Kill or Die (4 page)

“Miz Evangeline!” Zedock Briscoe called out, his ebony face troubled. “You wake up now, Miz Evangeline.”

Sometime in the night Evangeline had changed and now as she rose from her rocker her sheer robe of gold silk rustled. “Good morning, Mr. Briscoe,” she said.

“Left fish on the po'ch for you, Miz Evangeline,” Briscoe said. His tight, black hair was shot through with gray. “But don't you go lookin' at me none. I got young 'uns and you can't turn me into a stone, no.”

Evangeline picked up the fish and said, “Beautiful trout, Mr. Briscoe. I'll have some for breakfast.”

The black man stood in his pirogue, leaning on the spruce punt pole. He kept his eyes lowered. “Got bad news, Miz Evangeline. I head over to the Gantly place in the mornin', two, three times a week, an' give them poor folks some fish or a piece of hog meat.”

Briscoe rubbed his eyes. “Went over there this mornin' and they was all dead. Pa, ma and son, shot through an' through, Miz Evangeline.”

Flintlock had stepped onto the deck. His mouth was dry and he felt like hell. “Any sign of who did it?” he said.

“You one o' them warlocks, mister?” Briscoe said. “I want no truck with warlocks. They mate with the female loup-garou, or so folks say.”

“No, I'm not a warlock,” Flintlock said. “I'm in the swamp looking for my mother.”

Briscoe shook his head. “No, no sign. Just three dead white folks.”

“I'll go over there, Mr. Briscoe,” Evangeline said.

“I wish you would, Miz Evangeline,” Briscoe said. “It ain't right for them folks to be murdered and no murderer to be found.”

“Thank you again for the fish, Mr. Briscoe,” Evangeline said. “You take care now.”

“You too, Miz Evangeline. Take care.”

“Sam, there's coffee on the stove and cornbread,” the woman said. “Eat fast. I want you with me.”

“Where's O'Hara?” Flintlock said.

“I don't know. He took his canoe and left around midnight.”

“Damn that breed, he never stays put,” Flintlock said. “I don't even have a gun.”

“Yes, you do. It's on the shelf beside the cornbread. And there's also a cartridge belt. O'Hara said the cantina proprietor took a heap of convincing to part with Plume's revolver. He said you'd know what he's talking about.”

“I know what he's talking about and I know how O'Hara convinces a man. It ain't a pretty thing to watch.”

“I'm sure it isn't, Sam. Now I must change.”

Compared to the Colt he'd lost, the balance of the new revolver was all wrong. Sam Flintlock decided it needed two more inches of barrel and the front sight filed down. But beggars can't be choosers and he stuck the piece into his waistband and buckled the belt lower on his hips.

Evangeline, as darkly beautiful as a fallen angel, had changed into a split canvas riding skirt, boots and a boned corset of scarlet leather over a black shirt with a high collar. She dropped an engraved Remington derringer into a pocket and said, “Are we ready?”

Flintlock, his hands filled with a coffee cup and wedge of cornbread, swallowed what he was eating and said, “Yup, I'm ready.”

“Then let's go. Sit in the front of the canoe and I'll paddle. By the way, you look much better this morning. You need a shave and a bath, but we'll take care of that later,” Evangeline said.

Flintlock stuffed what remained of the cornbread into his mouth, set his cup down on the rail around the deck and climbed into the canoe after Evangeline. Old Barnabas, squatting on top of a cypress, glared down at him, shook his head, and disappeared.

Flintlock didn't know if the old man disapproved of him or Evangeline.

 

 

A fleet of pirogues and canoes had gathered around the Gantly cabin. As Evangeline paddled closer Flintlock heard the wailing of women and the hard, quick talk of angry men. Evangeline's status as a swamp witch and dazzling beauty parted the crowd after she and Flintlock stepped onto the deck. A few of the black folks averted their eyes, but most did not. The bodies had been taken inside, but dry, crusted blood still stained the rough timbers of the floor.

“No need to ask who done this,” a man in a worn homespun, butternut shirt said. “It was that devil Brewster Ritter and his gunmen.”

Evangeline nodded but said nothing. She stepped into the cabin and came out again a few minutes later, her cheeks pale.

“Can you resurrect them, swamp witch?” a woman asked.

Evangeline shook her head. “Only God has that power.”

“Well, where was He when this happened?” the man in the butternut shirt said. He looked around at the crowd. “I say we arm ourselves and go wipe Ritter off the face of the earth.”

This drew growls of approval from the menfolk and an alarm bell rang in Flintlock's head. Sheep walking to their own slaughter would suit Ritter's purposes just fine.

He wanted to ask if anyone knew the whereabouts of his mother, but heading off an armed mob must come first.

