CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A strange procession headed northwest in the direction of Happyville. O'Hara, bellied down in the long grass, watched it go, his brow furrowed with concern. Where was Flintlock?
A couple riders led Sam's limping bay and behind them rolled a covered wagon drawn by a mule team. The woman up on the driver's seat held the reins with silver hands and beside her sat another female with a painted mask covering her face, bad omens that made O'Hara's stomach lurch. Even more disturbing, a badly misshapen dwarf wearing a top hat and goggles trotted alongside a massive wolf as though leading the way for the others.
But it was the great, growling wheeled machine with windows that struck fear into O'Hara's heart. Belching steam, it was as large as a locomotive without a tender, but it needed no rails. The machine's wheels, each as tall as a man and wide across as his outstretched arms, crushed everything in its pathâgrass, small trees, and scurrying animals. The steam wagon left behind tracks that scarred the land to the depth of a foot, something that the constant traffic of a hundred horse wagons would have taken years to accomplish. On top of the wagon, just behind its glassed cabin and partially covered with canvas, angled the stubby barrel of a Gatling gun and a figure with one hand on its breech. It looked like a man, but it had the head of a bird with a great beak and round, staring eyes.
Impulsively, O'Hara clutched the Navajo shaman's medicine bag that hung around his neck, but it was his dormant Christianity, sometimes taught, sometimes beaten into him by Dominican brothers, that made him cry out in an agony of dread. “In the name of God, what wickedness is this?”
Sure he was watching a cavalcade of the damned, O'Hara's eyes reached out and scanned the wagon and the steam monster. Where was Flintlock? He saw no sign of him.
The warrior in O'Hara took over.
After the grotesque procession passed, he got to his feet, retrieved his horse from a thicket of brush and wild oak, and swung into the saddle. He slid the Winchester from under his knee and propped the butt on his thigh.
* * *
Sam Flintlock almost enjoyed the luxurious brass and red velvet interior of the Helrun's luxurious interior. He reclined in an overstuffed easy chair and next to him on a side table stood a crystal decanter and a couple long-stemmed glasses. He removed the stopper and sniffed. “Ah, sherry.” He poured himself a glass and sat back to enjoy the ride, deciding he'd deal with his problems later.
Then trouble came looking for him.
* * *
“Rider ahead,” Dr. Sarah Ann Castle said, looking at Flintlock over her shoulder. “Looks like a savage of some kind.”
Flintlock sat up in his chair.
O'Hara.
It had to be. He was the only savage around those parts.
“He's ordering us to stop,” the doctor said. “Wait, Jasper Aston is going to talk to him. Obadiah, stand ready with the big gun.”
“It's ready,” le Strange said, his voice muffled behind his plague mask.
Wearing a black leather helmet and goggles pushed up on her forehead, Dr. Castle consulted the array of dials and valves on the panel in front of her. She pulled a lever, pushed another, and Helrun hissed to a shuddering halt. “King and Clem Jardine just left the wagon. Both are wearing their guns.”
“Wearing guns? That will scare O'Hara all right.” Flintlock said.
“Huh?” Dr. Castle said.
Flintlock let his feeble attempt at humor pass, then stared over the woman's shoulder through the glass. “The rider is a breed named O'Hara.” To his surprise, he added, “He's a good friend of mine.”
“Then I hope King doesn't kill him,” she said. “He can be testy around strangers.”
“Let me out of this thing,” Flintlock said.
Steam hissed and a panel at the side of the passenger cabin swung upward.
“Be careful,” she said. “Your friend looks like a desperate character.”
Flintlock drained his sherry glass and stooped to leave. “He is,” he threw back at the doctor as he stepped outside. “Believe me, he is.” Flintlock had never doubted O'Hara's courage.
In times of trouble, the man was a rock. He was steady in a gunfight and could be depended on to stand his ground and get his work in no matter the amount of lead flying in his direction. O'Hara could understand a hired gun like Jasper Aston because he'd met his kind before, but nothing in his experience had prepared him for the likes of King Fisher and Clem Jardine. O'Hara's face was stiff with uncertainty, his knuckles white on his rifle.
It seemed to Flintlock that King Fisher might be talking, but the man's back was turned to him and he couldn't be sure. Seeking to head off any possible gunplay, Flintlock yelled, “O'Hara, over here!”
O'Hara's head turned in Flintlock's direction and Clem Jardine offered a fleeting smile.
Disaster struck.
Grofrec Horntoe had been holding back his wolf, but with his mouth twisted in a malicious grin, he let the animal go. Quicksilver went right for O'Hara's horse. The terrified paint reared just as the wolf hit and, surprised, O'Hara went flying off the back of his saddle. He triggered a fast shot when he struck the ground hard.
