“It is strange we haven’t seen any sign of them.”
“It’s a big swamp.”
“A huge swamp. But still, we should have run into them. Or seen their fires.”
“Needles in a snake-infested haystack.”
Namo commenced to pace. “Do you know what I think we should do?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “We’re not far from my cabin. I say we go there and rest a day or two. I will gather what news I can from my nearest neighbors, and we will plan and head out again.”
As tired as Fargo was, he would rather keep at it, and said so.
“To what end?” Namo argued. “The beast is wise to us. Or if it isn’t, the Mad Indian is.”
Fargo recalled the rabbit cries.
“The pit trick won’t work again. We must come up with something new. Something—what is the word?—foolproof.”
From out in the swamp pealed a series of squeals, faint but unmistakable, punctuated by an all too human cackle.
“Do you hear?” Namo said. “They can go on as they are for years if they’re not stopped. Think of the many innocents who will meet grisly ends.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Fargo reached into the pack and looked toward the pit. “Start covering that up.”
“Oh. Oui. We can’t let the wild things get at poor Remy.” Namo went about halfway, and stopped. “What is this?” he said, stooping. “Bring a brand, if you would.”
Blood speckled the ground. A lot of blood. The spots led toward where Remy had been standing when the boar rammed into him, and then off into the undergrowth.
“One of us hit it!” Namo exclaimed.
Fargo suspected it was his shot.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it proves fatal? Let the beast suffer as poor Remy suffered. Let it die a lingering death.”
As if to mock them, the night was shattered by shrieks.
Human shrieks.
18
The swamp at night was ten times as dangerous as during the day.
Ten times darker, too.
Fargo was in the bow, Namo in the stern. The cypress grove they were gliding through was thick with moss and silence. The living things had gone quiet, with one exception. It was the exception that brought them here, the exception that raised the hackles on their necks.
The shrieks had faded a long time ago. They thought that was the end of it, that whoever had been shrieking was dead.
Then the other cries started. Wails and screams and what sounded like blubbering. The cries went on and on until Fargo and Namo couldn’t take hearing them, until they had to come see who it was that was suffering the torment of the damned.
They had finished covering Remy, thrown the pack into the pirogue, and here they were. The cool night air added to the bumps that crawled up and down their skin.
Fargo had lost count of how many times he thought he saw something moving, only it turned out to be moss or a tree or nothing at all but his imagination.
“Why is it so quiet all of a sudden?” Namo Heuse whispered. “Do you think the man is dead?”
“I don’t know.” Fargo’s instincts warned him the razorback must be near.
Suddenly new cries reached them.
“Listen!” Namo exclaimed. “It curdles my blood.”
The cries would curdle anyone’s. The man was wailing and blubbering and mouthing incoherent words. He couldn’t be far, maybe a hundred yards ahead.
Fargo slowed and whispered for Namo to do the same.
There was a splash to their right. A single splash, and whatever made it was gone.
Gradually a spit of land took vague shape. Off in the vegetation a finger of orange appeared.
“A fire!” Namo whispered.
“I have eyes.”
“You will think I am crazy but I think I know that voice. His name is Toussaint. He is from Gros Ville.”
“One of the men hunting the razorback?”
“Oui.”
They coasted the last twenty feet. A small cove spread open. Already grounded was another pirogue. They brought their pirogue to a stop next to it and quickly climbed out. Then, rifles at the ready, they moved forward.
Fargo was in the lead. He tried to avoid stepping on twigs or dry growth that crunched underfoot but in the pitch black it was hard to do. He mentally swore each time he made unwanted noise. The only consolation was that Namo made more.
The scent of smoke was strong. As they neared the fire it was mixed with the smell of something else—fresh blood.
Fargo had smelled blood too many times not to know what it was.
The growth was ungodly thick. Try as they might, they couldn’t spot the man who kept crying out.
A new sound reached them, and brought them to a stop.
A low, insane cackle.
“The Mad Indian!” Namo breathed.
Fargo bent and peered through the tangle but all he saw was the campfire.
“What can that fiend be doing?”
“We’ll soon find out.” Fargo went even more slowly. They had a chance here to put an end to the lunatic and he wouldn’t squander it.
“We can’t let him get away,” Namo gave voice to the same thought.
“Hush.”
They became two snails, creeping along. A clearing appeared. At the center, the fire. Nearby lay a body. The chest had been torn wide, exposing shattered ribs and internal organs. The razorback’s handiwork.
Another Cajun was spread eagle, staked out at the wrists and ankles, and as naked as the day he was born. He writhed and whimpered and blubbered, sounding almost as mad as the person bent over him.
The Mad Indian was holding a knife. Drops of blood dripped from the tip. Tittering, he grinned down at Toussaint and held out something the size of an olive that appeared to be dangling from the end of a string.
Fargo’s stomach churned. That olive was one of Toussaint’s eyes. The Mad Indian had dug it out with his knife.
“Whimper, whimper, white dog. Sing your song of pain.”
Toussaint whimpered.
“Now scream for me, white cur. Scream so the frogs can hear.” The Mad Indian slashed off a chunk of flesh.
Toussaint screamed.
“So happy you make me,” the Mad Indian said gleefully. “I hate your kind. Hate, hate, hate.”
Namo slid up next to Fargo. “We’ll fire at the same time. One of us is bound to hit him.”
Suddenly the Mad Indian glanced up, straight at them. He cocked his head, his eyes glittering like sparks.
“How can he have heard me?” Namo whispered.
Fargo raised the Sharps. Or tried to. The heavy growth that hemmed them made it next to impossible to bring it to his shoulder.
“What have we here?” the Mad Indian said, and laughed his demented laugh. “More rabbits, I fear.” Suddenly he spun and bounded for the far side of the clearing.
“No!” Namo yelled, and snapped off a shot.
Fargo got the Sharps up and took aim but the Mad Indian was weaving erratically. He curled his finger to the trigger just as the spindly figure vanished into the vegetation.
“Damn it.”
They forced their way to the clearing.
Namo paused next to the dead man to say sorrowfully, “I know this one, too. He has a wife and three small children. Or had, I should say. They will take the news hard.”
Fargo was trying to look at Toussaint and keep the contents of his stomach down. The things the Mad Indian had done would make an Apache envious. Hideous, despicable things no one could endure without breaking.