by Sharpe, Jon
Sutty walked over to a pair of boats that appeared to have been built about the time of the Great Flood. Both had flat bottoms and square prows and were about ten feet long and four feet wide. “Here’s my two,” he announced. “They might not look like much but they’ll get you in and out again.”
“They aren’t enough,” Davenport said.
“They’re all I got.”
Davenport motioned. “What about these others? Some of them are in a lot better condition.”
“Don’t your ears work? They’re not mine.”
“I mean,” Davenport said, “do you think their owners would let us use them in return for fair compensation?”
“There you go again,” Sutty said. “Can’t you talk plain like everybody else?”
“Just answer his question,” Morgan said.
“Now, now,” Davenport said. “I’ll thank you to permit me to handle this.”
“I don’t like how these bumpkins treat us, sir,” Morgan said.
“And I don’t like bein’ called no bumpkin,” Sutty said. “Find your damn boats somewhere else.”
Fargo decided to intervene. “We’re renting yours,” he said.
“Not if I don’t let you, you ain’t,” Sutty said.
Hooking his thumb in his gun belt close to his holster, Fargo locked eyes. “You’re letting us.”
Sutty opened his mouth, glanced at the Colt and at Fargo’s face, and closed it again. He coughed and said, “You’re not like these others.”
“No,” Fargo said. “I’m not.”
“I don’t like them much.”
Fargo shrugged. “They are who they are.”
Sutty slowly nodded as if he understood. “How’d you get stuck with them?”
“I’m doing a friend a favor.”
Sutty did more nodding. “Favors will bite you on the ass every time.”
“What are you two talking about?” Davenport broke in. “Let’s stay focused on the boats.” He regarded a flatbed, the newest of them all. “Mr. Suttree, would you send word to the owners of these craft and inquire whether they might be willing to rent them to us? Especially this one. Inform them that I’m willing to pay any fee they want, within reason, of course.”
“I can do that, yes, if’n you pay me five dollars,” Sutty said. “And they’ll want to know for how long, and how far in you aim to go.”
“As I explained to Bodean and his companions,” Davenport said, “we’re after alligators. I plan to have the biggest I can shoot stuffed and mounted to add to my trophies.”
“Just when I think I’ve heard it all.”
“We’ll also need a guide,” Davenport mentioned. “Someone dependable. We’re willing to pay top dollar for their services.”
“Are you, now?” Sutty said, and wiped his sweaty hands on his dirty apron. “It could be a day or two before you hear about the other boats and the guide.”
“I was hoping to leave in the morning,” Davenport said.
“You want me to spread word or not?”
“Yes, by all means.” Davenport gazed at the hamlet. “Is there somewhere we can put up for the night? A boardinghouse, perhaps, since I see no evidence of a hotel.”
“God in heaven, mister,” Sutty said. “Where do you think you are?”
“What?” Davenport said.
“There’s the woods,” Sutty said, and pointed. “Camp wherever you want.”
Clementine said, “We’ve done so much of that already. What I wouldn’t give for a nice, soft bed.”
Fargo smothered a grin. He wouldn’t mind getting her into a nice, soft bed himself.
“I got to find some boys to spread your word,” Sutty said, and made for his store.
Staring after him, Davenport said, “This isn’t proceeding exactly as planned.”
“Say the word, Major,” Morgan said, “and we’ll commandeer as many boats as you need.”
“And arouse their anger?” Davenport shook his head. “I think not. Besides, they’d demand to know by what authority we presume to take their boats, and learn who we are.”
“Not if we don’t tell them, sir,” Morgan said.
“We can’t be high-handed about this, Sergeant,” Davenport said. “We’re under orders, remember?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And stop calling me sir so long as we’re at the Landing,” Davenport directed. “Someone might overhear and suspect.”
“Yes, s—” Morgan caught himself. “Yes, Mr. Davenport, whatever you say.”
Davenport turned to Fargo. “It’s promising, don’t you think?”
“We haven’t dipped a paddle yet,” Fargo said.
“Even so, a day or two delay is worth it if we acquire at least one more boat and a guide.”
“What will you tell him?” Fargo asked.
“Suttree? About what?”
“The guide. You can’t come right out and say you want to go into Kilatku territory. No one in their right mind will take you.”
“Surely there’s a soul brave enough to dare the danger.”
“You’re thinking like a military man,” Fargo said. “These people fight shy of the Kilatkus. They want nothing to do with them.”
“We’ll pay him extra,” Davenport said. “That should suffice.”
Fargo motioned at the run-down buildings and the people in their hand-me-downs. “Do they look like they care that much about money?”
“Everyone likes money,” Davenport said. “These poor wretches most of all.”
Fargo reminded himself to be patient. The major was from New England and had grown up in a well-to-do family.
“Frankly,” Davenport said, “I’m surprised you can’t guide us.”
“I’ve never been here before,” Fargo said.
“Which has me wondering why General Powell insisted I bring you along.”
“He’s a friend,” Fargo said. “I’ve scouted for him a few times.” He’d also saved the general’s life once, but he didn’t bring that up. “I’m doing this as a favor.”
