A Time for Vultures

by William W. Johnstone

  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.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  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?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Sam Flintlock walked into the cantina, a malodorous room with an area curtained off and to one side, and saw trouble. Beside him O’Hara stiffened, seeing what Flintlock saw and not liking it.

  “Howdy boys,” said the man sitting at the corner table. “Flintlock, you look as disreputable as ever. I really must give you the name of my tailor. O’Hara, you still haven’t been hung. Well, that’s good news.”

  “I want no trouble with you, Nate,” Flintlock said. “I got enough of them already.”

  “No trouble, Sam,” Nate Rocheford said. “If you think I’m still sore about the little fracas we had in Denver that time, well forget it. I know I have.”

  “I put a bullet into you, Nate. I never pegged you as that much of a forgiving man.”

  Rocheford waved a hand up. “Water under the bridge. When two bounty hunters go after the same man there’s bound to be a little friction. Of course, you shot me when I was drunk.”

  “We were both drunk that night.”

  “Then it evens out, and that’s why I say let bygones be bygones.” Rocheford called out, “Can we get another bottle over here?” He waved to the chairs opposite him. “Please be seated Sam. You too, O’Hara.”

  Flintlock adjusted the lie of the Colt in his waistband and sat. O’Hara remained standing. Nate Rocheford had been a rancher, peace officer, hired gun, and latterly a bounty hunter. He was fast with a gun and was said to have killed eight men. O’Hara didn’t trust him.

  Despite the heat and dust of the trail, Rocheford’s black broadcloth frockcoat, white shirt, and red tie with a four in hand knot were immaculate, in sharp contrast to Flintlock’s shabby buckskin shirt and canvas pants.

  Diego Santos laid a bottle of tequila and glasses on the table and then said to Flintlock, “I’ve arranged for the ladies’ baths, señor, and provided them with a bar of Pears soap, the favorite of the beautiful Miss Lily Langtry.”

  “Make sure Mr. Flintlock’s ladies have their privacy, innkeeper,” Rocheford said.

  “They’re not my ladies,” Flintlock said, scowling.

  “I will indeed,” Santos said, bowing.

  When the man left, Flintlock said, “Why are you here at the edge of the world, Nate?” He smiled slightly. “By the way, if I see your gun hand slip under your coat, I’ll shoot you. Or O’Hara will.”

  Rocheford poured drinks with his right hand. “Sam, what were the chances of us meeting like this? Pretty damned slim, I’d say. If I held a grudge about the Denver shooting, I would have settled it with you a long time ago.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I was told that a man answering the description of King Fisher was wanted in connection with the theft of an army payroll. I knew King was dead, so I figured it was some small-time imposter using his name. The army is offering a five-thousand-dollar reward for the capture of Fisher and the return of the payroll, so I went after him.”

  Flintlock downed his tequila and refilled his glass. “It still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  “You haven’t told me why you’re here either,” Rocheford said. “But that’s something you’ll tell me in your own good time. In answer to your question, Sam, I tracked Fisher to a burned-out burg they used to call Happyville. The Texas Rangers were already investigating the fire. Evidently the smoke could be seen for miles and a few people died. The Ranger sergeant I spoke with said Fisher had probably slipped into the New Mexico Territory and taken the payroll with him. I started here, asking around, trying to pick up a lead, but so far I’ve had no success.”

  “King Fisher is dead,” Flintlock said.

  Rocheford nodded. “I knew that. He was killed with Ben Thompson in San Antone. I’m hunting an imposter.”

  “King didn’t die in San Antone. I killed him myself in Happyville.”

  Rocheford’s face registered shock and surprise and that pleased Flintlock. The man’s cocky self-assurance irritated him and was one of the reasons why he’d shot him in Denver.

  “Sam,” Rocheford said after he’d recovered his poise, “I’m not catching your drift. You want to explain to me how you came to kill a dead man.”

  “It’s a story that’s long in the telling,” Flintlock said.

  “You know how long women spend in a bathtub?” Rocheford said. “I’d say we got nothing but time.”

  Flintlock nodded. “
All right. Here it is . . .”

  And he told his story.

  * * *

  When Flintlock’s talking was done, Nate Rocheford sat erect and gripped the arms of his chair, thinking through step-by-step what he’d been told. After a while, he shook his head and said, “Sam, I’m not going to call you a liar, but metal men and an infernal machine are hard to take.”

  “King was only part metal and he was a wonder to behold,” Flintlock said. “But in the end his body betrayed him and his blood turned bad. If I hadn’t shot him, he would have died anyway.”

  O’Hara said, “Sam speaks the truth. You’ve read about it in the newspapers, Rocheford, how far modern steam engineering has come. It is the people who can’t keep up. You saw the Helrun?”

  “What was left of it,” Rocheford said. “The Rangers said it was a city streetcar that someone wanted to live in, sort of a house on wheels.”

  Flintlock shrugged. “Did they mention the Gatling gun?”

  Rocheford shook his head. “Nobody saw a Gatling gun.”

  “Then it had been stolen.”

  “Maybe so. In the last few days, once the word got around, plenty of people have scavenged that town.” Rocheford poured himself a drink. “Where’s the money, Sam?”

  “Out there on the packhorse.”

  “What do you plan to do with it?” Rocheford said.

  “I don’t know yet,” Flintlock said. “Don’t get any ideas, Nate.”

  Don’t concern yourself with that,” Rocheford said. “Robbing army payrolls is not in my line of work. A bounty hunter keeps on speaking terms with the law, and that includes the army . . . navy, too, if I’ve got a job on the coast.”

  “I know all that,” Flintlock said. “I’m in the same line of work.”

  “Here’s the thing, Sam. Since you mentioned Charlie Brewster, I’ve got bad news for you,” Rocheford said. “Charlie bumped into an army patrol this side of the border and for a spell things, looked bad for him, all those wanted dodgers and the like. But Charlie is smarter than a tree full of owls. He made a deal with the man in charge that in exchange for free passage to Old Mexico, he’d tell him all he knew concerning the whereabouts of the missing payroll. Well, since the army wasn’t really interested in arresting Charlie and his boys, they cut the deal. Now the army knows where the payroll was headed and since it can never keep a secret, so does everybody else. They offered five thousand for the return of the money and now everybody and his brother is searching for it, outlaws who want the whole shebang, frontier riffraff who’ll cut a throat for ten dollars, and a few honest men like myself who are willing to settle for the five thousand. The bottom line is that as long as you have the money, you’ve got a target on your back.”