King Fisher suddenly had a Colt in his hand. Stirrups flying, O'Hara's horse galloped across the flat, the wolf snapping at its heels.
“No! Don't shoot!” Flintlock yelled. He kneeled beside the dazed breed. “Are you all right?”
O'Hara shook his head, his eyes unfocused. “I thought Jasper might draw down on me, but I sure as hell didn't expect a wolf.”
“You know him?” Flintlock said.
“Who, the wolf?”
“No, dammit, Jasper.”
“Ran into him a few times along my back trail. He's fast with the iron.”
“Set right there for a spell,” Flintlock said. “I'll be right back.”
Horntoe was giggling behind his hand when Flintlock grabbed him. A strong man and mad as hell, he lifted the dwarf bodily in one hand and carried him, kicking and cursing, to Fisher. “Rein in your dwarf, King,” he said, dropping the little man at Fisher's feet.
“Grofrec, call back your wolf,” Fisher said. “Now.”
The dwarf, looking sullen, put two fingers into his mouth and let out a high, piercing whistle. Flintlock watched the wolf skid to a halt, turn, and trot back.
Still angry, Flintlock said, “King, if O'Hara had come up with a broken neck, you'd be looking for a gopher hole to bury your pygmy in.”
“He amuses me, Sam. Court jester, you might say. That's why I gave him the name Grofrec Horntoe. Dr. le Strange says it's very droll. Can you vouch for the savage?”
“He's a friend of mine and he's only half savage. Isn't that enough?”
“Bring him over here. I'll question him,” Fisher said.
Flintlock helped O'Hara to his feet and said, “King Fisher wants to talk to you.”
O'Hara's eyes opened wide. “That's King Fisher?”
“What's left of him. Pretend you don't notice.”
“Only a damned white man would say that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The huge lens of King Fisher's right eye glowed green as he studied O'Hara. “Do I know you?”
The breed shook his head. “No. But I've heard of you. They say you're a cowboy killer.”
“People talk,” Fisher said. “Does my appearance disturb you? My eye? My hand?”
O'Hara nodded. “You're part man, part machine, like him.” He used the muzzle of his Winchester to point to Clem Jardine. “God did not make you two like that.”
“The Bible says he made man in His image. Maybe God is a machine,” Fisher said.
“A machine does not have a soul,” O'Hara said.
“And you think I have none?”
“Perhaps. It could be that your soul fled when you became more automaton than human.”
“Automaton? You use a big word for a part savage,” Fisher said.
“When I was a boy at the mission school, a monk called Brother Benedict was a watchmaker, but he also made little animals out of brass. They moved. Singing birds mostly, but once he made a bear that walked and danced. He called his creatures automatons.”
King Fisher's immobile face could not register anger, but his voice rose to a shout. “You fool! You dare compare me to clockwork toys? I am the pinnacle of creation and as the sum of man's knowledge increases, I will be made even better. Little man, I'll still be alive when your grandchildren are dead and modern engineering may yet bring me immortality. What need for a soul then?”
Fisher's left hand, not mechanical and somewhat shrunken, reached over, opened a small valve on his wrist, and instantly released a hissing jet of steam. He closed the valve quickly and said, “There, now you've seen and heard my immortal soul.”
O'Hara, openmouthed like an Inquisitor listening to heresy, could not bring himself to say anything.
Fisher did the talking for him. “Now, my Indian friend, the question is do I kill you or not?”
Flintlock said quickly, “King, I'd take a killing mighty hard.”
“I'm sure you would, Sam. But if you did, I'd also have to kill you, and I don't want to do that right now. Take your friend's rifle and pistol.”
O'Hara stepped back, his Winchester coming up fast. “You're not taking my guns.”
King Fisher made two motions with his mechanical arm. The first was to shove his Colt into the holster on his hip. This was done at normal speed, but the second movement was so fast the human eye could not follow it. When the movement was complete, Fisher's articulated hand had grabbed O'Hara's Winchester by the barrel and tossed it aside.
Stunned, the breed shook the burning sting out of his hands and Flintlock, fearing another fancy move on King's part, removed O'Hara's Colt from his holster.
He handed the revolver to Fisher and said, “Mighty fast.”
“And me only half-trying.” Fisher looked at the people around him. “All right, we're moving out. Take your friend into Helrun, Sam. He looks like he needs a drink.”
Flintlock nodded. “And I reckon so do I. I think we both just saw a ghost.”
* * *
“They've caught up with your horse, O'Hara,” Flintlock said, looking out the cabin window. “How is the sherry?”
“Is that what it is? Sherry wine?”
“Like it?”
“It's swill.”
