The Cottoncrest Curse (26 page)

Raifer was right. The scraping noise started again. Someone was trying to move quietly but not quietly enough.

Raifer leaped out from behind the barrel, gun extended. “Come on, now. Show yourself or be shot.”

The scraping noise continued, but it also took on a wet, slurping sound.

Raifer spun around, looking behind him and glancing up into the loft. The noise stopped again.

Where was he? No one could be seen. Where could he be hiding?

Once more, a scraping sound. It could be someone's boot brushing against the wooden staves of the stall. It could also be a rifle being rested against a post.

Raifer crouched low and focused intensely to determine the place where the sound originated. He heard it again. It was coming from near the boards where the Colonel Judge and Rebecca lay, covered with sheets.

Raifer pressed himself against a post and, resting his finger lightly on the trigger of his Colt pistol, peered out at the corner where the bodies were.

The Colonel Judge was moving his head under his sheet! He wasn't dead.

That was impossible.

Raifer didn't believe in a Cottoncrest curse. Hadn't thought it existed.

Not until now.

But if the Colonel Judge was somehow alive, this place was truly cursed.

The Judge's head continued to move. The sheets stirred around his jaw. He was trying to say something.

Raifer's stomach tightened into a mass of knots. He breathed heavily, not seeming to be able to draw enough oxygen into his constricted lungs.

Raifer didn't believe in voodoo and spirits and ghosts. But whatever it was, whatever the Colonel Judge had become, Raifer had to confront it.

Gun cocked and ready to fire, as if bullets could do any harm to one already dead, Raifer took three long, quick strides, yanked the sheet away, flinging it to the barn floor.

A large rat was sitting on the Colonel Judge's chin. It already had chewed off a portion of the Colonel Judge's nose. It had scratched out an eye from its socket. Half of the Colonel Judge's left eye was still in the rat's mouth.

The rat jumped off the Colonel Judge onto the neighboring body, landing on the sheet that covered the headless cadaver. As it hit, three more rats ran out from under Rebecca's sheet and leaped to the floor. Two scurried toward the open barn door, one scampered up the post and into the loft, and the one on Rebecca's chest bared its teeth.

That was too much even for Raifer. He shot.

The bullet pulverized the top part of the rat, and the body fell limp, a bloody furry pool on top of Rebecca's sheet.

Raifer brushed the dead rodent aside and retrieved the Colonel Judge's sheet from the dusty barn floor. The Colonel Judge's body was covered with rat droppings, and his clothes were beginning to be eaten away. Tiny ragged holes marked the locations where the rat had gnawed through the once-fine silk and brocade waistcoat. Raifer didn't bother to look at Rebecca's corpse. It could only be the same, or worse.

What a sad end to a fine gentleman and a beautiful lady.

Raifer went immediately back to the big house. Dr. Cailleteau was sitting on the veranda with Little Miss, still in her nightgown, several blankets draped over her shoulder. Raifer urgently motioned to Dr. Cailleteau, who slowly moved his vast bulk and met Raifer halfway down the elegant front stairs that ran from the columned front porch to the ground below.

Raifer quickly described to Dr. Cailleteau what had happened.

Dr. Cailleteau's face reflected his sadness. “The indignity of it all. I'll get the funereals?”

“Can't do that, Doc. Doesn't matter how badly their clothes are mangled, you can't start scrounging through their bureaus and armoires for funereals. If you get burial clothes for them, then someone will have to dress them, and then they'll see what happened, and the talk will begin. This is just between you and me. We'll get some sheets and wrap them in a shroud. I'll get some of the sharecroppers to dig a grave, right now, next to where the General is buried, and I'll complete the task. You get Little Miss loaded in the wagon and get out of sight of Cotton-crest soon. She can't see any of this.”

Raifer went upstairs to get some sheets from an armoire, while Dr. Cailleteau walked back to where Little Miss sat blankly.

Dr. Cailleteau had seen death too often, when lifeless frames, deprived of sepulture, were left to rot openly in battlefields. His old friend should be honored, not dumped unceremoniously into a grave.

But Raifer was right.

It was bad enough, the bullet wound in the Colonel Judge's head.

It was bad enough, his face disfigured by the rats.

