by Jon Sharpe
“And you like it, admit it?” Pensee ran her hand over his hardening pole. “Goodness. You grow and grow.”
A constriction had formed in Fargo’s throat and he had to cough before he could say, “Isn’t there somewhere private?”
“Are you shy?” Pensee asked, and tittered. “Men! They act so big and tough. But in a woman’s hand they are kittens.”
“I’ll give you kittens,” Fargo said, and plunged his hand between her thighs. At the contact she arched her back and her mouth parted in a tremulous gasp.
“Oh! No.”
“What’s the matter? Are you shy?” Fargo gave as good as he got.
Pensee glanced toward the other fires and the tents, then clasped his hand and pulled him around the cypress to the other side. “One thing I am not is that, monsieur,” she said huskily. “But like you I don’t need an audience. That is how I got into trouble before I met Remy.”
“Trouble how?”
“There was this gentleman who shared my lack of inhibitions. We let people watch for money. You would think the world was coming to an end, to hear the upstanding citizens who wanted us hung for our crime.”
“There are limits,” Fargo said. Not that he had room to talk. He had done more than a few things in his time that most would brand scandalous.
“Not for me. Not then. Not now. Not ever. I like to live to the fullest. And if some are upset, that is their nature, not mine.”
“Did you bring me behind this tree to make love or talk me to death?” Fargo asked.
“Talk is a poor second to making love.”
With that Pensee melted into his arms. Her molten mouth fastened to his and her lips widened to admit his tongue. She groaned when he sucked on hers. He cupped a breast, pinched the nipple.
The night was suddenly a lot warmer.
Fargo pressed her against the tree. Her arms rose to hook around his neck and her pelvis glued itself to his. It occurred to him that he had left the Henry lying on his blanket but he decided to leave it there. He doubted anyone would be stupid enough to try and steal it.
“Why did you stop? Don’t you know what to do next?”
“I reckon I do.” Fargo rubbed his forefinger across her nether lips; she wasn’t wearing undergarments. She shivered and cooed and bit his shoulder, and not lightly, either.
“Do that again.”
Fargo did, dipping the tip of his finger into her. She ground against him and lathered his neck and his ear. At the same time she pried at his buckskin shirt, raising it so she could slide her hands underneath and rove them over his muscular chest and knotted belly.
“Nice. Very nice.”
Fargo could say the same but chatter was a distraction he could do without. He shut her up with another kiss and kept his lips there while he kneaded and tweaked her breasts. Soon her chest was heaving. Her breath fanned his throat as she bent to run her tongue from one side to the other.
By now Fargo’s pants bulged. He needed release. Unbuckling his belt, he lowered his holster and the Colt, then let his pants slide down around his knees. As his pole came free she let out a soft cry of delight.
“Mon Dieu! I have struck gold.”
Eagerly, she enfolded him with her fingers. Fargo had to clamp down a mental lid to keep from exploding before he was ready. The constriction returned as she delicately ran her fingernails up and down and then cupped his jewels.
“I would like to chop this off and keep it with me always.”
Fargo’s rising ardor deflated. He looked at her, half inclined to swat her hands away. “What did you just say?”
“I was joking. I wouldn’t cut you, my handsome tug-mutton. It is just that you are a stallion.”
“Your handsome what?”
Pensee didn’t reply. She had tucked at the knees, and the next Fargo felt, his member was sheathed in velvet. He braced an arm against the tree and closed his eyes.
The velvet sensation went away but only long enough for Pensee to ask, “You like, yes?”
“I like, yes,” Fargo confirmed, and gave himself up to the pleasure. She stayed tucked a good long while. Several times she brought him close to the brink but each time she showed the savvy not to send him over.
“Damn, you’re good.”
“Merci. But in truth I am bad.” And Pensee chortled in naughty glee.
Fargo pulled her to her feet, spread her legs, inserted his tip, and looked into her eager eyes. “Ready?”
“Always.”
