A Time for Vultures (23 page)

“I am your father,” General Don Carlos Lopez de Peralta said. “And you are my sons. Welcome to my army.”

Sam Flintlock and O'Hara lifted their wineglasses as O'Hara said, “You do us great honor, General.”

“You may call me Excellency,” de Peralta said. “For it is by that title I am known.”

Outside in the courtyard, women wailed for the dozen dead bandits killed in the action against the buffalo soldiers. At the same time, a fiesta was in full swing as de Peralta's men got drunk and celebrated the capture of the army payroll.

His Excellency's headquarters was located a mile south of the Rio Grande, a former Spanish mission that had seen better times. He had converted the chapel for his living quarters and filled it with looted furniture and rugs. Portraits of long-dead Spanish gentlemen and their dark-eyed ladies hung on the walls.

De Peralta was an imposing figure. He stood well over six feet, and his great belly hung between his legs like a sack of grain. His eyes were black, overhung by heavy eyebrows. His unshaven face was jowly, the skin open-pored and greasy. The front of his uniform tunic was covered in medals, all of them French and none of them earned. A slender, pretty señorita sat on the man's massive lap and twirled his lank black hair around her forefinger, pouting at his lack of attention to her.

De Peralta said, “Flintlock and O'Hara, you are the first of my new recruits. With the Yankee money I can now hire more soldiers and make myself the most powerful man in Chihuahua and perhaps, God willing, all of Mexico after I unseat that popinjay Porfirio Díaz.”

Flintlock exchanged glances with O'Hara. This crazy man was spouting the same nonsense as King Fisher, chasing the same mad dream of power. It seemed to Flintlock that nothing under the sun ever changes.

De Peralta waved a dismissive hand. “Now out you go,
mis soldados,
and enjoy yourselves.” He shrugged. “If you wish, say a prayer for our dead.”

Flintlock and O'Hara rose to their feet. The general was nuzzling the señorita's hair, his hand exploring, and they were already forgotten.

* * *

If Flintlock thought de Peralta was a trusting man that notion was banished quickly when they left the mission and stepped into the plaza. Two of the general's soldiers were waiting for them, rifles over their shoulders. Around them, people were dancing and getting drunk, the clothes of the women a riot of color, a swirling cascade of blue, yellow, and red as ever changing as a kaleidoscope. The rhythm of guitars provided a pulsing counterpoint to the laughter of the señoritas and the drunken roars of the soldiers.

Their two stone-faced shadows following them, Flintlock and O'Hara stepped through the maelstrom of noise and color and found a table away from the crowded plaza and shaded by a tree. They sat, but their guards remained standing. Almost immediately a smiling woman laid a bottle and two earthenware cups between them.

Flintlock grinned at the guards. “Won't you boys join us?” This drew blank looks and he said to O'Hara, “Good. They don't speak English.” He uncorked the bottle and sniffed. “Tequila.” He poured a cup for himself and one for O'Hara. “All right. How the hell do we get away from here?”

O'Hara tried his drink, made a face, and pushed the cup away from him. “We have no guns, no horses, and a couple hardcases guarding us, so I can't come up with a plan right at the moment.”

Flintlock nodded. “Yeah, those two look trigger happy and they're probably sore as hell that they can't join in the fiesta.”

“All the guns they picked up after the fight were thrown into the back of the wagon,” O'Hara said. “I saw your Hawken among them.”

“I set store by that gun,” Flintlock said. His hand strayed to the pocket of his buckskin shirt but he had no makings. “Damn, I need a cigarette.” He turned to the guards and made a smoking motion with his fingers.

Staring at him, the man reached into his shirt and threw tobacco and papers onto the table without saying a word.

“Obliged.” Flintlock built a smoke, inhaled deeply and said, “O'Hara, don't look now but I see the army wagon. It's behind you between two adobe houses.”

“Guards?”

“None that I can see. The general already had the money carried into the mission so there's no need to guard it.”

“Guns?”

“Plenty of those around already. I guess they think there's no need to guard some rifles and pistols.”

“What's your thinking on this, Sam?”

Flintlock drank, watching O'Hara over the rim of his cup. Without taking the cup away from his mouth, he said, “This crowd will be snoring off a drunk tonight. We can grab our guns and then a couple horses.”

“Without being seen?” O'Hara said.

“Look around you,” Flintlock said. “Nobody will be awake come midnight.”

O'Hara's eyes lifted to the guards. “What about them?”

“We can take care of them when the time comes.”

O'Hara was silent and Flintlock said, “Well?”

“It's mighty thin, Sam. A heap of maybes there.”

“No maybes. We can do it just like I said, O'Hara. Trust me on this.”

O'Hara groaned inwardly but said nothing.

