A Time for Vultures (14 page)

Sam Flintlock woke to the sound of men's voices out in the street. He grabbed the Colt lying at his side and padded on sock feet across the saloon floor.

O'Hara already stood at the door, staring out into the gray dawn. Without turning he said, “Riders. They're looking at the hanged man.”

“Rangers?” Flintlock said.

“Nope. See the feller on the gray? That there is Charlie Brewster, as big and bad as I remember.”

Flintlock's eyes almost popped out of his head. “Charlie Brewster . . . do you know how much reward money is on his head?”

“At a guess, thousands,” O'Hara said. “But don't even think about it.”

“Hell, he's a walking gold mine.” Flintlock peered through the gloom, blinking his blurry morning eyes. “Nah, it can't be Brewster. He never leaves the Brazos.”

“He has now,” O'Hara said. “What's he doing here?”

“Who are those boys with him? Recognize any of them?”

“The one on the steel dust is Tom Hendry and the feller wearing the fancy sombrero is Mexican John Reynolds,” O'Hara said. “I don't know any of the others. Charlie never runs with that many riders. He must have something big in mind.”

“Well there's one way to find out. Let's go ask him.”

“Sam, be polite. Charlie don't take sass.”

“Hell, neither do I.” Flintlock donned his hat, pulled on his boots, and stuck his Colt into his waistband. He followed O'Hara out the saloon door into a misty morning that still held an evening chill.

* * *

“O'Hara! Is this one of your damned Indian tricks? Did you hang this man?” Charlie Brewster leaned forward in the saddle. “Come now, speak up.”

“Good to see you, too, Charlie,” O'Hara said.

“He was hanging when we got here a few days ago,” Flintlock said.

Brewster, a bearded man with fierce black eyes and a knife scar on his left cheek, shifted his gaze to Flintlock and let it linger for a moment on the well-used revolver stuck in his pants. “Who you?”

“Me, Flintlock.”

O'Hara said Brewster didn't like sass. Well he was getting some.

Recognition dawned on Brewster's face and he clarified things when he said, “Are you Sam Flintlock, the bounty hunter?”

“Yeah, that would be me.”

“I reckon it should be you hanging from the rope.”

“And I reckon a whole passel of outlaws think that way.”

“Who hung this feller?”

“The town sheriff.”

“Why?”

“I don't know,” Flintlock said. “But I do know the feller had smallpox.”

Brewster swung his horse away and waved to his men. “Git the hell back from there.” Then to Flintlock again, he said, “Why does this burg stink?”

“It's the food you see rotting in the street and the dead people rotting in the buildings. Counting the sheriff, there's ten more and they all died of the smallpox. Oh, and another old-timer who knew he had the disease and shot himself.”

“O'Hara, is this all true?” Brewster said.

“Flintlock speaks the truth. Can't you smell the death in the air you breathe?”

Brewster ignored that. “Where are the rest of the townspeople?”

“To the east of here, maybe ten miles or so,” Flintlock said. “They're camped out in the open and probably starving by this time. If you and your boys came here to rob the bank, it's already been cleaned out.”

Charlie Brewster wasn't listening. He looked beyond Flintlock to the boardwalk. “You got women here?”

Flintlock glanced behind him, then turned to Brewster again. “That there is Biddy Sales and we have three more just like her. Count the pregnant lady at the livery and we have five.”

“It's a start,” Brewster said. “I'm here to bring the folks all back to town.”

Flintlock shook his head. “You're up against a stacked deck. They won't come in while the smallpox is here.”

“If I have to, I'll shoot a few and the rest will follow,” Brewster said.

“They're Texans. They'll shoot back, Charlie, and they won't follow worth a damn.” The question formed on Flintlock's face a while before he asked it. “Who's paying you and your boys gun wages?”

Brewster hesitated a moment then said, “It's no secret, I guess. It's King Fisher. You recollect him?”

Flintlock nodded. “Me and King had recent doings, not all of them friendly. He tell you about getting attacked by Comancheros?”

“He didn't. Clem Jardine did. Me and Clem go back a ways.”

“Why would bandits from south of the border, half of them Anglos, attack King's camp?” Flintlock said. “Women? Horses? He has few of either. So what does that leave?”

“Money?” Brewster said.

“Damn right. Those boys figured King had gold stashed away somewhere and they wanted it.”

“King made his living as a gambler,” Brewster said. “Gamblers don't get rich and if they do, they don't stay that way for long.”

“Then maybe he robbed a bank,” Flintlock said.

Brewster shook his head. “I would've heard about it. That's my line of business.”

“Maybe not, Charlie,” Flintlock said. “You lead such a sheltered life on the Brazos, hiding out from the law an' sich.”

“An' sich are bounty hunters, huh?” Brewster said, his eyes hard and accusing.

“Yeah, there's always that possibility,” Flintlock said.

“Not here there isn't. There will be no bounty hunting here.”

“You're right, Charlie. I've got better things to do.”

“Then state your intentions, Flintlock.”

“O'Hara and me are headed for the Arizona Territory.” Flintlock glanced at the flaming red sky. “Seems like a fair day ahead. I reckon we'll grab us some coffee and then be on our way.”

