Kill or Die (3 page)

The swamp water was warm from the sun, brown with mud, and from a distance away Sam Flintlock heard a grunting feral hog root among the hyacinths that grew close to the bank. The cypress trees cast no shadows because the sun, white as molten steel, stood at its highest point in the sky. Carrion birds glided overhead, patient as monks illuminating manuscripts with feather pens, and watched and waited.

Flintlock ran a dry tongue over his parched lips, his thirst a raging thing. Mosquitoes as big as sparrows bit his exposed wrists and neck, and flew heavily away, groggy from their blood feast.

His wrists rubbed raw from straining at the ropes, Flintlock dreamed about water, of throwing himself into the swamp and drinking and drinking until the roots of the cypress were revealed. Visions of beer, the color of Baltic amber, ice cold and foaming in tall glass steins, tormented him and gave him no peace.

The sun dropped lower and a gator bellowed once among the cypress and in the following quiet Flintlock thought he heard it slide into the swamp, water hissing along its armored sides.

Flintlock jerked up his aching head, his frightened eyes searching. Was it the big one? The one they called Basilisk? The one with the ravenous appetite for human flesh? His head sank slowly back to the dirt. Suddenly he was very tired, used up by fear and thirst, and he wanted it to end.

By late afternoon Sam Flintlock drifted in and out of consciousness. He saw his mother again, bright red hair, but her features blurred because he could no longer remember her face. She was lost in the swamp. Then her hair was no longer red but gray, and she beckoned to him, her face pleading, begging him to save her, her arms moving like willow branches in a wind. Flintlock moved toward her, but slowly, as though he walked through thick molasses. He called out to her, “Ma, what's my name?” But then a mist came down like a gray cloud and she vanished from sight.

Flintlock woke with a start. He lifted his head and craned his neck, staring toward the swamp. A mist curled between the cypress trunks and over the willow islands and speckled trout jumped at flies and splashed back into the water.

Ripples washed ashore and hissed onto the sandy bank. Flintlock's eyes widened. The ripples were not made by a fish but from something bigger. A lot bigger. His neck aching, Flintlock kept his eyes glued to the surface of the water, now and then catching glimpses through the drifting mist.

Flintlock saw it! A scaly back. Unblinking reptilian eyes level with the water. The slow, lazy undulation of a massive tail. A massive alligator, a cold, emotionless killer, slid through the murky water toward him.

His dry throat croaking his fear, Flintlock frantically tugged at the ropes that bound him. But the stakes were driven in deep and didn't budge. The alligator was closer now. Its huge head lifted and rows of teeth glinted in the fading light like sabers. Flintlock dropped his head and prayed that his horrible death would be quick and painless.

BLAAMM!

The roar of a pistol shot racketed through the swamp and set roosting birds scattering in panic into the sky. Flintlock lifted his head and watched the muddy water boil as an alligator thrashed, showing its white belly. The reptile made a quick turn and slunk away into the swamp, trailing a stream of blood.

A figure stood over Flintlock and blocked the rays of the dying sun.

“Ma?” he said.

And then unconsciousness took him.

“He's coming to,” a man said.

O'Hara's voice.

Sam Flintlock opened his eyes. “O'Hara, you rat,” he said, his voice a feeble croak. “First chance I get I'm going to put a bullet in you.”

“How do you feel, Flintlock?” O'Hara said.

“Alive or barely. Did you shoot the gator?”

“No, the swamp witch did,” O'Hara said. He leaned closer and whispered into Flintlock's ear, “Don't look into her eyes. If you do she'll steal your soul.”

“You damned traitor, she saved my life, more than I can say for you,” Flintlock said. “Why did you quit on me last night?”

“Later,” O'Hara said. “You need to rest.”

The man moved aside and Flintlock saw the alligator. It was right above him, its fangs bared! He cried out and tried to rise but strong hands pushed him back onto the cot.

“He's long dead,” a woman said. “He can't hurt you now.”

“I thought . . . I thought . . .”

“Yes. I know what you thought,” the woman said. “I killed that one three years ago and now he hangs from my ceiling as a warning to his kin.”

