Bayou Trackdown Page 8

  “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?”

  “I—” the Breed began, and sadly shook his head. “I am sorry, my friend. All the women are dead. Pensee is one of the worst. The beast split her like a melon.”

  “No!” Remy looked wildly about. “All of them? All our friends? All those we called brothers and sisters?”

  “All.”

  Halette began crying.

  Remy sank to his knees and wrapped his arms around himself. Chin bowed, he said morosely, “They counted on me. I was their leader. I was to keep them safe.”

  “You took precautions,” the Breed said. “No one could have foreseen this.”

  “I should have,” Remy insisted. “A good leader thinks of everything. I should have had two men on guard, not just one.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself.”

  Fargo agreed. There was no way in hell anyone could have guessed a giant razorback was running amok in the Atchafalaya.

  “This razorback has never done anything like this before,” the Breed was saying. “It has never attacked so many people at once.”

  Another good point, and food for Fargo’s thought. Until now, except for Emmeline and Halette, the thing attacked only those who were alone.

  “Show me the women,” Remy said, rising. “Show me each of them.”

  “You don’t need to see.”

  “Yes, I do. I want it seared into my memory so I never forget.” Remy motioned and the Breed led the way.

  Halette held out her arms to Namo and he squatted and hugged her. “There, there, little one. God was watching over us. None of us were harmed.”

  “But those nice ladies. I want to go home, Papa. I want to sleep in my own bed. I want our roof over my head.” Halette stared wide-eyed out over the great swamp. “I don’t want to be here any more.”

  “We will leave in the morning.”

  “Please. Now. I’m afraid.”

  Fargo turned and walked to the water’s edge. He thought of Pensee, of her ravaged body. He thought of how close the razorback came to killing him. And then and there he decided he wasn’t leaving Louisiana until the creature was dead. “No matter how long it takes,” he said out loud.

  “How long what takes?”

  Fargo nearly jumped. “Damn, boy. Don’t sneak up on folks like that.”

  Clovis was glumly cradling his rifle. “Pardon. I couldn’t bear to watch my sister weep.”

  “Me either.”

  “This razorback. How can it be so big and yet be so fast? It was faster than any horse. Faster even than deer.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” But Fargo agreed it was ungodly quick. Anyone who tried to outrun it wouldn’t have a prayer.

  “I used to love the swamp,” Clovis said. “It has been my home since I was born. I know the animals, the birds, the trails. The gators and the snakes, they don’t scare me like they scare some. But this—” and the boy gestured at the inky veil. “I want no part of this. I have lost my mama. I would not lose my papa or my sister as well.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Help me, Monsieur Fargo. Talk to him. Talk to my father and convince him to give up the hunt. Now, while he still can. Before it’s too late.”

  “I doubt he’d listen to me. You should talk to him yourself. Blood counts for more than the advice of a stranger.”

  “You mean the blood in our veins?” Clovis said. “Yes, I’m his son, but I’m only a boy. You are a grown man.”

  “You talk old for your age. Give it a try. What can it hurt?”

  Along the shore came the Breed. He didn’t say anything. He stopped and did as they were doing: stared out over the sinister swamp.

  “Where is Uncle Remy?” Clovis asked.

  “With your father.” The Breed poked a clump of grass with his toe. “They are going to join forces. For Remy this is personal now. He won’t rest until he has his revenge.”

  “What about you?”

  “Where Remy goes, I am, always,” the Breed said. “We are brothers, him and I. Not in body but inside.” He thumped his chest with a fist.

  Fargo asked, “Do you have a name?” Few men liked being called breeds. To many it was an insult.

  A look of surprise came over him. “Yes. I am called Hetsutu. In your tongue that would be Yellow Jacket.” He smiled. “You are the second white man to ever ask.”

  “Who was the first?”

  “Remy Cuvier.”

  Wind gusted from the swamp, bringing with it a far distant squeal and then the shriek of a hapless animal caught in the razorback’s rampaging path.

  “It doesn’t kill just people,” Clovis said.

  “No,” Hetsutu replied. “The madness is in its veins. It kills everything, and it won’t stop killing until it is dead. Many more lives will be lost if we do not stop it.”

  “White lives,” Fargo said.

  “You suggest it isn’t my fight? But Remy is white and he is my friend. Pe
nsee was a good friend, too. Even Onfroi treated me as an equal.” Hetsutu squared his shoulders. “I have told you I am part Washa. Perhaps the last of my kind. I swear to you on the blood of my ancestors that I am with you in this. Come what may.”

