Bayou Trackdown (11 page)

Just nerves, Fargo figured.

Now, with sunlight playing over their pirogue, Halette remarked, “I can’t wait to sleep in a bed again.”

“I don’t want to stay in Gros Ville,” Clovis said to his father. “I want to be with you.”

“What have I told you, son? You will stay with your sister and that is that.” Namo stopped paddling to turn and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “With your mother gone, we must look after one another. Can I count on you to watch over Halette while I am away?”

“
Oui
, Papa.”

“And if I don’t come back—”

“Don’t say that.”

“Don’t ever talk like that,” Halette echoed.

“Very well. But remember. Always be there for one another. You are brother and sister. That is a special bond. Never let anyone break you apart.”

Fargo stroked his paddle and watched out for gators and snakes. He’d seen a coral snake the day before, and Namo mentioned that of all the snakes in Louisiana, coral snakes had the most potent venom.

“One bite and you will have fire in your veins and die.”

Fargo was changing his mind about the swamp. The dangers outweighed the splendor. He had to admire the people who lived there. They possessed uncommon courage.

He couldn’t wait to get back to his familiar prairies and mountains. They had their perils too, but they were nothing like this.

From the first pirogue came a shout. Remy was pointing.

Up ahead, finally, was Gros Ville. Other pirogues and canoes lined the landing. Only a few people were out and about in the heat of the day and no one paid much attention to them as they tied off.

They came to a side street and Remy stopped.

“Down here is where my friends live. We will separate and meet back at the landing three days from now, at sunrise.”

Namo was carrying Halette. “I have a friend. Hopefully he and his woman will agree to put my children up.”

That left Fargo on his own. He bent his steps to the tavern. It was early yet, and only a few customers were drinking and playing cards. He made straight for the bar.

Liana looked up from a ledger she was scribbling in. She gave a start and put a hand to her throat. “Are my eyes deceiving me?”

“Enough of your antics. Give me a bottle of your best.” Fargo fished in his pocket and slapped down a coin.

“I’m delighted you are back.”

“The bottle, wench.”

“
Certainement
. Here. I have missed you so much, it’s on the house.”

Fargo gratefully chugged. The whiskey burned his mouth and throat and exploded once it reached his empty stomach. He downed half the bottle in big gulps, thumped the bottle on the counter, and smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Damn, I needed that.”

Liana touched his chin. “You look as if you haven’t slept in days. And you haven’t been eating well.”

“The swamp will do that.” Suddenly his weariness caught up with him, and Fargo leaned on the counter. “But I have three days to rest before we head out again.”

“Three whole days?” Liana said with a playful grin, and promptly sobered. “Wait. Did I hear right? You’re going out after that monster a second time?”

“Quit calling it that.” Fargo explained, briefly, about his clashes with the terror of the Atchafalaya.

“A razorback?” Liana marveled. “Who would have thought it. But I don’t like the idea of you out in the swamp.”

“Makes two of us. But I’m being paid. And it’s also become personal.” Fargo didn’t elaborate. He took the bottle and headed for the corner table, saying, “If you have the time and want to fix me a meal, I won’t complain.”

Liana laughed. “Would venison steak and potatoes and carrots do? A hunter traded me the meat for some rum.”

Fargo’s mouth watered. “That would do me fine.”

“And coffee to wash it down?”

“I’ll stick with the red-eye,” Fargo said, patting the whiskey bottle. He wearily sank into a chair facing the door and propped his boots on the table. He figured to sit there the rest of the day. And if he was lucky, he might get to enjoy another bout under the sheets with Liana.

It took half an hour. The venison was juicy and delicious, the potatoes were seasoned and drowned in butter, and the carrots had a crunch to them. Liana also prepared a side of crayfish and a bowl of gumbo.

Fargo was ravenous. He relished every morsel. Intent on his food, he didn’t pay much attention when two men hurried in and over to a nearby table where two others already sat. Their excited whispers were of no interest to him until he caught the word “Remy.” He perked his ears.

“All I am saying is that we might never have a chance like this again.”

“But to take the law into our own hands?”

