Texas Swamp Fever (9781101611890)

by Sharpe, Jon

  Fargo was going to tell him not to scare her more than she already was, but the hell of it was, Cleon was right.

  11

  Their boats moved through a gray world of dim shapes and furtive sounds. Not so much as a single shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds.

  Sergeant Morgan was in the last boat, teamed with the trooper whose partner had perished.

  Bodean and Judson handled the first boat. Major Davenport sat with his nose to something he was reading.

  Fargo’s own companions were somber as death. Cleon had climbed inside himself and hadn’t said a word all morning.

  Clementine Purdy stared at the swamp with fearful eyes. When she saw a large snake coiled on a log, she shuddered. When she saw an enormous alligator on a low hummock, she put her fist to her mouth. Once the gator was behind them she lowered her arm and said quietly, “I’m scared, Skye.”

  “About time,” Fargo said, paddling.

  “Really scared. I didn’t realize—” Clementine stopped. “I could die.”

  “We all could.”

  Cleon broke his silence to say, “Never should have come.”

  Fargo spotted a big black bird soaring on outstretched wings high in the sky. He thought it might be a vulture.

  “Both of you tried to warn me,” Clementine said. “But a person never thinks it can happen to them.”

  “I do,” Fargo said. He wondered if that helped keep him alive by keeping him sharp.

  “Something else,” Clementine said, and gestured at the ghoulish landscape. “What sort of Indians live here? How do they survive?”

  “How does anyone survive?” Fargo said. “They’ve learned to live off the land.”

  “What land?” Clementine said. “Except for a few spots here and there, it’s muck and quicksand and water. Why would anyone live in a place like this when they could live anywhere else?”

  Fargo shrugged. “Maybe they were driven here by stronger tribes. Maybe they liked it here.”

  “That’s preposterous. No one in their right mind would like a swamp.”

  “Look at it their way,” Fargo said. “It keeps them safe. No one else comes in this far. And those who do usually don’t make it out again.”

  “They live here to keep their enemies away?” Clementine said dubiously.

  The head of a snake rose out of the water not a yard from her side of the boat. She jerked back and opened her mouth to scream but didn’t, and the head sank with hardly a ripple. “God help us,” she breathed.

  Clementine fell silent, wrapped her arms around herself, and closed her eyes.

  It must have been an hour later that a bend hid the first boat and Cleon glanced over at Fargo and said, “I’ve made up my mind. You deserve to know.”

  “About?” Fargo said, not taking his gaze off the shadowy vegetation that grew uncomfortably near the side of the boat.

  Cleon leaned toward him. “I like you and Miss Purdy. You’ve treated me decent.”

  “I’d have thrown you overboard long ago only she can’t paddle worth a damn,” Fargo joked.

  Cleon didn’t grin. “They’re my pards. But it’s wrong. And it will probably be soon so I’m tellin’ you now.”

  “Get to the point.”

  Cleon glanced at the bend. “Bodean and Judson. They plan to strand you and the others. They don’t like that you whipped them. They don’t like it all.”

  “They want everyone to suffer because of me?”

  Their boat was almost to the bend, and Cleon answered quickly.

  “They don’t care about the others. They don’t like outsiders. Especially those with the government.”

  In his wanderings Fargo had come across too much mindless hate. Hate that resulted in a lot of mindless killing.

  Clementine’s eyes were open. She had heard, and was paler than before.

  “I don’t know how they aim to go about it,” Cleon said, “but I figured you should know.”

  “I’m obliged,” Fargo said.

  “We must inform Major Davenport right away,” Clementine declared.

  “It’s best you keep it to yourself, ma’am,” Cleon said. “They’ll say it ain’t so, and it’d be my word against theirs.”

  “He must be warned,” Clementine insisted.

  “You want me dead?” Cleon said. “Because Bodean and Judson will slit my throat as neat as you please for turnin’ against my own kind.”

