Bayou Trackdown

2

Skye Fargo was a long way from the mountains and prairies he loved to roam. A big man, broad at the shoulder and slim at the hips, he sat a saddle as if born to it. He wore buckskins and a hat that was white when he bought it but now was a dusty shade of brown, and a red bandana. On his hip was a Colt. In his boot in an ankle sheath nestled a twin-edged Arkansas toothpick.

Fargo was close to Arkansas now, or as close as he had been in many a month. He was in Louisiana, in the backwater bayou country, winding along what the locals called a road but anyone else would call a path. It was pockmarked with hoofprints and rutted by more than a few wagon wheels.

So far the directions in the letter had been easy to follow. But then, finding something the size of the Atchafalaya Swamp was easy for a man who had an unerring instinct for finding his way anywhere. The Trailsman, folks called him, not because he followed known trails but because he broke new ones.

Skye Fargo had been where no whites ever set foot. He had explored vast tracts of untamed country overrun with hostile men and savage beasts. That he was still breathing said a lot about his ability to handle himself.

The trail was leading Fargo ever deeper into the swamp. As he rode he studied the riot of plant growth. Many were plants seldom if ever seen west of the Mississippi. Take magnolia trees, which Louisiana had plenty of. Oak trees and cypress were also common, the latter especially so in the swamp, where Spanish moss hung from many a limb. Flowers grew in profusion—lilies, orchids, jasmine and azaleas.

Honeysuckle was abundant. Fargo liked the sweet taste. It reminded him of many idle hours spent as a boy plucking and sucking.

Where there was a rich variety of plant life, there was invariably a rich variety of animal life. Louisiana was rife with deer and bear. Wildcats thrived. Musk-rats plied the waterways. Raccoons and opossums and polecats were all over. Then there were the cougars, the alligators, and the snakes.

Fargo could do without the snakes. It was bad enough having to deal with rattlers. But here there were also cottonmouths and copperheads and a few coral snakes, or so he had been told.

Birds were as numerous as everything else. Warblers, robins, wrens. Sparrows, finches, woodpeckers. It went without saying that ducks and geese found all the water to their liking. As did brown pelicans.

Fargo breathed deep of the muggy, dank air. It didn’t suit him. Give him the rarified heights of the Rocky Mountains any day. There was practically no humidity that high up.

The Ovaro nickered.

Fargo had learned the hard way to trust the stallion’s senses, and he suspected that around the next bend he would see what he came so far to find. He was right.

The settlement of Gros Ville did not deserve the name. It consisted of scarcely twenty buildings. Half were shacks that looked fit to fall down at the next strong wind. One of the exceptions was a long log building. A sign in French read, MOUILLE LANGUE.

Fargo’s French was spotty. As he drew rein at the hitch rail he wondered out loud, “What the blazes does that mean?”

“It means,” said a sultry voice from the shadows under the overhang, “Wet Tongue.”

“I like the sound of that.” Fargo grinned, and sniffed. “Unless I miss my guess, it’s the town tavern.”

“Oui, monsieur,” confirmed the sultry voice. “Come in and wet yours, if you like.”

“Show yourself, why don’t you?”

Into the sunlight stepped a beauty. Thick, shimmering black hair cascaded in curls over her shoulders. Her twin melons nearly burst her tight blue dress at the seams. But it was the face that drew Fargo’s gaze. She had eyes as blue as his, with delicate arched eyebrows and an aquiline nose. Her lips were perfection: ripe and red, like cherries.

“Well, now,” Fargo said. “How about if you join me in that tongue wetting? I’ll wet yours and you can wet mine.”

The lovely vision had a soft, melodious laugh. “Are you always très bold, monsieur?”

“Only around pretty ladies,” Fargo said as he dismounted. Arching his back, he pressed a hand to his spine. “I’ve been in the saddle so long, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to stand.”

Again she laughed. “We do not see many of your kind here. You are a—what do they call it?—frontiersman?” She grinned impishly. “You fight the red Indians who lift hair, and you kill the big bears that eat people, yes?”

“I avoid the hair lifters when I can,” Fargo told her. “And I usually run from the big bears if they’re out to eat me.”

She liked to laugh, this woman. “You are a most funny man. I think I like you. Quel est votre nom?”

“How was that again?”

“What is your name, monsieur?”

Fargo told her.

“Enchant’. My name is Liana.” She held out her hand. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to grace my establishment.”

Pointing at the sign, Fargo said in mild surprise, “This tavern is yours?”

“Oui. My husband, Oliver, built it five years ago.” Liana’s features clouded. “When he died, I took it over.”

“He couldn’t have been that old.”

“He wasn’t. He was but one year older than I. It wasn’t old age that claimed him.” Sadness came over her.

“What then?”

Liana offered a hesitant smile. “I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind. Come. You must be thirsty on a hot day like this. And my liquor is the best for a hundred miles.”

“Not just your liquor,” Fargo said by way of a compliment while openly admiring her hourglass shape.

“I can see I am going to have trouble with you.”

“Not me,” Fargo said, taking her arm in his. “I’m as friendly a gent as ever lived.”

“Perhaps too friendly, non?” Liana teased. “And so handsome, yes? Many ladies must find you joli.”

“Enough drinks and I’ll laugh at anything.”

Liana blinked, then burst into hearty mirth. “Oh, monsieur. You are playing with me, yes?”

“Not yet. But maybe I’ll get lucky.” Fargo held the door for her and then followed her in. The interior was dark and musty and smelled of liquor and beer and cigar and pipe smoke.

“Êtes-vous mari’?”

