A Time for Vultures

by William W. Johnstone

  A few moments later a file of eight soldiers carrying rifles trotted to the wall and lined up opposite the condemned men. An officer with a saber stood to the side.

  “It’s been real good knowing you, Sam,” O’Hara said.

  “You too, O’Hara. It’s been a pleasure.”

  The officer raised his saber and barked a command, and his firing squad shouldered their rifles.

  Flintlock swallowed hard and counted his life in seconds.

  The morning erupted in gunfire.

  * * *

  Blue-coated cavalry charged into the plaza, shooting as they went.

  Fighting for his own life, the firing squad officer suddenly lost interest in Flintlock and O’Hara. Surprised, shocked, the eight riflemen of his command were quickly cut down, half of them failing to get off a shot. The officer raised his saber to cut at a passing buffalo soldier and paid for his temerity when the trooper fired his Colt into the man’s face and dropped him.

  The plaza was filled with cavalrymen drawn from the 9th and 10th regiments out of Fort Concho. The United States had been slow to anger, but once aroused, America was a terrible enemy. The black troopers thirsted to avenge their comrades left dead on the plain and mercy didn’t enter into their thinking. Here and there, chivvied by their officers, De Peralta’s soldiers tried to make a stand, but they were annihilated and their bloody bodies soon littered the ground.

  Flintlock looked to the mission where a dozen Mexicans were still fighting. Through the thick pall of gun smoke he saw General Peralta stick his head out of the door and then quickly duck back inside. Flintlock yelled out to a passing cavalryman to untie his bonds.

  The soldier, a huge sergeant with the fire of combat in his eyes, stared at Flintlock, made up his mind, and yelled, “Turn around.”

  The man’s saber flashed downward and Flintlock felt the keen blade slash the rope and pass between his palms like the cold flicker of a serpent’s tongue. As the rope fell to the ground, he looked at his hands, expecting them to be cut and bloody, but the saber stroke had been so precise they were unharmed. Before he could thank him, the sergeant galloped away.

  Flintlock untied O’Hara and said, “De Peralta.”

  He didn’t need to say more.

  Flintlock grabbed the fallen officer’s Colt from the holster and ran into the plaza. He was well aware of the danger. The buffalo soldiers were out for blood and anyone not on a horse and wearing a blue coat was a target. As he ran between plunging, rearing horses he yelled, “American! American!” above the roar of gunfire and the screams of the dying.

  A few soldiers gave him hard looks as he passed, but no one shot at him or aimed a saber blow at his head. Flintlock thought himself lucky as he cleared the press and ran for the horse lines. He figured de Peralta had left the mission already, trying to make a run for it.

  Jogging past the unlit torches where the old women had prayed, Flintlock headed for the palomino . . . and ran headlong into trouble. Two of the general’s men stood between him and the corral. Both fired their rifles but shaken by what was happening in the plaza they hurried their shots. A bullet cracked through the air an inch from Flintlock’s left ear and the other kicked up dirt at his feet.

  He fired on the run. One of the bandits went down and the second frantically tried to work the lever of his Winchester, but the rifle was jammed. In despair, the man threw the gun at Flintlock then took to his heels, shrieking and waving his hands in the air as he ran.

  Flintlock let the man go, but a battle-crazed cavalry trooper galloped past him and ran down the fleeing bandit. The soldier’s saber rose and fell and split the Mexican’s head from crown to chin. With his saber running blood, the trooper swung his horse around, saw Flintlock, and charged. The horseman aimed a cut at Flintlock’s head, but he ducked and the blade sliced air inches over his head. As the trooper controlled his unruly horse and again raised his saber, Flintlock yelled, “I’m an American, damn it!”

  The buffalo soldier stayed his hand, but his saber was still raised as he said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I was captured,” Flintlock said.

  Flintlock saw the man’s mind working, then the trooper said, “Stay the hell out of the way, you damned fool.” He swung his horse around, heard firing from the far side of the plaza, and galloped in that direction.

  Two narrow escapes from death within a couple minutes made Flintlock’s heart race as he ran for the corral, warily looking around for any sign of berserk horse soldiers.