  The channel narrowed and Fargo had to push against the bank to keep from scraping. The bow cleared the curve, and ahead was a surprise; an acre or more of clear water and an island.

  Major Davenport stood and pointed. “We’ll camp there. I know it’s early yet but the going is a lot harder than it was and the men are worn out.”

  They grounded their boats in a half-moon inlet and everyone climbed out. Two troopers were ordered to stand guard while the rest explored the island.

  Major Davenport turned to proceed, and dug in his heels. “What have we here?”

  It was a footpath. Not a game trail, but a path used by humans.

  Fargo knelt to examine moccasin prints. “Some of these were made in the last day or so.”

  “The Kilatku,” Davenport said. “We’ve found their village.”

  Fargo doubted it. The island wasn’t big enough. He led the way inland, aware of rustlings that could be anything. When several sparrows took sudden wing, he nearly jumped. The swamp had him spooked, too.

  The trail turned and turned again and came to an end at a clearing.

  “What have we here?” Davenport said.

  Five black circles marked where fires had been. Each was about ten feet from the other, and formed a giant ring.

  Fargo squatted and poked at the charred bits. They were long cold and bore evidence of weathering. “These are old.”

  “How long ago?” Major Davenport asked.

  “Months,” Fargo said.

  “If the Kilatku made them,” Davenport said, “where have they been since?” Thoughtfully rubbing his chin, he turned to Morgan. “Sergeant, have the men build a fire and put coffee on. Then have them bring all our supplies from the boats.” He surveyed the clearing and nodded. “This will make an excellent base of operations.”

  Fargo kept an eye on Bodean and Judson. They were standing apart and talking in hushed tones. They appeared to be arguing. He had an idea why when Bodean motioned at Clementine and Judson shook his head and said something that made Bodean glower with anger.

  “Mr. Fargo,” Major Davenport said, “while we’re busying setting up, perhaps you would be so kind as to take our guides and explore the rest of this island?”

  “I won’t need all three,” Fargo said. “Cleon can stay with you and help unload.”

  “Very well.” Davenport smiled at Bodean and Judson. “Gentlemen, if you wouldn’t mind. Assist Mr. Fargo.”

  Bodean scowled.

  “We’re happy to,” Judson said, not sounding happy at all.

  Cradling the Henry, Fargo crossed the clearing. Another trail led toward the opposite side of the island. “After you,” he said.

  “You’re the scout,” Bodean said. “You should go first.”

  Fargo shifted so the Henry’s muzzle pointed at Bodean’s belly. “I wasn’t asking.”

  “What are you doin’?” Judson asked. “We’re on the same side, remember?”

  “Then you won’t mind going ahead of me.”

  They looked at one another and Fargo caught a fleeting movement of Bodean’s eyes.

  “Sure, mister,” Judson said. “Whatever you want.” He moved in front of Bodean and they started off.

  Fargo held back a few steps so they couldn’t turn and jump him. He trained the Henry on the small of Bodean’s back.


  Vegetation enclosed them, worsening the gloom. Mosquitoes sought to cover every square inch of exposed skin. A green snake entwined around a branch slithered quickly away.

  “God, I hate this,” Judson said.

  “We won’t be here much longer,” Bodean said.

  Fargo was tempted to tell them he knew about their plan but they’d know how he found out and vent their wrath on Cleon.

  Judson suddenly stopped.

  Bodean happened to be looking down and walked into him, blurting, “What the hell?”

  Crouching, Judson pointed at the undergrowth to the left and raised his rifle. “I saw someone.”

  “An Injun?” Bodean said, snapping his own rifle up.

  “All I could see were eyes.” Judson moved his head from side to side, searching. “They’re gone now.”

  “You imagined it,” Bodean said.

  Fargo remembered his own experience. “Maybe not,” he said.

  “Do we go look?” Judson asked.

  “Play right into their red hands, why don’t you?” Bodean said. “They’re probably waitin’ to jump us.”

  Fargo couldn’t see or hear anyone. “Keep moving,” he directed.

