Swamp Sister

20

Everything was coming to a head; time was running out.

The waterway was turning to morass and maiden cane; a pin-down thicket swung away from him along the north, and he wasn't having any more of that. And he still couldn't turn south – there was more than just the Money Plane to worry about now in that direction; there was also Margy.

He ran the skiff into the crackling tules until it butted heads with a breather and then, hunting knife in hand, he got out. The peaty earth sank under his feet, trembling, and ale brown water sped around his boot soles.

He started slogging toward a distant rising jungle, using the breathers and log litter to pave his way where he could. But the going was mean. He slipped and lurched and sloshed ahead and sank once -panic crawling down his back – in a sinkhole to his waist, and went on again, hacking at the cane and cotton grass with the knife.

A short-winged fool of a cooter bird came all duckfooted and lobate-toed along a half mud-submerged log and stopped short, beady eyes bright with curiosity Shad shooed it off, climbed onto the log and looked back. He couldn't see any sign of his pursuers, couldn't hear them either. He jumped down and hacked on.

The marsh dust was balling in the air, covering him with a fine powder, turning to mud where his pants were wet, and the mosquitoes were growing pesky, and that sun was straight up and God-awful hot, but he didn't care. The jungle was looming now. He made some last cuts and plunged through the cane.

It looked like a long runaway island; cypress, titi, pine and palmetto all crowding each other for growing space. He spotted a deer run and started along it, the jungle closing in like a narrow green hallway. Two hundred yards into the bush he found a scrawny cypress with roots clutching the edge of the trail. A thick ten-foot dead log was leaning against it like a drunk on a porch post.

Shad studied the situation for a moment, snapping his fingers. Then decided all right. He went to work with his knife, cut loose a long rope of creeper vine, climbed up the cypress and tied one end of the creeper to a branch of the dead log. Right then he heard a distant shout.

"Sam! Look a-here! It's his skiff. Old Shad's gone to earth!"

Jort.

Shad grimaced and readjusted the dead log against the living tree. The blame thing was as heavy as petrified wood. He balanced it where he wanted it – just resting on the edge – and gave it a tentative prod. The log wobbled precariously. Good enough. He skinned down the cypress trailing the creeper after him, looked around and selected a root close to the ground yet with a three-inch clearance, and threaded the vine through it and drew it out onto the trail.

The run wasn't but two feet wide, and fronds were hanging over and touching down every which way, and that would make it just that much harder for Sam to notice the trigger. He stretched the free end of the vine across the path, under the fronds, and tied it to another root drawing it just tight enough to ease off the slack.

Then he cut a frond and hurriedly swept away his tracks around the area. That Sam could get by on less giveaway than that. Finished, he started stepping off new tracks, going toward the widow-maker; stepped over the trigger and went on his way.

It was a crude sort of deadfall, he knew, because he hadn't had time to lay out the job properly But you just couldn't tell what you might catch when you cast your net – even if the net had holes.

Sam would be in the lead and he'd be coming with his nose to the trail like a vacuum cleaner, eyeing every blade of grass, every leaf and indentation in the ground, and maybe he'd blunder into the trigger before it could click in his brain just what it was. Yeah. That's the way he hoped it would work. With Sam out of the way he could lose Jort and Mr. Ferris. Lose 'em for good and all.

He didn't waste any time getting across the island. He was eager to see just what was waiting for him beyond. And when he did it was like a slap from the hand of God. Badlands.

First off it was a good-sized shallow prairie, studded with small hummocks; but swinging on around and beyond, and God only knew how far, was a thicket of pin-down, hurrah bushes and titi the likes of which he never dreamed could exist.

"The end of nowhere," he whispered in dull awe. "So blame far out the hoot owls nest with water turkeys."

It was a trap all right, and it was ironic when he called to mind the one he'd just set for Sam. You pure-out reap what you sow. He'd known for an hour just what it was he had to do, but he'd stalled it off right down to the fag end of the inevitable. But I got to have something to go at 'em with. You cain't match an eight-inch knife against carbines and shotguns and expect to come off sassy and without more holes in you than God intended. Then he remembered the bow and arrows.

It wasn't much but it was going to have to do. He trotted back into the jungle, reaching here, there, any-damn-where for a suitable sapling. He found one. It had spring but not too much, and he started hacking it free.