“Whose law? Outsider law? What has that to do with us? We always take care of our own problems.”

The last man fidgeted in his chair. “But that is just it,
mon ami
. Who says Remy is a problem?”

“He has killed,” the stoutest of them said.

“Outsiders, yes. But never one of us. Never one of his own. Oh, I admit he is a scoundrel. Many accuse him of being a thief but I have yet to hear where he has stolen from any of us. Many say he is a bit of a bully but I have yet to hear of him bullying a fellow Cajun.”

“All this is true,” another said with a bob of his head.

“You make him out to be a saint,” the stout man complained, “when he is a murderer.”

“I make him out to be nothing but what he is. A rogue, yes. A hater of those who would impose their will on us, yes. A man of violence, yes. But I repeat. With his own kind he has always been as much a gentleman as anyone.”

“I can’t believe what my ears are hearing.”

“Look, do as you want, Philippe. If you want to get men together and take him into custody, be our guest. But what then? Will you hand him over to the sheriff? Hand over one of your own kind?”

“To hear you, one would think all Cajuns were blood brothers.”

“Aren’t we?”

That ended their argument.

Fargo went on eating. He cracked open a crayfish and sucked out the sweet meat. He finished the gumbo. He forked the last piece of potato and was about to pop it into his mouth when the door opened and in came a young Cajun of twenty or so, his cap gone, his hair a mess, his clothes caked with mud, his pants torn. He lurched toward the bar, moving stiffly, a hand outstretched.

“Drink, Liana! In God’s name give me a drink.”

“Claude? What on earth?”

The other men came out of their chairs and hurried over to hear what the newcomer had to say.

Fargo stayed where he was; he could hear perfectly fine.

“A drink! A drink I say!” Claude clutched at the bottle Liana handed him and sucked greedily, his throat bobbing. “
Merci
,” he gasped, whiskey dribbling down his chin. “I needed that.”

“Tell us what has you in this state,” Liana coaxed. “Did you have an accident?”

“I’ll say I did!” Claude declared. “And my accident has a name. Look at me!” He swept his hand at himself. “I am a mess. All thanks to the Mad Indian.”

Fargo froze.

“The Mad Indian, you say?” the stout Cajun said. “Surely you don’t mean he is somewhere near?”

“That is exactly what I mean,” Claude confirmed. “Listen, my friends.” He slumped against the bar. “I was on my way in from my cabin. My once-a-month visit for supplies. I wasn’t more than half a mile from this very spot when I came around a cypress and there he was, sitting in his canoe, his back to me and staring this way.”

“Yes, I tell you. I didn’t know who he was at first. I took him for just another Indian. But as I came up next to him he heard me and he turned.” Claude shuddered. “I tell you, as long as I live I will never forget the look in his eyes. You can
see
the insanity. If I had any doubts they fled when he laughed and flapped his arms and said in English and French the same word over and over again.”

“What word?” a man breathlessly asked.

“Mad,” Claude said. “He kept saying, ‘Mad, mad, mad, mad, mad!’ ”

“Dear God.”

“To think he would dare come this close!”

Claude went on. “He laughed and then he brayed like a hound that has drank tainted water.”

His audience was enrapt. So was Fargo. As he had learned the hard way, wherever you found the Mad Indian, you could be sure the razorback wasn’t far off.

“What happened then, Claude? Did he try to kill you?”

“No. That is the strangest part.”

“Strange how?”

“The Mad Indian just paddled away, looking at me over his shoulder and laughing.”

“You didn’t go after him?”

“I was too overcome with surprise. When I thought of it he was almost out of sight. He pointed this way, toward Gros Ville, and he shouted in poor French. Then English.”

“What did he say?”

Claude swallowed more whiskey, then said, “He shouted that we are all going to die.”

“Lunacy,” a man said. “He is one and we are many.”

“If he shows his face here, it will be his finish.”

“Doesn’t he realize what we will do to him?”

“Who can say? He’s crazy. But one thing is certain. We need have no fear of the likes of him.”

“No fear at all,” another agreed.

