Kill or Die (13 page)

“When we cut deeper into the swamp how many logs will the launch tow back to here at a time?” Brewster Ritter said.

“I can't give you an exact figure, but I believe between six to seven hundred,” Leander Byng.

“It won't blow up on us, huh?” Ritter said.

Byng looked confused. “I don't understand the question.”

“I mean towing that many logs,” Ritter said. “I mean all of a sudden . . . boom!”

“The launch has a high-quality steam engine that I designed myself,” Byng said. “She will perform as well, if not better, than any of our great ocean liners or warships.”

“How many riflemen can I cram into her while she's towing logs?”

“A dozen at least. All they have to do is find deck space for themselves.”

“Then when Lilly gets back I'll tell him to hire more guns. Damn him, he should be back by now. I guess he's spending more time with that little swamp gal than he intended.”

“Will that be all, Mr. Ritter?” Byng said. “I must get back to work.”

“Get those ripsaws going, Byng,” Ritter said. “We need to buck the logs before we load them onto the freight wagons.”

“I'll need three more days,” the engineer said.

“Don't worry, I'll pile them logs high for you.” Ritter said. “It's funny, I just had a thought. Remember what hide hunters did to the buffalo? Well, that's what I'm gonna do to the cypress.” He scowled. “I made a good joke, Byng. Why didn't you smile?”

“Because the buffalo are all gone,” Byng said.

“That's the whole point. Soon the bald cypress will be all gone as well. Get it?”

Byng nodded. “Yes, yes, a very good joke, Mr. Ritter,” he said.

 

 

“Where the hell is he?” Brewster Ritter said.

Bonifaunt Toohy removed his bowler hat and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Ritter's tent was hot from the day's sun and the smoking oil lamp smelled. “I guess we'd better go look for him.”

“I wonder if he killed that Sam feller. And did he get Cobb's money back?”

“I guess he'll answer that when we see him,” Toohy said.

“Damn, if he's still in the sack with that swamp floozy I'll kill him.”

Toohy smiled. “Seb will take a lot of killing.”

Ritter shook his head in exasperation. “Round up half a dozen men with lanterns and go look for him. Don't go into the swamp. It's too dangerous at night. Just remain on firm ground and call out for him. Understand?”

Toohy lifted the tent flap and glanced outside. “Darkness coming down. I'll get the search party organized.”

“Find him, Bon,” Ritter said. “He's got questions to answer.”

 

 

Lanterns bobbed like fireflies at the edge of the swamp and the voices of rough men were raised, shouting Sebastian Lilly's name. The swamp is never silent at night. Insects chattered, frogs croaked, night birds called and alligators bellowed, but there was no answering yell from Lilly.

After an hour of useless shouting the searchers became hoarse and Bonifaunt Toohy's frustration grew. Where was the man? Was he in bed with a woman as Ritter claimed?

One of the search party, a hired gun named Jed Connolly, said to Toohy, “You don't suppose one of the swampers gunned him?”

Toohy shook his head. “That ain't likely. If Lilly is with a woman he isn't going to move until morning. We're wasting our time out here and I'm getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.” Toohy raised his voice. “All right boys, let's call it quits. Lilly isn't gonna show up tonight.”

One man, a logger, didn't get the message.

He stood in marshy water at the edge of the swamp, his lantern raised high, its yellow light rippling with the current. Then he yelled, “Hey, Toohy, bring more light over here.”

“What do you see?” Toohy said.

“Hell, I don't know, but it could be a body.”

A man laughed in the gloom. “Be careful there, Charlie. If it's an alligator he'll bite you up the ass.”

The man named Charlie said, “That ain't funny.”

Toohy and a couple of men walked to where Charlie was still scanning the edge of the swamp. They both raised their lanterns and after a few moments Toohy said, “It is a body. Looks like ol' Seb caught up with that Flintlock feller.”

“Should we drag it in?” Charlie said.

Jed Connolly said, “Sure. I'd like to count how many bullet holes Seb made in that ranny.”

“Yeah, drag it in,” Toohy said. “There's a dead branch lying there. If it's Flintlock we can identify him by the tattoo on his throat.”

It took several attempts before Charlie managed to hook the corpse's clothing with the willow branch. Helped by a couple of other men he dragged the body to dry ground. Then everybody stood there and gaped and Toohy voiced their thoughts, “It's Seb, by God,” he said. He lowered his lantern and looked closer. “He's been shot.”

“One bullet smack in the middle of his brow,” Charlie said. “I guess he met up with that there Flintlock ranny you're talking about.”

Suddenly Toohy was angry. “Flintlock didn't kill him. Seb was shot at a distance by some swamp rat with a rifle. It's plain to see.”

Connolly shook his head. “Seb was gunned by some lowdown yellow belly who was scared to meet him face-to-face.”

