A Time for Vultures (5 page)

“Taking the horses was easy but stealing women never is. Are you sure you saw gals?”

“Damn right, I did, Pa,” Poter Stanton said. “I seen four of 'em, one fer each of us.”

“We'll share, boy, just like you say. Share and share alike is the Stanton motto. Now, would you say them ladies was well shaped?” Pa Stanton said. “I can't abide a skinny female . . . or a fat one either.”

“They was shaped in all the right places, Pa. I took 'em fer whores.”

“Whores is the best,” Pa said. “Knows what a man needs, does a whore.” His eyes misted. “I ain't had a full-time woman since your ma died. Even afore that when she kept poorly all the time.”

“Seen a redhead, Pa. Ma was a redhead.”

“That she was, boy. And at one time ma was a whore, mind. And a good one if the truth be told.”

“How much did you pay for her, Pa?” Ora Stanton said.

“A grade hoss an' a jug of drinkin' whiskey. Lookin' back, I think I could have probably got her for just the hoss, but I was feeling generous that day.” Pa sighed and shrugged his thin shoulders. “Ah well, no use cryin' over spilt milk, boys. Too late to do anything about it now, huh? What about menfolk, Poter?”

“Seen two. One of ‘em looked like an Injun. The other was a white man who didn't look like he stacked up to much.”

“Hell, we can take them two,” Skinner Stanton said.

Like his pa and brothers Skinner was a tall, skinny man with a full beard. Wolfers by profession, the four men were dressed in whatever duds they could find and they smelled of animal guts and ancient sweat. Each wore a holstered Colt and kept a Winchester close to hand. Collectively, the Stantons were rootless riffraff, the scum of the frontier. Rape, murder, and thievery was their way of life and they found no harm in that.

Ora, slightly more intelligent than his dull brethren, added a branch to the guttering campfire and said, “How come there's no folks in the town? Hell, I didn't even see a cur dog or a rootin' pig.”

“I wondered that meself,” Skinner said. “Pa, what do you reckon?”

“I don't know where all them people went an' I don't give a damn,” Pa said. The green of his eyes looked like slime on a stagnant pond. “We ride in there, gun them two rubes, and take the women. And we grab anything else we find that will turn a dollar.”

“Pa, there might be a bank,” Poter said. “I couldn't see good because of the blowing sand, but I think there's a bank.”

“If there is, we'll empty it,” Pa said. “We're poor folks and we deserve our fair allotment of rich people's money.”

“That's what I say too, Pa,” Skinner said. “Share and share alike, just like our motto says.”

Pa grinned, revealing but few teeth and all of them rotten. “But that don't apply to the redhead. You can all have a taste, never fear, but she'll be my reg'lar belly warmer on account of how I'm right partial to her kind.”

“That's as fair as ever was, Pa,” Poter said. “Enough of them whores to go around, I say.”

“Yup, share and share alike.” Skinner grinned. “Hell, now all of a sudden I want a women real bad.”

“All right, boys,” Pa said, rising to his feet. “Let's go get 'em.”

* * *

Earlier, under the cover of the sandstorm, the Stantons had stolen Sam Flintlock's horses with ease and it had led them to underestimate him as just another small-town hick with a head full of stump water. It was a serious mistake. A fatal mistake. Pa Stanton and his sons were destined to pay a high price for their arrogance. They were not fighting men. They were sure-thing murderers who killed from ambush and always at a distance. They'd gunned more than their share, but never before had they encountered the new breed of Texas draw fighters, embodied in men like Flintlock and O'Hara who were hell on the draw-and-shoot.

Confident in their numbers, the Stantons insolently rode down the middle of Happyville's main street, rifles still in the boots under their knees. Previously, they had seen the town only through the murky prism of the sandstorm. As they rode, they gawked at the overturned tables and rotten food that littered the ground. Most of it was half-buried but still stinking. They stared at the hanged man, his face masked behind a thick coat of sand.

“Looks like we missed a hell of a hanging party,” Skinner said. He grinned. “They were sure happy to string up this poor feller.”

But Pa Stanton didn't like what he saw. “Something strange here, boys. Why did they hang this ranny, throw a big party, and then leave?”

