Kill or Die (9 page)

Sam Flintlock spent the next two days and nights in the swamp on an island of dry land where the vanished Indians, perhaps hundreds of years before, had erected a totem as tall as a man, carved with fish and water birds, its top crowned with a yellowed human skull.

Flintlock neither ate nor drank. He sat with his back against the totem, his head bowed in thought, unmoving as a carved rock. The alligators avoided the place as though remembering that they'd once been hunted there and the long-legged marsh birds searched for frogs among the hyacinths and kept their distance.

By the morning of the third day Flintlock felt weak. He was thirsty and had a pounding headache. The sun slanting through the tall columns of the cypress made the swamp look like the nave of a Gothic cathedral and the morning mist drifted like incense from a censer.

Old Barnabas sat opposite Flintlock and opened the huge book he carried; a foot thick bound with leather and studded iron. The old mountain man wore his usual buckskins, but the top hat with the goggles on the crown remained.

“Ah, here it is, on page nine hundred and sixteen,” Barnabas said. “I figured he would be entered in the Book of the Damned.”

“Go away, Barnabas,” Flintlock said. “I don't want to talk to you.”

“Don't you want to know who he was?”

“Who?” Flintlock said.

“The feller at the top of the totem pole.”

“No. I don't want to know.”

“His name was Don Pedro de Castillo, a noble Spanish knight noted for his great cruelty toward the native Indians. I'm reading now, ‘Don Pedro, puffed up with pride and in black armor, marched into the swamp in search of gold with a hundred harque-busiers and two hundred pike men. He and his soldiers perished in the swamp and Don Pedro was killed by a flint arrowhead that entered his throat just above his gorget. He was summarily dragged away and placed in that level of Hell reserved for the cruel and prideful.'”

Barnabas closed the book. “That's who you've spent the past two nights with, Sam. Why?”

“I needed time to think,” Flintlock said.

“Think? You? Think about what?”

“About something I have to do.”

“Don't tell me if you don't want to.”

“Good, because I don't want to.”

Barnabas rose to his feet, the huge tome under his arm. “All right, I'm going now.” He hesitated then said, “You planning to get yourself into trouble, boy?”

“I'm going to dig myself a deep hole, Barnabas,” Flintlock said.

“Yup, now there's no doubt about it,” the old man said. “I raised me up an idiot.”

 

 

O'Hara, no longer surprised by the weirdness of white men in general and Sam Flintlock in particular, ran his canoe onto the bank of the island. “Waiting for me, I see,” he said. “Have you reached a decision?”

“Yeah, I have,” Flintlock said. “I'll need your horse.”

“Talk to the Apache,” O'Hara said. “Do you want I should go with you?”

“No. I'll do this alone.”

“Is it a killing?”

“Not a killing. At least not yet. How is Evangeline?”

“Worried about you. We're both worried about you.”

“I'm acting real strange, huh?” Flintlock said.

“Seems like.”

“It will get stranger.”

“You look like hell.”

“I feel like hell.”

“Then eat and drink first,” O'Hara said. He looked at the skull on top of the totem and said, “Friend of yours?”

“Spanish gent. He walked into the wrong swamp.”

“We know all about that, huh, Sammy?”

“Damn right,” Flintlock said. “Where's the grub?”

“Right here.” O'Hara opened a paper sack and passed it to Flintlock. “Fried fish and cornbread. Evangeline packed it herself. Oh, and a canteen of water.”

“Let me have the water,” Flintlock said. “Is that all Evangeline ever eats, fish and cornbread?”

“I don't know, Sam. I've never seen her eat anything.”

“Now I come to think on it neither have I. Maybe witches don't eat.”

Flintlock swallowed a pint of water, ate the fish and cornbread and then said, “I'm ready. Take me out of the swamp and I'll go visit the Apache. He ain't wild, is he?”

“Tame. Or as tame as an Apache ever gets. I still think I should go with you, Sammy. Remember I told you that you're an easy man to kill? Well, I haven't changed my mind about that.”

“I have to go this alone,” Flintlock said. “Now get me out of this damned swamp.”