“And that's why old Barnabas told me to never to give firewater to an Injun. They don't appreciate good liquor. How were the ladies when you left?”
“I came to find you, Sam.”
“I know that and I appreciate it. How are the ladies?”
“Still in the saloon. The town stinks worse now the bodies are rotting.”
“I think King wants to settle there for a spell,” Flintlock said.
“Then he'll die of smallpox.”
Flintlock frowned. “Maybe he can't die. I don't know how much of his insides are made of brass.”
“His human part can die, like any other mortal man,” O'Hara said.
Sarah Castle turned from the controls. “Please don't discuss Mr. Fisher in my presence. If you have anything to say, then say it to him.”
“There's smallpox in Happyville, for God's sake,” Flintlock said. “A doctor should know she's headed for trouble.”
“We can contain and then eradicate the epidemic,” Dr. Castle said. “It is essential that the good townspeople return and the farming begin.”
“What kind of farming? You can't plow around there,” Flintlock said. “All you'll grow is rock and cactus.”
“Then we'll just have to wait and see, Mr. Flintlock, won't we?” Sarah Castle paused, then said, “Hello, what is this?” and spoke into a speaking tube above the control panel. “Obadiah, do you see them? There's a large body of armed, mounted men approaching us.”
Le Strange's tinny answer came back. “I see them. They look like Comancheros to me. I doubt that their intentions are friendly.”
“Do you think King sees them?”
“I'm sure he does. Just keep driving, Sarah.”
Flintlock leaned forward and peered through the front window. “They're not Comancheros. They disbanded and headed for the hills after ol' Quanah Parker surrendered in the winter of seventy-five and his starving Comanches went into a reservation. It looks to me like a bunch of other fellers in the same line of business.”
“Those boys want something,” O'Hara said.
“I figured that.” Flintlock's hand strayed to his waistband, but his gun was gone, taken by Fisher. “Sure is a passel of them, twenty-five, maybe thirty riders, half of them Americanos judging by their duds.”
Le Strange's voice came on the speaking tube. “Sarah, King is signaling you to stop. He's bringing the wagon closer and I might be needed elsewhere so he's sending Max Eades to man the Gatling. Just keep Helrun locked up tight and stay right where you are.”
Sarah Castle said, “Obadiah, wait.”
But the man had already scrambled out of the gun turret and slid down the vehicle's side. He hit the ground running and headed for the wagon.
There was as yet no sign of King Fisher.
Flintlock glanced at the bandits. They had deployed in line and cut loose with a ragged volley. Bullets
pinged
! off the sloped side of the steam carriage, and Sarah Castle cried out as a round shattered the window to her right and burned across her forehead just under the brim of her leather helmet.
“Get your head down!” Flintlock yelled. He pushed the woman into her seat. He looked at the hatch that led to the gun turret. “Where the hell is Eades?”
The shooting became general as the horsemen advanced on the carriage and wagon.
Confined like a yolk in a boilerplate egg as he was in the close confines of the Helrun's passenger cabin, Flintlock could see little of what was happening outside. “O'Hara, get up there behind the big gun. I'll follow you.”
As O'Hara scrambled into the hatch, Flintlock said, “Doc, are you all right?”
“It's just a bad bruise.” With panic in her voice, Dr. Castle said, “I can't see King out there.”
“I reckon Fisher can take care of himself.” Flintlock climbed into the hatch.
O'Hara moved aside to allow him to sit in the leather seat. “Can you work this thing?” He jumped as a bullet
spaaanged
! close to his elbow, leaving a shallow gray scratch on the metal.
Flintlock's quick glance around him revealed that the banditsâin later years, winter yarning around a potbellied stove, he'd refer to them as the Sons of the Comancherosâhad circled Helrun and the wagon. Several of their number had fallen and lay lifeless on the ground and it looked like Max Eades was down. The gunman's boot heels gouged holes in the dirt, a sure sign that he was gut shot and hurting. King Fisher, Clem Jardine, and Jasper Aston had backed against the wagon and were getting in some steady work. But the bandit numbers were starting to tell and their noose was tightening.
Back a ways and out of the line of fire, Flintlock thought he caught a glimpse of Barnabas. The old sinner grinned as he sat on the grass and peeled a ruby-red apple, a tight coil of skin dangling to the ground.
“Sam, damn it!” O'Hara yelled. “Shoot that fancy gun.”
As bullets split the air around his head, Flintlock grabbed the Gatling gun and readied himself, gritting his teeth. The big gun was fed from a circular magazine named a Broadwell Drum after its inventor. Flintlock had seen a Gatling exactly like this one at Fort Bayard, up in the New Mexico Territory's Santa Rita Mountains country. Usually seen on gunboats, the Gatling's two-hundred-and-forty-round magazine made it a fearsome weapon at sea or on land.
