“I’LL TRADE YOU the horse and wagon for a good flat-bottom,” Gatling told the scarred Cajun. “I got business way back in the swamp.”
“All my flat-bottoms is good uns,” the Cajun said, nodding toward the boats tied up at the landing. “That hoss of yourn don’t look too healthy. Where’ll that leave me if she ups and dies? I got to have cash money to sweeten the deal. As to any business you got back there, keep it to yourself. Didn’t ask, don’t want to know.”
“How much?” Gatling knew the Cajun was going to soak him for as much as he could get. Some of these rustics were cagier than city slickers.
“The wagon ain’t no great shakes neither. I got to have fifty dollars afore you can take any boat away from this landing. It’s cheap at the price. You know why? Cause you can’t buy or rent a boat anywhere close to here.”
Gatling gave him the fifty dollars. “I could use a guide,” he said.
The Cajun spat in the water; his kinfolk looked on without saying a word. “Nobody’s going to guide you, stranger. Not me, not nobody. We mind our business here and let others do the same. A guide can get inter trouble he don’t know anything about. There’s your boat. You kin leave anytime you like. Don’t be asking questions now. You’ll get no answers from me. You must have some idear where you be going.”
The Cajun and his kin went into the house; Gatling knew they were watching him from the glassless windows. The big box he lifted into the flat-bottom must have been a mystery they would talk about for years. One and all, they were a mangy, shiftless crew, and he would have to sleep with one eye open or go without any sleep at all. The so-called river was a tangle of swamps with a few quaking islands scattered here and there. They knew it like the back of their dirty hands; it would be easy for them to get ahead of him at any time of the day or night. Murrill would be pleased to pay for any kind of information.
He poled the flat-bottom through the widest of a dozen waterways. Alligators basked in the sun on shifting islands; the channel was choked in places by weeds and rotting trees. Poling the heavy boat was hard work made harder by the steamy heat that brought out the sweat in torrents. He stopped to drink a bottle of warm beer, to take off his coat and shirt. It got easier after he got the hang of handling the boat, but the sun was fierce. He wondered what made Laffite come to such a place; Murrill’s reason was easier to understand. Here the crazy man was master of all he surveyed, even if what he surveyed were cottonmouths, alligators, and carrion crows.
Once he had to find another way through when he found the channel blocked by a fallen tree. But he did find a way and kept going until it started to get dark. That night he slept on a small island with fairly solid ground. He drove an old alligator into the water by beating it with the tree limb. It came back and he had to drive it off again. He didn’t see any snakes. Now the last of the beer was gone, but he still had two canteens of water.
Since he started out he had been cutting saplings and sticking them in the mud as markers. Killing Murrill wouldn’t be much good if he couldn’t find his way back. At one point there was an oil slick on the water, and he figured Murrill was using a small steam launch to get in and out of this damnable place. No way to tell him how long the slick had been there. The water was dark and still, barely moving.
He was eating dry biscuits and drinking stale water when they opened fire on him. It was early in the morning with the sun creeping up over the swamp. He had just wiped off the Lee-Enfield and reloaded. Looking through the scope, he saw the scarred Cajun’s face behind a rifle barrel, a small-caliber muzzle-loader with high velocity so accurate in the right hands that it could drive a nail into a tree at a fair distance. Gatling fired and the scarred Cajun did a sort of dive into the water. The boat he was in drifted away from the reeds. One of the Cajun’s kin was trying to pole it back into cover, but he didn’t make it. Gatling killed him with an easy shot that knocked him into the water.
The third man in the flat-bottom was just a kid, sixteen or so, but anybody old enough to handle a rifle was old enough to be killed. Holding a long rifle like the scarred man’s, he jumped into the muddy channel and tried to get to a patch of dry ground covered with trees and scrub. He was still floundering in the muck when Gatling killed him. After that he shot holes in the flat-bottom until it sank. There could be more of them on their way. He didn’t think so; usually they came in packs. The others might come looking, but maybe they’d just sit and spit, glad the scarred man was dead. He had the look of a born bully.
