The Mad Indian was luring the boar.
Fargo wondered if Remy and Namo had heard, and if they realized what the cries meant. He had half a mind to go warn them but they had agreed to stay where they were except for the few times Remy, who was nearest the fire, crept from concealment to add wood.
Remy would have to do so again soon. The flames were half as high as they had been.
A high-pitched screech pierced the gloom.
Fargo suspected that the rabbit had become food for the beast they were out to kill. He barely breathed and stayed perfectly still.
Then came another of those rare moments in which the great swamp fell quiet.
A log popped in the fire and smoke rose.
Fargo saw Remy come out from under the tree and move toward the fire. Not now! he wanted to shout. Hadn’t Remy heard the rabbit?
Remy yawned and stepped to the pile of firewood they had gathered before the sun went down, enough to last the entire night. He added logs and stepped back as the flames brightened and flared.
Fargo moved toward the edge of the thicket. He must warn him to get back under cover.
That was when a huge shape materialized across the clearing. Two eyes gleamed balefully.
Remy didn’t see it. He had his back to the shadow, which crept toward him on ghostly hooves.
Fargo jerked the Sharps up but didn’t shoot. They needed the razorback to step on the circle of dirt.
Namo had seen the boar, too. And now he did what they had agreed not to do. “Remy! Behind you! Le sanglier!”
Remy whirled and brought up his rifle just as the razorback let out with a rumbling squeal and charged. Thinking fast, he sidestepped toward the dirt. The razorback was almost on top of him when he threw himself out of the way.
But he misjudged how ungodly quick the razorback could be.
The razorback and Remy seemed to merge. Remy went one way and the razorback went another. Remy to fly through the air and crash down on the upturned earth, the razorback to plow into the undergrowth.
“No!” Fargo hurtled from the thicket, firing as he unfurled a hasty shot that had no effect.
Namo banged off shots from up in the tree.
Fargo ran to the circle, and would never forget what awaited him.
They had done the best they could using branches and flat rocks to dig and scrape. The hole wasn’t deep, only about four feet. A dozen sharp stakes were imbedded in the bottom. They had covered the pit with thin branches and grass and then spread dirt over the top.
“Dear God,” Namo said at Fargo’s side. “Is there no end to the horror?”
Remy had landed on his back. Two of the stakes had gone through his body, another through a leg, a third through an arm. He was still alive. He shook, and coughed, and spat up blood. And then he blinked up at them and said through his pain, “Tell me it is dead.”
Fargo could hear splashing.
“It got away,” Namo said.
“Damn. Then I die for nothing.”
Namo dropped to a knee and reached down to touch Remy’s shoulder. “We will get you out. It will take some doing but—”
“No.”
“Non?”
Remy coughed and more blood oozed from the corners of his mouth. “I am done for, Namo. I know it and you know it.” He sucked in a breath, and groaned. “Lord, the pain.”
Namo appealed to Fargo. “We can’t just let him die. We must do something. Help me.”
“If we pull him off those stakes he won’t live two minutes,” Fargo predicted. Left down there, Remy might last five.
“We must try,” Namo insisted. “You take his arms and I’ll take his legs and we will slowly lift him out.”
“He’s in too much pain.”
“I refuse to let him die this way. Do you hear me?”
Remy ended their argument by saying, “Shoot me.”
Fargo and Namo looked at him and Namo said, “What?”
“You heard me. Shoot me. Put me out of misery. I am not long for this world anyway.”
Now it was Namo who said, “No.”
Remy tried to speak but what came out was more blood. His limbs convulsed, and he gasped out, “Don’t let me suffer like this. I beg you.”
Namo, averting his gaze, shook his head. “I can’t. I just can’t. I’m sorry. But I don’t have it in me.”
“I would do it for you.”
“Don’t say that.” Namo wheeled and walked toward the fire, his chin on his chest.
Fargo knew what was coming.
“And you, monsieur? What about you? I have not known you long so it should be easier for you.”
Fargo stared at the blood-wet stakes that stuck up out of Remy’s body. More tremors wracked the Cajun, and he grit his teeth. “If I never see another swamp for as long as I live, it’ll be too soon.”
“Sorry?” Remy said, coughing. “What was that?”
“No one deserves to die like this.”
Remy mustered a grin. “That is life, eh? None of us deserve the pain we bear but life doesn’t care. It inflicts the pain anyway.” He shook, then steadied, and wheezed, “Whenever you are ready.”
Fargo placed his hand on his Colt.
“No!” Namo ran up and grabbed Fargo’s wrist. “Don’t do this! Life is too precious. Give him what few moments he has left.”
Remy said, “Damn you, Namo. Leave the man alone.” Then he did a strange thing—he laughed.
“Is your mind going?” Namo asked.
“It is the irony. I’ve never liked outsiders. Yet this man is an outsider and I like him. And now he is about to treat me with the mercy I have never shown others. Is that not ironic?”
“It is wrong.”
“Let go of him, Namo.”
“I refuse.”
“In memory of Emmeline.”
“Damn you, Remy. And damn the beast that did this to you.” Namo forlornly stepped to one side.
“Such is life. We spend it holding the sadness at bay until the day when the final sadness comes over us.” Remy had the worst coughing fit yet. “Just as it has come over me.” He stared at Fargo. “Enough talk. Do it. Get it over with. I don’t know how much longer I can keep from screaming.”
Fargo drew the Colt.
“Please,” Namo said.
“Please,” Remy echoed.
Fargo shot him square between the eyes. Hair, bone and brains rained on the bottom of the pit. Remy Cuvier went rigid, then limp. His eyes, locked open, were fixed on the stars.
“God in heaven,” Namo said softly. “Is there no end?”
“Not until we’re like him.” Fargo nodded at the body.
“How can you be so callous? How can you be so cold? I thought you liked him.”
“I did.” Fargo replaced the spent cartridge, slid the Colt into his holster, and went over to the fire. He was suddenly bone tired. “I’ll fix us some coffee.”
“Now?” Namo said in amazement.
“We have to take turns keeping watch. I don’t know about you but I can use some help staying awake.”
“But after—” Namo said, and glanced at the pit. “It’s just that my wife liked Remy. Of all her cousins, he was Emmeline’s favorite. I could no more kill him than I could have killed her.”
“There’s no need to explain.”
“Thank you. But what now? The boar escaped. Our trap failed, and cost us our friend. Do we go after it by ourselves or do we rethink how we should go about this?”
Fargo was opening a pack to get at the coffeepot. “I’m not giving up.” Not this side of the grave he wasn’t.
“And I am not suggesting we should,” Namo set him straight. “But we have nothing to show for all our effort and sweat. The razorback is still out there. The Mad Indian, too.”
“Those other men from Gros Ville are hunting them too, remember?” Fargo reminded him. “Maybe they’ll have better luck than we have.”