Longarm and the Voodoo Queen

by Tabor Evans

  He had left his coat and vest behind today, though he still wore the string tie around his neck. His white shirt was already soaked with sweat. He had rolled the sleeves up for a while, but exposing his brawny forearms just gave the mosquitos more places to bite him. The sleeves were rolled down now. He wore brown whipcord pants and his usual black stovepipe boots. Millard had complimented him on the high-topped boots. "They're good for tromping around the bayou country," Millard had said. "Helps keep the rattlers and the cottonmouths and the copperheads and the coral snakes from biting you."

  What kind of place was it, Longarm wondered, that had so many venomous snakes? Weren't one or two kinds enough?

  The area was teeming with wildlife. So far he had seen deer and squirrels and skunks and opossums. A couple of times he had spotted what he first thought were logs floating in the water, and then he had seen the tiny black eyes protruding from the surface of the bayou. Those were alligators out there, he realized, gators just like the one that had chomped half of Douglas Ramsey's body. Maybe one of them was the same gator, for all he knew. A chill went through him at the thought, but he managed not to shudder.

  From time to time, Longarm and Millard passed shacks with palmetto-thatched roofs. The shacks were built of unpainted, weather-bleached boards and were set atop stilts, and many of them leaned a little--whether from shoddy construction or the hurricane winds that sometimes blew from the Gulf, Longarm didn't know. Beside the shacks were small patches of garden. Cows and pigs and chickens were confined in ramshackle pens. Some of the shacks backed up to the bayou or even extended over the water on their stilts, and pirogues were tied up at these. The lightweight canoes drew very little water, Longarm knew. He had heard it said that they could float on a heavy dew.

  Sometimes narrow, pinched, sunburned faces peered out at the two riders from the windows or porches of the shacks. Millard ignored the Cajuns as he rode past. Longarm felt a pang of sympathy for them, then wondered if the emotion was misplaced. These people who lived in the bayou country were a breed apart in some ways; hard though it might be, this life was the only one they knew, and Longarm suspected that most of them would never be happy anywhere else.

  Another bayou joined the one they were following, and the water grew wider to their left. Millard waved at a field of flowers to the right and said, "Looks solid, doesn't it?"

  "I reckon it does," said Longarm.

  "You wouldn't want to ride across there. You wouldn't make it five feet before your horse was bogged down in mud up to its belly. In fact, almost anywhere you go off this road it would be like that."

  Longarm looked around. The landscape appeared to be tall grass prairie for the most part, sprinkled with fields full of flowers. Even without Millard's warning, though, he would have known from past visits to this area that appearances were deceiving. Any man who strayed off known paths ran the risk of winding up in quicksand or water over his head with little or no warning.

  The cypress trees thinned out and gradually vanished, and Longarm and Millard entered a region of long, shallow ridges covered with rows of stunted oaks. "Shinneries," grunted Millard, pointing at the ridges with a thumb. "That's where we'll find the men we're looking for."

  A few minutes later, he turned his horse and rode onto one of the ridges that crossed the path. Longarm followed. The shinnery oaks provided a little shade from the sun, which was climbing higher and higher in the sky and growing warmer as it climbed. The cypresses, with their spreading limbs and shawls of Spanish moss, had given better shade, but Longarm was grateful for anything that blocked the blasting rays of the sun.

  Ahead of them, the ridge curved gradually to the right, and it appeared to run for several miles. Longarm couldn't see the end of it. It was perhaps a quarter of a mile wide, with salt-grass marshes flanking it on both sides. They had ridden about a mile, Longarm judged, when they came within sight of a cluster of shacks.

  There were rivulets of open water among the marshes, and Longarm knew that the men who paddled the pirogues pulled up next to the shacks could navigate the twisting waterways through those marshes and swamps with as much ease and confidence as he could ride from Denver to Cheyenne. At the moment, several men were gathered on the porch of one of the shacks. As Longarm and Millard rode up, the men lifted hands in greeting and one of them stood up to walk slowly out to meet them.

  "Howdy, Mr. Millard. We is here like you say, us.

