Authors: Jon Sharpe
Bayou Trackdown (16 page)
“Fargo? What on earth are you doing out there?”
“And where’s the canoe?”
Remy and Namo were at the swamp’s edge.
“Hold on,” Fargo replied. He pushed free of the tree and made for the island. There was no sign of the alligator. Or of the Mad Indian, for that matter.
“You let him get away?” Namo said in reproach after Fargo had explained. “All we have done and we have nothing to show for it.”
“He did what he could,” Remy defended him. “Or did you miss the part about the alligator?”
Fargo was wiping the toothpick dry on grass. “I don’t know about you two, but I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life searching this godforsaken swamp. There’s only one thing left for us to do.”
Remy nodded. “We lure the razorback to us. Just as I have been saying we should do.”
“We’re not even sure it will work,” Namo objected.
“There’s plenty of wood on this island,” Fargo noted. “We’ll make a big fire, one that can be seen from a long ways off. The Mad Indian is bound to spot it. And with any luck, he’ll set the boar on us.”
“How do we kill it when it comes?” Namo asked.
“I have a plan,” Skye Fargo said.
17
The sun had set an hour ago.
With the fading of the light and the advent of night, the creatures that liked the dark emerged and filled the air with their cries. Alligators bellowed. Frogs croaked. An occasional roar or shriek added to the din. The bleats and screams of prey told of predators hungry to fill their bellies.
On an island in the middle of that vast maze of water and violent life, Skye Fargo listened to the bedlam and was reminded of the Rockies. In the mountains, too, nighttime was when most of the meat-eaters were abroad. The yips of coyotes, the howls of wolves, the roars of bears and the screech of mountain lions—he looked forward to hearing them again, to being back in his element.
Here the bedlam was louder, and practically constant. Rare were the moments when the swamp fell still.
It was during one of those rare moments that Fargo heard a far-off squeal, and smiled. His shoulders were sore from all the digging they had done, but the work might prove worth it. From his hiding place in a thicket, he gazed out at the noisily crackling fire, and near it what appeared to be freshly overturned dirt.
“Pay us a visit, you bastard.”
They were ready for the razorback, or as ready as they could hope to be. If it came, they stood a chance of ending the slaughter.
From where Fargo hunkered he couldn’t see the others. Remy was under a tree. Namo was
in
one.
in
one.
Fargo fingered the Sharps and shifted to relieve a cramp. It would be a long night if the razorback didn’t show. He was glad his buckskins had finally dried. He’d had to sit uncomfortably close to the fire for half an hour.
Another squeal, closer than before.
Fargo munched on a piece of bread and imagined he was eating one of Liana’s delicious meals. His stomach growled.
So did something else, from off in the brush.
Fargo tensed, then relaxed. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the razorback. A cat of some kind, most likely a bobcat, and bobcats hardly ever attacked people. When they did, it was usually children. Fargo thought of Halette and Clovis, motherless. He thought of Pensee and Hetsutu.
“God, I hope you come.”
Something rustled. A snake or some other small animal. Whatever it was moved away from him.
The wait wore on Fargo’s nerves. The shadows seemed imbued with life. Leaves and branches moved but it was only the wind.
He heard no more squeals.
It was pushing midnight when a certain cry pricked Fargo’s ears. He raised his head to hear better. It was repeated, not once but many times. The cry of a rabbit in distress.
The Mad Indian was luring the boar.
Fargo wondered if Remy and Namo had heard, and if they realized what the cries meant. He had half a mind to go warn them but they had agreed to stay where they were except for the few times Remy, who was nearest the fire, crept from concealment to add wood.
Remy would have to do so again soon. The flames were half as high as they had been.
A high-pitched screech pierced the gloom.
Fargo suspected that the rabbit had become food for the beast they were out to kill. He barely breathed and stayed perfectly still.
Then came another of those rare moments in which the great swamp fell quiet.
A log popped in the fire and smoke rose.
Fargo saw Remy come out from under the tree and move toward the fire.
Not now!
he wanted to shout. Hadn’t Remy heard the rabbit?
Not now!
he wanted to shout. Hadn’t Remy heard the rabbit?
