Bayou Trackdown

19

Fargo stroked strongly, smoothly, and tried not to think of the man lying in the bottom of the pirogue. It was a race against time and time was winning.

The Atchafalaya during the day was so different from the Atchafalaya at night. They were two worlds. The patches of sunlight, the chirps and warbles of the day birds, the butterflies, made the swamp seem more hospitable. Not that Fargo relaxed his guard. Under that friendlier surface lurked the same menaces.

“How much longer?” Fargo asked. When Heuse didn’t answer, he asked louder. “How much longer, Namo?”

The Cajun rose on an elbow and gazed over the gunwale. He was sickly pale and slick with sweat. “Another hour, maybe less. Keep going as you are.”

“What’s the next landmark?”

“You will come to a bayou. Follow it south.”

Fargo grunted. They would make better time in a bayou. And he much preferred the more open water to the gloom and mire of the swamp. “Lie back down and rest. I’ll get us to your cabin. Don’t you worry.”

“I am past worrying. Now I think only of staying alive.”

They intended to rest at the cabin a short while and then push on to the settlement where there was a healer Namo knew. Not a doctor in the normal sense but a woman versed in herbs and medicinal lore. Namo believed she might be able to counter the effect of the Mad Indian’s poison.

Fargo hoped so. So far Namo was holding his own but bit by bit the toxin, whatever it was, was sapping Namo’s vitality. Fargo wondered if the Mad Indian picked a slow-acting poison on purpose so his victims suffered more. It sounded like something the lunatic would do.

Ever since setting out he’d had the feeling they were being followed but he never once saw anyone. It could be nerves. The swamp, the violence, the dying, had gotten to him.

Fargo never knew but when the razorback would hurtle out of the shadows. It preyed on him the worst of anything, making him jumpy, making him see things that weren’t there.

“I’m turning into a little girl,” Fargo said in disgust. It made him think of Halette.

“What was that, mon ami?”

“Nothing. I was talking to myself.”

“I’m sorry I am not better company.”

“You should sleep.”

“I pass out and wake up and pass out again. One minute my blood is on fire, the next it is ice. And my lungs aren’t working as they should. Sometimes I find it hard to breathe.”

Fargo clenched his jaw. Damn the Mad Indian to hell.

Namo chuckled, but it came out like dry seeds rattling in a gourd. “In a way I should be thankful.”

“For what?” Fargo asked. The man had lost his wife and friends and now was dying himself.

“That the poison works so slowly. The Mad Indian could have used one that kills instantly.”

“Not that vengeful bastard.”

Slowly sitting up so his back was propped against the side, Namo licked his bluish lips. “We can’t blame him, you know.”

“Sure we can. He shot the arrow. He put the poison on the tip.”

“No. Not that. I mean we can’t blame him for hating us. For hating all whites over the deaths of his people. He’s the last of his kind. That is bound to have affected his mind.”

Fargo thought of the Mandans, a once powerful tribe on the upper Missouri, nearly wiped out by smallpox. He thought of other tribes, decimated by white disease. It was never the other way around. Whites always introduced disease to the Indians. The Indians never introduced disease to the whites. Until the whites came along, many tribes had been largely disease-free.

“I hate him for killing my wife,” Namo was saying, “but not for this.” He touched his leg. “I understand why he hates so much. Were I in his moccasins, I would hate us too.”

“Hate doesn’t excuse it. And you’re forgetting the razorback.”

“Forget the beast that tore apart my Emmeline? Never.” Namo coughed, and covered his mouth with his hand. When he lowered it his fingers and palm were flecked with scarlet. “But you must admit it is brilliant of him, non?”

“You’re delirious. It’s the fever.”

“I’m not out of my mind yet,” Namo assured him. “And it is brilliant. When did you ever hear of anyone using a razorback to kill his enemies? If that is not brilliant, I don’t know what is.”

“If you’re not delirious you’re close to it.”

Namo smiled. “Very well. Have it your way. But we Cajuns do not think less of our enemies simply because they are our enemies. We can respect them when they deserve it.”

“The only thing the Mad Indian deserves is lead between the eyes.”

“You can be quite vicious. Do you know that?”

“That’s your word,” Fargo said. And since the talk seemed to be helping take Namo’s mind off his pain, he added, “Look. I’m not big on forgive and forget. I don’t turn the other cheek. Hit me and I’ll knock your damn teeth out. Try to stab me in the back and I’ll blow out your wick. If you want to call that vicious, go ahead. Me, I call it practical.”

“What about mercy, monsieur? Where does that enter in?”

“Depends on the time and the place and if the person deserves it.”

“You are judge, jury and hangman? Is that how it goes.”

“When I have to be.” Fargo glanced behind them. “On the frontier there’s not much law. Hell, in some places there isn’t any. Some parts of the Rockies haven’t even been explored yet. A man is on his own. He’s his own law.”

“I don’t know if I would like your mountains very much. I like the peace of the swamp.”

Fargo almost laughed. “If you call this peace I’d hate to see what you call trouble.”

