Kill or Die (7 page)

“You got something on your mind, honey?” Dixie Haley said.

Bonifaunt Toohy sat at the end of his cot in his undershirt and pants. He poured black rum into a jigger and knocked it back. “Why would a whore care about anything?” he said.

The afternoon sun had trapped itself within the canvas and the tent was hot. Dixie had undone her lace corset and rolled her black stockings down to her ankles. She still wore her high-heeled ankle boots.

“I care about you, honey,” Dixie said. “The other girls say you slap them around but you never do that to me.”

“Not yet anyway,” Toohy said. Coarse black hair grew over his shoulders and down his back. “So far you've given me no cause.”

Dixie felt a little tremble inside and she said, “Maybe I should go and leave you to your bottle.”

“Man takes only what he needs out of a bottle and then he puts the cork in it. You stay.”

“I'll stay as long as you need me, Bonifaunt.”

“Call me Bon, just that. I hate my goddamn name.” Then, “You slept in Travis Kershaw's tent last night. How do you explain that?”

Dixie hesitated before she answered. “Honey, that was business. It's what I do for money.”

“Don't I give you enough?”

“Sometimes a girl wants more.”

Toohy kneaded the knuckles of his right hand. For Dixie it was a bad sign. The other girls said he did that before he slapped them. She also heard he did it before he killed a man.

Dixie's tremble was back. “For clothes and stuff. Girly stuff,” she said.

“What did you tell him about me?”

“Nothing, honey, honest. Like I said, it was strictly business.”

“You tell him how I feel about Ritter? You tell him I ain't never killed a woman or hurt a child. Did you tell him that?”

“I didn't even know those things, Bonny. I swear. Maybe I should leave. Mr. Ritter will be back soon.”

“He won't be here for a spell yet. It's a ways to Budville. You're a whore, Dixie, with a heart like a rock. Could you put a bullet into a child?”

The woman was horrified. “No. I could never do a thing like that.”

“A little boy and a little girl, scatter their brains with a Colt? Could you do that?”

“No. That's a horrible question to ask. You're scaring me.” Dixie sat up and grabbed the laces of her corset. “I think I should go.”

“I couldn't either. I couldn't kill a child,” Toohy said.

“Then why do you even mention such a thing?” Dixie said.

“Because that's what Ritter wants us to do, kill women and children in the swamp. He says we've got to kill all of them.”

Dixie folded her arms across her naked breasts. “Maybe we should leave, all five of us girls. Get far away from here.”

“You'll stay here. This is where the money is.” Toohy's thin lips twisted into a sneer. “And where would you go? What would you do? Become a two-dollar-a-bang whore at a hog ranch, maybe?”

“And what will you do?” Dixie said, some of her courage returning.

“I don't know,” Toohy said.

“I'll leave with you, Bonny. We can go anywhere together. Texas is a big place.”

Toohy poured himself another drink. “There's ten dollars in my vest pocket, Dixie,” he said. “Take it and then get the hell out of here.”

The woman laced up and took the money from Toohy's vest, then said, “Should I ask Travis?”

“Ask him what?”

“If he can kill women and children.”

“No need to ask him. Kershaw is a low-down, murdering snake. He'll cut any man, woman or child in half with a shotgun for fifty dollars.”

Dixie rolled up her stocking, put her scarlet garters in place and at the tent flap said, “I won't come back here until you're in a better mood.”

“And when will that be?” Toohy said.

“Probably never,” the woman said.

At dawn, a man called Ashe Kent, having no room in his small canoe, towed Zedock Briscoe's body to Evangeline's cabin and Sam Flintlock watched him come.

Flintlock and O'Hara manhandled Zedock onto the deck and Evangeline, wearing only a changing robe, kneeled by the body.

“Can you do anything for him, Miss Evangeline?” Kent said, a tall, lanky man who trapped all over the swamp.

Tears misting her eyes, Evangeline said, “I can't raise the dead, Ashe.”

“He was shot,” Kent said. “He didn't drown.”

Evangeline nodded. “Yes. Yes, I can see that.”

“Where did you find him?” Flintlock said.

“At the edge of the swamp south a ways. I reckon he was shot by someone on the bank.” Kent reached into his pocket and produced an empty cartridge case. “Found this. It's a forty-four-forty and still shiny.”

Flintlock took the case and said, “You see anybody, Ashe?”

