Bayou Trackdown

“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.”

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.

Then the other cries started. Wails and screams and what sounded like blubbering. The cries went on and on until Fargo and Namo couldn’t take hearing them, until they had to come see who it was that was suffering the torment of the damned.

They had finished covering Remy, thrown the pack into the pirogue, and here they were. The cool night air added to the bumps that crawled up and down their skin.

Fargo had lost count of how many times he thought he saw something moving, only it turned out to be moss or a tree or nothing at all but his imagination.

“Why is it so quiet all of a sudden?” Namo Heuse whispered. “Do you think the man is dead?”

“I don’t know.” Fargo’s instincts warned him the razorback must be near.

Suddenly new cries reached them.

“Listen!” Namo exclaimed. “It curdles my blood.”

The cries would curdle anyone’s. The man was wailing and blubbering and mouthing incoherent words. He couldn’t be far, maybe a hundred yards ahead.

Fargo slowed and whispered for Namo to do the same.

There was a splash to their right. A single splash, and whatever made it was gone.

Gradually a spit of land took vague shape. Off in the vegetation a finger of orange appeared.

“A fire!” Namo whispered.