The woman was young and spectacularly beautiful. Her black hair was piled on top of her head in glossy ringlets and waves and coiled tendrils hung over her forehead and cheeks. She had dark eyes, lashes as long as lace fans and a wide, lush mouth, her lips painted a vivid scarlet. She wore a pale pink shirt under a tight black bodice laced at the front with grommets and boned at the front and sides. Her wine-red, bustled taffeta skirt was tied up at the front to better reveal shapely legs in thigh-high red leather boots. A large golden key, decorated with tiny cogwheels taken from pocket watches, hung by a velvet ribbon from her neck.

“You're a swamp witch?” Flintlock said. He didn't look into her eyes.

“Yes. What did you expect? An old crone with no teeth and warts?”

“Something like that,” Flintlock said.

“Here, drink this. It will help you sleep for a while,” the woman said. “And I'll put some salve on your lips.” Then with a devastating smile she said, “My name is Evangeline and you can look at me. I won't steal your soul. I have one of my own already.”

She raised Flintlock's head and helped him drink from a wooden cup. He thought the liquid tasted like sour green apples . . . and then for the third time that day, oblivion swept over him.

Evangeline sat by the great stone fireplace that dominated her cabin. She crossed her long slim legs and said, “I thought at first you might be Rangers.”

O'Hara was trying his best to be as stoical as a cigar store Indian. He avoided looking into the witch's eyes and staring at her lovely legs, traps to snare and forever enslave the unwary traveler.

“Flintlock will enter the swamplands to find his mother,” he said. “His grandfather says he's an idiot and asked me to look after him. It's not easy. He blunders into things and causes trouble.”

“He killed two of Brewster Ritter's best men,” Evangeline said. “I imagine that's trouble enough.”

“How do you know that?” O'Hara said, surprised. He'd removed his hat and his long black hair hung over his shoulders. He wore a white shirt and beaded vest.

“I know everything that goes on in the swamp,” Evangeline said. “That's why I waited with Mr. Flintlock until you found us. Do you know that Ritter wants to drain the swamp and cut down all the cypress?”

“Can he do that?”

“Of course he can. He has powerful friends in Washington.”

“Does he even have the tools to drain the swamp?” O'Hara said.

Flintlock muttered in his sleep and Evangeline looked over at him in concern. “He dreams,” she said. “Perhaps he dreams of his mother.” She took a sip of red wine from a long-stemmed glass with a silver base and said, “Ritter already has enormous steam pumps, all he needs, and powerful steam-driven saws. The alligators, the fish, turtles, water birds, they will all be gone soon.”

“And I'm told he has a monster,” O'Hara said.

“Yes, he has that too,” Evangeline said.

“What about the folks who live in the swamp?” O'Hara said.

“What about them?”

“They'll lose their homes, their livelihoods.”

Evangeline smiled. “They're little, unimportant people that no one cares about. Do you think Washington worries about what will happen to them? I can tell you it doesn't. Ritter already has all the senators in his pocket he wants. The people will have to move out or die in the swamp.”

“And what about you, Evangeline?” O'Hara said. “Where will you go?”

“Nowhere. If I must, I'll die here in the swamp with the people. They come to me for healing, child birthing and often just for advice. I won't desert them, now or later.”

“You are a strange kind of witch.”

“Yes, I know. And that's why you can look me in the eye, O'Hara.”

“That's the Indian part of me.”

“No, it's the ignorant part of you,” Evangeline said. “But you'll learn.”

“Then tell me why you dress the way you do,” O'Hara said.

“Because it pleases me. Why do you dress like an Indian and not an Irishman?”

O'Hara grinned and Evangeline said, “Yes, because it pleases you. See, you're learning already.”

“There's no man in your life?” O'Hara said.

“La, la, la, now you pry, Mr. O' Hara.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't be. Yes, there's a man. His name is Cornelius and he's curator of the Museum of the Swamp.”

“Where is that?”

“Here in the swamp. But it moves from place to place.”

“Will Cornelius stand up to Ritter?” O'Hara said.

“He's a good man, a poet by nature, not a Texas draw fighter,” Evangeline said. “But yes, he'll stand up to Brewster Ritter and his gunmen and he'll be killed. That's a story that can have no other ending. You're awake, Mr. Flintlock.”

“And you look like hell,” O'Hara said.

