A Time for Vultures (25 page)

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 deserve 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.”

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.

The girl was on him like a tigress.

As her knife plunged for his throat, Flintlock managed to fight her off. He grabbed her slim right wrist and twisted. She squealed in pain and her knife dropped into the tub, landing between his thighs. Snarling in frustrated rage, her fingernails clawed for his eyes.

He grabbed both her wrists and pulled her into the tub. With remarkable strength she pushed on Flintlock's shoulders, forcing his head under the water. He came up choking and gasping for air and decided he'd had enough. Making the lacy blob of soap on the point of her chin the target of his fist, he clipped her hard, She went limp and fell on top of him.

Flintlock pushed the unconscious señorita off him, scrambled out of the tub, and covered himself with a towel. The girl lay on her back in the water, her red skirt and flurry of white petticoats soaked. Afraid she'd drown, he pulled her out of the tub and laid her on the floor.

He dressed hurriedly and when the girl began to show signs of recovering, he helped her to her feet.

She stood quietly for a few moments, her clothes dripping, luxuriant black hair falling limp and wet over her shoulders. Looking down at her disheveled state, the señorita's pretty face took on an ugly expression and she said, “Pig dog!”

“Honey, is that the only English you know?”

She aimed a slap at his face

He grabbed her wrist, said, “Right. I've taken enough from you for one day,” and shoved her out the bathhouse door. “Next time I see you I'll take a stick to you.”

“Pig dog!” She flounced away, dripping water with every step.

* * *

“What did you want me to do, shoot her?” Flintlock said.

“I guess not,” O'Hara said. “Maybe Colonel McKenzie would have shot her for you. She did try to kill you.”

“She was mad clean through because she thought it was me who killed the general. I can't blame her for wanting to get even for the death of her feller.”

O'Hara looked back at the sandy bush flats. “Well, she isn't following us.”

Flintlock nodded. “That's a good thing.”

An hour later, they crossed the Rio Grande and it felt good to be back on American soil. The sun was high in the sky and cast no shadows on the grassland around them.

O'Hara cleared his throat. “Before we reach the Arizona Territory there's one thing I got to say, Sam.”

“Talk away, O'Hara. I'm listening.”

“Only this . . . if we see any women in distress, we leave them strictly alone and ride on. Do you savvy that?”

“Sure do. I'll leave them strictly alone.” Flintlock grinned. “Until the next time.”

A western hero whose adventures embody the spirit of the American frontier, Smoke Jensen is bestselling author William W. Johnstone's most beloved creation. In his powerful new novel, Johnstone chronicles Smoke's early years. Before he went off in search of his father, long before he became a legend, Kirby Jensen was a young man trying to make a living with the gifts God gave him—courage, cunning, and lightening speed with a gun.

 

Kirby has just earned his first paying job as a deputy U.S. marshal for the Colorado Territory and is sent to Las Animas, where a band of ruthless outlaws have been robbing trains, cattle, banks, and anything else they can get their hands on. Then the real fight begins.

 

When Kirby strikes, he's all in. What happens next will become the stuff of legend, as Kirby braves bullets, blood, and treachery to face down the most dangerous outlaw in the Colorado Territory—and earn a reputation for justice and the rule of law on a lawless frontier.

 

 

 

Coming in October 2016,

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