A Time for Vultures (20 page)

Happyville was a town of the dead.

Flintlock and the others buried Lizzie Doulan in the cemetery, removed the army payroll from Helrun, and carried the remaining bodies, including King Fisher's withered corpse, into the livery stable that was then set on fire.

As they rode away from the town, one of the dead guards' mounts pressed into service as a packhorse, Flintlock looked back at the burning stable and said, “The fire is spreading.”

“The best thing that could happen,” Biddy said, drawing rein. “I hope the whole sorry place goes up.”

Despite occasional rains, Western towns were tinder dry and fires quickly spread. Happyville was destined to burn down to its foundations, its ashes blown away by the prairie winds until no sign of the town or the people who lived and died there remained.

* * *

After three days of westward travel across the Great Plains, Flintlock and the others crossed the Pecos. It was only when they camped the following night that the subject of the army payroll was broached.

“What are we going to do with it, Flintlock?” Biddy said. “Thirty thousand dollars is a pile of money.”

Smoothing her stocking over a shapely thigh, Margie said, “Split five ways that's . . . that's . . . well, it's a whole lot of money.”

“Six thousand dollars, Margie,” Jane Feehan said.

“Right. I told you it was a lot of money,” Margie said.

“We give it back, I guess,” Flintlock said.

Biddy said, “The army has plenty of money and we're poor people. We need six thousand dollars more than the soldier boys do.” She touched her breast. “What does the Indian say, Flintlock?”

“I don't know. I haven't asked him.”

“Where is he? Skulking around somewhere as usual?”

Flintlock nodded. “O'Hara is out there in the dark. He says money attracts outlaws like the smell of rotten meat attracts rats.” He tossed a stick onto the fire. “I think maybe we should ride deeper into the timber country, maybe even cross the border into the New Mexico Territory. I mean, get the money and ourselves the hell out of Texas.”

“We've got no pressing business anywhere,” Margie said. “I guess New Mexico is as good a place as any . . . just so long as the payroll goes with us.”

Jane Feehan said, “You're such a whore, Margie.”

“Takes one to know one, Jane.”

Flintlock said, “I'll study on this payroll thing for a spell.” He rose to his feet and took up the Hawken. “It's time to take a look around anyway.”

“In the dark?” Biddy said. “You're as bad as the Indian.”

“O'Hara has a nose for danger. He can smell it.”

“Like outlaws smell money,” Biddy said.

“Something like that.” Flintlock stepped out of the firelight, halted among a stand of wild oaks, and let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. Behind him, he heard Margie Tott say something and it must have been funny because the other two women laughed.

He stepped deeper into the trees, angry that money could be such a temptation to a man. Like all bounty hunters, he had a fair amount of dealings with lawmen and for the most part he admired them, especially the forty-dollar-a-month cow town marshals who had to deal with young men wilder, a lot more dangerous, and harder to handle than the steers they drove. In his earlier years, Flintlock had stepped lightly onto the lawless side when times were hard, but for the most part he strived to stay on the straight and narrow.

But thirty thousand dollars in Yankee money was a temptation to be reckoned with, an enticement for any man.

Old Barnabas stood in a clearing gazing at the stars with a brass telescope as big around as a cannon barrel. Flintlock ignored him and was about to turn and walk back to the fire when the old mountain man's voice stopped him. “You ever seen the moon through a telescope, Sammy?”

“Can't say as I have.”

“Well, you ain't seeing it now. Stargazing is for smart folks and not fer the likes of you. On your way to find your ma, are ye?”

“That's the general idea,” Flintlock said.

“You-know-who says you done well in Happyville, added considerable to the slaughter, you did. He's so pleased he's got advice fer you about the army payroll.”

“I don't want his advice,” Flintlock said. Then, racked with doubt as he was, he said, “What is it anyway?”

“Mars, now that's an interesting planet,” Barnabas said. “It's got canals, or so some Italian feller says, but I can't see them. And neither can you because I'm not letting you look because you're an idiot.”