A crescent moon climbed high in the sky, and Sam Flintlock's prediction that the fiesta would end in drunken snores had come to pass. The only activity was across the deserted plaza, where torches burned in the darkness and old women prayed for the dead soldiers, their bloody bodies washed and laid out under clean white sheets ready for burial. Couples had sought sweaty beds in the adobe houses surrounding the mission and only a few drunks remained. Propped up against walls, they were snoring.

As new recruits, Flintlock and O'Hara had not been assigned living quarters and were expected to sleep where they could. They stretched out under the striped awning of what looked like a commissary where spices in jars, strings of peppers, and bottles of tequila were for sale. The place was shuttered, as it had been during the fiesta when the general had supplied the food and drink, and there was no owner in sight.

One stroke of luck that pleased Flintlock immensely was that their guard had been reduced to one. He suspected that the other one had deserted his post to grab a bottle and court a señorita. The remaining guard, his broad, peasant face bored and unhappy, squatted beside Flintlock and O'Hara, his rifle across his knees.

A moment later, the missing guard staggered drunkenly across the plaza, gave up the struggle, and stretched out on the table where Flintlock and O'Hara had been sitting earlier. Alarmed, they kept their eyes on him. The man had lost his rifle but carried a revolver at his side in a flapped holster. Once on his back he didn't move and seemed to be unconscious.

His face showing his relief when the bandit lay on the table and snored softly, O'Hara nodded to Flintlock. It was time.

Flintlock clutched his belly and groaned, his boot heels gouging the ground. The guard looked at him but didn't move. Groaning louder, Flintlock acted the part of a man with a bad bellyache, a fine performance he hoped would not go to waste. Finally, the guard took the bait. He stood and looked down at Flintlock .

O'Hara said, “
Él ésta enfermo
,” and then in English, “He is sick.”

The guard seemed perplexed. He took a knee beside Flintlock and stared into his face.

It was happening just as Flintlock hoped it would. He swung a left hook that slammed into the guard's chin. The man didn't make a sound. He toppled over, sprawled in the dirt, and lay still. Flintlock rose to his feet and looked around him, an alarm bell ringing in his head. Had he been seen?

The moonlit plaza remained quiet, the only sound the murmur of the old women praying for the dead. A skinny dog walked out of the gloom, stared at Flintlock for a moment, and then slunk away.

Flintlock tossed the unconscious man's rifle to O'Hara, untied his bandana from around his neck, gagged the bandit, and then used the guard's own belt to bind his wrists behind his back. Flintlock dragged the man into the shadows where O'Hara joined him.

“Sam, we have a rifle,” O'Hara said. “Should we make a play for the horses?”

Flintlock shook his head. “No, I'm not leaving here without the Hawken.”

O'Hara started an urgent whispered protest, but just as urgently Flintlock said, “O'Hara, the Hawken is both wife and child to me. I won't go without it.”

O'Hara's exasperation showed, but his tone was even when he said, “All right. Let's go rescue your kinfolk.”

* * *

The firearms had been thrown haphazardly into the back of the wagon and in the darkness by the dim light of a match it took time for Flintlock to find the Hawken and then his battered Colt. O'Hara's revolver was still in the holster and he picked it out it right away.

Behind the wagon lay vacant ground. Sandy and covered with cactus, it was full of shadows. Clouds brushed across the crescent moon and stars winked out and reappeared as they passed. The horse lines were clear on the other side of the mission. The shortest route was to walk across the plaza and risk being seen. The alternative was to loop wide around, stay to open ground, and come at the horses from behind. Neither held much appeal for Flintlock, especially a long circuit in the dark across unknown terrain.

“How do we play this, Sam?”

Flintlock decided to take their chances on the plaza.

“I'll feel like a man walking to the gallows,” O'Hara said.

“It will be fine. Just walk slow and easy as though we're going nowhere in a hurry. Nobody will even notice us.”

Flintlock and O'Hara's stroll across the plaza was uneventful except for a drunk who staggered toward them, stopped and stared, blinking like an owl, and then moved on. They passed the guttering torches where the old women knelt and reached the horse lines without incident.

It was dark there, the sliver of moon giving little light. A pole corral, set at a distance, held a single horse, a beautiful palomino stud with a flaxen mane and tail. An ornate silver saddle hung on the corral's top pole.

Flintlock's mischievous nature was immediately aroused. His teeth gleamed in the gloom as he grinned and said, “I bet that's his Excellency's hoss and saddle. I'm going to take him.”

“Hell, take what you want, Sam,” O'Hara said. “Just do it quick. We're pushing our luck.”

O'Hara chose a better paint than the one he rightfully owned as Flintlock stepped into the corral and said soothing words to the restive stud.

It seemed that Don Carlos Lopez de Peralta was a careful man, always ready for flight or fight, because a saddle and bridle lay on the ground in front of each horse.

O'Hara quickly saddled the paint and led it to the corral where Flintlock approached the palomino, the silver saddle ready in his hands.

He never made it.

The rattle of a dozen rifles thrown to shoulders stopped Flintlock in his tracks.

