rumbles.
Fargo filled the bucket and started back up. He heard a splash but concentric ripples suggested a fish was to blame.
Namo had passed out again.
Fargo poured water into a black cook pot and hung the cook pot in the fireplace. He chopped carrots and potatoes and sliced the venison and dropped them in.
The rest of the water went into a coffeepot. Fargo needed that more than food. He was exhausted.
Outside, the wind keened. A branch thwacked the roof. Thunder rumbled ever louder.
Namo tossed and turned in the chair, frequently mumbling in fever-induced delirium.
Pattering drew Fargo over to the window. The Heusees had gone to the expense of installing a glass pane. He moved the curtain aside and peered out. Heavy drops were falling. Down at the landing the pirogue bobbed up and down in the wind-driven swell.
There was no sign of the Mad Indian.
Fargo reckoned it would be a while yet.
Then a lightning bolt seared the heavens and the bolt’s flash bathed the cabin and the willows, revealing a scarecrow figure a stone’s throw from the window.
Revealed him so clearly, Fargo could see the scarecrow’s mad grin.
20
Fargo drew his Colt and started to turn toward the door, but just like that the Mad Indian was gone, melted into the willows like the ghost some thought him to be.
Lowering the curtains, Fargo went to the door anyway. Instead of going out, he lifted a heavy bar propped against the wall and slid it into the two slots on the back of the door, then gave the bar a shake. It would take a battering ram to get through—or a razorback as big as a buffalo.
Namo had slumped in his chair and the blanket had fallen off. Fargo pressed a palm to the Cajun’s forehead and it was the same as before—burning hot. Since Namo was out to the world, he couldn’t object to Fargo carrying him to the bedroom and putting him on the big bed. There were no windows, only the thick walls. Fargo covered him and went out.
The storm had broken in all its elemental fury.
Cradling the Sharps, Fargo took up his position at the window. Large drops splashed the pane in a liquid deluge. The wind howled, bending the trees as if they were so many blades of grass. The glimpse he had of the bayou showed it being frothed into a fury.
Would the razorback be out on a night like this? Fargo wondered. Or would it do as most animals did and seek cover?
The blaze of bolts and the crash of thunder were continuous. Fargo hadn’t seen a storm this violent since he left the mountains. Some of the lightning was so close, the thunder shook the cabin.
And somewhere in that tempest, plotting to kill them, was the Mad Indian.
Fargo was glad there was only the one window and door. He was also glad about the rain. For as long as it lasted, and until the logs dried, the Mad Indian couldn’t set the cabin on fire.
The chirp of the coffeepot brought Fargo to the fireplace. The coffee was ready, the stew was piping hot. He found bowls in the cupboard and a wooden ladle to fill them with, and spoons. He took one of the bowls to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Namo?”
Heuse didn’t stir.
“Namo?” Fargo was averse to waking him but the man needed nourishment. He shook Namo’s shoulder a few times. “Time to eat.”
Eyelids fluttering, Namo Heuse rolled onto his back and slowly sat up, his head and shoulders propped against the headboard. “How long was I out?”
“A while.”
More thunder shook the cabin to its foundation. Namo glanced sharply at the ceiling. “I seem to remember you saying something about a storm.”
Fargo dipped the spoon in the soup. “Open up.”
“I will feed myself, thank you very much.”
Fargo placed the bowl in Namo’s lap and gave him the spoon. “If you were any more pigheaded, you’d be a razorback.”
Namo dipped the spoon and raised it to his mouth, his teeth gritting with the effort.
“There’s plenty more where this came from so if you want seconds give me a holler.”
“I can’t tell you how good it is. I’m starved.”
“It will help with the fever.” Fargo stood. “If you’re sure that you can do it yourself—?”
“I am. Thank you.” Namo let him get as far as the doorway before asking, “Is something the matter?”
“No.”
“Is it the Mad Indian? Did he come after us?”
Fargo grimly nodded.
“I expected as much. We have been a thorn in his side. He wants us dead more than anyone. This is good.”
“You think so?”
“We can end this once and for all. As soon as I gather my strength, I will be out to help you.”
“You get out of that bed and I’ll throw you back in again,” Fargo promised. “Leave everything to me.” He made it a point to close the bedroom door behind him.
Fargo added a log to the fire. He filled a bowl with soup and went to the window. It didn’t look as if the storm would end any time soon. Fine by him. It bought them time to rest, to recuperate. The soup made him drowsy so he filled a cup with bubbling coffee. It wasn’t enough. He drank two more.
Fargo didn’t like being cooped up. He prowled the room like a caged panther. Once he thought he heard a thump against the side of the cabin. It wasn’t repeated, and he figured a tree limb was to blame.
Namo called out that he was done so Fargo went in. He offered to bring a second bowl but the Cajun declined.
“It might make me sick. I need sleep more than anything. As it is, I can’t hold my head up.”
“Then don’t.” Fargo backed out. “If you need anything, anything at all, give a holler.”
“You will make some woman a fine husband one day.”
“Go to hell.”
Namo chuckled.
The storm was finally slackening. The lightning strikes were fewer and the boom of thunder less.
Fargo looked out the window. As best he could tell, by some miracle the pirogue was still tied to the landing. On an impulse he went to the door, removed the bar, and opened it. Drops wet his face. Wind fanned his cheeks. Everything was drenched—the ground, the thickets, the trees.
Silhouetted as he was in the doorway, Fargo only stood there a few seconds. Just long enough to scan the vicinity. Then he stepped back and started to close the door.
That was when he heard it, from out of the willows, the bleat of a small animal. A bleat he had heard on several occasions now. The bleat of a rabbit tied to a stake.
Fargo slammed the door and replaced the bar. It wouldn’t be long. He took to pacing until he noticed an axe in the corner. He placed it on the table. He added a butcher knife and a meat cleaver. Casting about for more weapons, his gaze alighted on the wood bin. Several of the logs were thin enough that they sparked an idea. He selected three, sat at the chair, and used the butcher knife to whittle. When he had three sharp points, he placed them next to the axe.
Was there anything else he could use? A lantern suggested an idea. He lit it and turned the wick low and placed the lantern in the middle of the table, not for the extra light but as a possible weapon.
There was nothing else, not unless Fargo counted table knives in a drawer, and a broom.