A lunge, and Fargo rammed up into her. For a few seconds she was still, transfixed with rapture. Then her body began to move of its own accord and Fargo went with the flow, ramming ever harder and steadily faster until she tossed her head wildly and thrashed uncontrollably. But she didn’t cry out. Instead, she sank her teeth into his shoulder.
Fargo didn’t stop. Her velvet sheath grew wetter. At his next thrust she went into a paroxysm of ecstasy, lost in the delirium of another release. Fargo kept ramming. She clung to him, spent but wanting more. He rocked on his boots, virtually lifting her off the ground. Then his own moment came, and it was everything it always was, the moment when a man felt most alive, the moment a man lived for.
Covered with sweat, they coasted to a stop and Pensee sagged and whispered, “E’tonnant.”
“Eh?”
“It was wonderful. I thank you.”
“Any time.”
“I will hold you to that.” Pensee kissed him, then closed her eyes. “I am so tired and content I could fall asleep standing up.”
“No need for that.” Fargo slid out of her and pulled himself together. As he strapped on his Colt he heard splashing from the swamp. Not much, and not loud. A gator, he figured.
They walked around the cypress to his blanket. The Henry was where it should be.
Fargo sat and patted a spot next to him. “You’re welcome to join me if you want.”
“I would like nothing better. But I usually sleep by myself so as not to have the men jealous of one another. Comprendre vous?”
Fargo shrugged and sank onto his back. “Whatever you think best.”
“Tomorrow is another day, yes?”
Struggling to stay awake, Fargo rose onto his elbows and stared after her until she went into a tent. Then sleep claimed him and he knew nothing until his eyes snapped open and he lay there wondering what woke him.
Fargo felt sluggish, as if his blood was pumping in slow motion. He was content to lie there and drift back to sleep. He closed his eyes and rolled onto his side, and that was when the strangeness struck him.
There wasn’t a sound to be heard.
The swamp had gone completely still. A silence so deep, not even a mosquito buzzed. No croaks, no bellows, no roars, no screeches, no bleats of any kind.
Puzzled, Fargo raised his head. He couldn’t see many of the stars through the canopy but he did spy the Big Dipper and by its position he guessed it had to be close to four in the morning. He slowly sat up.
The fires had gone out and the tents were dark. Fargo remembered Remy saying that they never let the fires die at night. He wondered if whoever was keeping watch had fallen asleep. He debated getting up but decided he was worrying over nothing and was about to lie back down when a darkling silhouette appeared, moving toward the water, with an odd hopping gait.
What the hell? Fargo thought. There was something familiar about the figure but he didn’t realize what until a low titter reached his ears. Grabbing the Henry, he rose. The figure had reached a canoe and was clambering in. Fargo ran toward it as a paddle swished. The canoe faded into the dark.
Fargo came to the water, and stopped.
From out of the night came another titter. And something else. “Mad, mad, mad, mad, mad!”
“Hell.” Fargo turned and raced toward the tents. Smoke was rising from the nearest fire so it hadn’t been out long. He stopped and hunkered to poke at the charred logs and get the fire going again but someone had poured water on it. Three guesses who.
Fargo m
oved to the next fire. It, too, had been doused with water. And sprawled beside it on his stomach was the man on guard. Bending, Fargo saw that the back of the man’s head had been caved in by a heavy blow. He rolled the body over and Onfroi’s empty eyes stared up at him.
The Mad Indian’s handiwork.
Fargo imagined how it had been. Onfroi, perhaps dozing by the fire, the insane old warrior creeping up the shore and striking him from behind with the hatchet or a rock and then dousing the fires and fleeing. But why put out the fires? Fargo wondered. Why not use the fire as a weapon and set the tents ablaze? Maybe kill a few more hated whites?
Suddenly a low, rumbling grunt issued from the trees beyond the tents.
Ice filled Fargo’s veins. Now he knew why the Mad Indian had doused the fires. He turned to shout a warning but he had figured it out too late.
Out of the night it hurtled, a living engine of destruction. As big as the biggest grizzly, as powerful as a bull buffalo, it emitted a strident squeal of fury and tore into a tent. Canvas ripped and tent poles snapped, and then men were screaming and cursing and the thing came ripping out the other side with part of the tent clinging to its bulk and a limp human form flapping up and down in front of it. The creature tossed the body aside, wheeled with lightning swiftness, and charged a second tent.
