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

occupied the lowest rung of the ladder, an affront to his sensitivities as a gentleman. When he saw O’Hara enter the restaurant, sit at a table and order bacon and eggs like a white man McPhee marked him for death. And he planned to make a public show of it.
    The restaurant was filled with a lunchtime crowd, but O’Hara looked at no one, busy with his grub, bacon and eggs being long a favorite of his. He did take time to note a tall man who flaunted a cared-for imperial, dressed in the garb of a frontier dandy and wore an ivory-handled Colt. But O’Hara dismissed the man as a sporting gent and thought no more about it.
    McPhee waited until O’Hara was halfway though his meal before he made his move. He had to wend his way through crowded tables before he reached O’Hara, who sat alone.
    â€œEnjoying that?” McPhee said, looking down at O’Hara.
    O’Hara said, “You could say that.”
    â€œYou aren’t going to finish it, not in here you’re not,” McPhee said. “Take it out and eat with the pigs where you belong.”
    A hush fell over the restaurant and McPhee was enjoying himself. The breed looked scared and this was going to be easy.
    But O’Hara was far from scared. He had the heart of an Indian warrior and the reckless courage of an Irishman and was always ready for a scrap, be it with guns, knives or fists and skull.
    He smiled. “What don’t you like about me, mister?” he said.
    â€œThe fact that you’re a stinking breed and shouldn’t be here eating with white folks.”
    â€œAnd you aim to draw down on me, huh?”
    â€œThat’s the general idea.”
    â€œThen I suppose I must accommodate you,” O’Hara said. “Be quick now, my eggs are getting cold.”
    McPhee liked no part of that speech. The breed sounded too confident, like he’d been here before. And when O’Hara stood and revealed the worn Colt at his hip, he liked that even less. McPhee had shot blanket Indians before but the man facing him was not one of those. He pegged him as a gun and a killer.
    â€œAt your convenience,” O’Hara said, hellfire in his eyes.
    A respectable-looking man sitting at a table said, “Here, that won’t do.”
    McPhee badly wanted an out. In those few moments before he died, he knew he’d bitten off more than he could chew. The thought came to him then, Damn it, Cletus, never pick on strangers.
    He went for his gun and wasn’t even close.
    At a range of just three feet O’Hara pumped three bullets into McPhee before he hit the ground. The man raised his head and stared at O’Hara. “Fast . . . fast . . .” he said.
    â€œOnly middlin’,” O’Hara said.
    A diner leaned from his chair, looked down at McPhee, shook his head and said, “He’s gone.”
    â€œSeems like,” O’Hara said. He picked up his plate and fork, shoveled down what was left of his meal, took a gulp of coffee and walked out of the restaurant. He rode out of town aware that people stood in the street and watched him go. But no one tried to stop him. And that was just as well because O’Hara was angry, his rage directed at the man who was causing so much death and misery in the swamp . . .
    It was high time Brewster Ritter got a taste of his own medicine.

CHAPTER TEN
    â€œI don’t think that shooting all the people in the swamps and bayous is necessary, Mr. Ritter,” engineer Leander Byng said. “It is a bit drastic and could attract enforcers.”
    â€œYou have a better idea?” Brewster Ritter said. He sat at ease in his tent on the Louisiana side of the Sabine. He’d already dismissed the two armed guards who usually stood at the open flap as being unnecessary.
    â€œPerhaps not better, but not as violent,” Byng said. He wore a dark brown double-breasted vest, jodhpurs of the same color and tall, lace-up English boots. Like most of