Kill or Die (5 page)

“I don't think that shooting all the people in the swamps and bayous is necessary, Mr. Ritter,” engineer Leander Byng said. “It is a bit drastic and could attract enforcers.”

“You have a better idea?” Brewster Ritter said. He sat at ease in his tent on the Louisiana side of the Sabine. He'd already dismissed the two armed guards who usually stood at the open flap as being unnecessary.

“Perhaps not better, but not as violent,” Byng said. He wore a dark brown double-breasted vest, jodhpurs of the same color and tall, lace-up English boots. Like most of Ritter's technicians he had goggles pushed up onto his forehead. “I ask you to allow me to start up my steam pumps, all of them. We can drain the swamp right out from under the miscreants. When their cabins are high and dry, surrounded by mud, dying fish and hungry alligators we'll soon be rid of them.”

Ritter ran a hand through his short hair, thinking. He was a small, compact man and as tough as they come and mean as a curly wolf. A ruthless employer, he'd once owned a textile mill near Savannah but the place burned down in the winter of 1878, killing eighty-three women and girls, and he'd left Georgia in a hurry. “How long to get the pumps up and running?” he said.

“Two weeks if we drain right directly into the Sabine,” Byng said. “If we empty into the Gulf a week longer, depending on how fast the steam shovels can cut us a channel.”

“Then we'll use the Sabine,” Ritter said.

“We can expect localized flooding of farmlands,” Byng said.

“Like I give a damn,” Ritter said. “I want those pumps started, working night and day. Let's get this show on the road.”

Byng rose to his feet. “I'll get on it right now.”

“Good man,” Ritter said. The engineer stooped to go through the tent flap, but Ritter stopped him. “By the way, Byng,” he said. “If the pumps aren't up and running in two weeks I'll have you shot.”

Byng said nothing, but his face suddenly paled.

 

 

Zedock Briscoe had traveled far into the swamp and had pulled his canoe into a patch of relatively dry land thickly covered in tupelo trees, black willow, privet and inkberry. Somewhere among that tangle of growth was a hog that Briscoe badly wanted to shoot. It would keep him, his missus and their five young 'uns in meat for a long time. He'd scouted tracks along the water's edge and he figured the hog was a monster, an easy three hundred pounds of pork on the hoof and maybe more.

Zedock lifted his Winchester from the canoe and walked a hundred feet into the trees, then stopped and listened. A feeding wild hog makes considerable noise, but he heard nothing but the buzz of flying insects and the rustle of small, timid things in the undergrowth.

“Mister Hog, you come out here now and get acquainted,” Zedock said. He fingered his rifle. “I got something for you.”

He was greeted by only a chirping, squeaking quiet.

His footsteps whispering through sun-dried weeds, he stepped farther into the tupelo growth. The air was humid and thick and smelled of smoke, the sort that trickles from a chimney and carries the odor of frying fish and hushpuppies. What Zedock didn't smell was the musky scent of a hog. His rifle at the ready, he crossed the entire extent of the dry land then stopped at a bayou where a large but run-down cabin on high stilts stood about fifty yards away.

Zedock Briscoe knew the cabin well but avoided it like the plague. The place belonged to a trapper by the name of Obadiah Pendred Anderson, a cantankerous, some said crazy, old coot who harbored a passionate hatred for blacks. He didn't like whites much either, but reserved his special loathing for those of the Negro persuasion. A canvas tarp hung between two posts on his deck, painted in red with the words:

Anderson had been vocal in his opposition to Brewster Ritter and on a recent trip to Orange for rifle ammunition had threatened to kill the man on sight, a statement heard by many ears.

It was Zedock's destiny to witness how swift and brutal Ritter's retribution could be. As he backed away from the water's edge, from high above the tree canopy Zedock heard a sound he'd heard before, the heavy drone of Ritter's dirigible pounding across the sky.

Zedock stopped in his tracks. He wanted to cry out and warn Anderson that the flying machine was close, but he was very much afraid that he would be rewarded by a bullet from the old man's Sharp and stayed silent.

Moments later Anderson, wearing overalls and a red plaid shirt, stepped onto his deck. He stared at the sky for a moment and then rushed back inside.

