Bayou Trackdown tt-329 Read online

  Fargo had learned the hard way to trust the stallion’s senses, and he suspected that around the next bend he would see what he came so far to find. He was right.

  The settlement of Gros Ville did not deserve the name. It consisted of scarcely twenty buildings. Half were shacks that looked fit to fall down at the next strong wind. One of the exceptions was a long log building. A sign in French read, MOUILLE LANGUE.

  Fargo’s French was spotty. As he drew rein at the hitch rail he wondered out loud, “What the blazes does that mean?”

  “It means,” said a sultry voice from the shadows under the overhang, “Wet Tongue.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Fargo grinned, and sniffed. “Unless I miss my guess, it’s the town tavern.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” confirmed the sultry voice. “Come in and wet yours, if you like.”

  “Show yourself, why don’t you?”

  Into the sunlight stepped a beauty. Thick, shimmering black hair cascaded in curls over her shoulders. Her twin melons nearly burst her tight blue dress at the seams. But it was the face that drew Fargo’s gaze. She had eyes as blue as his, with delicate arched eyebrows and an aquiline nose. Her lips were perfection: ripe and red, like cherries.

  “Well, now,” Fargo said. “How about if you join me in that tongue wetting? I’ll wet yours and you can wet mine.”

  The lovely vision had a soft, melodious laugh. “Are you always très bold, monsieur?”

  “Only around pretty ladies,” Fargo said as he dismounted. Arching his back, he pressed a hand to his spine. “I’ve been in the saddle so long, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to stand.”

  Again she laughed. “We do not see many of your kind here. You are a—what do they call it?—frontiersman?” She grinned impishly. “You fight the red Indians who lift hair, and you kill the big bears that eat people, yes?”

  “I avoid the hair lifters when I can,” Fargo told her. “And I usually run from the big bears if they’re out to eat me.”

  She liked to laugh, this woman. “You are a most funny man. I think I like you. Quel est votre nom?”

  “How was that again?”

  “What is your name, monsieur?”

  Fargo told her.

  “Enchant’. My name is Liana.” She held out her hand. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to grace my establishment.”

  Pointing at the sign, Fargo said in mild surprise, “This tavern is yours?”

  “Oui. My husband, Oliver, built it five years ago.” Liana’s features clouded. “When he died, I took it over.”

  “He couldn’t have been that old.”

  “He wasn’t. He was but one year older than I. It wasn’t old age that claimed him.” Sadness came over her.

  “What then?”

  Liana offered a hesitant smile. “I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind. Come. You must be thirsty on a hot day like this. And my liquor is the best for a hundred miles.”

  “Not just your liquor,” Fargo said by way of a compliment while openly admiring her hourglass shape.

  “I can see I am going to have trouble with you.”

  “Not me,” Fargo said, taking her arm in his. “I’m as friendly a gent as ever lived.”

  “Perhaps too friendly, non?” Liana teased. “And so handsome, yes? Many ladies must find you joli.”

  “Enough drinks and I’ll laugh at anything.”

  Liana blinked, then burst into hearty mirth. “Oh, monsieur. You are playing with me, yes?”

  “Not yet. But maybe I’ll get lucky.” Fargo held the door for her and then followed her in. The interior was dark and musty and smelled of liquor and beer and cigar and pipe smoke.

  “Êtes-vous mari’?”

  “There you go again.” Fargo saw three men at a corner table and another at the bar. All were dressed pretty much the same, with white shirts, made of cotton, without collars, and pants that came down only as far as the knee, either red or indigo. They all wore caps and had knives at their waist. Their expressions were not what Fargo would call friendly.

  Liana was saying, “Sorry. I will speak only English. I asked if you are married?”

  Now it was Fargo’s turn to laugh.

  “I take it that was no? That is good. That is very good. A man so handsome should not have a fence around him.” Liana went around the end of the bar. “Now what will it be?” She motioned at a long shelf lined with every kind of hard spirit. “As you can see, I am well stocked.”

  Fargo fixed his gaze on her bosom. “You sure are.”

