Bayou Trackdown

13

The swamp, as Hetsutu had said, was unusually still.

And sure enough, one of the pirogues was missing.

Fargo stood gazing into the dark and debating whether to take the other pirogue and go after Namo or stay put and wait for Namo to return. To find him out there would be next to impossible. But he’d promised Halette and Clovis he would try so he cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed Namo’s name on the chance Namo was within earshot.

There was no reply.

Fargo had less than an hour before he was to meet Hetsutu in front of the tavern. He’d left the kids with Liana and told her that if he wasn’t back by midnight to let Hetsutu know where he had gone.

Placing his Henry in the bottom of the second pirogue, Fargo pushed until it floated free, climbed in, picked up a paddle, and was under way. He stroked as quietly as he could, wending among the moss-laden cypress. He had gone only a short way when he stopped paddling and coasted. A glance back confirmed he could still see the lights of the settlement.

Fargo wasn’t about to venture much farther. Even with his keen sense of direction he could easily become lost. Landmarks were hard to recognize at night, even more so in a swamp where everything was mired in murk and the dark tangle of waterways was a maze.

Again Fargo cupped a hand to his mouth and hollered. Again there was no answer.

“Damn it.”

Fargo let the pirogue drift. He was about to call out once more when he heard a shrill cry. Not the squeal of the razorback, but the thin bleat of something much smaller. He heard it a second time, off to his left, and used the paddle. It was an animal in distress. That there weren’t any snarls or growls suggested a predator wasn’t to blame. But you never knew.

Another cry, much closer, prompted Fargo to pick up his Henry. He was drifting toward a mound covered mostly with grass. He couldn’t make out much about it other than that there appeared to be something on top of the mound, something alive, something that was frantically jumping up and down.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t any bigger than a cat.

The pirogue bumped to a stop. Fargo expected the animal to bolt but it stopped jumping and stared down at him, its eyes dim gleams in the starlight. Climbing out, he moved toward it. Instantly, the animal erupted in a frenzy of hopping and bleats of terror.

Fargo bent and saw what it was. But what he was seeing made no sense.

Someone had caught a rabbit and tied it to a stake. Held fast by a rawhide cord around its neck, the rabbit shrieked and tried desperately to bound off.

Fargo stepped back, thinking that would quiet it, but the rabbit only screeched louder. The only purpose he could come up with for staking it there was as bait. But bait for what? he wondered. For a fox? A cougar? An alligator, maybe? And where was the hunter who had staked the rabbit out?

Then, from the benighted swamp beyond, floated a very human laugh. Not loud, or long, but enough that Fargo could tell that the person laughing wasn’t quite sane.

The Mad Indian.

It had to be. But that meant the lunatic had staked out the rabbit. Fargo sought some sign of the madman and happened to glance toward the settlement. The lights were plainly visible. Much more so than when he had been among the cypress.

An awful idea came over him.

Fargo tried to remember everything he knew about wild hogs, and razorbacks in particular. Their diet consisted of just about anything and everything. They were partial to acorns and roots and tubers. They liked berries and fruit and sometimes ate grass. They also liked meat. Razorbacks, in fact, were known to devour all kinds of living things: frogs, snakes, birds, even fawns. He’d heard tell that the succulent flesh of young rabbits was a favorite. Razorbacks had been known to root out rabbit warrens just to get at the young ones.

Fargo looked at the rabbit. It appeared young to him.

And then from the dark came a grunt and a squeal. There was no time to lose. Fargo yanked on the stake but it refused to budge. It had been pounded in too deep. He put down the Henry, gripped it with both hands, and tried again.

The rabbit was in a panic. It flopped wildly about and screamed—if its cries could be called that. But whatever they were called, they served their purpose.

A thousand pounds of sinew and gristle was bearing down on that mound. The razorback was coming to feed.

“Damn,” Fargo hissed, and tugged harder. He could try to dig the stake out but that would take too long. Then it hit him. “What the hell am I doing?” Quickly, he slid his hand into his boot and drew the Arkansas toothpick. A single slash was all it took to sever the cord.

In a twinkling the rabbit was gone. It flew down the mound and leaped into the water and swam with amazing speed—straight into a living mountain. Jaw snapped and bone crunched and the rabbit shrieked one last time.

Whirling and snatching up the Henry, Fargo sprang for the pirogue. He bumped his shin climbing in. Grabbing the paddle, he pushed off and started to turn the pirogue toward Gros Ville. A squeal and loud splashing from the other side of the mound warned him he was out of time.

Fargo stroked toward a cypress choked with a spidery veil of moss that hung clear down to the water. He barely got behind it in time. Parting the moss, he saw the huge mass of the boar appear atop the mound.

The razorback raised its snout to the sky. It sniffed loudly, then grunted and moved in small circles. The stake drew its interest. The boar tore at it with its tusks.

Fargo held his breath, not daring to move. If the boar caught his scent it would be on him before he could get out of there.

The razorback stopped rooting. It gazed about and stared directly at the moss screening Fargo. Could the thing see him? It was his understanding that hogs and pigs couldn’t see any better than humans but he could be wrong.

With a loud grunt, the razorback came down the near side of the mound to the water. Not twenty feet separated the beast from Fargo’s hiding place. He waited, every nerve raw.

Tilting its huge head, the boar sniffed some more. It seemed about to plunge in and come toward him when it suddenly turned.

It had seen the lights.

Surely not, Fargo thought. Surely it would realize what Gros Ville was. But if so, either it didn’t care—or in its perpetual fury it was so bloodthirsty that all it could think of was killing. Snorting, it barreled into the water, heading for the settlement.

