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name?” a woman asked.
    Barnabas had never again spoken his daughter’s name after she got pregnant by a gambling man and he’d beaten it into Flintlock that it was a forbidden subject. “I don’t know,” he said.
    â€œThen you’ve no chance of finding her,” Butternut said. “I suggest you get the hell out of the swamp.”
    â€œI plan to stay until I find my ma,” Flintlock said. “You’ll need my gun.”
    This brought guffaws of disbelief from some of the men and Butternut voiced their misgivings. “You already done told us Ritter has professional gunmen. What the hell can you do that we can’t?”
    Sam Flintlock was not a bragging man but he had to make a show. As men do often when they’re on the prod, four of the more belligerent swamp dwellers had lined up beside Butternut. All wore hats, ideal for the demonstration Flintlock had in mind.
    He drew and fired, the steady staccato of his Colt like a fast drumbeat. Five hats flew off five heads and five men clapped startled hands to their parted hair.
    Flintlock shoved his Colt back into his waistband and said, “That’s what I can do that you can’t. And I’m betting a few of Ritter’s men can do it better than me.”
    If the five hatless men were not convinced, their womenfolk were.
    â€œWe’ve come here to pray over the dead,” a plump, motherly woman said. She said to Butternut, “Avery, you come inside now and stop this hooliganism.”
    Chastened by Flintlock’s gunplay, the men filed into the cabin, and soon their voices were raised in prayer. That is, all but one. A young man in workman’s clothing, a Bible in his hand, said, “I aim to go to Orange City and telegraph the county sheriff. He needs to be here.”
    â€œAnyone I know?” Flintlock said.
    â€œEldon Dowling is his name,” the man said. “They say one time he got lead into John Wesley Hardin, but I don’t know if that’s true.”
    â€œNever heard of him, but he sounds like the kind of lawman you need,” Flintlock said.
    â€œYeah, seems like.” The man opened his Bible and stepped into the cabin.
    Evangeline frowned. “Sam, was that petulant display really necessary?” she said.
    â€œThey need to learn,” Flintlock said.
    â€œI think you taught them,” Evangeline said. “I only hope you haven’t scared those men and taken the fight out of them. Ritter will be laughing up his sleeve. Shall we go inside and pray for the hurting dead?”
    â€œI’m not a praying man, Evangeline,” Flintlock said.
    â€œThen at least go through the motions and do as I do,” the woman said.

CHAPTER NINE
    O’Hara kept his horse at the hogan of an old Jicarilla Apache man who lived near the southern edge of the piney woods country. In answer to O’Hara’s question about local newspapers the old man said he knew of only one, situated east of Beaumont in a cow town called Budville.
    â€œI never look at it myself,” the man said. “On account of how I can’t read.”
    O’Hara thanked the man, saddled up and rode west, knowing that he might be on a wild goose chase. But anything was better than being holed up in the swamp, even with Evangeline close. As for Flintlock, he’d lost his horse and was stuck where he was, at least until O’Hara could steal him another one.
    It was almost noon when O’Hara reached Budville, a dusty, nondescript cow town in the middle of nowhere. But the settlement boasted large cattle pens, three saloons, a restaurant and a railroad spur and seemed to be thriving.
    O’Hara rode past the Cattleman’s Bank and Trust and several stores, and found the office of the Budville Democrat conveniently located between the Alamo and McCarthy saloons.
    In answer to his question the gray-haired woman at the front desk, who identified herself as Miss Pearson, said