  Liana colored from her chin to her hairline. Leaning on her elbows, she said throatily, “I like you more and more, joli one. Will you ride on soon or can I persuade you to stay a while, perhaps?”

  “I’m meeting a man,” Fargo revealed. “But I’m a day early so I’ll be here at least one night.”

  “Très bien. That is good. That is very good. I close at eleven and will be free for a moonlight walk should you care for my company.”

  “What if there’s no moon?”

  Liana chuckled, and put her hand on his wrist. “I am so happy you have come along.”

  Fargo heard chairs scrape and glanced at the mirror behind the bar. The three men at the table had risen and were coming toward him. The man in the center, a black-haired cuss with a scar on his chin, put his hand on the hilt of his knife. “Friends of yours?”

  Liana looked, and flushed again, but this time with anger. “What do you want, Doucet? I am talking to this man.”

  “I can see that, ma chère,” said the one with the scar with an accent typical of the swamp dwellers.

  “I am not your dear, now or ever. You and your friends go back to your Boure’. I will not have you bother a customer.”

  The man called Doucet stepped close to Fargo and fingered his knife. But he was staring at Liana. “Is that all he is, ma chère? You seem very friendly with him.”

  “If I am it is none of your concern.”

  “You can say that, after our time in the glade? Are you so cold, then, that it was nothing to you?”

  “Go back to your card game.”

  “First I am escorting your new friend outside,” Doucet said. “Pitre, Babin and I would like words with him.”

  Fargo had been ignored long enough. He gave them no warning. Pivoting, he drove his right fist into the pit of Doucet’s gut, doubling the Cajun over. Still moving, he whipped around and streaked out his Colt as the other two went to jump him. The click of the hammer froze them in place. “I wouldn’t, were I you, gents.”

  Doucet was on his knees, wheezing, his hands pressed to his stomach. “Bastard!” he spat.

  “You brought it on yourself, lunkhead.” Fargo wagged his Colt at the other two. “Help him up and tote him to your table and don’t bother me again or the next time I won’t be so charitable.” He kept the Colt leveled until they were in their chairs, then twirled it into his holster. “Nice friends you have.”

  Doucet glared pure hate.

  “I have known them since I was a small girl. One night I was lonely, and I went for a walk with Doucet. Just the one time, but ever since, he thinks I am his.” Liana sighed. “Men. Kiss them and they act as if they own you.”

  “Not me,” Fargo said with a grin. “I kiss and kiss and don’t care to own anyone.” Or be owned, he thought to himself.

  “I am sorry for their behavior. Normally they would not have done that. But everyone is—how do you say?—on edge.”

  “What has them so prickly?”

  Liana went to answer but caught herself. “Wait. Wouldn’t you care for your drink first?”

  “That’s what I like,” Fargo quipped. “A female who knows what’s important in life.” He pointed at a bottle of whiskey. “The Monongahela will do me.”

  Procuring a glass, Liana filled it to the brim and slid it across. “The first one is on me.”

  “You’re a daisy,” Fargo said.

  Liana put her elbows on the bar and her chin in her hands. �
��As for the other, there is not just one cause. There are several. Some people say the Atchafalaya Swamp is under a curse.”

  Fargo took a sip and savored the burning sensation that spread down his throat to his belly. “I’m not much for witches and black cats.”

  “If only that was all there is to it. But there is loose in the swamp much evil these days. There is the Mad Indian. There are Remy and his killers. And then there is the thing no one will talk about for fear they will be next.”

  “Tell me more,” Fargo coaxed. “Start with that Indian you mentioned.”

  “No one knows his name or even what tribe he is from. We call him the Mad Indian. He wanders the far reaches of the swamp, and whenever someone sees him, he laughs and screams threats. But then he always runs off.”

  “Sounds loco to me,” Fargo agreed. “And this Remy?”

  “Ah. He is not mad, that one. He has killed a few times. Only outsiders, you understand. He has surrounded himself with other outcasts, and they roam where they please, doing as they will.”

  “You know for a fact he’s killed people?”