Flintlock sat up in the cot. He was groggy and his sunburned face hurt, but he felt his strength returning. “I overheard part of your conversation,” he said. “My mother is in the swamp, somewhere, maybe living in a bayou. Will she be forced to leave?”

“Flintlock, you heard the lady,” O'Hara said. “Your mother will move out or die. Even for a white man that's a simple concept.”

Evangeline rose and crossed the rough timber floor, the high boot heels drumming. She put her arms around Flintlock's shoulders and said, “Come and sit down. I'll get you a glass of wine.” The woman smelled of red roses and green moss.

As he rose, Flintlock hit his head on the hanging alligator. “Damned crocodiles are going to get me one way or the other,” he said.

O'Hara vacated his chair for Flintlock and sat cross-legged on the floor.

“I didn't thank you for saving my life . . . miss . . .” Flintlock said.

“My name is Evangeline. Here, drink this wine. It will help sustain you. I didn't set out to save your life, Mr.—”

“Sam.”

The woman smiled. “Then Sam it is. I was hunting Basilisk in the swamp and saw your predicament. It was a most singular situation and a matter of the greatest moment that I save you from the jaws of the reptile.”

“You got a bullet into him,” Flintlock said.

“Yes, but that wasn't Basilisk,” Evangeline said. “It was a much smaller alligator.”

“Why do you risk your life trying to kill a giant alligator?” Flintlock said. It hurt his cracked lips to talk.

“Because he killed a friend of mine, an old black man who fished the swamp,” Evangeline said. “To borrow your colorful turn of speech, Sam, I got a bullet into him that day. He's hated me ever since.”

O'Hara smiled. “Can animals hate?”

“Basilisk can and does. He wants to kill me very badly. How is the wine, Sam?”

“Real good, ma'am,” Flintlock said.

“It's made right here in the swamp, from wild grapes.”

Suddenly O'Hara was alert. “What's that?” he said.

Flintlock heard it moments later . . . a steady thrumming that seemed to come from above the cabin.

“Step out onto my deck and I'll show you,” Evangeline said. “It will be your introduction to Brewster Ritter.”

The deck was railed and quite small with just room enough for a heavy rocking chair and side table. But Flintlock didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on the sky.

“This is an excellent way to travel, my dear Ritter,” said Simon Luke, owner and chairman of the Lucky Luke Lumber Company of Pennsylvania. “Like a bird. I say, like a bird.”

“Thank you, sir,” Brewster Ritter said. “As dirigibles go, the
Star Scraper
is small, more a runabout than a long-distance flying machine.”

“But it's deuced comfortable,” Luke said. “I have room to stretch my legs, a table with a decanter of port and box of cigars at my elbow. What more does a civilized man need?”

Behind Luke a small man wearing a leather helmet and large goggles was at the tiller, a propeller spinning in a shining disc behind him. The man wore a canvas coat fastened by a row of brass buckles and leather gauntlets.

“How is the boiler temperature, Professor Mealy?” Ritter said. “Is it still fluctuating?

“No, steady as she goes, Mr. Ritter,” Jasper Mealy said. “The engine is performing flawlessly, sir.”

Ritter, a small, self-important man with iron gray hair and a short, clipped beard, nodded. “Carry on, Professor Mealy.” Then to Luke, “Well, from your lofty perch, what do you think of my plan?”

“I'll buy all the sawn lumber you can send me, Mr. Ritter,” Luke said. “Damn my eyes, but there must be thousands of cypress in this swamp.”

Ritter smiled. “You've seen only a part of it. There are thousands more to be had.”

“You'll make us both rich,” Luke said. “Or richer, as the case may be.”

“That is my intention,” Ritter said. “Now look down there. That's called a bayou.”

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Luke said. “I like how the moss clings to the tree roots and there are water blossoms everywhere.”

“It will be even more beautiful within a six-month,” Ritter said. “Once I drain the bayou I'll build my sawmill there and tent accommodations for the lumbermen. There will also be a company store, a saloon and dancehall and a brothel of course. In short, everything the commoner needs to keep him happy.”

Luke raised his glass. “Well, here's to progress. And you will work on the railroad spur?”

