Free Kill or Die by William W. Johnstone Page B

Flintlock said. “We’ll go scout the bank where Zedock was murdered. Can we take your pirogue?”
    Evangeline didn’t raise her head. “Of course you can.”
    O’Hara removed his strange top hat, kneeled beside the body and placed his hand on Zedock’s cold forehead. He bowed his head and closed his eyes and stayed like that for long moments. When he finally rose he said, “The Great Spirit has welcomed him.”
    â€œIt could not be otherwise,” Evangeline said.
    O’Hara nodded. “That is true, swamp witch. It could not be otherwise.”
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    Sam Flintlock stood in the bright morning sun, the new day coming in clean, and chopped his bladed hand to the east. “That’s the way he headed, all right. What do you say, Injun?”
    â€œYou read sign as well as I do, Sammy,” O’Hara said.
    â€œThen we’ll follow the tracks,” Flintlock said. “See where they lead.”
    â€œThey’ll lead right to Brewster Ritter’s camp,” O’Hara said.
    â€œUh-huh,” Flintlock said. President Grant’s Colt was tucked into his waistband.
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    The tracks ended at a ruined stage station on the west bank of the Sabine. “He crossed here,” O’Hara said. “Rode down through the willows there and across the shallows.”
    â€œThen the murderer was definitely one of Ritter’s men,” Flintlock said.
    â€œThat’s a fair guess,” O’Hara said. His eyes held on Flintlock for a long time, then he said, “Well, what do we do?”
    â€œWhat we don’t do is walk into Ritter’s camp with wet feet and ask him nicely to hand over the murderer of Zedock Briscoe,” Flintlock said. “Man could get himself killed that way. There’s a sunny patch by the ruin. I say we sit for a spell. My feet are killing me in these boots.”
    They propped their backs against the stage stop’s only standing wall, then O’Hara stretched out and tipped his hat over his eyes.
    Five minutes went by and as the morning melted into a drowsy afternoon, wicked old Barnabas, his pants rolled up to his knees, stood in the shallows, a fishing pole in his hands. He looked up at Flintlock and said, “I got news for you, Sam.”
    â€œSpill it, you old reprobate,” Flintlock said.
    Barnabas yawned. “I made a mistake, boy. Your ma ain’t in this swamp. She’s in the Arizona Territory waiting tables at a saloon they call The Swamp.” The old man grinned. “See, that’s how come the mix-up. You-know-who played a trick on me. He does that all the time.”
    â€œDamn you, Barnabas—”
    â€œI’m already that, Sam.”
    â€œYou know the trouble I’m in following the wild goose chase you sent me on? I ought to put a bullet in you.”
    â€œWouldn’t do you any good, boy, on account of how I’m dead already.”
    Flintlock jumped to his feet. “What’s my ma’s name, you evil old coot? And where is she in Arizona?”
    â€œYou know I never give out my daughter’s name. I refuse to say it.”
    â€œSay it now, you old scoundrel. Say my ma’s name.”
    â€œElsie. It’s Elsie. That’s the name I give her.”
    â€œWhere is she in Arizona?”
    â€œMaybe I’ll tell you later.”
    â€œGo to hell, Barnabas,” Flintlock said.
    The old mountain man threw away his fishing pole. And vanished. The river water bubbled and steamed where he’d stood.
    O’Hara stepped beside Flintlock. “Riders coming,” he said.
    â€œDid you hear that? Did you hear what the old sinner told me?”
    O’Hara’s face was empty. “Riders coming,” he said.
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    The two riders were still a ways off as Flintlock and O’Hara stepped away from the abandoned stage stop and stood at the edge of the swamp. The men could be a couple of Ritter’s hired guns,