“Doing what, exactly?” Davenport asked. “You can’t guide us. You’re not a trooper. You’re not with the Office of Indian Affairs; Miss Purdy is. What purpose do you serve?”
Fargo was honest with him. “The general wants me to help keep you and your people alive.”
“How, when you just admitted you’ve never been to the Archaletta Swamp? What can you do that we can’t?” Davenport’s brows knit in puzzlement. “It makes no sense. But then, I follow orders, whether they do or they don’t.” He went over to Morgan and said something and the pair walked toward the street.
Fargo sighed. It wasn’t something Major Davenport would understand. General Powell did, only because the general had fought the Sioux and the Comanches and lived in Apache country for a year and a half.
“I know I’m asking a lot,” Powell had told him the night before they left Fort Leavenworth. “Major Davenport is highly competent, and I personally picked Sergeant Morgan and those under him. They’re all good soldiers, but that isn’t enough. They don’t have that instinct you do, the instinct to survive, no matter what it takes. I’m counting on you to keep them alive.” He’d paused. “I’m counting on you to keep her alive.”
Fargo had promised to do his best. He’d been to the bayou country a few times, so it wasn’t as if he was green when it came to swamps and their perils. But there was only so much he could do.
It didn’t help that shapely and luscious Clementine Purdy was a powerful distraction. All the way to Texas, he couldn’t stop imagining her naked, squirming under him as he ran his hands over every square inch of her—
“A penny for your thoughts?” asked the vision of loveliness herself.
Fargo turne
d, and smiled. He might as well test the waters. “I was wondering whether you moan when you make love.”
To his surprise, Clementine didn’t bat an eye. “I wouldn’t know,” she said sweetly.
“Why not?” Fargo asked.
“I never have.”
3
The rest of the afternoon, Fargo couldn’t get it out of his head. He thought about it as they climbed on their horses and rode into the woods to a clearing. He thought about it as he helped chop wood for the fire and as he waited for trooper Weaver to brew coffee. He thought about it as he sat sipping from his tin cup and envisioning her without her clothes on.
The shadows were lengthening with the setting of the sun when Fargo roused and walked over to where Major Davenport and Clementine were seated on a log, talking and having a grand time.
“Mr. Fargo,” Davenport said. “What can we do for you?”
“I’ll be at Suttree’s Landing until midnight or so,” Fargo informed him. “Reckoned you should know.”
“How considerate,” Davenport said. “But in case you’ve forgotten, I’m in charge. No one goes anywhere without my permission.”
“In case you’ve forgotten,” Fargo rejoined, “I’m not working for the army. I’m doing this because General Powell asked me to.”
“Are you suggesting that you’re free to do as you please?” Davenport made it sound as if the idea were preposterous. “If so, you’re wrong. You were assigned to my command and I expect you to follow orders like everyone else.”
“Midnight,” Fargo said, and turned to go.
“Don’t force me to have Sergeant Morgan restrain you,” the officer warned.
“He’s welcome to try.”
Davenport stiffened and raised an arm toward where Morgan and the four troopers were seated. “I’ll call him over and then we’ll see.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Clementine spoke up. “I’m sure my uncle wouldn’t like for you to squabble like this.”
Major Davenport didn’t hide his surprise. “Your uncle?”
Clementine Purdy nodded. “General Powell. My mother’s older brother. Her maiden name is Powell. The only reason Mr. Fargo is here is because she asked Uncle Thomas to keep an eye on me and he sent for the best man for the job.”
“And he picked me,” Fargo said in amusement. The general was well aware of his fondness for the ladies.
“Uncle Tom told me that if anyone can bring me back alive, it’s you,” Clementine said.
“I’ll be damned.”
“Even so,” Davenport said, “I won’t have you going off to get drunk.”
“Major,” Fargo said, “it could be someone knows something about the surveyor and his people.”
“What more is there to learn?” Davenport said. “The man was commissioned to make the first-ever survey of the Archaletta Swamp. He was at it several months when he went into Kilatku territory and never returned. Now we’ve been asked to escort and protect Miss Purdy in her efforts to establish peaceful relations with them so a new surveyor can be brought in and the survey completed.”
“Maybe the Kilatku don’t want peace,” Fargo felt compelled to note.
“Nonsense,” Clementine said. “I’ll convince them it’s in their own best interests. When they see the trade goods I’ve brought, they’ll want more.”
“A few blankets and mirrors and knives won’t stop them from slitting our throats,” Fargo predicted.
“It’s more than a few,” Clementine said, “and how do you know it won’t? Most tribes are eager to trade with whites. It’s how we civilize them.”
“Personally, I prefer a saber,” Davenport said. “But whatever works to keep the heathens in line.”
So the major was one of those, Fargo reflected.
“Midnight,” he said again, and got out of there before he said something that would make the major mad.
Heathens, hell. Fargo had lived with Indians. Ate and drank with them and slept in their lodges. To his way of thinking, they were fine as they were. They didn’t need civilizing. He didn’t condone the killing the hostile tribes did, but he’d do the same if it was his land the whites were invading.