There hadn’t been much shooting, and he didn’t think it could have been heard on the island, wherever the goddamned island was. Gatling had no idea how far he’d come, how far he had to go. That night he set up the Hotchkiss Cannon, then he put the Skoda and the Lee-Enfield beside it and covered everything with the blanket and slicker. Mosquitoes ate at him as he tried to sleep on the bottom of the boat. He stuck the pole deep in the mud and tied the boat to that to keep it from drifting. An alligator nosed around without doing any harm. He rubbed mud on his face and hands, but that didn’t stop the skeeters from biting.
Next day there was more oil on the water, which could mean Murrill’s guards were patrolling the main channel in the launch. He didn’t want to use the Hotchkiss—it made a hell of a lot of noise—but he’d blow the launch and everybody in it to bits if they started shooting.
He was satisfied with the way he was handling the boat, learning how to keep a lookout for submerged trees. The water had a different look when there was something under the surface. Using long, steady strokes, he kept the boat going where he wanted it to go. It was hard, hot work, but he was getting used to it.
His third night out, he thought he heard them coming in the dark. Then he realized that it was two bull alligators fighting on some dark patch of ground.
Traveling by night was too risky even when there was a moon. A sharp branch could tear the bottom out of the boat though the timbers were stout enough. He wouldn’t drown in the shallow channel, but he’d die just the same.
On the fourth night he heard the launch and saw the powerful naphtha light sweeping the channel. The launch passed the tall reeds where he had hidden the boat; he had been sleeping on a tiny patch of dry ground with a single tree in its center. The men in the launch were speaking Cajun French; one man was laughing. In a while the launch came back and passed him again. The sound of its engine died and the big light faded in the darkness.
The island had to be close; they wouldn’t come far, leaving Murrill alone. Morning brought a fierce sun and a widening of the channel. No sign of the launch, but there was oil on the water. He traveled slowly now, stopping to sweep the channel with binoculars. A beer bottle bobbing in the water told him he was on the right track. They should be back to the island by now, he thought. If they weren’t, they’d see what the Hotchkiss could do.
As he poled along, the channel grew wider all the time. A breeze blew up, drying the sweat on his skin. In the afternoon he saw the lake far ahead. He poled until he came to the edge of the lake, then tied the boat to the pole and used the binoculars. Many islands were in the lake; only one, the biggest, had a house on it. A haze hung over the water, and he couldn’t see all that clearly. But there was no mistaking the house. It stood on the highest point of the island, big and arrogant as Jean Laffite himself. Down at the water’s edge was a floating dock with the launch tied to it. A man in some kind of dark uniform was on the dock, a rifle in his hands. No one else was in sight.
He knew there was no way to cross the lake by day. The guard on the dock would run like hell when he spotted the flat-bottom. Then they’d come at him in the launch with the throttle wide open, counting on its speed to dodge his bullets.
Now the guard was using binoculars, scanning the lake in every direction. Gatling put his own binoculars away and back-poled until he was out of sight. He hid the boat and spent the rest of the day waiting for the launch to come out from the island. Eventually it did make a tour of the lake without nosing into any of the channels. Sun had burned off the haze, and he saw everything as clear as a bell.
Four guards got out of the launch and went into the house. A different guard took up his position on the dock. He wore the same dark uniform as the man who had been there earlier. Gatling had seen uniformed guards in banks and express companies. As far as he knew, Murrill was the first criminal to have his own uniformed force. It was a measure of the man to dress country thugs in uniforms.
Crossing by night wouldn’t be as risky as doing it by day. If there were dogs loose at night, it would be risky enough. He hadn’t seen any dogs, but maybe they were let loose after dark. There was sure to be a guard on the dock twenty-four hours a day. If the guard got to the big light, Gatling wouldn’t know what in hell he was firing at. He’d be as blinded as a cow on a railroad track when the express came through. And maybe he’d be as dead as the cow.
