A Time for Vultures

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Flintlock said.

  “I guess you have to decide if thirty thousand dollars is more valuable than your life.”

  “What do I tell the army? Say I was keeping it safe for them?”

  “As good an explanation as any. The army wants its money back and it won’t ask too many questions about how you came to have it.” Rocheford grinned. “Hell, Sam, I bet some general will give you the five-thousand-reward and maybe a gold medal.”

  “And what about you, Nate? You’ll lose out on that deal.”

  “Well, I could arrest you, Sam, take the money back to Fort Concho myself, but then I’d be a target. I’d say the odds of me getting even halfway there without a bullet in my back are pretty slim.”

  “I’d say the odds of you arresting me are pretty slim, as well,” Flintlock said.

  O’Hara smiled. “Sam speaks the truth.”

  “I figured that. I’m willing to sit this one out,” Rocheford said. “I guess I’ll eat some beef and frijoles, have a good night’s sleep, and ride out in the morning. How does that set with you, Sam?”

  “O’Hara will keep you honest, Nate. He never sleeps.”

  “That’s fine by me. You put me on my back for six weeks, Sam, but I don’t mean you any harm.” Rocheford rose to his feet. “Ah, the ladies are joining us, and very pretty they look, too.”

  “Nate,” Flintlock said. “If you come across an army patrol, tell them where I am.”

  Rocheford seemed a little surprised. “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Then I’ll do it.”

  “I never intended to keep the damned money anyway,” Flintlock said.

  “Sam speaks the truth,” O’Hara said, his face empty.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  After joining Flintlock and O’Hara for a supper of beef, peppers, and beans, Biddy Sales and Jane Feehan called it a night. Both had damp hair and smelled of Pears soap and Flintlock was forced to admit that when they weren’t covered in mud or dust, they were mighty fine-looking women.

  An adjoining adobe behind the rear of the cantina was partitioned off into three small rooms, each with a cot, a dresser, and in one corner a kiva fireplace. Nate Rocheford had already moved into one and it had been agreed that Biddy and Jane would share another and Flintlock and O’Hara the third. Since O’Hara rarely slept in a bed, Flintlock was happy with the arrangement.

  Packed into saddlebags and flour sacks, the payroll money was carried into Flintlock’s room and stashed in a corner. There was no lock on the door, only a flimsy wooden bolt. A narrow porch ran the length of the building and large clay ollas beaded with water were suspended from crossbeams outside each room.

  Taking his rifle and a blanket, O’Hara said he’d stand guard on the roof. Flintlock told him to be careful and not to raise any false alarms since Nate Rocheford was a light sleeper and inclined to shoot first and count heads later.

  O’Hara frowned. “Sam, if you hear me yelling for help, it won’t be a false alarm.”

  “Just don’t go cutting loose at shadows and the like,” Flintlock said. “Injuns see all kinds of boogeymen in the dark, and that’s a natural fact.”

  “I won’t shoot until I see the whites of their eyes,” O’Hara said, “unless I see a bandit carrying your scalp. Then I’ll plug him right off.”

  “Well, that sets my mind at rest. You’re a good friend, O’Hara.”

  “Hell, Sam, I’m your only friend.” O’Hara opened the door and vanished into a night made bright with columns of moonlight.

  Flintlock moved his pillow to the bottom of the bed so he’d face the door when he lay down. He removed his gun belt, spurred boots, and hat and then stretched out on the cot, his Colt by his side. A weariness in him, he closed his eyes and soon slept.

  * * *

  It had been an hour since his last customer left and Diego Santos decided it was time to close up shop and seek his bed. He blew out the oil lamps until only the one behind the bar was still lit. He stepped through shadow to extinguish it but stopped in his tracks when the door opened and two men stepped inside.

  Apart from the age difference, they looked like identical twins, tall, rangy men wearing slickers. Both had cold blue eyes and sported large dragoon mustaches and scowls.

