Kill or Die (8 page)

“My ma's not in the swamp,” Sam Flintlock said.

“How do you know that?” Evangeline said.

“He knows,” O'Hara said.

Evangeline's eyes moved from O'Hara to Flintlock. “You two are keeping a secret from me,” she said.

“She's not here,” Flintlock said. “Let it go at that. We talked about calling it quits, me and O'Hara, going after her to the Arizona Territory.”

“What did you decide?” the woman said, her beautiful face betraying no emotion.

“We decided to stick,” O'Hara said.

Flintlock said, “I reckon we're all that stands between the swamp people and Brewster Ritter. Unless there are pistol fighters among them.”

“Only Cornelius, but he's done with that,” Evangeline said. “You were lucky tonight, Sam.”

“Uh-huh. But your pirogue's got a bullet hole in it.”

“I can repair it,” Evangeline said. “Ritter has lost three men, Sam. What does he do next?”

“I wish I knew,” Flintlock said. “The swamp monster is a boat of some kind.”

“Yes. I know that,” Evangeline said. “I hope you've put it out of commission for a long time.”

She wore a long, ankle-length black coat with a hood that lay over the back of her shoulders. Her boots were also black, buttoned up one side.

“You're dressed for going out,” Flintlock said.

“Yes, and I'm already late,” Evangeline said. “I thought you would have the pirogue back earlier.” She held up a silencing hand. “No need to apologize, Sam. It couldn't be helped.”

“Evangeline, it's after midnight,” Flintlock said.

“I know, but Isaac Murren's wife's baby is due and I must be there for the delivery.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Flintlock said.

Evangeline smiled. “Sam, I don't think you'd be much good at birthing a baby. I think I can manage.”

“I'll wait up for you,” Flintlock said.

“I could be gone for hours.”

“I know, but I'll still wait up,” Flintlock said.

 

 

“You're sure sweet on that woman, Sammy,” O'Hara said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You going to do something about it?”

“Nope.”

“How come that?”

A lost, lonely look came into Flintlock's eyes. “Evangeline wouldn't want to share my life, O'Hara. I'm a rough-living man and I keep company with even rougher companions. I step lightly from one side of the law to the other and I sell my gun to the highest bidder, but most of the time I find myself riding the grub line. If times come down real hard on me, I'm inclined to rob a bank or hold up a stage and I never lie awake o' nights regretting either.”

O'Hara said, “I've observed you as I would a wolf who comes too near my camp, Sammy. There's good in you, if a person digs deep enough. You don't abuse women, whores or horses and you're kind to children and old folks. You got sand and you're a first-rate fighting man who lets no one put the crawl on you.” O'Hara smiled. “Of course, you're none too bright, Sammy, and you're no woman's idea of what handsome is.”

“O'Hara, you were doing all right until that last bit, which incidentally was enough to get you shot,” Flintlock said, irritated.

“Well,” O'Hara said, “if it makes you feel any better, Evangeline has a mighty strange taste in men. I mean she's keen on Cornelius, so there's hope for you yet, slight though it may be.”

Flintlock said, “O'Hara, I'm going to pour myself a drink and then sit out on the deck in Evangeline's rocking chair. If you come out before an hour is past I'll shoot you.”

“You're a mighty hard, unfeeling man, Sammy,” O'Hara said.

“Ain't I though,” Flintlock said.

 

 

Evangeline returned at four in the morning, paddling though a mist that lay among the roots of the cypress. Falling strands of Spanish moss garlanded their branches and looked like a widow's tears.

Flintlock helped Evangeline from her pirogue. The woman looked strained, as though the birthing had been difficult. He tried to be cheerful. “Well, so we have a new little swamp person?” he said.

Evangeline turned her head and looked at the mist made opalescent by the lowering moon. “No, we don't,” she said.

Flintlock let the shocked expression on his face ask the question.

“A beautiful baby girl,” Evangeline said. “She was stillborn. It seems that the swamp, once so full of life, is now full of death.”

In that moment Evangeline looked frail, vulnerable and Flintlock, never a demonstrative man, reached out and took her in his arms. Evangeline was as rigid as a board and did not respond. “I'll be all right, Sam,” she said, moving away from him. “I think I'll go inside now.

O'Hara, who had defied Flintlock's dire warning, had stepped onto the deck. He said, “Can I get you anything, Evangeline?”

The woman shook her head. “No, nothing, thank you. Nothing at all.”

