Bayou Trackdown

The next day was more of the same. The vastness of the swamp amazed him. As big as a small state, it seemed. So big, the Atchafalaya had never been fully explored. Vast tracts had never felt the tread of a human foot. White feet, anyway. Namo mentioned that several small tribes lived so deep in the swamp, whites rarely saw them.

Which reminded Fargo of something. “What can you tell me about the Mad Indian?”

Without breaking his rhythm paddling, Namo answered, “Not much. I’ve never seen him but I’ve heard the stories. I came on one of his camps once, the day after he had been there.”

“How do you know the camp was his?”

“I heard him laugh. He must have heard me and got out of there.”

“His laugh?”

“You will know it when you hear it. It is not a laugh you forget. It is madness given sound, and why he is called the Mad Indian.”

“What does he do besides laugh at people?”

“He sets snares for rabbits. He has been seen taking them from the snares.”

“So he laughs and likes rabbit meat? He doesn’t sound very dangerous to me.”

“He has also been seen a few times near where people have vanished. No one can say for sure he had a hand in it, but it is interesting, don’t you think?”

“Interesting,” Fargo agreed. “What tribe is he from?”

“No one can say. You must understand. Here in the swamp and along the coast are many tribes that want nothing to do with whites. Tribes we do not even know the names of. Exactly how many, no one can say. It could be the Mad Indian is from one of them.”

“There are a lot of ‘could be’s about this.”

“Oui, from your point of view I guess there are.”

Fargo glanced at Halette. She was facing him, as she always did. For an instant he detected a glint of something in her eyes, or thought he did, but then her gaze became as blank as ever and he questioned whether he had really seen it.

The deeper they traveled into the swamp, the more alligators and snakes they saw. And that was not all. The swamp was home to a host of creatures that crept and crawled and bit and clawed. In the evening, swarms of mosquitoes besieged them. Leeches were a problem, and once a snapping turtle nearly took off Fargo’s fingers. The stifling muggy heat, the bogs and the quicksand—why anyone would want to live in a swamp, Fargo would never know.

Yet it had its beauty, too, such as occasional clear pools, sparkling gems in the maze of muck and mire. Gorgeous flowers, the likes of which Fargo had never seen and couldn’t peg a name to. Birds with brilliant plumage. Lizards at home in the trees as well as on the ground. Spiders as big as Fargo’s hand. Now and then he spied large cranes, often standing on one leg.

Fargo grew to like the Spanish moss that draped the cypress and oaks. Much of the vegetation was so unlike the vegetation of the prairie and mountains that it was like being in a whole new world. At night the thick growth added to the swamp’s sinister atmosphere.

Still, it was the wild, and Fargo loved wild places of any kind. He drank in so much that was new. But he never for a moment forgot the dangers. He was always alert for snakes, always wary of alligators.

On the afternoon of the fourth day they came to a narrow channel of clear water.

“Where did this come from?” Fargo asked.

“The swamp is not all swamp.”

The Cajun stuck to the channel until a lightning-blasted tree appeared on the right bank. “This way,” he said, and struck off into more moss-ridden ranks of cypress.

Fargo was impressed at how confidently Namo found his way around. So much of the swamp looked exactly like so much else that it took long familiarity with the byways and landmarks to navigate with certainty.

They managed another mile before the sun rested on the rim of the world. The Cajun gazed to the west, frowned, and urged, “Paddle faster! There is a spot we must reach before dark.”

That spot turned out to be a broad hummock surprisingly thin of trees and growth. They hauled the pirogue from the water and walked over to the charred remains of a fire.

Namo pointed. “That is where I saw it.”

All Fargo saw was swamp and more swamp. The thing could be anywhere—if there even was a thing—but he held his peace. He chopped a tree for firewood and when he brought the last armload, supper was ready. Clovis had killed a snake and Namo had cut off the head and the tail and skinned it.

Fargo wasn’t all that fond of snake meat. He’d eaten it before, but it wasn’t one of his favorites. “What kind of snake was this?”

Namo thought a bit. “I don’t know as there is a word in English for it, mon ami. It is said the swamp is home to over a thousand and most are not known to anyone but those of us who live here.”

Fargo picked at the meat. Afterward they sat around making small talk. Toward midnight he lay down. His stomach growled and he willed it not to. So what if he was still hungry? It was no great inconvenience.

They were to take turns keeping watch, as always. Namo wanted Clovis to take the first turn and Fargo said it was fine by him.

The swamp was alive with noise. There was the usual riot of croaks and bellows and occasional roars and screeches, and as always, the insects.

Fargo started to drift off. He was on the cusp of slumber when a hand fell on his shoulder and shook him.

“Wake up, monsieur!”

“What is it?” Fargo rose onto his elbows.

Namo was on his feet with his rifle in his hands. Little Halette had sat up and was peering fearfully into the dark.

“Listen,” Clovis whispered.

Fargo heard, and his skin crawled.

7

From out of the dark heart of the swamp it wafted, an eerie cry, part shriek and part squeal. It went from a low pitch to a high screech and seemed to pulse and throb in the very air. Every other creature fell silent—the frogs, the alligators, even the bugs. The night was completely still save for the bellow of the beast.

“Mon Dieu!” Namo Heuse exclaimed.

Clovis let out a gasp.

As for Halette, she had one hand pressed to her throat and the other to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and she cast about as if she intended to flee.

“Stay calm, child,” Namo said. “The monster is far from here. It can’t harm us.”

Halette erupted into motion. But she didn’t run toward her father or her brother. She flew at Fargo and before he could gather his wits, she wrapped her arms around his legs and broke into loud sobs.

“We’re safe. Don’t worry.” Fargo patted her shoulder, not knowing what else to do.

Either Halette didn’t hear him or she didn’t believe him because she cried all the harder.

The other cry, the cry out of the swamp, faded. But it left the short hairs at the nape of Fargo’s neck prickling. Whatever made it had to be huge, exactly as the Cajun claimed.

As if Namo could read Fargo’s thoughts, he asked in breathless amazement, “Do you believe me now, mon ami?”

“I believe you,” Fargo said, adding, “One thing is for sure. That was no bear.” He looked down at the girl, who was still weeping and quaking. “Shouldn’t you do something?”

“Oh. Pardon.” Namo came over and began prying Halette’s fingers loose. She resisted, clinging to Fargo as a drowning child would cling to a floating log, but at last Namo succeeded and scooped her into his arms. “Ne vous en faites pas. I am here, daughter.”