  “I’m sorry gentlemen but I have no rooms and the kitchen is closed. I can bring you tequila.”

  “Later.” The older man reached inside his slicker. “Man carries his gun here. Where is he?”

  Seeing that, Santos made the dreadful mistake that could have spelled the end of Flintlock. He thought carries his gun here meant shoved in the waistband. “Ah, that would be room two. The gent carries a gun just like you said. Do you wish to speak with him?”

  “Yeah, but we want to surprise him,” the older man said. “We’re kin of his. How do we get to his room?”

  “I don’t think he’ll want to be disturbed at this late hour, señor,” Santos said.

  “He’ll want to see us,” the younger man said. “His mother passed away, and he’ll want us there to comfort him in his time of need.”

  “Oh, I see, then that makes a difference. Just go out the back door and the rooms are facing you.” Santos said, “Room two is in the middle, of course.”

  The younger man nodded. “Much obliged.”

  * * *

  Like all men who have spent time on the scout, Sam Flintlock was a light sleeper, never quite crossing that misty line between wakefulness and deep slumber.

  From outside, a dull thud followed by a whispered curse woke him. He grabbed his Colt, silently rolled out of bed, and crouched in shadow against the far wall. A moment later wood splintered as a booted foot kicked in the door and a man charged inside. The intruder hesitated for a second while he tried to locate his target.

  It was all the time Sam Flintlock needed.

  He fired once into the man’s dark silhouette, heard a cry of pain, and fired again. It was a miss as the man sank slowly to the floor, thumbing off shots, shooting at shadows. A bullet burned across the meat of Flintlock’s bicep as a second man barged into the room, stumbled over his fallen companion, and cursed as he held onto the doorjamb for balance. Flintlock fired two shots very close together, his target a shifting mass of blackness. This time there was no drama. Hit twice, the second man fell heavily to the wood floor of the room, made a small groaning noise, and then was silent.

  Nate Rocheford’s voice came from outside. “Sam. Are you all right?”

  “I guess. I’m lighting the lamp.”

  The oil lamp flared into life and spread a sickly yellow light over the two men on the floor. Both were dead, big, fine-looking fellows who’d been in the prime of life.

  Flintlock looked at Rocheford standing in the doorway. “I guess they heard about the money,” he said, his voice flat.

  Rocheford kneeled and studied the faces of both men. It didn’t take him long to make up his mind and rise to his feet. “That’s Oban Polk and his brother Yates. I killed their oldest brother Eldon in a street fight down Fort Stockton way. That was four months ago, and the Polk brothers have been dogging my back trail ever since.”

  “So it was nothing to do with the payroll?” Flintlock said.

  “No,” Rocheford said. “More like a case of mistaken identity. These boys went to the wrong room.” The bounty hunter smiled. “Boy, did they ever.”

  Biddy Sales and Jane Feehan, wearing earrings and little else, crowded into the room. So did O’Hara and Diego Santos.

  Flintlock, angry beyond measure, vented his spleen on the little Mexican. He grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and said, “Why did you send those damned assassins to my room?”

  Santos, his eyes popping, spread his arms. “They told me they were kin of a man who carried his gun . . . here.” The little man moved his hand across his belly.

  “You damned fool. They were showing you a shoulder holster,” Flintlock said.

  Santos shrugged. “
I have never seen such a thing, señor. What is a shoulder holster? I thought they meant a man who carried a gun stuck into his pants like you.”

  “Not many men use a shoulder rig, Sam,” Rocheford said. “The Mex probably never saw one.”

  Santos shook his head. “Never.”

  “Seems like an honest mistake,” Rocheford said. “No harm done.”

  Irritated, Flintlock said, “No harm done? Look at my arm. I could be dead.”

  “But you’re not, are you?” Rocheford said. “I say we’re now even for the bullet you put in me in Denver. I’ll concede even more, Sam. Since no town is ever big enough for two bounty hunters, from now on I’ll stay out of your way.” He stuck out his hand. “Is that fair?”

