Bayou Trackdown tt-329

by Jon Sharpe

  Clovis gazed with interest at the Henry propped against Fargo’s leg. “Why did you give it up? A Sharps will drop just about anything.”

  “That it will,” Fargo agreed. But the Sharps was a single-shot rifle. The Henry held fifteen rounds in a tubular magazine and another in the chamber. Someone once joked that you could load it on Sunday and fire it all week. “But there are times when I need to spray a lot of lead.”

  “Such as when?”

  “Oh, when a war party is after your scalp and there are five or ten of them and only one of you.” Fargo gave the Sharps back and said fondly, “But I’ve dropped many a buff and many a griz with one of these.”

  “When I am older I will go to Texas and shoot some buffalo,” Clovis said. “I have always wanted to do that and we do not have any in Louisiana. No grizzlies, either.”

  “Count your blessings.”

  “I’m not afraid of them.” Clovis patted his Sharps. “Not so long as I have this.”

  “A lot of people are afraid of the monster, as they call it,” Fargo remarked.

  “Not me. I hate it. I want it dead for what it did to my mama. I don’t care what it is or how big it is. When we find it, my Sharps will kill it.”

  “What is this ‘we’?” Namo broke in. “You will protect your sister like I told you and leave the shooting to me.” He caught himself. “And to Monsieur Fargo, of course.”

  “Of course,” Fargo echoed. But to tell the truth, he still didn’t see why Namo needed him. The Cajun knew the swamp better than he ever could.

  “I have been meaning to ask,” Namo said. “Is it true you shot the biggest grizzly ever killed?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I read it somewhere.”

  “You read wrong. The few grizzlies I’ve shot were big but nowhere near the biggest. I think you’ve got me confused with a mountain man who supposedly shot a griz the size of a cabin.”

  “Then it wasn’t you?”

  “I just said it wasn’t.”

  “Oh.”

  Fargo suspected that Namo thought the “monster” was a giant bear. So Namo had sent for someone he mistakenly thought to be a killer of giant bears. It gave him something to ponder as he lay on his back with his head on his laced fingers, gazing up at the star-speckled firmament.

  The next day was more of the same. The vastness of the swamp amazed him. As big as a small state, it seemed. So big, the Atchafalaya had never been fully explored. Vast tracts had never felt the tread of a human foot. White feet, anyway. Namo mentioned that several small tribes lived so deep in the swamp, whites rarely saw them.

  Which reminded Fargo of something. “What can you tell me about the Mad Indian?”

  Without breaking his rhythm paddling, Namo answered, “Not much. I’ve never seen him but I’ve heard the stories. I came on one of his camps once, the day after he had been there.”

  “How do you know the camp was his?”

  “I heard him laugh. He must have heard me and got out of there.”

  “His laugh?”

  “You will know it when you hear it. It is not a laugh you forget. It is madness given sound, and why he is called the Mad Indian.”

  “What does he do besides laugh at people?”

  “He sets snares for rabbits. He has been seen taking them from the snares.”

  “So he laughs and likes rabbit meat? He doesn’t sound very dangerous to me.”

  “He has also been seen a few times near where people have vanished. No one can say for sure he had a hand in it, but it is interesting, don’t you think?”

  “Interesting,” Fargo agreed. “What tribe is he from?”

  “No one can say. You must understand. Here in the swamp and along the coast are many tribes that want nothing to do with whites. Tribes we do not even know the names of. Exactly how many, no one can say. It could be the Mad Indian is from one of them.”

  “There are a lot of ‘could be’s about this.”

  “Oui, from your point of view I guess there are.”

  Fargo glanced at Halette. She was facing him, as she always did. For an instant he detected a glint of something in her eyes, or thought he did, but then her gaze became as blank as ever and he questioned whether he had really seen it.

  The deeper they traveled into the swamp, the more alligators and snakes they saw. And that was not all. The swamp was home to a host of creatures that crept and crawled and bit and clawed. In the evening, swarms of mosquitoes besieged them. Leeches were a problem, and once a snapping turtle nearly took off Fargo’s fingers. The stifling muggy heat, the bogs and the quicksand—why anyone would want to live in a swamp, Fargo would never know.