His saddle creaked under him as he swung on and gigged the Ovaro. He was sincere about trying to learn more about the surveyor. He also wanted a drink.
Across the street from Sutty’s stood a building with batwings. It had no sign, and didn’t need one. The batwings were enough.
As Fargo drew rein, he could smell the liquor.
Lamps were being lit, and many a window cast a rosy glow in the gathering dark. Few people were abroad. It was the supper hour.
Fargo pushed on the batwings and strode in. He was expecting a typical saloon but nothing about Suttree’s Landing was typical.
The floor was dirt, the bar a long plank set on overturned barrels. The tables were squares of pine, the chairs too small. Several locals were playing poker, and the barman was helping himself to a glass of rum.
“Monongahela, if you have it,” Fargo said.
“You must be the buckskin with those city folks everyone is gabbin’ about.” The man offered his hand. “They call me Cotton on account of I’m from Georgia.”
“What else are people saying?” Fargo wondered.
“That you’re a pack of liars, and government liars, at that. Expectin’ us to believe you came all this way to shoot gators.”
“Why government?” Fargo asked.
“Folks have seen how those others parade around,” Cotton said. “That Davenport, and the big one. They act like they have a broom shoved up their ass. And who else does that but the government?”
“What’s your best guess?”
“Some think you’re lawmen but none of you wear badges. And then there’s the female. She has everyone stumped. She’s pretty and sweet and doesn’t put on airs like that Davenport fella.”
“How about me?”
“You ain’t no city boy,” Cotton said. “Sutty says you don’t take guff, and you’ve got mean eyes when you’re riled.” He looked Fargo up and down. “My guess about you? Damn me if I don’t take you for a scout.”
“I’ve done my share,” Fargo admitted.
“I knew it,” Cotton crowed. “It’s how you carry yourself. You’re a wolf, and you can bite. One look and anyone with sense would leave you be.”
“You’d be surprised,” Fargo said, “at how many don’t have any.”
Cotton placed a bottle and a glass in front of him. “Help yourself.”
“Obliged.” Fargo smiled as the drink spread a familiar warmth. He poured a second with his mouth still wet from the first.
“You like your liquor,” Cotton observed.
“Almost as much as I like doves.” Fargo gazed about the nearly empty saloon. “It’s a shame you don’t have any.”
“Stick around. It’s early yet. You’re in for a surprise.”
Since the man was being so friendly, Fargo ventured to say, “There was another outfit came through here about this time a year ago. Do you remember them?”
“Sure do,” Cotton said. “That surveyor, Williams, and his helpers. They were workin’ on a survey for the government.” He snorted. “Jackasses. Sayin’ as how they were goin’ to survey the whole blamed swamp.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“Sure did,” Cotton said. “Williams was a drinker. Scotch, as I recollect. He’d come in here every night he was at the Landin’. Got to know him pretty well. Nice fella, but dumb.”
“Oh?”
“They’d go off into the swamp for a couple of weeks and come back and rest up and he’d send a report off, and then they’d go off again and do more surveyin’. It went on like that for a good long while.”
“And then one time the
y went off and never came back,” Fargo said.
Cotton nodded.
“Any idea what happened?”
“They went into Kilatku country. That was the last anyone saw of them.”
“You’re sure that’s where they went?” Fargo would hate to think he was about to risk his hide over a mistake.
“Williams himself stood about where you’re standin’ right now and told me what he was about to do. I tried to talk him out of it. I said the Kilatku would stuff him in a pot and eat him. But would he listen?” Cotton shook his head. “He said he’d brought trinkets to give them so they’d let him survey. Knowin’ them, they threw his damn trinkets in the swamp and ate him down to the bone.”
“You know for a fact they’re cannibals?”
“I ain’t ever seen them eat anybody,” Cotton said. “But the tame Indians say they do, and I’m not one of those who disbelieves an Injun just because his skin happens to be red and mine ain’t.”
“Me either.”
“A survey, of all things,” Cotton said in amazement. “Why the hell does the government need to survey a swamp? Everyone knows what’s out there. Water and gators and snakes.” His eyes narrowed. “Is your outfit connected to theirs somehow?”
Before Fargo could answer, the batwings squeaked wide and in strode Bodean, Cleon and Judson. Bodean stopped short and said something out of the corner of his mouth to Judson and the pair advanced on the bar.
“Uh-oh,” Cotton said so only Fargo heard. “Better watch yourself. Those two are trouble.”
“So am I,” Fargo said, and calmly poured a third drink.
“Lookee here,” Bodean said, coming up on his right and leaning on an elbow. “If it isn’t High-and-Mighty his own self.”
Judson came up on the left so they had him boxed.
Cleon, though, hung back. He clearly didn’t want any part of it.
“Where’s your friends?” Bodean asked.
“Not here,” Fargo said.
“I didn’t ask you where they’re not, I asked you where they are.” Bodean glanced at the shelf of bottles and grinned. “Tell you what. How about you buy us drinks?”