“I have eyes.”
“You will think I am crazy but I think I know that voice. His name is Toussaint. He is from Gros Ville.”
“One of the men hunting the razorback?”
They coasted the last twenty feet. A small cove spread open. Already grounded was another pirogue. They brought their pirogue to a stop next to it and quickly climbed out. Then, rifles at the ready, they moved forward.
Fargo was in the lead. He tried to avoid stepping on twigs or dry growth that crunched underfoot but in the pitch black it was hard to do. He mentally swore each time he made unwanted noise. The only consolation was that Namo made more.
The scent of smoke was strong. As they neared the fire it was mixed with the smell of something else—fresh blood.
Fargo had smelled blood too many times not to know what it was.
The growth was ungodly thick. Try as they might, they couldn’t spot the man who kept crying out.
A new sound reached them, and brought them to a stop.
A low, insane cackle.
“The Mad Indian!” Namo breathed.
Fargo bent and peered through the tangle but all he saw was the campfire.
“What can that fiend be doing?”
“We’ll soon find out.” Fargo went even more slowly. They had a chance here to put an end to the lunatic and he wouldn’t squander it.
“We can’t let him get away,” Namo gave voice to the same thought.
“Hush.”
They became two snails, creeping along. A clearing appeared. At the center, the fire. Nearby lay a body. The chest had been torn wide, exposing shattered ribs and internal organs. The razorback’s handiwork.
Another Cajun was spread eagle, staked out at the wrists and ankles, and as naked as the day he was born. He writhed and whimpered and blubbered, sounding almost as mad as the person bent over him.
The Mad Indian was holding a knife. Drops of blood dripped from the tip. Tittering, he grinned down at Toussaint and held out something the size of an olive that appeared to be dangling from the end of a string.
Fargo’s stomach churned. That olive was one of Toussaint’s eyes. The Mad Indian had dug it out with his knife.
“Whimper, whimper, white dog. Sing your song of pain.”
Toussaint whimpered.
“Now scream for me, white cur. Scream so the frogs can hear.” The Mad Indian slashed off a chunk of flesh.
Toussaint screamed.
“So happy you make me,” the Mad Indian said gleefully. “I hate your kind. Hate, hate, hate.”
Namo slid up next to Fargo. “We’ll fire at the same time. One of us is bound to hit him.”
Suddenly the Mad Indian glanced up, straight at them. He cocked his head, his eyes glittering like sparks.
“How can he have heard me?” Namo whispered.
Fargo raised the Sharps. Or tried to. The heavy growth that hemmed them made it next to impossible to bring it to his shoulder.
“What have we here?” the Mad Indian said, and laughed his demented laugh. “More rabbits, I fear.” Suddenly he spun and bounded for the far side of the clearing.
“No!” Namo yelled, and snapped off a shot.
Fargo got the Sharps up and took aim but the Mad Indian was weaving erratically. He curled his finger to the trigger just as the spindly figure vanished into the vegetation.
“Damn it.”
They forced their way to the clearing.
Namo paused next to the dead man to say sorrowfully, “I know this one, too. He has a wife and three small children. Or had, I should say. They will take the news hard.”
Fargo was trying to look at Toussaint and keep the contents of his stomach down. The things the Mad Indian had done would make an Apache envious. Hideous, despicable things no one could endure without breaking.
Toussaint’s good eye was open and had a wild light in it that wasn’t much different from the wild light in the eyes of the Mad Indian.
“Dear God, no,” Namo said.
Fargo drew his Colt.
“Wait!” Namo squatted and put a hand on the other’s chest. “Toussaint, can you hear me? It is I, Namo.”
The man blubbered.
“Your name is Henri Toussaint. Remember? Think of who you are and where you are.”
Toussaint let out a loud sob.
“Is there anything you want me to tell your woman and your children? Any last words?”
Again Toussaint sobbed, only softer.
“Can you hear me? Both your ears are gone but you should still be able to hear. Talk to me, Henri. Say something.”
Incredibly, the ruin did. “Namo?”
“
Toussaint’s throat, what was left of it, bobbed. “The boar . . . it came at us so fast . . . no warning. It got Philippe. Ripped him open.”
“I know. I will bury him.”
“It . . . rushed me . . . knocked me out. When I woke . . . my clothes were gone . . . I was staked . . . the Mad Indian . . .”
“Enough about him. What do I say to your wife? What do I say to your children?”
Toussaint took a deep breath. “What else? Tell them I love them. Tell them I am sorry.”
“For what?”
Fargo said, “What about the other men from Gros Ville? Where did they get to?”
“Who was that?”
“It is the outsider, the scout I sent for,” Namo explained. “And my friend,” he added.
Again the stricken man had to take a deep breath before he could say, “We separated . . . maybe razorback got them, too.”
“You should have stayed together. There is strength in numbers.”
“We thought . . . cover more area.” Toussaint stopped and went to lick his lips only there were no lips to lick. “Oh, God. What has that lunatic done to me? I am not long for this world.”
“I can put you out of your misery if you want,” Fargo offered.
“
“Don’t talk so much,” Namo said. “Conserve your strength. Would you like some water? I will gladly give you some. Henri? Can you hear me?” He bent low, his ear over the other’s travesty of a mouth. “He’s not breathing.”
Fargo sighed. One by one they were being wiped out. Although the Cajuns liked to call the swamp their home, it was the razorback, and the Mad Indian, who were most at home here. Pit civilized men against a beast in the wild and the beast would win nearly every time.
Namo sat back, dejected. “Is there no end? How many more must die before we end this nightmare?”
“We should bury them so we can turn in,” Fargo said tiredly.
“Very well.” Namo rose and took a step toward the trees. “I’ll find something to dig with.”
They both heard the
