Beneath the Bayou’s Shadow

The mist over Cypress Bend rolled in thick and heavy, curling around the wooden houses like a slow-moving predator. The air felt different lately—oppressive, with the weight of something that wouldn’t let go. Will Calderon stood at the edge of the old wooden bridge, looking out over the dark water of the bayou. The faint sound of bullfrogs croaked from the distance, barely cutting through the heavy silence that hung over the town.

Will’s fingers tightened on the railing, the rough wood biting into his palms. The swamp was still, but the decay it carried was everywhere. He could feel it—something was killing this place, choking the life from the people, and leaving behind a town that barely had any fight left. Crowe had been draining the soul from Cypress Bend for months now. His drilling had started the rot, poisoning the water and the land. Will knew the signs because he had seen them before.

But no one else seemed to notice. Not in time, anyway.

Behind him, Samuel Beck sat hunched over on the porch of the general store, his breath coming in slow, painful rasps. Samuel had been sick for months, a slow decline that mirrored the town’s. Will listened to the faint sound of Samuel’s knife scraping against a piece of wood, carving another of his small wooden dogs. The blade caught on the wood, trembling with each stroke as Samuel’s hands shook.

Will turned his eyes back to the bayou, to the water that should have been teeming with life but now lay still, black as ink.

“It’s like the land’s givin’ up,” Samuel rasped from behind him, his voice thick with the weight of what they both knew. “Ain’t nothing left here but ghosts.”

Will didn’t turn to look at him. He didn’t need to. He could hear the weariness in Samuel’s voice, feel the tension that had settled over them like the humid air. “This land isn’t dead yet, Sam. But it’s close.”

“You think a few papers are gonna change that?” Samuel’s words cut through the silence, sharp but faint, like they took more out of him than he could afford. “You’re wastin’ your time. Crowe ain’t gonna just back down ‘cause you wave a few pieces of paper at him.”

Will’s jaw tightened. He had heard the same thing back in Sandstone Ridge, when people had tried to warn him. But he had ignored them, and by the time he realized the truth, the town had already been choked by the poison Crowe left in his wake.

“I saw this happen before, Sam,” Will said, his voice low and steady, almost drowned by the night sounds of the bayou. “Sandstone Ridge—a place just like this. People thought the same thing. By the time they figured out the water was poisoned, it was too late.”

Samuel’s knife stilled against the wood, his breath catching in his throat. Will could feel his friend’s eyes on him now, the weight of disbelief settling over them both.

“And you think we’ve still got time to stop it here?” Samuel asked, his voice softer, more resigned.

Will nodded, even though Samuel couldn’t see him. “I don’t have a choice. We have to stop it.”

The swamp groaned under the weight of the night, the thick air pressing down on them. The faint croak of frogs echoed in the distance, but even the wildlife seemed quieter than it should have been. The bayou was sick, and so was Samuel.

Will clenched his fists at his sides. He couldn’t shake the memories of Sandstone Ridge—the people coughing up blood, the animals that had withered and died, the stench of oil in the water. He had stood by, powerless, as the town collapsed under the weight of greed. This time would be different. It had to be.

The saloon was alive with noise, but underneath the laughter, the off-key singing, and the clink of glasses, there was an edge. The Bog Rats lounged at their tables, their boots kicked up, guns slung low on their hips. Tobias Crowe sat at the far end of the room, his cigar smoke curling up toward the low-hanging rafters, his eyes fixed on the men who played cards in front of him. The air inside was thick with sweat, whiskey, and something else—something sour that made Will’s gut twist.

Will stepped through the door, his boots heavy against the creaking floorboards. The room didn’t fall silent at once, but the laughter died down as eyes turned toward him, suspicion flickering in the dim light. The Bog Rats paused their games, hands resting casually near their guns, watching him with lazy grins.

At the back of the room, Crowe didn’t move. His grin widened as Will walked closer, his cigar still clamped between his teeth.

“Well, well,” Crowe drawled, his voice thick with smoke and arrogance. “If it ain’t Will Calderon. Figured you’d stay gone after last time. Guess I overestimated your sense of self-preservation.”

Will didn’t answer. He could feel the weight of the room pressing in on him, the heavy scent of stale whiskey and sweat clinging to the air. The Bog Rats were watching him, the tension in the room building like a coiled spring. Will’s hand rested on the satchel at his side, his fingers brushing the rough canvas.

