Kill or Die (21 page)

Sam Flintlock and O'Hara spent the next two weeks helping to bury the dead and remove debris from the swamp. At least fifty people showed up to assist with the work, half of them middle-aged Louisiana couples living their last adventure. Cornelius was still in Washington and took no part in the cleanup.

And then it was time to leave.

Flintlock wanted to get it over quickly and Evangeline seemed to understand. She kissed O'Hara but the kiss she gave Flintlock lingered a few seconds longer. Then she handed them a packed lunch of cornbread and fried fish and said, “Sam, come back one day after you've found your mother. Please, come back and see us.”

Flintlock said he would. But he uttered empty words. It was not a visit he could imagine in his future.

The money sack to be returned to Mathias Cobb's bank was stashed in the canoe, and two hours later, after a visit to the Apache, it hung from Flintlock's saddle horn.

“Seems to me there ain't much sense in giving this up,” he said. “I mean with Cobb dead and all.”

“I'm sure the bank manager can take care of that,” O'Hara said.

“It will never be missed,” Flintlock said.

“The money doesn't belong to the bank, Sammy. It belongs to the depositors and for some of them it's probably all they have in the world.”

Irritated, Flintlock said, “Damn it, O'Hara, for a half-Injun you sure talk like a white man sometimes. Like a parson.”

“After all the dead men, all the destruction from the storm, we should do the right thing, Sam.”

“And that's to give back the money.”

“Yes, Sammy, that's the right thing.”

“Suppose they don't want it?”

“Then we'll keep it.”

“Yeah, well, there's no point in asking. I know the bank won't want the money back. There's way too much bookkeeping involved.”

“Sam, what would Evangeline say? I know the last thing she said to me was to make sure Sam returns the money and squares himself with the law.”

“Hell, O'Hara, I'm never square with the law. Hold up a stagecoach or rob a bank and it treats you like a criminal.”

“Truer words were never spoke, Sam, but Evangeline—”

“I know. You don't need to tell me. All right, I'll return the damned money, but it's the biggest mistake I'll ever make in my life. And you're the poorest excuse for a half-Injun outlaw I ever came across.”

“If it makes you feel any better we can rob a bank in the Arizona Territory and you can recoup your loss,” O'Hara said.

Flintlock shook his head. “Nah, I don't think so. The bank-robbing profession has gone to hell since Jesse got killed. It's no longer a gentleman's calling. Too many roughs getting into it and one time Jesse warned me it would happen. ‘Sam,' he said, ‘find another line of work. I think a man like you might prosper in the bounty-hunting business. I hear it pays well if you only go after those men on the scout who come from the better classes.'”

For a few moments O'Hara watched jays quarrel in the pines, then said, “So that's how you became a bounty hunter.”

“Sure is. And I only go after the best and the baddest. I don't waste my time on chicken thieves.”

“Plenty of them bad ones in Arizona,” O'Hara said.

“I reckon,” Flintlock said.

“But it sure goes against the grain to give back the money to a bank you just robbed. I bet poor Jesse is spinning in his grave.”

 

 

Budville had sustained some damage from the storm, but the bank was undamaged and, as usual, thanks to the intervention of holy Saint Brigid, the patron saint of drunks, so was the saloon . . . at least according to the Irish bartender.

“I suppose you've heard about the death of Mathias Cobb?” Flintlock said. Lacking a Winchester, he cradled his Hawken in his left arm.

“Yes, poor man, what a terrible death,” the bartender said. He wore a red brocade vest and arm garters of the same color. “They say he was eaten by a gigantic alligator.”

“Only his leg,” O'Hara said. “We buried what was left of him.”

The bartender crossed himself. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph and all the saints in heaven, I hope he has both his legs now.”

“I'm sure he does,” O'Hara said. “Or at least a full set of wings.”

Flintlock tried his bourbon and then said, “Who is taking care of the bank now that Cobb is deceased?”

“That would be Mr. Crowhurst, the former manager. He entered into a partnership with Mr. Brewster Ritter, the man who lost his lumber business in the storm, and they'll run the bank together. The town is very pleased with the arrangement, especially since Mr. Ritter says he'll make good on the funds lost in the robbery. And . . .” The bartender stared at Flintlock and his eyes lingered on the big bird on his throat.

“And?” Flintlock said.

The bartender seemed flustered. “Oh, nothing. Just that the honest citizens of this town are glad to have their bank back again.” The man smiled. “Do you gentlemen need another drink? I have to pop out for a minute and buy some smoking tobacco.”

“No, we're fine,” Flintlock said. “We'll wait until you get back.”

The bartender untied his apron, dropped it on the bar and hurried outside.

