A Time for Vultures (22 page)

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.

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.”

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.

Flintlock tried to rise to his feet, but after a snarl from the Apache, he sat down again. “Friendly cuss, ain't he?”

“Don't do that again, Sam,” O'Hara said. “If a Mescalero has any doubt about your intentions, he'll blow a hole through you with the fifty just to be on the safe side. This one won't take any sass.”

After a few minutes, the Apache blew his horn again, the same hunting call. He moved backwards to a cottonwood and sat, his back against the trunk, but he never took his eyes or his rifle off Flintlock.

“He doesn't like you, Sam,” O'Hara said. “I think it's the thunderbird on your throat. It's bad medicine.”

“Not much I can do about that,” Flintlock said.

“Every now and then, smile and tip him a nod. That might help.”

“I'll try it.” After a few moments, he said, “There I tried it, but all he did was stare at me and finger that cannon on his lap.”

“This is one hard-to-please Apache, Sam. Just sit real still until the white men arrive.”

“Or his kinfolk,” Flintlock said.

* * *

“Ravenous wolves of the plains, gentlemen, predators of the prairie. Observe them well. This scum will cut any man, woman, or child in half with a shotgun for fifty dollars. More animal than human, they will surrender to any vice their base, brute natures can devise.”

Sam Flintlock, his hands tied behind his back listened in silence as the cavalry major, hands on hips, delivered a lecture to his second lieutenant and sergeant on the kind of human trash that stoops low enough to steal an army payroll.

“Caught red-handed, I'll be bound,” the major said. “You'll both hang at Fort Concho, lay to that.”

“Major, I told you how we come to have the money,” Flintlock said.

“And a tissue of lies it was,” the officer said. “A dead man arisen from the grave with a dream of power, metal men, infernal machines. Pah! Even a man of honor like myself could make up a more believable lie than that.”

“It's the truth,” Flintlock said. “Every word of it. O'Hara, tell him.”

“Sam, he won't listen to me,” O'Hara said.

“Indeed I will not,” the major said. “I refuse to take the word of a ruffian, especially a half-breed cut from the same cloth as his partner in crime.”

“What about all the people from Happyville dead from smallpox in the long grass?” Flintlock said. “Do you think I made that up?”

“No, I'm sure you passed that way. The army is aware of that tragic graveyard and its implications,” the major said. “Obviously the dead were carried there by the surviving townsfolk in an attempt to end the outbreak with a quarantine. But when even that desperate measure failed, they set fire to the town and fled. God knows where the poor souls are now. Scattered all over creation, I should imagine. Damn you, sir. You even lie about the hurting dead with your wild tale of starting the fire yourself.”

Flintlock's anger flared. “Who the hell are you, mister?”

“I dislike hearing my name bandied about by low persons, but I am Major Jonathan Starke.” He waved a hand. “This is Lieutenant Uriah Henan and Sergeant Castillo. Both have been ordered to shoot down you and your breed friend like the mad dogs you are should you try to escape.” As though he'd instantly dismissed Flintlock and O'Hara from his mind, the major said, “Lieutenant Henan, we'll move out as soon as the money has been transferred to the wagon.”

The lieutenant saluted and left to see to his men. Major Starke stepped to the canvas covered wagon that had 7
TH
C
AVALRY
R
EGIMENT
stenciled on its side in black paint, a relic of Custer's last campaign and a long way from its native Montana.

Starke had ten buffalo soldiers with him and two guarded Flintlock and O'Hara while the others loaded the money into the wagon.

After a couple of minutes, Major Starke approached Flintlock again. “I think it's only fair you know that the paymaster you murdered when you stole the payroll was a very special friend of mine. That is why I'll applaud your hanging at Fort Concho, especially the moment you drop through the trapdoor and break your damned neck.”

* * *

Still as a bronze statue, the Mescalero stood by the wagon and stared out into the grassland. He felt the watcher's presence, the eyes on him and the others. His vision as keen as that of a hawk, he searched for movement or a flash of metal in the sunlight but saw nothing but the ripple of the buffalo grass in the wind. He was out there, the watcher, but he kept himself hidden. The Apache was uneasy.

Then came the major's order to move out, scout to the point. He mounted his horse and rode through a morning that followed him with a thousand eyes.

The day was hot, the climbing sun promising it would be hotter still. Sam Flintlock and O'Hara, their hands tied behind their backs, feet bound under the bellies of their horses, rode at the rear of the column in the dust. Sergeant Castillo, his carbine across his thighs, shared their misery. On all sides, the flat land stretched away to rippling horizons.

They were two days out from Fort Concho, moving through rolling country, when O'Hara turned his dust-streaked face to Flintlock and said, “Do you see them?”

“Yeah, for the last hour. The Apache is riding flank between us and them, a sure sign that he's worried.”

“It's hard to tell, but unless those boys are covered in dust, they seem to be wearing tan uniforms. They sure look like some kind of
rurales
to me.”

“Hey, Sergeant, do you see those fellers?” Flintlock said.

“I see them,” Castillo said.

“Does the major know?” Flintlock said.

“I'm sure he does.”

“Why are they pacing us at a distance?”

“Hell, if I know,” Castillo said.

“O'Hara says they look like
rurales
,” Flintlock said.

“That's what I take them to be.” Castillo wiped his sweating face with a large blue bandana. “Either that or some local warlord has himself his own private army.”

