Kill or Die (18 page)

Flintlock sighed and jumped into the water.

“When we get back to the cabin I'll treat your wound,” Evangeline said.

“No, you won't,” Flintlock said. “I'll get O'Hara to do it.”

Evangeline's smile was dazzling. “Why, Sam, I didn't know you were so shy.”

“Well, I am,” Flintlock said.

Then he disappeared as he stepped into a deep hole and the water closed over his head.

“You mean you're taking over?” Brewster Ritter said.

“No, not at all,” Mathias Cobb said. “I'm here to assist you in any way I can. We must get this operation running smoothly again.”

“I need a steam engineer,” Ritter said.

“And you'll get one, two if you want,” Cobb said. The smell of the fat man's sweat in the close confines of his tent was cloying and Ritter, a fastidious little man, pretended he had a cold and kept a handkerchief to his nose. “We must pull together, Mr. Ritter, and make our venture a profitable one for both of us.”

“You said you spoke to the logger foreman earlier,” Ritter said.

“Yes, I did, and he and the others have accepted my offer of a fifty-dollar bonus every time a logger steps into the swamp. Cutting resumes again tomorrow and it seems that the fates are smiling on us, Mr. Ritter. The weather is perfect, just perfect, for logging. No wind, cool temperatures, we can make great strides in the next few weeks.”

“I lost my engineer, so we still don't have the steam saws set up to buck the cypress logs,” Ritter said.

“Just pile them up, Mr. Ritter. When the engineer gets here the bucking will go very quickly.”

“When will I have the engineer? I need those saws working. We can't pile logs forever. We need to move the rough-sawn timber to Budville.”

“Soon, my dear fellow. Very soon,” Cobb said. “Now, a glass of brandy for you?”

“No. I'll go talk with the loggers and see if their mood is as cooperative as you say it is.”

“Money talks better than you do, Mr. Ritter. But if you must speak with the hired help then go right ahead. No one is stopping you.”

After Ritter left, Cobb turned to Val Rolfe and said, “The man is a spineless fool.”

Rolfe nodded. “He sure wants an engineer to set up his saws.”

“I've already made arrangement for an engineer, a man named Claypoole. He'll be here in a week or two.” Cobb smiled. “Unfortunately, by then Mr. Ritter will be no longer with us.”

“I'll see to that,” Rolfe said, grinning.

“I know you will,” Cobb said. “Now, to more pleasant things. Are all the whores gone or are there still one or two left?”

“I don't know, Mr. Cobb, but I'll find out for you.”

“Good. I'm in the mood for some feminine company tonight.”

 

 

“He thinks he's getting the lion's share of the timber money, but he's not,” Brewster Ritter said. “Once the trees are cut and on flat cars headed north, Mr. Cobb and I will have a little talk.”

Bonifaunt Toohy said, “How do you plan to cut him out of the profits?”

“I don't know quite yet. But I'll come up with something, lay to that.”

“Killing him is always an option,” Toohy said.

“Yes, but it has implications. Whoever takes over the bank will expect a return on his investment.”

“Unless you take it over,” Toohy said.

“How would I do that?”

“You get Cobb to sign over a deed of ownership.”

“He'd never do that.”

“He might be glad to if somebody had a bowie knife to his balls. He loves whores, you know. In fact, young women in general.”

Ritter smiled. “And who will hold the knife?”

“Jonas Neville and Arch Bayes spring to mind, if they haven't pulled out by then. If they have, I'll do it myself.”

“Force him to sign the bank over to me, and after he does . . .”

“He disappears into the swamp.”

“Damn it all, Bon, it just might work,” Ritter said.

“It will work,” Toohy said. “But I'll expect my share of the money.”

“Pull this off and you'll get it,” Ritter said. “I'll make sure you won't lose by it. How would you like to manage a bank? At a very large salary, of course.”

“That would set just fine by me. I'll swap these duds for broadcloth any time.”

“You needn't do the dirty work yourself, Bon,” Ritter said. “Round up Neville and the other feller and see if you can convince them to stay until both the cypress and Mathias Cobb are cut.”