  Yet it had its beauty, too, such as occasional clear pools, sparkling gems in the maze of muck and mire. Gorgeous flowers, the likes of which Fargo had never seen and couldn’t peg a name to. Birds with brilliant plumage. Lizards at home in the trees as well as on the ground. Spiders as big as Fargo’s hand. Now and then he spied large cranes, often standing on one leg.

  Fargo grew to like the Spanish moss that draped the cypress and oaks. Much of the vegetation was so unlike the vegetation of the prairie and mountains that it was like being in a whole new world. At night the thick growth added to the swamp’s sinister atmosphere.

  Still, it was the wild, and Fargo loved wild places of any kind. He drank in so much that was new. But he never for a moment forgot the dangers. He was always alert for snakes, always wary of alligators.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day they came to a narrow channel of clear water.

  “Where did this come from?” Fargo asked.

  “The swamp is not all swamp.”

  The Cajun stuck to the channel until a lightning-blasted tree appeared on the right bank. “This way,” he said, and struck off into more moss-ridden ranks of cypress.

  Fargo was impressed at how confidently Namo found his way around. So much of the swamp looked exactly like so much else that it took long familiarity with the byways and landmarks to navigate with certainty.

  They managed another mile before the sun rested on the rim of the world. The Cajun gazed to the west, frowned, and urged, “Paddle faster! There is a spot we must reach before dark.”

  That spot turned out to be a broad hummock surprisingly thin of trees and growth. They hauled the pirogue from the water and walked over to the charred remains of a fire.

  Namo pointed. “That is where I saw it.”

  All Fargo saw was swamp and more swamp. The thing could be anywhere—if there even was a thing—but he held his peace. He chopped a tree for firewood and when he brought the last armload, supper was ready. Clovis had killed a snake and Namo had cut off the head and the tail and skinned it.

  Fargo wasn’t all that fond of snake meat. He’d eaten it before, but it wasn’t one of his favorites. “What kind of snake was this?”

  Namo thought a bit. “I don’t know as there is a word in English for it, mon ami. It is said the swamp is home to over a thousand and most are not known to anyone but those of us who live here.”

  Fargo picked at the meat. Afterward they sat around making small talk. Toward midnight he lay down. His stomach growled and he willed it not to. So what if he was still hungry? It was no great inconvenience.

  They were to take turns keeping watch, as always. Namo wanted Clovis to take the first turn and Fargo said it was fine by him.

  The swamp was alive with noise. There was the usual riot of croaks and bellows and occasional roars and screeches, and as always, the insects.

  Fargo started to drift off. He was on the cusp of slumber when a hand fell on his shoulder and shook him.

  “Wake up, monsieur!”

  “What is it?” Fargo rose onto his elbows.

  Namo was on his feet with his rifle in his hands. Little Halette had sat up and was peering fearfully into the dark.

  “Listen,” Clovis whispered.

  Fargo heard, and his skin crawled.

  7

 
From out of the dark heart of the swamp it wafted, an eerie cry, part shriek and part squeal. It went from a low pitch to a high screech and seemed to pulse and throb in the very air. Every other creature fell silent—the frogs, the alligators, even the bugs. The night was completely still save for the bellow of the beast.

  “Mon Dieu!” Namo Heuse exclaimed.

  Clovis let out a gasp.

  As for Halette, she had one hand pressed to her throat and the other to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and she cast about as if she intended to flee.

  “Stay calm, child,” Namo said. “The monster is far from here. It can’t harm us.”

  Halette erupted into motion. But she didn’t run toward her father or her brother. She flew at Fargo and before he could gather his wits, she wrapped her arms around his legs and broke into loud sobs.

  “We’re safe. Don’t worry.” Fargo patted her shoulder, not knowing what else to do.

  Either Halette didn’t hear him or she didn’t believe him because she cried all the harder.

  The other cry, the cry out of the swamp, faded. But it left the short hairs at the nape of Fargo’s neck prickling. Whatever made it had to be huge, exactly as the Cajun claimed.

  As if Namo could read Fargo’s thoughts, he asked in breathless amazement, “Do you believe me now, mon ami?”

