A Time for Vultures Read Online Free Page A

you can stop playacting now.”
    The breed stopped, waved the knife in Flintlock’s face, and said, “Who was playacting, white man?”

CHAPTER FIVE
    While the woman were locked inside the wagon, Flintlock dragged away Poke Murray’s body and laid it in the brush beside the bushwhacker he’d killed in the first exchange of fire. The Hawken’s .50 caliber ball had blown a fist-sized hole in the man’s chest and Flintlock figured he’d died instantly.
    â€œAdmiring your handiwork, Sammy?”
    Flintlock followed the sound of the voice and saw wicked old Barnabas, the old mountain man who’d raised him from a child, perched among the topmost branches of a wild oak.
    â€œThis is an unpleasant surprise. I thought I was finally rid of you,” Flintlock said.”
    â€œBoy, you won’t get shot of me until you find your ma in the Arizony Territory and she tells you your rightful name,” Barnabas said. “I know you’re an idiot, Sam, but try to wrap your mind around this fact. You can’t spend the rest of your life called fer a rifle.”
    â€œI’ll find her. Don’t you worry about that,” Flintlock said, irritated. He pointed to an object in the old man’s hand. “What the hell is that thing you’re holding?”
    Barnabas held up the object that glinted in the sun. “This is an old-timey helmet, boy. See, you put it on your head like this.” He lowered the helmet onto his head. His voice sounding hollow, he added, “Then you lift the visor.” It was shaped like the bow of an iron steamship. He raised it and said, “There, now I can see you just fine.”
    â€œWhat are you doing with that thing?” Flintlock said.
    â€œPolishing it up for a feller.”
    â€œWhat feller?”
    â€œNot that it’s any of your business, Sammy, but I’ll tell you anyway. This here hat belongs to Baron Boris Von Baggenheim. Back, oh, four hundred years ago, ol’ Boris made a career of galloping around the countryside slaughtering peasants and dragging maidens back to his castle to have his way with them.” Barnabas sighed. “Boris sure misses them good old days.”
    â€œAnd that’s why he’s in hell?” Flintlock said.
    Barnabas said, “Yeah, that and something to do with burning some holy man or other. But what you say is true, boy.” He nodded and the helmet visor clanged shut. He opened it again. “Boris’s corner of hell is reserved for them as You-know-who calls naughty noblemen, including that little puke the Marquis de Sade. Spends all his time talking about his female conquests, like anybody cares.” Barnabas lifted the helmet off his head. “Damn, this thing is heavy and hot. Of course, in hell it’s red hot, but Boris doesn’t seem to mind.”
    â€œBarnabas, why are you here?” Flintlock said.
    The old mountain man looked over his shoulder and then his voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “You-know-who has advice for you about them uppity females. He says you should tip the wagon over again and then set it on fire. Burn them four harridans alive and you’ll be rid of them.”
    â€œYeah, that’s the kind of advice he would give. Tell him it’s not going to happen.”
    Barnabas polished the helmet with his buckskin sleeve. “Well, Sam’l, he’s smart and you’re a dunderhead, but suit yourself. Now I got to go. Hey, you ever hear of a bird they call a kingfisher?”
    â€œCan’t say as I have,” Flintlock said.
    â€œYou will,” Barnabas said.
    He vanished in a puff of smoke that smelled of brimstone. Only the sound of his cackle lingered and then it too was gone.

CHAPTER SIX
    â€œThe women are still in the wagon,” O’Hara said. “What took you so long?”
    â€œBarnabas,” Flintlock said.
    â€œWhat did he want?”
    â€œTo tell me to burn the women