“There you go again.” Fargo saw three men at a corner table and another at the bar. All were dressed pretty much the same, with white shirts, made of cotton, without collars, and pants that came down only as far as the knee, either red or indigo. They all wore caps and had knives at their waist. Their expressions were not what Fargo would call friendly.

Liana was saying, “Sorry. I will speak only English. I asked if you are married?”

Now it was Fargo’s turn to laugh.

“I take it that was no? That is good. That is very good. A man so handsome should not have a fence around him.” Liana went around the end of the bar. “Now what will it be?” She motioned at a long shelf lined with every kind of hard spirit. “As you can see, I am well stocked.”

Fargo fixed his gaze on her bosom. “You sure are.”

Liana colored from her chin to her hairline. Leaning on her elbows, she said throatily, “I like you more and more, joli one. Will you ride on soon or can I persuade you to stay a while, perhaps?”

“I’m meeting a man,” Fargo revealed. “But I’m a day early so I’ll be here at least one night.”

“Très bien. That is good. That is very good. I close at eleven and will be free for a moonlight walk should you care for my company.”

“What if there’s no moon?”

Liana chuckled, and put her hand on his wrist. “I am so happy you have come along.”

Fargo heard chairs scrape and glanced at the mirror behind the bar. The three men at the table had risen and were coming toward him. The man in the center, a black-haired cuss with a scar on his chin, put his hand on the hilt of his knife. “Friends of yours?”

Liana looked, and flushed again, but this time with anger. “What do you want, Doucet? I am talking to this man.”

“I can see that, ma chère,” said the one with the scar with an accent typical of the swamp dwellers.

“I am not your dear, now or ever. You and your friends go back to your Boure’. I will not have you bother a customer.”

The man called Doucet stepped close to Fargo and fingered his knife. But he was staring at Liana. “Is that all he is, ma chère? You seem very friendly with him.”

“If I am it is none of your concern.”

“You can say that, after our time in the glade? Are you so cold, then, that it was nothing to you?”

“Go back to your card game.”

“First I am escorting your new friend outside,” Doucet said. “Pitre, Babin and I would like words with him.”

Fargo had been ignored long enough. He gave them no warning. Pivoting, he drove his right fist into the pit of Doucet’s gut, doubling the Cajun over. Still moving, he whipped around and streaked out his Colt as the other two went to jump him. The click of the hammer froze them in place. “I wouldn’t, were I you, gents.”

Doucet was on his knees, wheezing, his hands pressed to his stomach. “Bastard!” he spat.

“You brought it on yourself, lunkhead.” Fargo wagged his Colt at the other two. “Help him up and tote him to your table and don’t bother me again or the next time I won’t be so charitable.” He kept the Colt leveled until they were in their chairs, then twirled it into his holster. “Nice friends you have.”

Doucet glared pure hate.

“I have known them since I was a small girl. One night I was lonely, and I went for a walk with Doucet. Just the one time, but ever since, he thinks I am his.” Liana sighed. “Men. Kiss them and they act as if they own you.”

“Not me,” Fargo said with a grin. “I kiss and kiss and don’t care to own anyone.” Or be owned, he thought to himself.

“I am sorry for their behavior. Normally they would not have done that. But everyone is—how do you say?—on edge.”

“What has them so prickly?”

Liana went to answer but caught herself. “Wait. Wouldn’t you care for your drink first?”

“That’s what I like,” Fargo quipped. “A female who knows what’s important in life.” He pointed at a bottle of whiskey. “The Monongahela will do me.”

Procuring a glass, Liana filled it to the brim and slid it across. “The first one is on me.”

“You’re a daisy,” Fargo said.

Liana put her elbows on the bar and her chin in her hands. “As for the other, there is not just one cause. There are several. Some people say the Atchafalaya Swamp is under a curse.”

Fargo took a sip and savored the burning sensation that spread down his throat to his belly. “I’m not much for witches and black cats.”

“If only that was all there is to it. But there is loose in the swamp much evil these days. There is the Mad Indian. There are Remy and his killers. And then there is the thing no one will talk about for fear they will be next.”

“Tell me more,” Fargo coaxed. “Start with that Indian you mentioned.”

“No one knows his name or even what tribe he is from. We call him the Mad Indian. He wanders the far reaches of the swamp, and whenever someone sees him, he laughs and screams threats. But then he always runs off.”

“Sounds loco to me,” Fargo agreed. “And this Remy?”

“Ah. He is not mad, that one. He has killed a few times. Only outsiders, you understand. He has surrounded himself with other outcasts, and they roam where they please, doing as they will.”

“You know for a fact he’s killed people?”

“I do.”

“Then why hasn’t the law done something?”

“What law, monsieur? We are Cajuns. We are left alone, and we like it that way.”

“You’re saying there’s no marshal or sheriff?”

“Oh, there is a sheriff, but he is far away, and we would never go to him anyway. We deal with our own problems.”

Fargo swallowed some whiskey. There was more to this situation than he had been told. “And what was that other thing you mentioned? About something no one will talk about?”

Liana glanced about the room. Bending toward him, she lowered her voice. “The people live in terror, monsieur. Men, women, children have all gone missing. It is said a creature stalks the swamps, a creature such as the swamp has never known.”

“I’m not much for tall tales, either.”

“This is no tale, handsome one. I swear by all that is holy that it is true. I knew some of those who vanished. They went into the swamp and never came back.”

“People get lost. There are snakes. There are gators. There’s quicksand. There’s Remy and that Mad Indian.”

“True. All true. But this is something else. One person actually saw the creature, and lived.”

“And what did they say it was?”

Liana hesitated. “You will think me crazy.”

“Try me.”

“A monster, monsieur. A living, breathing monster.”