It was a long walk to the Apache's place. For a man wearing riding boots made on a narrow Texas last it was a torment and when Flintlock reached the Indian's hogan he was hot, tired, thirsty and irritable as hell.

Like O'Hara, the old Jicarilla was sensitive to the moods of white men and he made no argument about giving up the horse. He even fed Flintlock cornbread and coffee, for which he was grateful, even though he was getting mighty tired of corn.

O'Hara sat a McClellan saddle that was designed to favor the horse, not the rider, and by the time Flintlock reached Budville he was glad to dismount and let blood rush back to his aching rear. He stepped into the saloon and ordered a whiskey, steeling himself for what was to come. It was still early in the day and when Flintlock glanced around him he saw only a few patrons, none of whom looked the type to be on the prod, eager to cut another man down to size.

“Quiet,” Flintlock said to the bartender.

“Early yet,” the man said. He looked over the tattoo on Flintlock's throat, the buckskin shirt turned almost black by sweat and hard use, the expensive, fancy Colt in his waistband and summed him up as some kind of a hard case. “You should have been here yesterday, stranger. One of Brewster Ritter's guns—you heard of Brewster Ritter?” At Flintlock's nod he said, “Well, he had it out with a kid by the name of Randy Collis.”

“Shooting scrape?” Flintlock said.

“Nah. That's what the kid wanted, but the Ritter man went after him with this”—he held up the billy club—“and damn near killed him. Now the Collis kid is over to Doc Lighter's office and ain't likely to survive. If he does live, he'll sure regret it. Ain't much of his brains left.”

“What name does the Ritter gun go by? Sounds like a good man to avoid,” Flintlock said.

“I don't rightly know,” the bartender said. “John or Bon, something like that. Wears a bowler hat with a big pair of spectacle things on the brim, kinda unusual around these parts. Another whiskey?”

“No. I got to be moving on, open an account at the bank.”

The bartender grinned. “If Mathias Cobb shakes hands with you, count your fingers afterward. He's a money shark is ol' Mathias. Got an eye for the ladies, too.”

Flintlock drained his glass, touched his hat to the bartender and said, “Obliged.” He stepped out of the cool darkness of the saloon into the bright sunlight of noon.

Flintlock gathered up the reins of the paint then stood for a few moments looking around him. As he'd hoped, the noon hour heat had driven people inside and the street was empty. One hardy old lady, a shopping basket over her arm, stepped into the general store and a little calico cat lazed in the sun on her back, her tiny white paws in the air.

It was time.

Flintlock led his horse to the Cattleman's Bank and Trust and left it at the hitching rail. He stood for a spell to let his hammering heart slow and then stepped inside. There was only one teller, a young man wearing a blue eyeshade. “Can I help you, sir?” he said. There was a noticeable hesitation between
you
and
sir.
Flintlock's appearance did little to instill confidence in bank tellers.

“Yeah, I'd like to open an account, but since my deposit is quite large I'd like to talk to Mr. Cobb,” Flintlock said.

“You have dealt with the Cattleman's Bank and Trust before?”

“Yeah, a couple of years back.”

The teller brightened. “I'll ask Mr. Cobb if he can see you now. Your name, sir?” There was no hesitation this time.

“My name is Gunwood H. Hempel. Mr. Cobb will remember me.”

The clerk returned with a beaming Cobb in tow. The banker was resplendent in gray broadcloth, a pink cravat bunched at his throat, held in place by a pearl the size of a robin's egg. He held out a pudgy hand. “Of course I remember you, dear sir,” Cobb said. “How could I ever forget such a large depositor? You've returned to the right place for honesty and integrity, Mr. Hempel. As my lady wife always says, Mathias Cobb by name, Mathias Cobb by nature. Now, what can I do for you?”

Flintlock pulled his gun and stuck it into Cobb's face. “You can tell your teller to grab all the money he can and shove it in a sack.”

“This is an outrage,” Cobb said, his jaws purpling.

“Do as I say, fat man, or I'll blow your brains out,” Flintlock said. “The choice is yours.”

“You won't get away with this,” Cobb said. “I have friends in this town.”

Flintlock thumbed back the hammer of his Colt. “I won't tell you again. I've got friends in the swamp.” He swung the gun on the now thoroughly frightened teller. “You! Fill a sack. Now!”

