A Time for Vultures (4 page)

“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—”

“Wild Bill's lady,” Flintlock said. “I heard about her.”

“She was never Bill's lady,” Biddy said. “Jane was one for telling big windies. Are you listening to me?”

Flintlock nodded. “Go right ahead.”

“Jane nursed me and eight of my regular clients. She saved six, including me, and buried three, but them five that lived were never the same men again. I was lucky. I didn't get real sick and I didn't scar except in a place that nobody ever sees.” She was quiet for a moment and then said, “Yeah, Flintlock, it was the smallpox that killed Barney Morrell and that's a natural fact.”

“The sheriff would be in close contact with the prisoner he hung,” Flintlock said. “It could be that he's the only one who died. I want everybody to scout around. We'll search the stores and the houses and see if there are more bodies. After that, we pull out of here in a hurry and report what we've seen.”

“Report to who?” Biddy said.

“Hell, I don't know,” Flintlock said. “There must be another town close.”

“Don't count on it,” Biddy said. “Up this way nothing is close.”

“Well, we won't build houses on a bridge we haven't crossed yet,” Flintlock said. “If there are bodies, stay well away from them. Don't touch anything. I don't know how this thing spreads.”

“It's scaring the hell out of you, ain't it, hardcase?” Biddy said. “You can't shoot your way out of this fix—a damned town full of sickness and ghosts.” Without waiting for Flintlock to comment, she added, “You heard the man, ladies. Search for stiffs. And listen up, especially you, Margie. Even if you see a ring on a finger that's covered in sores, leave it be. Same thing goes for necklaces and all other jewelry. Don't touch, savvy?”

Margie Tott argued. “But if the stuff ain't on a corpse, we can thieve it, right, Biddy?”

“Yeah, you can. The same goes for money.” She glared at Flintlock. “You have any objection to that?”

“You want to rob the hurting dead that's up to you,” Flintlock said. “It ain't something I'd do myself.”

“No, you prefer to rob them while they're still alive. Ain't that so, pilgrim?” Biddy said.

* * *

The body count was eleven, including Sheriff Morrell and the hanged man. Flintlock and the others found the corpses of five men, three women, and a child. All were discovered in their beds as though too sick to flee. They'd lain down and waited for their inevitable end. By the evidence around them, the victims had died horribly and, like the sheriff, their skins had turned black.

Biddy said she'd seen a couple cases like that in Deadwood, caused by bleeding under the skin, a symptom of a deadly form of smallpox that was always fatal. “Them people were doomed from the first moment they felt poorly. After that, all they could do was lie down and let death happen.”

Flintlock, O'Hara, and the women had gathered in the middle of a deserted street hung with red, white, and blue bunting. Above the partly brick-built city hall, the Stars and Stripes flapped and slapped in a growing wind that lifted veils of dust from the street and set any open doors to banging. The day had turned a strange amber color and the frame buildings creaked and groaned like arthritic old men. A long strip of bunting tore from the front of a hardware store and soared into the air where it coiled and writhed higher and higher like an escaping dragon until it vanished from sight.

Flintlock looked at O'Hara. Above the wild lamentation of the wind, he said, “Can we outrun it?”

“Not with the wagon,” O'Hara said. “And maybe not without it.”

It seemed as though the wind was trying to shred the clothes off the women and strip them naked for all to see. Their unbound hair tossed and writhed around their heads and made them look like four tawdry Medusas. The howling sandstorm and the nearness of death had transformed them. Hard-bitten whores with hearts of rock huddled together, all of a sudden becoming frightened and vulnerable young girls.

Biddy's scared, questioning eyes met Flintlock's.

He made up his mind. “You women get into the saloon. There are no dead inside. O'Hara, help me free the horses from the wagon and then we'll flap our chaps for the livery.”

O'Hara swung out of the saddle and held onto the reins as his restless horse reared, frightened arcs of white flashing in its eyes. The nag in the traces decided right then was a prime moment to bolt and took off down the street at a shambling gallop, the three tethered horses stumbling after her. After only a score of yards, a wind gust hit the wagon and it crashed over on its side. The mare dragged the battered vehicle for a few feet, gave up the unequal struggle, and stopped, trembling. Frantic and terrified, the horses tied to the wagon plunged and reared and then broke free. Flintlock watched them run clear out of town, the broken ropes trailing behind. He barely had time to absorb that disaster when a shot rang out from the other end of the street. A moment later, a piercing shriek lanced through the turbulent day and it seemed that even the violent wind paused for an instant to hold its breath.

“The shot came from the direction of the livery,” O'Hara yelled above the roar of the windstorm.

Flintlock gathered the reins of his horse and pulled the bay after him, heading for the livery. O'Hara, leading his own mount, followed. As Biddy and the other women ran for the saloon, Flintlock noticed that she had a Remington derringer in her hand.