Fargo jerked the Henry to his shoulder and snapped off a shot. If he scored the slug had no effect. In the blink of an eye the second tent was reduced to ruin and there were more screams and curses added to the din.
The monster was wreaking havoc.
Fargo ran toward it, thinking that if he got closer he could try for a head shot. The tent exploded and out it came, bearing down on him. He fixed a hasty bead but before he could fire he was slammed aside as if he were a twig. A pale, curved . . . something . . . flashed before his face, missing by a whisker. He hit hard on his back, the breath knocked out of him.
Bedlam reigned.
Men were swearing, shouting, voicing their death wails. Guns boomed. Women shrieked. Above it all rose the squeals and screeches of the beast as it ran amok, destroying and slaying in a wanton rage. The thing was unstoppable. Fargo saw a man run up and fire a revolver, the muzzle inches from the creature’s head, but it had no more effect than his own shot.
The creature’s head swept up and the man sailed end over end, catapulted through the air as effortlessly as Fargo might toss a pebble. The man thudded to the ground only an arm’s-length away and wet drops spattered Fargo’s face and neck. He half rose, his gorge rising too at the sight of the Cajun’s ruptured belly and chest. The creature had ripped the man open from navel to neck, tearing through clothes and flesh and bone, and the man’s organs were spilling out.
Fargo groped for the Henry and found it.
More men were down. There were scattered bodies everywhere.
And then the voice of the woman Fargo had made love to just hours ago wailed in desperate terror, “Help me! Someone please help me!”
Fargo rose and raced to Pensee’s rescue.
10
Her cry came from a tent that was still standing.
Fargo ran toward it. Without warning the side burst outward and the beast, squealing ferociously, was on him. Fargo dived to one side. He glimpsed it as it went by, glimpsed the gleam of a curved tusk and a hide covered with bristly hair. Its hooves drummed past his ear.
Another second, and something struck Fargo across the shoulders, something heavy. Dazed by the blow, for a few harrowing seconds he thought the creature had turned on him.
Then someone groaned.
Fargo rolled and pushed. The person on top of him slid off, and he rose to his knees. He still had the Henry and he jammed it to his shoulder.
The creature was streaking toward a lean-to. In it huddled two men too terrified to do more than scream as the beast smashed into their flimsy sanctuary and reduced it, and them, to crushed ruins.
Fargo fired. He was sure he hit it but the thing didn’t break stride or stop. It crashed off into the night, the brush and the trees no hindrance at all.
Figuring it was circling to come at them again, Fargo waited. He was going to empty the Henry into it, if that was what it took to bring it down. But the crashing faded and the creature didn’t reappear. He became conscious of moans and sobs from all around him, and he glanced down at the person who had been thrown on top of him.
“Oh, hell.”
Pensee had been ripped open just like Onfroi. Only in her case, a tusk had penetrated just above the junction of her legs and ripped in a zigzag pattern clear up to the base of her throat. Thankfully, her eyes were closed. One breast, untouched, was exposed. Her dress was shredded; he pulled part of it up to cover her.
Only then did Fargo think of the Heuses. Whirling, he ran to where the biggest tent lay in shattered tatters. “Halette! Namo! Clovis!”
“Under here!”
Fargo kicked a broken pole aside and hauled at the flattened canvas. Underneath, covering his son and daughter with his body, was Namo.
“Is it safe?”
“The thing is gone.” Fargo pulled the canvas out of the way and offered his hand to help them stand. “Any of you hurt?”
“Non, thank God.” Namo brushed dirt from Halette. “I woke up and got them down on the ground barely in time.”
“Where’s Remy?” Fargo asked, looking all around.
“He was in a cot on the other side.”
Fargo moved another piece of canvas. He found the broken cot, and a prone, still Remy. Quickly kneeling, Fargo rolled him over. He expected to find Remy had been gored like the others but the only wound was a gash on the temple. A tusk or a hoof had struck him a glancing blow. Slipping his hand under Remy’s shoulder, he dragged him clear of the debris and held him propped against his leg.
