So far only a dozen trees had been felled but it was enough for Flintlock to imagine the blighted wasteland that would be left after all the cypress were gone.

  He spotted Brewster Ritter overseeing the operation, standing close to the edge of the swamp. The stocky little man was scowling and he continually yelled orders as though unhappy with the loggers’ progress. As far as Flintlock was concerned they had already done enough damage that would take nature hundreds of years to put right, if ever.

  Ritter was within rifle range but Flintlock had not brought along his Winchester and the one his assailant had used was at the bottom of the swamp. “Another time, Ritter,” he whispered. “Another time.”

  “Have you any idea who he was, Sam?” Evangeline said.

  “No. But I guess he didn’t like me much,” Sam Flintlock said.

  “I agree with that,” O’Hara said. “Since he took a pot at you.”

  “He may have been the man who came here asking about you, Sam,” Evangeline said. “He was headed in the direction of my cabin.”

  “He probably was,” Flintlock said.

  “He had your description, talked about the thunderbird on your throat. He must have recognized you.”

  “And cut loose,” O’Hara said. “And damn near killed you.”

  “Yeah, I’m aware of that,” Flintlock said. Sometimes the breed irritated the hell out of him for his uncanny grasp of the obvious.

  “I visited Cornelius this morning, but I didn’t know then that the cypress was already being cut,” Evangeline said. “I’ll ask him to call a meeting of the swamp dwellers. They respect Cornelius and they’ll come.”

  “And decide what?” Flintlock said. “The only thing Ritter understands is violence.”

  “Then it may come to that,” Evangeline said. “We may have to come together and fight.”

  “And that gives me an idea,” Flintlock said. “Mathias Cobb is behind all this and I think I’ll give him an invitation to the meeting.”

  “Sam, you stole the fat man’s money and that didn’t work,” O’Hara said. “But I reckon an invitation to the meeting will.”

  Flintlock grinned. “Want to do it, O’Hara?”

  “Damn right I do. It’s been too quiet around here.”

  “Hell, I nearly got killed today,” Flintlock said.

  “Yes, nearly. But nearly don’t cut it when things are too quiet.”

  “Evangeline,” Flintlock said, “did you make a lick of sense out of that?”

  “More or less,” the woman said. She wore her boned red leather corset, black tights and black boots and looked divine. She slid her derringer into the garter holster on her thigh and said, “We’ll leave right now and talk with Cornelius, tell him about the trees and set a date for the meeting.”

  Flintlock made a long-suffering face. “I’m getting mighty sick of paddling though this damned swamp.”

  “I’ll do the paddling, Sammy,” O’Hara said. “But this time remember to bring your rifle.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “When we cut deeper into the swamp how many logs will the launch tow back to here at a time?” Brewster Ritter said.

  “I can’t give you an exact figure, but I believe between six to seven hundred,” Leander Byng.

  “It won’t blow up on us, huh?” Ritter said.

  Byng looked confused. “I don’t understand the question.”

  “I mean towing that many logs,” Ritter said. “I mean all of a sudden . . . boom!”

  “The launch has a high-quality steam engine that I designed myself,” Byng said. “She will perform as well, if not better, than any of our great ocean liners or warships.”

  “How many riflemen can I cram into her while she’s towing logs?”

  “A dozen at least. All they have to do is find deck space for themselves.”

  “Then when Lilly gets back I’ll tell him to hire more guns. Damn him, he should be back by now. I guess he’s spending more time with that little swamp gal than he intended.”

  “Will that be all, Mr. Ritter?” Byng said. “I must get back to work.”

  “Get those ripsaws going, Byng,” Ritter said. “We need to buck the logs before we load them onto the freight wagons.”

  “I’ll need three more days,” the engineer said.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll pile them logs high for you.” Ritter said. “It’s funny, I just had a thought. Remember what hide hunters did to the buffalo? Well, that’s what I’m gonna do to the cypress.” He scowled. “I made a good joke, Byng. Why didn’t you smile?”

