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Authors: Tabor Evans
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known when this morning dawned. Too much good luck?
Longarm wondered how that trip down to the Delta country with Jasper Millard was going to go the next day.
CHAPTER 6
Longarm said, "Damn!" and swatted at the mosquito busily feasting on his neck. Beside him, Jasper Millard laughed.
"You stay down here in this country for very long, Parker," said Millard, "and you'll get to where you don't even notice those little bastards."
"That one wasn't so little," Longarm said as he studied the squashed insect on the palm of his hand. Its death had left a smear of blood on his skin. His own blood, thought Longarm, which the varmint had just sucked out of him. "These things get much bigger, they're liable to start carrying off dogs."
Millard chuckled again. He and Longarm were riding side by side along a road that followed the twisting course of a bayou. It was mid-morning and already quite hot, even though the cypress trees that bordered the road cast quite a bit of shade. Long strands of Spanish moss dangling from the branches brushed against Longarm's face from time to time. A warm breeze that was as lazy as the almost imperceptible current of the bayou brought a mixture of pungent smells to Longarm. The most prominent was that of the rich brown earth, but he also smelled the sweetness of honeysuckle and bougainvillea as well as the sharper tang of rotting fish. All in all, it was a blend that took some getting used to.
He had left his coat and vest behind today, though he still wore the string tie around his neck. His white shirt was already soaked with sweat. He had rolled the sleeves up for a while, but exposing his brawny forearms just gave the mosquitos more places to bite him. The sleeves were rolled down now. He wore brown whipcord pants and his usual black stovepipe boots. Millard had complimented him on the high-topped boots. "They're good for tromping around the bayou country," Millard had said. "Helps keep the rattlers and the cottonmouths and the copperheads and the coral snakes from biting you."
What kind of place was it, Longarm wondered, that had so many venomous snakes? Weren't one or two kinds enough?
The area was teeming with wildlife. So far he had seen deer and squirrels and skunks and opossums. A couple of times he had spotted what he first thought were logs floating in the water, and then he had seen the tiny black eyes protruding from the surface of the bayou. Those were alligators out there, he realized, gators just like the one that had chomped half of Douglas Ramsey's body. Maybe one of them was the same gator, for all he knew. A chill went through him at the thought, but he managed not to shudder.
From time to time, Longarm and Millard passed shacks with palmetto-thatched roofs. The shacks were built of unpainted, weather-bleached boards and were set atop stilts, and many of them leaned a little--whether from shoddy construction or the hurricane winds that sometimes blew from the Gulf, Longarm didn't know. Beside the shacks were small patches of garden. Cows and pigs and chickens were confined in ramshackle pens. Some of the shacks backed up to the bayou or even extended over the water on their stilts, and pirogues were tied up at these. The lightweight canoes drew very little water, Longarm knew. He had heard it said that they could float on a heavy dew.
Sometimes narrow, pinched, sunburned faces peered out at the two riders from the windows or porches of the shacks. Millard ignored the Cajuns as he rode past. Longarm felt a pang of sympathy for them, then wondered if the emotion was misplaced. These people who lived in the bayou country were a breed apart in some ways; hard though it might be, this life was the only one they knew, and Longarm suspected that most of them would never be happy anywhere else.
Another bayou joined the one they were following, and the water grew wider to their left. Millard waved at a field of flowers to the right and said, "Looks solid, doesn't it?"
"I reckon it
Longarm wondered how that trip down to the Delta country with Jasper Millard was going to go the next day.
CHAPTER 6
Longarm said, "Damn!" and swatted at the mosquito busily feasting on his neck. Beside him, Jasper Millard laughed.
"You stay down here in this country for very long, Parker," said Millard, "and you'll get to where you don't even notice those little bastards."
"That one wasn't so little," Longarm said as he studied the squashed insect on the palm of his hand. Its death had left a smear of blood on his skin. His own blood, thought Longarm, which the varmint had just sucked out of him. "These things get much bigger, they're liable to start carrying off dogs."
Millard chuckled again. He and Longarm were riding side by side along a road that followed the twisting course of a bayou. It was mid-morning and already quite hot, even though the cypress trees that bordered the road cast quite a bit of shade. Long strands of Spanish moss dangling from the branches brushed against Longarm's face from time to time. A warm breeze that was as lazy as the almost imperceptible current of the bayou brought a mixture of pungent smells to Longarm. The most prominent was that of the rich brown earth, but he also smelled the sweetness of honeysuckle and bougainvillea as well as the sharper tang of rotting fish. All in all, it was a blend that took some getting used to.
He had left his coat and vest behind today, though he still wore the string tie around his neck. His white shirt was already soaked with sweat. He had rolled the sleeves up for a while, but exposing his brawny forearms just gave the mosquitos more places to bite him. The sleeves were rolled down now. He wore brown whipcord pants and his usual black stovepipe boots. Millard had complimented him on the high-topped boots. "They're good for tromping around the bayou country," Millard had said. "Helps keep the rattlers and the cottonmouths and the copperheads and the coral snakes from biting you."
What kind of place was it, Longarm wondered, that had so many venomous snakes? Weren't one or two kinds enough?
The area was teeming with wildlife. So far he had seen deer and squirrels and skunks and opossums. A couple of times he had spotted what he first thought were logs floating in the water, and then he had seen the tiny black eyes protruding from the surface of the bayou. Those were alligators out there, he realized, gators just like the one that had chomped half of Douglas Ramsey's body. Maybe one of them was the same gator, for all he knew. A chill went through him at the thought, but he managed not to shudder.
From time to time, Longarm and Millard passed shacks with palmetto-thatched roofs. The shacks were built of unpainted, weather-bleached boards and were set atop stilts, and many of them leaned a little--whether from shoddy construction or the hurricane winds that sometimes blew from the Gulf, Longarm didn't know. Beside the shacks were small patches of garden. Cows and pigs and chickens were confined in ramshackle pens. Some of the shacks backed up to the bayou or even extended over the water on their stilts, and pirogues were tied up at these. The lightweight canoes drew very little water, Longarm knew. He had heard it said that they could float on a heavy dew.
Sometimes narrow, pinched, sunburned faces peered out at the two riders from the windows or porches of the shacks. Millard ignored the Cajuns as he rode past. Longarm felt a pang of sympathy for them, then wondered if the emotion was misplaced. These people who lived in the bayou country were a breed apart in some ways; hard though it might be, this life was the only one they knew, and Longarm suspected that most of them would never be happy anywhere else.
Another bayou joined the one they were following, and the water grew wider to their left. Millard waved at a field of flowers to the right and said, "Looks solid, doesn't it?"
"I reckon it
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