A Crying Shame by William W. Johnstone Read Free Book Online Page B

old, loved their young—in their own fashion—and built shelters out of bark and branches and leaves and living vines and bushes. They made loincloths out of small woven vines.
    And they buried their dead in secret underground places.
    But the swamp was much larger then: hundreds of thousands of acres; and the Links were never a large tribe, never numbering more than a few hundred at the maximum. Now there were less than eighty stable male Links in the Crying Swamp. More than fifty crazed young males. They all had learned to hide and sleep by day, coming out only during the late hours of the night to hunt for food—and for mates, now that they could produce only male offspring. And the leaders had to be more and more intelligent in their planning of raids, more selective in their choosing of who would breed, for a madness had crept into their strain. Of the young males, many of those who lived past twenty years would be stricken with sudden seizures and shuddering; they would foam at the mouth like mad dogs and their eyes would become crazed. They became meat-eaters only, craving hot blood and raw flesh. Human or animal. It made no difference.
    And the leaders would have to kill them. If they could catch them.
    But many got away. Those who did lived deep in the great swamp, breeding with stolen women, bringing more and more crazed creatures into the world, eluding their own brothers and fathers who sought to destroy them. For the leaders knew that those maddened few, and their actions of late, had the potential to kill them all.
    What to do?
    The older, wiser Links had much more than native intelligence. They could reason and think and plan, and they had had, for centuries, their own language. They had some of their human offspring helping them, from time to time, but now some of their human sons and daughters were turning against them, and they could not understand this act. For had they not taken the humanlike infants to the edge of the great swamp, leaving them on the steps of human homes, to be cared for and loved and raised with those who were as them?
    It was baffling to the Links. Baffling.
    And they did not know what to do. For it was against their nature to kill for no reason. But they had to survive. That was also part of their nature. So what choice were they left?
    The leaders had to talk; they must risk an open meeting with all the clans to talk. It had to be.
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    At Despair Plantation, Jon belted on a .45-caliber pistol, then reached into the travel bag and fitted together an M-10 Ingram, complete with long padded barrel that acted as both barrel extension and silencer. Even with the silencer, the M-10 was not quiet at full automatic.
    Interesting weapon,” Mike observed, more than a touch of dryness in his tone.
    Forty-five-caliber. Not worth a damn past sixty yards ... that’s my personal opinion. Some say less, some say more. But up to sixty yards, it’ll stop most anything that’s coming at you.”
    Thirty-round clip?”
    Yes.”
    Sheriff Saucier studied Jon Badon in the sunlight of summer in the bayou country. A big man, well over six feet, weighing probably two-twenty-five, a lot of muscle in his arms and shoulders. Mike involuntarily sucked in his own gut, aware of the beginnings of a paunch, and felt a pang of jealousy at Badon’s lean waist and hips. At his temples Badon had only a touch of gray, in his thick, dark brown hair. Very pale eyes. Dangerous eyes, the sheriff thought. Hunter’s eyes.
    Wonder how many men he’s killed?
    Wonder if he even knows?
    Probably not.
    Badon was conscious of Sheriff Saucier’s careful studied gaze. He said nothing; he was accustomed to getting this once-over from lawmen. There was something about him, his walk, his manner, his bearing, that caused street-wise cops to turn around and take a second look at him. It was a primal sensing that this man, if confronted, would be dangerous, would not back away, would fight;