“I didn't see them around today, but I'll find them.”

“Maybe they went into the swamp after Flintlock,” Ritter said.

“Could be. If that's the case they'll be back soon. It will be dark in an hour.”

“Tell them that they don't really have to geld Cobb, just threaten him with it until he signs over the deed.” Ritter smiled. “Of course, if they really want to cut him, then they can go right ahead—but only after he signs on the dotted line.”

 

 

Like a morning fog lifting from a forest trail, Bonifaunt Toohy now began to see his future path more clearly. The way was so simple it was laughable. All he had to do was wait until all the cypress was cut, then arrange a little accident for Ritter. With him out of the way he could deal with Cobb, perhaps with violence, more likely with blackmail. There were a lot of killings he could pin on the fat man and he'd cave to Toohy's demands, especially since he was already under suspicion for ordering the Stothard shooting. Either way a huge chunk of the profits would be Toohy's, a man born to wear broadcloth as ever was.

It was time for dinner, but Toohy was too excited to eat. What he needed was a bottle and a quiet hour to think and refine his plans. As he walked to his tent he was amazed how quiet was the evening and how soft the wind. Good omens, Toohy told himself, surely indicating bigger and better things to come.

Bonifaunt Toohy was a happy man.

A week before Bonifaunt Toohy made his plans, water vapor from the warm Atlantic Ocean condensed into clouds and released its heat into the air. The warm air rose and was absorbed by a vast column of clouds, building them higher and higher. Winds blowing off the African coast moved the clouds around a center, like water circling a drain. The whirling disturbance absorbed more clouds and within a couple of days developed into a cluster of violent thunderstorms. As the storms grew higher and wider the air at the top of the columns became cool and unstable and the clouds spun faster, driven by a wind that quickly reached the speed of a highballing steam locomotive.

When the wind speeds reached seventy-four miles an hour they spawned a tropical cyclone, fifty thousand feet high and a hundred and twenty-five miles across. The trade winds pushed the storm westward into the Gulf of Mexico and like a ravenous beast it readied itself to savage southeast Texas . . .

The indignities heaped on Sam Flintlock's posterior by Evangeline's salves and stinging lotions were too much to bear, and when she finally slapped his butt and told him to pull up his pants Flintlock was in a thoroughly bad mood.

Earlier, Evangeline and O'Hara had buried the bodies of the two dead men on a tree island, a task that took them several hours to complete. Her face spattered with mud, her clothes a mess, when Evangeline returned to the cabin she had O'Hara place her copper bathtub in front of the fire and asked him to fill it with hot swamp water, the cleanest he could find. She then banished the two men to the deck and an hour later, dressed in a long cotton robe, she told Flintlock that it was now time to treat his misery. Despite his many and loud objections, the job was done and now he seethed over his own weakness at being so easily dominated by a woman.

O'Hara was notified, just as soon as Flintlock regained his pants and at least some of his dignity. “Say anything, Injun, and I'll plug you for sure.”

O'Hara shook his head and said with a straight face. “Me? I won't say a word. I don't want you to be the butt of my jokes, Sammy. It would make me feel like a real ass.”

Flintlock scowled and Evangeline suppressed a smile, but the moment passed because their attention was directed at the canoe that parted the dark curtain of the night and came toward them.

The two Atakapan warriors who moored their canoe and then stepped on deck were fine, big fellows wearing deerskin breechcloths and Apache-style leggings to their knees. One carried a bow, the other Flintlock's Winchester. Both their faces were painted for war with vertical stripes of black and white, the red paint of mourning gone.

The older man with the bow came right to the point. “When do we make war again?”

“Coffee?” Evangeline said.

The Indian nodded and Flintlock said, “Tomorrow, during the storm.”

“Fighting in big wind no good.” He made a fluttering motion with his hand. “Arrows get blown away. Men get blown away.”

“It's the only chance we have to save the trees,” Flintlock said.

The Indian stared hard at the thunderbird on Flintlock's throat and said, “Will you fight?”

“I will fight tomorrow,” Flintlock said. “During the storm.”

