Kill or Die by William W. Johnstone

but they might as well be a pair of out-of-work punchers riding the grub line or even circuit preachers come to that.
    It was only when they got closer that Flintlock recognized Lem, the Ritter gunman who’d left him to the tender mercies of the alligator. He didn’t know the other man but he was a hard-faced feller who was cut from the same cloth as his companion.
    When the two were just a few yards away, Flintlock stepped out of cover and said, “Howdy, Lem. You remember me?”
    The man drew rein, startled. “You!” he said.
    â€œCut the throats of any raccoons recently, Lem?” Flintlock said.
    â€œHow did—”
    â€œI escape the alligator? It’s a long story, Lem, but you don’t have long enough to live to hear it.”
    Flintlock was conscious of O’Hara on his left. The breed’s hand was close to his Colt and he was good with it, a steady gun hand in a pinch.
    â€œGive us the road,” Lem said. “I don’t deal with low persons.”
    â€œI do and there’s none lower than you, Lem,” Flintlock said.
    â€œYou killed Al Plume and I owed you payback,” Lem said. “Now clear the way there.”
    Flintlock smiled. “Lem, are you going to talk all day or draw? I have a feeling you’re scared, Lem. You’re trembling like a hound dog passin’ a peach pit.”
    The man called Lem roared his anger and went for his gun.
    Flintlock shot him out of the saddle with time to spare.
    The other man threw up his hands. “Hell, don’t shoot. I’m out of it.”
    â€œDo you work for Brewster Ritter?” Flintlock said. Grant’s Colt trailed smoke in his hand.
    â€œYeah I do, but—”
    â€œThen you ain’t out of it.” Flintlock fired. Hit hard, the man swayed in the saddle and Flintlock shot him again. This time the gunman pitched to his right and landed with a thud, dead when he hit the ground.
    â€œAin’t one to hold a grudge, are you, Sammy?” O’Hara said.
    â€œA while back, I took to liking raccoons,” Flintlock said.
    â€œAh, then that explains it,” O’Hara said.
    â€œI hate to pass on two good horses, but we have to send Ritter a message,” Flintlock said. “I want to scare the hell out of him.” He watched O’Hara’s face as he said, “Does the Injun half of you know how to scalp a man?”
    â€œYes, it does,” O’Hara said, his own features revealing nothing.
    â€œThen scalp them two,” Flintlock said.
    â€œYou would have made a good Comanche, Sammy,” O’Hara said, pulling his knife.
    â€œDamn right,” Flintlock said.
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    Their gory heads dripping blood, the two dead men were tied across their horses with Lem’s rope, a relic of his cowboy past. Flintlock and O’Hara led the mounts to the crossing and onto the east side of the Sabine. Flintlock slapped the horses into motion and they trotted away, their stirrups bouncing.
    â€œI’d like to see Ritter’s face when he gets a load of them two,” Flintlock said. “He’ll know he’s in a fight.”
    O’Hara said, “Your mother isn’t here, Sam.”
    â€œSo you heard him?”
    â€œI always hear him. See him from time to time. Now you don’t have to stay here. You can walk away from it.”
    â€œIs that what you want to do, O’Hara, walk away from it?”
    â€œNo. I’ll stick.”
    â€œMe too,” Flintlock
    â€œThen we’re fools,” O’Hara said.
    Flintlock smiled. “You’ll get no argument from me on that score.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    Evangeline stood on her deck in the waning light and watched the lights draw closer. The canoes, lit fore and aft with lanterns, carried two dozen black folk, men, women and children, all of them singing the plaintive Negro spiritual, “I’m Going Up.”

    Oh, saints and sinners will you go
And see