Everglades Assault (15 page)

So that's what convinced me to move in.

It was obvious they didn't know a damn thing about the plot to chase Panther James out.

They were just a mindless few among the hundreds of thousands who move through this life selfishly and stupidly. They filled me with a sense of the pathetic, and it drained my anger away. There are too many out there like these men. They live a random existence without a love of truth and without a code of personal honor. They can rationalize any act, any deed, because they believe the only law they must embrace is public law. Anything that won't get them arrested—or get them a stern warning from their preacher—must be all right.

They're like kids who get too used to the grownups' making the rules.

And they never learn—or maybe never want to learn—that the time comes when any thinking human being makes his own rules.

So I just wanted to get it over as quickly as possible.

Only one thing bothered me. The fat man was the only one armed. He wore a western-style .22-caliber revolver in a holster.

And I knew that men like these don't go to the woods unarmed.

Before whistling for Hervey, I climbed down out of the tree and made my way to their jeep. Had they been responsible for stealing little Eisa, I would have disabled the jeep. Instead, I hunted for weapons.

They were easy to find. There were three shotguns and a rifle protruding from the back.

I took them and dropped them into the creek beyond the trail they had forged.

That left only the fat man to worry about.

I made my way back to the perimeter of darkness around the mound. The fat man was still sifting away, stopping only long enough to gulp a beer and light another cigarette. He threw the empty cans in the brush with the others.

The only cover behind him was a small myrtle tree. I mapped a plan in my mind, then gave Hervey the owl call I had promised.

By the time Hervey made himself seen, I was behind the fat man, hunkered down by the little tree.

Hervey is big and bearlike by normal light. But in the stark white glare of the work lamps, he looked positively fearsome.

And at his side, the yellow-eyed Chesapeake snarled like some hound from hell.

One by one, the men went silent. And one by one they followed their neighbor's gaze to Hervey.

He stood on the top of the mound, black beard blazing, as if he were about to make a sermon. In his right hand he held a chunk of hatrack cypress. It was more club than walking stick. The four men held their shovels tightly as they backed themselves toward the shadows. Only the fat man stood his ground. His voice was a surprising falsetto, like that of an adolescent boy.

“You got business here?” he said darkly.

Hervey began to work his way down the mound. “Yeah,” he said. “My business is to make you put the stuff you found back in the mound. And then you're going to cover it all back up nice and neat, and take them beer cans and leave. And if I ever catch you back here, lard-ass, I'm gonna tear your head off and use it for a doorstop.”

The fat man looked at his four accomplices for reassurance—or maybe just to make sure they were still there.

He said, “Those are pretty big words for one man.”

Hervey snorted. “I figure one man is all it'll take with five lard-asses like you.”

I had been watching the fat man's right hand. He was moving it ever so slowly toward his holster. I wanted to make sure I timed it right.

There was no room for a mistake. Hervey had backed them in a corner a little too quickly. He had frightened them a little too much—and frightened men turn deadly all too readily.

Just as the fat man unsnapped the holster latch, I ducked through the brush and grabbed his meaty hand. I thought the surprise of being taken from behind would stop him if nothing else.

It didn't. He was pretty quick for his weight.

His reflexes were good. But his judgment was bad. Very bad.

When I grabbed him by the wrist, he whirled away from me and sent a big overhand left toward my jaw. It was like ducking a tank.

I felt the fist bluster harmlessly past my left ear. He had small piggish blue eyes. They held the wild look of a renegade horse as he threw another punch at me, and still another.

Both missed.

And he suddenly looked very worried.

I was tired of dialogue. And besides, his revolver was still in the holster. I doubled him over with a lancing fist to the solar plexus, then caught him with a solid elbow at the intersection of neck and jaw.

There was a jello-like repercussion when the bulk of him landed on the ground.

He looked up at me like a fat little boy, and for a second I thought he was going to cry.

“Watch out!”

It was Hervey's voice. And I didn't waste time asking any questions. I ducked, dove, and rolled—just as I heard the toy crack of small-caliber pistol fire.

I had been wrong. The fat man wasn't the only one carrying a sidearm. A tall lanky guy had materialized a revolver—from his pocket, probably.

He had a dazed look on his face, trying to level the weapon on me.

But he never got a chance to fire again.

The big retriever covered the base of the mound in three Homeric bounds, then crashed his considerable weight into the guy with the gun.

The revolver went off again. And again—but aimed harmlessly at the night sky.

Some instinct told the dog to lock onto the guy's right arm.

And he did—hair bristling, white teeth slashing.

Hervey got to him, took the gun, then called off his dog. Gator heeled obediently, but still snarled at his fallen adversary.

Hervey motioned with the revolver. “You boys are a little out of your league here. You best start covering up these holes like I told you.”

“Jesus, that dog 'bout ripped my arm off!” The lanky guy beheld his bleeding wrist with a stare of terror.

He was right. It didn't look good.

“Let's just let them go, Hervey.”

“Let them go! Not until these bastards have put back some of that dirt!”

“That guy's arm is pretty bad, Hervey. And fat boy here might have a concussion.”

“We won't never come back,” one of them said quickly.

“They don't enforce no laws about digging Indian mounds in Florida,” another of them added. “We just didn't know it was your property.” And to Hervey's steely look, he added, “It's our fault. We shoulda asked.”

Hervey spit with disgust. “Okay, okay. Go. You bastards make me sick, and I swear to God—if I ever hear about you digging mounds within a hundred miles of here, I'll hunt you down. Each and every one of you. You can bet your lives on it. And you will be.”

They didn't hesitate.

They left their shovels and their lamps and their sieve.

Even the fat man found his feet and scrambled, lest Hervey change his mind and set the dog on them again.