  “Like hell,” Bodean said.

  Jamming the Henry’s muzzle into Bodean’s back, Fargo said, “How about if I ask real nice?”

  “Damn you,” Bodean snarled. “The Kilatku are out there.”

  “Hope they are,” Fargo said.

  “Are you hankerin’ to die?”

  “If we make contact with them here,” Fargo said, “we don’t have to go any farther into the swamp.”

  “He’s right,” Judson said. “I’m all for that.”

  “They’re liable to kill us and eat us, you damned simpletons,” Bodean said.

  Judson warily moved on. He went around a bend and then Bodean and finally Fargo—only to find that both swamp men had stopped.

  “What the hell?” Bodean said.

  Not ten feet away stood a boy. Small and thin-boned, he couldn’t have seen more than ten winters. He wore a loincloth fashioned from a bear hide, and sandals, and nothing else. His hair was a disheveled mane, his face smeared with dirt. His arms were at his side and he appeared frozen except for his eyes, which blazed darkly.

  “He must be a Kilatku,” Judson said. He smiled and squatted and beckoned. “Come over here, boy. We won’t hurt you.”

  “What do you think you’re doin’?” Bodean asked.

  “Hush. We make friends with him, the rest of his people will be friendly to us.” Judson went on smiling and beckoning.

  Fargo was watching the vegetation. The boy wouldn’t be alone. He was surprised when, showing no timidity whatsoever, the boy came toward them.

  “See?” Judson beamed.

  His face expressionless, the boy walked up to Judson. Still showing no emotion, he whipped his arm up and plunged a knife into Judson’s eye.

  12

  Fargo didn’t see the knife until the boy’s arm moved. It was a sharpened flint with a bone handle.

  Judson screamed and flung himself back against Bodean. In doing so, he tore the knife from the boy’s grasp. He fell onto his shoulder with it jutting from his socket.

  Bodean roared with fury and tried to bring his rifle to bear.

  By then Fargo was next to him and swatted the barrel down. “Don’t shoot!” he bellowed. Another bound, and he reached the boy just as the boy spun to run off. Lunging, he grabbed the boy’s arm. The boy struck him, then tried to bite his fingers.

  Worried that there might be more Kilatku about to attack, and wanting his hands free to use the Henry, Fargo clubbed the boy with the stock. Not with all his strength, but enough that the boy’s eyes rolled up in his head and he crumbled.

  Judson was shrieking and thrashing. Bodean tried to hold him still but Judson pushed him off, gripped the bone handle, and did the last thing he should have done—he wrenched on the knife. The flint blade came out—and so did his eye.

  For a moment the tableau froze; Fargo, about to scoop up the boy; Bodean, shock on his face; Judson, gaping with his good eye at the eye he had just torn from its socket.

  “Good God,” Bodean said.

  Letting out a bloodcurdling screech, Judson clutched at the ravaged socket and kicked and flung about in hysterics.

  “Stop it,” Bodean cried, attempting in vain to seize him.

  Throwing the boy over his shoulder, Fargo said, “We have to get him back.” He thought he glimpsed movement off in the riot of brown and green.

  “I’m tryin’,” Bodean fumed, and indeed he was, but each time he got hold of his friend, Judson pushed him away.

  Boots pounded, and up rushed Major Davenport and Sergeant Morgan and a trooper. Davenport took in the situation at a glance and snapped commands. Instantly, Morgan and the soldier sprang to help Bodean. Between the three of them, with Morgan supplying most of the muscle, they subdued Judson.

  Fargo covered the undergrowth. The boy didn’t stir, and he worried that he’d struck him too hard.

  Davenport came to his side. “The child did that?” he asked.

  Fargo nodded.

  The major stooped and picked up the blood-covered flint knife with the skewered eyeball. “This tribe is more primitive than I imagined.”

  More interested in preserving their hides, Fargo said, “We have to get the hell out of here.”

  “Certainly,” Davenport said, and headed back, holding the knife as if it were a treasure.

