Read Online Kill or Die by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online

said. “Look in the display case beside you, armor and weapons of the Spanish conquistadores who first explored the swamp more than three hundred years ago. And over there is an ancient Egyptian mummy that was found just a couple of months ago floating in a bayou. No one knows how it got here.” She smiled. “The swamp has many mysteries.”
    â€œYeah, I can see that,” Flintlock said. He felt uneasy but the weight of the Colt in his waistband reassured him. “Where is Cornelius?”
    â€œHe’ll be down shortly,” Evangeline said. “He likes people to browse for a while before he greets them. O’Hara, over on the shelf to your right is pottery and baskets used by the old Atakapan Indians. Cornelius says they lived in the swamp going back ten thousand years before they all disappeared.”
    â€œWhat happened to them?” O’Hara said.
    â€œNo one knows. It’s yet another mystery of the swamp.”
    Light footsteps sounded on a rickety staircase that led up to the next floor. Then a small, slender man appeared. He crossed the floor, bowed and kissed Evangeline’s hand. “It’s been too long, my dear,” he said. He had a birdlike voice. “We live in parlous times.”
    â€œThis is my friend Mr. Sam Flintlock and his associate Mr. O’Hara,” Evangeline said.
    â€œWelcome, gentlemen,” Cornelius said. “Have you come to solve the mystery of the swamp?”
    â€œNo, we’ve come to figure some way of making Brewster Ritter eat crow,” Flintlock said. “And to see him hang, of course.”
    â€œAh yes, I understand,” Cornelius said. “These are violent times indeed.” He seemed distracted, stealing quick glances at the thunderbird tattoo on Flintlock’s throat.
    The man’s appearance did nothing to reassure Flintlock. In contrast to his own stocky, strong masculine presence, Cornelius seemed almost effeminate. He was less than medium height with the face that on a woman would be called pretty, and thin, pale hair fell in strands to his shoulders. He wore a strange, knee-length frock coat in a light tan, a frilled white shirt, and breeches that ended at the calf and were held up by a belt with a huge gold buckle. He wore embroidered Chinese slippers on his feet, the toes upturned, fitted with little silver bells that chimed as he walked.
    Cornelius remained silent and Flintlock said, “Evangeline says you may have some advice for us.” But to himself he said, What does a woman like Evangeline see in this little pimp?
    Cornelius didn’t answer that question. He said, “Forgive me for staring at you, Mr. Flintlock, but the tattoo on your throat intrigues me.”
    â€œIndian put it there when I was a boy,” Flintlock said. “It was my grandfather’s idea, old Barnabas the mountain man. He said folks would remember me.”
    â€œI’m sure they do,” Cornelius said. “I know I will.”
    â€œMe too,” O’Hara said, grinning.
    â€œThe Atakapan Indians had a legend that a thunderbird will rise out of the swamp and lead the people to a time of peace and prosperity,” Cornelius said. “Perhaps you are the thunderbird, Mr. Flintlock. And you might be the one to solve the mystery of the swamp.”
    Flintlock wished he was far from here, had a horse under him and was shooting at people he didn’t like or maybe robbing a bank or something. Anywhere but here, in the middle of a damned bog, talking to a loco museum curator.
    Perhaps Evangeline caught Flintlock’s mood because she said, “Cornelius, we will talk of the thunderbird another day. Can you offer us any advice that will help us defeat Brewster Ritter?”
    â€œYes, I can, my beloved,” the little man said. “When you wish to drain the pond, cut off its water at the source. Stop Ritter’s money flow and he will wither on the