  “I do.”

  “Then why hasn’t the law done something?”

  “What law, monsieur? We are Cajuns. We are left alone, and we like it that way.”

  “You’re saying there’s no marshal or sheriff?”

  “Oh, there is a sheriff, but he is far away, and we would never go to him anyway. We deal with our own problems.”

  Fargo swallowed some whiskey. There was more to this situation than he had been told. “And what was that other thing you mentioned? About something no one will talk about?”

  Liana glanced about the room. Bending toward him, she lowered her voice. “The people live in terror, monsieur. Men, women, children have all gone missing. It is said a creature stalks the swamps, a creature such as the swamp has never known.”

  “I’m not much for tall tales, either.”

  “This is no tale, handsome one. I swear by all that is holy that it is true. I knew some of those who vanished. They went into the swamp and never came back.”

  “People get lost. There are snakes. There are gators. There’s quicksand. There’s Remy and that Mad Indian.”

  “True. All true. But this is something else. One person actually saw the creature, and lived.”

  “And what did they say it was?”

  Liana hesitated. “You will think me crazy.”

  “Try me.”

  “A monster, monsieur. A living, breathing monster.”

  3

  The tavern began to fill up shortly after the sun went down. Out of the swamp they came, hardy men who made their living trapping and hunting and fishing. Pride was in their step and wariness in their eyes when they saw Fargo at a table playing solitaire. Fargo was an outsider, and the Cajuns didn’t cotton to strangers in their midst.

  Along about seven Liana came over to refill his glass and Fargo asked if there was any chance of getting something to eat. Half an hour later she brought over a tray. Cajun fare. Gumbo with sassafras leaves to start, then several pieces of boudin, or pork sausage, along with a dish for which Cajuns were rightly famed: jambalaya.

  Fargo ate with enthusiasm. He hadn’t had anything all day and was ravenous. As he was chewing some rice and green onions, there was a commotion outside, and the next moment a man who had to be in his fifties came through the door and barreled toward the bar. “A drink! And quick.” The other Cajuns gathered around and there was an excited babble of Cajun French and English. Fargo overheard bits and snatches but not enough to tell him what the fuss was about.

  Liana came over. “Do you see that man? He has just come from deep in the swamp. He says someone else has gone missing.”

  “Who?” Fargo asked, hoping it wasn’t the man who sent for him.

  “A friend of his. They have a cabin. The friend went out to chop wood and never came back.”

  “When was this?”

  “Four days ago. The man looked and looked but couldn’t find a trace. He says he will not go back. He is going off to New Orleans to live until people stop disappearing.” Liana sadly shook her head. “He is not the first to leave and I expect he will not be the last.”

  Shortly after nine Fargo drifted outside to stretch his legs and check on the Ovaro. It would still be a couple of hours before Liana was free. He strolled the length of the single street and back again, listening to the crickets and the frogs and the other sounds that issued from the swamp. Moths fluttered at a shack window, drawn by the light.

  Fargo was almost to the tavern when he turned to watch a black cat cross the street. His back was to the darkness, a mistake, as it turned out, because out of the dark rushed three men who pounced before he could draw. Two grabbed his arms and held fast while the third smirked and wagged a long-bladed knife.

  “Did you think I would forgive and forget?” Doucet asked.

  Fargo sighed. “It doesn’t have to be like this. Let me go and there won’t be any hard feelings.”

  “You jest. You struck me, remember? I do not know about where you come from, but no one strikes a Cajun and just walks away.”

  Fargo glanced at the men holding him and made one last try. “I have no quarrel with you.”

  Doucet uttered a sharp bark. “Do you hear him, Pitre? Do you hear him, Babin? He comes among us and spits on our honor and then tries to talk his way out of it.”

  “I was sent for by one of you,” Fargo revealed. “I have his letter in my saddlebags.”

  “What do we care if you were invited or not? You are an outsider and that is all that counts.” Doucet raised the blade so the tip was inches from Fargo’s cheek. “Scream if you want. I don’t care if Liana hears and is angry with me. I have this to do.”