No one should see that, just as they shouldn't see the rest of his scarred body bearing his many wounds from the war. The gash of the bullet wound in his shoulder. The shrapnel scars in his left leg, which had shattered the bone and caused him to walk with a cane and a limp since the war. The fact that the shrapnel had cut off his manhood, leaving him with no testicles and only a stump of a penis.

Bucky proudly rode at the head, followed by Tee Ray, Forrest, and four other Knights, armed with pistols and rifles, who had decided to ride with Tee Ray. The rest had stayed back to harvest the cane fields.

Bucky preened at the way Raifer had treated him once they had gotten to Cottoncrest. Raifer had put him in charge of the posse of sharecroppers. Now the men knew of his importance. They were following him, just as they should.

As they headed toward Lamou, Tee Ray had let Bucky ride at the front. Let him think he's in charge. It didn't matter as long as they got the Jew. Tee Ray had given instructions to the Knights before Bucky got there. They were to kill the Jew the moment they spotted him.

They bore southwest, following the road away from the river and into the swamps. It was just a narrow dirt path barely higher than the surrounding boggy land. Now the hardwoods lined the road. Tall sycamores and oaks and hickory dripping with Spanish moss formed a canopy under which they passed. Thick-leaved vines climbed into the trees on stout brown stalks forming veils that hid the woods beyond. Palmettos, their fan-shaped leaves as wide as a horse's flank, glistened green in the morning sun that filtered through the verdant woods.

The Knights tried to move quietly on their horses, but Étienne, hunting for squirrel, had heard them coming when they were still more than a mile away. By the time they rounded the bend and saw the bayou and the Acadian cottages of Lamou, they were more than expected.

Trosclaire Thibodeaux relaxed in his rocking chair on his porch, smoking a pipe. Aimee stayed inside with the children, but Tante Odille sat in the other rocking chair, calmly shelling peas.

Bucky quickly surveyed the scene. It seemed quiet enough. Tros-claire was sitting with an old lady who was probably as senile as Little Miss. A young boy and girl—they couldn't be older than fifteen—were loading up a pirogue, probably for a day of fishing or trading with the Cajuns who lived deep in the swamps in houses accessible only by water. They were putting baskets on top of a large muddy bearskin that was undoubtedly covering a stack of other trading items. No one else was in sight. The dozen or so houses in Lamou were dark and empty of life.

Bucky quickly concluded that the rest of the Cajuns were out fishing. These were simple people. They made their living on the water and in the swamps, eating things no one else would eat, doing work no one else would do. This would not take any time at all.

“Trosclaire! I've got to talk to you.” Talk to them with authority. That was the way to impress them.

Tante Odille cackled, taking in Bucky's elongated face and gangly limbs. “
Vilain comme les sept péchés mortels.
”

“What did the old lady say?” Bucky demanded.

“She said,” Trosclaire explained, “just that you must be an important man to head up such a group.”

Bucky straightened up in his saddle. This was going exactly as he had planned.

Jake, hidden beneath the bearskin in the long cypress pirogue that Jeanne Marie and Étienne were loading, smiled to himself. What Tante Odille said was that Bucky was as ugly as the seven mortal sins.

“Well, she's right! I am important. I'm here on official business. I'm looking for the Jew Peddler.”

“You mean Monsieur Gold, the peddler? Is he a Jew? This is strange news. Is that now what you do for the law? Hunt Jews?”

Bucky detected a tone of derision in Trosclaire's voice and didn't like it. The way to deal with the ignorant was to show them who was boss. Take control in every way. Bucky squinted his eyes in what he knew Trosclaire would take to be a look of imminent danger. Bucky would show Trosclaire he was not to be trifled with.

“I don't need none of your sass! Has he been here? We know he's traveling in this direction. Tell me where he is, or we're going to execute a writ of habeas corpus and corpus delicti and fieri facias and search each and every one of your houses!” Bucky said all this forcefully. He knew he could scare these illiterate Cajuns with obscure legalistic Latin phrases, even if he himself was unsure of what they meant. They wouldn't know any better. They could not help but be impressed and obey him.

“
Maigre comme un tasso,
” Tante Odille said, and whistled.