Zedock Briscoe would say later that it was Anderson's hatred of blacks that killed him. If he'd dared yell out to him, the man might have been able to jump into the water and swim clear.

The dirigible was over the cabin and something dropped from the gondola. The missile looked like a large cannonball, but it had a fuse that smoked as it tumbled downward. Zedock heard the bomb crash through the cabin's roof. A few moments ticked past and then the cabin exploded with a deafening roar. A sheet of flame erupted into the air and broken spars of wood and flying fragments of metal splashed into the waters of the bayou, churning up the surface.

Zedock had closed his eyes and now he opened them again. The cabin's walls had been blown out and the roof had landed yards away among the cypress. Smoke rose from the flattened cabin and scattered flames fluttered like scarlet moths on pieces of charred wood that spiked at crazy angles from the wreckage.

If there was anything left of Obadiah Anderson it was not evident.

Stunned, Zedock watched the dirigible chatter around the destroyed cabin a few times and then fly south. He didn't move from his spot until he was sure the craft was gone.

Sam Flintlock had just finished a dinner of boiled trout and some kind of swamp vegetable when a knock came to the door and a moment later O'Hara stepped inside.

“Where the hell have you been?” Flintlock said.

“Scouting,” O'Hara said. “Seen stuff. Done stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

O'Hara, who'd swapped his headband for a top hat stuck all around with white feathers, ignored that and said, “Evangeline, black man outside to see you. He says it's important.”

Alarmed, Flintlock grabbed his Colt from the table but O'Hara said, “Says his name is Zedock Briscoe. Do you know him?”

“Yes, I know him,” Evangeline said. “Put your gun down, Sam. It was Zedock's fish you just ate.”

“He refuses to come inside,” O'Hara said.

“I'll talk to him from the deck,” Evangeline said. She wore a black casual dress that ended midway down her thighs and knee-high boots. “Zedock doesn't trust witches at close quarters.”

Flintlock followed the woman outside, the Colt in his waistband, but O'Hara sat at the table and poured himself coffee.

Zedock stood in his pirogue, a lantern casting a halo of orange light at the bow. Around him the swamp lay in moonlight and mist.

The black man spoke in a rush. “Obadiah Anderson is dead, Miz Evangeline. A bomb fell from the sky and blew him up and it was the flying machine and—”

“Mr. Briscoe, slow down,” Evangeline said. “Take a deep breath and then tell me what happened. Obadiah is dead, you say.”

“Yes, Miz Evangeline,” Zedock said. “Seen it with my own two eyes.” A fish leapt out of the water near the man's canoe and he jumped and looked around him.

After a few moments to recover from his fright, he told Evangeline what had happened while he watched from the cover of the tupelo.

“And you're sure Obadiah is dead?” Evangeline said.

“He was inside the cabin when the bomb came down,” Zedock said. “I got to be moving on now, Miz Evangeline. The loup-garou are out, heard them howling at the moon. It ain't good for Christian folks to be abroad when the loup-garou howl, no.”

As the black man punted away, O'Hara came out onto the deck, a coffee cup in his hand. “I killed two men today,” he said. “Earlier today.”

“What men?” Flintlock said.

O'Hara shrugged. “I don't know their names. Look in the corner over there, Sammy.”

Flintlock glanced behind him and saw his Hawken propped against the cabin wall. “How the hell—”

“We'll talk about it inside,” Evangeline said. “The loup-garou are no friends of mine. I refuse to attend their blood moon balls and they're mad at me for it.”

Flintlock thought about pursuing the woman's statement, but decided otherwise. Suffice to say that the southeast Texas swamp country was a mighty strange place, and let it go at that. He picked up his Hawken, held it close like a long-lost child and followed the others inside.

 

 

“All right, O'Hara,” Flintlock said. “Tell us.”

“Tell you what?”

“Damn it, quit being such an Indian. Tell us about the two men you shot today.”

“I only shot one,” O'Hara said. “I used my knife on the other.”

Flintlock feigned patience. “Make things easy for us. First tell us about the one you shot.”

A terse man by nature, O'Hara used as few words as possible to recount his time in Budville, his visit to the
Democrat
office and his shooting of Cletus McPhee.

Flintlock and Evangeline listened in silence and when O'Hara was done talking the woman said, “If you're right about Ritter being broke when he got here, who is the moneyman behind him?”