There was a strange look on Hervey's face. He seemed to cock his head and listen expectantly. I was about to ask why when I heard the jeep start—and then heard a chorus of swearing and a muffled scream.

Then Hervey smiled. “I guess they found the snake.”

“You didn't stick a rattler in there with them, did you?”

“Naw. Couldn't find a rattler. And I looked. Had to settle on the indigo. Where are those pit vipers when you need them?”

I studied him for a moment, trying to figure out if he really would have stuck a rattler in the jeep. He sensed my question, and the smile disappeared from his face.

He said, “Dusky, what would you do if strangers came into your house and started wrecking the place looking for things that are family keepsakes?”

“I see what you mean.”

“I know the only thing Indian about me is my mother. It ain't that. It's a matter of
family.
Those jerks were robbing from my family. So you're damn right I was hunting for a rattlesnake. I'da done it, too.”

There was one more wild oath before the jeep roared off through the swamp. I smiled. “I think the indigo was effective enough.”

Hervey chuckled. “It'll be a cold day before they come back, I reckon.” He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the trenches in the family mound. “Think we can wait until tomorrow before we start cleaning up here?”

I didn't get a chance to answer.

That's when we heard the muffled echo of a shotgun blast.

And then the frightened cry of a woman, her anguish seeping through the Everglades darkness....

My flashlight threw a frail beam through the night.

Above, the tropical stars pierced the light-years, cold and clear and unconcerned with the petty struggling of two men running through the swamps on distant Earth.

For his age, Hervey was in pretty good shape.

Even so, he was no runner, and he was soon lagging far behind.

I was at a disadvantage—that being I didn't know where the hell I was or which way I was going. If you've ever been in the 'glades at night, you know how easy it is to get turned around.

I noticed that the Chesapeake, Gator, was sticking just ahead of me. Every now and then, when I made a wrong turn, he'd wait a moment until I had corrected my error, then start out again.

Finally, I realized how stupid I was being. All I had to do was follow him. He knew how to get back to the house.

When I finally came chugging into the clearing, all the oil lamps were burning brightly in the little plank house. Myrtle stood on the porch in a flannel night dress. She held the sawed-off shotgun in both hands. When she saw me, she raised it as if about to shoot.

“Whoa there, lady!”

“Dusky? Dusky, is that you?”

“Yeah. It's me—and if you'll lower that twelve-gauge . . .”

“Oh, I'm sorry!”

I went running up to the porch. She let me take the shotgun, then buried her face in her hands, crying.

“Eisa—is Eisa okay?”

“Yes, thank God. But that . . . that thing came back tonight. Oh, it was so awful. I was in bed but I wasn't asleep, and I heard this heavy breathing and I looked up, and . . . and, oh my God . . .”

She broke into uncontrollable sobs.

Hervey came wheezing into the clearing as I tried to comfort her. I told him what had happened.

“Where's Granddad?” he asked.

“In his chickee, I suppose. He didn't even come out when I shot.”

“Did you hit it?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. It was all like a bad dream. It was just standing there, looking at me. I grabbed the gun, and then it started to run away. I went to Eisa's room to make sure she was okay. That's all I could think about—that it had gotten Eisa. But she was still sleeping, and I ran outside and it was just going through the trees toward the cypress head. I pulled both triggers, and then I screamed for you. I don't know if I hit it or not.”

“Granddad,” Hervey said. “Let's make sure he's okay.”

The two of us went running toward the chickee. There was an oil lamp burning inside. Panther James sat on the dirt floor, naked but for his weathered hat and the multicolored shirt.

He looked up when we came in. “I can't find my pants,” he said.

“That thing was back, Granddad.”

The old man looked at the broken watch. “Right on time,” he said. “I've got to find those damn pants.”

“You stay here, Granddad. Dusky and I are going to go after it.”

“Won't do any good,” he said flatly. “It wants Eisa, but maybe it'll take me. I'll go find it and speak with it. But I don't think it will take me without pants.”

“Just give us tonight to try, Granddad. If we don't get it tonight, I'll find your pants and you can go after it.”

Panther James looked up at me suddenly. “Ah, the blond man,” he said. “The pains I felt from the shovels in my stomach stopped tonight. Should I thank you for that?”

“No. Thank Hervey and that dog of his. I don't think they'll be back to bother your mound.”

“That's good to hear,” he said. “I'll be going there very soon and I would hate to end up in a museum.”

“Come on, Granddad. You're too mean to die.”

“Hah! That's what you think. I had a dream tonight. That's why I have to hurry. I want to get this thing about the land settled. We must get this settled, and little Eisa must mate with one of the Johnny Egret grandsons when she is of an age so that our people might go on for a while longer. . . .” His voice trailed off, and he looked at me again. His brown eyes had a milky tinge to them lanced with some inexorable understanding. “I'll trade you this fine watch for your pants,” he said.

I smiled. “Maybe tomorrow, Mr. James.”

“You just stay here, Granddad. We'll be right back. I've got something I need to prove to you.”

We hustled back outside. Myrtle was waiting for us. Hervey still had the revolver he had taken from one of the mound robbers.

“Have you reloaded that shotgun?”

She nodded.

“Which way did that thing go?”

She pointed. “Just be careful, Hervey. I . . . really don't think that it's a man dressed up in a suit. The dogs always bark when strangers come. But when that thing is here, they just run. They run and hide. . . .”

We found the tracks by the creek bed at the edge of the clearing.

The mound robber had indicated that the track he had found was three feet long.

He was wrong. But not by much.

The tracks by the creek were the footprints of some gigantic barefooted man. Maybe twenty-five or thirty inches long. They were sunken deeply into the sand.