Mystery of Ten 'Gator Bayou

By Kent Conwell

Though frightened by the discovery of a man’s arm on their trotline and the disappearance of the game warden and strange deaths of two alligators, teenage chums, Gary and Max, go about their summer job harvesting frog legs and catfish.

One night back in a dark slough, they stumble right into the middle of murder and illegal drugs. Pursued through swamps and canebrakes, the young men are captured and bound. They overhear the drug dealers’ plans to kill them and bury them in the swamp.

In a desperate effort to escape, Gary and Max leap from a second floor window of a warehouse into the swamp, brave a trek though snake-infested palmetto barrens, and take refuge on the only place left them, Alligator Island.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kent Conwell
• Release date: Aug 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466158009

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Mystery of Ten ‘Gator Bayou

Published by Kent Conwell at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Kent Conwell

ISBN 978-1-4661-5800-9.

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Mystery of Ten ‘Gator Bayou

Chapter 1-The Arm

Yaaaaa

Gary Broussard jerked around in the pirogue, staring at his friend, Max Gilder, who was screaming and jabbing his whole arm up and down at the water.

Gary looked down at the sun-splattered water. His eyes bulged. There, dangling from a shiny trotline hook was a man’s arm, ragged at the shoulder. His scream stuck in his throat.

Max dropped the trotline. The sun flashed on a ring on the man’s finger. Though petrified, Gary couldn’t help noticing the unusual design on the ring.

He grabbed the push pole and gave the pirogue a mighty shove back down the bayou, toward his house. Paddle, Max, he shouted. Paddle.

Max knelt in the stern of the unsteady craft and paddled furiously with his hands.

They shot down river, past the small island on which a half-a-dozen alligators of various sizes sunned.

H. . .Hurry, G. . .Gare, hurry. Max’s fair-complexioned face was heat-stroke red. D. . .Don’t stop.

Gary’s wiry muscles strained as he drove the pirogue faster than he had ever poled it before. Just keep paddling, he shouted, wishing for the hundredth time that his Pa had repaired the Gamefisher outboard on the jonboat like he promised.

The wooden pirogue sliced through the brown water of the bayou, sending out v-shaped wakes from the bow. Gary blinked back the sweat stinging his eyes. Ahead, a large garfish surfaced and rolled on his belly.

Cutting off the river into a slough of pea green water, the boys covered the mile to Gary’s house in record time, sending the pirogue skimming up on the grass. He leaped from the craft even before it stopped and bounded across the yard for the clapboard house. Max was a half-step behind.

Gary burst into the kitchen and slid to a halt in front of the refrigerator. His chest heaved. He gasped for breath.

Max ran into him. Gary spun and the two looked at each other in fright. N. . .Now what?, asked Max.

I dunno, he gasped, his face flushed with fear.

Your dad, exclaimed Max. He'll know what to do.

Gary hesitated. He knew his dad could help, but he didn’t really understand his father now. Ever since his dad had refused to run for another term as sheriff and taken that dumb old security job at the refinery, he seemed to be a different person. He just wasn’t any fun anymore.

They met Jim Broussard when he pulled up in front in his five-year-old pickup, a 1995 Chevrolet. As soon as he closed the door, Gary told him about the arm.

He stared at them in disbelief. Hold on there, boys. You say you found a man's arm? You sure? Or was it just a soggy cardboard box from that new warehouse up the bayou?

Gary nodded emphatically. Honest, Pop. It was an arm. That's the truth. On our trotline just above Alligator Island. Max and me had just run the minnow traps, and it was the first trotline we checked. About halfway out. A man's arm. That's what it was, Pop, honest. A man's arm.

Yeah, M. . .Mister Broussard. U. . .Up to the shoulder.

Then Gary remembered the ring. Yeah. And he had a ring. A silver one with some kind of design.

A design?

Yes, sir. Gary wrinkled his forehead as he tried to remember. But, I don’t know what kind. Just a design."

A grim smile twisted Jim Broussard's lips. He had lived on the bayou all his life. Nothing that came from its waters surprised him.

Best we go check, he said. Get the jonboat. I'll go change. He hesitated and fixed his son with a hard stare. You're not funning me, are you, Boy? I’ve had a hard day.

No, sir. Honest. Gary shook his head emphatically. That's the truth.

Gary retrieved the Sears 7.5 horsepower Gamefisher from the metal shed and fit it on the transom. He tightened the clamps.

Max rolled his eyes. The last time they took the motor, it died and stranded them downriver. Y. . .Your dad ever tune up the motor like he said?

