“I can see that, ma chère,” said the one with the scar with an accent typical of the swamp dwellers.
“I am not your dear, now or ever. You and your friends go back to your Boure’. I will not have you bother a customer.”
The man called Doucet stepped close to Fargo and fingered his knife. But he was staring at Liana. “Is that all he is, ma chère? You seem very friendly with him.”
“If I am it is none of your concern.”
“You can say that, after our time in the glade? Are you so cold, then, that it was nothing to you?”
“Go back to your card game.”
“First I am escorting your new friend outside,” Doucet said. “Pitre, Babin and I would like words with him.”
Fargo had been ignored long enough. He gave them no warning. Pivoting, he drove his right fist into the pit of Doucet’s gut, doubling the Cajun over. Still moving, he whipped around and streaked out his Colt as the other two went to jump him. The click of the hammer froze them in place. “I wouldn’t, were I you, gents.”
Doucet was on his knees, wheezing, his hands pressed to his stomach. “Bastard!” he spat.
“You brought it on yourself, lunkhead.” Fargo wagged his Colt at the other two. “Help him up and tote him to your table and don’t bother me again or the next time I won’t be so charitable.” He kept the Colt leveled until they were in their chairs, then twirled it into his holster. “Nice friends you have.”
Doucet glared pure hate.
“I have known them since I was a small girl. One night I was lonely, and I went for a walk with Doucet. Just the one time, but ever since, he thinks I am his.” Liana sighed. “Men. Kiss them and they act as if they own you.”
“Not me,” Fargo said with a grin. “I kiss and kiss and don’t care to own anyone.” Or be owned, he thought to himself.
“I am sorry for their behavior. Normally they would not have done that. But everyone is—how do you say?—on edge.”
“What has them so prickly?”
Liana went to answer but caught herself. “Wait. Wouldn’t you care for your drink first?”
“That’s what I like,” Fargo quipped. “A female who knows what’s important in life.” He pointed at a bottle of whiskey. “The Monongahela will do me.”
Procuring a glass, Liana filled it to the brim and slid it across. “The first one is on me.”
“You’re a daisy,” Fargo said.
Liana put her elbows on the bar and her chin in her hands. “As for the other, there is not just one cause. There are several. Some people say the Atchafalaya Swamp is under a curse.”
Fargo took a sip and savored the burning sensation that spread down his throat to his belly. “I’m not much for witches and black cats.”
“If only that was all there is to it. But there is loose in the swamp much evil these days. There is the Mad Indian. There are Remy and his killers. And then there is the thing no one will talk about for fear they will be next.”
“Tell me more,” Fargo coaxed. “Start with that Indian you mentioned.”
“No one knows his name or even what tribe he is from. We call him the Mad Indian. He wanders the far reaches of the swamp, and whenever someone sees him, he laughs and screams threats. But then he always runs off.”
“Sounds loco to me,” Fargo agreed. “And this Remy?”
“Ah. He is not mad, that one. He has killed a few times. Only outsiders, you understand. He has surrounded himself with other outcasts, and they roam where they please, doing as they will.”
“You know for a fact he’s killed people?”
“I do.”
“Then why hasn’t the law done something?”
“What law, monsieur? We are Cajuns. We are left alone, and we like it that way.”
“You’re saying there’s no marshal or sheriff?”
“Oh, there is a sheriff, but he is far away, and we would never go to him anyway. We deal with our own problems.”
Fargo swallowed some whiskey. There was more to this situation than he had been told. “And what was that other thing you mentioned? About something no one will talk about?”
Liana glanced about the room. Bending toward him, she lowered her voice. “The people live in terror, monsieur. Men, women, children have all gone missing. It is said a creature stalks the swamps, a creature such as the swamp has never known.”
“I’m not much for tall tales, either.”
“This is no tale, handsome one. I swear by all that is holy that it is true. I knew some of those who vanished. They went into the swamp and never came back.”
“People get lost. There are snakes. There are gators. There’s quicksand. There’s Remy and that Mad Indian.”
“True. All true. But this is something else. One person actually saw the creature, and lived.”
“And what did they say it was?”
Liana hesitated. “You will think me crazy.”
“Try me.”
“A monster, monsieur. A living, breathing monster.”
3
The tavern began to fill up shortly after the sun went down. Out of the swamp they came, hardy men who made their living trapping and hunting and fishing. Pride was in their step and wariness in their eyes when they saw Fargo at a table playing solitaire. Fargo was an outsider, and the Cajuns didn’t cotton to strangers in their midst.
Along about seven Liana came over to refill his glass and Fargo asked if there was any chance of getting something to eat. Half an hour later she brought over a tray. Cajun fare. Gumbo with sassafras leaves to start, then several pieces of boudin, or pork sausage, along with a dish for which Cajuns were rightly famed: jambalaya.
Fargo ate with enthusiasm. He hadn’t had anything all day and was ravenous. As he was chewing some rice and green onions, there was a commotion outside, and the next moment a man who had to be in his fifties came through the door and barreled toward the bar. “A drink! And quick.” The other Cajuns gathered around and there was an excited babble of Cajun French and English. Fargo overheard bits and snatches but not enough to tell him what the fuss was about.
Liana came over. “Do you see that man? He has just come from deep in the swamp. He says someone else has gone missing.”
“Who?” Fargo asked, hoping it wasn’t the man who sent for him.
“A friend of his. They have a cabin. The friend went out to chop wood and never came back.”
“When was this?”
“Four days ago. The man looked and looked but couldn’t find a trace. He says he will not go back. He is going off to New Orleans to live until people stop disappearing.” Liana sadly shook her head. “He is not the first to leave and I expect he will not be the last.”
Shortly after nine Fargo drifted outside to stretch his legs and check on the Ovaro. It would still be a couple of hours before Liana was free. He strolled the length of the single street and back again, listening to the crickets and the frogs and the other sounds that issued from the swamp. Moths fluttered at a shack window, drawn by the light.
Fargo was almost to the tavern when he turned to watch a black cat cross the street. His back was to the darkness, a mistake, as it turned out, because out of the dark rushed three men who pounced before he could draw. Two grabbed his arms and held fast while the third smirked and wagged a long-bladed knife.
“Did you think I would forgive and forget?” Doucet asked.
Fargo sighed. “It doesn’t have to be like this. Let me go and there won’t be any hard feelings.”
“You jest. You struck me, remember? I do not know about where you come from, but no one strikes a Cajun and just walks away.”
Fargo glanced at the men holding him and made one last try. “I have no quarrel with you.”