Bayou Trackdown

by Jon Sharpe

The Mad Indian.

  It had to be. But that meant the lunatic had staked out the rabbit. Fargo sought some sign of the madman and happened to glance toward the settlement. The lights were plainly visible. Much more so than when he had been among the cypress.

  An awful idea came over him.

  Fargo tried to remember everything he knew about wild hogs, and razorbacks in particular. Their diet consisted of just about anything and everything. They were partial to acorns and roots and tubers. They liked berries and fruit and sometimes ate grass. They also liked meat. Razorbacks, in fact, were known to devour all kinds of living things: frogs, snakes, birds, even fawns. He’d heard tell that the succulent flesh of young rabbits was a favorite. Razorbacks had been known to root out rabbit warrens just to get at the young ones.

  Fargo looked at the rabbit. It appeared young to him.

  And then from the dark came a grunt and a squeal. There was no time to lose. Fargo yanked on the stake but it refused to budge. It had been pounded in too deep. He put down the Henry, gripped it with both hands, and tried again.

  The rabbit was in a panic. It flopped wildly about and screamed—if its cries could be called that. But whatever they were called, they served their purpose.

  A thousand pounds of sinew and gristle was bearing down on that mound. The razorback was coming to feed.

  “Damn,” Fargo hissed, and tugged harder. He could try to dig the stake out but that would take too long. Then it hit him. “What the hell am I doing?” Quickly, he slid his hand into his boot and drew the Arkansas toothpick. A single slash was all it took to sever the cord.

  In a twinkling the rabbit was gone. It flew down the mound and leaped into the water and swam with amazing speed—straight into a living mountain. Jaw snapped and bone crunched and the rabbit shrieked one last time.

  Whirling and snatching up the Henry, Fargo sprang for the pirogue. He bumped his shin climbing in. Grabbing the paddle, he pushed off and started to turn the pirogue toward Gros Ville. A squeal and loud splashing from the other side of the mound warned him he was out of time.

  Fargo stroked toward a cypress choked with a spidery veil of moss that hung clear down to the water. He barely got behind it in time. Parting the moss, he saw the huge mass of the boar appear atop the mound.

  The razorback raised its snout to the sky. It sniffed loudly, then grunted and moved in small circles. The stake drew its interest. The boar tore at it with its tusks.

  Fargo held his breath, not daring to move. If the boar caught his scent it would be on him before he could get out of there.

  The razorback stopped rooting. It gazed about and stared directly at the moss screening Fargo. Could the thing see him? It was his understanding that hogs and pigs couldn’t see any better than humans but he could be wrong.

  With a loud grunt, the razorback came down the near side of the mound to the water. Not twenty feet separated the beast from Fargo’s hiding place. He waited, every nerve raw.

  Tilting its huge head, the boar sniffed some more. It seemed about to plunge in and come toward him when it suddenly turned.

  It had seen the lights.

  Surely not, Fargo thought. Surely it would realize what Gros Ville was. But if so, either it didn’t care—or in its perpetual fury it was so bloodthirsty that all it could think of was killing. Snorting, it barreled into the water, heading for the settlement.

  Fargo had to warn them. He brought the pirogue into the open. Already the razorback was almost out of sight. Swiftly, he traded the paddle for the Henry, jammed the stock to his shoulder, and banged off three shots. He had no hope of killing it but that wasn’t his intention. He was trying to turn it, to make it come after him instead of attacking Gros Ville.

  The razorback didn’t stop.

  Fargo put down the rifle and paddled with all his might. He flew as fast as one man could but it wasn’t anywhere near fast enough. He hoped against hope that something would divert it, or that the smells and the sounds would cause it to retreat into the swamp. Most razorbacks would. But this one wasn’t like most. This one was a berserk killer, as mad as the Mad Indian. It wasn’t going to stop.

  The Cajuns would be talking about this night for years to come.

  Fargo still was hundreds of yards out when the first scream pierced the night. A scream followed by the boar’s shrill squeals. And then more screams, and shots, and the crash of a wall. A ruckus this side of bedlam. He saw figures running wildly about, saw muzzle flashes and heard men swear.