What'd I tell you earlier, Gary said. He hasn't done anything to it. He's been working at the plant every day since he stopped being sheriff two months ago. He hasn't done anything. He shook his head. What a dumb stunt not running for sheriff again.

To Gary’s surprise, the Sears Gamefisher started on the first yank of the rope and ran perfectly up the bayou to the trotline. From where he sat, Gary could see the winding footpath on either shoreline, worn hard and clean by years of bank fishermen traipsing up and down the bayou.

Ten minutes later, Gary pointed to the end of the trotline knotted around a cypress knee. Over there, Pop.

His father cut the power on the small outboard and idled up to the knee on the down-current side. Gary, who had been seated in the bow, scooted to the mid-section seat beside Max.

What's wrong, Boy? Grab that line before we float away.

The current was already pushing the jonboat downstream. Gary grinned sheepishly, not wanting to admit he was afraid. I. . .ah. . ..

Jim Broussard shook his head. Without a word, he gunned the engine and pulled up to the line again. Quickly, he cut the power and moved to the bow and grabbed the cypress knee. At that moment, a small, white bottle floated past. Gary’s father leaned over the gunwale and grabbed the square container with his free hand. Hey, what’s this?

Just an empty medicine bottle, Pop. Ever since the new warehouse was built upriver, we’ve seen a bunch of them floating by.

Oh. He tossed it back into the slow moving water and fished the trotline from the water. How far out?

’B. . .’B. . .’Bout halfway, Mister Broussard, whispered Max. Ain't that right, Gare?

Gary cleared his throat. Yeah. He looked around the forest surrounding the bayou, at the dark shadows deep in the woods. Thick clusters of briars and willows and palmettos smothered the gumbo banks, and beneath the thick growth, alligators sprawled in the mud and cottonmouths slept on thick limbs.

The current eased the jonboat downstream, pulling the line taut as Jim Broussard ran the cord hand over hand, pausing at each dropline. He felt a tug, then a jerk. A small blue catfish surfaced. He quickly unhooked it and turned it loose.

Neither boy complained.

Should be the next hook, Pop, muttered Gary, easing forward.

Okay. Here comes the dropline.

Gary caught his breath. The swamp grew deathly silent. Even the constant trill of the larks and chirping sparrows faded away as he craned his neck to see the line.

His Pop frowned. "There's something on there, something heavy.

Max and Gary exchanged terrified looks.

The line sagged in the water, then popped out, a thick, water soaked log impaled on the barb.

Jim Broussard glowered at the boys. You sure this was the one?

Gary was beginning to doubt himself. I. . .I think so, Pop. Yes, sir. I'm sure it was.

Well, let's run the rest of the line and see. He dropped the hook and pulled them toward the next dropline.

Gary and Max stared at each other. I don't know, whispered Gary.

M. . .Maybe it was the next one, said Max hopefully, leaning over the gunwale for a better look.

But that hook was empty. The next two still held baits of liver, and the last two were bare.

Jim Broussard dropped the trotline back into the water and scooted around in the bow to face the boys. Irritated, he said. Well? Where's the arm?

Max gulped. H. . .Honest, M. . .Mister Broussard. It was t. . .there. W. . .W. . .We saw it.

Yeah, chimed in Gary. I wouldn't lie about nothing like that, Pop.

His dad lifted an eyebrow. Like you wouldn’t lie about how you slipped into town last month?

Gary cringed. I know. But this is the truth. Honest. I’m not lying.

The older man’s face grew hard. Then what happened to the arm? Huh?

I don't know, but it was there. Honest it was. Maybe a ‘gator took it.

And left the log in exchange? With a shake of his head, Gary’s dad rose to a crouch and, holding to the gunwale on either side for balance, made his way to the stern of the jonboat, which was already floating back downstream.

He yanked on the starter rope. The engine fired, then died. Blast, he said, yanking on the rope again.

Sure wish we had a new motor.

His father shot him a hard look. Stop whining, boy. We do the best we can. The sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.

Gary grew sullen.

Finally, the motor sputtered to life, pouring out a cloud of blue smoke. Jim shifted gears. Personally, I think you boys been out in the sun too much. I got better things to do than chase after your imaginations. He twisted the throttle angrily and the small motor coughed and groaned, fired and misfired, then began pushing the jonboat downriver.

His ears burning from the scolding, Gary glanced at his father. Beyond the stern of the jonboat, at the bend in the bayou upriver, Gary spotted a yellow tri-hull powerboat anchored under the limbs of a willow. Before he could wonder about the boat, the small outboard