“You men listen up,” Flintlock said. “How many of you have been in a shooting scrape?” He waited and, as he'd expected, got no answer. “How many of you here have killed a man?” Again, no one spoke up. “Ritter has hired gunmen, Texas draw fighters who've been in many a gunfight and have killed men. Sure, you can go up against a score of professional guns, but after the first volleys you'll trip over your own dead trying to get away. You women, let me ask you a question: Are you willing to become widows with orphans to raise?”

The woman exchanged worried glances, but none of them spoke up.

“Who the hell are you, mister?” Butternut shirt said. “You don't belong here in the swamp.”

“I'm here to find my mother,” Flintlock said. “She's hiding out in the swamps somewhere.”

“What's her name?” a woman asked.

Barnabas had never again spoken his daughter's name after she got pregnant by a gambling man and he'd beaten it into Flintlock that it was a forbidden subject. “I don't know,” he said.

“Then you've no chance of finding her,” Butternut said. “I suggest you get the hell out of the swamp.”

“I plan to stay until I find my ma,” Flintlock said. “You'll need my gun.”

This brought guffaws of disbelief from some of the men and Butternut voiced their misgivings. “You already done told us Ritter has professional gunmen. What the hell can you do that we can't?”

Sam Flintlock was not a bragging man but he had to make a show. As men do often when they're on the prod, four of the more belligerent swamp dwellers had lined up beside Butternut. All wore hats, ideal for the demonstration Flintlock had in mind.

He drew and fired, the steady staccato of his Colt like a fast drumbeat. Five hats flew off five heads and five men clapped startled hands to their parted hair.

Flintlock shoved his Colt back into his waistband and said, “That's what I can do that you can't. And I'm betting a few of Ritter's men can do it better than me.”

If the five hatless men were not convinced, their womenfolk were.

“We've come here to pray over the dead,” a plump, motherly woman said. She said to Butternut, “Avery, you come inside now and stop this hooliganism.”

Chastened by Flintlock's gunplay, the men filed into the cabin, and soon their voices were raised in prayer. That is, all but one. A young man in workman's clothing, a Bible in his hand, said, “I aim to go to Orange City and telegraph the county sheriff. He needs to be here.”

“Anyone I know?” Flintlock said.

“Eldon Dowling is his name,” the man said. “They say one time he got lead into John Wesley Hardin, but I don't know if that's true.”

“Never heard of him, but he sounds like the kind of lawman you need,” Flintlock said.

“Yeah, seems like.” The man opened his Bible and stepped into the cabin.

Evangeline frowned. “Sam, was that petulant display really necessary?” she said.

“They need to learn,” Flintlock said.

“I think you taught them,” Evangeline said. “I only hope you haven't scared those men and taken the fight out of them. Ritter will be laughing up his sleeve. Shall we go inside and pray for the hurting dead?”

“I'm not a praying man, Evangeline,” Flintlock said.

“Then at least go through the motions and do as I do,” the woman said.

O'Hara kept his horse at the hogan of an old Jicarilla Apache man who lived near the southern edge of the piney woods country. In answer to O'Hara's question about local newspapers the old man said he knew of only one, situated east of Beaumont in a cow town called Budville.

“I never look at it myself,” the man said. “On account of how I can't read.”

O'Hara thanked the man, saddled up and rode west, knowing that he might be on a wild goose chase. But anything was better than being holed up in the swamp, even with Evangeline close. As for Flintlock, he'd lost his horse and was stuck where he was, at least until O'Hara could steal him another one.

It was almost noon when O'Hara reached Budville, a dusty, nondescript cow town in the middle of nowhere. But the settlement boasted large cattle pens, three saloons, a restaurant and a railroad spur and seemed to be thriving.

O'Hara rode past the Cattleman's Bank and Trust and several stores, and found the office of the
Budville Democrat
conveniently located between the Alamo and McCarthy saloons.

In answer to his question the gray-haired woman at the front desk, who identified herself as Miss Pearson, said yes, they had done a piece on Brewster Ritter, but it was short and published three months ago. At first O'Hara thought she wasn't going to look up the item, especially since she looked askance at his strange garb—a black beaded vest over a red shirt, battered hat with a feather in the brim—and long hair that fell over his shoulders. But she surprised him when she said, “Come this way. I'll find it for you.”

She led O'Hara into a small room that smelled like a library and lifted aside stacked editions of the newspaper and shuffled around others until she found the one she wanted.

“Ah, here it is, right there at the bottom of page three,” the woman said. “You can read it at your leisure, though it is very short.”

Miss Pearson left the room and O'Hara sat in a high-backed chair and read:

O'Hara sat back in the chair and thought things through. The operation Ritter planned was an expensive undertaking and it seemed logical that he had financial backers. Now O'Hara's suspicion was confirmed by the newspaper story. It was highly probable that Ritter was broke when he arrived in Budville. He told the reporter that he was looking for someone to finance a new business venture and he'd found that person. The question was, who was he?