  "You have something for me?" asked Millard, not dismounting.

  "Always gots something, no? Take it to N'awleans, you, an' sell her for plenty-plenty money, yes?"

  "Depends on what you've got."

  The man, who was tall and skinny with a thatch of dark hair that fell over his forehead, waved a hand at the pirogues, which were loaded with oilcloth-covered bundles. "We gots fine silk, us, an' a case or three o' wine, an' some o' th em fancy see-gars from the Cubanos, you bet. You make us a good price, an' we load her on your wagons when they come, yes."

  At the mention of the Cuban cigars, Millard shot a glance at Longarm, as if reminding him of the one he had smoked the night before in the Brass Pelican. Then he looked back at the spokesman for the Cajun smugglers and shook his head solemnly. "There's not enough demand for those goods, boys," he said. "You're going to have to give me a good price on the lot if you want me to take it."

  "Our hearts, they are breakin'!" exclaimed the smuggler. "We are poor men, us, jus' tryin' to make a little-little money for our families, no? These words, they hurt us."

  Millard shrugged his brawny shoulders, took off his planter's hat, and used a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket to mop sweat from his bald head. "It's up to you, Antoine," he said.

  Longarm had seen haggling like this many times before, in border towns from California to Texas. In its own way, this Delta country was like a border town, because there was no place else exactly like it. Arguing over a price was to be expected, and Longarm wasn't surprised when a moment later, the spokesman for the smugglers echoed Millard's shrug and said, "A hard man, you, Mr. Millard, but we takes your money-"

  His concession was interrupted by the sudden bark of a gunshot. The Cajun's eyes widened in shock and pain as he stumbled back a couple of steps. A crimson flower of blood bloomed on the breast of his grayish-white shirt.

  More shots rang out as the other men exploded from the porch of the shack. Rifles and shotguns had appeared in their grimy hands as if by magic. As the wounded man slumped to the ground, his companions looked around for the source of the attack.

  Longarm had twisted in the saddle and drawn his Colt, and beside him, Millard had pulled a gun too. Longarm thought the shot had come from behind them, so he wheeled his horse around.

  Figures wearing derby hats and bandannas over their faces were bursting from the tall salt grass onto the shinnery upstream from the cabins, their guns blazing. Two more of the Cajun smugglers went down. Millard roared, "Royale!" and started firing at the masked men. Longarm triggered a couple of shots, and had the satisfaction of seeing one of the men tumble backwards into the marsh with a muddy splash.

  "Let's get out of here!" he shouted to Millard, yanking on his horse's reins. "There are too many of them!"

  Around two dozen men were attacking the cluster of smugglers' shacks, Longarm estimated, though making an accurate count wasn't the most important thing on his mind in the heat of battle. They must have slipped through the marshes in pirogues until they were in position to strike. Longarm didn't want to abandon the smugglers, but it was vital that he keep Millard alive for the time being, until he found out who had really killed Douglas Ramsey.

  Millard didn't seem interested in flight. He was returning the fire of Royale's men as fast as he could. Already a slug had chewed a hole in the crown of his hat, coming within inches of splattering his brains on the ground. Longarm snapped off another shot, then reached over and grabbed hold of Millard's arm.

  "Come on, damn it!"

  This time, Millard went with Longarm. The
two of them galloped past the cabins, heading farther east along the shinnery. That left the Cajun smugglers behind to defend their homes as best they could, and Longarm grimaced as he thought about how outnumbered and outgunned they were. Still, there was nothing he could do about it. And he and Millard weren't out of trouble yet themselves, he saw a moment later as a group of riders emerged from a stand of the stunted oaks up ahead and rode toward them, firing as they came.

  "Son of a bitch!" exclaimed Millard. "There's more of the bastards!"

  There was indeed, thought Longarm grimly. Now he and Millard were caught between two forces, and the only way left open to them lay through the treacherous salt marshes.

  They had no choice in the matter. If they stayed on the shinnery, they would be dead in a matter of moments, shot to ribbons by Royale's murderous gang.