The teller didn't need to be told twice. He opened drawers and began to stuff bills and coin into a money sack.

“Put plenty in there,” Flintlock said. “This money is going to the families of the swamp dwellers that your boss helped murder.”

“I didn't murder anyone,” Cobb said. His face had drained and he looked as pale as a fish's belly. “How dare you say—”

“You pay the man who does the killing,” Flintlock said. “Fat man, you're just as guilty of murder as Brewster Ritter.”

“How did you know—” Cobb stopped himself. He was sweating like a pig.

“Everybody knows, Cobb. Did you think you keep a thing like this a secret? You want a cut of the money Ritter will get for the cypress trees and you'll stop at nothing to get it, including murder.”

Flintlock glanced at the bulging money sack. “Right, that's enough.” He grabbed the bag from the teller's hands. “Cobb,” he said, “if another person is murdered in the swamp, I'm not going after Ritter, I'm coming straight for you.”

“You'll regret this, Hempel,” Cobb said. “I'll have you hunted down and shot like the thieving dog you are.”

Flintlock held up the sack. “The swamp people thank you for this, Cobb,” he said. “You've been most generous.”

He stepped to the door, walked without hurry outside and swung into the saddle. There was no one in the street but a tall man walking on the boardwalk eating a sandwich. The man looked at Flintlock and stopped chewing for a moment. Flintlock waved and kneed his horse into a fast canter. He cleared the limits of town as Cobb waddled out of the bank and yelled, “Lilly, stop him!”

Sebastian Lilly tossed his sandwich away, drew and fired.

Two rounds sang past within inches of Flintlock's head. He grimaced. Damn, that was good shooting from a revolver. But as the galloping paint put more git between him and the town, Lilly's remaining shots went wild.

Flintlock was now in the clear and he held close to the southern edge of the piney woods, keeping the paint to a steady lope. It would take a posse time to saddle horses and mount up and by then he would be long gone.

But now the question he asked himself was: Would his plan work?

The day was far along when Sam Flintlock rode up to the Apache's hogan. O'Hara was already there, broiling a swamp rabbit on a stick above a hatful of fire, as was the Indian way.

O'Hara glanced at the money sack but said nothing. Then, “The Apache has coffee, get yourself some then come share the rabbit. It will make a change from fish and cornbread.”

“I should have known you'd be here, O'Hara,” Flintlock said. He tossed the bag at the breed's feet. “Guard that.”

“With my life,” O'Hara said.

“With your gun is enough.”

Flintlock asked the Apache for permission to enter his home, and when this was granted he stopped and walked inside. When he came out again he held a sooty tin cup and a chunk of cornbread.

“I just can't get away from the stuff,” he said as he sat opposite O'Hara.

“What's in the sack?” O'Hara said.

“Money, as though you didn't know.”

“How did you get it?”

“Robbed a bank.”

“Cobb's bank?”

“Damn right.”

“I would have loaned you some money,” O'Hara said.

“I don't want your money. I wanted Cobb's money.”

“You kill anybody getting it?”

“No, a feller took a couple of pots at me, but he missed.”

O'Hara twisted off a piece of the rabbit and tossed the meat to Flintlock. “Enjoy,” he said.

Flintlock chewed for a while then said, “You make good rabbit, Injun.” O'Hara's only reply was a grunt and Flintlock said, “Well, ain't you going to ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

“Why I robbed the bank.”

“I figured you'd come up on it eventually.”

“To draw Mathias Cobb out of his rat hole,” Flintlock said. “We suspected that Cobb was the moneyman behind Ritter, but couldn't prove it, right?”

“Go on, Sammy.”

“Well, I told him I was taking the money for the swamp people and he looked real surprised. He got even more surprised when I told him that everyone knows he bankrolls Ritter and that makes him just as guilty of murder as he is.”

O'Hara had emptied the contents of the money bag onto the ground and now as he counted them he tossed bills back into the sack. “What do you hope Cobb will do?” he said.

“For starters I hope he'll panic, maybe even tell Ritter to close down the whole operation. That would take the pressure off Evangeline and the other swamp people.”

“Suppose he doesn't panic?”