Brewster didn't hesitate. “Not gonna happen that way, Flintlock. I've been studying on it, and I've decided that you stay here until the gather is finished. As a breed, bounty hunters are mighty cozy with the Rangers. Catch my drift? You could let something slip about what's happening in Happyville.”

“I'm not on speaking terms with the Rangers,” Flintlock said. “And neither is O'Hara.”

“Then we'll let King Fisher decide whether you go or stay,” Brewster said.

Flintlock shook his head. “Damn it, Charlie. King is crazy. He's not right in the head since that Dr. le Strange feller worked on him.”

“I know King is loco, but he's paying my wages. He wants the people who lived here rounded up and brought back and that's what I'll do. He aims to build an outlaw empire and he needs the folks as . . . as . . .”

“A foundation,” Flintlock said.

“Yeah, that's it. A foundation,” Brewster said.

“But that's not the real reason.”

“It's the one he gave me.”

“He was lying to you, Charlie.”

“Then what's the real reason?”

“I don't know.”

Brewster smiled. “All right, Flintlock. When you come up with the real reason, let me know. In the meantime, you stay real close.”

The outlaw was about to swing his horse away, but Flintlock's flat, whispered use of his name stopped him. “Charlie.”

“No!” O'Hara yelled. “Sam, let it go.”

Flintlock's hand was close to his gun.

Brewster's eyes grew big. “Don't try it, Flintlock.”

The attention of the dozen hard-bitten riders focused on Flintlock. Any one of them was as fast and deadly with a gun as he was and they'd be almighty sudden.

O'Hara stepped in front of Flintlock and said, “Charlie, Sam'l is a bear until he's had his coffee.”

Brewster was not a humorless man and he grinned as he said, “Seems like you got a choice, Flintlock. You can draw down on a dozen of us, and die, or drink a cup of coffee and live.”

O'Hara saw tension in Flintlock, a sure sign of that streak of recklessness that had several times before almost got him killed. “Sam, the Cheyenne say that the brave man does not yield to fear and neither does he surrender to anger. He is at all times master of himself.”

“The Indian is speaking the truth, Flintlock,” Brewster said. “Shuck the iron and you're a dead man.”

“Charlie, never again tell me what I can and can't do,” Flintlock said.

“Flintlock, I've got a dozen men at my back.”

“I know. But I'll shoot you first, Charlie.”

“I have no quarrel with you. We don't go back a ways over rocky ground. Let's keep it like that.”

Flintlock looked into the faces of the hardcases surrounding him and saw no friends but plenty of enemies.

Brewster defused the situation. “All right. I'm asking, not telling, you to stay in town until King Fisher gets here. As soon as the crazy man rides into Happyville, you ride out.” He looked around at his men. “Boys, can I say fairer than that?”

Above the chorus of male voices assuring Brewster that he had honestly stated his case, Biddy Sales spoke up loud and clear. “Sam Flintlock, you're not going anywhere until Rose Flood has her baby.” She stepped in front of him, her hands on her hips.

Flintlock turned to her, “Hell, woman, she's got a husband.”

“Yes, she has, but he's not a gunman and you are.”

“Look around you, Biddy. She's surrounded by gunman,” Flintlock said.

“Yes, but I don't trust them,” Biddy said. “God help me, I trust you.”

“No harm will come to the pregnant woman, I assure you, miss,” Brewster said. “Ain't that so, boys?”

Again Biddy's words rose above the chorus of agreement. “Mr. Brewster, your assurances mean little to me. When all is said and done, you are a frontier ruffian. Empty words are easy to speak.”

“Hell, lady, so is Flintlock. He's a ruffian from way back.”

“I'm aware of that, but better a ruffian I know than one I don't.”

Lizzie Doulan stepped beside Biddy. The woman looked pale and drawn, her blue eyes strangely lifeless. “Mr. Flintlock, please do the honorable thing and stay long enough to ensure the safety of the unborn child. It would be a terrible thing to turn your back on her now and live without honor.”

“You tell him, girlie,” Brewster said, grinning. “You and the other ladies are going to stick around for a while, ain't you?”

“
Hic manebimus optime
,” Lizzie said.

Brewster was taken aback. “Woman, did you just cuss at me in some fancy foreign lingo?”

“I spoke in Latin.
Hic manebimus optime
means ‘Here we will stay most excellently.' But its real meaning is that we will remain in place no matter the danger.”

Brewster said something about how Mexican gobbledygook always did baffle him, but Lizzie ignored that and said, “Flintlock, what is your decision?”

Flintlock stared into the woman's eyes. It was like gazing into a misty, endless tunnel.
My God, what had those eyes seen?
“I'll stay until the baby is born and is safe.” He frowned. “Now why the hell did I say that?”

O'Hara gave him a sidelong look. “Because you were allowed a glimpse of the spirit realm, Sam.”

Flintlock grumbled something then said, “Hell, I need coffee.”

“Hey, everybody, the circus is in town,” Biddy Sales said, speaking from the boardwalk into the saloon.

Charlie Brewster and Flintlock joined her.