“I have friends in Washington who are already working on that,” Ritter said. “There's talk that when all the lumber is cut the army might want the land as an artillery range. I'd be paid by the acre of course.”

“Then here's to you, Mr. Ritter,” Luke said, raising his glass. “You're a shrewd businessman and no mistake. What about the inhabitants of the swamp?”

Ritter made a gesture with his hand. “They'll be swept aside.”

“And good riddance,” Luke said. A massive gold watch chain crossed his huge belly. “Commoners are a bunch of damned lazy malingerers who want the government to take care of them. I hate them seed, breed and generation.”

Ritter yelped as a bullet splintered into the wooden gunnel at his elbow. “Murder!” he yelled.

“Professor Mealy, who is shooting?” Ritter said. He drew a Colt from his shoulder holster.

Mealy looked behind him, then said, “It came from a cabin down on the bayou, a man with a rifle. His wife is pulling him inside.”

“Full speed ahead, Professor Mealy. Mr. Toohy, mark that damned hovel.”

Bonifaunt Toohy was a scarred man who wore a bowler hat and a tight, red and white striped vest over a white shirt. Like everyone else who might be called on to work on the dirigible's steam engine he wore goggles around the bowler's crown. He carried a short-barreled Colt in a cross-draw holster.

“I got it marked, Mr. Ritter,” he said.

“Pay him a visit tonight, Mr. Toohy,” Ritter said. Then for Luke's benefit, “A social call, you understand.”

“Survivors?” Toohy said, lowering his voice.

“No. No survivors.”

Simon Luke was outraged. “Mr. Ritter,” he said, “I could have been killed.”

“The miscreant will be dealt with, Mr. Luke,” Ritter said. “I'll have the law deal with him.”

“I certainly hope so,” Luke said. “I've no desire to get shot out of a balloon, a glass of port in my hand.”

Adam Gantly, his wife, Audrey, and their teenage son, Israel, tried to find solace in the Bible, but after a while Adam said, “I tried to kill somebody today, Audrey. May God forgive me.”

Audrey rose and placed her hand on her husband's shoulder. “You were pushed to it, Adam. God will forgive.”

“I heard that Brewster Ritter lives in a fine mansion in Galveston,” Adam said. “Why does he want my wooden hut?”

“We stand in the way of his plans,” Audrey said. “He wants to cut down all the trees.”

Adam Gantly was a tall, gaunt man who didn't get enough to eat. He wore suspenders over a red cotton under vest, workmen's boots and baggy pants. “I still shouldn't have tried to kill him,” he said. “That was a mortal sin.”

“No one will blame you, Adam, least of all God,” Audrey said.

A single oil lamp lighted the small, shabby cabin, but suddenly the room filled with dazzling light and the Gantly family looked toward the front window, now a rectangle of the purest white.

“He has come,” Audrey whispered. “He has come down from Heaven to comfort us.”

But it was Hell, not Heaven, that had come calling.

A voice from outside, made louder by a megaphone, said, “Come outside now. All of you.”

Adam told his wife and son to stay where they were and lifted his Winchester from the brackets on the fireplace. He stepped onto his deck and was blinded by two bright reflector lamps, shining like eyes in the darkness.

“What do you want?” he yelled.

“You!” a man's voice said.

Adam brought up his rifle, but was immediately felled by a hail of bullets.

“Adam!” his wife yelled. She ran to her husband and threw herself on his torn body. “Adam, Adam, please talk to me.”

“He can't, lady,” a voice from the darkness behind the lamps said. “He's dead. And now so are you.” A rifle shot rang out and Audrey joined her husband in death.

Israel, fifteen and game, ran onto the deck and took in what had happened at a glance. He picked up the Winchester and had time to throw it to his shoulder before he was hit. Three shots to the middle of the boy's forehead dropped him like a puppet that had just had its strings cut.

“Mr. Hughes,” Bonifaunt Toohy said. “Please step into the cabin and see if there's anything else that needs killing.”

Elias Hughes looked into the cabin then called from the deck, “Nobody else. Just those three.”

“Good,” Toohy said. “Then our work here is done. A jigger of black rum to every man jack of you when we get back.”

Seven killers, including steam engineer Mealy, cheered that lighthearted announcement.