That goddam Sam must a picked up my markers; and that means I'm as good as dead, and so is Mr. Ferris and probably Margy too – less I git them first. But if I kill Sam and Jort, I got Mr. Ferris to kill too, and there's no way around it and escape a murder charge.

A shout rang high and urgent, splitting his thoughts like an axe blow.

"Look out thar!"

And he heard the dull crash of the widow-maker.

A moment later Jort's voice bellowed all over the swamp. "Fer the love of God, Sam! You just about to got me logmashed dead! You suppose to be keeping your goddam eyes open!"

And Sam's cry, all squeaky with after reaction, "Well, goddam-a-mighty! I done spotted hit, didn't I? You ain't deadfalled, is you?"

"No, but I'm just as well shoulder-brokt, is what I am!"

Shad couldn't hear the rest, and it didn't matter anyhow – he'd missed them, missed every damn one, and now they'd be on their guard.

He cut loose a stretch of grapevine and ran for the prairie. The panic was right with him now, hugging him like a wiry boy riding bareback the first time.

He went sloshing across the water, passing the smaller hummocks until he found one as long and fat as a fair-sized shanty and three-four foot high with thick green reed. He climbed up and in, lunging and worming and sprawling toward the center, hacking at the blame Moses reed. He went to work shaping his weapon, notching the bow nocks, skinning down the hunk of vine.

The world was a mean dog. Turn your back, step out of line, and it bit you good. The world didn't ask for you, didn't want you; and if your folks were stupid or careless enough to bring you into it, the world set out to do its best to get rid of you. If you were tough you might dodge disease, if you were lucky you might escape or live through accidents, but it made you pay for living.

And when you came into the world you had only one privilege and that was the right to howl. And even then if you howled too loud or too long someone or something would come along with a big stick and close your mouth. And it was like that even at the end. So you clench your teeth and you do your howling inside where only you can hear it.

If you have it, all right; you fight like a wildcat in a vice to hang onto hit. But if you ain't got it, and they ain't noway of gitting it, then you just as well go out in the swamp and drown yourself, or go put the lookout end of a 12-gauge in your mouth and tap off the trigger with your big toe.

And even if it was legal money they wouldn't let him keep it. They'd whack him with taxes. They'd clean him down to the change in his jeans and say thanks and look us up again if you ever get another fortune. So you learned to get in there and grab and hold what you got and keep your big damn mouth shut about it.

And now he was going to have to kill three men, or try to, and one of them would probably kill him. And in the vivid moment before it happened it would mean a great deal to him, but once it was over it wouldn't matter to anyone and the world would make another check mark on its slate and look around to see who it could mash next.

"God," he said. "God, God."

There was a crash of thicket somewhere nearby on the island, but when he looked around he found he was too deep in the tules to see anything. He could hear though.

"Well, I'll be double-damned! I never seen nothing like this here afore." Jort.

"Ner me neither." Sam.

"Must be the pure-out dead center of the hull shebang! Bet nobody ben here since way back when the devil weren't no more than knee high to a toad-frog."

And then the tone but not the words of Mr. Ferris speaking.

And Sam answering, "No sir. Ain't Shad ner nobody else fool enough to git him into that pin-down hell."

"Not draggin no gal with him, he ain't."

"Jort, I done tolt you he ain't got that little gal no more. The tracks cold show that."

"Mebbe so. But what I want to know is where's he at now?"

"I cain't have the answer to ever'thing, Jorty."

Shad started crawling from center out and worked into a mashed down place where some recent animal had made a nest. He could see through the tule-screen now, could see the three of them standing on the bank with the island behind them. He went back to work frantically He cut three thirty-inch reeds; they were slender and with a fair heft to them, not all air inside. He sharpened the three piles and then began notching the string nocks at the other ends. For feathers he used soft, pubescent cottonweed leaves, running them through the nocks where he'd split the ends.

Something splashed and he looked up. They were moving into the water, Jort and Sam fanning out, Jort carrying a shotgun, Sam with a carbine, and Mr. Ferris staying back near the island with no weapon at all as far as Shad could tell.

"He's in one of these here tussocks, Jorty," Sam called.

