by Jon Sharpe
Fargo placed his hand on his Colt.
“No!” Namo ran up and grabbed Fargo’s wrist. “Don’t do this! Life is too precious. Give him what few moments he has left.”
Remy said, “Damn you, Namo. Leave the man alone.” Then he did a strange thing—he laughed.
“Is your mind going?” Namo asked.
“It is the irony. I’ve never liked outsiders. Yet this man is an outsider and I like him. And now he is about to treat me with the mercy I have never shown others. Is that not ironic?”
“It is wrong.”
“Let go of him, Namo.”
“I refuse.”
“In memory of Emmeline.”
“Damn you, Remy. And damn the beast that did this to you.” Namo forlornly stepped to one side.
“Such is life. We spend it holding the sadness at bay until the day when the final sadness comes over us.” Remy had the worst coughing fit yet. “Just as it has come over me.” He stared at Fargo. “Enough talk. Do it. Get it over with. I don’t know how much longer I can keep from screaming.”
Fargo drew the Colt.
“Please,” Namo said.
“Please,” Remy echoed.
Fargo shot him square between the eyes. Hair, bone and brains rained on the bottom of the pit. Remy Cuvier went rigid, then limp. His eyes, locked open, were fixed on the stars.
“God in heaven,” Namo said softly. “Is there no end?”
“Not until we’re like him.” Fargo nodded at the body.
“How can you be so callous? How can you be so cold? I thought you liked him.”
“I did.” Fargo replaced the spent cartridge, slid the Colt into his holster, and went over to the fire. He was suddenly bone tired. “I’ll fix us some coffee.”
“Now?” Namo said in amazement.
“We have to take turns keeping watch. I don’t know about you but I can use some help staying awake.”
“But after—” Namo said, and glanced at the pit. “It’s just that my wife liked Remy. Of all her cousins, he was Emmeline’s favorite. I could no more kill him than I could have killed her.”
“There’s no need to explain.”
“Thank you. But what now? The boar escaped. Our trap failed, and cost us our friend. Do we go after it by ourselves or do we rethink how we should go about this?”
Fargo was opening a pack to get at the coffeepot. “I’m not giving up.” Not this side of the grave he wasn’t.
“And I am not suggesting we should,” Namo set him straight. “But we have nothing to show for all our effort and sweat. The razorback is still out there. The Mad Indian, too.”
“Those other men from Gros Ville are hunting them too, remember?” Fargo reminded him. “Maybe they’ll have better luck than we have.”
“It is strange we haven’t seen any sign of them.”
“It’s a big swamp.”
“A huge swamp. But still, we should have run into them. Or seen their fires.”
“Needles in a snake-infested haystack.”
Namo commenced to pace. “Do you know what I think we should do?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “We’re not far from my cabin. I say we go there and rest a day or two. I will gather what news I can from my nearest neighbors, and we will plan and head out again.”
As tired as Fargo was, he would rather keep at it, and said so.
“To what end?” Namo argued. “The beast is wise to us. Or if it isn’t, the Mad Indian is.”
Fargo recalled the rabbit cries.
“The pit trick won’t work again. We must come up with something new. Something—what is the word?—foolproof.”
From out in the swamp pealed a series of squeals, faint but unmistakable, punctuated by an all too human cackle.
“Do you hear?” Namo said. “They can go on as they are for years if they’re not stopped. Think of the many innocents who will meet grisly ends.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Fargo reached into the pack and looked toward the pit. “Start covering that up.”
“Oh. Oui. We can’t let the wild things get at poor Remy.” Namo went about halfway, and stopped. “What is this?” he said, stooping. “Bring a brand, if you would.”
Blood speckled the ground. A lot of blood. The spots led toward where Remy had been standing when the boar rammed into him, and then off into the undergrowth.
“One of us hit it!” Namo exclaimed.
Fargo suspected it was his shot.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it proves fatal? Let the beast suffer as poor Remy suffered. Let it die a lingering death.”