“Then I'll be on my way, Barnabas. As always it's been a pleasure to talk with you.”

“Wait, don't you want the advice from Himself, Sammy?”

Flintlock hesitated, then said, “All right, Go ahead.”

“Well, he said, ‘Tell the idiot—'”

“That's it. I'm out of here,” Flintlock said.

“All right, all right. I'll just give you the gist of it. Does that set nice with you, Sam?”

“Let me hear it,” Flintlock said.

“He says you should gun the three women and the half-breed and keep the army money for yourself. Spend it all on whores and whiskey, mind you, and when the money is all gone and you're sick and broke, blow your brains out with the Hawken.”

“Old Scratch never gives good, friendly advice, does he?” Flintlock said, smiling.

“That's because he ain't good and he ain't your friend.”

“And what do you think, Barnabas?”

“Keep the money for yourself and go find your ma,” the old man said. “Later you could maybe buy a ranch and settle down with a good woman, if any will have you. That's my advice, but you won't take it because you're an idiot. Now I got to go. I'm headed for Italy. I need to talk to that Italian feller about the canals on Mars.” Barnabas lifted his telescope and walked into the darkness.

Flintlock called after him, “You'll scare the wits out of the Italian. I mean, you being dead an' all.”

“Serve him right. I don't like Italians. Hell, I don't like anybody.” Barnabas vanished in the gloom.

Flintlock looked up at the night sky, but he couldn't find Mars or its canals . . . and he saw no answer to his problem.

O'Hara shook Sam Flintlock awake and immediately made a hushing motion, his forefinger to his lips. Leaning close, he whispered in Flintlock's ear, “Five. On foot.”

The fire had burned down to a few cinders and spread little light. Flintlock nodded and rose to his feet. He took up his Winchester and they stepped on cat feet into the cover of the wild oaks.

The three women slumbered on . . . bait in a trap.

Tense time ticked past....

One stirred under her blanket and talked softly in her sleep. An owl flew close to the firelight and then turned away, gliding through the oaks like a gray ghost.

Flintlock turned and his eyes sought O'Hara's in the gloom. He scowled his face into a question and the breed nodded.

“Five,” he whispered.

Flintlock shook his head. In the dark of night, even an Indian could see things that were not there.

Then, like the parting of a black curtain, figures appeared from the sullen blackness. Flintlock tensed, his knuckles white on the Winchester. He waited . . . letting them get closer and into the dim circle of the firelight. Beside him, O'Hara was on one knee. Like Flintlock, he was ready.

One of the intruders, a buckskinned man with long hair falling over his shoulders, stepped silently to the nearest woman, the long-barreled Colt in his hand ready. Flintlock saw the gleam of the man's teeth as he identified the sleeper as a woman. He bent over, reached out with his left hand, and jerked the blanket off Biddy Sales's body. The spiteful bark of the Remington derringer in Biddy's hand shattered the quiet of the night and her assailant died with a .41 caliber bullet between his eyes.

“That ripped it!” Flintlock said.

For a long moment the element of surprise froze the other four men in place—time enough for practiced gunmen like Flintlock and O'Hara to take full advantage of the confusion.

Flintlock jumped to his feet and shot at the man nearest to him, then fired at another. O'Hara engaged the other two. Flintlock's first target fell, but the second, a lanky towhead, stepped back and got his work in with a Colt. Bullets splitting the air around him, Flintlock quickly retreated to an oak and returned fire.

O'Hara's targets stood their ground and fired steadily, but one made the mistake of going too close to Biddy and she dropped him with a shot to his knee. Her derringer empty, she rolled away. The wounded man roared in anger and leveled his revolver at her. O'Hara fired and hit the man, who threw up his arms and fell on his back.

His rifle giving him the advantage, Flintlock's fire finally took effect and he scored a solid hit on the towhead as the man desperately tried to reload his Colt. The remaining would-be robber turned and ran, but Flintlock and O'Hara fired at the same time and dropped him in his tracks.