  “I believe you,” Fargo said, adding, “One thing is for sure. That was no bear.” He looked down at the girl, who was still weeping and quaking. “Shouldn’t you do something?”

  “Oh. Pardon.” Namo came over and began prying Halette’s fingers loose. She resisted, clinging to Fargo as a drowning child would cling to a floating log, but at last Namo succeeded and scooped her into his arms. “Ne vous en faites pas. I am here, daughter.”

  Clovis was staring anxiously into the swamp. “What was that, Papa? What can make such a sound?”

  Strangely, Fargo had the feeling he had heard something like it before but he couldn’t recollect exactly when or where.

  “I don’t know what it is, nor do I care,” Namo was saying. “All that matters is it killed your mother. The three of us will not rest until we have avenged her.”

  Fargo wondered if Namo included him or Halette in that “three.” “Whatever it is, you were right. It’s a long way off.”

  “But will it stay a long way? I hope not. I hope it comes for us. Right now. Right here.”

  “We shouldn’t have brought your kids.”

  Namo snorted in annoyance. “We have been all through that. They are here and that is that.” He carried Halette to her blankets and laid her on her side. “I propose we get some sleep while we can. Morning will come too soon.”

  Fargo tried but it was pretty near hopeless. He tossed. He turned. He stared at the stars. He peered into the moss-shrouded Atchafalaya. Eventually his eyelids grew heavy. He was on the verge of falling asleep when a screech rent the night. So loud and so close, it seemed to come from right next to him. Pushing up into a crouch, he grabbed the Henry.

  Clovis was by the fire, terror-struck.

  “It’s here!” Namo shouted, rising, only to have his daughter do as she had done to Fargo and wrap her arms around his legs.

  There was a commotion in the swamp. Fargo swung around but all he saw was the black of the pit. The starlight wasn’t strong enough to penetrate the thick canopy.

  “Do you hear that?” Clovis whispered.

  Fargo’s gut balled into a knot. For from the blackness came breathing. Heavy, laborious, as if the act of working its lungs was an exertion. Grizzly bears wheezed like that, only not as loud.

  “It’s watching us!” Namo said.

  Clovis flung limbs on the fire. The flames leapt high, and the ring of light grew. But only by a dozen feet. Not nearly enough to relieve the blackness, or to show them the creature.

  “Why doesn’t it do something?” Namo wondered.

  Fargo edged forward. He wanted to see it. Just a glimpse, enough to tell what it was.

  “Careful, monsieur,” Clovis warned.

  Something stirred in the water but it was only a snake gliding swiftly away.

  Fargo had the Henry to his cheek. He took another step, straining his eyes for all they were worth. The moss lent form where there wasn’t any, lent substance to empty space. “Where are you?” he said under his breath.

  The next moment the swamp exploded with racket, with tremendous splashing and the snap and crackle of brush.

  For a few heartbeats Fargo saw a vague shape. There was the suggestion of enormous bulk. For its size it was incredibly quick. It was there one second, gone the next. The thing plowed through the heavy growth without hindrance, the sounds growing fainter and fainter until once again, the night was quiet.

  “Thank God!” Clovis exclaimed.

  Fargo shared the sentiment. Whatever that thing was, if it had attacked, he doubted they could bring it down. Not in the dark. Not as huge as it was. The breath of death had brushed them and gone by.

  Namo, however, was filled with rage. Shaking a fist, he hollered, “Come back here! Face us, beast!”

  “Don’t press our luck,” Fargo advised.

  “I want it dead. I want it dead more than I have ever wanted anything.”

  Halette had stopped sobbing and was on her knees, her thin arms wrapped tight, trembling like a leaf in a gale. Namo didn’t notice. He stormed toward the water, shaking his fist and blistering the air.

  “Père!” Clovis shouted, and ran after him.

  Smothering curses of his own, Fargo squatted. He touched Halette’s hair, saying, “It’s gone. We’re safe. Don’t worry.” He twisted to yell for Namo to come back.

  “No one is ever safe.”

  Fargo looked at her, at her upturned faced streaked with tears, at her quivering lips. “You can talk.”