Luck was with Sam Flintlock that day.
About a dozen riders broke off from the fight and huddled around a man wearing a wide sombrero and an embroidered red shirt. They seemed to be getting orders, and now and then, they'd glance toward the wagon.
Flintlock sighted, turned the crank handle, and cut loose, the unique rattle of the big gun sounding like an iron bedstead being dragged across a knotted wood floor. The Gatling gun was an indiscriminate and inhumane killer, a destroyer of animals as well as men. When the six-hundred-round-a-minute hailstorm of .45-70 lead hammered into the assembled riders, shrieking and screaming men and horses went down like wheat before a reaper.
Appalled, Flintlock looked beyond the gun barrels at a gory tangle of dying, shrieking men and their kicking mounts . . . raw, bloody meat from a ghastly grinder. Dust and thick gray gun smoke writhed among the fallen as though their tormented souls desperately sought escape from the slaughter.
The man in the sombrero and red shirt, redder now, staggered to his feet, tried to say something, then fell on his back. Flintlock held his fire. He'd killed men before, but the dreadful execution he'd done among the bandits unnerved him.
The shooting came to a ragged halt. The surviving bandits, half their number dead or dying, including their leader, pulled back. The ferocity of the Gatling gun had taken the fight out of them.
“Sam!” Fisher yelled. “Finish them.”
The bandits who could understand English threw down their guns and raised their hands. The others, bewildered by the suddenness and ferocity of Flintlock's attack, followed suit.
“They're done, King,” Flintlock said.
Fisher's impassive face was incapable of showing emotion. He said, “They're done when I say they're done.”
Already dismayed by the mayhem he'd wrought, Flintlock was not prepared for what happened next. No human being with a shred of decency could have been.
Fisher's mechanical arm hung by his side and its polished brass and network of thin bronze pipes gleamed like gold in the sunlight. A split second later, he was shooting, his self-cocking revolver vise-steady in his engineered hand. Six shots. Six empty saddles. Six dead men. All in the space of a single heartbeat. Flintlock was stunned that a Colt's gun could be made to shoot at that speedâlike a burst from the Gatling.
Then horror piled on horror as the surviving bandits broke and ran.
“Clem,” Fisher said.
Jardine drew and fired. His arm and gun hand were not mechanically enhanced, but he was a skilled gunman and shot two of the fleeing bandits out of the saddle.
When the racketing echoes of the shots died away, King Fisher stiffly looked up at Flintlock in the gun turret. “Now they're done.”
Flintlock studied what was left of the fleeing bandits. Their horses kicked up plumes of dust as they galloped across the flat. He saw no sign of Barnabas.
Fisher called out to the dwarf. “Grofrec, finish off the wounded. I don't want live enemies on my back trail.”
The little man pulled a huge bowie from his belt, tested the edge with his thumb, and grinned. “Sure thing, Mr. Fisher.” The dwarf, his wolf trotting beside him, hurried away to complete his task.
But even when shrieks of fear and pain rang out as Grofrec Horntoe began his throat cutting, Flintlock's attention was on Clem Jardine's wife kneeling beside the dead Max Eades. Only later did Flintlock find out that the gunman was her brother. She rocked back and forth and made low, moaning sounds behind her painted porcelain mask. After a while, she reached into the pocket of her skirt and took out a small, blue glass vial decorated with tiny silver skulls. She removed the stopper, a skull attached to the bottle with a thin chain, tilted her head and held the vial under her left eye, allowing drops of water to fall onto her mask and run down her cheek. She did this with the other eye until it seemed that tears streamed down her porcelain cheeks, rolling among the dice and the red and black hearts, clubs, diamonds and spades of playing cards. Blanche Jardine's wails grew in volume and she reapplied the vial and shed her unnatural tears several more times until her husband raised her to her feet and led her, stumbling, back to the wagon.
Grofrec Horntoe, his bared arms gory to the elbows, returned. “They're all dead, Mr. Fisher.”
“What is the butcher's bill?” King Fisher said.
“Nineteen dead men and eleven horses,” the dwarf said.
Fisher nodded. “Dr. le Strange, can Max Eades be saved?”
The engineer shook his head. “Even modern science can't raise a dead man. At least, not yet.”
Fisher listened to that without comment and then said, “Grofrec, bury Eades. As for the rest, let them rot.” Bending backward from the waist, Fisher looked up at Flintlock. “Sam, get the hell down from there. I want you and the Indian back inside Helrun.”
The scrape with the bandits, more massacre than battle, weighed heavily on Flintlock, as did the killing of the wounded. He was angry, and that made him dangerous. He was by nature a man who could tolerate only so much sass before he snapped.