  “Because the buffalo are all gone,” Byng said.

  “That’s the whole point. Soon the bald cypress will be all gone as well. Get it?”

  Byng nodded. “Yes, yes, a very good joke, Mr. Ritter,” he said.

  “Where the hell is he?” Brewster Ritter said.

  Bonifaunt Toohy removed his bowler hat and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Ritter’s tent was hot from the day’s sun and the smoking oil lamp smelled. “I guess we’d better go look for him.”

  “I wonder if he killed that Sam feller. And did he get Cobb’s money back?”

  “I guess he’ll answer that when we see him,” Toohy said.

  “Damn, if he’s still in the sack with that swamp floozy I’ll kill him.”

  Toohy smiled. “Seb will take a lot of killing.”

  Ritter shook his head in exasperation. “Round up half a dozen men with lanterns and go look for him. Don’t go into the swamp. It’s too dangerous at night. Just remain on firm ground and call out for him. Understand?”

  Toohy lifted the tent flap and glanced outside. “Darkness coming down. I’ll get the search party organized.”

  “Find him, Bon,” Ritter said. “He’s got questions to answer.”

  Lanterns bobbed like fireflies at the edge of the swamp and the voices of rough men were raised, shouting Sebastian Lilly’s name. The swamp is never silent at night. Insects chattered, frogs croaked, night birds called and alligators bellowed, but there was no answering yell from Lilly.

  After an hour of useless shouting the searchers became hoarse and Bonifaunt Toohy’s frustration grew. Where was the man? Was he in bed with a woman as Ritter claimed?

  One of the search party, a hired gun named Jed Connolly, said to Toohy, “You don’t suppose one of the swampers gunned him?”

  Toohy shook his head. “That ain’t likely. If Lilly is with a woman he isn’t going to move until morning. We’re wasting our time out here and I’m getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.” Toohy raised his voice. “All right boys, let’s call it quits. Lilly isn’t gonna show up tonight.”

  One man, a logger, didn’t get the message.

  He stood in marshy water at the edge of the swamp, his lantern raised high, its yellow light rippling with the current. Then he yelled, “Hey, Toohy, bring more light over here.”

  “What do you see?” Toohy said.

  “Hell, I don’t know, but it could be a body.”

  A man laughed in the gloom. “Be careful there, Charlie. If it’s an alligator he’ll bite you up the ass.”

  The man named Charlie said, “That ain’t funny.”

  Toohy and a couple of men walked to where Charlie was still scanning the edge of the swamp. They both raised their lanterns and after a few moments Toohy said, “It is a body. Looks like ol’ Seb caught up with that Flintlock feller.”

  “Should we drag it in?” Charlie said.

  Jed Connolly said, “Sure. I’d like to count how many bullet holes Seb made in that ranny.”

  “Yeah, drag it in,” Toohy said. “There’s a dead branch lying there. If it’s Flintlock we can identify him by the tattoo on his throat.”

  It took several attempts before Charlie managed to hook the corpse’s clothing with the willow branch. Helped by a couple of other men he dragged the body to dry ground. Then everybody stood there and gaped and Toohy voiced their thoughts, “It’s Seb, by God,” he said. He lowered his lantern and looked closer. “He’s been shot.”

  “One bullet smack in the middle of his brow,” Charlie said. “I guess he met up with that there Flintlock ranny you’re talking about.”

  Suddenly Toohy was angry. “Flintlock didn’t kill him. Seb was shot at a distance by some swamp rat with a rifle. It’s plain to see.”

  Connolly shook his head. “Seb was gunned by some lowdown yellow belly who was scared to meet him face-to-face.”

  “It’s how it shapes up to me,” Toohy said. “Strange that the alligators didn’t eat him. I guess ol’ Seb was just too tough to chew.”

  That drew a laugh and Toohy said, “Let’s get him back. We can bury him decent come morning.”

  “Bon, you sure Flintlock didn’t kill him?” Charlie said.