The palomino glared at him and pawed the ground as he dropped the saddle and slowly turned. He saw O'Hara with both hands raised as though he was trying to grab handfuls of stars. General de Peralta looked mad enough to bite the head off a hammer. A line of soldiers, all of them sober, had their rifle sights on Flintlock and two others he recognized as his former guards. They groveled at the general's booted feet.

De Peralta raised his voice in an outraged roar. “What is the meaning of this? Why did you attack my men”—he kicked the guard nearest to him—“these pig dogs?”

Flintlock thought quick. “Excellency, we thought we heard voices out in the badlands and planned to investigate. We feared for your life.”

“And you decided to take my personal mount that no one but me is allowed to ride?”

“We didn't know the horse was yours, Excellency,” Flintlock said. “He is indeed a fine animal.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” de Peralta said. “You took guns from the wagon and then tried to steal horses. I ask myself why you did these things. And the answer comes to me that you planned to go to the Americanos and tell them about the money and my whereabouts.”

Flintlock said, “But, Your Excellency—”

The general undid his holster flap and drew his Colt. “No, do not lie to me again. I cannot abide liars.” He gave a loud shriek, “Pig dogs!”

The sobbing, cringing men at de Peralta's feet immediately threw up their hands and begged for mercy. But there was none. The general shot them both, one after the other, a single bullet to the head.

As gun smoke drifted he said to Flintlock, “For your treachery and betrayal you and your companion will suffer the same fate, but at a time of my choosing. I made you my beloved sons, but you threw that gift back in my face. Now I can't bear to look at you.” De Peralta said something in Spanish and two soldiers stepped forward, manacles clanking in their hands.

As the chains were applied to O'Hara's hands and feet he said, “I think it's all up with us, Sam.”

Flintlock shook his head. “No, it's not. I'll think of something. Don't worry.” He looked at the general and said, “Excellency, can I have my Hawken?”

A rifle butt to the back of his head was his only answer.

* * *

Sam Flintlock woke to find himself shackled to the wall in a tiny room with one small window high up the wall. A stone bench was opposite him. He figured it was a bed and that he was in what had been the cell of one of the brother monks who'd manned the mission for Spain. The room was cold and dark and the hard flagstone floor offered no comfort.

As his aching head cleared and his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he realized he was alone except for a shackled skeleton in the corner, still with shreds of rotting flesh attached to its bones. Whether the poor wretch was male or female he didn't know, but it was obvious that the only way out of this prison was death.

His throat was dry and it took some effort, but he managed to throw back his head and shout, “O'Hara!” His voice sounded loud in the confines of the tiny room.

An answering silence mocked him. The old Spanish men had built their missions to last. The brick walls of his cell could be two feet thick and the door was of sturdy oak reinforced with iron. No sound could penetrate such barriers and Flintlock didn't try again.

The thin light glowing in the window told him the dawn had come. He yanked on his chains. They were securely stapled to the walls and locked with a massive iron padlock. There was no escape from this place. He could only hope for a miracle.

“Hoping for a miracle, ain't you, boy?” Old Barnabas sat by the skeleton, his arm around its bony shoulders. “Well you ain't gonna get one. Miracles are for some pale, puny, prattling preacher, not for the likes of you.”

“Leave me alone, Barnabas,” Flintlock said. “I've got a damned headache and you'll make it worse.”

The old mountain man shook the skeleton until it rattled. “You'll end up like this feller here, just skin and bones. You should have killed all them whores and the redskin and took the money while you had the chance. But no, you had to play the saint and you've ended up here. You-know-who says you're such a dunderhead he doesn't think he wants you in hell. He says all you'll do is cause trouble.”

“Well, the feeling is mutual,” Flintlock said. “I don't want to go to hell either.”

Barnabas rose to his feet. “Just for your information, Sam'l, we still don't have that Jack the Ripper feller that all the folks are talking about. Pity. I look forward to meeting him. Well, I got to go.”

“That's it? You're just going to leave me here?”

“Nothing I can do, boy. Helping you would be a good deed and where I come from, we don't do good deeds . . . only bad deeds, if you catch my drift. Say, if you do meet that Ripper feller, though I admit that your present circumstances make it unlikely, give him my regards.”

Barnabas vanished in a cloud of yellow, sulfur-smelling smoke.

* * *

Sam Flintlock measured time by the change of light through the tiny window and the once-a-day visit of two taciturn soldiers who brought him a meal of tortillas, beans, and water and placed an empty slop bucket in a corner. He asked about O'Hara, but his question was greeted with a stony silence.

On the third day—it may have been the fourth, Flintlock was not sure—his chains were unlocked and he was taken from his cell.

“Where are we going?” he asked one of the guards, a gray-haired man with a kind face.

The soldier understood enough English to reply, “His Excellency will consider your treason and pass judgment on you.” He would add nothing more, but his oddly pitying glance convinced Flintlock that his fate had already been decided.