A few yards from the stable's wide open doors, he stopped, dropped the reins, and slapped his horse's rump. The bay, eager to get out of the wind and stinging sand, trotted inside, and O'Hara's horse was glad to do the same. Flintlock pulled the Colt from his waistband and motioned to his left, where he wanted O'Hara to position himself. He stepped into the stable, his revolver up and ready, O'Hara at his side. Outside, the storm raved and butted at the stable walls, but inside, out of the wind, relative calm made it more serene, the air filled with the familiar musky odors of horse dung, wood shavings, leather, and hay.

The place was deserted—no horses, no humans, not even the usual rat-killing cat.

Flintlock climbed the ladder and checked the hayloft. It was empty. After a few moments, he lifted his great beak of a nose and sniffed. “Gun smoke. Somebody fired a gun in here.”

O'Hara, Colt in hand, had already explored the stalls and now his attention was fixed on the open door at the back of the building. “Looks like somebody fired a single shot and then ran out the door.”

“Hell, did he take a pot at us?” Flintlock said.

“And missed real bad? I don't think so,” O'Hara said.

Flintlock stepped warily to the open door, his thumb on the hammer of his Colt. He glanced outside into a patch of scrubby waste ground where a few stunted mesquite tossed in the raking wind that rapidly set about erasing the man-sized boot tracks that led away from the door. There was no sign of the man himself, so Flintlock shoved his revolver back in the waistband. “He may still be close, but I'm sure as hell not going out there to look for him.”

O'Hara's black eyes were troubled. “Sam, after this big wind blows itself out we got to get away from here. There's evil in this town. I can sense it.”

“You'll get no argument from me, O'Hara. Take care of my bay and I'll unharness the mare from the wagon before the wind blows her away.” Flintlock stared through the livery's open doors. “Damn storm is kicking up stronger. I can't see the end of the street. Looks like a wall of thick smoke down there.”

O'Hara said, “If there's a road leading to the gates of hell, that's exactly what it looks like.”

* * *

The women had taken a bottle from the bar and were huddled around a table drinking, except for the blonde, Lizzie Doulan, who sat and watched the others.

Flintlock and O'Hara walked inside and beat several layers of sand from their clothes. They looked as though they wore tan-colored masks, their faces thick with grit.

“All the horses are in the livery,” Flintlock said. “Including three who made a run for it and then decided to come back. There's plenty of hay and I found a sack of oats.”

“The old mare hasn't had oats in a long time,” Biddy said.

“I guessed that,” he said, looking at the newly formed sand dune at his feet.

It was O'Hara who first noticed the faded print on the far wall to the right of a large railroad clock. He stared at the picture for stunned moments before he said, “Sam. Look.”

Flintlock followed O'Hara's gaze. The print showed a green bird with a long, dagger-like beak and bright black eyes. Written above the bird were the words
Gray & Sons Kingfisher Bourbon.

“You boys look like you've seen a ghost,” Biddy said. “Get yourselves a drink. It's on the house.”

Flintlock tore his eyes from the bird and managed a smile. “I can't think of a better place to ride out a storm.”

Beside him O'Hara, his gaze fixed on the garish print, whispered, “Kingfisher . . .”

Biddy sat back in the chair. “What's the matter with your Indian, Flintlock?” She followed O'Hara's eyes. “He doesn't like birds?”

“The kingfisher is a bird of ill omen, a bringer of bad news,” O'Hara said.

Biddy said, “Well, here's some bad news, redskin—we're stuck in this burg until the storm blows over, so make the best of it.”

Flintlock stepped behind the bar, grabbed a bottle of rye and two glasses, dragged over a chair, and joined the women at the table. To the breed he said, “She's right, O'Hara. Come have a drink.”

Ignoring that, he stood at the batwings and stared into the wind-ravaged street. His face set and determined, he held his Winchester across his chest like a devoted Pinkerton guarding a payroll.

“Suit yourself,” Flintlock said. “But nobody's traveling on a day like this.”

“Nobody honest, that is,” Biddy said.

Lizzie Doulan's mist-gray eyes fixed on Flintlock. “‘Something wicked this way comes,'” she said.

“Huh?” Flintlock said.

“Shakespeare. From his play
The Tragedy of Macbeth
,” Lizzie said.

“I never saw that play,” Flintlock said. “I never saw any play. I watched a Punch and Judy show in El Paso one time. I guess that's a kind of play, huh?”

The wind howled around the saloon like a hungry wolf and an errant breeze rattled the frame of the kingfisher print.

“‘Something wicked this way comes,'” O'Hara said again, his face turned to Lizzie. “Do you know it comes?”

Lizzie nodded. “Yes, and it will be my death.”