  His shoulder throbbed and his arms ached but Fargo threw himself into stroking with renewed vigor. Flames lent incentive. A lamp or a lantern had been knocked over and one of the buildings was on fire. As dry as everything was, the fire would spread swiftly.

  Fargo thought of Halette and Liana and Clovis, and swore. He was a stone’s throw from the shore when a small girl broke from between two buildings, screaming hysterically. For a few dreadful moments he thought it was Halette, but no, it was some other girl, and hard after her thundered the razorback. He grabbed the Henry.

  A man appeared, standing straight and tall between the charging boar and the girl. Flickering light from the spreading fire revealed who it was.

  “No!” Fargo yelled. “Get out of there!”

  If Hetsutu heard, he gave no indication. Instead he raised his rifle and fired.

  The razorback squealed but didn’t veer aside. Hetsutu fired again, and yet a third time, taking precise aim. But if his shots scored they had no effect.

  “Run!”

  Hetsutu tried to spring aside. He coiled his legs and leaped but he wasn’t more than a foot off the ground when the razorback rammed into him. Fargo expected to see him go flying, but no, one of the boar’s tusks hooked deep. The razorback stopped and tossed its head from side to side, squealing all the while.

  There was nothing Fargo could do. He took a bead but he didn’t have a clear shot. He had to watch in helpless horror as the boar ripped and mangled Hetsutu.

  Hetsutu never cried out. Limbs flapping, his body slid free and dropped.

  Fargo heard the thud as clear as anything.

  The girl had reached the canoes and the pirogues and had the presence of mind to climb into a canoe and flatten.

  Snorting and sniffing, the razorback came after her.

  Fargo sighted on its head. He was on the verge of firing when somewhere a woman screamed and the razorback wheeled and raced in her direction.

  The pirogue crunched onto solid ground. Fargo dashed to the canoe to find the little girl quaking and sniffling, the whites of her eyes showing.

  “Stay put. You’re as safe here as anywhere. I’ll come back for you.”

  The girl said something in French.

  “What?”

  “The beast, monsieur! It killed my mother! It came through our wall as if the wall were made of paper!”

  Fargo ran after it. He had no plan other than to try and keep it from killing anyone else. Suddenly he stopped.

  Hetsutu’s ruptured body lay practically at his feet. Most of Hetsutu’s organs were no longer in the body. From the abdominal cavity oozed the intestines, like so many coils of a snake. Several ribs had been shattered and one poked through the flesh.

  Fargo poured on speed. He came to the street, and to chaos run rampant.

  Several buildings were aflame. People were running every which way, shouting and bawling and bellowing. Bodies lay sprawled in violent death. Two of the shacks had been flattened and from under the broken roof of one of them came the shrill sobs of a woman.

  “Help me! Please help me!”

  From under the other shack protruded a bloody arm.

  A Cajun ran up, a man Fargo had never seen before, and clutched at his shirt. “Have you seen him?”

  “Who?”

  “My son. He is only six. He ran off and I can’t find him.”

  Fargo shook his head and the distraught man ran off. That reminded him. He ran to the tavern. It appeared to be intact and wasn’t on fire.
But the front door hung wide open.

  Dashing in, Fargo cast about for Liana and the children. He called their names. Fear filled him when he got no answer.

  Fargo ran back out. They had to be there somewhere. He took a few strides and was brought up short when a breathless Remy Cuvier materialized out of the smoke and the mayhem.

  Remy was armed with a rifle and pistols. His eyes were bloodshot and he reeked of alcohol.

  “Here you are! I have been looking for you and Namo and the Breed. Have you seen them?”

  “Hetsutu is dead.”

  Remy took a step back. “Non! Say it isn’t so.”

  “I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “He was my best friend. My right arm.”

  “Namo is off in the swamp—”

  “What’s that? The fool!”

  “His kids are with the woman who owns the tavern—”

  “Liana. Yes, I know her.”

  “Help me find them.” Fargo made off up the street. Whether Remy did or didn’t tag along, he must make sure they were safe.