“She understands that I'm the law, right? And that I have the power to do as I say.”

“She does not speak En glish, but she understands exactly what you are.”

Jake, in the bottom of the pirogue, would have enjoyed the banter if the consequences were not potentially deadly. Trosclaire was toying with Bucky. What Tante Odille had said was that Bucky was as skinny as a strip of dried meat.

“Then you and she both know my authority. I demand that you tell me where he is. Or…” Bucky dismounted and tied the reins of his horse on the branch of a nearby pine tree. “Or I'll start inspecting each house here. Starting with yours.”

Tee Ray and the others sat quietly on their horses, waiting to see what would happen next. They would let Bucky try first, then they would take over.

Bucky had not even taken half a step when Trosclaire whipped out a knife and threw it with deadly accuracy toward the tree next to which Bucky had just been standing. The knife pinned the reins to the branch. “I do not think,” said Trosclaire calmly, “that I would like that.”

Bucky pulled out his pistol. “You want to oppose the law, Trosclaire?”

“I do not think you have power here to search my house or even stand in my yard. Why, the next thing you'll want to do is to search the church, our blessed Sainte Clotilde sur le Rive.” Trosclaire turned to Tante Odille. “
Il est doucement comme le melasse dans janvier.
”

Tante Odille, with a wide, toothless grin, laughed out loud.

Jake, hearing what Trosclaire had said and despite Tante Odille's laughter, could tell they were continuing their dangerous game. Tros-claire had proclaimed that Bucky was slow as molasses in January. Jake reached down and pulled the Freimer blade out of his belt. If Bucky started anything, Jake would be ready.

Bucky, his pistol drawn, started up the steps of Trosclaire's cottage.

Tante Odille put down the bowl of peas and picked up a long knife she had hidden under the bowl, in the folds of her skirt. Holding it in her hands, she stood in the doorway. “
Vous allez en toute probabilité faire une coche mal taille,”
she said firmly.

Jake, under the bearskin, could not see what was happening. Tante Odille had proclaimed that Bucky was about to make a badly carved notch, meaning he was about to make a big mistake. Something was about to happen. To Bucky.

Tee Ray, surprised by what the old lady held, took over. He pulled out his rifle and leveled it at the old lady's head. “I recognize that knife! That's one of the Jew Peddler's blades. Search the church? We'll damn well tear the place apart brick by brick if we have to. We've all heard enough of your French Papist nonsense. Catholics ain't but one step above niggers and two steps above Jews. And Cajuns ain't even a half-step above Jews.”

All the Knights now had their rifles out, and they were pointed at Trosclaire and Tante Odille.

Trosclaire didn't get up from his rocker. “Before you do something you may regret, I think you should look around first, no?”

Trosclaire pointed at the other cottages.

The six Knights and Bucky slowly scanned the wooded landscape of Lamou. From every cottage window now protruded a rifle. At least thirty of them were pointing at the Knights. Even the young boy and girl next to the pirogue had rifles in their hands.

“Now,” said Trosclaire, very slowly, “I think we shall show you something you may find interesting, yes?”

Trosclaire got up from the rocker, walked up to Bucky, and took Bucky's hat off his head. Trosclaire went over to the tree and, removing the knife from the reins, cut a small hole in the brim and then pinned the hat against the tree so that the bark protruded through the hole, which was not more than an inch in diameter.

“You will not fire,” Trosclaire said to Tee Ray and the others as he returned to his rocker. “You will just watch. Then, if you want to fire and take your chances, you may.
Étienne!
Jeanne Marie!
”

Jake, underneath the bearskin, relaxed. Trosclaire had things well in control.

The two fifteen-year-olds raised their rifles and pointed toward the tree. The horsemen moved out of the way.

Étienne and Jeanne Marie each fired, almost simultaneously. Then they quickly reloaded and waited, rifles poised.

“Monsieur Bucky, you may now have your hat back.”

Bucky strode forcefully to the pine tree, trying not to show how his stomach was quivering and his mouth was dry with fear. He looked at his hat, and his eyes grew wide. He stared with puzzled astonishment. The two bullets were nestled in the trunk of the tree, inside the circle made by the hole in his hat brim. The hat was otherwise untouched.