Gun smoke drifted across the clearing as Flintlock looked around him and counted the cost of the night's work. All five of the attackers were down—dead or wounded—but he and O'Hara were unhurt. Biddy's anguished wail told him that they had suffered a terrible loss.

Margie Tott was dead.

The girl had caught a stray bullet as she rose from her blankets and her small body lay cradled in Biddy's arms. Biddy's face was buried in Margie's hair and her shoulders moved as she sobbed.

Flintlock shook his head. “Damn. Damn it to hell.”

“Sam, this one is still alive,” O'Hara said. He kneeled beside the first man Flintlock had shot.

Enraged over the death of Margie, Flintlock racked a round into the Winchester. “I'll finish the son of a bitch right now.”

O'Hara jumped to his feet and grabbed him. “No, Sam. He's just a boy.”

“Old enough to try to kill us.” Flintlock brushed O'Hara aside and stepped to the wounded boy. Once glance told him that the youngster had a sucking chest wound and was close to death. The muzzle of the Winchester was inches from the boy's face. “You came after the payroll.”

The kid managed to smile. “Everybody is after the payroll.”

“The word got around, huh?” Flintlock said.

“There's a lot of poor people in Texas, mister, and no man should have thirty thousand dollars all to hisself.” The youngster coughed and sudden blood stained his lips. “It just ain't decent. My pa said . . .”

Flintlock was not destined to know what the kid's pa had said. The boy, about eighteen years old by the look of him, died without imparting that information.

O'Hara had stepped away and checked on the other men. Returning to Flintlock, he said, “Seems like it was a family affair, Sam. We got a grandpappy and this boy's pa, looks like. Maybe his older brother and one real old coot over there who could be the great-grandpappy of all of them.”

“All dead?” Flintlock said.

“Yeah, all of them. Good shooting, Sam.”

“You too, O'Hara. Good shooting.”

“They look like poor folks,” O'Hara said.

Flintlock nodded. “A lot of poor folks in Texas. They wanted the thirty thousand.”

“Seems the payroll money always comes at a high price to them that wants it.”

“King Fisher started it,” Flintlock said. That statement didn't really mean anything, but it was something to say.

“And you finished it, Sam. Or is it finished yet?”

“I sure hope so.”

“What will you do with it?”

Flintlock had been staring at Biddy Sales. “Huh?”

“What will you do with the money?” O'Hara said.

“Buy a ranch.” He stared into O'Hara's eyes.

O'Hara nodded. “Blood money. It will fertilize the graze.”

“Or I'll give it back to the army,” Flintlock said.

“You got a decision to make, Sam.”

“O'Hara, what do you think?”

“I never in my life wanted something bad enough to steal it. That's what I think.”

“Does that include thirty thousand dollars?”

“Maybe it does, Sam.” O'Hara stepped away from Flintlock and kneeled beside Biddy. He said soft words to her that Flintlock couldn't hear.

Blood money.
Flintlock decided O'Hara had been right about that.

But blood would leave no stain on silver and gold.

At first light O'Hara rode into the flat and brought in the dead men's horses, five rough-looking mustangs, only two of them with a saddle.

Margie Tott, wrapped in a blanket, was laid to rest in a shallow grave, her only marker a bow of the red ribbons she'd often worn in her hair. Within a few years, there would be no trace of her burial place, as was the way of the Great Plains.

It was not yet noon when Flintlock and the others saddled their horses. Biddy and Jane were quiet for a while.

Biddy finally voiced the thought that was uppermost in her mind. “Flintlock, if you'd just ridden on, none of this would have happened.”

“And if Morgan Davis hadn't bushwhacked me,” Flintlock said.

O'Hara said, “It was our destiny to meet in such a way and nothing could change it, just as the man born to be hanged will never drown.”

Biddy finished tightening the cinch then turned to Flintlock again. “So where does destiny lead us now?”

“Across the border into New Mexico Territory. O'Hara says he recollects that there's a settlement by the name of Nube Blanca on the east bank of the Pecos. It's just a plaza and a few buildings, but it has a cemetery. I'm all through leaving dead men without Christian burial.”

