Kill or Die by William W. Johnstone Page B

hand. “Get us closer,” he said.
    â€œCloser! Are you crazy? It’s shooting at us,” O’Hara said. As though to emphasize his point a bullet split the air between them and another made a dull thunk! as it hit the side of the canoe.
    â€œDo as I say, O’Hara,” Flintlock said.
    â€œDamn you, Sammy, if you get me killed I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life,” O’Hara said.
    â€œCloser,” Flintlock said. “What kind of Indian are you?”
    â€œRight now the scared kind.”
    â€œIt’s going to be just fine. I’m going to shoot the monster’s eyes out.”
    â€œOh my God!” O’Hara said, but whether it was a prayer or cry of approval Flintlock couldn’t tell.
    As it was, he got lucky.
    Rather than head straight toward the monster O’Hara angled the pirogue to his right away from the probing yellow beams from the monster’s eyes and vanished into the gloom.
    A man’s voice drifted across the water. “Where the hell is the canoe?”
    Then another, “Did it get away?”
    â€œNo, you sons of bitches, it’s right here!” Flintlock yelled.
    Sighted fire is impossible in darkness, but Flintlock was schooled in the ways of the draw fighter and the point and shoot. At a distance of twenty yards he scored two hits with five shots . . . and put out both the monster’s eyes.
    Now angry yells echoed across the water and as Flintlock reloaded, filling all six chambers of the Colt, he heard a difference in the sound as the blinded monster started to back away.
    Flintlock yelled to O’Hara, “Paddle!”
    â€œWhich way?”
    â€œDamn it, any way so long so as it’s not toward the monster.”
    O’Hara swung the pirogue to his left and paddled quickly. Flintlock could make out the darker bulk of the monster against the backdrop of the swamp. Aware that he was looking at a steam-powered boat of some kind, Flintlock fired as he went, hammering shot after shot into the churning craft, and was rewarded with a loud cry as somebody took a hit. Finally, his Colt shot dry and feeling nautical, Flintlock said, “Proceed with all possible speed, Mr. O’Hara.”
    O’Hara snorted in outrage and said, “You’re a madman, Sammy. You should be locked away in an institution someplace. You just ain’t right.”
    â€œPut the crawl on them, though, didn’t I?”
    O’Hara grinned. “You sure did, crazy man.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    â€œMy ma’s not in the swamp,” Sam Flintlock said.
    â€œHow do you know that?” Evangeline said.
    â€œHe knows,” O’Hara said.
    Evangeline’s eyes moved from O’Hara to Flintlock. “You two are keeping a secret from me,” she said.
    â€œShe’s not here,” Flintlock said. “Let it go at that. We talked about calling it quits, me and O’Hara, going after her to the Arizona Territory.”
    â€œWhat did you decide?” the woman said, her beautiful face betraying no emotion.
    â€œWe decided to stick,” O’Hara said.
    Flintlock said, “I reckon we’re all that stands between the swamp people and Brewster Ritter. Unless there are pistol fighters among them.”
    â€œOnly Cornelius, but he’s done with that,” Evangeline said. “You were lucky tonight, Sam.”
    â€œUh-huh. But your pirogue’s got a bullet hole in it.”
    â€œI can repair it,” Evangeline said. “Ritter has lost three men, Sam. What does he do next?”
    â€œI wish I knew,” Flintlock said. “The swamp monster is a boat of some kind.”
    â€œYes. I know that,” Evangeline said. “I hope you’ve put it out of commission for a long time.”
    She wore a long, ankle-length black coat with a hood that lay over the back of her shoulders. Her boots were also black, buttoned up one side.
    â€œYou’re dressed for going