“They could be after the money,” Flintlock said.

“Sure they are,” the sergeant said. “Right now, they're trying to work up the courage to come get it. Damned greasers.”

Flintlock said, “There's a lot of them.”

“About a hundred, I reckon—a full-strength troop. If they have the belly for a fight, that's enough.”

As Flintlock watched, three of the Mexicans rode out from the others and trotted in the direction of the column. They wore tan colored uniforms, peaked caps, and cartridge belts across their chests. Two of the riders had rifles slung on their backs and the third's uniform glinted in the sun. He had stars on the collars of his shirt and a row of medals glinted on his breast.

“They want to parley,” Castillo said, his black eyes amused. “Now the fun begins.”

“You think it will come to a fight?” Flintlock said.

“The major isn't going to give them the money, so what do you think?”

“Cut us loose, Sergeant, and give us our guns,” Flintlock said. “We'll be sitting ducks trussed up like this.”

“You're prisoners,” Castillo said. “Prisoners don't fight.”

The wagon creaked to a stop as Major Starke halted the column. Castillo undid his holster flap and then pulled his horse wide of his two charges to better see and hear what was happening.

After a while Flintlock said, “Castillo, what are they saying?”

The sergeant turned a cropped head as big as a nail keg. “The general calls himself Don Carlos Lopes de Peralta. He's demanding ten thousand in gold and silver coin for safe passage to Fort Concho. By the look on the major's face, he isn't buying it.”

“Damn you. Cut us loose,” Flintlock said, his voice spiked with urgency.

Castillo ignored that. “Uh-oh, the
generalissimo
don't look too happy about that. Wait, the major is calling him out for a bandit and a scoundrel. Well, that tears it.”

The general and his men galloped away and at the same time Starke yelled the order to dismount and form a skirmish line. Sergeant Castillo joined his troopers, leaving Flintlock and O'Hara alone—helpless, defenseless, and since their horses were tied to the back of the wagon, immobile.

“We're targets, Sam,” O'Hara said, stating the obvious.

Flintlock nodded but said nothing.

“Here they come.”

The first charge was a mounted, probing attack made by half the bandits' number to test the firepower of the buffalo soldiers. The troopers performed well and used their Sharps carbines to good effect, emptying six or seven saddles before the Mexicans called a retreat. There was one casualty on the army side. The Mescalero had been killed early in the fight. Bullets had split the air close to Flintlock and O'Hara and it was obvious they'd be among the first to get hit when the main attack came.

Sergeant Castillo was a good enough soldier to see the danger and rode to the rear of the wagon and untied his prisoners' feet. “Get right behind the wagon, you two, and stay there. I see you make a run for it, I'll shoot you down.”

Major Starke watched as his prisoners were made to kneel behind the wagon. “You men stay there. Any attempt to escape will be dealt with severely.”

“We've already been told that, Major,” Flintlock said. “For God's sake, untie our hands and give us a chance to fight.”

Starke struck a heroic pose and said, “Murderers and thieves cannot be trusted to bear arms. Prisoners ye are and prisoners ye shall remain.”

“And ye can go to hell,” Flintlock said.

“They're coming again!” a voice shouted.

Moments later, the firing began again . . . in earnest.

Half the Mexican force had dismounted and attacked on foot, taking advantage of every scrap of cover they could find. The remainder of de Peralta's men remained mounted behind the firing line. All were armed with Winchesters that would take their toll of the soldiers.

From his position behind the wagon, Flintlock saw little of the battle. When he saw half a dozen buffalo soldiers fall back and then make an attempt to reform their line, he feared the fight was going badly for the army. Lieutenant Henan, bleeding from a head wound, joined his troopers and fired his Colt at the enemy. Moments later he was cut down in a hail of gunfire, several soldiers falling in the same volley.

Flintlock frantically tried to untie O'Hara's wrists, but his swollen fingers were unequal to the task and he gave up as bullets tore through the wagon's canvas top and forced him to his knees again.

He saw Major Starke fall, killed instantly by a bullet to his head. Sergeant Castillo downed two bandits with his revolver before a mounted Mexican drove a saber into his chest. The dog soldiers fought to the last man, neither giving nor asking for mercy.

The shooting died away. Scowling bandits, angry over the high number of their compadres who'd been killed and wounded, surrounded Flintlock and O'Hara and brandished their weapons. One huge, scarred brute, a knife in his hand, stepped to Flintlock. Instead of stabbing him, he turned Flintlock around and cut the rope that bound his wrists. He did the same for O'Hara.

The big man, an officer of some kind, then said something in Mexican that Flintlock didn't understand.

O'Hara translated. “He wants to know why we were prisoners of the Yankee soldiers.”

Flintlock said, “Tell him we stole the army payroll and they caught us.”

“Are you sure you want to say that?”

“Bandits set store by other bandits,” Flintlock said. “Go ahead, tell him.”

O'Hara translated what Flintlock had said. This drew peals of laughter from the surrounding men, and the officer slapped Flintlock on the back. “
Eres demasiado estupido para ser un bandido
.”

“What did he say?” Flintlock said.

“You don't want to know,” O'Hara said.

“Yeah, I do. Tell me.”

“He says you're too stupid to be a bandit.”

Flintlock nodded and grinned at the big man. “And some day I'll put a bullet in your belly.”

O'Hara didn't translate that.