A Time for Vultures (19 page)

“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 what 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.

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
transfusion
s 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?”

The man nodded.

“How do you feel?”

“Better. Stronger.”

“Lie quietly for a while and then I'll give you some wine,” the doctor said.

“We must return to Happyville,” Fisher said. “My people may already be there.”

“We'll be there before nightfall,” le Strange said. “King, you'll be welcomed by an adoring crowd as their savior.”

“And that is my right,” Fisher said. “Using Charlie Brewster and his ruffians as my blunt instrument, soon Happyville will be a major city and manufacturing town. The railroads and industrialists will beat a path to my door, urging me to join the Gilded Age.” He grabbed le Strange's hand. “Imagine it, Obadiah. We'll do business with the likes of Cornelius Vanderbilt and J. P. Morgan and be richer than either of them.”

Sarah Castle smiled. “King, I can tell you're starting to feel better.”

“Dreams of an empire always make me feel better,” Fisher said.

“Here, drink this.” She passed Fisher a glass of wine. “Later, I'll get some nutrient fluid into you.”

“Vile swill,” Fisher said.

The doctor nodded. “But necessary.”

* * *

Stronger, at least temporarily, King Fisher gazed through the polished windshield of the Helrun. Alarmed, he turned to le Strange, who sat behind him with Clem Jardine. “Obadiah, give me the field glasses.”

Sarah Castle knew what was troubling him. “Brewster is not back yet, King. He's probably slowed by the townspeople.”

“Deserted,” Fisher said. “Happyville is deserted. Wait. I see Sam Flintlock. Maybe he can tell us what the hell is happening.”

“King, Flintlock is no friend of yours,” Jardine said.

“I know that. He badly wants to kill me since I gunned the rube with the knocked-up wife. Well, I plan to kill Mr. Flintlock at the first opportunity, but not today.”

Rain spattered Helrun's windshield and as the day faded, the sky looked like a gray wash on watercolor paper. Sarah Castle steered the vehicle into the livery. She'd pulled back her hair and tied it at the base of her neck with a scarlet cravat, a gift from an admirer, a British cavalry officer she'd met during her time in London. The woman was very pale, and her full lips had a bluish tinge. Helrun's steering was heavy and her left arm pained her.

“I'm going to talk with Flintlock,” King said. “Clem, come with me and stay close. I don't trust him.”

“Sure thing, boss. I'll keep a close eye on him. Bounty hunters like Sam Flintlock are full of fancy moves.”

To everyone's surprise a sudden crash of thunder exploded in the dark sky and lightning shimmered.

A moment later, Dr. Sarah Castle fell against the side of Helrun and said, “Obadiah, I'm having a heart attack.”

“Damn you. Not now!” King Fisher rounded on the woman. His voice was venomous. “I've no time for this.”

Obadiah Le Strange helped the unconscious woman to the stable floor. “King, you can't choose your time to have a heart attack.”

“Well, get it repaired or whatever the hell you do, Obadiah. I have much more important business that needs attention.”

Le Strange cradled Sarah's beautiful head in his arm and for the first time he realized that in King Fisher he'd created a monster.

Sam Flintlock handed O'Hara the Hawken and took the Winchester in return. The Hawken's .50 ball could drop any man, but King Fisher was not just any man. He was a thing of metal and flesh and would be hard to kill.

The persistent thunderstorm hung around and lightning lit up the sky as Flintlock stepped onto the boardwalk. He held the rifle across his body at belt buckle level and watched Fisher. Beside him, the thick mud of the street was giving Clem Jardine's artificial leg problems and he walked hesitantly with a dragging gait.

“That's far enough, King,” Flintlock said. “We got something between us that needs settled. Might as well get it over with.”

“Sam, will you leave me out in the rain?” Fisher said.

“I sure will. You're lowlife trash, King, and you always were. Nothing has changed.”

Fisher's face could not show any expression, but his body stiffened. “I've killed men for less than that.”

“Much less. Yeah, I know.”

“We've become enemies because of a damned rube,” Fisher said. “Man, let bygones be bygones.”

Thunder rolled, imperious and uncaring, and lightning gouged the sky like a roweled spur along the flank of a black horse. Somewhere, a stray dog barked, catching the scent of hungry coyotes prowling the flat.

King Fisher was rattled, and Flintlock decided to rattle him some more. “Got news for you, King.”

Fisher was close to a draw and Flintlock knew it. His finger was inside the Winchester's trigger guard and he'd taken up an eighth of an inch of slack. There was no going back from this. King Fisher must not be allowed to live, so either he or Flintlock must die right there in the street, in the rain, and in the falling darkness. If he'd been a gambling man, he'd give odds of ten to one against himself. But probably his chances of killing Fisher were one in a hundred.

“What news do you have for me, Sam?” Fisher said.

“All the people who lived in this town are dead of the smallpox.”

“You're a damned liar. Where is Charlie Brewster?”

“Headed for Old Mexico. He doesn't like you much, King.”

