Bayou Trackdown tt-329

by Jon Sharpe

  “The only thing the Mad Indian deserves is lead between the eyes.”

  “You can be quite vicious. Do you know that?”

  “That’s your word,” Fargo said. And since the talk seemed to be helping take Namo’s mind off his pain, he added, “Look. I’m not big on forgive and forget. I don’t turn the other cheek. Hit me and I’ll knock your damn teeth out. Try to stab me in the back and I’ll blow out your wick. If you want to call that vicious, go ahead. Me, I call it practical.”

  “What about mercy, monsieur? Where does that enter in?”

  “Depends on the time and the place and if the person deserves it.”

  “You are judge, jury and hangman? Is that how it goes.”

  “When I have to be.” Fargo glanced behind them. “On the frontier there’s not much law. Hell, in some places there isn’t any. Some parts of the Rockies haven’t even been explored yet. A man is on his own. He’s his own law.”

  “I don’t know if I would like your mountains very much. I like the peace of the swamp.”

  Fargo almost laughed. “If you call this peace I’d hate to see what you call trouble.”

  Namo made that dry gourd sound. “I am used to the alligators and the cottonmouths. Just as you are to the big bears and the big cats where you come from.”

  “I may see a bear or a mountain lion once a month,” Fargo said. “I’ve lost count of the alligators and snakes I’ve seen here.”

  “Fleas are fleas, whether many or small.”

  Now Fargo did laugh. The notion of calling a thousand-pound grizzly a flea struck his funny bone. “You’re a strange hombre, Cajun.”

  “Thank you. I take that as a compliment. The truth is, we Cajuns think you outsiders are strange.”

  “It never occurred to any of you that living in a gator- and snake-infested swamp is a mite peculiar?”

  Now it was Namo who laughed but his laughter changed to hacking coughs and he doubled over. His whole body shook, and he groaned. When the fit subsided, he looked up, his mouth rimmed with red. “I’m afraid I am going to pass out again.” And he did.

  Fargo swore and stopped paddling. He placed a hand to the Cajun’s forehead. It was on fire. He checked Namo’s pulse. It was terribly weak, barely a flutter.

  Fargo bent to the paddle anew. Now and then he checked over his shoulder. Along about the ninth or tenth time he glanced back, far off in the gloomy cypress, well out of rifle range, he caught movement. He saw it for only a few seconds but that was enough.

  It was a canoe.

  The Mad Indian must have followed them all night.

  Fargo was tempted to stop and lie in ambush but he had Namo to think of. Namo’s chances were slim as it was. Any delay in reaching the healer would seal his fate.

  His shoulders were sore and his arms ached but Fargo ignored them. He glanced back often but didn’t spot the Indian a second time. The wily madman wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  Presently Fargo came to the bayou. He turned to the south as Namo had instructed. A pair of cranes took wing. A bullfrog croaked and leaped from a log.

  Here was Fargo’s chance to put more distance between him and his insane shadow. His body protested but he stroked with renewed purpose, the pirogue cleaving the surface like a knife. Namo hadn’t said how far the cabin was. Or, for that matter, whether it was right on the bayou or hidden somewhere.

  The sun was low in the sky. Fargo hoped to reach the cabin before dark. He figured to rest a couple of hours and then push on. No more than that. Namo needed the healer too badly.

  The breeze picked up. To the west a bank of low clouds formed.

  Fargo frowned. This was all he needed. Rain, on top of everything else.

  The bayou neared an island. Fargo was staring into the distance, seeking sign of the cabin. He almost missed the narrow wooden landing. A path led toward tall willows and the squat square bulk of a log cabin.

  Fargo let out a whoop. He brought the pirogue in next to the landing and tied it to a cleat. Then, bending over Namo, he shook him and said his name a few times.

  The Cajun was slow to stir. He blinked, and licked his lips. “Le peau me cuit. Avez-vous quelque chose de calmant?”

  “I didn’t get any of that,” Fargo said.

  “Eh? Oh. Pardon. What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “We’re here.”

  “Where?”

  Fargo put a hand to Namo’s brow. It was hotter than ever. “At your cabin. I’m going to carry you inside.”