The man shook his head. “Nobody. Saw some horse tracks on the banks headed east. I reckon the killer crossed the Sabine into Louisiana already.”

“One of Brewster Ritter's men most likely,” Flintlock said.

“That would be my thinking,” Kent said. “Zedock now, he didn't have any enemies and the only things that feared him were the fish.”

Evangeline was very pale. “Ashe, will you tell Mrs. Briscoe what happened?”

“I sure will, Miss Evangeline, but it's a hell of a thing to do.”

“I know, Ashe, but it has to be done,” Evangeline said. “I'll make Zedock's body decent. Mrs. Briscoe can come here or I'll bring Zedock to her. Tell her that.”

Kent nodded, grim-faced as a hanging judge, and left to do what had to be done.

“I'll wash Zedock's body right here on the dock and wrap him in a sheet,” Evangeline said. “I can't let Mrs. Briscoe see him like this.” She wiped a tear from her cheek and said, “You gentlemen may not want to be here for a while.”

“No, we don't,” Flintlock said. “We'll go scout the bank where Zedock was murdered. Can we take your pirogue?”

Evangeline didn't raise her head. “Of course you can.”

O'Hara removed his strange top hat, kneeled beside the body and placed his hand on Zedock's cold forehead. He bowed his head and closed his eyes and stayed like that for long moments. When he finally rose he said, “The Great Spirit has welcomed him.”

“It could not be otherwise,” Evangeline said.

O'Hara nodded. “That is true, swamp witch. It could not be otherwise.”

 

 

Sam Flintlock stood in the bright morning sun, the new day coming in clean, and chopped his bladed hand to the east. “That's the way he headed, all right. What do you say, Injun?”

“You read sign as well as I do, Sammy,” O'Hara said.

“Then we'll follow the tracks,” Flintlock said. “See where they lead.”

“They'll lead right to Brewster Ritter's camp,” O'Hara said.

“Uh-huh,” Flintlock said. President Grant's Colt was tucked into his waistband.

 

 

The tracks ended at a ruined stage station on the west bank of the Sabine. “He crossed here,” O'Hara said. “Rode down through the willows there and across the shallows.”

“Then the murderer was definitely one of Ritter's men,” Flintlock said.

“That's a fair guess,” O'Hara said. His eyes held on Flintlock for a long time, then he said, “Well, what do we do?”

“What we don't do is walk into Ritter's camp with wet feet and ask him nicely to hand over the murderer of Zedock Briscoe,” Flintlock said. “Man could get himself killed that way. There's a sunny patch by the ruin. I say we sit for a spell. My feet are killing me in these boots.”

They propped their backs against the stage stop's only standing wall, then O'Hara stretched out and tipped his hat over his eyes.

Five minutes went by and as the morning melted into a drowsy afternoon, wicked old Barnabas, his pants rolled up to his knees, stood in the shallows, a fishing pole in his hands. He looked up at Flintlock and said, “I got news for you, Sam.”

“Spill it, you old reprobate,” Flintlock said.

Barnabas yawned. “I made a mistake, boy. Your ma ain't in this swamp. She's in the Arizona Territory waiting tables at a saloon they call The Swamp.” The old man grinned. “See, that's how come the mix-up. You-know-who played a trick on me. He does that all the time.”

“Damn you, Barnabas—”

“I'm already that, Sam.”

“You know the trouble I'm in following the wild goose chase you sent me on? I ought to put a bullet in you.”

“Wouldn't do you any good, boy, on account of how I'm dead already.”

Flintlock jumped to his feet. “What's my ma's name, you evil old coot? And where is she in Arizona?”

“You know I never give out my daughter's name. I refuse to say it.”

“Say it now, you old scoundrel. Say my ma's name.”

“Elsie. It's Elsie. That's the name I give her.”

“Where is she in Arizona?”

“Maybe I'll tell you later.”

“Go to hell, Barnabas,” Flintlock said.

The old mountain man threw away his fishing pole. And vanished. The river water bubbled and steamed where he'd stood.

O'Hara stepped beside Flintlock. “Riders coming,” he said.

“Did you hear that? Did you hear what the old sinner told me?”

O'Hara's face was empty. “Riders coming,” he said.