Remy yawned and stepped to the pile of firewood they had gathered before the sun went down, enough to last the entire night. He added logs and stepped back as the flames brightened and flared.
Fargo moved toward the edge of the thicket. He must warn him to get back under cover.
That was when a huge shape materialized across the clearing. Two eyes gleamed balefully.
Remy didn’t see it. He had his back to the shadow, which crept toward him on ghostly hooves.
Fargo jerked the Sharps up but didn’t shoot. They needed the razorback to step on the circle of dirt.
Namo had seen the boar, too. And now he did what they had agreed not to do. “Remy! Behind you!
Le sanglier!
”
Le sanglier!
”
Remy whirled and brought up his rifle just as the razorback let out with a rumbling squeal and charged. Thinking fast, he sidestepped toward the dirt. The razorback was almost on top of him when he threw himself out of the way.
But he misjudged how ungodly quick the razorback could be.
The razorback and Remy seemed to merge. Remy went one way and the razorback went another. Remy to fly through the air and crash down on the upturned earth, the razorback to plow into the undergrowth.
“No!” Fargo hurtled from the thicket, firing as he unfurled a hasty shot that had no effect.
Namo banged off shots from up in the tree.
Fargo ran to the circle, and would never forget what awaited him.
They had done the best they could using branches and flat rocks to dig and scrape. The hole wasn’t deep, only about four feet. A dozen sharp stakes were imbedded in the bottom. They had covered the pit with thin branches and grass and then spread dirt over the top.
“Dear God,” Namo said at Fargo’s side. “Is there no end to the horror?”
Remy had landed on his back. Two of the stakes had gone through his body, another through a leg, a third through an arm. He was still alive. He shook, and coughed, and spat up blood. And then he blinked up at them and said through his pain, “Tell me it is dead.”
Fargo could hear splashing.
“It got away,” Namo said.
“Damn. Then I die for nothing.”
Namo dropped to a knee and reached down to touch Remy’s shoulder. “We will get you out. It will take some doing but—”
“No.”
“Non?”
Remy coughed and more blood oozed from the corners of his mouth. “I am done for, Namo. I know it and you know it.” He sucked in a breath, and groaned. “Lord, the pain.”
Namo appealed to Fargo. “We can’t just let him die. We must do something. Help me.”
“If we pull him off those stakes he won’t live two minutes,” Fargo predicted. Left down there, Remy might last five.
“We must try,” Namo insisted. “You take his arms and I’ll take his legs and we will slowly lift him out.”
“He’s in too much pain.”
“I refuse to let him die this way. Do you hear me?”
Remy ended their argument by saying, “Shoot me.”
Fargo and Namo looked at him and Namo said, “What?”
“You heard me. Shoot me. Put me out of misery. I am not long for this world anyway.”
Now it was Namo who said, “No.”
Remy tried to speak but what came out was more blood. His limbs convulsed, and he gasped out, “Don’t let me suffer like this. I beg you.”
Namo, averting his gaze, shook his head. “I can’t. I just can’t. I’m sorry. But I don’t have it in me.”
“I would do it for you.”
“Don’t say that.” Namo wheeled and walked toward the fire, his chin on his chest.
Fargo knew what was coming.
“And you, monsieur? What about you? I have not known you long so it should be easier for you.”
Fargo stared at the blood-wet stakes that stuck up out of Remy’s body. More tremors wracked the Cajun, and he grit his teeth. “If I never see another swamp for as long as I live, it’ll be too soon.”
“Sorry?” Remy said, coughing. “What was that?”
“No one deserves to die like this.”
Remy mustered a grin. “That is life, eh? None of us deserve the pain we bear but life doesn’t care. It inflicts the pain anyway.” He shook, then steadied, and wheezed, “Whenever you are ready.”
Fargo placed his hand on his Colt.
“No!” Namo ran up and grabbed Fargo’s wrist. “Don’t do this! Life is too precious. Give him what few moments he has left.”
Remy said, “Damn you, Namo. Leave the man alone.” Then he did a strange thing—he laughed.
“Is your mind going?” Namo asked.