  “I have been me for a while now,” Halette said softly. “I just had nothing to say.”

  “I should tell your father.” Fargo cupped a hand to his mouth.

  “Non! Not yet. Please.” Halette put her small hand on his. “You must help me, monsieur. Make him see we must leave this awful place or all of us will end up like my mère.”

  Fargo leaned toward her. “They tell me you saw what happened. You saw what killed her.”

  “Oui.”

  “If it won’t upset you, I’d like to hear.”

  The girl bowed her head, and shook. “You ask a lot.”

  “I came a long way to help your pa, girl. The least you can do is help me. If I know what it is, I’ll know what to do.”

  Halette began reciting in a tiny, scared voice. “It was awful. My mama had me climb a tree. She said I would be safe up near the top. I did as she wanted. It was dark, so very dark, and I couldn’t see much.” She stopped.

  Fargo waited. Let her tell it in her own good time.

  “Then it came, monsieur. It was big, so big. My mother shot her rifle but it did no good. I heard”—Halette stopped and sucked in a breath—“I heard her screams—”

  “That’s enough. So you don’t know what it is?”

  “I know only that it is not like anything I have ever seen or heard. They call it a monster, and it is.”

  “You were scared. It was dark.”

  Fargo slowly rose and she rose with him.

  “My mother couldn’t kill it and she was a good shot. You can’t kill it. Nor can Papa.” Halette clutched at his buckskins. “We must go back. Make Papa go back too. Before it is too late.”

  Just then Namo and Clovis returned. Seeing Halette, Namo bellowed for joy and swept her into his arms. Clovis, too, was delighted, and spun in circles, whooping. Both had forgotten the beast.

  But not Fargo. He made a circuit of the hummock. Some frogs croaked and a gator grunted but the rest of the swamp was unnaturally still. He thought he heard, faint in the distance, the breaking of underbrush, but he couldn’t be sure. He was turning to go back when he heard a sound he was sure about: the splashing of a paddle. Dropping onto a knee, he spied what
he took to be a pirogue gliding toward the hummock. But as it came closer he saw that it was a canoe.

  A silhouette told him only one person was in it. A Cajun, or so Fargo reckoned until the canoe was near enough for him to see that the man was naked from the waist up and had hair that spilled past his shoulders. Fargo saw him put down the paddle and pick up a curved pole and a short stick. Belatedly, Fargo realized what they were: a bow and arrow. The man was about to loose a shaft at the Heuses.

  By then the canoe was only a few yards from the hummock. Setting down the Henry, Fargo took a long leap and launched himself from shore. The warrior cried out in surprise as Fargo slammed into him. The canoe tilted from the impact and down they went. Rank swamp water embraced them.

  Fargo got hold of a wrist and kicked to the surface. To his surprise, the warrior offered no resistance. Hauling him onto dry land, Fargo let go and retrieved the Henry.

  The Indian looked up, his long hair hiding much of his face. But Fargo could tell he was old, very old, and his body much more frail than it had appeared at first. The man wore a breechclout and nothing else. His legs were spindly, his knees knobby. Each of his ribs stood out as if his skin were too tight. The effect was that of a walking skeleton.

  “Who are you?”

  An odd sort of laugh was the reply. The Indian pushed his hair aside, revealing a swarthy face seamed with wrinkles. So many wrinkles, he had to be eighty if he was a day. His dark eyes glittered and he bared his teeth in a mocking grin.

  “You’re the one they call the Mad Indian.”

  “So the white dogs say,” the man said, and cackled. “What will you do now that you have caught me?” And he laughed again.

  “I’m not your enemy.”

  “All whites are my enemies. I will hate your kind until the day I die.”

  “Why? What did whites ever do to you? And where did you learn to speak the white tongue?”

  The Mad Indian pushed up off the ground, his bony fists clenched, his teeth bared. “What did the whites do? What did they do?” he practically screamed.

  From over by the fire Namo Heuse yelled, “Fargo, is someone with you? What is going on?”

  The Mad Indian glared at the Cajuns and then at Fargo. “By the words of the black robes will you die! An eye for an eye, they told my people! An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth!”