Bayou Trackdown

Suddenly the hummock appeared, a low mound bisected by the trail. The trees were not many, but some had thick trunks and might resist being uprooted. Emmeline raced to one, hooked her hands under Halette’s arms, and practically heaved her at the lowest limbs, shouting, “Grab hold and climb!”

“What about you?”

Emmeline whirled. The massive monster was almost on top of them. She jerked her rifle to her shoulder and took aim. But even as she fired, and her daughter screamed, Emmeline knew these were her last moments on earth. Her rifle boomed but it had no effect, and then the thing was on her. Emmeline tried to be brave—she tried not to scream—but God, the pain, the searing, awful ripping and rending.

It seemed to go on forever.

2

Skye Fargo was a long way from the mountains and prairies he loved to roam. A big man, broad at the shoulder and slim at the hips, he sat a saddle as if born to it. He wore buckskins and a hat that was white when he bought it but now was a dusty shade of brown, and a red bandana. On his hip was a Colt. In his boot in an ankle sheath nestled a twin-edged Arkansas toothpick.

Fargo was close to Arkansas now, or as close as he had been in many a month. He was in Louisiana, in the backwater bayou country, winding along what the locals called a road but anyone else would call a path. It was pockmarked with hoofprints and rutted by more than a few wagon wheels.

So far the directions in the letter had been easy to follow. But then, finding something the size of the Atchafalaya Swamp was easy for a man who had an unerring instinct for finding his way anywhere. The Trailsman, folks called him, not because he followed known trails but because he broke new ones.

Skye Fargo had been where no whites ever set foot. He had explored vast tracts of untamed country overrun with hostile men and savage beasts. That he was still breathing said a lot about his ability to handle himself.

The trail was leading Fargo ever deeper into the swamp. As he rode he studied the riot of plant growth. Many were plants seldom if ever seen west of the Mississippi. Take magnolia trees, which Louisiana had plenty of. Oak trees and cypress were also common, the latter especially so in the swamp, where Spanish moss hung from many a limb. Flowers grew in profusion—lilies, orchids, jasmine and azaleas.

Honeysuckle was abundant. Fargo liked the sweet taste. It reminded him of many idle hours spent as a boy plucking and sucking.

Where there was a rich variety of plant life, there was invariably a rich variety of animal life. Louisiana was rife with deer and bear. Wildcats thrived. Musk-rats plied the waterways. Raccoons and opossums and polecats were all over. Then there were the cougars, the alligators, and the snakes.

Fargo could do without the snakes. It was bad enough having to deal with rattlers. But here there were also cottonmouths and copperheads and a few coral snakes, or so he had been told.

Birds were as numerous as everything else. Warblers, robins, wrens. Sparrows, finches, woodpeckers. It went without saying that ducks and geese found all the water to their liking. As did brown pelicans.

Fargo breathed deep of the muggy, dank air. It didn’t suit him. Give him the rarified heights of the Rocky Mountains any day. There was practically no humidity that high up.

The Ovaro nickered.

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 tres 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.

“Etes-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.