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Authors: Tabor Evans
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does," said Longarm.
"You wouldn't want to ride across there. You wouldn't make it five feet before your horse was bogged down in mud up to its belly. In fact, almost anywhere you go off this road it would be like that."
Longarm looked around. The landscape appeared to be tall grass prairie for the most part, sprinkled with fields full of flowers. Even without Millard's warning, though, he would have known from past visits to this area that appearances were deceiving. Any man who strayed off known paths ran the risk of winding up in quicksand or water over his head with little or no warning.
The cypress trees thinned out and gradually vanished, and Longarm and Millard entered a region of long, shallow ridges covered with rows of stunted oaks. "Shinneries," grunted Millard, pointing at the ridges with a thumb. "That's where we'll find the men we're looking for."
A few minutes later, he turned his horse and rode onto one of the ridges that crossed the path. Longarm followed. The shinnery oaks provided a little shade from the sun, which was climbing higher and higher in the sky and growing warmer as it climbed. The cypresses, with their spreading limbs and shawls of Spanish moss, had given better shade, but Longarm was grateful for anything that blocked the blasting rays of the sun.
Ahead of them, the ridge curved gradually to the right, and it appeared to run for several miles. Longarm couldn't see the end of it. It was perhaps a quarter of a mile wide, with salt-grass marshes flanking it on both sides. They had ridden about a mile, Longarm judged, when they came within sight of a cluster of shacks.
There were rivulets of open water among the marshes, and Longarm knew that the men who paddled the pirogues pulled up next to the shacks could navigate the twisting waterways through those marshes and swamps with as much ease and confidence as he could ride from Denver to Cheyenne. At the moment, several men were gathered on the porch of one of the shacks. As Longarm and Millard rode up, the men lifted hands in greeting and one of them stood up to walk slowly out to meet them.
"Howdy, Mr. Millard. We is here like you say, us.
"You have something for me?" asked Millard, not dismounting.
"Always gots something, no? Take it to N'awleans, you, an' sell her for plenty-plenty money, yes?"
"Depends on what you've got."
The man, who was tall and skinny with a thatch of dark hair that fell over his forehead, waved a hand at the pirogues, which were loaded with oilcloth-covered bundles. "We gots fine silk, us, an' a case or three o' wine, an' some o' th em fancy see-gars from the Cubanos, you bet. You make us a good price, an' we load her on your wagons when they come, yes."
At the mention of the Cuban cigars, Millard shot a glance at Longarm, as if reminding him of the one he had smoked the night before in the Brass Pelican. Then he looked back at the spokesman for the Cajun smugglers and shook his head solemnly. "There's not enough demand for those goods, boys," he said. "You're going to have to give me a good price on the lot if you want me to take it."
"Our hearts, they are breakin'!" exclaimed the smuggler. "We are poor men, us, jus' tryin' to make a little-little money for our families, no? These words, they hurt us."
Millard shrugged his brawny shoulders, took off his planter's hat, and used a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket to mop sweat from his bald head. "It's up to you, Antoine," he said.
Longarm had seen haggling like this many times before, in border towns from California to Texas. In its own way, this Delta country was like a border town, because there was no place else exactly like it. Arguing over a price was to be expected, and Longarm wasn't surprised when a moment later, the spokesman for the smugglers echoed Millard's shrug and said, "A hard man, you, Mr. Millard, but we takes your money-"
His concession was interrupted by the sudden bark of a gunshot. The Cajun's eyes widened in shock and pain as he
"You wouldn't want to ride across there. You wouldn't make it five feet before your horse was bogged down in mud up to its belly. In fact, almost anywhere you go off this road it would be like that."
Longarm looked around. The landscape appeared to be tall grass prairie for the most part, sprinkled with fields full of flowers. Even without Millard's warning, though, he would have known from past visits to this area that appearances were deceiving. Any man who strayed off known paths ran the risk of winding up in quicksand or water over his head with little or no warning.
The cypress trees thinned out and gradually vanished, and Longarm and Millard entered a region of long, shallow ridges covered with rows of stunted oaks. "Shinneries," grunted Millard, pointing at the ridges with a thumb. "That's where we'll find the men we're looking for."
A few minutes later, he turned his horse and rode onto one of the ridges that crossed the path. Longarm followed. The shinnery oaks provided a little shade from the sun, which was climbing higher and higher in the sky and growing warmer as it climbed. The cypresses, with their spreading limbs and shawls of Spanish moss, had given better shade, but Longarm was grateful for anything that blocked the blasting rays of the sun.
Ahead of them, the ridge curved gradually to the right, and it appeared to run for several miles. Longarm couldn't see the end of it. It was perhaps a quarter of a mile wide, with salt-grass marshes flanking it on both sides. They had ridden about a mile, Longarm judged, when they came within sight of a cluster of shacks.
There were rivulets of open water among the marshes, and Longarm knew that the men who paddled the pirogues pulled up next to the shacks could navigate the twisting waterways through those marshes and swamps with as much ease and confidence as he could ride from Denver to Cheyenne. At the moment, several men were gathered on the porch of one of the shacks. As Longarm and Millard rode up, the men lifted hands in greeting and one of them stood up to walk slowly out to meet them.
"Howdy, Mr. Millard. We is here like you say, us.
"You have something for me?" asked Millard, not dismounting.
"Always gots something, no? Take it to N'awleans, you, an' sell her for plenty-plenty money, yes?"
"Depends on what you've got."
The man, who was tall and skinny with a thatch of dark hair that fell over his forehead, waved a hand at the pirogues, which were loaded with oilcloth-covered bundles. "We gots fine silk, us, an' a case or three o' wine, an' some o' th em fancy see-gars from the Cubanos, you bet. You make us a good price, an' we load her on your wagons when they come, yes."
At the mention of the Cuban cigars, Millard shot a glance at Longarm, as if reminding him of the one he had smoked the night before in the Brass Pelican. Then he looked back at the spokesman for the Cajun smugglers and shook his head solemnly. "There's not enough demand for those goods, boys," he said. "You're going to have to give me a good price on the lot if you want me to take it."
"Our hearts, they are breakin'!" exclaimed the smuggler. "We are poor men, us, jus' tryin' to make a little-little money for our families, no? These words, they hurt us."
Millard shrugged his brawny shoulders, took off his planter's hat, and used a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket to mop sweat from his bald head. "It's up to you, Antoine," he said.
Longarm had seen haggling like this many times before, in border towns from California to Texas. In its own way, this Delta country was like a border town, because there was no place else exactly like it. Arguing over a price was to be expected, and Longarm wasn't surprised when a moment later, the spokesman for the smugglers echoed Millard's shrug and said, "A hard man, you, Mr. Millard, but we takes your money-"
His concession was interrupted by the sudden bark of a gunshot. The Cajun's eyes widened in shock and pain as he
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