  “Bêtise.”

  “What?”

  “Nonsense. I will walk.”

  “In the shape you’re in?” Fargo reached for him but the Cajun shrugged him off and slowly sat up. “Don’t be so stubborn.”

  “I have my dignity.” Namo groped and braced both hands and managed to get to his knees. “Be patient. It takes a lot out of me.”

  “We don’t have all night. There’s a storm coming in.” Fargo grabbed the Sharps and Namo’s rifle and climbed onto the landing. “I’ll put these in your cabin and be right back.” It would free his hands to carry him.

  “There is no hurry. I am doing this myself.”

  Fargo shook his head and jogged up the path. The cabin was sturdily built, pride of craft evident in the fit of the logs and the caulking. He tried the latch and the door swung in on leather hinges. The room was nicely furnished, including a bearskin rug in front of a stone fireplace. Two doorways opened into bedrooms, one with bunk beds for the children and a larger room for the parents. Fargo set the rifles on a table and hastened back down.

  Namo had managed to climb out of the pirogue and was on his side, breathing raggedly, his chest heaving. “I need to rest a bit.”

  “We don’t have time for this.” Fargo slipped one arm under the Cajun’s legs and the other under his shoulders.

  “I can do it, I tell you,” Namo weakly protested. “Put me down.”

  Paying no heed, Fargo took him to the cabin. “I’ll put you in bed and make something for you to eat.”

  “I’m not helpless. The rocking chair will do fine.”

  The rocking chair it was.

  Fargo found a blanket and covered him to the chin. “You’re trembling. If you have the chills I can get a fire going.”

  “I’m hot and cold both. What kind of poison did he use, do you think? Snake venom?”

  “We would have to ask him and he’d never tell.”

  “I have heard that one tribe rubs the tips of their arrows over a certain kind of toad.” Namo coughed, then said, “That food you mentioned sounds nice. I am famished.”

  The cupboard was full. In a pantry were dried venison and carrots and potatoes. Fargo decided to make soup. He kindled a fire in the fireplace, then took a bucket from the counter and headed down to the bayou for water.

  Dark clouds now covered most of the sky and to the west bright flashes were punctuated by distant rumbles.

  Fargo filled the bucket and started back up. He heard a splash but concentric ripples suggested a fish was to blame.

  Namo had passed out again.

  Fargo poured water into a black cook pot and hung the cook pot in the fireplace. He chopped carrots and potatoes and sliced the venison and dropped them in.

  The rest of the water went into a coffeepot. Fargo needed that more than food. He was exhausted.

  Outside, the wind keened. A branch thwacked the roof. Thunder rumbled ever louder.

  Namo tossed and turned in the chair, frequently mumbling in fever-induced delirium.

  Pattering drew Fargo over to the window. The Heusees had gone to the expense of installing a glass pane. He moved the curtain aside and peered out. Heavy drops were falling. Down at the landing the pirogue bobbed up and down in the wind-driven swell.

  There was no sign of the Mad Indian.

  Fargo reckoned it would be a while yet.

  Then a lightning bolt seared the heavens and the bolt’s flash bathed the cabin and the willows, revealing a scarecrow figure a s
tone’s throw from the window.

  Revealed him so clearly, Fargo could see the scarecrow’s mad grin.

  20

  Fargo drew his Colt and started to turn toward the door, but just like that the Mad Indian was gone, melted into the willows like the ghost some thought him to be.

  Lowering the curtains, Fargo went to the door anyway. Instead of going out, he lifted a heavy bar propped against the wall and slid it into the two slots on the back of the door, then gave the bar a shake. It would take a battering ram to get through—or a razorback as big as a buffalo.

  Namo had slumped in his chair and the blanket had fallen off. Fargo pressed a palm to the Cajun’s forehead and it was the same as before—burning hot. Since Namo was out to the world, he couldn’t object to Fargo carrying him to the bedroom and putting him on the big bed. There were no windows, only the thick walls. Fargo covered him and went out.

  The storm had broken in all its elemental fury.