  "Come on!" shouted Longarm as he turned his horse and sent it leaping off the path into the salt grass.

  Luck guided him. The ground beneath his horse's hooves was fairly firm at this point. The head-high grass closed around him, cutting him off from the view of the shinnery. Royale's men were able to track his progress through the marsh by the waving of the grass, however, and slugs slashed through the stalks around him. Longarm glanced over his shoulder and saw that Millard was right behind him. Longarm was glad Millard hadn't stayed to fight, because then he would have had to go back and try to pull Millard out of the fire.

  Now all they had to do was survive the hail of rifle bullets that was scything through the salt grass around them.

  "Be careful, Parker!" Millard shouted suddenly. "You're about to run up on some water-"

  He didn't get to finish his warning. Longarm's mount burst from the grass into a narrow open space filled with shallow black water. It splashed up around the horse's hooves, splattering mud on Longarm's boots and trousers. The horse slid to one side, in danger of losing its footing, and Longarm hauled desperately on the reins, as if he could hold the animal up with sheer brute strength. He realized quickly that it was hopeless, and kicked his feet free from the stirrups as the horse fell.

  Longarm landed half in the water, half on firmer ground. He managed to keep his pistol aloft so that it didn't get wet or fouled with mud. A few yards away, the horse scrambled to its feet and lunged out of the water, but it took only a few steps before it began to flounder again. Thick black mud sucked at its legs, and as Longarm watched in horror, the animal began to sink. That was not just mud, Longarm realized.

  It was quicksand.

  There was nothing he could do for the horse. He had no rope, no way to pull it free. Its shrill screams wrenched at him as it was quickly swallowed up by the clinging liquid mud. As the horse's cries died away in a hideous gurgle, Longarm heard men's voices shouting somewhere not far away. "Over here!" one of them yelled. "Quicksand's got the bastard's horse, sure as hell!"

  "Maybe got him too!" called another man.

  Those were Royale's hired killers, thought Longarm as he crouched on the edge of the narrow stream. He looked around for Millard, and bit back a curse. There was no sign of the man. Millard had been right behind him when he hit the water, but he had vanished after that. Longarm thought that he must have chosen another path through the marsh and was still trying to get away from Royale's men. Hoofbeats didn't make much noise on this soft ground, so Longarm couldn't tell if Millard was still on horseback or not.

  Millard had abandoned him, he thought with a sardonic grunt. Well, that came as no real surprise. Longarm had known the man less than twenty-four hours, and it wasn't reasonable to expect Millard to risk his own life to stay behind and help a new employee. All Longarm could do now was try to get himself out of this mess and hope that Millard made it back to New Orleans safely.

  The voices of the hunters were getting closer now. Longarm had no idea how well Royale's men knew these marshes, but if they knew their way around at all, they were better off than he was. He crouched in the tall grass and lifted his Colt, his hand tightening on the butt of the gun. Outnumbered as he was, he couldn't hope to shoot it out with them and come out alive, but they didn't seem to be interested in taking any prisoners.

  "Be careful," said one of the killers, surprisingly close. "I don't know who that fella with Millard was."

  "Don't matter," came the harsh reply. "We'll jus' kill him anyway, no matter who he be."

  Longarm's lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace. You can try, old son, he thought. You can try.

  Then he had to swallow a startled cry as a hand reached out from the salt grass and grabbed hold of his left arm.

  He twisted toward the unknown attacker and jerked his gun around, finger tightening on the trigger. Just in time, his brain registered what his eyes were seeing, and his finger froze, stopping him from putting a bullet through the brain of the young woman who crouched beside him in the mud.

  CHAPTER 7

  She put a finger to her lips, motioning to him for silence.

  Longarm's eyes widened in surprise. He had never seen this young woman before. If he had, he would have remembered her. He was certain of that.

