by Sharpe, Jon
Fargo took him up on it and turned in early. He thought of the Ovaro, in Cotton’s care until he returned, and wished he had the stallion under him instead of a flat-bottom boat. The crafts were slow and ponderous. They were especially hard to turn quickly if the need arose. He’d rather they used canoes but it would take a dozen to hold all of them and their supplies.
Fargo slept soundly, as he nearly always did in the wilds. He woke only once, when a panther shrieked like a woman in labor.
Daybreak brought a pall of gloom. Gray clouds had scuttled in, suggesting it would rain before the day was done.
They set out as usual, the major and the sergeant in the first boat, Fargo in the second with Clementine and Cleon, the rest after.
The channel they’d been following merged into a murky expanse of still water towered over by ranks of moss-caked cypress.
For a while an oppressive silence fell. The birds stopped warbling. The insects stopped buzzing.
“Why is it so quiet?” Clementine whispered.
“It gets that way when there are hostiles about,” Cleon said, “or worse.”
Fargo dipped his paddle and strained his senses. He caught movement and spotted an alligator breaking the surface a stone’s throw away.
“God in heaven,” Clementine breathed.
Ten feet from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail, the beast’s unblinking eyes regarded them as if it were trying to decide if they were edible.
“Shucks, ma’am,” Cleon said, “that’s not even one of the big ones.”
The cypress seemed to go on forever but it was only an hour later that they wound into a maze where the water was hemmed by thickets and brush. At times the vegetation formed a bower over their heads.
“I don’t like this,” Clementine nervously complained. “Anything could jump out at us.”
It didn’t help that the undergrowth was infested with snakes. Fargo would see them entwined in the branches, or slithering, or a head would appear and a tongue flick at them.
The boat was passing under an arch of limbs when Clementine suddenly screamed and pushed to her feet, causing the whole boat to tilt and Fargo to nearly lose his balance.
Something was around her neck and across her shoulders, and she smacked at it and shrieked.
Cleon started to rise but Fargo reached her first. He grabbed the snake behind its head, tore it off her, and threw it into the water.
“It bit me!” Clementine cried, pressing a hand to her neck. She put her other hand to her brow, and swayed.
Fargo caught her before she swooned. He eased her down to her seat and held her as she quaked. Moving her hand aside, he examined the wound. The bite hadn’t broken her skin.
“You’re all right, ma’am,” Cleon said, taking her other hand and patting it. “That was a yellow-bellied water snake. They’re not poisonous.”
“God,” Clementine said, and clutched at Fargo’s shoulders.
Up in the first boat, Major Davenport hollered, “Is Miss Purdy all right?”
“Give her a minute,” Fargo yelled. He cupped her chin and smiled. “You were lucky.”
“God,” she said again.
“I remember one time a water moccasin fell on me,” Cleon said. “Bit at me, too, but only got my hat. I tore it off and went at it with my knife. Must have chopped it into a hundred pieces or more, and then I just sat there shakin’ like a leaf.”
“Is that supposed to cheer me up?” Clementine asked.
“Sort of,” Cleon said.
Despite the heat and the humidity, Clementine took out a shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders and neck.
Eventually the thickets gave way to murky water dotted by hummocks and islands and strips of land covered by impenetrable tangles.
The clouds darkened and a breeze kicked up and brought a familiar scent.
“It’ll rain soon,” Cleon said to them. Then he shouted, “Bodean! The rain!”
“I have eyes and a nose,” the other swamp man shot back. “We can beat it to Split Skull Island.”
“Not there, of all places,” Cleon said, to himself rather than to them.
Clementine roused to say, “Split Skull Island? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Only us locals have,” Cleon said. “It’s as far in as most of us have come.”
“Why Split Skull?” Fargo wanted to know.
“You’ll see soon enough.”
The speed of the first boat increased.
Fargo and Cleon kept pace. They skirted a vile-appearing bog, crossed a short belt of open water, and approached an island.
Bodean and Judson turned their boat and hugged the shoreline until they came to an inlet. Nosing in, they scraped their boat to a stop on a gravel bar.
Fargo followed suit.
The wind was a lot stronger, the clouds writhed and twisted.
“There’s a shack,” Bodean said, pointing up a well-worn path. “It’s not much but it’s better than being soaked to the skin.”
Once the boats were secure, Davenport barked commands and Morgan and the troopers set to work toting the packs inland.
Fargo helped Clementine carry her things. The trail was as sinuous as the snakes they’d been seeing. Eventually it brought them to a clearing. In the middle stood a sorry excuse for shelter. One wall had partially caved in and there was no door and only tatters of burlap over the window.
“Goodness,” Clementine said, her nose crinkling. “What’s that terrible smell?”
“Maybe a dead swamp rat,” Cleon said. “They’re a powerful nuisance.”
Sure enough, Fargo noticed a dead one in a corner. Someone had skewered it with a blade and left it to rot.
Three trips, and everything was in the shack. The soldiers got a fire going.
Clementine sat with Davenport and Morgan, Cleon with his friends.