As if to mock them, the night was shattered by shrieks.
Human shrieks.
18
The swamp at night was ten times as dangerous as during the day.
Ten times darker, too.
Fargo was in the bow, Namo in the stern. The cypress grove they were gliding through was thick with moss and silence. The living things had gone quiet, with one exception. It was the exception that brought them here, the exception that raised the hackles on their necks.
The shrieks had faded a long time ago. They thought that was the end of it, that whoever had been shrieking was dead.
Then the other cries started. Wails and screams and what sounded like blubbering. The cries went on and on until Fargo and Namo couldn’t take hearing them, until they had to come see who it was that was suffering the torment of the damned.
They had finished covering Remy, thrown the pack into the pirogue, and here they were. The cool night air added to the bumps that crawled up and down their skin.
Fargo had lost count of how many times he thought he saw something moving, only it turned out to be moss or a tree or nothing at all but his imagination.
“Why is it so quiet all of a sudden?” Namo Heuse whispered. “Do you think the man is dead?”
“I don’t know.” Fargo’s instincts warned him the razorback must be near.
Suddenly new cries reached them.
“Listen!” Namo exclaimed. “It curdles my blood.”
The cries would curdle anyone’s. The man was wailing and blubbering and mouthing incoherent words. He couldn’t be far, maybe a hundred yards ahead.
Fargo slowed and whispered for Namo to do the same.
There was a splash to their right. A single splash, and whatever made it was gone.
Gradually a spit of land took vague shape. Off in the vegetation a finger of orange appeared.
“A fire!” Namo whispered.
“I have eyes.”
“You will think I am crazy but I think I know that voice. His name is Toussaint. He is from Gros Ville.”
“One of the men hunting the razorback?”
“Oui.”
They coasted the last twenty feet. A small cove spread open. Already grounded was another pirogue. They brought their pirogue to a stop next to it and quickly climbed out. Then, rifles at the ready, they moved forward.
Fargo was in the lead. He tried to avoid stepping on twigs or dry growth that crunched underfoot but in the pitch black it was hard to do. He mentally swore each time he made unwanted noise. The only consolation was that Namo made more.
The scent of smoke was strong. As they neared the fire it was mixed with the smell of something else—fresh blood.
Fargo had smelled blood too many times not to know what it was.
The growth was ungodly thick. Try as they might, they couldn’t spot the man who kept crying out.
A new sound reached them, and brought them to a stop.
A low, insane cackle.
“The Mad Indian!” Namo breathed.
Fargo bent and peered through the tangle but all he saw was the campfire.
“What can that fiend be doing?”
“We’ll soon find out.” Fargo went even more slowly. They had a chance here to put an end to the lunatic and he wouldn’t squander it.
“We can’t let him get away,” Namo gave voice to the same thought.
“Hush.”
>
They became two snails, creeping along. A clearing appeared. At the center, the fire. Nearby lay a body. The chest had been torn wide, exposing shattered ribs and internal organs. The razorback’s handiwork.
Another Cajun was spread eagle, staked out at the wrists and ankles, and as naked as the day he was born. He writhed and whimpered and blubbered, sounding almost as mad as the person bent over him.
The Mad Indian was holding a knife. Drops of blood dripped from the tip. Tittering, he grinned down at Toussaint and held out something the size of an olive that appeared to be dangling from the end of a string.
Fargo’s stomach churned. That olive was one of Toussaint’s eyes. The Mad Indian had dug it out with his knife.
“Whimper, whimper, white dog. Sing your song of pain.”
Toussaint whimpered.
“Now scream for me, white cur. Scream so the frogs can hear.” The Mad Indian slashed off a chunk of flesh.
Toussaint screamed.
“So happy you make me,” the Mad Indian said gleefully. “I hate your kind. Hate, hate, hate.”
Namo slid up next to Fargo. “We’ll fire at the same time. One of us is bound to hit him.”