  Flintlock refused the proffered hand. “It’s bad luck to shake hands over dead men.” Then he said, “Yeah, it’s fair.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Come morning as Flintlock and O’Hara ate tortillas and beans for breakfast, Diego Santos timidly approached the table and said, “Are the gentlemen leaving today?”

  “Why?” Flintlock said, his tone hostile. He was still sore at the little man for the shoulder holster mix-up.

  “Well, our cemetery is filling up fast and soon there will be no more room.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re leaving,” Flintlock said.

  Santos smiled. “That is very gracious of you, señor. I will tell Mayor Hooper.”

  “Why didn’t he come himself ?” Flintlock said.

  “The mayor is indisposed. He said so many Americano pistoleros in Nube Blanca has given him the croup.”

  “Tell him to drink some seltzer water,” Flintlock said. “That’s the sovereign remedy for the croup.”

  “I will tell him, señor, but the news that the Americanos are leaving will cure him pretty quick, I think.”

  Santos made to move away from the table, but O’Hara said, “Good frijoles, compadre. You make them yourself?”

  “No, I have a fat lady in the kitchen who cooks the beans,” Santos said.

  “Well, give her my compliments.”

  Santos smiled, bowed, and stepped away.

  O’Hara looked up and saw Flintlock glaring at him. “Sam, sometimes it’s nice to be nice.”

  Feeling sour, Flintlock said, “I’ve eaten better beans in better places.”

  “Nothing will please you this morning.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. The beans are just fine.”

  “Two more dead men weighing on you, Sam? Remember, they came after you. You didn’t have any choice in the matter.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier. I had no quarrel with those Polk boys and they had none with me. If it wasn’t for the blood money sitting in my room, I wouldn’t even have been here.”

  “And Rocheford would have died,” O’Hara said.

  “Nate can take care of himself.”

  O’Hara toyed with his beans and then dropped his spoon onto the plate. “How did you get the drop on them?”

  “One of them hit his head on the olla outside my door and cussed. It woke me up.”

  “The Great Spirit was on your side, Sam. He used the olla to save your life.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes, I think so. Sam, you look like hell. Maybe you should shave and trim your mustache. Right now you look like you just came down from a high mountain in winter.”

  Flintlock rubbed his stubbled chin. “Yeah, I guess I do look a tad rough. I’ll shave before we leave.”

  The laughter of women sounded from the back door of the cantina, then Nate Rocheford walked in with Biddy Sales on one arm, Jane Feehan on the other. “Good morning Sam, O’Hara,” he said, grinning. “Isn’t it a fine morning, made even finer by two beautiful women?”

  Jane laughed and said with practiced flattery, “La, Nate, you are a one with the ladies.”

  “And so handsome with it,” Biddy said.

  Rocheford reached down and squeezed butts and the women squealed in delighted indignation. All three laughed as the bounty hunter escorted them to a table.

  Flintlock felt a twinge of jealousy, envious of Rocheford’s way with women as though the fairer sex was putty in his hands. The deaths of his two enemies last night didn’t seem to trouble Rocheford in the least. The matter seemed of little importance and already forgotten.

  O’Hara could read Flintlock’s emotions because they were always written so clearly on his face. What he understood and his friend didn’t was that Nate Rocheford was a hard, unfeeling killer, something Sam Flintlock never was or would ever be.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Flintlock and O’Hara went outside to ready the packhorse for the trail. They were surprised to see Biddy Sales and Jane Feehan already mounted, their skirts hiked up above their knees.

  Biddy answered the question on Flintlock’s face. “We’re leaving, Sam. It’s just too unhealthy around you, and we reckon it’s only going to get worse.”

  Flintlock nodded. “Can’t say as I blame you for that. Where are you headed?”

  Biddy shook her head. “We don’t rightly know. We’ve still got Morgan Davis’s money and since he has no further need for it, Jane and me figure we’ll put it to good use.”