Left to himself, Fargo went back out. He made a circuit of the shack and the clearing. On the east side, at a patch of bare earth, he drew up short at the sight of moccasin prints, a whole one and a heel. Fresh, too.
He wondered if the Indians had heard them coming and retreated into the undergrowth. Leveling the Henry, he went in after them.
A mosquito buzzed his face. Another alighted on his sleeve.
Moving as silently as an Apache, Fargo avoided briars, slipped over a log, padded through waist-high grass. Another partial print pointed to the right.
Fargo slowed. He hadn’t seen or heard anything but he had a feeling he wasn’t alone. Someone—or something—was watching him.
Surrounded by a green and brown cocoon, he cautiously crabbed forward.
Fargo didn’t know what made him stop. He scoured the shadows, scouted them a second time, and stiffened, his skin crawling.
Twenty feet away a pair of dark eyes were fixed on him with fierce intensity. He couldn’t see the face. He started forward and the eyes disappeared. Unfurling, he crashed through the undergrowth but when he got to where the eyes had been, he saw no one, heard nothing.
Fargo dropped to a knee, the Henry to his cheek. It had to be an Indian. Whether friendly or hostile, he couldn’t say.
A minute dragged into two and two into five and nothing happened. Either the Indian had fled or gone to ground and was waiting for him to leave.
Reluctantly, Fargo did. It wouldn’t be smart to blunder around. Retracing his steps to the clearing, he lowered the Henry and stopped for a last look back.
The eyes were there again, about the same distance as before.
Fargo broke out in gooseflesh. He hadn’t heard a sound. The owner of those eyes was as silent as the specters the swampers feared.
“There you are!”
Fargo gave a start, and turned. Clementine was coming toward him. He g
lanced back at the eyes but they weren’t there. Moving to intercept her, he grasped her arm. “Far enough.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Company,” Fargo said, with a bob of his head at the plant life run riot.
“Someone from Suttree’s Landing?” Clementine asked.
“More likely trouble,” Fargo said. “And soon.”
10
When Cleon said the next day would be worse, he wasn’t kidding.
The swamp underwent a change. Where before there had been spots of clear water and tracts of dry land, now the Archaletta was everything a swamp was notorious for being; a noxious quagmire of perpetual bogs and quicksand and treacherous waterways for navigation.
The vegetation changed, too. It was ranker, darker, thicker. Loathsome growth that made the skin crawl to look at it.
Insects swarmed in clouds that plagued them incessantly.
Strangely, there were fewer snakes, but those they saw were larger. Clementine let out a cry of horror at a giant that had to be fifteen feet long, sunning itself on a log.
A bulge in its middle was all that was left of recent prey.
It paid no attention as they glided by.
Alligators thrived. Where before they’d see one or two over the span of an hour, now they saw dozens. Some were enormous, virtual monsters that stared at their passing craft without fear.
Small wonder, then, Major Davenport called them all together around the fire that evening and began with, “From here on out, everyone is to stay on their guard every moment.”
“As if we wouldn’t,” Cleon said.
Davenport scowled and continued. “I fear we’ve failed to fully appreciate how dangerous this swamp can be.”
“We tried to warn you, mister,” Bodean piped up. “But you knew better than us who have lived here all our lives.”
Judson nodded.
“Be that as it may,” Davenport said testily, “I’m beginning to wonder if these ventures are unwise.”
Clementine sat up. “How can you say that? Our superiors think it’s necessary.”
Fargo saw Davenport stiffen at her blunder. He also saw Bodean and Judson glance at one another, as if their suspicions were confirmed.
“We’re here to hunt, remember?” Davenport said. “I was referring to anyone who might have penetrated this far previously. It could be that they met their end in any number of ways.”
Fargo realized what the major was getting at. Maybe the Kilatku hadn’t killed the surveyor and his party. Maybe the swamp killed them.
Clementine, though, had so forgotten herself that she said, “We’re under orders, and I, for one, intend to carry those orders out.”
“Orders, ma’am?” Cleon said.
Clementine blinked, and blushed, and started to stammer a reply.
“We thought so,” Bodean cut her off. “Gator hunters my ass.”
“You folks are here for some other reason,” Judson declared.
“For the government,” Bodean said. “Pokin’ its nose in where it don’t belong.”
Major Davenport frowned, then nodded. “Very well. Since Miss Purdy has let the cat out of the bag, it’s to our mutual benefit for me to reveal the truth. Yes, we were sent by Washington. We’re to try and establish peaceful relations with the Kilatku so the swamp can be surveyed.”
Bodean laughed. “Of all the harebrained notions, that takes the cake.”
“It’s a swamp, for God’s sake,” Judson said. “Why in hell survey it?”
Sergeant Morgan stirred to say, “Watch your language around Miss Purdy.”
Judson glared at him and went to say something but apparently changed his mind.
“Listen, you men,” Davenport said to the swampers. “You’re doing our country a great service by helping us carry out our mission. To you this is nothing but worthless swamp, and truth to tell, personally, I agree. But the government wants it surveyed. It’s important that every square foot of this country of ours be mapped end to end.”