The Breed ran up, pale and limping. “Is he dead? Tell me that bête hasn’t killed him too?”
“Fetch some water.”
“Oui. Right away.”
Halette came up and stood at Fargo’s elbow. “Is Uncle Remy dead? Has the monster killed him like it did my mère?”
“Your uncle will live,” Fargo assured her. “And it’s no monster.” He knew what it was now. One of the most vicious, and crafty, of all the animals there were anywhere.
Namo had come up. “If you know what that fiend is, don’t keep it to yourself.”
Remy groaned, then blinked, and looked about him in confusion. “What? Where?”
“Stay still,” Fargo advised. “You were hit on the head and you’re bleeding pretty bad. You need a bandage.”
But Remy didn’t lie still. He twisted, stared in horror at the carnage, then sat bolt upright. He put a hand to the gash, stared at the wet blood on his fingertips, and rose. “It can’t be. That brute did all this!”
It was then the Breed returned bearing a tin cup filled with water. He held it out to Remy but Remy angrily swatted it aside. “How many?” he demanded, and grabbed the Breed by the front of his shirt. “How many, damn you?”
“I haven’t checked.”
Remy shoved him. “Do it! Now!” He took a step but his legs wobbled and he started to pitch forward. Namo caught him and held him, and Halette clasped his hand.
“Are you all right, Uncle Remy?”
“Oui, child,” Remy said as Namo lowered him so he could sit.
Fargo was listening to the sounds of the swamp. The frogs were croaking again, the crickets chirping, the gators bellowing. The beast was gone. Or was it? It might be lurking out there, watching and girding to finish what it had started.
“Did any of you see the thing?” Remy asked Namo and his children. “Do you know what it is?”
“He does,” Namo said, nodding at Fargo.
“What could possibly do all this?” Remy swept an arm at the bodies and the shattered tents. “The cries it made. It didn’t sound like a bear.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Well? Tell us, damn you.”
“The monster of
the Atchafalaya Swamp is a razorback.”
“What was that you said?”
“A razorback. A wild boar.”
Remy uttered a sharp bark of disbelief. “You’re crazy. I caught a glimpse of it as it came through our tent. It was gigantic. Bigger than the biggest black bear.” He shook his head, and winced. “No. Hogs don’t grow that size. They just don’t.”
“Some razorbacks do.”
Fargo recalled hearing somewhere that the first hogs were brought to America long ago by the Spaniards. Some escaped and reverted to the wild. They multiplied like rabbits. Now, razorbacks were common from Texas to the Carolinas. A normal boar grew to no more than four or five hundred pounds but every now and then a giant one appeared, twice that size, a king among its kind, a thousand pounds of might and malice with tusks a foot long and a hide so thick that most slugs barely penetrated.
“Mon Dieu,” Namo breathed. “To think! My fair Emmeline was killed by a pig.”
“A razorback out to kill everyone it comes across,” Fargo amended. He also recalled that boars were known to roam territories of fifty square miles or more.
“Our fires should have kept it away,” Remy said. “My men knew better than to let them go out.”
Fargo told him about the Mad Indian, and the dousing.
“Wait. Are you saying the Mad Indian is helping the thing? That the Mad Indian put out our fires just so this boar would attack us?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Namo said.
“Is it?” Fargo countered. “The Mad Indian hates whites. He blames us for the smallpox that wiped out his people. He follows the razorback and does what he can to help it kill as many of us as it can.”
“Can it truly be?”
“The razorback would kill the Mad Indian, too, wouldn’t it?” Clovis asked them.
“Not if he was careful.”
Out of the dark came the Breed. His shoulders were slumped and he tried twice to say, “Only three.”
“Only three what?” Remy said.
“Besides you and me, only three of us are still alive and they won’t last long.”
As if to accent the point, sobs were borne by the breeze.
Remy grabbed the Breed by the shoulders. “The women! Not the women too? Where is Pensee? And Delmare?”