  Then came bitter disappointment. The corral gate was open and the palomino and its silver saddle were gone . . . and so presumably was Don Carlos Lopez de Peralta.

  The palomino’s tracks led out of the corral and looped around a ruined outbuilding that had once been the mission’s smokehouse. Flintlock guessed that de Peralta was heading east and probably had a head start of at least a mile. With no time to saddle a horse, Flintlock shoved the Colt in his waistband and picked out a broad-backed steel dust. He bridled the mount and rode it bareback, following de Peralta’s tracks.

  An excellent tracker—it was one of the skills that old Barnabas and his mountain man cronies had taught him well—Flintlock kicked the horse into a flat-out run. The time had come for a reckoning, and he was willing to kill the steel dust to achieve it.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Sam Flintlock rode across flat, brushy, desert country relieved here and there by patches of juniper and catclaw cactus. A rising plume of dust ahead of him marked Carlos de Peralta’s position a mile in hand and the palomino seemed to be running strong.

  He kicked the steel dust to greater effort and the horse responded, revealing a willingness to run and plenty of spunk.

  The rising sun was hot and he sweated from the effort of riding a galloping horse without a saddle. The cadenced drum of the steel dust’s hooves was almost hypnotic as it ate up distance and showed no sign of faltering. Ahead of him, de Peralta’s dust blossomed in a yellow cloud—but it was lessening.

  Flintlock figured that either the palomino was running across firmer ground or the big horse was almost out of steam. Time would tell.

  The steel dust was gaining.

  Soon, the distance had closed so much that even through the dust Flintlock saw de Peralta glance over his shoulder and then rake the palomino’s flanks with his spurs.

  The steel dust’s head came up and the rhythmic thud of his hooves became ragged and his breathing labored. He was slowing. The horse had shown heart and Flintlock was reluctant to push him further, but push him he must. He kicked his mount’s ribs and urged him on.

  De Peralta did the unexpected. He swung the palomino around and charged. He let the reins trail and with a revolver in each hand, began shooting. Flintlock roared his anger and drew his Colt. He rode right at the Mexican, firing as he went.

  Disaster struck.

  Flintlock heard the solid thwack! of a bullet as it hit the steel dust.

  The brave little horse grunted, ran for a few more yards, then his front legs went out from under him. Flintlock cartwheeled over the horse’s head, hitting the ground hard. His gun went flying from his hand. Winded, he tried to rise.

  De Peralta stood over him, the muzzle of his Colt just inches from Flintlock’s head. The man’s grin was evil. “Pig dog! You escaped the firing squad, but you will not escape this time.” He thumbed back the hammer of his Colt. “Scum, I will shoot you in the belly and leave you to die, squealing in agony like the pig you are.”

  Flintlock found his breath. “You go to hell, crazy man.”

  Keeping his grin in place, De Peralta moved the muzzle of his gun until it pointed at Flintlock’s belly. “I will enjoy this very much, I think.”

  An instant later his head exploded.

  A bullet had struck de Peralta’s right temple, traveled clean through his head, and burst out the other side of his skull just above his left ear, spraying blood, bone, and brain like a small, scarlet fountain.

  A moment
later, Flintlock heard the flat statement of a rifle.

  He rose to his feet. O’Hara, he and his horse covered in dust, rode toward him at a walk, the butt of a Winchester resting on his thigh.

  “Good shot,” Flintlock said, grinning.

  “Not so great,” O’Hara said. “A hundred yards with a Winchester rifle is no great thing.”

  “You saved my life O’Hara. I won’t forget it.”

  “And I won’t let you forget it.”

  * * *

  Sam Flintlock rode the palomino back to the mission at a walk with de Peralta’s body hanging over the saddle. Unfortunately, unwashed, unshaven, and covered in dust, they were immediately arrested as suspicious characters, possible murderers, and held in a disused wine cellar.

  Flintlock had to admit that was a step up from the stinking cell he’d previously occupied. “I’d say the young lieutenant was a real nice feller. Very polite. I bet he went to West Point.”