Flintlock sat in the rocker and stared at the sky. He was still there when the first rays of dawn set the morning sky on fire.

Brewster Ritter cut the ropes that bound Lem Claxton's feet and wrists and dragged him to the ground. He rolled the dead man onto his back and then ripped his shirt open, the buttons popping one after another.

Ritter stared at the corpse's bloody chest and nodded. “Bonifaunt, bring the other one over here,” he said. Toohy did as he was told and Ritter treated the body as he had Claxton's.

“Look at this,” Ritter said, nudging Claxton with his toe. “What does it tell you?”

“That he was shot twice,” Toohy said.

“Look at the damned bullet holes. You could cover them both with a playing card. And this one”—a kick in the ribs this time—“shot in the center of the chest. He must have been as dead as a rotten stump when he hit the ground.”

“Hired gun?” Toohy said.

“It has to be,” Ritter said. “The damned swamper trash have got together and hired themselves a draw fighter.”

Toohy considered that for a few moments and said, “I heard that Doc Holliday is in Fort Worth. Lafe Croucher is up El Paso way and Vic Moylan was in Crystal City last I heard. Moylan is always looking for work, supports a crippled brother.”

“Hell, it could be anybody,” Ritter said. “Texas is full of guns for hire. Whoever he is, he's here in the swamp and he's good. You heard what happened last night, huh?”

“Yeah, the monster machine shot up and Travis Kershaw burned across the side of his head.”

“An inch to the left and he'd be a dead man,” Ritter said. “The hired gun knows how to shoot and he was in a damned canoe.”

“I'll find him,” Toohy said.

“You'd better,” Ritter said. “Or I'll be looking for a new boy.” Toohy let that go, and Ritter said, “Tell that damned useless engineer I want to see him. Cobb is right, the hell with draining the swamp, let's start cutting trees.”

“We don't have the sawmill built yet, boss,” Toohy said.

“That's why I want to talk to the engineer. We can pile the trunks high until he builds the sawmill and gets the steam saws in operation.”

“I'll find the engineer,” Toohy said.

“And Bonifaunt, I want you to ride over to Budville and tell Mathias Cobb what's happening,” Ritter said. “Tell him to alert the railroad that I'll be delivering sawn lumber within a month.” He read the doubt in Toohy's face and said, “I don't care if the sawmill doesn't have four walls and a roof, I want the saws running and those hundred and fifty idle loggers working. Hell, that's fifty crews. We can have every cypress in the swamp cut down within a year. Tell Cobb that too.”

Toohy nodded. “You got it, boss.”

“Well, don't just stand there, beat it,” Ritter said.

 

 

Bonifaunt Toohy rode past the bank and up the middle of Budville's main street before he looped his horse to the saloon hitching rail and stepped inside. As he knew it would, his presence became known and within a couple of minutes Sebastian Lilly joined him at the bar.

“You got news, Bon?” Lilly said.

“Yeah. It's for Cobb, directly from Ritter.”

“He knows you're here but he won't talk to you.”

“I reckon. That's why I'll tell it to you.”

“Then tell it,” Lilly said. He raised two fingers to the bartender and the man laid shot glasses in front of him and Toohy and poured whiskey to the brims. “Cheers,” Lilly said. He and Toohy downed their drinks and Toohy signaled for two more.

“The swampers have hired themselves a gun,” he said. “He's already killed Lem Claxton and Jim O'Connor and gave Travis Kershaw a headache, came damn near to scattering his brains.”

Lilly stared hard at Toohy. “You can handle him.”

“Sure I can. If I can find him.”

“A gun in a swamp shouldn't be too hard to find.”

“Let's hope so. Another thing, Ritter is planning to start cutting down trees. He's got a hundred and fifty loggers who've been doing nothing but eating his grub, drinking his whiskey and screwing his whores. Now he's finally putting them to work.”

“Is the sawmill finished?”

“Hell, it ain't even started. The steam saws will operate even if they're out in the open, which is likely. Ritter wants Cobb to let the railroad know that he'll be loading sawn lumber within a month.”

“Big talk,” Lilly said.

“I think he'll deliver.”

“What about the swampers?”

“Ritter pays me and another six guns to take care of that problem.”

“You up for killing innocent folks?”

“I don't know. After the Gantly family was shot I started to see things different.”

“Better make up your mind soon, Bon.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You're getting some mighty close attention,” Lilly said.

“I've been watching him in the mirror. You know him?”