“Who was this Shakespeare feller?” Margie Tott said. “He's got no call to scare folks like that.”

“A man who lived a long, long time ago,” Lizzie said. “Like me.”

Everybody smiled at that last except Biddy. She stared hard at Lizzie, her eyes troubled.

Daybreak brought an end to the storm and an appalling discovery—the horses were gone from the livery stable, even the old mare.

“No tracks,” O'Hara said. “If there were any, they've been covered up by the wind.”

Sam Flintlock was irritated beyond measure. “Hell, six horses just don't vanish.”

“Ours did,” O'Hara said. “And so did the saddles and tack.”

“All the saddles?”

“Every last one of them.”

“Including the three—”

“Them too.”

After he got all through cussing, Flintlock scouted the ground in front of the livery and saw, apart from boot prints left by him and O'Hara, there were no tracks, horse or human. Seething, he entered the stable again and walked to the back door. Gun in hand, he stepped outside and saw only what he'd seen before—a ten-acre wasteland of brush and mesquite. He searched more carefully, his eyes scanning every inch of ground. He was five minutes into his scout when he discovered the body, a man half-buried in sand. Only the right side of the corpse's head was visible and from where Flintlock stood it looked as though the man's gray hair was covered in molasses. Only when he stepped closer did he see that it was not molasses but dried blood. He took a knee beside the dead man and began to brush away layers of sand, revealing an old Confederate greatcoat and the man's right arm. A Griswold & Gunnison cap-and-ball Navy was clutched in the dead man's fist. Flintlock rose quickly in alarm when he saw blistering lesions on the skin.

“Smallpox,” O'Hara said, his voice hollow like a judge passing a death sentence.

Flintlock turned and said, “Hell, you scared the hell out of me.” He nodded in the direction of the dead man. “And so did he.”

“Did you touch him?” O'Hara said.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“We got to get out of here, Sam.”

“How? Walk? Put the women in the wagon and pull it ourselves?”

“The women can walk,” O'Hara said.

“This man fired the shot we heard,” Flintlock said.

“Yes, he killed himself. Now his body is an unclean thing and his spirit is doomed to wander forever in darkness.”

“Poor devil saw the pox marks and knew what was in store for him,” Flintlock said.

O'Hara shook his head. “He didn't know what was in store for him, only the Great Spirit knows what awaits a man. He might have recovered from the disease, others have in the past, but he took the coward's way out and ended his life.”

A faint smile touched Flintlock's lips. “He didn't make a good job of it, did he? Blew a chunk of his head off and had time to scream before he died.”

“We will not speak of him any more,” O'Hara said. “It is said that if you talk about a suicide, you will cause another suicide to happen.”

“Hell, we don't want that.” Flintlock stepped toward the door of the livery. “Now we'll go tell the ladies the bad news about the horses.”

“Tell them the horses were spirited away by evil,” O'Hara said. “Tell them that and you will be speaking the truth.”

Flintlock shook his head. “O'Hara, you're a mighty strange Indian.”

* * *

Slightly drunk, Biddy said, “Well, Flintlock, where do we go from here?”

“We? There's no we,” Flintlock said. “There's me and O'Hara and there's you four women and we're going our separate ways.”

“All right, then. Where are you headed, Flintlock?” Biddy said.

“The Arizona Territory. Me and O'Hara are going to find my ma. At least that's the plan.”

“I'm sure she misses you,” Biddy said. “How do you aim to get there?”

“I reckon another settlement must be close,” Flintlock said. “Or even a ranch where we can buy a couple horses.”

“And saddles and tack,” Biddy said. “You got the money for all that?”

Flintlock and O'Hara exchanged glances.

Biddy smiled. “I thought so. You're both broke. The only way you'll get horses and saddles is to steal them.”

“We'll find a way,” Flintlock said.

“And end up getting hung for horse theft.” She waited for Flintlock to say something and when he didn't, she said, “Show him, Jane.”

Jane Feehan reached under the table, her long red hair falling over her face, and she came up with a money sack that clinked as she laid it on the table.

“Let him see, Jane,” Biddy said.

The redhead opened the neck of the sack and tilted it toward Flintlock, revealing stacks of paper bills and some gold and silver coin.

“How much is in there?” Flintlock said, his eyes wide.

“A little over six thousand dollars,” Biddy said. She stretched out a shapely leg, pulled her derringer from her garter, and laid the Remington on the table. “Don't get any ideas, Flintlock.”

“Where did you get that money?” Flintlock said.

“It's Morgan Davis's money. But he ain't here, is he?” Biddy stared hard at Flintlock. “Is there still no
we,
big boy?”

Knowing he was caught flat-footed, Flintlock scratched his chest. “I reckon we're in this together, Biddy . . . me and O'Hara and you women.”

She gave a short nod. “I thought you might say that.”