“It's how it shapes up to me,” Toohy said. “Strange that the alligators didn't eat him. I guess ol' Seb was just too tough to chew.”

That drew a laugh and Toohy said, “Let's get him back. We can bury him decent come morning.”

“Bon, you sure Flintlock didn't kill him?” Charlie said.

“No, damn you, he didn't kill him,” Toohy said. “Get the thought out of your head, and that goes for the rest of you. A lowdown swamp rat assassin who shot at a distance killed Seb Lilly. That's the only way it could have happened. There is no other explanation so don't y'all go looking for one. It was nothing to do with Flintlock, who's probably not even in the swamp any longer. You all got that?”

“Anything you say, Bon,” Charlie said. “I was just asking, like.”

“Then don't say it again, to me or anyone else,” Toohy said. “I don't want the man with the tattoo on his throat turning into a boogerman and scaring the hell out of everybody. You hear what I'm saying to you?”

“We get it, Bon,” Charlie said. “Like you say, there ain't no way Seb Lilly was killed by Flintlock. Just no way in hell.”

Toohy stared into the gibbering night of the swamp and his thoughts narrowed his eyes. “That's right, Charlie,” he said. “Just no way in hell.”

Sam Flintlock stepped out of the pirogue and stood with his hand on the butt of his Colt until Evangeline joined him. They both waited until O'Hara tied up the canoe, then all three walked to the door of the Museum of the Swamp and rang the clockwork bell.

Cornelius answered almost immediately, his face registering surprise. “So late? In the dark? But please come inside,” he said.

He led the way through the exhibit room into a small, cozy parlor where a lamp glowed, illuminating the crowded furnishings that were fashionable at the time. A stern portrait of Queen Victoria hung on the wall above the fireplace and under it a scrolled wooden sign that read THE EMPIRE FOREVER.

Cornelius saw Flintlock staring at the somber monarch and said, “I received that from the queen's own hand, a reward for my services to the British Empire. Her generosity far exceeds her taste in gifts.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Flintlock said. “It would make a good pistol target.”

“My dear Sam, if her majesty heard you say that she would not be amused,” Cornelius said.

“What did you do for the old gal's empire?” O'Hara said.

“I introduced her army officers to the joys of the Gatling gun and showed them how efficiently they could mow down vast numbers of naked savages and be back in their tents in time for tea. Of course a few years later the British army acquired the Maxim gun that could slaughter even more naked savages. I'm told the queen was very pleased with it.”

Cornelius smiled and said, “And talking about tea, would anyone care for a cup? I have a pot brewing right now.”

Evangeline asked for tea, as did O'Hara, who'd never tried it before. Flintlock kept to bourbon, but he did accept a slice of seed cake.

After the required amount of polite small talk, Evangeline told Cornelius about Brewster Ritter's assault on the cypress and the need for a meeting of all the swamp people. “We need to come up with ideas on how to fight the menace,” she said.

“I'm against that for two reasons,” Cornelius said. “A gathering of all the swamp people in one place at the same time, and I assume we're talking about here at the museum, might prove to be a tempting target for Ritter and his gunmen. And secondly, as I've said before, the people of this swamp are not fighters. They just want to be left alone to live their lives. I can't ask them to take up arms against expert gunmen. You heard me talk about the Maxim gun and its effect on savages. If we attack Ritter I can assure you that the resulting slaughter of our people will be much the same.”

Flintlock said, “Toss us a lifeline here, Cornelius. You've told us what we can't do, now tell us what we can do.”

“Sam, I suggest you recruit a small force of volunteers from the swamp dwellers, men you can trust, men who will stand their ground. Use the force to hit and run, slow down Ritter's logging any way you can. In the meantime I plan to leave the swamp and telegraph Washington. I still have friends there and perhaps they can do something to stop this madman.”

“How many men?” O'Hara said.

“No more than six,” Cornelius said. “I suggest you start with Mrs. Allie Briscoe's sons. Claude and Isaac are fine young men and they are anxious to avenge their father's death.”

“Can they use a gun?” Flintlock said.

“I believe they regularly shoot squirrels for the pot,” Cornelius said.

Flintlock and O'Hara exchanged glances, each reading in the other man's eyes what was in his own . . . squirrel hunters were not a match for a dozen of Texas's top draw fighters.

Cornelius knew what the two men were thinking. “Sam, you must work with what you can get. Hit and run is the key. Don't stand and fight. Will you take it on?”

“I'll study on it,” Flintlock said.

Both he and Cornelius knew that was no answer at all.

 

 

“Seems like your museum moved a good ten yards since the last time I was here, Cornelius,” Flintlock said as he stepped out the door. “I recollect that the big cypress there was a lot farther away.”

“Eleven yards, two feet and seven inches to be exact,” Cornelius said. “During the last big storm the island moved a quarter of a mile, but that was unusual.”

“When was that?” Flintlock said.