After checking the weapons, making sure they were loaded, he waited for dark. Lights showed in the big house before the moon came up. The moon was big and yellow, giving off too much light. Nothing to be done about that. Not even Colonel Pritchett could put out the moon.
He was far out in the lake when a gust of wind came out of nowhere. The flat-bottom wasn’t built for open water, though the lake was shallow and dotted with islands. He had to grab the Hotchkiss to keep it from lurching forward on its chocked wheels. The long pole struck the side of the boat, making a hollow sound, and he waited for the light to come on. As powerful as a locomotive headlight, it would turn night into day if the guard got to it in time.
Nothing happened, and the wind died down as quickly as it had come. He moved on, poling silently in the moon-glittering water. He stopped again when the door of the house opened and a dark figure was outlined against the light. Murrill? He wanted it to be Murrill, the man he had come so far to kill. He swore that this time the reptilian bastard wouldn’t slither away as he had in the past. Patience, he told himself. Get mad when there’s a good reason to get mad.
The launch and the dock had to be first to be hit with a Hotchkiss shell. That would fix the light and keep them from getting away—not that he gave a damn about the Cajuns, but why not kill them if he could.
A lot of lake still had to be crossed. He couldn’t see the guard on the deck. Maybe he was sitting in the launch, taking it easy. The shape of the launch was clear in the moonlight. Lights came on the second floor of the house.
He eased in closer and closer, moving the flat-bottom with long, careful strokes. As he got closer to the dock, the pole began to scrape over pebbles and once it rasped on rock. No movement, no searchlight. Now he dipped the pole as lightly as he could.
Close enough. He lined up the Hotchkiss and sent a 37mm shell shrieking across the water. The shell exploded the instant the light came on. He poled in closer and the bottom of the boat scraped on sand and stones. He had the range and he fired at will. The launch and the dock disappeared in a bright flash of flame. He fired at the house until the first loading case was empty. It took about two seconds to load the second one. Return fire was coming from the house, but it was weak and ragged. Shell after shell exploded against the thick stone walls. There was the clanging sound of steel shutters being shut from the inside. So far, not too much damage had been done to Murrill’s grand hideout.
Some kind of rapid-fire gun started firing from the roof of the house. It sounded like a Gardiner, firing fast enough but nothing like the Skoda. But it was a dependable weapon, and Gatling knew he was in for a fight. The Gardiner had multiple barrels set in a row. It loaded .45-caliber bullets powered by a heavy charge. Gatling had seen one years before in some remote Army post in the West. It was too cumbersome for his taste, but he knew this one was going to slow him up.
He elevated the Hotchkiss and started shelling the roof. They had sandbags up there; he was sure of that, because the gun kept firing. He was running low on shells; if it had been an ordinary house, it would be destroyed by now.
He stopped firing the cannon. The door banged open, and they tried a counterattack, thinking he was out of ammunition. They came at him firing their rifles, yelling Cajun yells, and he had to say one thing for them, the wild bastards had guts. He cut them down with the Skoda before they got close. One man made it all the way to the water, then fell on his face in the shallows.
The men manning the Gardiner were getting the range right, and Gatling had to throw himself on the bottom of the boat to keep from being killed.
Raising the Skoda again, he traded fire with the men on the roof. Somebody up there screamed, but the gun kept chattering in its steady, old-fashioned way. Gatling made a quick count of his Hotchkiss shells; there were five left. He fired a shell at the door of the house, but it exploded against solid iron. Four shells left, God damn it!
Another shell failed to knock the door down. The damn thing had to be inches thick and bolted in several places. He fired once more at the door before he gave up and used the Skoda. There was plenty of ammunition for the Skoda. It took a 9mm cartridge and more ammunition could be carried by a single man.
The Gardiner gun was silent for several minutes, then it started up again. Something had jammed and had to be worked loose. Gatling damned himself for not anticipating that Murrill would be sure to have some kind of heavy weapon. The Gardiner was behind the times, like the Gatling, but its heavy .45s could tear up a man if they hit him.
The firing went on for an hour, then the door of the house opened and closed before Gatling could fire one of his last three shells. A guard with a white handkerchief tied to a cane came walking down the hill.