“This ends tonight, Crowe,” Will said, his voice steady, cold. His heart hammered in his chest, but his face remained calm. Crowe had to see it, had to know this was the end of the line.

Crowe chuckled, tapping his cigar ash onto the floor. “You’ve got some nerve, Calderon. You think you can walk in here and tell me what to do? This town’s mine. Ain’t nothin’ you can do to change that.”

Will’s eyes flicked to the papers in his hand. The documents were Crowe’s undoing—contracts, signed bribes, and records of the poisoned water seeping into the town’s wells. It was proof that Crowe’s greed had been killing the land, and the people along with it. But Will knew Crowe wouldn’t care about the law, not when he controlled the town.

“I don’t need to change it,” Will said quietly, taking a step closer to the table. “I just need you gone.”

Crowe’s smirk faltered for just a second, his eyes narrowing. The air in the room thickened, the sound of shuffling cards and clinking glasses fading into the background as the Bog Rats shifted in their seats.

“You’re bluffin’, Calderon,” Crowe said, but there was a new edge to his voice now, a tightness that hadn’t been there before.

Will tossed the papers onto the table, letting them scatter across the wood. “Take a look,” he said, his voice cold and sharp. “You think you’re untouchable? Think again.”

Crowe’s eyes flicked down to the papers, his smirk fading as he scanned the documents. For a moment, the room was silent. Then Crowe’s eyes snapped back up to Will, and the smirk returned—colder, more dangerous.

“You think some papers are gonna save this town?” Crowe sneered, pushing his chair back. “You think the law’s gonna come to this swamp and save these people? You’re a damn fool, Calderon. You’ve always been.”

Will felt his pulse quicken, the weight of Crowe’s words pressing against him. He had heard those same words in Sandstone Ridge, and they had been true then. But not now. Not this time.

“I’m not waiting for the law,” Will said, his hand hovering near his gun. “I’m waiting for you to crawl back into the hole you came from.”

Crowe’s eyes darkened, his hand twitching toward his gun. “You ain’t built for this, Calderon. You never were.”

The tension in the room snapped like a wire pulled too tight. Crowe’s hand shot toward his gun, but Will was faster. The crack of the gunshot echoed through the saloon, loud and final, cutting through the heavy air like a blade. Crowe staggered back, his eyes wide with shock, his hand clutching his side as blood seeped between his fingers.

The room went still. The Bog Rats froze, their hands hovering near their guns, but none of them moved. They were waiting, watching.

Crowe gasped for breath, his body shaking as he slumped against the table. “You think… you’ve won?” he rasped, his voice weak. “You’re… too late. You’re always too late.”

Will stepped closer, his gun still drawn, his breath coming in short bursts. He stared down at Crowe, his chest tight, the weight of the past pressing down on him like a stone.

“Not this time,” Will said quietly.

Crowe’s eyes flickered, the life draining from them as his body slumped forward. It was over.

Outside, the fog wrapped around the town like a living thing, thick and suffocating. Will’s boots scraped against the wooden planks of the porch as he stepped out of the saloon, his heart still pounding from the adrenaline, but his mind already turning to what came next.

It’s done, “Will announced as he made his way around the corner to the porch of the general store where he’d left Samuel waiting.

Samuel sat hunched over on the steps. Beside him lay some papers under the now completed sculpture of the small wooden dog. The whittling knife lay neatly beside it.

“Did you hear me?” Will asked “ I said ‘it’s done’.” he said softly. “Crowe’s gone.”

No answer.

Will felt it without checking He knew. His friend was gone. He stood for a moment, staring out over the bayou and whispered again “I did it, Sam. We did it.” He reached down for the knife, the wooden dog and the papers. He kept his eyes on the wooden dog, his fingers tracing the edges of the figure, his movements slow and deliberate. He opened the papers to see a simple note:

“Thanks, Will.

—Sam”

Will’s throat tightened, his heart pounding in his chest, but he didn’t move. Samuel had found his peace. Will looked out on the path ahead and saw a piece of driftwood that interested him. He walked toward it, picked it up, put in into his leather traveling pouch and started heading out of town. “A blue-tick” he thought as he patted his pocket for the whittling knife Samuel had left him. “A blue-tick hound for sure!”