  “You’re a jackass.”

  “Another insult. Even as I hold a knife to your face. You are not strong on brains, outsider.”

  The Cajun holding Fargo’s right arm said, “Enough. Do what you will but don’t toy with him.”

  “What’s the matter, Babin? No stomach for it?”

  “I believe that when you need to hurt a man, you get it over with. You don’t talk him to death.”

  “I agree,” Pitre chimed in.

  “And you call yourselves my friends?” Doucet said in considerable disgust. “But very well. I’ll cut him and be done with it.”

  “No, you won’t,” Fargo said, and swept his boots up from the ground and slammed them against Doucet’s chest. Doucet bleated in surprise and stumbled back. Instantly, Fargo shifted, throwing all his weight into throwing Pitre off-balance. He succeeded. Pitre lost his hold and fell to one knee. Babin, caught flat-footed, recovered and tried to trip Fargo and bring him down but Fargo unleashed an uppercut that sent Babin tottering.

  Doucet came at him with the knife.

  Fargo sidestepped, clamped both hands on the Cajun’s arm, and drove his knee into Doucet’s elbow. There was a crack, and Doucet stiffened and screeched. Fargo silenced him with a right cross that felled Doucet in his tracks.

  Pitre and Babin sprang from opposite sides—Pitre with his arms out and his fingers hooked like claws; Babin going low to tackle Fargo around the legs.

  Moving too swiftly for their eyes to follow, Fargo caught Pitre with a backhand to the face while simultaneously kicking Babin in the head. Both men drew away and Fargo went after Pitre. He ducked a wild swing and rammed his fist into Pitre’s mouth. Blood spurted from pulped lips. A quick chop ended it.

  That left Babin. He had scrambled to one side and was in a crouch. “No more, monsieur.”

  Fargo’s dander was up. “Why should I spare you?”

  “We were wrong, monsieur. And two wrongs don’t make a right. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “There’s another saying I’m fond of,” Fargo said. “Maybe you’ve heard of it. An eye for an eye.” He took a bound and planted his boot in Babin’s face. Babin tried to dodge but he was too slow. Knocked flat onto his back, he held both palms out
.

  “I will not fight you. Beat me if you want but for me this is over.”

  Fargo moved to Doucet. The rooster was out to the world, blood dribbling from his mouth. “When he comes around tell him something for me.”

  “Let me guess. Should he lift a finger against you again, he would be wise to have a coffin made first.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better.” Fargo looked at Babin. “Get it through your heads that I might be an outsider but I was sent for. I’m here to help.”

  “Help do what, exactly?”

  Fargo didn’t answer. Instead, he wheeled and went into the tavern. Apparently no one had heard the ruckus, or if they had, they chose to ignore it. Several men had claimed his table in his absence so he stalked to the bar, and when Liana came over he asked for a bottle.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “Doucet.”

  “Not again?”

  “Some idiots never learn.” Fargo upended the red-eye and chugged. “The good news is, he didn’t spoil my mood.”

  “Your mood?” Liana said quizzically, and smiled. “Oh. Thank goodness. Although I have heard that men are always in the mood.”

  Fargo stayed at the bar. The Cajuns wanted nothing to do with him and left him alone, which suited him fine. Most left long before closing time, heading home to their wives and children. He downed half the bottle by eleven and was the last man in the tavern.

  “At last I can close. It’s been a long day. I need to relax.”

  Fargo gave her another of his hungry looks. “I know just the way.”

  “I bet you do.” Liana stood in front of him, her breasts nearly brushing his chest. “I hope you are not all talk. I would be très disappointed.”

  Without any hint of what he was about to do, Fargo cupped her twin mounds and squeezed. Liana arched her back, her cherry lips forming a delectable O. A soft sigh issued from her throat. When she looked at him she had a hunger in her eyes to match his.

  “What is good for the goose is good for the gander, non?”

  She cupped him, low down.

  Now it was Fargo’s turn to go rigid with tingling pleasure. He felt her stroke him and his pole became iron. “And you said I was bold?”