8
Four days they searched. Four days of stifling heat and awful humidity. Four days of bugs and more bugs. Four days of always being on the watch for snakes and gators. Four long, exhausting days, and at the end of the fourth day they had nothing to show for it.
“Not a sign anywhere,” Namo said angrily. “How can that be?”
Fargo admitted he was stumped. They were traveling north, the direction the creature went that night it paid them a near visit. It was also the direction the Mad Indian went. They stopped at every island, every hummock, every bump of land. They looked for tracks, scat, places where a large creature might have bedded down. They found nothing.
The only conclusion Fargo could come to, the only thing that made any sense, was that the so-called monster spent nearly all its time in the water. A lot of animals did—snakes, frogs, alligators—but they all came out on land. Only fish spent their entire time in water, and whatever the monster was, Fargo was sure of one thing—it damn sure wasn’t a fish.
Fargo began to understand why the Cajuns who hunted the thing never found it. The beast was either incredibly intelligent or incredibly wary, or both. Its senses were superior to human senses, and it knew the swamp better than they did.
Then there was the Mad Indian.
Fargo didn’t know what to make of him. That the Indian showed up after they heard the creature the other night suggested the Indian was following it. But why anyone, even a lunatic, would follow an animal that was going around attacking and killing people, was beyond him.
Namo had been excited the morning after they heard the thing. He was certain they would catch up to it before nightfall. But by the third day he was glum, and by the fourth morning he was scowling at the world and everything in it.
That evening they camped on a strip of land so deep in the swamp, it was doubtful any other white man ever set foot there. Clovis gathered wood and Namo kindled the fire. Fargo put coffee on.
The one bright spot was Halette. She talked, but only when spoken to. Not once, though, did Fargo see her smile. Most of the time she sat in the pirogue with her head bowed, a portrait of misery.
To complicate things, their provisions were running low. They could make do for another three or four days, provided they came across game to shoot.
All these factors combined led Fargo to remark, “We should head back to the settlement tomorrow.”
“To Gros Ville?” Namo looked about to argue the point. But he sighed and said, “Oui. I suppose it is best. We will rest a few days, buy more supplies, and head out again.”
“Without your kids.”
“What?” Clovis said.
“We have been all through that,” Namo reminded him. “You agreed they could come.”
“Look at your daughter. Your son is wore out, too. Find someone to leave them with or you can come out again by yourself.” Fargo tried to soften the sting by adding, “We can cover more area by ourselves, make better time.”
Clovis objected. “No, Papa. Don’t listen to him. I want to be with you. I loved Mama. I have that right.”
“You will do as I say,” Namo responded. “I don’t want to leave you but the scout has a point. You do slow us down, if only a little.”
From that moment on Clovis didn’t hide his resentment. Where he had been friendly, he was now cold.
Fargo didn’t care. He had been hired to do a job. The children were complications he could do without.
The next morning they headed back. That night they thought they heard, far off in the distance, the squeals and shrieks of the thing they hunted. But it didn’t come near them.
They were a day out from the settlement when they rounded a cluster of cypress and came on a large island. Half a dozen pirogues had been drawn up, and as many tents and lean-tos erected. Several campfires were going. Hunters or trappers, he thought, until Namo Heuse stiffened.
“We will try to slip by without them seeing us.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Listen to me. If they see us, let me do the talking. And if they want us to join them, keep your guns close and don’t turn your back on anyone.”
“Damn it, Namo. What’s going on?”
Suddenly they were spotted. Someone shouted and armed men hurried to the water’s edge. More were by the tents, along with three women. So they weren’t hunters or trappers, after all.
A broad-shouldered Cajun wearing blue pants and a red sash with a pair of pistols tucked under it waved and smiled and called out to them in French. Then his gaze settled on Fargo and he switched to English. “Namo? That is you, isn’t it? With your little ones? Come pay me a visit.”
“Oui,” Namo answered, and stroked for the island.
Fargo didn’t like the looks some of them gave him. It wasn’t outright hostility but it was close to it. “Who are they?”
Namo didn’t answer.
Their pirogue glided in close and waiting hands pulled it onto dry land. The man in the red sash helped Halette out, saying gallantly, “It is a pleasure to see you again, princess. And you too, young Clovis.”
Namo put his hands on their shoulders. “I didn’t expect to find you so near Gros Ville. The last I knew, you were camped well to the south of here.”
The broad-shouldered man shrugged. “I must move around a lot. As you know, there are some who would love to put a knife into my back.” He turned to Fargo. “But who have we here? A new friend, eh? Perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce me.”
“Skye Fargo,” Namo said, “permit me to introduce Remy Cuvier.”
For once Fargo’s poker face failed him. He shook, and was surprised by the other’s strength.
“Ah. You have heard of me, I see. I trust the stories have been flattering?” Remy laughed. So did some of his men.
A sallow Cajun with a pockmarked face said, “We don’t like outsiders. We don’t like them at all.”
“Now, now, Onfroi. He is with Namo and Namo is family and you will treat them as I do, yes?”
Onfroi nodded but he was not happy about it.
“Family?” Fargo said to Namo Heuse.
“I didn’t tell you? Remy is my wife’s cousin. Or was, I should say.”
“Oui. I have spent many a happy night at their cabin,” Remy declared, and patted Halette on the cheek. “When these little ones were infants, I bounced them on my knee. I love them dearly.”
Fargo said, “You’re not what I expected.”
“You imagined an ogre, perhaps?” Remy was a great one for laughing. “After all, I am the terror of the swamp, am I not?”
“To hear everyone talk,” Fargo replied.
“I am not a terror to my own kind, monsieur. I have never killed a fellow Cajun. Outsiders, yes. And there are some of my own kind who hold that against me.” Remy paused. “They don’t understand, as I do, that outsiders always bring trouble.”
Namo said quickly, “I sent for him, Remy, to help me kill the monster that killed Emmeline. He is a famous plainsman.”
“Who is far from his plain. But no matter. Emmeline is no longer with us but you are still family and under my protection. And those with you, as well.” Remy gave his men a meaningful glance and put his hands on his pistols. “If there is anyone who thinks it should be otherwise, now is the time to say so.”
No one did, although Onfroi shifted his weight from foot to foot and fingered the hilt of a stag-handled knife.
Remy escorted them to one of the fires and indicated logs they could sit on. He clapped his hands and demanded drink and food, and two women hustled over and filled tin cups with coffee for Fargo and Namo. Clovis and Halette were given tea.
As Fargo sipped he noticed that Remy’s men had casually spread out and formed a ring around them.
“So tell me what you have been up to?” Remy prompted.