The Indian shook his head. “You are very foolish.”

“I am not afraid of a big wind. I am a warrior, not an old woman.”

The implied insult hit home, and the Indian stiffened. “You are not wise.”

“Tomorrow is a time to be brave, not wise. We face a mighty enemy and the old women must stay home.”

“Easy there, Sammy,” O'Hara said. “You're overdoing it and you're not making any friends.”

The younger Atakapan said to O'Hara, “You are part Indian and you gave me this fine rifle. Will you be brave tomorrow?”

“I will fight in the whirlwind,” O'Hara said. He pointed at Flintlock's throat. “The thunderbird brings the lightning and stirs the storm. Flintlock has powerful medicine and the winds will blow in our favor.”

“Coffee,” Evangeline said. She passed a cup to both Indians and said, “Will the Atakapan fight in the storm?”

“We will talk about this thing,” the older Indian said. He stepped toward a dark corner of the deck and motioned the younger man to follow.

As though to fill in the silence, Evangeline said, “Sam, are you having any pain?”

“From where?” Flintlock said, suspicion in his tone.

“Not from your derrière—”

“My what?”

“She means your ass, Sammy,” O'Hara said.

Flintlock angled a hard look at O'Hara and said, “My ribs hurt like hell.”

“That is what I was afraid of,” Evangeline said. “Are you sure you want to get into a fight tomorrow? Perhaps you should wait until after the storm.”

“As it is we'll be outnumbered and outgunned,” Flintlock said. “The storm is the only edge we have, attacking while Ritter least expects it.” He glanced at the Indians huddled in the corner. “Of course, right now it all depends on how the Atakapan state their intentions.”

“They'll fight,” Evangeline said.

“How do you know?” Flintlock said.

“I just know.”

“I hope you're right. Those two boys are doing a heap of cussin' and discussin'. They don't consider things like Christian folks.”

But no sooner did the words leave Flintlock's mouth than the Indians stepped out of the shadows and the older one said, “We have talked about the coming battle and this is what I have to say. The Atakapan are few and getting fewer. We already have grieving widows and crying orphans and by tomorrow there will be more when the moon rises after the storm. This, we have talked about.”

“And your decision?” Flintlock said, dreading the answer.

“Ten warriors, young men who have not yet taken a wife, will answer your call,” the Indian said. “They will come here in the morning before the storm. One of them”—he laid his hand on the shoulder of the younger man—“will be my son. You may call him Puma, because he is brave, strong and stealthy in the darkness.”

Flintlock stuck out his hand. “Glad to have you with us, Puma.”

The Indian took it then said, “Until tomorrow. I will call you Thunderbird Man.”

“Sets just fine with me,” Flintlock said.

 

 

“You cried out in your sleep, Sam.”

Evangeline stood beside Flintlock's cot. She wore a shimmering silk nightdress and in the darkness she burned like a candle flame.

Flintlock sat up, his face troubled. “I don't feel right, Evangeline. I think maybe I'm sick.”

“What do you feel, Sam?”

“A kind of sickness in my belly, and I dreamed I couldn't breathe, like I had an anvil on my chest. And then I was running somewhere, running through trees, being chased by . . . I don't know what was chasing me.”

“You're not sick, Sam. You're afraid.”

“Woman, I don't ever get scared.”

“But you are now and you just don't recognize it as fear.”

As though trying to clear his thoughts, Flintlock shook his head and said, “Could that be what it is? Is it why I feel sick to my stomach, like I'm going to throw up?”

“Being scared is nothing to be ashamed of, Sam.”

“Suppose come the dawn I turn yellow and I'm afraid to leave my cot?”

“You won't be, Sam. You'll be scared tomorrow but you will overcome your fear because that's what brave men do.”

Evangeline untied the ribbon at her neck and let the silk gown slide from her body and pool at her feet. As beautiful and graceful as a Greek marble, she took Flintlock's hand and said, “Come, Sam, you will sleep with me. For tonight at least I will take away all your fears.”

Outside on the deck O'Hara pulled his blankets to his chin and stared into the silent darkness of the brooding swamp.