by Sharpe, Jon
The people were a mix of white and half-bloods and a few Indians. Tame Indians, they were called, to set them apart from the wild ones that lived deep in the shadowed haunts of the vast swamp.
Sullen, sharp-eyed, the inhabitants watched Fargo and those behind him come down what passed for a street. On every face—even the children’s—was the stamp of hardship and poverty.
Fargo drew rein at a hitch rail and dismounted.
Several locals were lounging against the wall and eyeing him much as hungry wolves might eye a buck. Unshaven and unkempt, they wore clothes that a St. Louis beggar wouldn’t have been caught dead in.
One had a wad in his cheek and spat brown juice near the Ovaro’s front hoof, which brought snickers from the others.
Fargo stared at the spitter until the he shifted his weight and frowned.
“I don’t much like being looked at, mister,” the spitter said.
“Spit at my horse again and you won’t have a mouth to spit with.”
The man smirked. “Is that right?”
Fargo placed his hand on his Colt. “It sure as hell is.”
Some of the smug went out of the spitter. “You’d shoot a man who ain’t heeled?” All he had around his waist was a middling-size knife.
“A man spits on my horse,” Fargo said, “he has it coming.”
“Here, now,” said a beanpole in a shirt two sizes too small. “You can’t just ride in and talk about shootin’ folks.”
“That’s right,” spoke up a heavyset brute with more eyebrow than forehead. “Bodean can spit where he damn well pleases.”
Their tone made Fargo bristle. “Anytime any of you reckon you are man enough,” he said.
The beanpole straightened, and his thin lips curled back from yellow teeth. “Listen to you. You think you’re the cock of the walk, don’t you?”
“It’s easy enough to find out.”
By then the rest of Fargo’s party had filed out of the woods and drawn rein. The lead rider, who sat ramrod straight in his saddle and didn’t seem entirely comfortable in his store-bought suit, cleared his throat.
“That will be quite enough, if you please, Mr. Fargo. I’m sure these gentlemen meant no disrespect.”
“Like hell they didn’t,” Fargo said.
The lead rider climbed down. Only a few inches over five feet, he carried himself as if he were taller. His boots were polished to a shine, and the revolver on his left hip was worn in a holster with a flap. He nodded at the swamp rats and said, “How do you do. I’m Ma—” Catching himself, he changed it to, “I’m James Davenport. Would this be Franklyn Suttree’s establishment?”
“Franklyn?” the spitter said, and snorted. “Hereabouts we call him Sutty.”
“Ain’t you somethin’,” the beanpole said, “in your fancy duds?”
“City boy,” said the one with eyebrows like thick caterpillars.
Davenport wheeled on him. “I’m older than you, I’ll have you know.”
Fargo couldn’t resist. “Take it easy,” he said, and threw Davenport’s remark back at him, “I’m sure these gentlemen meant no disrespect.”
Just then another member of their party dismounted. Even taller than Fargo, he had arms as thick as tree trunks and a face that might have been forged on an anvil. He, too, wore a new store-bought suit. He, too, wore a flapped holster. “Is there a problem, sir?” he asked Davenport. “Say the word, and we’ll deal with it.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Morgan,” Davenport said.
The rest of their party was climbing down.
Fargo saw the three locals give a start and their mouths fall open, and he knew why without turning. The next moment he smelled her perfume and inwardly swore. He’d been against bringing her but the government had insisted she come.
“We’ve finally arrived,” Clementine Purdy declared. “I swear it took us forever to get here.” She had big green eyes and full red lips and a bosom that bulged farther than most. A bonnet contained brunette curls, and her shoes were of the finest calf leather.
“Hell, lady,” Fargo responded in annoyance, “we haven’t even started yet.”
Davenport frowned. “Need I remind you that she is a lady, and an important one? I’ll thank you to watch your language around her.”
“Please,” Clementine Purdy said. “Mr. Fargo may speak as he pleases.”
“Not while I’m in charge,” Davenport said.