  Cradling the Sharps, Fargo took up his position at the window. Large drops splashed the pane in a liquid deluge. The wind howled, bending the trees as if they were so many blades of grass. The glimpse he had of the bayou showed it being frothed into a fury.

  Would the razorback be out on a night like this? Fargo wondered. Or would it do as most animals did and seek cover?

  The blaze of bolts and the crash of thunder were continuous. Fargo hadn’t seen a storm this violent since he left the mountains. Some of the lightning was so close, the thunder shook the cabin.

  And somewhere in that tempest, plotting to kill them, was the Mad Indian.

  Fargo was glad there was only the one window and door. He was also glad about the rain. For as long as it lasted, and until the logs dried, the Mad Indian couldn’t set the cabin on fire.

  The chirp of the coffeepot brought Fargo to the fireplace. The coffee was ready, the stew was piping hot. He found bowls in the cupboard and a wooden ladle to fill them with, and spoons. He took one of the bowls to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Namo?”

  Heuse didn’t stir.

  “Namo?” Fargo was averse to waking him but the man needed nourishment. He shook Namo’s shoulder a few times. “Time to eat.”

  Eyelids fluttering, Namo Heuse rolled onto his back and slowly sat up, his head and shoulders propped against the headboard. “How long was I out?”

  “A while.”

  More thunder shook the cabin to its foundation. Namo glanced sharply at the ceiling. “I seem to remember you saying something about a storm.”

  Fargo dipped the spoon in the soup. “Open up.”

  “I will feed myself, thank you very much.”

  Fargo placed the bowl in Namo’s lap and gave him the spoon. “If you were any more pigheaded, you’d be a razorback.”

  Namo dipped the spoon and raised it to his mouth, his teeth gritting with the effort.

  “There’s plenty more where this came from so if you want seconds give me a holler.”

  “I can’t tell you how good it is. I’m starved.”

  “It will help with the fever.” Fargo stood. “If you’re sure that you can do it yourself—?”

  “I am. Thank you.” Namo let him get as far as the doorway before asking, “Is something the matter?”

  “No.”

  “Is it the Mad Indian? Did he come after us?”

  Fargo grimly nodded.

  “I expected as much. We have been a thorn in his side. He wants us dead more than anyone. This is good.”

  “You think so?”

  “We can end this once and for all. As soon as I gather my strength, I will be out to help you.”

  “You get out of that bed and I’ll throw you back in again,” Fargo promised. “Leave everything to me.” He made it a point to close the bedroom door behind him.

  Fargo added a log to the fire. He filled a bowl with soup and went to the window. It didn’t look as if the storm would end any time soon. Fine by him. It bought them time to rest, to recuperate. The soup made him drowsy so he filled a cup with bubbling coffee. It wasn’t enough. He drank two more.

  Fargo didn’t like being cooped up. He prowled the room like a caged panther. Once he thought he heard a thump against the side of the cabin. It wasn’t repeated, and he figured a tree limb was to blame.

  Namo called out that he was done so Fargo went in. He offered to bring a second bowl but the Cajun declined.

  “It might make me sick. I need sleep more than anything. As it is, I can’t hold my head up.”

  “Then don’t.” Fargo backed out. “If you need anything, anything at all, give a holler.”

  “You will make some woman a fine husband one day.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Namo chuckled.

  The storm was finally slackening. The lightning strikes were fewer and the boom of thunder less.

  Fargo looked out the window. As best he could tell, by some miracle the pirogue was still tied to the landing. On an impulse he went to the door, removed the bar, and opened it. Drops wet his face. Wind fanned his cheeks. Everything was drenched—the ground, the thickets, the trees.

  Silhouetted as he was in the doorway, Fargo only stood there a few seconds. Just long enough to scan the vicinity. Then he stepped back and started to close the door.

  That was when he heard it, from out of the willows, the bleat of a small animal. A bleat he had heard on several occasions now. The bleat of a rabbit tied to a stake.

  Fargo slammed the door and replaced the bar. It wouldn’t be long. He took to pacing until he noticed an axe in the corner. He placed it on the table. He added a butcher knife and a meat cleaver. Casting about for more weapons, his gaze alighted on the wood bin. Several of the logs were thin enough that they sparked an idea. He selected three, sat at the chair, and used the butcher knife to whittle. When he had three sharp points, he placed them next to the axe.