  “He still arrested us,” O’Hara said. “There was nothing polite about that.”

  “Do you think he believed me when I told him we were returning the payroll money when we were captured?”

  “If you were him, would you?” O’Hara said.

  “Not a word of it.”

  “Then there’s your answer.” O’Hara looked around the cellar. “All the wine is gone.”

  “I guess they drank it all at the fiesta.” Flintlock stared at O’Hara. “Whatever happens, don’t mention King Fisher. If the lieutenant is any guide, the army isn’t going to listen to a story about a metal man who wanted to be president of the world.”

  “So what do I say? Make it all clear to me, Sam.”

  “We say we found the army wagon abandoned and like the good citizens we are we decided to return it to the military. We met up with Major Starke and his men and were headed for Fort Concho when de Peralta attacked us. For some reason he spared our lives and took us prisoner.”

  O’Hara considered that and said, “Maybe metal men would be easier to believe.”

  “No, stick to the story I just gave you. Otherwise we could face a noose for being in cahoots with a bunch of murderous Mexican bandits.”

  “Have it your way, Sam. I just hope you’re right.”

  Flintlock nodded. “Trust me.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Like the monk’s cell, the wine cellar had a single small window just under the arched timber ceiling, but Flintlock had found a wax candle with a supply of lucifers. As darkness fell, he lit both, filling their dreary surroundings with shifting, shadowed light. Rats scurried noisily in the corners and from outside the solemn back-and-forth tread of a sentry punctuated the night.

  A key clanked in the lock and the cellar door creaked open. A soldier flanked by two others holding rifles made his way down steps worn by a hundred years of feet. The man, corporal’s stripes on the arms of his faded blue shirt, held a silver tray, one of de Peralta’s spoils, and said, “Grub’s up, boys.”

  There were coffee cups on the tray and tin plates of fried bacon and a dollop of some kind of mush. “I pounded the hardtack and fried it in the bacon grease,” the soldier said. “Makes for a fair meal.”

  Flintlock and O’Hara were hungry and raised no objection to the bill of fare. It was a soldier’s meal and they were glad to get it.

  “I’ll pick up the plates in the morning,” the man said and turned to go.

  “Hold on a second, Corporal,” Flintlock said. “What’s going to happen to us?”

  “I don’t rightly know.” The soldier scratched his head and then said, “The colonel is pretty mad at the Mexican prisoners we took. If you threw in with them, you should probably hope for the best and expect the worst.”

  “What’s the worst?” O’Hara said.

  “A bullet or a noose. That would be my thinking.”

  “And the best?”

  The corporal shook his head and looked sad. “Injun, I don’t reckon there is a best.”

  After the soldiers left, Flintlock dropped his fork onto his empty plate and said, “Things will work out fine after I talk to the colonel. Hell, O’Hara, do we look like Mexican bandits?”

  “Sam, we look like some kind of bandits. You haven’t been near a mirror recently.”

  * * *

  Colonel James McKenzie, a spare, severe-looking officer, seemed out of place behind de Peralta’s desk amid the ornate splendor of the general’s office. It was dawn—for soldiers, the middle of the day.

  McKenzie had listened in silence to Sam Flintlock’s explanation about why he was in the camp of a notorious brigand who’d killed American soldiers and stolen an army payroll.

  The colonel’s cold blue eyes moved to O’Hara. “Carlos de Peralta’s body was identified by several of his soldiers and his . . . ah . . . mistress. You killed him?”

  “Yes, just as Flintlock told you.”

  “Why did you kill him?”

  “He was about to shoot Flintlock in the belly,” O’Hara said. “But I done for him first.”

  “He treated us like animals,” Flintlock said. “And we were facing his firing squad when you attacked the mission.”

  “Yes, that is the testimony of”—Colonel McKenzie read from a slip of paper on his desk—“Private Judah Watson. He says he freed you from your bonds.”

  Flintlock nodded. “He put in some fine work with the saber, Colonel.”

  “All my troopers are good with the saber,” McKenzie said. “You were there when Major Starke and his detail were killed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Flintlock said. “Since we were unarmed, we’d been told to take cover behind the wagon.”