Namo made that dry gourd sound. “I am used to the alligators and the cottonmouths. Just as you are to the big bears and the big cats where you come from.”

“I may see a bear or a mountain lion once a month,” Fargo said. “I’ve lost count of the alligators and snakes I’ve seen here.”

“Fleas are fleas, whether many or small.”

Now Fargo did laugh. The notion of calling a thousand-pound grizzly a flea struck his funny bone. “You’re a strange hombre, Cajun.”

“Thank you. I take that as a compliment. The truth is, we Cajuns think you outsiders are strange.”

“It never occurred to any of you that living in a gator- and snake-infested swamp is a mite peculiar?”

Now it was Namo who laughed but his laughter changed to hacking coughs and he doubled over. His whole body shook, and he groaned. When the fit subsided, he looked up, his mouth rimmed with red. “I’m afraid I am going to pass out again.” And he did.

Fargo swore and stopped paddling. He placed a hand to the Cajun’s forehead. It was on fire. He checked Namo’s pulse. It was terribly weak, barely a flutter.

Fargo bent to the paddle anew. Now and then he checked over his shoulder. Along about the ninth or tenth time he glanced back, far off in the gloomy cypress, well out of rifle range, he caught movement. He saw it for only a few seconds but that was enough.

It was a canoe.

The Mad Indian must have followed them all night.

Fargo was tempted to stop and lie in ambush but he had Namo to think of. Namo’s chances were slim as it was. Any delay in reaching the healer would seal his fate.

His shoulders were sore and his arms ached but Fargo ignored them. He glanced back often but didn’t spot the Indian a second time. The wily madman wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Presently Fargo came to the bayou. He turned to the south as Namo had instructed. A pair of cranes took wing. A bullfrog croaked and leaped from a log.

Here was Fargo’s chance to put more distance between him and his insane shadow. His body protested but he stroked with renewed purpose, the pirogue cleaving the surface like a knife. Namo hadn’t said how far the cabin was. Or, for that matter, whether it was right on the bayou or hidden somewhere.

The sun was low in the sky. Fargo hoped to reach the cabin before dark. He figured to rest a couple of hours and then push on. No more than that. Namo needed the healer too badly.

The breeze picked up. To the west a bank of low clouds formed.

Fargo frowned. This was all he needed. Rain, on top of everything else.

The bayou neared an island. Fargo was staring into the distance, seeking sign of the cabin. He almost missed the narrow wooden landing. A path led toward tall willows and the squat square bulk of a log cabin.

Fargo let out a whoop. He brought the pirogue in next to the landing and tied it to a cleat. Then, bending over Namo, he shook him and said his name a few times.

The Cajun was slow to stir. He blinked, and licked his lips. “Le peau me cuit. Avez-vous quelque chose de calmant?”

“I didn’t get any of that,” Fargo said.

“Eh? Oh. Pardon. What is it? What’s wrong?”

“We’re here.”

“Where?”

Fargo put a hand to Namo’s brow. It was hotter than ever. “At your cabin. I’m going to carry you inside.”

“Bêtise.”

“What?”

“Nonsense. I will walk.”

“In the shape you’re in?” Fargo reached for him but the Cajun shrugged him off and slowly sat up. “Don’t be so stubborn.”

“I have my dignity.” Namo groped and braced both hands and managed to get to his knees. “Be patient. It takes a lot out of me.”

“We don’t have all night. There’s a storm coming in.” Fargo grabbed the Sharps and Namo’s rifle and climbed onto the landing. “I’ll put these in your cabin and be right back.” It would free his hands to carry him.

“There is no hurry. I am doing this myself.”

Fargo shook his head and jogged up the path. The cabin was sturdily built, pride of craft evident in the fit of the logs and the caulking. He tried the latch and the door swung in on leather hinges. The room was nicely furnished, including a bearskin rug in front of a stone fireplace. Two doorways opened into bedrooms, one with bunk beds for the children and a larger room for the parents. Fargo set the rifles on a table and hastened back down.

Namo had managed to climb out of the pirogue and was on his side, breathing raggedly, his chest heaving. “I need to rest a bit.”

“We don’t have time for this.” Fargo slipped one arm under the Cajun’s legs and the other under his shoulders.

“I can do it, I tell you,” Namo weakly protested. “Put me down.”

Paying no heed, Fargo took him to the cabin. “I’ll put you in bed and make something for you to eat.”

“I’m not helpless. The rocking chair will do fine.”

The rocking chair it was.

Fargo found a blanket and covered him to the chin. “You’re trembling. If you have the chills I can get a fire going.”

“I’m hot and cold both. What kind of poison did he use, do you think? Snake venom?”

“We would have to ask him and he’d never tell.”

“I have heard that one tribe rubs the tips of their arrows over a certain kind of toad.” Namo coughed, then said, “That food you mentioned sounds nice. I am famished.”

The cupboard was full. In a pantry were dried venison and carrots and potatoes. Fargo decided to make soup. He kindled a fire in the fireplace, then took a bucket from the counter and headed down to the bayou for water.

Dark clouds now covered most of the sky and to the west bright flashes were punctuated by distant 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.