“I don't know,” O'Hara said. “The only man with money in Budville is Mathias Cobb, the owner of the bank.”

“A bank in a hick town doesn't have the kind of money Brewster Ritter needs to clear the swamp and start logging,” Flintlock said. “We're talking tens of thousands, maybe a sight more.”

“Budville may be a hick town, but the bank is another story,” Evangeline said. “Just about every rancher west of the Sabine has an account there, including Jerome Jackson. His J-Bar-J is the biggest spread in southeast Texas and some say he's a millionaire many times over.”

“How do you know this?” Flintlock said.

“Jerome and I walked out a few times,” Evangeline said. “He wanted me to live on his ranch but I told him I had to stay in the swamp where my healing powers would do the most good.” She smiled. “We parted friends and he always remembers my birthday.”

“So Mathias Cobb could be bankrolling Ritter,” Flintlock said. “If he is, then he's just as guilty. I think it's time I did some investigating in that town. Damn, I need a horse.”

“An Apache I know has horses,” O'Hara said. “That's where I left mine. It's a fair piece to his place but you can pick up a mount there. Any one of his horses are better than that nag you were riding.”

“She's a good little mare, that mustang of mine,” Flintlock said.

“No, she's not,” O'Hara said. “She's a sheep.”

Evangeline said, “Tell us about the other man you . . . um . . .”

“Killed?” O'Hara said.

“Yes, that,” Evangeline said.

“After I left Budville I paid a visit to Brewster Ritter's camp. It's on the Louisiana side of the Sabine,” O'Hara said. “He's got himself situated well, on dry land, he and his men living in tents. I counted maybe fifty horses and a dozen freight wagons, huge machines of all kinds lying around the place.”

“You mean you just rode in there?” Flintlock said.

“No, I didn't go in like that. There must be two hundred men in camp, most of them workers, but Ritter has guns aplenty. I'm sure I spotted Travis Kershaw, the Pecos County draw fighter, in the crowd. There's another Travis Kershaw, sells his gun out of Denver, but he ain't a patch on this one.”

“So many,” Evangeline said, her beautiful face troubled.

“That's only the ones I saw,” O'Hara said. “There could be more out in the swamp.”

“There should only be one hundred and ninety-nine, O'Hara,” Flintlock said. “You say you killed one.”

“I didn't say I'd killed one of Ritter's men, but in fact I did. I heard other men call him Harry and he had your rifle.”

“I remember him,” Flintlock said. “I planned to gun him first chance I got.”

“Well, I did it for you, Sam, so now you owe me.”

Evangeline said, “Mr. O'Hara, please tell us what happened, but spare me the gory details.”

“Well, first of all, Brewster Ritter doesn't keep any kind of guard. I guess he thinks no one can touch him and I decided it was time to teach him otherwise. I saw Harry carry Sam's Hawken into a tent. He was drunk of course, and I went after him. Harry went in the front and I went in from the back. He was lying on his bunk already snoring when I cut his throat. He didn't snore after that.”

“O'Hara, how did you get into Ritter's camp?” Flintlock said.

“I found a place at the edge of the swamp where I could leave my horse and then went on foot, maybe two miles. Like I said, there were no guards, just folks walking around. Nobody even noticed me.”

“That will change now,” Evangeline said. She frowned and brushed a fly off her knee. “There's not a cabin in the entire swamp that's safe from Ritter's flying machine and now he'll use it more.”

“Then we'll have to bring it down,” Flintlock said.

“How?” O'Hara said. “It will take some doing. I'm told it just shrugs off rifle bullets.”

“What about the balloon?” Flintlock said.

“Maybe. If we can put a big enough hole in it.”

“We need a cannon,” Flintlock said. “Evangeline, you got one of those lying around?”

“No, but I think we should talk with Cornelius,” Evangeline said. “He's a museum curator, not really a problem solver, but he often has good ideas.”

“Right now I'll talk to anybody,” Flintlock said. “The only idea I have kicking around my head is to ride into Ritter's camp and shoot him down like a dog.”

“You'd last about ten seconds, Sammy,” O'Hara said.

“I know. That's why it's a rotten idea,” Flintlock said.