Then Miss Pearson stepped back into the office and said, “I do remember something I read in one of the eastern newspapers about a man named Brewster Ritter. It was a long time ago, ten years, perhaps longer.”

“The same man?”

“Well, it's not such a common name.”

“What did you read, Miss Pearson?”

“That a man named Ritter owned a textile factory in Savannah. In 1878 the place burned down and eighty-three women and girls were killed. Apparently the factory was very run-down and the investigating authorities called it a firetrap. Mr. Ritter left Georgia in a hurry and was not heard from again.”

“It could be the same Ritter.”

“It could be. But I do not like to point a finger at anyone without evidence.”

“You're a very wise woman, Miss Pearson,” O'Hara said. Then, “Who's the richest man in town?”

The woman smiled. “That would be Mr. Cobb, the banker. But his credentials are unimpeachable. Mathias Cobb is a respected member of the community and a church deacon.”

“I'm sure he is, Miss Pearson,” O'Hara said, rising to his feet.

“I'd like to give you a word of advice, young man,” the woman said. “Cut your hair and dress like a white man and you'll do better in the world.”

“I'm only half white man,” O'Hara said, smiling. “I'll dress the white half of me as you say.”

Miss Pearson was unfazed by O'Hara's sarcasm. “Please see you do. You would look so handsome as half a white man.”

 

 

Cletus McPhee was a drifting gunman who'd killed a deputy sheriff in Galveston and then lit a shuck north for the good of his health. He heard that a man named Ritter was paying top gun wages and he'd been in Budville a week but hadn't yet made contact. McPhee, who affected the dress and manners of a Southern gentleman, was a man at war with the world with a deep, abiding hatred for humanity in general and Indians in particular. In his time he'd killed eight white men and an unknown number of blacks, Indians and Mexicans and regretted not one of them.

In McPhee's diseased mind, breeds occupied the lowest rung of the ladder, an affront to his sensitivities as a gentleman. When he saw O'Hara enter the restaurant, sit at a table and order bacon and eggs like a white man McPhee marked him for death. And he planned to make a public show of it.

The restaurant was filled with a lunchtime crowd, but O'Hara looked at no one, busy with his grub, bacon and eggs being long a favorite of his. He did take time to note a tall man who flaunted a cared-for imperial, dressed in the garb of a frontier dandy and wore an ivory-handled Colt. But O'Hara dismissed the man as a sporting gent and thought no more about it.

McPhee waited until O'Hara was halfway though his meal before he made his move. He had to wend his way through crowded tables before he reached O'Hara, who sat alone.

“Enjoying that?” McPhee said, looking down at O'Hara.

O'Hara said, “You could say that.”

“You aren't going to finish it, not in here you're not,” McPhee said. “Take it out and eat with the pigs where you belong.”

A hush fell over the restaurant and McPhee was enjoying himself. The breed looked scared and this was going to be easy.

But O'Hara was far from scared. He had the heart of an Indian warrior and the reckless courage of an Irishman and was always ready for a scrap, be it with guns, knives or fists and skull.

He smiled. “What don't you like about me, mister?” he said.

“The fact that you're a stinking breed and shouldn't be here eating with white folks.”

“And you aim to draw down on me, huh?”

“That's the general idea.”

“Then I suppose I must accommodate you,” O'Hara said. “Be quick now, my eggs are getting cold.”

McPhee liked no part of that speech. The breed sounded too confident, like he'd been here before. And when O'Hara stood and revealed the worn Colt at his hip, he liked that even less. McPhee had shot blanket Indians before but the man facing him was not one of those. He pegged him as a gun and a killer.

“At your convenience,” O'Hara said, hellfire in his eyes.

A respectable-looking man sitting at a table said, “Here, that won't do.”

McPhee badly wanted an out. In those few moments before he died, he knew he'd bitten off more than he could chew. The thought came to him then,
Damn it, Cletus, never pick on strangers.

He went for his gun and wasn't even close.

At a range of just three feet O'Hara pumped three bullets into McPhee before he hit the ground. The man raised his head and stared at O'Hara. “Fast . . . fast . . .” he said.

“Only middlin',” O'Hara said.

A diner leaned from his chair, looked down at McPhee, shook his head and said, “He's gone.”

“Seems like,” O'Hara said. He picked up his plate and fork, shoveled down what was left of his meal, took a gulp of coffee and walked out of the restaurant. He rode out of town aware that people stood in the street and watched him go. But no one tried to stop him. And that was just as well because O'Hara was angry, his rage directed at the man who was causing so much death and misery in the swamp . . .

It was high time Brewster Ritter got a taste of his own medicine.