“Don’t shoot,” he said in a Cajun accent. “I got no gun on me. You see that?”
Gatling raised the Skoda. “Come ahead,” he ordered. “Hands on top of the head, lace the fingers together. Start walking.”
The guard stopped when he was told. “See, I have no gun,” he repeated.
“What do you want?” Gatling said, staying low in case the Gardiner started firing again.
The Cajun moistened his lips. One of his front teeth was gold, a very fine thing for a poor Cajun to have.
“Monsieur Murrill wants to make a deal,” he said in his gumbo accent. “He says you are all alone. He says he can stay in the house as long as it takes. He says take your guns and your boat and go away from here before the other launch comes.”
“There’s no second launch,” Gatling said. “What the hell are you mumbling about, Cajun?”
“You are right,” the man whispered. “Will you let me run to the water for telling you the truth? I just worked for Monsieur Murrill. I have killed no one in my whole life.”
“Run all you like,” Gatling told him, thinking what the hell, the dumb bastard was frightened out of his wits.
The Cajun ducked low and started to run, but a single rifle shot cut him down before he’d gone twenty feet. Gatling returned fire with the Skoda. The Gardiner gun fired back, plowing bullets in the side of the boat at a steady rate of fire. No bullets had penetrated the thick timbers. But they had to blow holes in it if they fired enough lead. Gatling wasn’t sure the damn thing would float by the time this was over. Without a boat, he might as well stand up and let them shoot him down. Most anything was better than dying in the swamps.
He had to put the Gardiner gun out of action before he fired his last shells at the door. But the huge door stood like a bank vault. Maybe if he moved in closer, the shells would have greater effect. There was no reason to believe this, but it was worth trying. He fired a long burst from the Skoda, then heaved the cannon onto dry land. He ran it forward on its wheels and threw himself down behind it, hugging the ground while the Gardiner kept pumping out heavy bullets. Some of the .45s whanged off the barrel of the cannon. He raked the roof with fire and the Gardiner was silent. He adjusted the range and fired three shells at the door. They hit the door just seconds apart and the massive sheet of iron went down with a thunderous crash.
No fire came from the gun on the roof. They were probably moving it to the top of the stairs. The legs of the gun scraped on the floor. They opened fire when he dived through the doorway. He felt a bullet nicking the top of his ear, but that was all. They were ready to fire again when the gun jammed. Two Cajun guards were behind it, and one of them picked up the Gardiner and threw it at Gatling. He killed both men while the Gardiner gun was still clattering to the bottom of the stairs.
Standing at the top of the stairs, he yelled, “Come out, Murrill, and take what’s coming to you!”
Getting no answer, he ran up to the roof and found a guard dying by the parapet. “Where’s Murrill?” he shouted.
“Gone,” the man gasped. “If you look now, you will see him on the lake. A boat ...”
Gatling ran to the parapet on the other side. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought there was a dark shape on the water. Clouds blew away from the face of the moon, and he saw the boat, far out, with the man in it. Now the light was good, and he recognized the man as Murrill. He was a good quarter of a mile away; the binoculars brought him close.
He ran downstairs and pulled the flat-bottom into the water. It filled and sank. Taking only the Lee-Enfield, he ran to the back of the house and waded out into the lake. Murrill was making for the western side. Gatling cursed as the mud sucked at his boots. He tripped and fell and the British rifle got wet. He picked it up and shook it free of water. But there might be mud in the barrel; it might blow up in his face when he fired it.
The lake was shallow, but trying to cross it was like trying to wade through flapjack dough. His boots felt as if they weighed a ton.
Far ahead of him, Murrill was making good time. It was a long shot by moonlight. Gatling tried it and missed. He fired again and missed again. The moon clouded over and stayed that way for a long time. Gatling plowed on through the stinking mud. He had left the canteen in the boat, and now he thirsted for a drink of water.
Finally he reached the far side of the lake. Murrill and the boat had vanished into one of the channels.
He picked one and followed it.