A Time for Vultures Read Online Free

blood.
    Finally, the superior strength of the two men prevailed and they fought off the women. Flintlock managed to stagger to his feet. Like four harpies at bay, the ladies formed a line in front of his horse and dared him to mount. By then, Morgan Davis was long gone and Flintlock didn’t make the attempt.
    Battered and bruised, he was irritated beyond measure. He stooped, picked up the fallen Colt, and said, “I’ve never shot a woman before, but there’s a first time for everything.”
    â€œYes,” Biddy said, “gun us down like you did Poke. Then see if the Rangers don’t catch up with you and hang you from the nearest tree. There’s a law in Texas against killing helpless women, you know.”
    O’Hara wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand. “She has a point, Sam. Maybe now is not such a good time to gun them.”
    Flintlock grimaced. “Thanks for the advice, O’Hara.”
    The breed shook his head. “But I have to hand it to you, Sam. You sure got a way with women.”
    Biddy spat and said, “He plans to shoot us all right, Injun. He’s a born killer if ever I seen one. You heard my name, but I’ll tell you anyway. I’m Biddy Sales.” She placed her hand on the shoulder of the plump young blonde next to her. “This here is Lizzie Doulan, as innocent a flower as ever lived. Maybe you’d like to shoot her first, Flintlock.” She moved to the next woman, a hard-eyed redhead. “Meet Jane Feehan, but let her say her prayers before you gun her. And this is Margie Tott.” Biddy laid her hands on the shoulders of a petite, hazel-eyed brunette. “She sends every penny she earns to her poor old mother in the Emerald Isle.”
    Biddy then stepped in front of Flintlock, belligerent and brassy. Her head tilted back and a great deal of firm cleavage showed above her corset as she said, “All right, we’re ready. Open fire with your murderous revolver and be damned to ye! Let me be the first one to die.”
    O’Hara said, a hint of a smile on his lips, “Seems like you’ve got a decision to make, Sam.”
    â€œDamn it, O’Hara. Keep your opinion to yourself.” Flintlock waved his Colt. “Right, you gals into the wagon. Now!”
    Biddy again put her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing. “Make us.”
    â€œI won’t tell you again,” Flintlock said. The thought that he was entering into yet another losing battle was starting to nag at him.
    She stood her ground. “And I said ‘make us.’”
    â€œYeah, make us,” Lizzie Doulan said.
    All four took up the chorus, flouncing their skirts. “Make us! Make us! Make us!”
    At a loss, Flintlock stood helplessly, his useless Colt hanging by his side.
    Suddenly, the breed let out a loud, piercing shriek that abruptly stopped the female cries. He had Flintlock’s Barlow knife in his right fist, the blade open, and he launched into an unrestrained tribal dance, his voice raised in a wild chant. “ Yi-hi-hi-hi-hi . . . yi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi . . .”
    Saved by O’Hara, Flintlock caught on quickly. “Oh my God!”
    Biddy was alarmed. “What’s the hell is he doing?”
    â€œO’Hara is half Mescalero Apache,” Flintlock said, suitable awe in his voice. “That’s his scalp dance.”
    Lizzie Doulan said, “Whose scalp does he want?”
    â€œYours,” Flintlock said. “And Biddy’s and everybody’s.”
    O’Hara’s dance pace increased and his chanting rose in volume as he waved the knife above his head. His face, bloodstained from his swollen nose, bore an expression of unrestrained fury.
    The four ladies were bold, but not all that brave. Screeching, they beat a hasty retreat to the wagon and piled inside. Then came a loud snick! as the door bolt slammed into place.
    Flintlock grinned. “All right, O’Hara,