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Toohy said.
    â€œIf you can’t, kill a swamp rat every hour until they give him up, understand? Show mercy to no one.”
    â€œI’ll see that it’s done, boss,” Toohy said.
    â€œAnd from now on I want guards posted around the clock,” Ritter said. “By God, if there’s a repeat of this outrage heads will roll.”
    â€œWhere are you headed, boss?” Toohy said. “Maybe you should take one of the boys along.”
    â€œNo, I’m headed for Budville, and Mathias Cobb has guns enough. He said to only contact him if there’s a crisis. Well, this is a crisis. The damned swampers are fighting back and that may call for a change of plans.”
    Ritter swung into the saddle. “See that my orders are carried out, Mr. Toohy,” he said before he set spurs to his horse and galloped away.

    â€œI’ve told you to never come here, Ritter,” Mathias Cobb said. He sat forward in his chair and his great belly hung between his knees like a sack of grain. “My association with your enterprise must be a secret. If the ranchers got wind of it . . . well, it could be a disaster.”
    â€œThis is important,” Ritter said. “One of my men was murdered in my camp, his throat cut. That can only mean one thing, that the swamp rats plan to fight back and bring the war to me.”
    â€œHandle it, Ritter,” Cobb said. “I pay you enough to hire gunmen. Start shooting people and the swamp dwellers will soon lose their will to fight.” The fat man opened a tiny pillbox. He selected a white tablet, popped it into his mouth and swallowed it with a glass of water Sebastian Lilly poured for him. “My heart is acting up,” Cobb said. “You upset me coming here, Ritter.”
    Ritter mentioned the orders he’d given Bonifaunt Toohy and said, “The killing will start today.”
    â€œThat is a practical solution to the problem,” Cobb said. “You will also forget any plan you might have for draining the swamp. Even confining that effort to the Texas side of the Sabine would cost a fortune. Even the United States government would not consider such an undertaking.”
    â€œMy chief engineer assures me that his steam pumps can handle it,” Ritter said.
    â€œBalderdash,” Cobb said. “The man is a fool. A pistol cartridge costs ten cents. If you must kill an ’undred swamp dwellers it will cost you, or should I say me, just ten dollars. Bullets, not steam pumps, are the solution to your problem. It’s good business, Ritter.”
    Ritter opened his mouth to speak, but Cobb cut him off. “Can the cypress be harvested easily if the swamp is not drained?”
    â€œYes, of course, But—”
    â€œThat’s all I wanted to know,” Cobb said. He scratched a blue jowl. “Now go about your business and don’t come back here unless I send for you. Mr. Lilly, show Mr. Ritter to the door.”
    Ritter knew further talk of draining the swamp was useless. He got to his feet and stepped to the door, but Cobb’s voice stopped him. “Pile up the skulls like the Mongols did in the days of yore, Ritter. You’ll soon force out the vermin. I guarantee it. Mr. Lilly, tell Miss Rhonda La Page that she can come in now.”
    Lilly grinned. “Sure thing, Mr. Cobb,” he said.
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    Brewster Ritter’s anger was a volcano ready to erupt. Mathias Cobb had made him feel small and now he wanted to kill, smash, destroy—he was a finger looking for a trigger. The late summer day was radiant, the birds sang and the smell of pines, borne on a north wind, scented the air. But Ritter cared nothing about those things. The swamp people stood in his way and he wanted them dead, all of them, to the last man, woman or child.
    He rode east toward the Sabine, then looped southeast, planning to cross at the rocky shallows near a burned-out Butterfield stage stop. His route took him close