“He'll do something stupid,” Flintlock said, but there was a hint of doubt in his eyes.

“Ten thousand dollars give or take, Sammy. You got a bad ten-dollar bill in there, looks like somebody drew it by hand.”

“Damn that teller. I bet he knew it was a forged bill. I can't abide dishonesty in people.”

“Well, you can gun him later, make you feel better. Ten thousand is a lot of money, Sam. Cobb might come after it. Does he know your name?”

“I told him my name was Gunwood Hempel,” Flintlock said.

“How did you come up with a handle like that? Gunwood . . . what kind of given name is that for a white man?”

Flintlock said, “It just popped into my head. Suppose Cobb doesn't panic? Now you got me worried.”

“What are you going to do with the money?”

“Give it back eventually. It's not Cobb's money, it belongs to the ordinary folks who deposited it in his bank.”

“Eat some more rabbit,” O'Hara said.

The two men sat in silence for a while, eating, then O'Hara said, “We can't guess what Cobb will do, Sammy. It's up to him to make the next move.”

“I hope it's to tell Ritter to close up shop and leave the swamp alone,” Flintlock said.

“Yeah, that would be the ideal outcome,” O'Hara said. “But I don't think it's going to happen, Sammy. You robbed his bank but Cobb isn't afraid of you. He's too rich, too powerful and too well connected to let a nobody like you scare him. There's a pile of money to be made from the cypress and he knows it. Sorry, Sam, but that's how things stack up in this world.”

“Then me robbing the bank was all for nothing?” Flintlock said, his face glum.

“I don't know, Sam,” O'Hara said. “I honestly don't know.”

 

 

Flintlock sat in the back of O'Hara's canoe as they made their way in moonlight to Evangeline's cabin, the money sack lying between them. As they passed night birds rose out of the cypress and willows and on the banks sleeping alligators looked like sculptures of green jade.

Evangeline was on the deck outside the cabin and with her was another woman, old, bent and white-haired.

Flintlock jumped onto the deck while O'Hara secured the canoe.

“Sam, there's fish and cornbread if you want some,” Evangeline said. She glanced at the money sack in his hand but said nothing.

“No thanks, I already ate,” Flintlock said. “But I could sure use a drink.”

“You know where the whiskey is,” Evangeline said. She wore a buckled corset and a straight black skirt, a narrow silver chain around her hips. “Oh, allow me to introduce my distinguished guest. This is Lady Carlisle. She came here from England fifty years ago and has lived in the swamp ever since. Lady Carlisle, this is Mr. Sam Flintlock and over there is his friend Mr. O'Hara.”

“Delighted to meet you both,” Lady Carlisle said. “One grows lonely in the swamp, especially since Lord Carlisle passed away.”

The old woman wore lace gloves, a dress of fine yellow silk and a wide-brimmed hat adorned with ostrich feathers. A large emerald ring glowed on the wedding finger of her left hand.

“Has Evangeline told you about the Blue Fox, Mr. Flintlock?” she said. “I ask this only because you seem like a gentleman well used to feats of derring-do.”

“No, Lady Carlisle, I haven't told him,” Evangeline said. “As you may know, Mr. Flintlock has been busy with other things.” Her eyes dropped to the sack again. She seemed worried.

“Ah, I believe you are talking about that awful Mr. Ritter who wants to cut down every cypress, willow and gum tree in the swamp. I wrote to Queen Victoria and demanded she dispatch a regiment of the Grenadier Guards to the southeast Texas swamp forthwith if not instanter.”

O'Hara, interested, said, “Did she answer?”

“Yes. Her reply took six weeks to get here by devious routes and she said no.”

“That was it, just no?” O'Hara said.

“Yes, Mr. O'Hara. One word in the middle of a sheet of very expensive paper with the royal coat of arms at the top. That one word was
NO.
” Lady Carlisle drew herself up to her full lanky height, which was considerable. “Damned impudence if you ask me,” she said.

Flintlock had taken advantage of the old woman's talk with O'Hara to get himself a drink. He returned with a glass of Old Crow in his hand just as Lady Carlisle said, “Now, what was I talking about?”