“You know he recognized you from your description and he's gone for help?” O'Hara said.

“I know. But we're giving back the money. We'll be heroes,” Flintlock said. He read doubt in O'Hara's face and said, “Won't we?”

O'Hara swallowed hard and said, “Yeah, of course we will.”

“Injun,” Flintlock said, “if you get me hung I'll haunt you for the rest of your life. I'll be a hundred times, a thousand times, worse than Barnabas.”

“Nah, you won't get hung. We'll be heroes, just like you said, Sammy. Trust me.”

Sam Flintlock's luck ran out in Budville.

It was unfortunate that the bank manager recognized him as the outlaw who robbed the bank and doubly ill-fated was the fact that three Texas Rangers happened to be in town that day.

When the bartender returned he brought the manager, three big mustaches with cold eyes, a torch and pitchfork crowd demanding Sam Flintlock's head . . . and Brewster Ritter.

“Hell,” Flintlock said, “I came into town to give the money back. Tell them, O'Hara.”

“He's right. That's why he's here,” O'Hara said.

“A likely story,” the manager said. “I bet he came back to rob us again.”

“Every last penny of the money is in the sack,” Flintlock said. “Why would I come back and rob you?”

“Rangers, I know this man,” Ritter said. “He came into my lumber camp and told me he was on the scout. He asked me if he could hide out for a spell and offered me a thousand dollars if I'd lie to any lawmen that came around asking questions. Of course I sent him on his way and reported the matter to the bank owner, the now deceased Mr. Cobb.”

The tallest Ranger, the one with the biggest mustache, said, “Put that old cannon on the bar, mister.”

“Now look here—” Flintlock said.

“Do it now or I'll kill you,” the Ranger said. He pushed the muzzle of his long-barreled Colt between Flintlock's eyes and said, “Am I going to have trouble with you?”

“Not a bit,” Flintlock said. He laid the Hawken and the Colt on the bar.

“Crowhurst, count the money and see if it's all there,” the Ranger said. Then to Ritter, “Was the Indian part of the bank robbery?”

“He sure was,” Ritter said. “He and Flintlock are partners.”

“Flintlock? Is that your name?” the Ranger said.

“Yeah. Sam Flintlock.”

“Mine is Stanley Box. It ain't much better. What's your handle, Indian?”

“They call me O'Hara. I'm half Irish.”

“Which half?” Box said.

“Take your pick,” O'Hara said.

“The money seems to be all here,” Crowhurst said.

“I told you so,” Flintlock said. “Now O'Hara and me will be on our way.”

Box shook his head. “You two boys aren't going anywhere except to the hoosegow. I'm charging you with the armed robbery of the Cattleman's Bank and Trust, and in Texas that means you're facing twenty to twenty-five in Huntsville.”

“Ritter is a crook and a murderer,” O'Hara said. “And he and Crowhurst are in cahoots. Me and Flintlock have buried men who died on Ritter's orders.”

“Everybody is a crook and murderer except you two, huh?” Ritter said. “Sergeant Box, I say you string 'em up right now.”

“What you say doesn't matter a damn, Ritter, except in the witness stand,” Box said. “We're taking these boys to Austin and we'll expect you and Crowhurst to be there when they stand trial.”

“We'll be there,” Ritter said. He looked at Flintlock, the hatred in his eyes burning like coals. “I want to see these damned outlaws in chains.”

Flintlock's smile was genuine. “Ritter, you're a murdering lowlife and one day I'm going to take great pleasure in gunning you.”

“Sure,” Ritter said. “Think about it when you're doing twenty-five years at hard labor in Huntsville.”

“All right, boys,” Ranger Box said. “You two bank robbers have a long, long way to travel.”

In Texas, then and now, three Rangers were a force to be reckoned with, but there were always badmen who would seek to challenge that assertion.

One of those was Gideon Lash, a heartless outlaw who preyed on the weak, the defenseless and those who plain didn't know any better. Lash had no reputation as a shootist, though the number of people he'd killed was close to a hundred. But he was an efficient, cruel and pitiless murderer who made his living from terror. He had done evil things that no human being ever should.

Lash asked those questions of one of his many teenage “brides” on her wedding night. The girl fled from the hotel and ran into the darkness and kept running, or so they say, until she reached the New Mexico Territory. Gideon Lash laughed about that.

But lest you think fire was his terror of choice, his most cherished possession was his skinning knife, with which he was very adept. “Man or woman, I never trust anybody until they've been skun,” he once told a judge in an El Paso courthouse. The outraged jurist sentenced Lash to be hanged, but he escaped, killing two Deputy United States Marshals in the process.