"Well spread a little, cain't you? Stop riding my tail. He ain't armed you know, Sam, er he'd've bush-whacked us sooner."

"Well – yeah -"

There wasn't time to make more arrows. Shad humped over on his knees, pushed two of the arrows point first into the peat where they'd be handy, and set the third in the bow. He nocked it and tested the pull. Not much – maybe twenty pounds of pressure at best. But it would have to do. He looked out again.

Sam and Jort had passed the first two hummocks, coming his way slowly. Sam edged in toward center and there was about ten feet of water between them. They were panning their eyes over everything, tense and expectant, ready to spring in a split second, anywhere.

Shad bit his lip, hunched down further. If I tould just git'em bunched up. I know I'd git me a hit then. If I kin just git Jort first off. Sam I kin handle. If that gator-grabbing devil will just keep on a-coming along the inside. Please God, let the devil come on the inside.

They cleared the third hummock, coming on, the dull black water gurgling around their knees, leaving just a wisp of a wake behind. Jort was still holding the inside and Sam was leading.

They were dead ahead now, coming right at his hummock. Shad looked and caught his breath. Jort had slowed, studying the tussock.

Is he going to go around the other end? If they flank me I'm through afore I start. No – wait – he ain't neithet That lard-butted lazy mother, he's fixing to keep on the same way. If it had ben Sam, he'd've flanked me. Come on, Jort damn you! You letting Sam git ahead.

He let his breath go and took in a fresh one. Sam was thirty-some feet abreast of him now, his head turned from Shad's position eyeing a smaller hummock on his right; and Jort was coming again, catching up. Shad swung the bow around and started the pull – but stalled. He hunkered, slacking the drawstring.

Cain't take him front on. He'll blow me to Sunday pie with that 12-gauge. All right. It's the back then. All right – I ain't fussy.

He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to Jort sloshing closet His hands were trembling and his stomach was going out – Quit stalling. You've got it to do. Oh God, God. I don't want to die. And then he opened his eyes and looked and saw Jort wading by flicker-bodied, through the reeds, and he wasn't twenty feet away

Do it, you gutless fool!

He swung the bow, pulling back, came straight up on his knees and ran his eye along the arrow, his right hand drawing to his cheek.

"Look out!" Ferris, shouting.

Shad let it fly The arrow went ss-wit! as Jort spun half-about in the water and it missed him by a foot and landed thh-ok! into Sam, catching him high in the left arm and just under the shoulder. Sam let out a sound that burst from unstrung nerves, staggered lopsided in the water, dropping his carbine, rearing his head away from his own shoulder as though expecting to see a cottonmouth sitting there, and then he screamed. And he went off like that, falling, lunging up, crashing through the water, still rearing away from the thing that was pinning his arm to his side. And the last Shad saw of him, he was heading for the pin down thicket.

Shad ducked and sent himself sprawling as Jort swung up his shotgun and went CA-BALOWM! at the hummock. The little balls of shot came burning into the reed like someone pegging a handful of gravel, and Shad felt his right leg take a piece or two.

He pushed away from the soggy earth, grabbing for another arrow, hearing Jort splashing up fast. Somehow, all thumbs it seemed, he got the arrow nocked and, kneeling on one knee, brought the bow around and pulled the arrow back to his cheek – the whole damn thing quivering so he knew he couldn't hit a barn if he was pegging arrows twenty at a crack. And then there was Jort showing, rising in sections – cap, head, chest, belt, the Moses reed parting, and he saw Shad and let out a sound that was heavy and fast and sounded like Uh-huh! only longer, and he started swinging the 12-gauge up, and right then Shad cut loose.

The arrow leaped at Jort, hit him so hard in the chest it whocked like a shot and pushed him back a step, fast. Then he took another as though trying to find his balance, and the 12-gauge balowmed off again, but in the air, and he dropped the gun, looked at that damn thing sticking straight out of him, started to take hold of it but hesitated, and all the time his knees buckling out further and him sinking down to the ground; and still he couldn't bring himself to take it in his hands.

"God," Shad said. "_How it must hurt_."

