher I knew,” Brewster said. “You don't want to share the jug and you haven't mentioned high-breasted women, not once. What's happened to you?”

“Do you really want to know, Charlie?”

“Sure I do. Tell me and maybe I can set you straight.”

“I heard the screams of the damned in hell,” Fisher said, his voice hollow, haunted. “I don't ever want to go back there. I want to stay away from that terrible place for as long as I can.”

“Hah! So you got religion.”

“No, not religion. I've found faith in modern science, Charlie, and I want what it can give me . . . immortality.”

“You mean live forever? Well, you can't do that, King. No one can.”

“There's a first time for everything. In this modern age if you think of a thing, engineers can make it happen.”

Brewster held out the jug. “Here, King, take a swig of whiskey. It will do you good. Later, I'll tell you about a little Chinese gal I met over to Nacogdoches way. Why, she could—”

“Charlie, you don't understand, do you?” Fisher said. “That's my fault. I had no reason to believe you could grasp a concept that is way beyond the scope of your intelligence. Get out of here and take the jug with you. I'll talk to you later in Happyville.”

Charlie Brewster needed no second urging. He stepped out of the tent, and the flap fell closed behind him. He stood for a moment and gulped fresh air, his mind feeling its way back to normal thought like a rational man who'd just walked out of an asylum for the criminally insane.