  “Why were you unarmed?”

  Flintlock hesitated and McKenzie said, “Come now, man, answer the question.”

  “Major Starke thought we might have been involved in the stealing of the payroll.”

  “And were you?”

  “No, sir. We were not.”

  “How did Major Starke and his men perform in the battle?” the colonel said.

  “They fought to the last man and died with their face to the enemy,” Flintlock said. “They were all brave.”

  “Warriors,” O’Hara said.

  McKenzie stared over his steepled fingers and Flintlock thought he’d seen friendlier eyes look at him over the barrel of a gun.

  Finally the colonel said, “Mr. Flintlock, one of my junior officers told me that you are known on the frontier as a desperate character who associates with known criminals and all kinds of low persons. A bounty hunter, I think he called you. The thunderbird tattoo on your throat is a mark of Cain, I’ll be bound.”

  Flintlock nodded. “Just about sums me up, Colonel. But O’Hara here is neither a criminal nor a low person. He saved my life yesterday.”

  “The noble savage?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Colonel, we didn’t steal the army’s money.” Flintlock had reached the end of his tether and was sick and tired of hearing about the damned payroll. “And that’s a natural fact. Now it’s up to you. Believe what you want.”

  “Mr. Flintlock, I have no doubt that you should have been hanged years ago, but that is a matter for the civil authorities, not the army,” Colonel McKenzie said. “However, despite major Starke’s opinion, I do not think you were involved in the theft of the payroll. Yesterday you had ample time to escape but did not and you and your companion killed a dangerous enemy of the United States. In all good conscience, I cannot find you guilty of treason or any other offense.” He gave Flintlock another of his icy stares. “This may come as a disappointment to you, Mr. Flintlock, but I do not think you deserve the reward for the return of the payroll. I think it should be shared among the families of the enlisted men who died trying to save it. Have you any objections? If you have, speak up.”

  “I have no objection, Colonel,” Flintlock said. “Seems fair to me.”

  “And you, O’Hara?”

  The Indian shook his head. “Those colored boys de
serve it.”

  “Very well then, but I will make one concession,” McKenzie said. “As a reward for visiting on Carlos de Peralta the fate he deserved, you make take his palomino horse as my gift.”

  “That’s very generous, Colonel,” Flintlock said. “We sure do appreciate it. The palomino is a fine animal.”

  The office waved away Flintlock’s thanks. “You may go now, but may I suggest something?”

  “You sure can, Colonel,” Flintlock said. “Suggest away.”

  “I strongly suggest that you and Mr. O’Hara take a bath at the first available opportunity.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Sam Flintlock relaxed in the unaccustomed luxury of his Excellency Don Carlos Lopez Peralta’s French Imperial bathtub, a massive alabaster edifice resting on four silver-plated claw feet. It was, a soapy Flintlock decided, a tub fit for a king. Located in a whitewashed adobe, it was situated a discreet distance from the rear of the mission.

  He’d made a few inquiries to a Mexican peon who’d served the general as a low-ranked factotum, and the man had revealed the whereabouts of the bathtub and provided hot water and a large towel. Flintlock had said to O’Hara, the peon was a Mexican, but he played a white man . . . an observation he was later to regret.

  As he scrubbed his back, Flintlock was singing the last verse of “O’er the Lea” when the door to the bathhouse opened and a slender young señorita stepped inside. He recognized her as the girl he’d seen on de Peralta’s lap. She smiled and stepped toward the tub.

  Flintlock was relieved that soap bubbles covered his nakedness. “Howdy, señorita.” Stating what was obvious, he said, “I’m taking a bath.”

  The girl smiled but said nothing.

  Flintlock grinned in return. “Care to join me?”

  The señorita smiled an enigmatic Mona Lisa. She stepped closer, her black eyes glittering. Suddenly her arm came from behind her back and the blade in her hand flashed. Narrowly avoiding the first downward slash, Flintlock scrambled to his feet, slipped on the tub’s slick bottom, and crashed backwards. Soapy water cascaded around him soaking the stone floor.