Evangeline smiled and said, “The Blue Fox and Mr. Flintlock's feats of derring-do. Please sit down, Lady Carlisle. Do you prefer to sit inside?”

“No. The rocking chair will do nicely. I do love to see the moonlight shine among the cypress.” The old lady sat and said, “Evangeline, I'll have what Mr. Flintlock is drinking. Unless you have a nip of gin available?”

“Yes, I believe I have, made right here in the swamp,” Evangeline said.

“Excellent, my dear,” Lady Carlisle said. Then, “Little nips of whiskey, little drops of gin, make an English lady forget where she's bin.” The old woman's laugh sounded like the whinny of a horse, a Thoroughbred to be sure, but still a horse.

When Evangeline returned with the gin, Lady Carlisle took a sip, nodded her approval, then said, “Now, where were we? Ah yes, I was talking about the Battle of New Orleans in 1815, and the less said about it the better. But what of the treasure? Tens of thousands of pounds in gold coin intended to pay British troops and their Indian allies disappeared after the battle. And who took it? You may ask.”

“Vera ‘The Blue Fox' Scobey,” Evangeline said. “She was the first of the swamp witches.”

“Swamp witch my eye,” Lady Carlisle said. “The Blue Fox was a pirate rogue, a close friend of that other sea robber Jean Lafitte. I say close friend because I'm in polite company. I leave it to you to decide what kind of friend she was. She dressed like a whore in blue corset, blue tights and blue leather boots to her knees and if the truth is to be told what she wore underneath, and there was little enough of that, was blue.”

O'Hara, always interested in stories of treasure, said, “And the lady stole the British gold, huh, Lady Carlisle?”

“Yes, she did, young man, and she carried it here to the swamp with three of her buccaneers and buried it. The Blue Fox was an excellent swordswoman and she killed her men and left them to guard the treasure. Lord Carlisle, who searched for the treasure for forty-seven years until the day he died of snakebite, said he saw the ghosts of three pirates in the swamp. But I never saw them. It was Vera's intention to come back with her lover Lafitte and recover the gold. But as far as is known they never did.”

“What happened to them?” O'Hara said.

“In 1823 Lafitte found a watery grave off São Miguel Island. The Blue Fox simply vanished from history, but my husband always claimed that she was hung as a pirate from the yardarm of a Spanish warship off the west coast of Africa.”

“So the treasure is still in the swamp?” Flintlock said, only vaguely interested. He'd heard a lot of treasure stories, including the golden bell that had nearly cost him his life.

“I know it is,” Lady Carlisle said. “It's just a matter of finding it.”

“But your husband tried for years and never found it,” O'Hara said.

“Yes, he did, but the day he died he told me he was close. The water moccasin killed him just a few hours later. Who knows? The treasure may be cursed.”

Lady Carlisle finished her gin and said, “I must be going now, Evangeline. Thank you for allowing me to visit.”

“Are you sure you won't stay for dinner, Lady Carlisle?” Evangeline said.

“Ah, what are you having, my dear?”

“Fried trout and cornbread.”

“No, I think I'd better get home,” Lady Carlisle said. “Ahmed has promised me curried chicken and I don't wish to disappoint him. Oh dear, what did I do with that boy?”

“You told him to wait with your pirogue,” Evangeline said.

“Oh dear me, I did.” The old woman walked to the edge of the deck and called out, “Coo-ee, Ahmed! I'm ready to go home now.”

A canoe, poled along by a young boy, emerged from the darkness. He wore a frayed red and gold livery jacket, unbuttoned, and a turban. “I am here, memsahib,” he said. His eyes were big. “Basilisk is hunting tonight.”

“Of course he is, you silly boy,” Lady Carlisle said. “Basilisk hunts every night, but he wouldn't dare attack an Englishwoman. Now bring my watercraft alongside.”

“Let me help you,” O'Hara said.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. O'Hara.” Once she was safely in the canoe, she said, “Mr. Flintlock, if you wish to hunt for the British gold come and see me. Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

“I sure will,” Flintlock said.

He and the others watched the old woman disappear into the darkness, then Evangeline picked up the money sack and said, “I think you gentlemen have some explaining to do.”

“I think I need another drink first,” Flintlock said.