Swamp Fling

The law doesn't mean much when you get far enough out on the bayou. Aside from the chivalry of good Cajun folk, the only real law is don't get caught. And that line of thinking is exactly what led to the dismal predicament now facing Francois Delacroix. The much beloved scion of an upstanding family, his love and gambling and womanizing was sure to get the better of him sooner or later. At least that's what everyone who knew him growing up thought, and perhaps, hoped would happen before he finagled himself into an early grave with one of his hare-brained schemes or misadventures. Somehow though, his wits proved boundless time after time, and his appetite for excitement steadily grew despite earnest pleas that he mend his ways and at least attempt to be a proper gentleman. His family's honor depended on such. 

Unfortunately for Delacroix, he had a terrible compulsion to think with his fifth leg and let his common sense take extended holidays. That is how he ended up impregnating Marie Duplessis, and became a fugitive to avoid the inevitable shotgun wedding. It was bad enough that his free-wheeling bachelor days were swiftly coming to an end, and to make matters worse, the Duplessis family was not even nouveau riche. They were just plain poor. Good, honest, people they were. The best neighbors and friends anyone could ask for. But they were dirt poor, had been for a long time, and certainly were eager to see an easy way out of their destitution. The head of the Duplessis clan, Gaston, practically jumped for joy when he found out his darling grand-daughter had been knocked up by one of the richest men in the parish.  

His joy quickly turned to grief and then anger. "That damn rascal Delacroix!", he'd roar at every meal. "I'll tan his sorry hide if he doesn't marry Marie, and I don't care if I have to chase him to the ends of the earth!" He punctuated this ominous oath with a powerful fist slam on the table. Those gathered at the dinner table did their best to soothe the venerable old patriarch, for his poor heart was beginning to give out after a lifetime of hard-living. It was decided by Marie's many brothers and cousins to spread the word that they were coming for Delacroix, ready or not, but they'd go easy on him if he turned himself in before the chase was on. After the marriage, he would after all, be part of the family. A gigantic family with many hungry mouths and empty pockets, yet such were the cards dealt by the cruel hand of fate. In any case, a true gambler would look forward to the challenge of laissez les bon temps roulez. 

Meanwhile, Delacroix was running out of places to hide as he had worn out his welcome with just about every hotel, motel, hovel, shack, and henhouse. Desperate, he turned to the last man he knew, a gambling rival turned nemesis named Jean-Pierre Baptiste. Baptiste was not quite a mountain of a man, but he'd seen his share of bar fights, and there was nothing he hated more than cowards and braggarts like Delacroix. Baptiste could scarcely believe his eyes when Delacroix turned up on his doorstep, hat in hand, begging for help like some penniless vagabond. 

"You got some nerve turning up here", growled Baptiste at the shadow of a man groveling before him.

"Oh please, good sir. Let's be good Christian men and let bygones be bygones. My eyes have seen the light!" Delacroix then hastily pulled out the cross he was wearing as if it were a protective amulet.

"Put that away, you fool. If you ever showed up in church, so many people would gasp in shock it'd suck all the air out of the room and everyone would faint."

Baptiste had a real way with words. Especially when some good red wine put a fire in his belly. Still, the pitiful look in Delacroix's eyes moved his stone heart ever so slightly. Helping him was indeed the Christian thing to do, even if the object of his charity was the most notorious scoundrel he had ever crossed paths with. 

"Alright, you've convinced me. Go stand in front of that tree yonder and don't move a muscle. I need to fetch something from inside."

Delacroix did as instructed. He felt the bark of the live oak dig into his back. Gusts of evening wind rustled the Spanish moss above him. It was almost peaceful in a way except he knew a dreadful surprise would be sprung on him in moments. But what could it be? Oh, such tortuous, excruciating suspense!

After a subjective eternity, Baptiste returned with a flintlock pistol in each hand and two braces of them hanging from holsters from hips and shoulders. There was a cruel sharpness in his eyes which bore into Delacroix like poisoned daggers. 

"Well, Delacroix, seeing as you now profess to be right with the lord, certainly you won't mind if I perhaps unintentionally send you off to meet him."

Delacroix couldn't bear to watch this grisly attempt at imitating William Tell, and he was so petrified as to be speechless for one of the few times in his life. He heard a hammer cock. 

BANG!

"This must be your lucky night, Mr. Delacroix. My reputation as a marksmen is impeccable, but I must confess to being a bit tipsy at the moment. I pray the good lord guides my hand." 

Baptiste then slurped his wine loud enough for his hostage to hear. 

BANG!

The shockwave of the pistol blast had Delacroix's ears ringing, and the scent of gunpowder filled his nostrils. His heart was pounding like a kettle drum, and beads of sweat began to pour down his face. 

BANG!

Delacroix's shirt was now absolutely soaked. He took rapid, shallow breaths to keep his movements to a minimum. 

BANG!

"Two more to go, mon bon ami", taunted Baptiste. How easy it is to be sadist when one has the upper hand, he mused. 

BANG!

Delacroix was at his wit's end. It took all his self-control to stifle himself for the final shot.

BANG!

"OK, Delacroix. Open your eyes. I probably should have mentioned that none of the pistols were loaded. While it is true that if your guts were on fire, I would not piss on them to put it out, I'm no murderer."

At that, a posse of Duplessis emerged from chez Baptiste. At the tail end was a priest and Marie. 

"D'accord, Delacroix. Get yourself over here", said the priest with a firm voice and his nonchalantly pulled the cotton plugs from his ears.  

Here ends the tale of how the most outrageous scofflaw in three generations was finally brought to justice and matrimony. And it wasn't even the shotgun wedding he had dreaded so much.