“All of six years ago. We're overdue for another big one.”

O'Hara was positioning himself to assist Evangeline into the pirogue when Flintlock jerked his head and said, “What the hell was that?”

Cornelius raised the lantern he carried. “What happened?”

“Something just flew over my head.”

“An owl perhaps,” Cornelius said. “They can fly very fast.”

But a moment later an arrow thudded into the mooring post where O'Hara stood. Not a man to ponder a situation, he drew as he dropped to the ground and his gun came up fast, pointing into the darkness.

“Evangeline, get back!” Flintlock yelled. He held his Colt ready.

But the woman ignored him. She pulled the derringer from her garter and took a knee beside O'Hara. “Do you see anything?” she said.

O'Hara shook his head. “Only swamp.”

For long moments the four people stared into the darkness. There was no sound but the soft lap of water against the canoe and the chirp of insects. Then Cornelius stepped to the post and pulled the arrow free. He studied it for a while then said, “Flint head fletched with hawk feathers and the shaft marked with five yellow rings. It's an Atakapan arrow.”

“I thought they were all dead,” Flintlock said.

“So did I,” Cornelius said.

“Why did they shoot at us and me half Indian?” O'Hara said.

“The Atakapan were experts with the bow,” Cornelius said. “O'Hara, if they'd wanted to kill you and Flintlock they could have.”

Flintlock said, “Were they trying to warn us off? Telling us to get the hell out of their swamp?”

“Perhaps,” Cornelius said. “Or they were trying to tell us something else.”

“Couldn't they have just sent us a note?” Flintlock said.

Cornelius smiled. “That's not the Indian way.”

Evangeline rose gracefully to her feet. “What were they telling us, Cornelius?”

“Perhaps that we have allies in the fight against Ritter.”

“I think,” Flintlock said, “that they were trying to scare us. Next time they see us they'll aim better.”

Evangeline shoved the derringer back into her garter. “Which of you is right?” she said.

“I guess we'll find out soon enough,” Cornelius said.

“It was the swamp that killed Seb Lilly, Mr. Cobb,” Bonifaunt Toohy said. “Don't let anybody tell you different. We buried him this morning at first light and—”

“Like I give a damn about that,” Mathias Cobb said. “Lilly was a professional and he was paid to take his chances.” The banker struggled from his chair and waddled to the decanters on a wall table. He poured two whiskeys and handed one to Toohy. “It's all getting too close to me, Mr. Toohy. First the bank robbery and now this. I don't like it one bit.”

“When we kill Flintlock we'll get your money back,” Toohy said. “He can't spend it in a swamp.”

“I know, but he can give it away to the swampers.”

“We'll get him soon.”

“How is Brewster Ritter holding up?”

“The cutting has started. He's talking about hauling out six or seven hundred logs each week.”

“And the sawmill?”

“The engineer is setting it up. He says we'll be ready to buck the logs in a few days.”

“How many freight wagons does Ritter have? I know I paid for a lot of them.”

“We'll get the lumber to the Budville train depot, Mr. Cobb. Don't concern yourself about that.”

“The operation has got to run smoothly, like clockwork, you understand?”

“I'll see to it,” Toohy said.

Cobb sat in his chair and stared out the window into the busy morning street. Without turning he said after a few moments, “I'm being blackmailed, or should I say someone is making a clumsy attempt to wring money out of me.”

“Who might that be?” Toohy said.

“Well, first a little background. Please be seated.”

“I'll stand, if that's all right with you,” Toohy said.

“Suit yourself.” Cobb swung his chair around and leaned both elbows on his desk. “Shall we say that a young married lady of my acquaintance gave me certain sexual favors in return for not foreclosing on her mortgage. Now, let us say that after I tired of that dalliance, I foreclosed on her anyway. Money is more important than a woman, is it not? Imagine then that the young lady, while the balance of her mind was disturbed, hanged herself from a rafter in her barn. Are you with me so far, Mr. Toohy?”

“I'm catching your drift.”

“And now we come to the nub, the very essence of the problem. The late young lady's husband owns a one-loop spread down to Anderson Gully way in the swamp country.”

Toohy grinned. “More swamps.”

“Indeed, but beside the point. The man's name is Larry Stothard and instead of grieving for his dead wife as a Christian should, he decided to gouge me for money or he'll expose my relationship with his wife to the whole town.”

As though to steady his nerves, the fat man took a gulp of whiskey and said, “Stothard wants a thousand dollars a month, every month, for as long as I live. You can tell what kind of rogue I'm dealing with.”

“Have you paid him anything yet?” Toohy said.

“No. But I told him I would send out a trusted rider with the first payment. Of course that rider would have been Lilly and he would have taken care of my little problem.”

“And now you want me to do it? Is that it?”

“The thought had occurred to me,” Cobb said.

“My services don't come cheap,” Toohy said.