“Name's Randy Collis. He claims he's a fast gun, says he killed a man in the New Mexico Territory and another over to Corpus Christi way. Whether that's true or not, he wants to build a rep as a badman.”

“Why doesn't he brace you, Seb?”

“Because he knows I can shade him any day of the week. He's not so sure about you.”

“I don't want any trouble,” Toohy said.

“Seems like you got it. He's coming over this way.”

“You seeing enough, mister?” Collis said.

He was a hard-faced youngster, his hat pushed back on his head. He had arrogant blue eyes, an impertinent smile and from years of experience Toohy could tell he'd killed his man.

Toohy ignored the youngster, unimpressed by the two guns he wore. He turned his back on Collis and ordered a couple of more whiskeys.

“You were watching me in the mirror,” the kid said to the back of Toohy's head. “You some kind of a Mary?”

Usually when a would-be badman was on the prod in a saloon he had an audience. Toohy glanced into the mirror and sure enough, an equally arrogant youngster sat at a table grinning, and hanging on him was a hard-eyed saloon floozy who looked like she was enjoying the show.

Toohy turned. “Boy, go find yourself another pincushion,” he said.

Collis put on an act of being offended. “What did you say, Mary?”

“He said to go away,” Lilly said.

From the table, the other youngster said, “The Mary is scared of you, Randy. He ain't gonna draw down on you.”

“Yeah, you're right, Jake,” Collis said. “He's pissin' his pants.” He pushed Toohy aside then reached around him and lifted his whiskey. “Only real men drink whiskey in this saloon,” Collis said. He drained the glass and threw it hard against a wall, where it shattered. “On your way out pick that up, Mary,” he said. “If you don't I'll come looking for you.”

Collis turned his back and swaggered back to the table, the guns on his hips hanging out from his side, the brass shells in the cartridge belts gleaming. “Hell, let's go get something to eat,” he said to his companions. “Putting the crawl on a man always gives me an appetite.”

“I could eat some eggs,” the floozy said.

“Sure,” Collis said. “But I got to go take a piss first.”

The jingle bobs on his spurs ringing, he walked out the back door to the outhouse.

The bartender gave Toohy a long look, but he ignored it. “You got a billy club stashed away somewhere?” he said.

The man reached under the bar and produced a two-foot chunk of turned wood as thick as a man's wrist. “Teak,” the bartender said.

Toohy nodded and stepped toward the rear door. “Have fun,” Lilly called out after him.

 

 

Randy Collis grinned as he heard Bonifaunt Toohy's footsteps approaching the outhouse. He buttoned up, turned his head and said, “I knew it had to be you, Mary. And now I'm gonna kill you.”

Toohy said nothing as Collis, smiling his anticipation, stepped out of the outhouse and said, “You're wearing a gun like a man. Let's see if you—”

Bringing the club from behind him Toohy swung and the iron-hard teak slammed against the side of Collis's head. The youngster shrieked and staggered back, his left ear a bloody mess. Toohy, all his pent-up rage searing like acid to the surface, went after him. Groggy but still on his feet, Collis went for his guns. But Toohy was faster. He smashed the club into the man's head for second time and Collis's already mangled ear erupted, jetting blood. The kid dropped to his knees and managed to draw with his right hand, but he was slowed by his injuries. Toohy kicked the Colt out of the youngster's hand and then coldly, systematically, he beat Collis to a pulp. His face a scarlet mask of blood and shattered bone, Collis fell on his back and then rolled over, groaning.

“I hate my given name, boy, but I hate the name you give me even worse,” Toohy said. He grabbed Collis by the back of his shirt and dragged him into the saloon where Lilly had pinned the other youngster and the girl in place with his gun.

Toohy dragged the now unconscious Collis and dropped him at his friends' feet. “Take what's left of that outside,” he said.

“Damn you, where are his guns?” the youngster said. He had a crop of pimples on both cheeks.

“In the cesspit,” Toohy said. “When and if he comes to, he can go get them.”

The kid was about to say more, but when he looked into Toohy's eyes he knew that would be a big mistake.

After Collis had been half dragged, half carried outside, Toohy laid the club on the bar. “That needs cleaned,” he said to the bartender. “It's got Randy Collis all over it.”

“Did you need to beat him that bad, mister?” the bartender said.

“No, I didn't,” Toohy said.

“Bon, I'd rather have you as a friend than an enemy,” Lilly said.