  “No, damn you, he didn’t kill him,” Toohy said. “Get the thought out of your head, and that goes for the rest of you. A lowdown swamp rat assassin who shot at a distance killed Seb Lilly. That’s the only way it could have happened. There is no other explanation so don’t y’all go looking for one. It was nothing to do with Flintlock, who’s probably not even in the swamp any longer. You all got that?”

  “Anything you say, Bon,” Charlie said. “I was just asking, like.”

  “Then don’t say it again, to me or anyone else,” Toohy said. “I don’t want the man with the tattoo on his throat turning into a boogerman and scaring the hell out of everybody. You hear what I’m saying to you?”

  “We get it, Bon,” Charlie said. “Like you say, there ain’t no way Seb Lilly was killed by Flintlock. Just no way in hell.”

  Toohy stared into the gibbering night of the swamp and his thoughts narrowed his eyes. “That’s right, Charlie,” he said. “Just no way in hell.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Sam Flintlock stepped out of the pirogue and stood with his hand on the butt of his Colt until Evangeline joined him. They both waited until O’Hara tied up the canoe, then all three walked to the door of the Museum of the Swamp and rang the clockwork bell.

  Cornelius answered almost immediately, his face registering surprise. “So late? In the dark? But please come inside,” he said.

  He led the way through the exhibit room into a small, cozy parlor where a lamp glowed, illuminating the crowded furnishings that were fashionable at the time. A stern portrait of Queen Victoria hung on the wall above the fireplace and under it a scrolled wooden sign that read THE EMPIRE FOREVER.

  Cornelius saw Flintlock staring at the somber monarch and said, “I received that from the queen’s own hand, a reward for my services to the British Empire. Her generosity far exceeds her taste in gifts.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Flintlock said. “It would make a good pistol target.”

  “My dear Sam, if her majesty heard you say that she would not be amused,” Cornelius said.

  “What did you do for the old gal’s empire?” O’Hara said.

  “I introduced her army officers to the joys of the Gatling gun and showed them how efficiently they could mow down vast numbers of naked savages and be back in their tents in time for tea. Of course a few years later the British army acquired the Maxim gun that could slaughter even more naked savages. I’m told the queen was very pleased with it.”

  Cornelius smiled and said, “And talking about tea, would anyone care for a cup? I have a pot brewing right now.”

  Evangeline asked for tea, as did O’Hara, who’d never tried it before. Flintlock kept to bourbon, but he did accept a slice of seed cake.

  After the required amount of polite small talk, Evangeline told Cornelius about Brewster Ritter’s assault on the cypress and the need for a meeting of all the swamp people. “We need to come up with ideas on how to fight the menace,” she said.

  “I’m against that for two reasons,” Cornelius said. “A gathering of all the swamp people in one place at the same time, and I assume we’re talking about here at the museum, might prove to be a tempting target for Ritter and his gunmen. And secondly, as I’ve said before, the people of this swamp are not fighters. They just want to be left alone to live their lives. I can’t ask them to take up arms against expert gunmen. You heard me talk about the Maxim gun and its effect on savages. If we attack Ritter I can assure you that the resulting slaughter of our people will be much the same.”

  Flintlock said, “Toss us a lifeline here, Cornelius. You’ve told us what we can’t do, now tell us what we can do.”

  “Sam, I suggest you recruit a small force of volunteers from the swamp dwellers, men you can trust, men who will stand their ground. Use the force to hit and run, slow down Ritter’s logging any way you can. In the meantime I plan to leave the swamp and telegraph Washington. I still have friends there and perhaps they can do something to stop this madman.”

  “How many men?” O’Hara said.

  “No more than six,” Cornelius said. “I suggest you start with Mrs. Allie Briscoe’s sons. Claude and Isaac are fine young men and they are anxious to avenge their father’s death.”

  “Can they use a gun?” Flintlock said.

  “I believe they regularly shoot squirrels for the pot,” Cornelius said.