“And why did nobody eat the grub?” Ora said.

Then Poter yelped, pointing. “Hey, lookee, Pa! There's our women.”

“Follow me.” Pa swung his horse around and headed for the boardwalk where Biddy and the others were gathered. He drew rein and said, “What happened here?”

“The smallpox happened, Methuselah,” Biddy said. “Why are you here? State your intentions.”

Stanton ignored that. “Where are your menfolk?”

“Around,” Biddy said.

“Better for them if they stay away,” Pa said, his face tight. “This is a death town. Do you have the pox?”

“Not so far,” Biddy said. “Neither small nor any other kind.”

Pa turned in the saddle. “Skinner, we passed the bank. Go clean it out.”

“Sure, Pa.” Skinner swung his horse and rode up the street.

Pa said, “You women are coming with us. Gather up your fixins an' get ready.”

Biddy shook her head. “Not a chance, pops.”

“Me and my boys need women. We aim to have you four, so there ain't any use in arguing.”

“Is that your last word on the matter?” Biddy said.

“It is,” Pa said. “Now get ready, or we'll horsewhip some damned sense into all of you.”

“You ain't taking no for an answer, are you, Pops?” Biddy said.

Pa Stanton's face hardened and the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Do as I say, woman. I won't tell you again.”

Biddy nodded. “All right you horny old goat, you called it.” She hiked up her skirt, pulled her derringer from the garter, and fired.

Several years before in New Orleans, Biddy had emptied an Allen & Thurber pepperpot revolver into a cheating gambler. At a range of ten paces, all six. 30 caliber balls hit the man, rendering him hors de combat for several months.

The distance between Biddy and Pa Stanton was half that.

Her bullet hit the man just under his prominent Adam's apple. He reeled in the saddle, gasping, choking on his own blood, his eyes wild with pain and shock. For a moment, Poter and Ora were too stunned to react. When they finally pulled their guns, Biddy was already pushing the other women into the saloon.

Poter fired, aiming at Biddy. His bullet chipped splinters from the wall six inches above the woman's head. She returned fire, missed, scrambled through the batwings, and ran inside.

Cursing, Poter kicked his mustang into motion and charged for the saloon door. The horse charged the batwings, shattering them off their hinges. Poter ducked his head under the top of the doorframe as he hurtled inside, screaming his rage.

It was unfortunate that O'Hara, his black eyes glittering, waited for him on the other side with the saloon's Greener scattergun in his hands.

He cut loose with both barrels and blasted the crown of Poter's head into something that looked like a broken pot of Aunt Gertrude's prizewinning strawberry jam. Killed instantly, the man did not cry out. He was thrown from his terrified horse and hit the saloon floor with a crunching thud. The crazed animal kicked and reared and sent O'Hara and the women scrambling for cover behind the bar.

“Injun, shoot the damned thing before it kills somebody,” Biddy yelled above the racket of the mustang's wrecking spree.

O'Hara drew his belt gun as a pistol shot shattered a bottle on the shelf above his head and he took refuge behind the bar again.

Biddy yelled, “One of them is inside!”

Poter's mustang was completely loco, rampaging back and forth across the saloon floor, smashing tables and chairs into matchwood in a frantic bid to escape, all the time ignoring the open doorway.

O'Hara stood, his gun up and ready as he searched for a target, the bucking, rearing horse obscuring his view. He caught a glimpse of Ora Stanton, plastered to the far wall out of the way of the frantic animal. O'Hara fired and his bullet slammed into the wall close to Stanton's head. The man shot back and smashed another booze bottle on the shelf. It seemed that a close-range gunfight complicated by the presence of a panicked horse did not appeal to him. He thumbed off a couple shots in O'Hara's general direction and dashed for the door.

Unfortunately, the mustang had the same idea as it finally entered his dim brain that the door was a way out. Ora reached the doorway a split second before the horse. The charging animal hit him hard and the man crashed to the boardwalk. Dazed, he took a few moments to collect himself. He'd lost his Colt and was out of the fight. He looked up, saw O'Hara eying him with little compassion, and got to his feet.

Ora held his arms away from his sides and said, “I'm done, breed.”

