Free Kill or Die by William W. Johnstone

to the southern edge of the swamp and set up the killing Ritter so badly wanted.
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    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.
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    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.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    â€œYou got something on your mind, honey?” Dixie Haley said.
    Bonifaunt Toohy sat at the end of his cot in his undershirt and pants. He poured black rum into a jigger and knocked it back. “Why would a whore care about anything?” he said.
    The afternoon sun had trapped itself within the canvas and the tent was hot. Dixie had undone her lace corset and rolled her black stockings down to her ankles. She still wore her high-heeled ankle boots.
    â€œI care about you, honey,” Dixie said. “The other girls say you slap them around but you never do that to me.”
    â€œNot yet anyway,” Toohy said. Coarse black hair grew over his shoulders and down his back. “So far you’ve given me no cause.”
    Dixie felt a little tremble inside and she said, “Maybe I should go and leave you to your bottle.”
    â€œMan takes only what he needs out of a bottle and then he puts the cork in it. You stay.”
    â€œI’ll stay as long as you need me, Bonifaunt.”
    â€œCall me Bon, just that. I hate my goddamn name.” Then, “You slept in Travis Kershaw’s tent last night. How do you explain that?”
    Dixie hesitated before she answered. “Honey, that was business. It’s what I do for money.”
    â€œDon’t I give you enough?”
    â€œSometimes a girl wants more.”
    Toohy kneaded the knuckles of his right hand. For Dixie it was a bad sign. The other girls said he did that before he slapped them. She also heard he did it before he killed a man.
    Dixie’s tremble was back. “For clothes and stuff. Girly stuff,” she said.
    â€œWhat did you tell him about me?”
    â€œNothing, honey, honest. Like I said, it was strictly business.”
    â€œYou tell him how I feel about Ritter? You tell him I ain’t never killed a woman or hurt a child. Did you tell him that?”
    â€œI didn’t even know those things, Bonny. I swear. Maybe I should leave. Mr. Ritter will be back soon.”
    â€œHe won’t be here for a spell yet. It’s a ways to Budville. You’re a whore, Dixie, with a heart like a rock. Could you put a bullet into a child?”
    The woman was horrified. “No. I could never do a thing like that.”
    â€œA little boy and a little girl,