Fargo noticed that Bodean and the other two were listening with keen interest.
“In charge of what, mister?” Bodean asked. “Who are you folks, anyhow?”
“We’re a hunting party out of Galveston,” Davenport said, feeding them a lie.
Fargo had warned the major that few if any of the locals would believe him, and he could see by the expressions on Bodean and his two friends that he had been right.
“You came all this way to hunt?” the beanpole said skeptically. “Ain’t there any deer and bear around about Galveston?”
Davenport adopted a knowing smile. “If deer and bear were all we were after, we could have spared ourselves the trip. But we’re after more dangerous game. A type that abounds in this great swamp of yours.” He paused. “We’re after alligators.”
The beetling brows of the heavyset man met over his nose. “There’s plenty of gators hereabouts, sure enough. But I never heard tell of folks comin’ all the way from Galveston or anywhere else to hunt ’em.”
“Damned peculiar,” Bodean said.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Davenport cheerfully told them.
“Why in hell would you want to hunt gators?” the beanpole asked.
“I’ve hunted for years,” Davenport said, expanding on his lie. “Everything under the sun, from grizzly and mountain sheep in the Rockies to buffalo and antelope on the prairie. Now I intend to try my hand at something new. Game that will challenge my mettle.”
“Challenge your what?”
“Test my ability,” Davenport said.
“Gators?” Bodean said.
“Gators,” Davenport said, and motioned at Fargo and Morgan and Clementine Purdy and the four other men in new store-bought suits. “We’ll be heading into the swamp in the morning and will require the services of a guide. Perhaps you would be so kind as to spread the word?”
“Mister,” the beanpole said, “my name is Cleon, and I’ve lived in this swamp all my life. Take my advice and turn around and go home. It ain’t no place for you and yours.”
“It’s where the gators are,” Davenport said.
“And a lot more things, besides,” Cleon said. “There’s water moccasins and copperheads. There’s bogs and quicksand. There’s swamp bears, which are meaner than any you’ll find in your Rockies, and painters, cats that can pull a man from his horse and drag him off—”
“You exaggerate, surely,” Davenport said.
“—and there’s the Injuns,” Cleon went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Some are peaceable but a lot more ain’t. You could end up in their cookin’ pot if’n you ain’t careful.”
“Are you suggesting some of them are cannibals?” Davenport said.
“Used to be a lot that were, back in the old days. Now it’s just the one tribe but that one tribe is enough.” Cleon lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Ain’t you heard of the Kilatku?”
The Kilatku was just one of scores of little-known tribes that lived in the uncharted watery fastness along the Texas and Louisiana coasts. Where a lot of the other tribes had at least some dealings with whites, the Kilatku had none whatsoever. Every white man who dared enter their territory never came out again. It was part of the reason Fargo and the others were there, and about to risk their lives in what he considered a damn silly enterprise.
“You talk too much,” Bod
ean snapped at Cleon.
“They’ve got a female, consarn you,” Cleon said. “They need to know.”
“We look after our own, not outsiders,” Bodean growled. He unfurled and headed up the street. “We’ve talked to them enough. Let’s go.” He pointed at the man with the caterpillar eyebrows. “You, too, Judson.”
“Charming fellow,” Davenport said.
“A viper is more like it,” Fargo said.
Clementine Purdy adjusted her bonnet. “Really, Mr. Fargo. I’ve only known you a short while but you strike me as terribly cynical. The gentleman called Cleon warned us about the Kilatku, didn’t he?”
“You already knew about them.”
“We were all thoroughly briefed,” Clementine said. “We know what we are letting ourselves in for.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You have no damn idea what you’re in for, but you’re going into the swamp anyway.”
“So are you and Major Davenport and Sergeant Morgan and these other soldiers,” Clementine said.
“We’re men,” Fargo said.
“Ah.” Clementine scowled. “And you consider me a frail female—is that it?” She sniffed and said, “We all have our duty to perform, I’ll have you know.”
“Just so it doesn’t get us killed,” Fargo said.