All of them laughed or chuckled.

Not Fargo. He was thinking of Remy’s camp and the ruptured bodies. And his skin crawled.

Night claimed the Atchafalaya.

Fargo stood under the stars out behind the tavern, patting the Ovaro and listening. He strained his ears for the sound he dreaded to hear but the usual chorus wasn’t broken by the squeals of the razorback.

Fargo kept telling himself his worry was pointless. The settlement was too big. Nearly twenty buildings, and there had to be forty to fifty people, if not more, considering how many were at the tavern. What with the lights and the noise and the voices, the idea of the razorback attacking Gros Ville was silly. But then what was the Mad Indian doing there? Had the Mad Indian followed them out of the swamp? Was that why he thought they were being watched?

“I reckon I’m making too much of things,” Fargo said to the Ovaro.

The door opened, spilling a rectangle of light, and out came Liana. She was wearing an apron over her dress and holding a cloth. “Here you are. Another couple of hours and I can close for the night.”

“Have something in mind, do you?”

“I thought perhaps you and I could take up where we left off.” Liana grinned and swayed her hips. “That is, if you’re not too tired to give me a back rub.”

“I’ll give you more than that.”

Laughing merrily, she turned to go back in. “Oh. I thought you should know. There has been more talk of Remy. But they are going to leave him be.”

“Any word from Namo?”

“No. He’s staying with a friend in a shack at the west end of the street. From what I am told, his children are happy to be out of the swamp. It is said that they went through a terrible ordeal out there.” She looked at him. “You didn’t tell me everything.”

“I told you we tangled with the boar.”

“You didn’t tell me how many it killed.” Liana shook her head in sorrow. “It
is
a monster, whether you think so or not. Word will spread quickly. I would imagine that by this time tomorrow, everyone for fifty miles around will have heard.”

Fargo heard a distant splash. “Liana—”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just don’t go anywhere tonight unless I’m with you.”

“Where would I go? I have a business to run.” Liana chuckled. “Have you grown so fond of me that you want me always near?”

“That must be it.”

“Why don’t I believe you? Very well. Don’t say. But I promise not to leave unless I let you know.”

“Good.”

Liana reached for the door, then turned back to him. “What is it that concerns you so?”

“Where you find the Mad Indian, you find the razorback.”

“Surely you are not suggesting what I think you are suggesting?”

“I’m just saying, is all.”

“No.” Liana stared into the dark and shook her head. “The beast would have to be as crazy as the Indian. There are too many of us.”

“I think so too but you never know. Maybe you should spread the word. Warn them. But do it in a way they won’t think you’re loco.”

“Dear God, I pray you are mistaken. Now I won’t sleep a wink all night.”

“That’s all right. I was planning on keeping you up anyway.”

“I can hardly wait.”

The door closed on her laugh and Fargo was left to ponder the swamp and the night. In his mind’s eye he relived his glimpse of the razorback and tried to calculate how big it really was. Six feet high at the front shoulders, he guessed, and ten to twelve feet long. Foot-long tusks. Easily a thousand pounds. Maybe Liana was right—it
was
a monster.

The next consideration was how to kill it. Fargo had seen with his own eyes that its hide was proof against bullets. His Henry had proven useless. Clovis’s Sharps might be powerful enough to bring it down but the shot must core its brain or its vitals and the boar wasn’t about to stand still long enough for anyone to take sure aim.

Fargo shrugged and went in. Maybe he would ask to borrow the Sharps before they headed out.

The tavern was packed. The topic on everyone’s tongue was the razorback. An old Cajun with a salt-and-pepper beard was saying to an attentive audience, “All of you know me. Like many of you, I’ve lived in this swamp all my life, and I say here and now that this animal can’t be as big as they say.”

“Namo claims different,” someone said.

“Fear makes things seem bigger than they are.”

“Are you calling Namo a coward?”

“No, no. But you’ve heard the story. Their fires were out. The thing was on them so fast, they didn’t get a good look. Now I ask you. Is it unreasonable to suggest they have exaggerated without meaning to? I bet the razorback is no bigger than any other.”