Now he lurked in the darkness and ahead of him the Rangers' fire spread an orange tint on the surrounding pine canopies. Five men, two of then trussed, prisoners and of no account. He identified Sergeant Stanley Box, a dangerous man, and another Ranger named Luke Clover. Then he saw the man he'd come to kill. Denny Hawk, the man whose bullet had carried away a chunk of Lash's left cheekbone and left him with a grotesque cavity scar that repelled even hog-ranch whores. He'd been tracking Hawk for three months and at last the man was there, just a few yards away.

Gideon Lash studied the sleeping camp and made his plan.

 

 

It had been a long day for the Rangers and they slept around the campfire, but how soundly O'Hara didn't know. Likely the chirp of a sick cricket would be enough to bolt them to their feet, guns blazing.

O'Hara's strong fingers worked on the tight knot of the tie-down rope around Flintlock's wrists. After an hour O'Hara's fingertips bled, but Flintlock's wrists were free.

O'Hara whispered. “Knife. Down the side of my moccasin.” Then, “No, the other leg, damn it.”

Flintlock lifted the Green River knife, firelight glinting on its five-inch blade, and cut the rope away from his booted ankles. He sat perfectly still and waited. Over by the fire one of the Rangers stirred restlessly in his sleep and Flintlock's heart jumped into this mouth. But after a few moments the man settled down and his mutterings were replaced by soft snores.

It was time for Flintlock to act. He planned to shove the knife blade against Box's throat and then take the man's gun. And after that he'd play the cards that were dealt to him.

But then Gideon Lash emerged from the darkness and spoiled everything.

 

 

Lash's plan was to cut Denny Hawk's throat as he slept, just one whisper-thin stroke of the knife and it would be done. He would then melt back into the pines and get his horse. His mount was black, he wore a long black coat to his ankles and a black hat and he'd never be seen in the blackness of night if the surviving Rangers gave chase.

Wearing moccasins, Lash crept soundlessly toward his prey . . . then he saw Flintlock watching him. Lash stopped, put a finger to his lips and then, his knife ready, bent to make the cut.

Flintlock had a split second to think about it. With one Ranger down his escape would be that much easier . . . but he couldn't stand by and see a man slaughtered in his sleep, law officer or not.

One thing old Barnabas had taught Flintlock well was the way of the Green River hunting knife and how to throw it. Lash was a dark, bent figure hovering over the Ranger. He looked like a sinister bird of prey.

Flintlock drew his arm back and threw the knife. He had aimed to stick the man's right shoulder and disable his cutting hand, but the jolt of pain in his still-healing ribs threw his aim off. The blade hit Lash just above the coat collar, a couple of inches below his massive jawbone. Buried to the haft, the blade killed quickly. Lash had time to utter a terrible cry and then his heavy body fell across the sleeping Ranger. Hawk, an excitable man, kicked away the heavy corpse and then jumped to his feet, his bucking Colt blazing at shadows among the trees.

“What the hell!” Stanley Box threw aside his blankets, ran to Hawk and almost stumbled over the dead man. He had a Colt in his hand and his eyes searched the gloom between the pines.

“The only man here is dead at your feet, Box,” Flintlock said.

The sergeant told Hawk to put his gun away and then took a knee beside Lash's body. “Denny, come take a look at this,” he said.

“My God, it's Gideon Lash,” Hawk said.

“He was aiming to cut your throat, Denny,” Flintlock said.

“You threw the knife?” Box said.

“Yeah, I did. I got my hands loose and took the knife out of my boot.” He exchanged a look with O'Hara. “Then I saw the deceased sneak into camp. He was leaning over Hawk with a knife in his hand when I stuck him.”

Box made a note of the distance involved then said, “You know how to throw a blade, mister.”

“One of the few things I'm good at.”

“You planned to use the knife to escape?” Box said.

“That was my intention. I have no love for peace officers. I've written my name of the walls of too many calabooses in my day, but I won't stand by and let a sleeping man get this throat cut.”

“Do you know who this is?” Box said.

“No. He didn't take time to properly introduce himself.”

“His name is Gideon Lash. Mean anything to you?”

“I've heard he'd been hung years ago up El Paso way.”

“Was he a friend of yours?” Box said.

“If you mean was he riding to my rescue, the answer is no. You don't stick a man who's trying to save your butt. Even a lawman should know that.”

“Well, what I do know is that you saved my butt tonight, Flintlock,” Hawk said. “I'll make sure I mention it at your trial.”

“I guess all three of us will do that,” Box said. “Ain't that right, Luke?”

“Sure thing,” Clover said. “You played the white man tonight, mister, and when the time comes I'll do the same for you.”

“What about my friend?” Flintlock said.

“The Injun? Why, sure, sure, if we remember,” Box said.