  Fargo came last. He glimpsed moving figures twice, or maybe it was the same one, shadowing them.

  Clementine and Cleon and the other troopers were anxiously waiting with their weapons ready.

  “Look at this,” Davenport declared, waving the knife. “We’ve established contact.”

  Morgan and Bodean deposited Judson by the fire. Thankfully, Judson had passed out.

  Fargo carefully placed the boy on his back.

  “The poor child,” Clementine said, falling to her knees next to him.

  “He’s the one who stabbed Judson,” Fargo enlightened her.

  “But he’s so young,” Clementine said, placing a hand on the boy’s cheek. “So innocent. You must have scared him and he reacted without thinking.”

  “He was waiting for us.”

  “All by himself?” Clementine gazed about the clearing. “Where are the rest of his people? Where are the warriors?”

  Fargo was wondering the same thing. It made no sense for the Kilatku to have the boy confront them by his lonesome.

  Clementine gently shook the child’s shoulder. “I’ll bring him around.”

  “No need,” Bodean said, stepping over and drawing his knife. “I’m fixin’ to gut the little bastard.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Clementine said.

  “Watch me, bitch.” Bodean bent and reached to grab the boy’s long hair.

  “No!” Clementine cried, flinging out an arm.

  Bodean cuffed her.

  “Stop him!” Major Davenport shouted.

  Fargo was already in motion. He rammed the Henry’s barrel into Bodean’s belly, and when Bodean doubled over, swept the rifle up and around. At the thunk Bodean dropped like a poled ox.

  “Thank you,” Clementine said breathlessly.

  Fargo stepped back. Cleon and Morgan were tending to Judson. The major was engrossed in the knife. The troopers were waiting for orders. No one paid any attention to the vegetation. It was up to him to make a quick circuit, seeking sign of the Kilatku. There was none. He suspected they had gone to ground and would wait for a chance to rescue the boy.

  Davenport approached, still enrapt by the knife. “If this is the best they can arm themselves, we don’t have a thin
g to worry about.”

  “There are bound to be more of them,” Fargo said.

  “The trinkets we brought will win them over,” Davenport predicted. “I’m surprised the surveyor didn’t have them eating out of his hand.”

  “You’re putting the cart before the horse.”

  “Because I haven’t met them yet?” Davenport wagged the flint knife and laughed.

  Cleon turned and glared. “What’s so funny, mister, with my friend lyin’ over here half blinded for the rest of his days?”

  No one had been paying attention to the one responsible—Fargo was still watching the vegetation—so when the boy suddenly shot to his feet and bounded for the brush, no one was near enough to grab him except Clementine, but all she did was cry out, “Hey there! Stop!”

  Without breaking stride the boy plunged into the dark growth.

  Fargo ran to the edge of the clearing. It would be foolhardy to go in there not knowing how many Kilatku were lying in wait.

  Davenport and a trooper joined him. “Let him go,” the major said. “We don’t need him and I don’t intend to punish him over what he did to Judson. I don’t wage war on children.”

  “Little gnits grow to be gnats, sir,” the trooper said.

  “That will be enough of that kind of talk,” Davenport snapped.

  For once Fargo was in agreement with the major. Some whites felt that the solution to the Indian “problem,” as they called it, was to kill every last Indian—men, women and children.

  “I’m sorry,” Clementine said, coming over. “It happened so fast.”

  “That’s all right, my dear,” Davenport said. “Look at the bright side.” He beamed and gestured at the trooper and they walked off.

  “Bright side?” Clementine asked.

  “There’s an idiot born every minute,” Fargo said.

  “Poor Judson. Sergeant Morgan says he might not live. That the next twenty-four hours will tell.”

  “Morgan has seen a lot of wounds.” Fargo recollected the sergeant saying at one time or another he’d tangled with the Comanches, the Dakotas and the Blackfeet.

  “I still can’t believe that little boy did something so horrible,” Clementine said. “Someone must have put him up to it.”