“It's King,” Brewster said. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand, one of the saloon's five-cent cigars in the other. “He sure don't look well.”

“Peaked,” Flintlock said. “I'd say that's why he's riding the bed wagon.”

King Fisher sat up on the wagon's seat, the woman with silver hands at the reins. The man's face was gray and drawn and every now and then he let his chin fall onto his chest as though his head was suddenly too heavy for his shoulders. Wrapped in a gray army blanket, he wore a turban of heavy blue wool and looked like a frail sick old man, a far cry from his vision of himself as master of the world.

O'Hara fixed his gaze fixed on the sickly creature in the wagon, “It's a time for vultures.”

Brewster stared at him but said nothing.

“What the hell is that monster?” Biddy said.

Startled, Brewster said, “What monster?”

“The steam locomotive thing. It looks like a big iron egg. And there's a bird on top of it.”

“That's not a bird. It's a man,” Flintlock said.

“Why is he dressed like that?” Biddy said.

“Because he's going to rid this town of smallpox,” Flintlock said. “At least that's the intention.”

Biddy's face framed a question, but Flintlock ignored it. “O'Hara, did you reload the Hawken like I told you to?”

“I sure did, Massa,” the Indian said, tugging his forelock.

“Then bring it here. If King Fisher gives me any sass, I'll blow a hole right through him. I swear I will.”

“Yes, Massa.”

Flintlock shook his head. “O'Hara, tell me again why I haven't put a bullet in you before now.”

O'Hara didn't answer, but his hoot of delighted laughter sounded strange coming from a long-haired man who looked like a particularly mean Cheyenne dog soldier.

Attracted by the din of O'Hara's mirth, King Fisher's good eye angled to the boardwalk and an eyebrow crawled up his forehead when he saw Flintlock. Despite his apparent frailty, Fisher's voice was strong as he called out, “Sam Flintlock, we did not part on good terms. That has worried me. Made me uneasy.”

“Your doing, King, not mine,” Flintlock said.

“We will talk again once I rid this town of its pestilence.”

“Looking forward to it, King,” Flintlock said.

He watched Obadiah le Strange approach the wagon. The engineer had removed his bird mask and held it under his robed arm. He and Fisher conferred for several minutes, and then le Strange nodded and walked away and stepped onto the boardwalk. “Good to see you again, Mr. Flintlock.”

“Yeah, you too, le Strange,” Flintlock said.

The greetings from both men lacked in sincerity as they went through the motions for politeness sake.

“King asks that you point out the dwellings where the dead lie,” le Strange said. “He means to quickly bring the pestilence to an end.”

Over the young engineer's shoulder, Flintlock saw Dr. Sarah Ann Castle step out of Helrun. She and two of Fisher's nameless gunmen donned voluminous black robes and each held a bird mask under his arm.

“Dr. Castle,” Fisher called. He had not yet stepped from the wagon. “Remove that abomination from the gallows. Cut it down. Mr. Brewster, report to Mr. le Strange for instructions.”

The big outlaw grinned and nodded.

Le Strange continued. “. . . so that the bodies can be removed and burned, Mr. Flintlock, you understand.”

“Just so long as you understand that I'll point from a distance,” Flintlock said. “I don't want to get too close to those dead folks.”

“That will be fine,” le Strange said. “Dr. Castle and myself, along with a couple helpers, will do what has to be done.”

“You mean the dirty work,” Biddy Sales said.

“Indeed, that is the case, dear lady,” the engineer said. “I only wish it could be other wise.”

“Le Strange, you got something for me?” Charlie Brewster said.

“Yes, Mr. Brewster. You see the rod and gun shop at the end of the street?”

“I see it.”

“You and your men will tear it down board by board. Remove the guns if any remain and then drag the lumber somewhere, say a mile or so from town.”

“Not our usual line of work,” Brewster said. “It ain't the kind of job you give white men.”

Le Strange nodded. “I realize that, but King deems it necessary. We need to burn the bodies of the dead, you see. And besides, this town will have no further need for a gun shop.”

“How do you reckon that, le Strange?” Flintlock said.

The engineer smiled. “No one in this town will be allowed to own a gun except for Mr. Fisher's own police.” The man's smile grew. “We don't need warriors in Happyville, Mr. Flintlock. We need a flock of sheep.”

“I guess I take their guns before I bring them in,” Brewster said.

“Exactly,” le Strange said. “Anyone caught with a gun will face the most severe penalties. Happyville must be a quiet, safe, and contented town, ruled by King's strong hand.”

“Here's your rifle, Sam.” O'Hara glared at le Strange. “Unless you want to try taking this one.”

Le Strange shook his head. “That will not be necessary. . . yet.”

* * *

Dressed in black robes and beaked hoods, Dr. Sarah Castle, Obadiah le Strange, and the two gunmen followed Flintlock around Happyville like a flock of crows. He pointed out the houses where the dead lay and one by one the rotting bodies were carried out in blankets and dragged a mile distant from town. By nightfall, the gun shop that had yielded a single box of .22 cartridges had been completely pulled apart and the splintered timber piled high around the dead.

Le Strange lit the dreadful bonfire . . . visible from Happyville as a pillar of fire and smoke.