“Five hundred to get the job done.”

Toohy smiled. “That's just half your monthly payment.”

“It's more than enough. I can hire a thug to do it for fifty dollars, but dear Mrs. Stothard told me her husband was handy with a gun and had killed a man. That makes me think I need a shootist for this job.”

“I'll take the five hundred,” Toohy said. “Gunning your blackmailer will be a pleasant diversion.”

“Don't underestimate Stothard, Mr. Toohy,” Cobb said. “I did and it cost me.”

“I don't underestimate anybody, Mr. Cobb. A man lives longer that way.”

 

 

The Stothard spread lay a couple of miles north of Anderson's Gully in grass and post oak country and the sun was low in the sky as Bonifaunt Toohy drew rein and studied the cabin at a distance.

He grinned to himself. If Mrs. Stothard was as pretty as Cobb said, she sure liked to live rough. The cabin looked as though it was held together with twine and baling wire and the pole corral out front sagged badly, three ponies standing head down, the best of the bunch a palomino mustang that wasn't worth more than fifty dollars. Several longhorns grazed by a narrow creek where a single cottonwood and a few willows grew. The grass around them was thin, overgrazed and muddy. The barn where Mrs. Stothard hanged herself was a ramshackle structure that once had been painted green, but the boards had weathered into a tarnished silver color.

Toohy had seen places as run-down as this one before. It usually meant the man of the house was lazy, sick or a drunk. Which one of those was Larry Stothard?

Toohy adjusted the lie of his holstered Colt, worn high in the way of horsemen, then kneed his horse forward. An earthenware olla hung from the roof of the rickety porch and barn swallows nested in the corners. A vase of flowers withered in the cabin window and the place looked abandoned. Toohy reckoned that Mrs. Stothard had been the only one who held the ranch together.

He drew rein and called out, “Hello the house!”

A minute passed, then another . . .

Toohy was about to dismount and pound on the door when a man's voice from inside yelled, “What the hell do you want?”

“Mathias Cobb sent me,” Toohy said. “I have a payment for you.”

After a while the door creaked open on its rawhide hinges and a man stepped onto the porch. His black hair was tousled, his eyes bloodshot and he slurred his words. He wore a Colt on his hip.

Toohy felt a pang of disappointment. He'd thought to meet a skilled shootist who'd killed his man. Instead a drunk confronted him. Where was the honor in swapping lead with a drunkard?

“It had better be all there,” Stothard said. “I mean, every cent of a thousand dollars.” His eyes got mean. “You didn't steal any of it, did you?”

“No, I didn't,” Toohy said.

“Let me count it. If you're a damned liar I'll shoot you.”

“Look at me,” Toohy said. “I ride a fifteen-hundred-dollar horse, have a fifty-dollar Colt on my belt, a one-of-a-thousand Winchester under my knee and I wear a gold watch and chain. Even a drunk like you should recognize the signs.”

Stothard blinked like an owl and tried to sort out in his foggy brain what the man in the bowler hat was saying to him.

Then it dawned on him.

“Damn him, Cobb sent a draw fighter! You're here to kill me.”

“Crackerjack!” Toohy said, smiling. “You got it.”

Stothard cursed and went for his gun. He died before it cleared leather. The young rancher fell, a bright red rose blossoming in the middle of his forehead.

A black man appeared at the corner of the cabin and Toohy swung his gun on him. Startled, the old timer dropped the wildflowers he carried and threw up his hands. “Don't shoot, mister,” he said. “It's only old Oristide Theriot, who don't mean no harm to anybody, no.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Toohy said, angry with the man for surprising him.

“Suh, I come to put flowers on Miz Rose Stothard's grave. She's buried over yonder on the rise where the oaks grow.”

“Did you work for her?”

“I mended stuff around the cabin she wanted fixed. But she never paid me, no. Fed me good and that was fine by me.” Theriot glanced at the dead man. “Mr. Stothard was not a good man. Beat Miz Stothard. Once upon a time she loved this place, but Mr. Stothard, he threw it all away with his empty whiskey bottles.” His tired brown eyes lifted to Toohy. “And now you done killed him. Well, I cain't say he didn't deserve it, no.”

“Bury him for me,” Toohy said. He holstered his gun and took his wallet from his back pocket. He selected a hundred-dollar bill and held it out to the old man. “Take this. Think of it as Mrs. Stothard paying your back wages.”

Theriot took the money. “That's a kind thought, mister,” he said.

“One thing, don't bury Stothard next to his wife,” Toohy said. “He didn't deserve a woman like that and he ain't fit to lie beside her.”

The old man smiled. “Mister, I cain't make up my mind. Are you a good man or a bad man?”

“I hope one day somebody will tell me the answer to that,” Toohy said.

He swung his horse around and rode away. The old black man stood with his hand raised and watched him until he was out of sight.