 

 

The two riders were still a ways off as Flintlock and O'Hara stepped away from the abandoned stage stop and stood at the edge of the swamp. The men could be a couple of Ritter's hired guns, but they might as well be a pair of out-of-work punchers riding the grub line or even circuit preachers come to that.

It was only when they got closer that Flintlock recognized Lem, the Ritter gunman who'd left him to the tender mercies of the alligator. He didn't know the other man but he was a hard-faced feller who was cut from the same cloth as his companion.

When the two were just a few yards away, Flintlock stepped out of cover and said, “Howdy, Lem. You remember me?”

The man drew rein, startled. “You!” he said.

“Cut the throats of any raccoons recently, Lem?” Flintlock said.

“How did—”

“I escape the alligator? It's a long story, Lem, but you don't have long enough to live to hear it.”

Flintlock was conscious of O'Hara on his left. The breed's hand was close to his Colt and he was good with it, a steady gun hand in a pinch.

“Give us the road,” Lem said. “I don't deal with low persons.”

“I do and there's none lower than you, Lem,” Flintlock said.

“You killed Al Plume and I owed you payback,” Lem said. “Now clear the way there.”

Flintlock smiled. “Lem, are you going to talk all day or draw? I have a feeling you're scared, Lem. You're trembling like a hound dog passin' a peach pit.”

The man called Lem roared his anger and went for his gun.

Flintlock shot him out of the saddle with time to spare.

The other man threw up his hands. “Hell, don't shoot. I'm out of it.”

“Do you work for Brewster Ritter?” Flintlock said. Grant's Colt trailed smoke in his hand.

“Yeah I do, but—”

“Then you ain't out of it.” Flintlock fired. Hit hard, the man swayed in the saddle and Flintlock shot him again. This time the gunman pitched to his right and landed with a thud, dead when he hit the ground.

“Ain't one to hold a grudge, are you, Sammy?” O'Hara said.

“A while back, I took to liking raccoons,” Flintlock said.

“Ah, then that explains it,” O'Hara said.

“I hate to pass on two good horses, but we have to send Ritter a message,” Flintlock said. “I want to scare the hell out of him.” He watched O'Hara's face as he said, “Does the Injun half of you know how to scalp a man?”

“Yes, it does,” O'Hara said, his own features revealing nothing.

“Then scalp them two,” Flintlock said.

“You would have made a good Comanche, Sammy,” O'Hara said, pulling his knife.

“Damn right,” Flintlock said.

 

 

Their gory heads dripping blood, the two dead men were tied across their horses with Lem's rope, a relic of his cowboy past. Flintlock and O'Hara led the mounts to the crossing and onto the east side of the Sabine. Flintlock slapped the horses into motion and they trotted away, their stirrups bouncing.

“I'd like to see Ritter's face when he gets a load of them two,” Flintlock said. “He'll know he's in a fight.”

O'Hara said, “Your mother isn't here, Sam.”

“So you heard him?”

“I always hear him. See him from time to time. Now you don't have to stay here. You can walk away from it.”

“Is that what you want to do, O'Hara, walk away from it?”

“No. I'll stick.”

“Me too,” Flintlock

“Then we're fools,” O'Hara said.

Flintlock smiled. “You'll get no argument from me on that score.”

Evangeline stood on her deck in the waning light and watched the lights draw closer. The canoes, lit fore and aft with lanterns, carried two dozen black folk, men, women and children, all of them singing the plaintive Negro spiritual, “I'm Going Up.”

Mrs. Briscoe, a plump, motherly woman with a round face, caught sight of the long white bundle on the deck and wailed, beating her wrists against the sides of her head.

Canoes bumped against the deck and a couple of young men, Zedock's sons, got out and reverently lifted the body. A canoe, fitted out with a lining of white muslin and strewn with swamp blossoms, was pushed closer and the body was laid out inside. Without a glance in Evangeline's direction, the canoes turned and one by one drifted away. The singing grew fainter and then Evangeline was left alone in the silent, gathering dark.

She turned to go back into the cabin but noticed an object shining at the corner of the deck. She picked it up, a small silver cross on a chain. Smiling through her tears, Evangeline fastened the cross around her slender neck and stepped into the cabin.

 

 

Flintlock and O'Hara forgot where they'd left the canoe and it took an hour of searching and cussing in darkness before they found it.

Flintlock was scathing. “I thought Indians always knew where they left stuff,” he said to O'Hara. “The Injun part of you ought to apologize to the white part.”