  Flames engulfed a building on the right. A number of men were trying to put out the fire but the few buckets they had weren’t enough. A body lay so close to a burning wall that no one could risk pulling it away.

  The body was Doucet’s. A tusk had ripped his jaw and part of his face off.

  Fargo shouted Liana’s name. He shouted Halette’s. “Damn it. Where are they?”

  “They could be anywhere.”

  A cloud of smoke wafted over them. Fargo got it into his eyes and into his lungs. Coughing, he turned to one side.

  “The beast! Look!”

  The razorback was attacking another shack. In a mindless rage, it slammed into a plank wall again and again.

  “Here is our chance to kill it!”

  The boar chose that moment to turn—and saw them. Squealing fiercely, it charged.

  “Oh hell!” Remy said.

  14

  Fargo and Remy both snapped up their rifles.

  The razorback was closing rapidly when two Cajuns came running around the corner of a building, saw it, and opened fire. Instantly the razorback veered toward them. Fargo swore their shots hit it but the lead had no effect. With astounding speed the boar was on them. Those twin tusks ripped once, ripped twice, and writhing bodies were left in the beast’s wake.

  Fargo went to shoot but the razorback raced around the corner and was gone.

  “That thing is a devil!” Remy exclaimed.

  Fargo was thinking of Liana and the children. There was no sign of them along the entire street. On a hunch, he ran back toward the tavern. All around was a riot of confusion as Cajuns fought fires or tended to screaming wounded or wept over dead ones. He heard the squeals of the razorback but from a ways off.

  “What are we doing?” Remy asked.

  Fargo barreled into the tavern. Once more he shouted their names, half-fearing they had rushed out when the boar first attacked and might be lying out there somewhere, torn and bleeding.

  Then a voice answered. From out of the back they came, Liana with her arms around Halette and Clovis. They ran to him and Halette threw her arms around his legs while Liana hugged him.

  “Mon Dieu! I was so worried! We heard cries and we looked out and saw the monster coming down the street, attacking everyone it passed. So I took them to my bedroom and we hid under the bed.”

  Halette was sobbing.

  “We thought we heard you a while ago and came out but you weren’t here,” Liana said.

  “Where is our papa?” Clovis asked. “Did you find him?”

  “Still out in the swamp.” Fargo didn’t add “and maybe dead” but he was thinking it.

  Liana gave a start and recoiled, her hand over her mouth. She was staring at the doorway.

  Fargo figured Remy had come in but when he turned it was a Cajun woman holding the limp body of a small boy. A tusk had caught the boy in the neck and his small head hung by shreds. Quickly, Fargo scooped Halette up and held her so she couldn’t see.

  “Simone!” Liana hurried to her.

  Clovis said, “We must find Papa.” And before anyone could stop him, he dashed past Liana and past the stricken mother and out into the night.

  “Get back here!” Fargo hollered, and heard a yelp. He darted around the women and out the door.

  “Let go of me!”

  Remy had hold of Clovis’s arm. “Calm down, boy. You’re not going anywhere with that bête out there.”

  “But my papa is out there, too!”

  “He’s a grown man. You’re not.” Remy shook him to quiet him. “Do you think I don’t know how you feel? Your mother was my cousin, was she not? And a good friend, besides. I loved her, boy. And I swear to you by all that is holy, that beast will pay for her death, as it will for the death of my friends.” He pushed Clovis toward Fargo.

  Squeals came from the swamp but from far off.

  The glow from the burning buildings lit a scene of slaughter and destruction. Shouts and wails rose on all sides. Those who were not hurt were helping those who were. Bodies were being covered. And not only humans had suffered. Two horses and a dog were down, one horse kicking in its own entrails.

  “It’s a nightmare,” Remy said.

  Fargo couldn’t get over how much damage the razorback had caused, or how many it had killed and maimed. Granted, it was a thousand pounds of muscle and ferocity, but still. He was more determined than ever to hunt the thing down and slay it. It, and the madman that used it as a tool of revenge on those the madman blamed for the deaths of his people.