Sweat broke out on Fisher's forehead. He swayed on his feet and his breathing came in short, sharp bursts. “I'm . . . I'm going to . . . going to kill you . . .”

He dropped heavily to the ground and sat in the mud.

Footsteps squelched behind him and he turned his head. “Le Strange, help me. Bad . . . bad blood . . .”

His face like stone, Le Strange said, “Sarah is dead. She died in pain.”

“Help me,” Fisher said. “Oh my God, she didn't . . . didn't . . .”

“Give you the transfusion, King. No, she didn't,” le Strange said. “The wine was what helped you feel better.”

“Bitch!” Fisher screamed. He glared at le Strange. “Get one of the whores. Use her blood. Save me, le Strange.”

“Rose Flood died because of you, King,” le Strange said. “Sarah wanted to save the woman and her baby, but you killed them both. She could not forgive that.”

“Damn you!” Fisher said. “You knew! You knew the woman didn't transfer her blood to me.”

“I didn't know for certain, but I suspected it,” le Strange said.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because I'd come to realize that I'd created a monster, and it was up to me to destroy it.”

“No, that's not how it works, Obadiah. In King Fisher's world the creation destroys the creator.”

Two things happened very quickly.

Fisher's mechanical arm blurred as he drew and fired. Flintlock saw the movement and he immediately triggered the Winchester.

Fisher's bullet hit le Strange high in the chest. A split second later, the .44-40 rifle round slammed into Fisher's right shoulder. The man screamed in pain and rage and tried to bring up his Colt. but he was done for. Flintlock's bullet had shattered the wires and copper tendons of Fisher's arm and he could not lift his gun. The revolver fell from his convulsing fingers and splashed into the mud.

“Damn you, Flintlock!” Fisher yelled. “Don't shoot any more. My life is in danger and you must save me.” He tried to struggle to his feet, but Sam Flintlock, never the most merciful of men in a gunfight, ignored his plea and pumped two bullets into him.

The first round staggered Fisher, but he rode the second into hell.

There has been much speculation as to what King Fisher saw in the moment of his death. It is said his shriek of fear was the loudest that ever came from a man's throat. Did he scream when he caught his first sight of the gates of hell? Like all of the West's greatest mysteries, speculation is useless because we will never know the answer.

What is certain is that Fisher's primitive howl of terror saved Sam Flintlock's life.

Stunned by the death of le Strange, Clem Jardine had been slow to react, but Fisher's scream galvanized him into action. He drew and fired at Flintlock.

It would have been an accurate, perhaps killing shot, had not Lizzie Doulan cried out, “No!” and thrown her body in front of Flintlock. Jardine's bullet crashed into her chest just under her right armpit. She was a thin girl, and the .45 exited just above her left breast, after destroying a massive amount of tissue and bone.

Flintlock held her as she sank to the boardwalk. To his right, he heard the bark of O'Hara's Colt—three shots, cadenced but very fast. Jardine was hit twice, both shots to the torso, and he fell facedown in the mud. His metal leg jerked for a few moments and then was still.

For a long while Happyville lay in hollow silence, the only sound the soft hiss of the rain and Lizzie Doulan's even softer breathing.

Biddy kneeled beside her and said, “Why did you do such a stupid thing?”

Lizzie smiled. “Flintlock's life is more worthy than mine.”

“Some people would argue on that point.” He brushed a tumbled wisp of hair off her forehead.

She turned her head and looked at O'Hara loading fresh shells into his Colt. “Come talk to me, Indian.”

O'Hara holstered his gun and kneeled beside her. “What do you want from me?”

Lizzie's frail hand reached out and bunched in O'Hara's shirt front. “Am I dying?”

“No. You're not dying,” Biddy said. “I'm going to take good care of you.”

“Woman, don't close your eyes,” O'Hara said. “Hold my hand and keep holding even when you've gone away from me. Look around you. What do you see?”

“The sky. I see the sky.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It's beautiful. The sky is beautiful. More beautiful than I've ever seen it . . . shining like gold.”

The sky was black, the clouds in constant movement as though they boiled in a cooking pot, but O'Hara seemed satisfied with Lizzie's answer.

“You sacrificed your life for another, and this is good,” he said. “I think your time has come.”

“After all these years—decades and centuries—God will let me die? Oh say it is so, O'Hara.”

“It is so. Your eyes now see only beauty. The long darkness and all the ugly memories are gone.”

“Tell me how to die, O'Hara,” Lizzie said. “Show me the way.”

O'Hara smiled. “Woman, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives in a different way. The Great Spirit has answered your prayers and rewarded your suffering.” He gently squeezed Lizzie's hand. “You have sung your death song and now you must die like a hero going home.”

A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth, but her smile was sweet. “Yes, I'm going home.”

Lizzie closed her eyes and died and O'Hara held her hand for a long time.

* * *

Blanche Jardine kneeled in the mud beside the body of her dead husband. She turned her face mask to the rain and had no need for the bottled tears she kept in the pocket of her dress. She refused to leave Happyville with Flintlock and the others and was still there when the town burned.

No one ever knew what became of her.