Fargo had to warn them. He brought the pirogue into the open. Already the razorback was almost out of sight. Swiftly, he traded the paddle for the Henry, jammed the stock to his shoulder, and banged off three shots. He had no hope of killing it but that wasn’t his intention. He was trying to turn it, to make it come after him instead of attacking Gros Ville.

The razorback didn’t stop.

Fargo put down the rifle and paddled with all his might. He flew as fast as one man could but it wasn’t anywhere near fast enough. He hoped against hope that something would divert it, or that the smells and the sounds would cause it to retreat into the swamp. Most razorbacks would. But this one wasn’t like most. This one was a berserk killer, as mad as the Mad Indian. It wasn’t going to stop.

The Cajuns would be talking about this night for years to come.

Fargo still was hundreds of yards out when the first scream pierced the night. A scream followed by the boar’s shrill squeals. And then more screams, and shots, and the crash of a wall. A ruckus this side of bedlam. He saw figures running wildly about, saw muzzle flashes and heard men swear.

His shoulder throbbed and his arms ached but Fargo threw himself into stroking with renewed vigor. Flames lent incentive. A lamp or a lantern had been knocked over and one of the buildings was on fire. As dry as everything was, the fire would spread swiftly.

Fargo thought of Halette and Liana and Clovis, and swore. He was a stone’s throw from the shore when a small girl broke from between two buildings, screaming hysterically. For a few dreadful moments he thought it was Halette, but no, it was some other girl, and hard after her thundered the razorback. He grabbed the Henry.

A man appeared, standing straight and tall between the charging boar and the girl. Flickering light from the spreading fire revealed who it was.

“No!” Fargo yelled. “Get out of there!”

If Hetsutu heard, he gave no indication. Instead he raised his rifle and fired.

The razorback squealed but didn’t veer aside. Hetsutu fired again, and yet a third time, taking precise aim. But if his shots scored they had no effect.

“Run!”

Hetsutu tried to spring aside. He coiled his legs and leaped but he wasn’t more than a foot off the ground when the razorback rammed into him. Fargo expected to see him go flying, but no, one of the boar’s tusks hooked deep. The razorback stopped and tossed its head from side to side, squealing all the while.

There was nothing Fargo could do. He took a bead but he didn’t have a clear shot. He had to watch in helpless horror as the boar ripped and mangled Hetsutu.

Hetsutu never cried out. Limbs flapping, his body slid free and dropped.

Fargo heard the thud as clear as anything.

The girl had reached the canoes and the pirogues and had the presence of mind to climb into a canoe and flatten.

Snorting and sniffing, the razorback came after her.

Fargo sighted on its head. He was on the verge of firing when somewhere a woman screamed and the razorback wheeled and raced in her direction.

The pirogue crunched onto solid ground. Fargo dashed to the canoe to find the little girl quaking and sniffling, the whites of her eyes showing.

“Stay put. You’re as safe here as anywhere. I’ll come back for you.”

The girl said something in French.

“What?”

“The beast, monsieur! It killed my mother! It came through our wall as if the wall were made of paper!”

Fargo ran after it. He had no plan other than to try and keep it from killing anyone else. Suddenly he stopped.

Hetsutu’s ruptured body lay practically at his feet. Most of Hetsutu’s organs were no longer in the body. From the abdominal cavity oozed the intestines, like so many coils of a snake. Several ribs had been shattered and one poked through the flesh.

Fargo poured on speed. He came to the street, and to chaos run rampant.

Several buildings were aflame. People were running every which way, shouting and bawling and bellowing. Bodies lay sprawled in violent death. Two of the shacks had been flattened and from under the broken roof of one of them came the shrill sobs of a woman.

“Help me! Please help me!”

From under the other shack protruded a bloody arm.

A Cajun ran up, a man Fargo had never seen before, and clutched at his shirt. “Have you seen him?”

“Who?”

“My son. He is only six. He ran off and I can’t find him.”

Fargo shook his head and the distraught man ran off. That reminded him. He ran to the tavern. It appeared to be intact and wasn’t on fire. But the front door hung wide open.

Dashing in, Fargo cast about for Liana and the children. He called their names. Fear filled him when he got no answer.

Fargo ran back out. They had to be there somewhere. He took a few strides and was brought up short when a breathless Remy Cuvier materialized out of the smoke and the mayhem.

Remy was armed with a rifle and pistols. His eyes were bloodshot and he reeked of alcohol.

“Here you are! I have been looking for you and Namo and the Breed. Have you seen them?”

“Hetsutu is dead.”

Remy took a step back. “Non! Say it isn’t so.”

“I saw it with my own eyes.”

“He was my best friend. My right arm.”

“Namo is off in the swamp—”

“What’s that? The fool!”

“His kids are with the woman who owns the tavern—”

“Liana. Yes, I know her.”

“Help me find them.” Fargo made off up the street. Whether Remy did or didn’t tag along, he must make sure they were safe.

Flames engulfed a building on the right. A number of men were trying to put out the fire but the few buckets they had weren’t enough. A body lay so close to a burning wall that no one could risk pulling it away.

The body was Doucet’s. A tusk had ripped his jaw and part of his face off.

Fargo shouted Liana’s name. He shouted Halette’s. “Damn it. Where are they?”

“They could be anywhere.”

A cloud of smoke wafted over them. Fargo got it into his eyes and into his lungs. Coughing, he turned to one side.

“The beast! Look!”

The razorback was attacking another shack. In a mindless rage, it slammed into a plank wall again and again.

“Here is our chance to kill it!”

The boar chose that moment to turn—and saw them. Squealing fiercely, it charged.

“Oh hell!” Remy said.