“I have my dignity.” Namo groped and braced both hands and managed to get to his knees. “Be patient. It takes a lot out of me.”
“We don’t have all night. There’s a storm coming in.” Fargo grabbed the Sharps and Namo’s rifle and climbed onto the landing. “I’ll put these in your cabin and be right back.” It would free his hands to carry him.
“There is no hurry. I am doing this myself.”
Fargo shook his head and jogged up the path. The cabin was sturdily built, pride of craft evident in the fit of the logs and the caulking. He tried the latch and the door swung in on leather hinges. The room was nicely furnished, including a bearskin rug in front of a stone fireplace. Two doorways opened into bedrooms, one with bunk beds for the children and a larger room for the parents. Fargo set the rifles on a table and hastened back down.
Namo had managed to climb out of the pirogue and was on his side, breathing raggedly, his chest heaving. “I need to rest a bit.”
“We don’t have time for this.” Fargo slipped one arm under the Cajun’s legs and the other under his shoulders.
“I can do it, I tell you,” Namo weakly protested. “Put me down.”
Paying no heed, Fargo took him to the cabin. “I’ll put you in bed and make something for you to eat.”
“I’m not helpless. The rocking chair will do fine.”
The rocking chair it was.
Fargo found a blanket and covered him to the chin. “You’re trembling. If you have the chills I can get a fire going.”
“I’m hot and cold both. What kind of poison did he use, do you think? Snake venom?”
“We would have to ask him and he’d never tell.”
“I have heard that one tribe rubs the tips of their arrows over a certain kind of toad.” Namo coughed, then said, “That food you mentioned sounds nice. I am famished.”
The cupboard was full. In a pantry were dried venison and carrots and potatoes. Fargo decided to make soup. He kindled a fire in the fireplace, then took a bucket from the counter and headed down to the bayou for water.
Dark clouds now covered most of the sky and to the west bright flashes were punctuated by distant rumbles.
Fargo filled the bucket and started back up. He heard a splash but concentric ripples suggested a fish was to blame.
Namo had passed out again.
Fargo poured water into a black cook pot and hung the cook pot in the fireplace. He chopped carrots and potatoes and sliced the venison and dropped them in.
The rest of the water went into a coffeepot. Fargo needed that more than food. He was exhausted.
Outside, the wind keened. A branch thwacked the roof. Thunder rumbled ever louder.
Namo tossed and turned in the chair, frequently mumbling in fever-induced delirium.
Pattering drew Fargo over to the window. The Heusees had gone to the expense of installing a glass pane. He moved the curtain aside and peered out. Heavy drops were falling. Down at the landing the pirogue bobbed up and down in the wind-driven swell.
There was no sign of the Mad Indian.
Fargo reckoned it would be a while yet.
Then a lightning bolt seared the heavens and the bolt’s flash bathed the cabin and the willows, revealing a scarecrow figure a stone’s throw from the window.
Revealed him so clearly, Fargo could see the scarecrow’s mad grin.
20
Fargo drew his Colt and started to turn toward the door, but just like that the Mad Indian was gone, melted into the willows like the ghost some thought him to be.
Lowering the curtains, Fargo went to the door anyway. Instead of going out, he lifted a heavy bar propped against the wall and slid it into the two slots on the back of the door, then gave the bar a shake. It would take a battering ram to get through—or a razorback as big as a buffalo.
Namo had slumped in his chair and the blanket had fallen off. Fargo pressed a palm to the Cajun’s forehead and it was the same as before—burning hot. Since Namo was out to the world, he couldn’t object to Fargo carrying him to the bedroom and putting him on the big bed. There were no windows, only the thick walls. Fargo covered him and went out.
The storm had broken in all its elemental fury.
Cradling the Sharps, Fargo took up his position at the window. Large drops splashed the pane in a liquid deluge. The wind howled, bending the trees as if they were so many blades of grass. The glimpse he had of the bayou showed it being frothed into a fury.
Would the razorback be out on a night like this? Fargo wondered. Or would it do as most animals did and seek cover?
The blaze of bolts and the crash of thunder were continuous. Fargo hadn’t seen a storm this violent since he left the mountains. Some of the lightning was so close, the thunder shook the cabin.
And somewhere in that tempest, plotting to kill them, was the Mad Indian.
Fargo was glad there was only the one window and door. He was also glad about the rain. For as long as it lasted, and until the logs dried, the Mad Indian couldn’t set the cabin on fire.
The chirp of the coffeepot brought Fargo to the fireplace. The coffee was ready, the stew was piping hot. He found bowls in the cupboard and a wooden ladle to fill them with, and spoons. He took one of the bowls to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Namo?”
Heuse didn’t stir.
“Namo?” Fargo was averse to waking him but the man needed nourishment. He shook Namo’s shoulder a few times. “Time to eat.”
Eyelids fluttering, Namo Heuse rolled onto his back and slowly sat up, his head and shoulders propped against the headboard. “How long was I out?”
“A while.”
More thunder shook the cabin to its foundation. Namo glanced sharply at the ceiling. “I seem to remember you saying something about a storm.”
Fargo dipped the spoon in the soup. “Open up.”
“I will feed myself, thank you very much.”
Fargo placed the bowl in Namo’s lap and gave him the spoon. “If you were any more pigheaded, you’d be a razorback.”
Namo dipped the spoon and raised it to his mouth, his teeth gritting with the effort.
“There’s plenty more where this came from so if you want seconds give me a holler.”
“I can’t tell you how good it is. I’m starved.”
“It will help with the fever.” Fargo stood. “If you’re sure that you can do it yourself—?”
“I am. Thank you.” Namo let him get as far as the doorway before asking, “Is something the matter?”
“No.”
“Is it the Mad Indian? Did he come after us?”
Fargo grimly nodded.
“I expected as much. We have been a thorn in his side. He wants us dead more than anyone. This is good.”
“You think so?”
“We can end this once and for all. As soon as I gather my strength, I will be out to help you.”
“You get out of that bed and I’ll throw you back in again,” Fargo promised. “Leave everything to me.” He made it a point to close the bedroom door behind him.
Fargo added a log to the fire. He filled a bowl with soup and went to the window. It didn’t look as if the storm would end any time soon. Fine by him. It bought them time to rest, to recuperate. The soup made him drowsy so he filled a cup with bubbling coffee. It wasn’t enough. He drank two more.
Fargo didn’t like being cooped up. He prowled the room like a caged panther. Once he thought he heard a thump against the side of the cabin. It wasn’t repeated, and he figured a tree limb was to blame.
Namo called out that he was done so Fargo went in. He offered to bring a second bowl but the Cajun declined.
“It might make me sick. I need sleep more than anything. As it is, I can’t hold my head up.”