  “Come what may,” Fargo said.

  The wind off the swamp suddenly seemed chill.

  11

  The two pirogues glided along the bayou in the bright of day.

  Fargo was in the second craft with Namo and the kids. Remy and Hetsutu were up ahead.

  “We will reach Gros Ville by nightfall,” Namo announced. He did not sound happy about it.

  “It’s for the best.”

  They had talked it over, all of them, and agreed that the smart thing to do, the safe thing to do, was take the children to the settlement and leave them with someone Namo trusted. Then the men would begin the hunt for the razorback.

  But Namo had balked. He insisted on keeping his children at his side. It took a lot of arguing to get him to change his mind. Remy finally did it by saying that if Namo really loved them, he wouldn’t expose them to the danger of what Remy called “that vile horror.”

  “No one can say I don’t love my children,” Namo had bristled.

  “Then prove it.”

  Now here they were.

  They had agreed to spend a couple of days in Gros Ville resting. Fargo and Namo needed it. Namo, especially. They were worn down and on edge from living in constant peril.

  “But what about Remy?” Namo had brought up. “Some of the people there see him only as a criminal.”

  Remy had laughed that big laugh of his. “What do I care about those sheep? They will do nothing. Oh, they’ll talk behind my back, and say how terrible I am, and how I should be punished, but they won’t raise a hand against me.” He had clapped Namo on the back. “Don’t worry about me. I have friends who will put me up.”

  “But if you are seen?”

  “I will keep to myself. Trust me. I will not let anything or anyone keep me from having my vengeance. I swear before God that I won’t rest until that boar is dead.”

  That was their common bond. The shared conviction that the rogue razorback must be slain.

  They debated asking their fellow Cajuns for help.

  “We can organize hunting parties,” Namo proposed. “Have twenty or thirty men sweep the swamp.”

  “And maybe drive it so far back in that it won’t come back out for weeks,” Remy said. “No, it’s better if we keep the hunting party small. Just the four of us are enough.”

  “I agree,” Hetsutu sided with him.

  The whole way, Fargo was bothered by the feeling that they were being followed. Countless times he glanced over his shoulder but he never saw anything to account for it. He doubted it was the razorback. The boar made too much noise. But then again, when a wild boar wanted to, it could move with the stealth of a cougar.

  For a while Fargo thought it might be the Mad Indian, but not once did Fargo spot him. He decided the lunatic wouldn’t risk venturing so near the settlement.

  Just nerves, Fargo figured.

  Now, with sunlight playing over their pirogue, Halette remarked, “I can’t wait to sleep in a bed again.”

  “I don’t want to stay in Gros Ville,” Clovis said to his father. “I want to be with you.”

  “What have I told you, son? You will stay with your sister and that is that.” Namo stopped paddling to turn and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “With your mother gone, we must look after one another. Can I count on you to watch over Halette while I am away?”

  “Oui, Papa.”

  “And if I don’t come back—”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Don’t ever talk like that,” Halette echoed.

  “Very well. But remember. Always be there for one another. You are brother and sister. That is a special bond. Never let anyone break you apart.”

  Fargo stroked his paddle and watched out for gators and snakes. He’d seen a coral snake the day before, and Namo mentioned that of all the snakes in Louisiana, coral snakes had the most potent venom.

  “One bite and you will have fire in your veins and die.”

  Fargo was changing his mind about the swamp. The dangers outweighed the splendor. He had to admire the people who lived there. They possessed uncommon courage.

  He couldn’t wait to get back to his familiar prairies and mountains. They had their perils too, but they were nothing like this.

  From the first pirogue came a shout. Remy was pointing.

  Up ahead, finally, was Gros Ville. Other pirogues and canoes lined the landing. Only a few people were out and about in the heat of the day and no one paid much attention to them as they tied off.

  They came to a side street and Remy stopped.

  “Down here is where my friends live. We will separate and meet back at the landing three days from now, at sunrise.”

  Namo was carrying Halette. “I have a friend. Hopefully he and his woman will agree to put my children up.”

  That left Fargo on his own. He bent his steps to the tavern. It was early yet, and only a few customers were drinking and playing cards. He made straight for the bar.

  Liana looked up from a ledger she was scribbling in. She gave a start and put a hand to her throat. “Are my eyes deceiving me?”

