Kill or Die (6 page)

At dawn, Flintlock and O'Hara stepped into Evangeline's pirogue and slid across the calm waters of the swamp, the woman paddling at the bow and O'Hara at the stern. Flintlock sat in the middle, his hand close to his Colt. Mist lay thick on the water and the only sound was the occasional call of a bird and the steady plop, plop of the paddles.

Evangeline turned her head and said, “The Museum of the Swamp was built on a floating island and moves around. We'll try its last location.”

Flintlock, balancing coffee and cornbread, said, “What kind of place is it?”

“It's a tall building, seven floors high, and some say the old Spanish men built it as a kind of mansion,” Evangeline said. “You must start on the ground floor and examine the exhibits. Then, if you solve the mystery you can proceed to the next floor. But no one can climb higher unless the mystery is solved. Cornelius is very strict about that.”

“I'm not very good at solving mysteries,” Flintlock said around a mouthful of cornbread. “What kind of mystery?”

“The mystery of the swamp,” Evangeline said. “Brilliant scholars have spent their entire career on the ground floor and never risen any higher.”

“How many visitors does the museum get, since it floats around in a swamp?” Flintlock said.

“Oh, it's busy enough,” Evangeline said. “There was one scholar in 1870, two in 1876 and another in 1883. Cornelius was very pleased.” Then, her voice rising a note, “Hush. I sense that Basilisk is near.”

“Over there,” O'Hara said, pointing. “On the bank.”

It was the biggest alligator, the hugest animal, Flintlock had ever seen. The scaly reptile was on its belly, its huge jaws agape, and it looked like it was big enough to swallow a longhorn steer in one gulp.

“He's not warmed himself yet,” Evangeline said. “He won't trouble us.”

The alligator scared Flintlock enough, but it was the sight of Barnabas sitting on the creature's back that troubled him most. The old mountain man polished a brass pocket watch with a bright yellow cloth, breathed on it and polished it again. Satisfied, he removed his top hat, hung the watch around his neck and then smiled and patted the monster's back. He picked up the hat, adjusted the goggles on the crown and replaced it on his head. Not once did he glance in Flintlock's direction, a sure sign that his grandson did not meet with the old man's approval.

“There's a patch of mist on Basilisk's back,” Evangeline said. She laughed. “For a moment I thought it was a human.”

“It was just the mist,” Flintlock said. “That's all it was.”

“Yes, the mist can play tricks on a person,” O'Hara said. “Ain't that right, Sammy?”

 

 

“Look!” Evangeline said. “The museum has moved but a few yards.”

Sam Flintlock stared over her shoulder at a rickety timber structure that looked like a pair of wooden boxes of diminishing size stacked one on top of the other. The many windows to the front, including a myriad of dormers, were in the Gothic style, as was the entrance to the building, guarded by an iron-studded door. The untidy nests of water birds sprouted like weeds all over the edifice and marred the blue paint with vertical streaks of white.

“Quite a place,” Flintlock said. He'd never seen its like before and thought it looked like a house built by a madman.

“Cornelius is very proud of it,” Evangeline said, her hair shining in the morning sun. “Before Ritter arrived, he thought about hosting a ball here for the swamp dwellers. But now the Museum of the Swamp could become a prime target for Ritter's bombs, that is no longer a possibility.”

The canoe bumped against the tiny dock and Evangeline, with considerable grace, stepped out and held it in place until Flintlock and O'Hara joined her. She tied up the canoe and then led the way along a gravel path to the museum door. A large key handle protruded from a wooden panel at the side of the door and Evangeline turned it as she would wind a clock. After she let the handle go it turned backward by itself and a bell jangled inside. She smiled at Flintlock. “It's a clockwork bell. Clever, don't you think?”

“Usually I just knock,” Flintlock said. He looked up at the towering, ramshackle structure above his head. “Is this place safe?” he said.

“Of course it is,” Evangeline said. “Well, at least until now.” The door creaked open. “After you, Sam,” she said.