  Fargo put Halette down. “I want you and your brother to go to Liana’s room and stay there.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” Clovis said. “I want to help you look for my papa.”

  “First things first.”

  Remy used his boot on the boy’s bottom. “Do as he tells you. This is not the time to argue.”

  They went down the street to the landing. Faint in the distance they could hear the razorback.

  “Tomorrow I go after it,” Remy said.

  “You won’t be alone.” Fargo went to the canoe where he had left the girl but she was gone. “Damn.” He hoped she hadn’t blundered into the boar’s path a second time.

  Smoke drifted over them, wispy tendrils writhing like fog.

  Motioning to Remy, Fargo led him to where Hetsutu lay. “I figured we would bury him ourselves.”

  His head bowed, Remy sank to his knees. “I thank you but it is mine to do. Of all my friends he was the best.”

  “I’ll be at the tavern.”

  But Fargo had barely taken two steps when the swish of a paddle heralded a pirogue gliding out of the gloom. He moved to meet it.

  Namo stopped stroking and let the canoe glide to a stop. He sat glued in astonishment, taking in the devastation. “How can this be?”

  “You haven’t seen the worst yet.”

  Putting down the paddle, Namo climbed out. Fargo helped him pull the pirogue out of the water.

  “I heard the beast and the screams and came as fast as I could. I kept telling myself it was impossible, that the boar wouldn’t dare.” Namo started up the street, walking as one in a daze. Then he stiffened and blurted, “My children?”

  “Safe at the tavern.”

  Namo broke into a run and Fargo paced him. They passed a man cradling a woman. The horse had stopped thrashing but was still breathing with the rasp of a blacksmith’s bellows. The acrid smell of smoke mixed with the pungent odor of blood and gore.

  “That I should live to witness such a thing,” Namo said softly. “Who would have thought the razorback would—” He didn’t finish.

  “It wasn’t by chance.” Fargo told him about the part the Mad Indian played.

  Namo stopped cold. “You saw the rabbit and stake with your own eyes? Then the lunatic is as much to blame as the boar.” He smacked a hand against his leg. “I’ve just had a thought. What if the Mad Indian had a hand in the deaths
of some of those who have gone missing? What if he somehow lured the razorback to them as he lured it here?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “All this time we thought we were up against just an animal but the man must be slain, too.”

  “Where we find one we’re likely to find the other.”

  The rest of the night crawled by. Liana let the children sleep in her bed. Fargo spread out his blankets out back next to the Ovaro, the Henry at his side, the Colt in his hand. He didn’t sleep well. He kept hearing screams and squeals and waking up in a cold sweat. The last time, a pink tinge to the east signified dawn would soon break, and he got up and bundled his bedroll and went into the tavern to put coffee on.

  Someone had beaten him to the kitchen.

  “Bonjour,” Remy Cuvier said from over at the table. He lifted a steaming cup. “Comment allez-vous?”

  “If you’re asking me how I am,” Fargo said as he stepped to the stove, “I feel about the same as you look.”

  “You couldn’t sleep either?” Remy took a slow sip. “I doubt I will ever again have a good night’s rest.”

  Fargo filled a cup and joined him. “I’d like to get an early start. One of us should wake Namo.”

  “No need,” said the gent in question as he entered with a pack over his shoulder. “I have been lying in the bedroom for the past hour staring at the ceiling and finally couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “We need to have words, you and I,” Remy said.

  “I know what you are going to say and you can’t talk me out of it.”

  “Hear me out. Your wife was one of the kindest women I knew. She didn’t turn her back on me as most of my family did. For that I owe her.”

  Namo began slicing a loaf of bread. “Nothing you can say will change my mind.”

  “Damn it, man. Think of your children. If something were to happen to you, where would that leave them? Orphans. With no one to look after them.” Remy wagged a finger at him. “If you care for them, you’ll stay here. Fargo and I can get by without you.”

  “Who are you trying to fool? Just the two of you against that beast and the Mad Indian? You can use a third set of eyes and a third rifle.”

  “But Clovis and sweet Halette—”