Namo, however, was filled with rage. Shaking a fist, he hollered, “Come back here! Face us, beast!”
“Don’t press our luck,” Fargo advised.
“I want it dead. I want it dead more than I have ever wanted anything.”
Halette had stopped sobbing and was on her knees, her thin arms wrapped tight, trembling like a leaf in a gale. Namo didn’t notice. He stormed toward the water, shaking his fist and blistering the air.
“Père!” Clovis shouted, and ran after him.
Smothering curses of his own, Fargo squatted. He touched Halette’s hair, saying, “It’s gone. We’re safe. Don’t worry.” He twisted to yell for Namo to come back.
“No one is ever safe.”
Fargo looked at her, at her upturned faced streaked with tears, at her quivering lips. “You can talk.”
“I have been me for a while now,” Halette said softly. “I just had nothing to say.”
“I should tell your father.” Fargo cupped a hand to his mouth.
“Non! Not yet. Please.” Halette put her small hand on his. “You must help me, monsieur. Make him see we must leave this awful place or all of us will end up like my mère.”
Fargo leaned toward her. “They tell me you saw what happened. You saw what killed her.”
“Oui.”
“If it won’t upset you, I’d like to hear.”
The girl bowed her head, and shook. “You ask a lot.”
“I came a long way to help your pa, girl. The least you can do is help me. If I know what it is, I’ll know what to do.”
Halette began reciting in a tiny, scared voice. “It was awful. My mama had me climb a tree. She said I would be safe up near the top. I did as she wanted. It was dark, so very dark, and I couldn’t see much.” She stopped.
Fargo waited. Let her tell it in her own good time.
“Then it came, monsieur. It was big, so big. My mother shot her rifle but it did no good. I heard”—Halette stopped and sucked in a breath—“I heard her screams—”
“That’s enough. So you don’t know what it is?”
“I know only that it is not like anything I have ever seen or heard. They call it a monster, and it is.”
“You were scared. It was dark.”
Fargo slowly rose and she rose with him.
“My mother couldn’t kill it and she was a good shot. You can’t kill it. Nor can Papa.” Halette clutched at his buckskins. “We must go back. Make Papa go back too. Before it is too late.”
Just then Namo and Clovis returned. Seeing Halette, Namo bellowed for joy and swept her into his arms. Clovis, too, was delighted, and spun in circles, whooping. Both had forgotten the beast.
But not Fargo. He made a circuit of the hummock. Some frogs croaked and a gator grunted but the rest of the swamp was unnaturally still. He thought he heard, faint in the distance, the breaking of underbrush, but he couldn’t be sure. He was turning to go back when he heard a sound he was sure about: the splashing of a paddle. Dropping onto a knee, he spied what he took to be a pirogue gliding toward the hummock. But as it came closer he saw that it was a canoe.
A silhouette told him only one person was in it. A Cajun, or so Fargo reckoned until the canoe was near enough for him to see that the man was naked from the waist up and had hair that spilled past his shoulders. Fargo saw him put down the paddle and pick up a curved pole and a short stick. Belatedly, Fargo realized what they were: a bow and arrow. The man was about to loose a shaft at the Heuses.
By then the canoe was only a few yards from the hummock. Setting down the Henry, Fargo took a long leap and launched himself from shore. The warrior cried out in surprise as Fargo slammed into him. The canoe tilted from the impact and down they went. Rank swamp water embraced them.
Fargo got hold of a wrist and kicked to the surface. To his surprise, the warrior offered no resistance. Hauling him onto dry land, Fargo let go and retrieved the Henry.
The Indian looked up, his long hair hiding much of his face. But Fargo could tell he was old, very old, and his body much more frail than it had appeared at first. The man wore a breechclout and nothing else. His legs were spindly, his knees knobby. Each of his ribs stood out as if his skin were too tight. The effect was that of a walking skeleton.
“Who are you?”
An odd sort of laugh was the reply. The Indian pushed his hair aside, revealing a swarthy face seamed with wrinkles. So many wrinkles, he had to be eighty if he was a day. His dark eyes glittered and he bared his teeth in a mocking grin.
“You’re the one they call the Mad Indian.”
“So the white dogs say,” the man said, and cackled. “What will you do now that you have caught me?” And he laughed again.
“I’m not your enemy.”
“All whites are my enemies. I will hate your kind until the day I die.”
“Why? What did whites ever do to you? And where did you learn to speak the white tongue?”
The Mad Indian pushed up off the ground, his bony fists clenched, his teeth bared. “What did the whites do? What did they do?” he practically screamed.
From over by the fire Namo Heuse yelled, “Fargo, is someone with you? What is going on?”
The Mad Indian glared at the Cajuns and then at Fargo. “By the words of the black robes will you die! An eye for an eye, they told my people! An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth!”
“The black robes?” Fargo repeated. “Do you mean priests?”
The old man threw his head back and howled with vicious hate. “Black robes! Black robes! Black robes!” he cried while hopping up and down, first on one foot and then the other.
“What the hell?”
The Mad Indian pointed a gnarled finger at Fargo’s chest. “It kills you! It kills you and I am happy! What do you think of that, white dog?”
“No wonder they call you mad.”
“Mad?” the old Indian said, and did more prancing. “Mad, mad, mad, mad, mad!”
Namo and Clovis were running toward them, Namo with Halette in his arms. “Who is that, Fargo?”
“The local lunatic.”
Suddenly the Mad Indian whirled and sprang to his canoe. With unexpected speed he swung up and over the gunwale, scooped up the paddle from the bottom, and commenced a flurry of backstrokes. “Mad, mad, mad, mad, mad!” he tittered insanely.
Namo came to a stop. “It’s him! The Mad Indian!”
“If he were any madder he’d be rabid.”
“Shoot him!” Clovis urged.
“What for?” Fargo wasn’t about to kill an unarmed old man whose only offense, if it could be called that, was that he was completely out of his mind.
The canoe was twenty feet out and still retreating. Another cackle mocked them, along with, “All of you will die! You’ll see! This is his swamp, not yours! He has come from the time before to slay and punish!”
“What is he talking about?” Clovis asked.
“Beats the hell out of me.”
The canoe and its crazed occupant melted into the ink and the moss. The lapping of the paddle faded.
“First the monster, then the Mad Indian,” Namo said. “It must be true, what people say, that the two are linked.”
“How can that be, mon père?”
“I don’t know, son.”
Nor did Fargo, but he did have an idea about something else. “It was the fire,” he remarked.
“What was?”
“The reason the monster, as you call it, didn’t attack us. I suspect it was afraid of the fire.”
Namo grinned excitedly. “If that is the case, we can use fire to trap it and kill it.”
“If it doesn’t kill us first,” Clovis said.