“And you were raised by mountain men,” O'Hara said. “I bet a mountain man would know where he left his damned canoe.”

“You made me nervous yelling at me to find it and that's why I couldn't find it,” Flintlock said.

“All I said was, ‘Can you remember a tree or any other landmark?' That was hardly yelling, Sammy.”

“Yeah, well, it sounded like yelling,” Flintlock said. “Hey, you don't suppose somebody moved it? Maybe an alligator.”

“Nobody moved it,” O'Hara said, looking over his shoulder as he paddled. “And it wasn't an alligator.”

“How can you say that? How come you're so all-fired certain?”

“Because you tied up the canoe and an alligator can't undo knots.”

“Yeah, well, maybe so, but the whole thing was mighty strange all the same,” Flintlock said. He slowed his paddling. “Listen. What's that?”

“A mighty big alligator bellowing close by,” O'Hara said. “Maybe he's mad because he heard you say he tried to steal the canoe.”

“It sounds loud enough to be Basilisk,” Flintlock said, his hand straying to his gun and his eyes searching the murky, shadowed swamp.

“Hell, paddle faster,” O'Hara said.

“Hell, that's just what I'm doing,” Flintlock said.

“Over there!” O'Hara said, stabbing into darkness with his forefinger.

Flintlock looked . . . and saw . . . eyes.

“It's the swamp monster,” O'Hara said. “And it's coming our way.”

A huge shape loomed less than a hundred yards away across open water, a pair of glowing eyes lighting its way. Flintlock heard the
chunk, chunk, chunk
of its passing and he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.

O'Hara turned his head. “We'll get into the water and let it have the canoe,” he said.

“The hell we will,” Flintlock said. “This pirogue is Evangeline's property. Lose it and she'll turn us into toads for sure.”

“Then come up with an idea, white man,” O'Hara said. “I'm all out of mine.”

A rifle shot slammed through the swamp. A bullet hit a foot in front of the canoe and kicked up a startled exclamation point of water.

“It's trying to kill us,” O'Hara said.

“Swamp monsters don't shoot rifles,” Flintlock said. He'd laid aside his paddle and had his Colt in his hand. “Get us closer,” he said.

“Closer! Are you crazy? It's shooting at us,” O'Hara said. As though to emphasize his point a bullet split the air between them and another made a dull
thunk!
as it hit the side of the canoe.

“Do as I say, O'Hara,” Flintlock said.

“Damn you, Sammy, if you get me killed I'll haunt you for the rest of your life,” O'Hara said.

“Closer,” Flintlock said. “What kind of Indian are you?”

“Right now the scared kind.”

“It's going to be just fine. I'm going to shoot the monster's eyes out.”

“Oh my God!” O'Hara said, but whether it was a prayer or cry of approval Flintlock couldn't tell.

As it was, he got lucky.

Rather than head straight toward the monster O'Hara angled the pirogue to his right away from the probing yellow beams from the monster's eyes and vanished into the gloom.

A man's voice drifted across the water. “Where the hell is the canoe?”

Then another, “Did it get away?”

“No, you sons of bitches, it's right here!” Flintlock yelled.

Sighted fire is impossible in darkness, but Flintlock was schooled in the ways of the draw fighter and the point and shoot. At a distance of twenty yards he scored two hits with five shots . . . and put out both the monster's eyes.

Now angry yells echoed across the water and as Flintlock reloaded, filling all six chambers of the Colt, he heard a difference in the sound as the blinded monster started to back away.

Flintlock yelled to O'Hara, “Paddle!”

“Which way?”

“Damn it, any way so long so as it's not toward the monster.”

O'Hara swung the pirogue to his left and paddled quickly. Flintlock could make out the darker bulk of the monster against the backdrop of the swamp. Aware that he was looking at a steam-powered boat of some kind, Flintlock fired as he went, hammering shot after shot into the churning craft, and was rewarded with a loud cry as somebody took a hit. Finally, his Colt shot dry and feeling nautical, Flintlock said, “Proceed with all possible speed, Mr. O'Hara.”

O'Hara snorted in outrage and said, “You're a madman, Sammy. You should be locked away in an institution someplace. You just ain't right.”

“Put the crawl on them, though, didn't I?”

O'Hara grinned. “You sure did, crazy man.”