Suddenly the Mad Indian glanced up, straight at them. He cocked his head, his eyes glittering like sparks.
“How can he have heard me?” Namo whispered.
Fargo raised the Sharps. Or tried to. The heavy growth that hemmed them made it next to impossible to bring it to his shoulder.
“What have we here?” the Mad Indian said, and laughed his demented laugh. “More rabbits, I fear.” Suddenly he spun and bounded for the far side of the clearing.
“No!” Namo yelled, and snapped off a shot.
Fargo got the Sharps up and took aim but the Mad Indian was weaving erratically. He curled his finger to the trigger just as the spindly figure vanished into the vegetation.
“Damn it.”
They forced their way to the clearing.
Namo paused next to the dead man to say sorrowfully, “I know this one, too. He has a wife and three small children. Or had, I should say. They will take the news hard.”
Fargo was trying to look at Toussaint and keep the contents of his stomach down. The things the Mad Indian had done would make an Apache envious. Hideous, despicable things no one could endure without breaking.
Toussaint’s good eye was open and had a wild light in it that wasn’t much different from the wild light in the eyes of the Mad Indian.
“Dear God, no,” Namo said.
Fargo drew his Colt.
“Wait!” Namo squatted and put a hand on the other’s chest. “Toussaint, can you hear me? It is I, Namo.”
The man blubbered.
“Your name is Henri Toussaint. Remember? Think of who you are and where you are.”
Toussaint let out a loud sob.
“Is there anything you want me to tell your woman and your children? Any last words?”
Again Toussaint sobbed, only softer.
“Can you hear me? Both your ears are gone but you should still be able to hear. Talk to me, Henri. Say something.”
Incredibly, the ruin did. “Namo?”
“Oui. The Mad Indian has run off. But I swear to you by all that is holy, he will pay for his deeds.”
Toussaint’s throat, what was left of it, bobbed. “The boar . . . it came at us so fast . . . no warning. It got Philippe. Ripped him open.”
“I know. I will bury him.”
“It . . . rushed me . . . knocked me out. When I woke . . . my clothes were gone . . . I was staked . . . the Mad Indian . . .”
“Enough about him. What do I say to your wife? What do I say to your children?”
Toussaint took a deep breath. “What else? Tell them I love them. Tell them I am sorry.”
“For what?”
Fargo said, “What about the other men from Gros Ville? Where did they get to?”
“Who was that?”
“It is the outsider, the scout I sent for,” Namo explained. “And my friend,” he added.
Again the stricken man had to take a deep breath before he could say, “We separated . . . maybe razorback got them, too.”
“You should have stayed together. There is strength in numbers.”
“We thought . . . cover more area.” Toussaint stopped and went to lick his lips only there were no lips to lick. “Oh, God. What has that lunatic done to me? I am not long for this world.”
“I can put you out of your misery if you want,” Fargo offered.
“Non. Merci. But it will . . . not be long. Life is precious. So very precious. We do not . . . do not appre . . .”
“Don’t talk so much,” Namo said. “Conserve your strength. Would you like some water? I will gladly give you some. Henri? Can you hear me?” He bent low, his ear over the other’s travesty of a mouth. “He’s not breathing.”
Fargo sighed. One by one they were being wiped out. Although the Cajuns liked to call the swamp their home, it was the razorback, and the Mad Indian, who were most at home here. Pit civilized men against a beast in the wild and the beast would win nearly every time.
Namo sat back, dejected. “Is there no end? How many more must die before we end this nightmare?”
“We should bury them so we can turn in,” Fargo said tiredly.
“Very well.” Namo rose and took a step toward the trees. “I’ll find something to dig with.”
They both heard the twang.
“Get down!” Fargo yelled, and dived.
Namo was too slow. The arrow caught him in the thigh and twisted him half-around. Gritting his teeth, he pitched flat and fired a wild shot into the undergrowth.
A crazed cackle told them he missed.