“I never took you for a gospel wrangler, Flintlock,” Jane said.

“I'm not, but somewhere along my back trail I reckon learned the difference between right and wrong.” O'Hara's raised eyebrow at that statement irritated Flintlock and he said, “All right, Injun, help me get them dead men loaded.”

“Be glad to help, Sammy, now you found religion, an' all.”

“Not hardly,” Flintlock said, mad clean through.

* * *

Nube Blanca was a small, dusty adobe village situated about a mile east of the Pecos. The walls of the buildings immediately surrounding the central plaza reflected the red glow of the evening sun. In shadow, the outlying adobes were like a collection of old men in white nightshirts who'd wandered into the piñon and juniper and lost their way.

A crowd gathered as Flintlock and the others rode in, trailing five dead men facedown across their horses. Most of the upturned faces were Mexican, but here and there a white face showed.

It was a big white man—huge in the face and belly—who stepped out the crowd in front of Flintlock's horse. He carried with him an air of authority that was explained by the tin badge pinned to the front of his hat. “What are you bringing us, mister?”

“Dead men for burying,” Flintlock said.

“Anybody I know?”

Flintlock shrugged. “Take a look.” He saw the badge more clearly and added, “Mayor.”

The mayor grabbed each of the dead men by the hair and yanked up their heads then stepped back to Flintlock. “Nobody I know. What happened?”

“They tried to rob us,” Flintlock said.

The big man cast his eyes over Flintlock and the others, a shabby, dusty bunch. He lingered on the women a few moments longer than was necessary then said, “Them boys sure set their sights low, didn't they?”

“I figure they reckoned we had more than they had,” Flintlock said.

“And that wasn't much. Name's Arch Hooper. I'm the mayor of this town.”

Flintlock looked around him. “It ain't much.”

“It'll do. We got a cantina and a place for tired men to sleep. If you plan on planting them boys here, it will cost you a dollar a head.” Suspicion dawned on Hooper's fat, sweaty face. “Here, you ain't on the scout, are you?”

“Can't say as we are,” Flintlock said. “The cost of burying dead men comes high in this burg.”

“Take it or leave it. Of course, for a dollar you get the planting done. Hey Pedro, come over here.” After a small, solemn man with sad black eyes joined him, Hooper said, “This here is Pedro Gonzalez. He takes care of the graveyard and buries the stiffs. If you want to hire him, do it quick before them rannies start to stink.”

The gravedigger whispered something into Hooper's ear.

The mayor looked surprised. “Pedro says he'll bury your dead in green pine boxes in return for the mustangs and saddles. Hell, he can't be fairer than that. Say, what's your name, feller?”

“Sam Flintlock.”

“Right pleased to make your acquaintance, Sam. You can introduce me to your friends later. Now, what about Pedro's proposition?”

“I don't have any choice. Tell Pedro he can have the horses and traps. And tell him he's a robber and that I've seen men hung for less.”

Hooper smiled. “No need to tell him. Pedro speaks American as well as you do.”

The little Mexican took the lead rope, grinned at Flintlock, obviously holding no grudge, and led the horses with their grim burdens toward the graveyard at the edge of town. A couple other Mexicans, apparently his helpers, ran to join him.

“The cantina is right over there.” Hooper pointed the way. “The grub is good and Diego Santos will provide you all with a place to bed down.” The mayor beamed. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Flintlock?”

“Yeah, you can tell me if Diego is another robber.”

“Oh, no, he's as honest as the day is long. Of course, he'll have to charge you for your horses and baths for the ladies.”

“The ladies don't need no bath,” Flintlock said.

“Oh yes we do, Flintlock,” Jane Feehan said. “And you could do with one yourself.”

Flintlock gave O'Hara a long-suffering look. “Let's go arrange baths for the ladies.”

Biddy said to Jane, “It's about time he acted like a gentleman, isn't it?”