  Flintlock and O’Hara exchanged glances, each reading in the other man’s eyes what was in his own . . . squirrel hunters were not a match for a dozen of Texas’s top draw fighters.

  Cornelius knew what the two men were thinking. “Sam, you must work with what you can get. Hit and run is the key. Don’t stand and fight. Will you take it on?”

  “I’ll study on it,” Flintlock said.

  Both he and Cornelius knew that was no answer at all.

  “Seems like your museum moved a good ten yards since the last time I was here, Cornelius,” Flintlock said as he stepped out the door. “I recollect that the big cypress there was a lot farther away.”

  “Eleven yards, two feet and seven inches to be exact,” Cornelius said. “During the last big storm the island moved a quarter of a mile, but that was unusual.”

  “When was that?” Flintlock said.

  “All of six years ago. We’re overdue for another big one.”

  O’Hara was positioning himself to assist Evangeline into the pirogue when Flintlock jerked his head and said, “What the hell was that?”

  Cornelius raised the lantern he carried. “What happened?”

  “Something just flew over my head.”

  “An owl perhaps,” Cornelius said. “They can fly very fast.”

  But a moment later an arrow thudded into the mooring post where O’Hara stood. Not a man to ponder a situation, he drew as he dropped to the ground and his gun came up fast, pointing into the darkness.

  “Evangeline, get back!” Flintlock yelled. He held his Colt ready.

  But the woman ignored him. She pulled the derringer from her garter and took a knee beside O’Hara. “Do you see anything?” she said.

  O’Hara shook his head. “Only swamp.”

  For long moments the four people stared into the darkness. There was no sound but the soft lap of water against the canoe and the chirp of insects. Then Cornelius stepped to the post and pulled the arrow free. He studied it for a while then said, “Flint head fletched with hawk feathers and the shaft marked with five yellow rings. It’s an Atakapan arrow.”

  “I thought they were all dead,” Flintlock said.

  “So did I,” Cornelius said.

  “Why did they shoot at us and me half Indian?” O’Hara said.

  “The Atakapan were experts with the bow,” Cornelius said. “O’Hara, if they’d wanted to kill you and Flintlock they could have.”

  Flintlock said, “Were they trying to warn us off? Telling us to get the hell out of their swamp?”

  “Perhaps,” Cornelius said. “Or they were trying to tell us something else.”

  “Couldn’t they have just sent us a note?” Flintlock said.

  Cornelius smiled. “That’s not the Indian way.”

  Evangeline rose gracefully to her feet. “What were they telling us, Cornelius?”

  “Perhaps that we have allies in the fight against Ritter.”

  “I think,” Flintlock said, “that they were trying to scare us. Next time they see us they’ll aim better.”

  Evangeline shoved the derringer back into her garter. “Which of you is right?” she said.

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Cornelius said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “It was the swamp that killed Seb Lilly, Mr. Cobb,” Bonifaunt Toohy said. “Don’t let anybody tell you different. We buried him this morning at first light and—”

  “Like I give a damn about that,” Mathias Cobb said. “Lilly was a professional and he was paid to take his chances.” The banker struggled from his chair and waddled to the decanters on a wall table. He poured two whiskeys and handed one to Toohy. “It’s all getting too close to me, Mr. Toohy. First the bank robbery and now this. I don’t like it one bit.”

  “When we kill Flintlock we’ll get your money back,” Toohy said. “He can’t spend it in a swamp.”

  “I know, but he can give it away to the swampers.”

  “We’ll get him soon.”

  “How is Brewster Ritter holding up?”

  “The cutting has started. He’s talking about hauling out six or seven hundred logs each week.”

  “And the sawmill?”

  “The engineer is setting it up. He says we’ll be ready to buck the logs in a few days.”

  “How many freight wagons does Ritter have? I know I paid for a lot of them.”

  “We’ll get the lumber to the Budville train depot, Mr. Cobb. Don’t concern yourself about that.”

  “The operation has got to run smoothly, like clockwork, you understand?”