  “We figure we’ll find a town somewhere and open our own bawdy house,” Jane said. “Maybe up Chloride way. Nate told us the town is booming on account of the silver mines. Hundreds of miners, eight saloons, and no church are good signs for ladies in our line of work.”

  “I reckon so,” Flintlock said. “If I’m ever up that way—”

  “Don’t look us up, Flintlock. Trouble just seems to follow you, and we’ve had enough of that to last us a lifetime. Well, so long, tattooed man. I sure hope you find your ma.” Biddy kicked her horse into motion and Jane Feehan followed her. They didn’t look back.

  Flintlock watched them go with an odd sense of loss.

  * * *

  After they left Nube Blanca, Sam Flintlock and O’Hara rode west, crossed the Pecos at the Rustler Breaks, and swung south away from the barrier of the Guadalupe and Delaware mountains.

  Once they crossed into Texas they made camp beside a narrow creek sheltered on both banks by cottonwoods and willows. Unwilling to risk a fire that might attract the attention of outlaws and bounty hunters, they ate a cold supper of tortillas, beef, and water and then sought their blankets. The night was clear and cool, the sky ablaze with stars.

  Flintlock lay sleepless on his back. “O’Hara?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Suppose we just leave it, dump the money right here and ride away.”

  “Finders keepers, Sam. All we’d do is make somebody else rich.”

  “Whoever was lucky enough to stumble across it?”

  “Right. If you’re going to do that, you might as well keep the money yourself.”

  Flintlock watched the blue smoke from his cigarette curl in the air above his head. “I guess the only decent thing is to give the money back to the army.”

  “Yup, that’s the decent thing all right,” O’Hara said. “That is, if we can hold on to it long enough. If Rocheford was right, a heap of mighty bad folks want it.”

  Flintlock got up on an elbow “O’Hara, I’m not going to sacrifice my life to protect the army’s money. Too many have died already. The damned payroll became cursed from the minute King Fisher killed the escort and stole it.”

  “Then we find an army patrol and give them their money,” O’Hara said. “Then we head for the Arizona Territory and look for your mother.”

  After a thinking silence, Flintlock said, “O’Hara, did we dream it, you think? I mean, the whole thing about King Fisher and metal men. Did we camp here beside this creek and just wake up from the same bad dream?”

  “No, Sam, it was real. The bullet scar you got on your arm proves it.”

  Flintlock sighed and lay back on his blanket. “Hell, I didn’t think it was a dream anyway.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  A kick in the
ribs woke Sam Flintlock. He opened his eyes and looked into the hard face of an Apache with yellow and blue war paint across his cheekbones and bridge of his nose. He carried a Sharps .50 and had a holstered Colt on his hip.

  Thinking the man was likely an army scout, Flintlock tried what he hoped came off as a friendly grin. “Well, I’m glad to see you.”

  The Indian made no answer, and the unwavering muzzle of the Sharps remained pointed at Flintlock’s head. The Apache picked up Flintlock’s Colt from his blanket and tossed it aside then said something to O’Hara in a language Flintlock did not understand. O’Hara did and tossed away his holstered gun, and in answer to a growl from the Apache, his knife followed.

  “Damn it, O’Hara. I thought you never slept,” Flintlock said. “You let this feller walk right into our camp.”

  “Even a half-Injun has to sleep sometime,” O’Hara said.

  “Couldn’t you have done it some other night? This here Apache could have lifted our hair. I’m surprised he didn’t.”

  “He’s army,” O’Hara said.

  “Figured that,” Flintlock said. “But he’s still an Apache.”

  “Mescalero. Only Mescalero scouts wear the soldier blue headband.”

  Hanging from a leather strap slung over the Apache’s shoulder was a brass hunting horn. He raised it to his lips and sounded a single, high-pitched note.

  “Now what?” Flintlock said.

  “Now we wait for the cavalry to arrive,” O’Hara said.