"By – by God – Shad -"

And then Jort went straight over, his hands flying out as if to stop the earth rushing up at him, at the butt of the arrow; but they might have been made of liquid because they acted that way when the earth struck them and the arms too. Everything folded and his body hit the ground, driving that damned stick right up through his chest, and he made a sharp Uluuah! sound, his head tilting into the muck, his torso raised slightly where twelve inches of that arrow was propping him, and Shad could see where the pile had poked through because it made a little tent in the back of his shirt but hadn't torn the material.

Shad dropped the bow and sank limply on his haunches. He stared at Jort Camp and then rubbed at his mouth with his wrist. His lips, tongue, throat, all were parch dry from breathing through his mouth so long. He didn't know when he'd last used his nostrils. Must have been two hours ago. He had to have water. Didn't matter what kind. Water, and right now. Didn't matter either about Mr. Ferris. To hell with Mr. Ferris. Water.

He crawled off through the reed, down to the edge of the hummock to the brackish water and went at it like an animal would. He drank it in great greedy sucking mouthfuls, and then sat back and held some in his mouth, letting it saturate, breathing hard through his nose. But it wouldn't work and he swallowed it and then panted through his mouth for a while, and then had another mouthful and sat there again holding it and looking back at the mashed reeds where Jort was.

He got up and tramped wearily back to Jort's corpse, went through the pockets looking for shotgun shells. All he found was a crumpled ten-dollar bill. Sam must have been carrying the shells. He stared at the bill and his eyes flickered as a wisp of distant suspicion passed them. Then he shrugged and returned to the water to wash his peppered leg.

Something was splashing toward him, but in no great hurry. He looked around and saw Mr. Ferris coming. The insurance man paused near the fringe of the hummock, looking at Jort Camp, then he came on with a slight shake of his head.

"This is a bad business, Shad."

Shad nodded soberly, thinking about killing Mr. Ferris but not making a chore of it. He'd never killed anyone before, never had to or wanted to; and here he'd killed Jort Camp and half-killed Sam. And now there was still Mr. Ferris to worry about.

Mr. Ferris brought out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Shad. They lighted up, and for a while neither of them spoke.

"Where is your girl friend?" Mr. Ferris asked finally. "What is her name – Margy?"

"I got her hid away."

"What about her sister?"

Shad looked up. "I don't know, Mr. Ferris. I ain't seen her in near a week." Then, remembering, he asked, "You happen to give Jort a ten-dollar bill fer anything?"

"No. Why? Anything to do with the girl?"

"Dunno." Shad felt numb, indifferent. He said, "You was in mighty bad company, Mr. Ferris. If you'd a found that Money Plane, Jort would've showed you the business end of that 12-gauge."

Mr. Ferris smiled. "Yes, I'd more or less counted on that."

"Well, wasn't it taking a hell of a chance?"

"Part of my work – taking chances."

God, he's got more guts than all the rest of us.

"In fact," Mr. Ferris was going on, "I believe that what happened here today constitutes saving my life – indirectly, of course. This killing is in the nature of self-defense, undoubtedly. And I'll certainly testify to that fact at a coroner's inquest."

"You mean you'll act as my witness?"

"Naturally You did me a good turn, and now it's in my power to repay you."

"If I show you where that Money Plane is."

Mr. Ferris smiled. "That's why I'm here, Shad."

Ain't he a something? He don't seem to do much, just stands around and waits, and when the hull shebang's blown sky high he starts picking up the pieces.

"My original offer still holds," Mr. Ferris said. "Eight thousand dollars to the man who helps me recover that payroll. That's quite a bit of money Shad – for a young man and his girl to start on."

Eight-thousand dollars. _Eighty-thousand dollars if I kill him_. But how can you kill an unarmed man who just stands there with his hand in his pocket, smiling at you, smoking, and talking kindly?

He stood up and tested his game leg.

"Does that hurt you?" Mr. Ferris asked solicitously.

"No. I'm used to hit." Then he grinned. "I still got some in my seater from when I was sixteen and old man Duffy caught me in the barn with his daughter."

Mr. Ferris smiled. "Chased you over the fence, eh? Like the proverbial shotgun farmer and the boy with the stolen watermelon."

"_Helped me_ over the fence is nearer to hit."

And they both laughed; and then Mr. Ferris dropped his cigarette in the water.

"Well," he said, "which way do we go – back the way we came?"