Sam Flintlock stepped through the door into a large room lit by four large windows, two on each side. Half a dozen glass-topped display cases were placed strategically on the pine floor and the walls were covered in shelves that held stacked, leather-bound books, alligator skulls, turtle shells and skeletal birds, coiled snakes and a variety of stuffed swamp animals. The place smelled musty and slightly damp along with a vague odor of fish.

Evangeline stepped next to Flintlock. “Interesting, isn't it?” she said. “Look in the display case beside you, armor and weapons of the Spanish conquistadores who first explored the swamp more than three hundred years ago. And over there is an ancient Egyptian mummy that was found just a couple of months ago floating in a bayou. No one knows how it got here.” She smiled. “The swamp has many mysteries.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Flintlock said. He felt uneasy but the weight of the Colt in his waistband reassured him. “Where is Cornelius?”

“He'll be down shortly,” Evangeline said. “He likes people to browse for a while before he greets them. O'Hara, over on the shelf to your right is pottery and baskets used by the old Atakapan Indians. Cornelius says they lived in the swamp going back ten thousand years before they all disappeared.”

“What happened to them?” O'Hara said.

“No one knows. It's yet another mystery of the swamp.”

Light footsteps sounded on a rickety staircase that led up to the next floor. Then a small, slender man appeared. He crossed the floor, bowed and kissed Evangeline's hand. “It's been too long, my dear,” he said. He had a birdlike voice. “We live in parlous times.”

“This is my friend Mr. Sam Flintlock and his associate Mr. O'Hara,” Evangeline said.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” Cornelius said. “Have you come to solve the mystery of the swamp?”

“No, we've come to figure some way of making Brewster Ritter eat crow,” Flintlock said. “And to see him hang, of course.”

“Ah yes, I understand,” Cornelius said. “These are violent times indeed.” He seemed distracted, stealing quick glances at the thunderbird tattoo on Flintlock's throat.

The man's appearance did nothing to reassure Flintlock. In contrast to his own stocky, strong masculine presence, Cornelius seemed almost effeminate. He was less than medium height with the face that on a woman would be called pretty, and thin, pale hair fell in strands to his shoulders. He wore a strange, knee-length frock coat in a light tan, a frilled white shirt, and breeches that ended at the calf and were held up by a belt with a huge gold buckle. He wore embroidered Chinese slippers on his feet, the toes upturned, fitted with little silver bells that chimed as he walked.

Cornelius remained silent and Flintlock said, “Evangeline says you may have some advice for us.” But to himself he said,
What does a woman like Evangeline see in this little pimp?

Cornelius didn't answer that question. He said, “Forgive me for staring at you, Mr. Flintlock, but the tattoo on your throat intrigues me.”

“Indian put it there when I was a boy,” Flintlock said. “It was my grandfather's idea, old Barnabas the mountain man. He said folks would remember me.”

“I'm sure they do,” Cornelius said. “I know I will.”

“Me too,” O'Hara said, grinning.

“The Atakapan Indians had a legend that a thunderbird will rise out of the swamp and lead the people to a time of peace and prosperity,” Cornelius said. “Perhaps you are the thunderbird, Mr. Flintlock. And you might be the one to solve the mystery of the swamp.”

Flintlock wished he was far from here, had a horse under him and was shooting at people he didn't like or maybe robbing a bank or something. Anywhere but here, in the middle of a damned bog, talking to a loco museum curator.

Perhaps Evangeline caught Flintlock's mood because she said, “Cornelius, we will talk of the thunderbird another day. Can you offer us any advice that will help us defeat Brewster Ritter?”

“Yes, I can, my beloved,” the little man said. “When you wish to drain the pond, cut off its water at the source. Stop Ritter's money flow and he will wither on the vine.”

“That's just what I was thinking,” O'Hara said. “Find the money man, gun him and it's over.”

