Toussaint’s good eye was open and had a wild light in it that wasn’t much different from the wild light in the eyes of the Mad Indian.
“Dear God, no,” Namo said.
Fargo drew his Colt.
“Wait!” Namo squatted and put a hand on the other’s chest. “Toussaint, can you hear me? It is I, Namo.”
The man blubbered.
“Your name is Henri Toussaint. Remember? Think of who you are and where you are.”
Toussaint let out a loud sob.
“Is there anything you want me to tell your woman and your children? Any last words?”
Again Toussaint sobbed, only softer.
“Can you hear me? Both your ears are gone but you should still be able to hear. Talk to me, Henri. Say something.”
Incredibly, the ruin did. “Namo?”
“Oui. The Mad Indian has run off. But I swear to you by all that is holy, he will pay for his deeds.”
Toussaint’s throat, what was left of it, bobbed. “The boar . . . it came at us so fast . . . no warning. It got Philippe. Ripped him open.”
“I know. I will bury him.”
“It . . . rushed me . . . knocked me out. When I woke . . . my clothes were gone . . . I was staked . . . the Mad Indian . . .”
“Enough about him. What do I say to your wife? What do I say to your children?”
Toussaint took a deep breath. “What else? Tell them I love them. Tell them I am sorry.”
“For what?”
Fargo said, “What about the other men from Gros Ville? Where did they get to?”
“Who was that?”
“It is the outsider, the scout I sent for,” Namo explained. “And my friend,” he added.
Again the stricken man had to take a deep breath before he could say, “We separated . . . maybe razorback got them, too.”
“You should have stayed together. There is strength in numbers.”
“We thought . . . cover more area.” Toussaint stopped and went to lick his lips only there were no lips to lick. “Oh, God. What has that lunatic done to me? I am not long for this world.”
“I can put you out of your misery if you want,” Fargo offered.
“Non. Merci. But it will . . . not be long. Life is precious. So very precious. We do not . . . do not appre . . .”
“Don’t talk so much,” Namo said. “Conserve your strength. Would you like some water? I will gladly give you some. Henri? Can you hear me?” He bent low, his ear over the other’s travesty of a mouth. “He’s not breathing.”
Fargo sighed. One by one they were being wiped out. Although the Cajuns liked to call the swamp their home, it was the razorback, and the Mad Indian, who were most at home here. Pit civilized men against a beast in the wild and the beast would win nearly every time.
Namo sat back, dejected. “Is there no end? How many more must die before we end this nightmare?”
“We should bury them so we can turn in,” Fargo said tiredly.
“Very well.” Namo rose and took a step toward the trees. “I’ll find something to dig with.”
They both heard the twang.
“Get down!” Fargo yelled, and dived.
Namo was too slow. The arrow caught him in the thigh and twisted him half-around. Gritting his teeth, he pitched flat and fired a wild shot into the undergrowth.
A crazed cackle told them he missed.
Fargo palmed his Colt. He expected more arrows but instead heard crackling and crashing. The Mad Indian was fleeing. Leaving the Sharps there, he pumped his legs. Namo shouted for him to stop. Limbs tore at his buckskins. A branch scratched his cheek.
A figure took shape, the Mad Indian bounding like one of the rabbits he used to lure the razorback. A pale face glanced back at him and another cackle tickled the air.
Fargo snapped off a shot, knowing he had missed even as he squeezed the trigger. He was too eager.
A low limb caught him, sending ripples of pain across his shoulders. He kept running. He began to gain.
The Mad Indian looked back again and this time he didn’t laugh. He redoubled his effort.
Fargo yearned for a clear shot. Just one. He thought he had it and snapped the Colt up but more growth got in the way. He ran. He ran and he ran. And he tripped. An exposed root caught him about the ankle and the next thing he knew he was flat on his face.
The lunatic tittered.
“Not this time,” Fargo vowed. He heaved erect.
The Mad Indian was nowhere to be seen.
Splashing suggested why. Fargo vaulted a log and burst through high grass and had to dig in his heels to keep from barreling into the water.
The canoe was a blot in the dark, the Indian paddling furiously. “Mad, mad, mad, mad, mad!”
Fargo extended his arm and did something he had rarely ever done—he shot a man in the back.
The Mad Indian stiffened, and howled. But he didn’t stop paddling and in another heartbeat the night enveloped him like a shroud.
“Son of a bitch.” Fargo was beginning to think that if it wasn’t for bad luck, he wouldn’t have any luck at all. He lingered, hoping the Mad Indian would reappear, but then he thought of Namo and hastened in disgust back to the clearing.
Namo was by the fire, trying in vain to get the arrow out. Beads of sweat speckled his face as he grunted and said, “I’m glad you’re back. I can’t do this myself.”
Fargo knelt. The shaft had gone all the way through and the barbed tip was protruding from the back of the thigh.
“I heard a shot. Did you get him?”
“I hit him but he got away.”
“Remy was right. God is on the Indian’s side.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“Where did he get the bow? I didn’t see a bow when he was bent over Toussaint. Did you see a bow?”
“He must have had it in the trees.” Fargo examined the barbed tip. It was made from bone and slick with wet blood. He moved so the firelight played over it, and frowned.
“What is the matter?”
“How do you feel?”
“How do you think I feel?” Namo snapped, then closed his eyes and said, “Sorry. I am weak from the blood I have lost. And cold. Very cold. It came over me suddenly.” He shuddered, and bit his lower lip. “Why do you ask?”
“There’s something else on the tip of this arrow besides blood.”
“What?”
“Poison.”
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.