Free A Time for Vultures by William W. Johnstone

probably, maybe one about King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Them old boys were forever rescuing maidens from fiery dragons.
    All kind of varmints lived in West Texas, but no dragons, fiery or otherwise, so the noise was being made by something else.
    Well, there was one way to find out. Flintlock stepped into the livery and threw the saddle on his horse.
    â€œGoing somewhere, boy?”
    Flintlock tightened the cinch and said, “Looks like it, don’t it, Barnabas?”
    â€œYou’re an idiot, Sammy. I should’ve left you in the Louisiana swamp with them man-eating Injuns.”
    â€œAs I recall, you didn’t do much to help me get out of there.” Flintlock turned and saw old Barnabas standing in an unoccupied stall.
    He wore a smock and some kind of strange floppy hat. He’d set up an artist’s easel and dabbed at a canvas with the thin paintbrush in his right hand. In the other, he had his thumb through a palette. Even in the dark, Flintlock saw that the predominant colors were scarlet, orange, and black.
    â€œWhat are you doing, you crazy old coot, and what’s that thing on your head?” he said.
    â€œWhat should be obvious, even to you, is that I’m painting a picture,” Barnabas said. “And my chapeau is called a beret. It’s French. You-know-who says that the great Henri Rousseau wore one just like mine. He badly wanted Henri as his guest, him and Vincent van Gogh, but they slipped through his claws. Fingers. I meant, slipped through his fingers .”
    â€œLet me see the picture,” Flintlock said.
    Barnabas shook his gray head. “Boy, this is a painting of the lowest level of hell. One glance would drive you insane, and you’re already crazy enough.” He gathered up his easel, brushes, and paints and said, “When are you heading for the Arizona Territory to hunt for your ma?”
    â€œI’m pulling out of here at first light,” Flintlock said.
    â€œThe kingfisher has other ideas about that,” Barnabas said.
    Suddenly Flintlock was alarmed. “What do you mean?”
    â€œYou’ll find out.” Barnabas slowly dissolved into mist, but his voice remained like an owl hooting in distant darkness. “Barnabas, you raised an idiot.”
    * * *
    The familiar odor of sulfur remained after the old mountain man vanished, but Flintlock dismissed him from his mind. He leaned the Hawken against a wall. The old rifle could reach out, but its blinding flash was not suited for night work. He’d rely on his booted Winchester. He mounted and rode out of the barn.
    In the distance, the mysterious noise still throbbed and he was determined to identify it. If the sound posed any danger, he’d deal with it. Suddenly, an unsettling thought struck him. Does it have anything to do with the kingfisher? Flintlock’s brain told him no, but his gut instinct warned him that the noise had everything to do with the kingfisher.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    Sam Flintlock rode east through a tunnel of darkness, allowing his horse to pick its way. The breeze that had been still all day rose again and rustled among the buffalo grass where the scurrying, squeaking creatures lived. The moon climbed high, spreading a blurred light among the dim stars.
    The noise grew louder, a rumble like far-off thunder . . . or the voice of divine retribution.
    After an hour, he saw lights in the distance. Scattered across the prairie to the north, they were dull red in color like the burned-out cinders of fallen stars. He drew rein and his gaze probed the murk. He nodded, his eyes confirming his suspicion that he was seeing campfires, at least two score of them. Since the Apaches were long gone from that part of Texas, the fires had been built by a much different tribe . . . the lost citizens of Happyville.
    Flintlock’s horse tossed its head, the bit chiming. It pranced a little, eager to get back on the trail, but he held his mount in