A Time for Vultures by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2016-07-04T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“Hey, everybody, the circus is in town,” Biddy Sales said, speaking from the boardwalk into the saloon.

Charlie Brewster and Flintlock joined her.

“It’s King,” Brewster said. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand, one of the saloon’s five-cent cigars in the other. “He sure don’t look well.”

“Peaked,” Flintlock said. “I’d say that’s why he’s riding the bed wagon.”

King Fisher sat up on the wagon’s seat, the woman with silver hands at the reins. The man’s face was gray and drawn and every now and then he let his chin fall onto his chest as though his head was suddenly too heavy for his shoulders. Wrapped in a gray army blanket, he wore a turban of heavy blue wool and looked like a frail sick old man, a far cry from his vision of himself as master of the world.

O’Hara fixed his gaze fixed on the sickly creature in the wagon, “It’s a time for vultures.”

Brewster stared at him but said nothing.

“What the hell is that monster?” Biddy said.

Startled, Brewster said, “What monster?”

“The steam locomotive thing. It looks like a big iron egg. And there’s a bird on top of it.”

“That’s not a bird. It’s a man,” Flintlock said.

“Why is he dressed like that?” Biddy said.

“Because he’s going to rid this town of smallpox,” Flintlock said. “At least that’s the intention.”

Biddy’s face framed a question, but Flintlock ignored it. “O’Hara, did you reload the Hawken like I told you to?”

“I sure did, Massa,” the Indian said, tugging his forelock.

“Then bring it here. If King Fisher gives me any sass, I’ll blow a hole right through him. I swear I will.”

“Yes, Massa.”

Flintlock shook his head. “O’Hara, tell me again why I haven’t put a bullet in you before now.”

O’Hara didn’t answer, but his hoot of delighted laughter sounded strange coming from a long-haired man who looked like a particularly mean Cheyenne dog soldier.

Attracted by the din of O’Hara’s mirth, King Fisher’s good eye angled to the boardwalk and an eyebrow crawled up his forehead when he saw Flintlock. Despite his apparent frailty, Fisher’s voice was strong as he called out, “Sam Flintlock, we did not part on good terms. That has worried me. Made me uneasy.”

“Your doing, King, not mine,” Flintlock said.

“We will talk again once I rid this town of its pestilence.”

“Looking forward to it, King,” Flintlock said.

He watched Obadiah le Strange approach the wagon. The engineer had removed his bird mask and held it under his robed arm. He and Fisher conferred for several minutes, and then le Strange nodded and walked away and stepped onto the boardwalk. “Good to see you again, Mr. Flintlock.”

“Yeah, you too, le Strange,” Flintlock said.

The greetings from both men lacked in sincerity as they went through the motions for politeness sake.

“King asks that you point out the dwellings where the dead lie,” le Strange said. “He means to quickly bring the pestilence to an end.”

Over the young engineer’s shoulder, Flintlock saw Dr. Sarah Ann Castle step out of Helrun. She and two of Fisher’s nameless gunmen donned voluminous black robes and each held a bird mask under his arm.

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