A Time for Vultures (24 page)

Once again Sam Flintlock found himself facing General de Peralta in the man's luxurious office. There was no girl on the man's knee. She was replaced by a row of stern-faced officers who flanked his ornate desk chair. His Excellency wore his best uniform, all his French medals, and a scowl.

“Samuel Flintlock, you stand accused of high treason,” de Peralta said. “How do you answer this charge?”

“Where is O'Hara?” Flintlock said. He knew he wasn't going to get out of this alive and dispensed with calling the lowlife, two-bit bandit
Your Excellency
.

“The savage has already been sentenced to death. He will be shot at dawn tomorrow,” the general said. “He knew my heart was hardened toward him and did not beg for clemency.”

“Mister, nor will I,” Flintlock said. “As far as I'm concerned you can go to hell.”

“Then I will meet your defiance with my terrible justice. You will be shot at dawn tomorrow.” De Peralta waved a hand. “Take this wretch away. He smells.”

Flintlock's guards didn't understand that last, but their leader's meaning was obvious. Flintlock was bundled out of the office and to make himself look good in front of the boss, one of the guards kicked him hard in the butt. He knew it would do him little good, but on his way to the cell Flintlock studied the man's face. It had a scar over the left eyebrow, just a few teeth and those rotten, and a nose that had been broken more than once. Not that it would do him much good, but it was a face he'd remember.

* * *

Flintlock was shackled to the wall again. A few minutes later the cell door creaked open and a monk wearing a heavy brown robe was allowed inside. Middle-aged, with a fine, ascetic Spanish face and bright blue eyes, he kneeled beside Flintlock and said in good English, “My name is Father Alfonso Giron. Are you a Catholic, my son?”

Flintlock shook his head. “I'm not anything, padre. I've never been much of a one for churchgoing.”

The priest smiled. “I will say a rosary for you tonight. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. God and me aren't exactly on speaking terms so I need all the help I can get.”

“God will always hear you and speak to you, my son. This is a thing I know.”

A silence stretched between the two men, each seeking common ground, but then the priest said something unexpected. “If you were a Catholic I could hear your confession and give you the Last Rites, but since I am unable to deliver spiritual solace, perhaps I can cater to your physical needs.”

Father Giron reached inside his robe, produced a pewter flask, and smiled. “Brandy, my son, to ease your suffering.”

Flintlock grinned. “I reckon that will do the trick, padre.”

The priest held the flask to Flintlock's mouth and let him drink. After fifteen minutes of this, the flask was drained and Flintlock was feeling no pain.

“Thank you, padre,” he said as the door opened and Father Giron was ordered to leave. “Are all priests like you?”

“I can only speak for myself, my son. I do what God dictates.”

“Thank Him for me, huh?”

Father Giron rose to his feet. “You can thank Him yourself. He'll listen.”

Through the warm glow of the brandy working its amber magic, Flintlock said, “And don't forget to say those prayers for me tonight. I don't want to show yellow at dawn tomorrow.”

Smiling, the priest said, “I don't think a man who wears a great bird on his throat will show cowardice in the face of death.”

“It's a thunderbird,” Flintlock said.

“Yes, I know,” Father Giron said. “And you must never make it angry.” The priest made the sign of the cross over Flintlock and blessed him. “I'll be with you and your companion tomorrow. I hope I can bring you some comfort.”

Flintlock hiccupped. “Padre, I reckon you've already done that.”

* * *

In due time the effects of the brandy wore off and Flintlock faced the lonely darkness of a night that seemed endless. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw the skeleton in the corner grin at him.

“How you doing, feller?” he said. “You look a little peaked, if you don't mind me saying so.”

The skull grinned.

“I'm to be shot come dawn,” Flintlock said. “But I guess it's better than starving to death. Is that what happened to you, huh?”

There was no answer.

Flintlock nodded. “I'm losing my mind. Talking to old Barnabas is bad enough, but trying to start a conversation with a pile of bones is plumb loco.” He rattled his chains. “Well, what do you think? Am I crazy? Ah, you have no opinion on that. I'm supposed to be looking for my ma, you know, but now I guess I'll never find her. Yeah, I'm disappointed all right. Like a bride left at the altar.”

The skeleton showed no interest.

“Ah, well, you're not one for conversation, so I'll leave you alone.”

Flintlock looked at the window high on the wall where the spiders lived. It was still a rectangle of darkness.

My God, would this night never end?

Sam Flintlock had fallen into a fitful sleep and missed the changing of the light. He woke to the slamming open of the cell door and the harsh voices of men tasked with the execution of another human being.

As Flintlock's chains were unlocked, Father Giron stood to one side and read prayers from a small black missal. The priest's face was gray as though he was the one facing the firing squad.

“Thank you for showing, padre,” Flintlock said as he was pushed and pummeled past. “I appreciate it.”

Father Giron nodded and managed a smile.

Despite the early hour, at least a hundred people—soldiers and civilians—had gathered in the plaza. Flintlock had wondered at the reason for the freestanding wall of mud brick built at the edge of an acre of waste ground. Now he knew.

O'Hara was already there, his hands tied behind his back. He had a bruise on his left cheekbone but otherwise seemed unharmed.

Flintlock was dragged to the wall, his hands were tied, and his back was shoved against the rough mud brick.

“Morning, O'Hara,” he said. “How did they treat you?”

“Badly. You?”

“Badly.” Flintlock looked at the sky. “Going to be a hot one today.”

“Seems like,” O'Hara said. “I'm glad. If it was a cold morning, I might shiver and they'd think it was from fear.”

“Him there with the prayer book is Father Giron. He's a right nice feller. Brought me brandy.”

“And me.”

Flintlock nodded. “He's a good man.”

“Seems like,” O'Hara said.

“Not much of a one for talking when you're about to get shot, huh?”

“No. It does wear on a man.”

“Well, stand firm, O'Hara. We'll show this rabble how Americans die.”

“Will they offer us a blindfold? I don't want a blindfold. I want to look those sons of bitches in the eye when they pull the trigger.”

“You can refuse it. I know I will.” Flintlock smiled. “That's the ticket, O'Hara. Look them in the eye.”

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.

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.”