“No you ain't,” O'Hara said, his toleration of white men an uncertain thing that always teetered on a razor edge. He emptied his revolver into Ora's chest and watched the man fall. “Now you're done.”

As death rattled in Ora's throat, O'Hara's eyes lifted to the end of the street where Flintlock had gone after Skinner Stanton.

In the street, Flintlock had his gun pointed at Skinner standing on the boardwalk outside the bank with his arms raised. Clutched in his left hand were some banknotes that amounted to only a few dollars. Flintlock waved his Colt and Stanton walked along the boardwalk, his arms still raised. Flintlock kept pace with him in the street, looking tense and ready, as though he hoped the man would make a run for it.

Skinner stared at his pa's body and then acted like a man who'd lost his mind. He threw himself on his father's body and shrieked in anguish. “Pa,” he wailed. “Who done this to you?”

“He done it to himself,” Flintlock said. “Man comes into a respectable town looking for women and plunder, he should expect to be met with lead.”

Skinner raised his head. His father's blood had turned his face into a horrific scarlet mask. “Who shot him down in the street like a dog?”

O'Hara was about to claim responsibility for Pa Stanton's death, but to his surprise Biddy Sales stepped out of the saloon and said, “I did. The piece of filth you call your pa came hunting for a bitch in heat. Well, he found me instead.”

Skinner bellowed in fury. “I'll kill you, slut!” He'd had to drop his gun, but his hand dropped to the Green River knife in his boot. He jumped to his feet and lunged at Biddy. Skinner Stanton was good with the blade, but he'd gambled on a grandstand play that came to nothing.

Flintlock and O'Hara fired at the same time and Skinner fell with two bullets in him. He landed with his chest on the boardwalk and Biddy took a quick step back as he swung the knife. Having followed Biddy out of the saloon, Lizzie Doulan stamped violently on the man's knife hand with her high-heeled ankle boot. Skinner Stanton stared at the blonde in impotent wrath and opened his mouth to speak, but death drained all the life that was in him and forever robbed his tongue of speech.

A moment later, Lizzie looked at the sky as a roaring rush of wind flattened her skirt against her legs. The gust lasted for only a few seconds and then was gone as suddenly as it had come.

She smiled and said, “The Valkyries don't want these men. They were rapists and murderers, not warriors.”

O'Hara stared at the woman for long moments and then heard Flintlock say, “Woman, what are you talking about?”

Biddy said, “Nothing. She's just making a good joke, is all.”

But Lizzie ignored that. “The Valkyries are winged female warriors who decide who will die in battle. In ages past they carried dead Vikings to the Hall of the Slain where they would fight a great battle every single day and then, the battle dead brought to life again, the warriors would feast on the flesh of the resurrected beast Saehrimnir. This is how the Vikings spend eternity. It's a good way.”

Her pretty eyes as round as silver dollars, Margie Tott said, “Lizzie I wish you'd stop saying stuff like that. We've all been scared enough today.”

Lizzie shook her head. “Margie, one day you will meet the Archangel Michael, the Christian Valkyrie. He is a mighty warrior, the sworn enemy of Satan, and God's soul-gatherer. In heaven, the spirits of the dead are weighed on Michael's scales, so perfectly balanced that a single mortal sin can tip them.”

Flintlock grinned. “Hell, my sins will tip them scales like an anvil.”

“Mine too,” Biddy said.

O'Hara did not smile. To Lizzie he said, “Are you the kingfisher?”

The woman shook her head again. “No. But I sense that the kingfisher is near.”

Flintlock and O'Hara dragged the Stantons into the brush away from a town that already hosted enough dead. At first light, they'd use the mustangs to backtrack their way to the Stanton camp and recover their horses.

That night, the men bedded down on the saloon floor and Biddy and the other women slept in a room at the back where cots had been set up for travelers and those too drunk to make it home. The railroad clock on the wall, wound up by Margie Tott, who said she couldn't abide a stopped timepiece of any kind, woke Flintlock when it chimed midnight. He lay awake, his eyes open, listening into the hushed night. Footsteps, light as thistledown, sounded on the boardwalk outside. A woman, Flintlock guessed, pacing up and down outside the saloon, perhaps courting sleep.