“I abhor violence, but it is obvious that Ritter cannot proceed with his plans without funding. As for you, Mr. Flintlock, I can help you in a more tangible way. You think the Colt in your waistband is badly balanced and does not sit well in your hand, is that not so?”

Flintlock was stunned. “How the hell—”

“Let's say I just know,” Cornelius said. He stepped to a shelf and removed a walnut box. He returned to Flintlock and opened the lid.

“Three years before he died this Colt revolver was presented to me by President Grant,” Cornelius said. “I was a member of his security detail and stepped in the way of an assassin's bullet that was meant to kill him. Despite being wounded here”—Cornelius's hand strayed to the left side of his chest—“I killed the assailant and thus saved the president's life. The assassin was a woman, the widow of a Confederate soldier killed in the war. I have never used a gun since.”

“During the war Cornelius served under General Hugh Judson Kilpatrick as a major in the Second United States Cavalry,” Evangeline said. “He stayed in the army for some time after the war ended.”

“Try the revolver, Mr. Flintlock,” Cornelius said. “I wager it's a better balanced weapon than the one you have.”

“I can't take your Colt,” Flintlock said. “I mean, you getting it from President Grant an' all.”

“I want you to have it, Mr. Flintlock. Trust me, your need for a fine weapon is greater than mine.” Cornelius took the Colt from the case, and spun it with great skill and dexterity, so fast that the spinning revolver blurred into a blue disc. The butt of the Colt slapped into Cornelius's palm. He reversed the revolver and extended it to Flintlock, butt first.

Flintlock reached for the gun but Cornelius executed an expert road agent's spin and he found himself looking into the muzzle. “Way too trusting, Mr. Flintlock,” the little man said. “That can get you killed in the swamp.”

Irritated, Flintlock grabbed the Colt from Cornelius's hand, spun it faster than he had and a split second later the muzzle jammed into the space between Cornelius's eyebrows. “Old Barnabas taught me the road agent's spin when I was a younker,” he said. “I let you fool me was all.”

“Yes, because you underestimated me. Another mistake you must never make in the swamp. Do you like the Colt's balance?”

Despite his touchiness Flintlock admitted that the Colt's balance was damn near perfect. “A beautiful revolver,” he said.

“Then it's yours and use it wisely and well,” Cornelius said.

“I can't—”

“Yes. you can. I have no more need for it.”

Flintlock carefully placed the Colt in its case and reverently tucked it under his arm, as though Sam Colt's finest creation was a holy object.

“If you two gunslingers are quite finished showing off, I'd like to ask you a question, Cornelius,” O'Hara said.

“That is why the museum is here, to answer questions, Mr. O'Hara.”

“What is the mystery of the swamp?” O'Hara said.

“Good question,” Cornelius said. “The mystery of the swamp is that there is no mystery. That is why we must find it.”

“Oh,” O'Hara said.

And Flintlock, his mood warmed by the gun case under his arm, said, “Sounds logical to me.”

Brewster Ritter's anger verged on madness.

He stood beside his horse and said to Bonifaunt Toohy, “Search the swamp. Find him. I want the man who murdered Harry Stake dead, dead, dead.”

“I'll find him, boss,” Toohy said.

“If you can't, kill a swamp rat every hour until they give him up, understand? Show mercy to no one.”

“I'll see that it's done, boss,” Toohy said.

“And from now on I want guards posted around the clock,” Ritter said. “By God, if there's a repeat of this outrage heads will roll.”

“Where are you headed, boss?” Toohy said. “Maybe you should take one of the boys along.”

“No, I'm headed for Budville, and Mathias Cobb has guns enough. He said to only contact him if there's a crisis. Well, this is a crisis. The damned swampers are fighting back and that may call for a change of plans.”

Ritter swung into the saddle. “See that my orders are carried out, Mr. Toohy,” he said before he set spurs to his horse and galloped away.

“I've told you to never come here, Ritter,” Mathias Cobb said. He sat forward in his chair and his great belly hung between his knees like a sack of grain. “My association with your enterprise must be a secret. If the ranchers got wind of it . . . well, it could be a disaster.”