“Important to idiots, maybe,” Bodean said. “Not to us.”
“To the damn politicians,” Judson said.
“Same thing,” Bodean replied.
Clementine jabbed a finger at them. “Honestly, you two. Aren’t you patriotic? Where’s your sense of duty to your country?”
“I left it in my long underwear back at the Landing,” Bodean said.
Judson pointed a finger at her. “Lady, if the redcoats were invadin’ again, we’d be first in line to fight. But we’re riskin’ our hides so some highbrow can put a bunch of squiggles on a piece of paper.”
“The government thinks the maps are important.”
“What has my goat,” Bodean said, “is that you lied to us.”
“Under orders,” Clementine said.
Davenport came to her defense with, “Yes, I admit we deceived you, but only in the best interests of our country.”
Cleon cleared his throat. “I don’t hold the lyin’ against you all that much. I don’t like it none, but what’s done is done.” He studied the major and Clementine. “What’s more important is whether you folks aim to go through with this?”
“Of course,” Davenport said.
“Then you’re plumb crazy. Not two minutes ago you told us you can see why anyone who comes this far in winds up dead. Now you want us dead, too?”
“We’re prepared for anything,” Major Davenport assured him.
“No, mister, you’re not. You only think you are. I’m warnin’ you folks for the last time. Turn around before it’s too late.”
“We can’t.”
Cleon looked at Fargo as if expecting him to take his side.
“I don’t have a say,” Fargo said.
They were camped on a strip of dry land with an odious bog to their left and a stagnant pool to their right. Just then a tremendous splash caused the pool to roil and brought all of them to their feet, the men with their rifles raised.
“What in hell?” Judson blurted.
Bending, Fargo gripped the unlit end of a brand, raised it over his head, and took a few steps toward the pool. He didn’t get too close, just enough that he saw ripples where something enormous had sunk below the surface.
“A gator,” Bodean said. “Had to be.”
“You hope,” Cleon said.
“What else?” Bodean asked.
“Who knows what’s out here,” Cleon said. “You’ve heard the tales the same as me.”
“Enough,” Major Davenport said. “You’re scaring Miss Purdy.”
Clementine had her hand to her throat, her eyes wide as saucers. “I never imagined . . . ,” she said, and let it go at that.
Fargo suspected the truth was beginning to dawn. She’d had it in her head that the swamp couldn’t possibly be as dangerous as everyone claimed. She’d figured to waltz in, meet with the Kilatku and win them over, and waltz out again, suffering no more inconvenience than a few mosquito bites. Now it was sinking in that it wouldn’t be as easy as she thought; at any time, anything could happen. He almost felt sorry for her.
“Whatever it was, it didn’t attack,” Davenport said. “You can relax.”
“Can I?” Clementine said.
“My men will take turns keeping watch. The rest of you can turn in.”
“We don’t mind takin’ a turn,” Bodean offered.
“That’s right,” Judson said. “We’ll do our part.”
“I thank you but it’s not necessary,” Davenport told them.
Fargo had trouble getting to sleep. The previous nights couldn’t begin to compare to this one. On all sides rose a riotous bedlam of roars and shrieks and screams, so many and so loud, the very air seemed to pulse to the savage beat. It didn’t help that from
nearby came furtive rustling and slitherings.
Along about the middle of the night he dozed off and slept fitfully until just before dawn. He was the first up save for the man on guard, who nodded.
Everyone was in a mood to match the swamp. After a hasty breakfast, they packed up and moved to the boats.
The same trooper who had been last on sentry duty stepped to the rope that secured one and stooped to unfasten it.
The water exploded. Out of it hurtled a reptilian behemoth, its jaws spread wide. Before the trooper could recoil or cry out, the alligator’s mouth clamped shut with awful force. Bones cracked and blood spurted, and the next instant the gator was hauling its quarry back into the water.
It happened so fast, everyone was rooted in shock.
Fargo recovered first, and snapping the Henry to his shoulder, he took a hasty bead between the alligator’s eyes. He thumbed back the hammer—and the gator went under.
“Private Baker!” Morgan cried, and took a stride toward the pool.
“No!” Davenport shouted, grabbing the sergeant by the arm. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Morgan tried to pull free, then stopped and said, aghast, “He didn’t stand a chance.”
“I’ve been tryin’ to warn you,” Cleon said.
“The alligator is gone and will be busy for a while,” Davenport said. He didn’t elaborate on what it would be doing. “Let’s finish loading and get under way.”
One boat after the other, they pushed off and glided along a blue-green ribbon that wound deeper into the foreboding heart of the Archaletta.
“Did you see that poor man?” Clementine said softly. “The look on his face.”
“It was over fast,” Cleon said, dipping his paddle. “I doubt he suffered much.”
“That could have been any of us.” Clementine stared out over the swamp with horror writ on her face. “If I’d only known, I’d never have agreed to come.” Stark fear replaced the horror.
“Stay calm, ma’am,” Cleon said. “It won’t do to lose your head.”
“What have I let myself in for?” Clementine asked herself.
“It could be, ma’am,” Cleon said, “we’re all in for an early grave.”