“It is the irony. I’ve never liked outsiders. Yet this man is an outsider and I like him. And now he is about to treat me with the mercy I have never shown others. Is that not ironic?”
“It is wrong.”
“Let go of him, Namo.”
“I refuse.”
“In memory of Emmeline.”
“Damn you, Remy. And damn the beast that did this to you.” Namo forlornly stepped to one side.
“Such is life. We spend it holding the sadness at bay until the day when the final sadness comes over us.” Remy had the worst coughing fit yet. “Just as it has come over me.” He stared at Fargo. “Enough talk. Do it. Get it over with. I don’t know how much longer I can keep from screaming.”
Fargo drew the Colt.
“Please,” Namo said.
“Please,” Remy echoed.
Fargo shot him square between the eyes. Hair, bone and brains rained on the bottom of the pit. Remy Cuvier went rigid, then limp. His eyes, locked open, were fixed on the stars.
“God in heaven,” Namo said softly. “Is there no end?”
“Not until we’re like him.” Fargo nodded at the body.
“How can you be so callous? How can you be so cold? I thought you liked him.”
“I did.” Fargo replaced the spent cartridge, slid the Colt into his holster, and went over to the fire. He was suddenly bone tired. “I’ll fix us some coffee.”
“Now?” Namo said in amazement.
“We have to take turns keeping watch. I don’t know about you but I can use some help staying awake.”
“But after—” Namo said, and glanced at the pit. “It’s just that my wife liked Remy. Of all her cousins, he was Emmeline’s favorite. I could no more kill him than I could have killed her.”
“There’s no need to explain.”
“Thank you. But what now? The boar escaped. Our trap failed, and cost us our friend. Do we go after it by ourselves or do we rethink how we should go about this?”
Fargo was opening a pack to get at the coffeepot. “I’m not giving up.” Not this side of the grave he wasn’t.
“And I am not suggesting we should,” Namo set him straight. “But we have nothing to show for all our effort and sweat. The razorback is still out there. The Mad Indian, too.”
“Those other men from Gros Ville are hunting them too, remember?” Fargo reminded him. “Maybe they’ll have better luck than we have.”
“It is strange we haven’t seen any sign of them.”
“It’s a big swamp.”
“A huge swamp. But still, we should have run into them. Or seen their fires.”
“Needles in a snake-infested haystack.”
Namo commenced to pace. “Do you know what I think we should do?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “We’re not far from my cabin. I say we go there and rest a day or two. I will gather what news I can from my nearest neighbors, and we will plan and head out again.”
As tired as Fargo was, he would rather keep at it, and said so.
“To what end?” Namo argued. “The beast is wise to us. Or if it isn’t, the Mad Indian is.”
Fargo recalled the rabbit cries.
“The pit trick won’t work again. We must come up with something new. Something—what is the word?—foolproof.”
From out in the swamp pealed a series of squeals, faint but unmistakable, punctuated by an all too human cackle.
“Do you hear?” Namo said. “They can go on as they are for years if they’re not stopped. Think of the many innocents who will meet grisly ends.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Fargo reached into the pack and looked toward the pit. “Start covering that up.”
“Oh. Oui
. We can’t let the wild things get at poor Remy.” Namo went about halfway, and stopped. “What is this?” he said, stooping. “Bring a brand, if you would.”
. We can’t let the wild things get at poor Remy.” Namo went about halfway, and stopped. “What is this?” he said, stooping. “Bring a brand, if you would.”
Blood speckled the ground. A lot of blood. The spots led toward where Remy had been standing when the boar rammed into him, and then off into the undergrowth.
“One of us hit it!” Namo exclaimed.
Fargo suspected it was his shot.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it proves fatal? Let the beast suffer as poor Remy suffered. Let it die a lingering death.”
As if to mock them, the night was shattered by shrieks.
Human shrieks.
18
The swamp at night was ten times as dangerous as during the day.
Ten times darker, too.
Fargo was in the bow, Namo in the stern. The cypress grove they were gliding through was thick with moss and silence. The living things had gone quiet, with one exception. It was the exception that brought them here, the exception that raised the hackles on their necks.
The shrieks had faded a long time ago. They thought that was the end of it, that whoever had been shrieking was dead.
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