He rose from his blankets and padded silently across the floor in sock feet, picked his way around the debris of the shattered batwings and stepped outside.

Biddy, an amber glass in her hand, stopped when she saw Flintlock and said, “Speak thou, apparition.”

“I heard footsteps,” Flintlock said.

“And you walked outside without a gun to investigate?”

“O'Hara is close. You can bet he's awake and listening. Besides, I knew they were a woman's footsteps.”

“Why do you have a bird on your throat?” Biddy said.

“It's a long story. Is that why you can't sleep, wondering about the bird?”

“No, buckskin man, I wasn't thinking about you.”

“Worrying about the smallpox maybe?”

“That neither.”

“All right. I give up. You going to tell me?”

Biddy stared at Flintlock, his face shadowed by darkness, his mustache a black bar across his face. “Why do you give a damn?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I don't.”

“Then why are you out here?”

“Like I said, I heard your footsteps. Made me think of haunts and spooks an' sich.”

Biddy came at Flintlock from an angle he didn't expect. “What do you think of Lizzie Doulan?”

Flintlock considered that for a moment and said, “Well, she's quite pretty and she's got really big—”

“Big tits. Yes, I know. Do you think she's mad? Is she a madwoman?”

“I haven't studied on it, but no, I don't reckon so.”

“All us, we're whores. Did you know that?”

“I guess I did. I took Morgan Davis for a pimp.”

“And you were right.”

“You should go inside and get some sleep,” Flintlock said.

“Lizzie constantly degrades herself,” Biddy said as though she hadn't heard. “The filthier the man, be he smell rank, be he flea-ridden or diseased, she sells herself to him. She lies with such men to degrade herself, to make herself suffer.”

Flintlock suddenly found himself tongue-tied and said nothing.

“Do you know why?” Biddy said.

“She hates being a whore, I guess,” Flintlock said.

“That's not the reason.”

From the direction of the livery a barn owl hooted and a pair of yipping coyotes hunted close. The moon was almost full and hung high in the sky but shed no light. In the darkness, the town looked like a collection of moored prison hulks crowded into a small harbor.

“I'll tell you something, Flintlock,” Biddy said. “And in return you will tell me whether or not Lizzie is mad.”

“I talk to my dead grandfather.” He smiled. “Am I one to judge madness in others?”

“Right now, standing out here, you're all I've got,” Biddy said.

“Then tell me what you need to say.”

The woman took a deep breath as though steeling herself for what was to come. “Do you remember in the New Testament that the Roman governor Pontius Pilate condemned the Lord Christ to be crucified?”

“Yeah, I recollect that,” Flintlock said. A man who'd rarely read the Bible, he all at once felt uncomfortable in his skin.

“Lizzie says she was there,” Biddy said. “She said she was a young, rich Roman lady named Liviana who was visiting Jerusalem because Pilate was her uncle. When our Savior was dragged away to the cross, she laughed at his suffering.”

Flintlock said, “Quite a story.”

“There's more. Lizzie says she will not be allowed to die until she makes amends for her terrible sin.”

“You should talk to O'Hara. He's half-Indian and likes all that strange spiritual stuff. Maybe he can make up some kind of potion that will help make Lizzie normal again.”

“You do think she's crazy, don't you?” Biddy said, her eyes searching Flintlock's face.

“Hell, yeah. The little lady's biscuits ain't golden brown, lay to that.”

“Then I'll take care of her,” Biddy said. “For the rest of her life if need be.”

“Maybe you should find her another line of work,” Flintlock said. “The profession she's in sure don't fit her pistol.” He saw Biddy shiver. “You'd better get inside out of the night chill.”

The woman nodded and stepped into the saloon. Flintlock looked around. Satisfied that the street was empty, he followed her.

* * *

In the darkness of the narrow alley between the saloon and a shoe store, O'Hara stood with his back to a wall, his dark face troubled. Was there a sin so heinous, so wicked that it could never be forgiven? He remembered the monks at the mission where he'd been raised and wished he could ask them that question. He looked up at the sky but saw no answer there, only the distant, uncaring stars as expressionless as holes in a tin roof.