“This is important,” Ritter said. “One of my men was murdered in my camp, his throat cut. That can only mean one thing, that the swamp rats plan to fight back and bring the war to me.”

“Handle it, Ritter,” Cobb said. “I pay you enough to hire gunmen. Start shooting people and the swamp dwellers will soon lose their will to fight.” The fat man opened a tiny pillbox. He selected a white tablet, popped it into his mouth and swallowed it with a glass of water Sebastian Lilly poured for him. “My heart is acting up,” Cobb said. “You upset me coming here, Ritter.”

Ritter mentioned the orders he'd given Bonifaunt Toohy and said, “The killing will start today.”

“That is a practical solution to the problem,” Cobb said. “You will also forget any plan you might have for draining the swamp. Even confining that effort to the Texas side of the Sabine would cost a fortune. Even the United States government would not consider such an undertaking.”

“My chief engineer assures me that his steam pumps can handle it,” Ritter said.

“Balderdash,” Cobb said. “The man is a fool. A pistol cartridge costs ten cents. If you must kill an 'undred swamp dwellers it will cost you, or should I say me, just ten dollars. Bullets, not steam pumps, are the solution to your problem. It's good business, Ritter.”

Ritter opened his mouth to speak, but Cobb cut him off. “Can the cypress be harvested easily if the swamp is not drained?”

“Yes, of course, But—”

“That's all I wanted to know,” Cobb said. He scratched a blue jowl. “Now go about your business and don't come back here unless I send for you. Mr. Lilly, show Mr. Ritter to the door.”

Ritter knew further talk of draining the swamp was useless. He got to his feet and stepped to the door, but Cobb's voice stopped him. “Pile up the skulls like the Mongols did in the days of yore, Ritter. You'll soon force out the vermin. I guarantee it. Mr. Lilly, tell Miss Rhonda La Page that she can come in now.”

Lilly grinned. “Sure thing, Mr. Cobb,” he said.

 

 

Brewster Ritter's anger was a volcano ready to erupt. Mathias Cobb had made him feel small and now he wanted to kill, smash, destroy—he was a finger looking for a trigger. The late summer day was radiant, the birds sang and the smell of pines, borne on a north wind, scented the air. But Ritter cared nothing about those things. The swamp people stood in his way and he wanted them dead, all of them, to the last man, woman or child.

He rode east toward the Sabine, then looped southeast, planning to cross at the rocky shallows near a burned-out Butterfield stage stop. His route took him close to the southern edge of the swamp and set up the killing Ritter so badly wanted.

 

 

It had been a good fishing day for Zedock Briscoe and as the trout moved so did he. By the time he reached the southern edge of the swamp he reckoned he'd three dozen fish in his pirogue, plenty for his family, plenty to give away. The day was just beginning its shade into evening when he pulled up his lines and began to think fondly of fried fish and cornbread and maybe hotcakes if his wife was in the mood to make them.

 

 

Brewster Ritter heard a splash in the swamp to his left and drew rein. His eyes scanned into the distance and he saw a black man punting his canoe out of the shallows and into deeper water.

Ritter didn't know the man nor did he care. He was a swamp dweller and that was all the information he needed . . . an invitation to a killing. He slid the. 44-40 Winchester out of the boot under his left knee and racked a round into the chamber. The black man's head turned in his direction as though the sound had startled him. Ritter put the rifle to his shoulder, sighted and fired. Zedock fell backward out of the canoe and Ritter waited to see if he needed a second shot. Facedown in the water, the man's motionless body drifted away from the pirogue and snagged on a cypress knee. Even in the fading light Ritter saw a crimson stain in the water around the corpse.

Ritter smiled and sighed his satisfaction, like a man does after sex. But the killing of the swamp rat was better than sex, at that moment better than anything. He slid the rifle back in the boot and rode on . . . his anger gone as though it had never been.