  Was there anything else he could use? A lantern suggested an idea. He lit it and turned the wick low and placed the lantern in the middle of the table, not for the extra light but as a possible weapon.

  There was nothing else, not unless Fargo counted table knives in a drawer, and a broom.

  The cries of the rabbit seemed louder.

  The rain had stopped and the wind had died.

  Fargo went to the window. Remembering the Mad Indian’s bow, he was careful not to show himself. The night was still and silent save for the bait. He was about to turn away when another cry, from out of the dark heart of the swamp, caused his pulse to quicken.

  The razorback had heard the rabbit.

  It was on its way.

  Fargo tried to swallow in a mouth gone suddenly dry. He crossed to the bedroom. Namo was sound asleep. Loathe to disturb him, Fargo closed the bedroom door. The cabin walls were thick enough that Namo should be safe. Not even the boar could break them down. Still, on second thought, Fargo left the door open a crack.

  A squeal sounded uncomfortably near.

  Fargo hefted the Sharps and moved to the window. It was the weak spot, the cabin’s Achilles heel. Would the razorback sense that? He backed up until he bumped against the table. It would be soon. He could feel it in his bones. He heard a cackle, and the loudest squeal yet.

  The side of the cabin was struck a resounding blow. Dust particles gleamed, sifting slowly to the floor.

  Fargo wedged the heavy Sharps to his shoulder and thumbed back the hammer. More blows thudded, each closer to the window than the last. The razorback squealed in baffled rage. It wanted in but Namo had built too well. The walls were too sturdy.

  Suddenly its porcine face filled the window, its tusks curved like twin sabers. Its dark eyes glowed red.

  Fargo knew it saw him. He fired and the glass pane dissolved in a shower of shards. Blood spurted, and in a twinkling the boar was gone, squealing and screeching.

  Fargo fed in a new cartridge and set himself. “Don’t keep me waiting, you bastard.”

  It didn’t.

 
With an ear-splitting squeal the razorback slammed into the window. What was left of the glass showered down and the frame buckled. Fargo fired, reloaded, raised the rifle to fire again.

  The boar was stuck! Its head was wedged fast.

  Fargo squeezed off another shot. He should have killed it; he had the thing dead to rights. But the razorback, in its wild thrashing, moved its head just as he fired and the slug intended for the creature’s brain-pan cored a shoulder instead. The razorback was beside itself. Wood cracked and splintered as the window gave way. But the opening still wasn’t wide enough. The razorback couldn’t get inside. Squealing in frustration, it bounded into the night.

  Fargo girded for the next onslaught. He stayed focused on the window. That was the only reason he caught the blur of motion and sprang aside with a hair to spare. A feather shaft imbedded itself next to the fireplace, quivering.

  The Mad Indian cackled.

  Fargo had to remember he was up against two adversaries, not just one. He squatted, hoping the crazed warrior would show himself.

  There was another thud. The front wall, this time. Twice more the razorback slammed into the cabin. And then the inevitable happened—the boar rammed into the door. The bar held but the jamb cracked. The beast struck the door again, nearly tearing it off its hinges.

  The heavy bar held but it wouldn’t for long. Fargo trained the Sharps on the center of the door. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the window, too, and when a thin figure filled it, an arrow notched to a sinew string, he threw himself flat. The string twanged and the shaft whizzed over his head.

  Simultaneously, the living engine of destruction attacked the door. Again the bar held but cracks appeared.

  The Mad Indian sprang out of sight.

  Fargo swung the Sharps from the door to the window and back again. Hooves drummed, and the door burst as the window had done, bits and slivers flying. Part of the bar flew past Fargo’s head. He took swift aim and fired.

  The razorback was framed in the opening. At the shot, its dark eyes locked on Fargo and it hurtled toward him, squealing and tucking its chin to rake with its tusks. Fargo threw himself to the right and the boar pounded past. He inadvertently put his back to the window, and a chill rippled down his spine at a cackle from the Mad Indian.