  “Enough of your antics. Give me a bottle of your best.” Fargo fished in his pocket and slapped down a coin.

  “I’m delighted you are back.”

  “The bottle, wench.”

  “Certainement. Here. I have missed you so much, it’s on the house.”

  Fargo gratefully chugged. The whiskey burned his mouth and throat and exploded once it reached his empty stomach. He downed half the bottle in big gulps, thumped the bottle on the counter, and smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Damn, I needed that.”

  Liana touched his chin. “You look as if you haven’t slept in days. And you haven’t been eating well.”

  “The swamp will do that.” Suddenly his weariness caught up with him, and Fargo leaned on the counter. “But I have three days to rest before we head out again.”

  “Three whole days?” Liana said with a playful grin, and promptly sobered. “Wait. Did I hear right? You’re going out after that monster a second time?”

  “Quit calling it that.” Fargo explained, briefly, about his clashes with the terror of the Atchafalaya.

  “A razorback?” Liana marveled. “Who would have thought it. But I don’t like the idea of you out in the swamp.”

  “Makes two of us. But I’m being paid. And it’s also become personal.” Fargo didn’t elaborate. He took the bottle and headed for the corner table, saying, “If you have the time and want to fix me a meal, I won’t complain.”

  Liana laughed. “Would venison steak and potatoes and carrots do? A hunter traded me the meat for some rum.”

  Fargo’s mouth watered. “That would do me fine.”

  “And coffee to wash it down?”

  “I’ll stick with the red-eye,” Fargo said, patting the whiskey bottle. He wearily sank into a chair facing the door and propped his boots on the table. He figured to sit there the rest of the day. And if he was lucky, he might get to enjoy another bout under the sheets with Liana.

  It took half an hour. The venison was juicy and delicious, the potatoes were seasoned and drowned in butter, and the carrots had a crunch to them. Liana also prepared a side of crayfish and a bowl of gumbo.

  Fargo was ravenous. He relished every morsel. Intent on his food, he didn’t pay much attention when two men hurried in and over to a nearby table where two others already sat. Their excited whispers were of no interest to him until he caught the word “Remy.” He perked his ears.

  “All I am saying is that we might never have a chance like this again.”

  “But to take the law into our own hands?”

  “Whose law? Outsider law? What has that to do with us? We always take care of our own problems.”

  The la
st man fidgeted in his chair. “But that is just it, mon ami. Who says Remy is a problem?”

  “He has killed,” the stoutest of them said.

  “Outsiders, yes. But never one of us. Never one of his own. Oh, I admit he is a scoundrel. Many accuse him of being a thief but I have yet to hear where he has stolen from any of us. Many say he is a bit of a bully but I have yet to hear of him bullying a fellow Cajun.”

  “All this is true,” another said with a bob of his head.

  “You make him out to be a saint,” the stout man complained, “when he is a murderer.”

  “I make him out to be nothing but what he is. A rogue, yes. A hater of those who would impose their will on us, yes. A man of violence, yes. But I repeat. With his own kind he has always been as much a gentleman as anyone.”

  “I can’t believe what my ears are hearing.”

  “Look, do as you want, Philippe. If you want to get men together and take him into custody, be our guest. But what then? Will you hand him over to the sheriff? Hand over one of your own kind?”

  “To hear you, one would think all Cajuns were blood brothers.”

  “Aren’t we?”

  That ended their argument.

  Fargo went on eating. He cracked open a crayfish and sucked out the sweet meat. He finished the gumbo. He forked the last piece of potato and was about to pop it into his mouth when the door opened and in came a young Cajun of twenty or so, his cap gone, his hair a mess, his clothes caked with mud, his pants torn. He lurched toward the bar, moving stiffly, a hand outstretched.

  “Drink, Liana! In God’s name give me a drink.”

  “Claude? What on earth?”

  The other men came out of their chairs and hurried over to hear what the newcomer had to say.

  Fargo stayed where he was; he could hear perfectly fine.

  “A drink! A drink I say!” Claude clutched at the bottle Liana handed him and sucked greedily, his throat bobbing. “Merci,” he gasped, whiskey dribbling down his chin. “I needed that.”

  “Tell us what has you in this state,” Liana coaxed. “Did you have an accident?”

  “I’ll say I did!” Claude declared. “And my accident has a name. Look at me!” He swept his hand at himself. “I am a mess. All thanks to the Mad Indian.”