  She was an olive-skinned beauty with thick dark hair tumbling to her shoulders. The thin cotton dress she wore clung wetly to her body, making the nipples on her pear-shaped breasts plainly visible. Once, the dress had been an elegant gown, Longarm saw, but now it was old and ripped in places, and the bottom had been torn off so that it came down only midway on her thighs, leaving the rest of her tanned, muscular legs bare. Her feet were shod in flimsy slippers that were caked with mud, and mud was splattered on her calves too, as well as on her dress. There was even a smear of it on her face. Despite the ragged dress and the grime, she was still lovely.

  She tugged on Longarm's sleeve and motioned with her other hand for him to follow her.

  Longarm glanced around. The gunmen were still prowling around close by, and within a matter of minutes, they were bound to stumble over him if he didn't move. Even though he had no idea who this young woman was, he was willing to bet that she knew her way around the marsh better than he did. He nodded, letting her know that he was willing to follow her.

  He hoped she wasn't planning to lead him into a trap.

  Longarm figured he looked like a damned fool as he walked in a crouch after her, but better to look foolish than to stick his head up and get it shot off, he decided. Besides, they traveled that way only for a few yards, Longarm following closely behind the young woman as she carefully parted the salt grass, and then they reached the bank of another stream. A pirogue was there, pulled up on firmer ground. The young woman gestured for Longarm to get in.

  He did so, hoping there were no coral snakes or cottonmouths lurking under the surface of the water as he waded into it and stepped up into the pirogue. The young woman pushed the craft off the bank and hopped in lithely. Obviously she had had plenty of practice getting in and out of pirogues.

  She picked up a paddle lying in the bottom and dipped it into the water. Longarm checked for another paddle so that he could help, and saw that there wasn't one. Clearly she intended to do all the paddling herself. She gestured for him to keep his head down, then settled into a steady rhythm with the paddle. It bit quietly into the water and pushed them along, first on one side of the pirogue, then the other. The splashes were so faint that Longarm doubted if they could be heard more than a few feet away.

  He could still hear Royale's men shouting among themselves as they searched for him and Millard, though, and the growing frustration was plain to hear in their voices. There had been no more shots, which gave Longarm reason to hope that Millard had gotten away. After having such a perfect setup for his investigation fall into his lap, he hated the idea of having to start over if Millard wound up dead at the hands of Royale's men.

  More streams intersected the one on which they were traveling, and Longarm quickly grew confused by the twists and turns of the route that the young woman was following. He knew that the shouts of Royale's men were dying away in
the distance behind them, however, and for the moment, that was all he cared about. His lovely young rescuer and guide, self-appointed though she might be, was doing an excellent job of getting him out of a whole mess of trouble. Longarm slipped his Colt back in its holster, figuring that he no longer needed it, at least for the time being.

  Within half an hour, they were out of the marshes and back in the bayou country, with huge cypresses spreading their limbs over the twisting, slow-moving waterways. Now that she didn't have to worry so much about noise, the young woman paddled with stronger strokes, and the pirogue slid easily over the water.

  "I'm mighty obliged for what you did back there," Longarm said, breaking the silence between them. "Reckon you saved my bacon, ma'am."

  She turned her head and flashed a dazzling smile at him. "This bay-konn of yours, him is good with the hush puppies, no?" Her Cajun accent was thick, but the words still sounded soft and musical coming from her.

  Longarm chuckled. "I suppose you may be right. I'm Custis Parker."

  "Cussstisss," she repeated, drawing out the name. "Name is Claudette, mine."

  "Well, Claudette, you came along just in time. Those fellas who were looking for me would've found me pretty soon, and when they did they'd have done their best to put some bullets in my hide."

  She nodded as she paddled, and without looking back at him, she said, "Knew they wanted to kill you, I did. Heard 'em yellin' 'bout it. Figure any man in so much trouble, gotta help him."

  "You know who those other gents were?"

  She shrugged her shoulders without breaking the rhythm of her paddling. "Smuggler men." The distaste in her voice was evident.

  "You don't like the smugglers? Lots of folks in this part of the country are mixed up in it, I hear."

  Claudette shook her head. "Other people, not me. I catch the crawfish, trap the otter and the nutria for their furs, get by jus' fine."