Fargo palmed his Colt. He expected more arrows but instead heard crackling and crashing. The Mad Indian was fleeing. Leaving the Sharps there, he pumped his legs. Namo shouted for him to stop. Limbs tore at his buckskins. A branch scratched his cheek.
A figure took shape, the Mad Indian bounding like one of the rabbits he used to lure the razorback. A pale face glanced back at him and another cackle tickled the air.
Fargo snapped off a shot, knowing he had missed even as he squeezed the trigger. He was too eager.
A low limb caught him, sending ripples of pain across his shoulders. He kept running. He began to gain.
The Mad Indian looked back again and this time he didn’t laugh. He redoubled his effort.
Fargo yearned for a clear shot. Just one. He thought he had it and snapped the Colt up but more growth got in the way. He ran. He ran and he ran. And he tripped. An exposed root caught him about the ankle and the next thing he knew he was flat on his face.
The lunatic tittered.
“Not this time,” Fargo vowed. He heaved erect.
The Mad Indian was nowhere to be seen.
Splashing suggested why. Fargo vaulted a log and burst through high grass and had to dig in his heels to keep from barreling into the water.
The canoe was a blot in the dark, the Indian paddling furiously. “Mad, mad, mad, mad, mad!”
Fargo extended his arm and did something he had rarely ever done—he shot a man in the back.
The Mad Indian stiffened, and howled. But he didn’t stop paddling and in another heartbeat the night enveloped him like a shroud.
“Son of a bitch.” Fargo was beginning to think that if it wasn’t for bad luck, he wouldn’t have any luck at all. He lingered, hoping the Mad Indian would reappear, but then he thought of Namo and hastened in disgust back to the clearing.
Namo was by the fire, trying in vain to get the arrow out. Beads of sweat speckled his face as he grunted and said, “I’m glad you’re back. I can’t do this myself.”
Fargo knelt. The shaft had gone all the way through and the barbed tip was protruding from the back of the thigh.
“I heard a shot. Did you get him?”
“I hit him but he got away.”
“Remy was right. God is on the Indian’s si
de.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“Where did he get the bow? I didn’t see a bow when he was bent over Toussaint. Did you see a bow?”
“He must have had it in the trees.” Fargo examined the barbed tip. It was made from bone and slick with wet blood. He moved so the firelight played over it, and frowned.
“What is the matter?”
“How do you feel?”
“How do you think I feel?” Namo snapped, then closed his eyes and said, “Sorry. I am weak from the blood I have lost. And cold. Very cold. It came over me suddenly.” He shuddered, and bit his lower lip. “Why do you ask?”
“There’s something else on the tip of this arrow besides blood.”
“What?”
“Poison.”
19
Fargo stroked strongly, smoothly, and tried not to think of the man lying in the bottom of the pirogue. It was a race against time and time was winning.
The Atchafalaya during the day was so different from the Atchafalaya at night. They were two worlds. The patches of sunlight, the chirps and warbles of the day birds, the butterflies, made the swamp seem more hospitable. Not that Fargo relaxed his guard. Under that friendlier surface lurked the same menaces.
“How much longer?” Fargo asked. When Heuse didn’t answer, he asked louder. “How much longer, Namo?”
The Cajun rose on an elbow and gazed over the gunwale. He was sickly pale and slick with sweat. “Another hour, maybe less. Keep going as you are.”
“What’s the next landmark?”
“You will come to a bayou. Follow it south.”
Fargo grunted. They would make better time in a bayou. And he much preferred the more open water to the gloom and mire of the swamp. “Lie back down and rest. I’ll get us to your cabin. Don’t you worry.”
“I am past worrying. Now I think only of staying alive.”
They intended to rest at the cabin a short while and then push on to the settlement where there was a healer Namo knew. Not a doctor in the normal sense but a woman versed in herbs and medicinal lore. Namo believed she might be able to counter the effect of the Mad Indian’s poison.