by Sharpe, Jon
“I’m giving it to her at a special ceremony.” Deerforth smiled. “She’s quite impatient to get it over with. You can’t imagine how much she wants that hundred thousand.”
“Yes,” Fargo said. “I can.” He slowed. “Nice day for a stroll, don’t you think?”
Deerforth slowed too, and grinned. “We take too long, she’ll be madder than a wet hen.”
“Let’s hope.”
The senator laughed. “We’ll tell her Marshal Moleen wouldn’t let you leave.”
“I’ll tell her the truth,” Fargo said.
“You want her mad at you?”
“After what she pulled?”
“She’s an armful, I must admit,” Senator Deerforth remarked. Realizing what he’d said, he quickly amended. “That came out wrong.”
Fargo was thinking about Ranson and Jules. Whoever sent them might send others. It occurred to him that if he asked around down at the docks, someone might know something. He realized the senator was talking.
“—will attend. We’re holding it out in front of the Citizens Banks of Deerforth, which I own, by the way.”
“Is that wise?” Fargo wondered.
“Marshal Moleen and his deputies will be there to ensure no one lets temptation get the better of them. Garvin will be there, too, as he always is, with several men in my employ.”
“You’ll have a small army.”
“It’s been enough in other years,” Deerforth said. “The outlaw element knows better than to try anything. You might not think much of Moleen but he has grit to spare and the criminals know it.” Deerforth rose onto his toes and stared at a brick building. “Speak of my bank and there is it. Do you mind if we stop? I must inform the bank president that we’ll be there to disperse the money within the hour.”
Fargo followed the senator in and over to where a portly man in an expensive suit was scribbling in a ledger. The man glanced up when Deerforth cleared his throat.
“Senator! This is a surprise.” The man smiled and rose and came around his desk.
“I just want to make sure all is in readiness for the ceremony, Benton,” Deerforth said.
“I beg your pardon?” the banker said.
“The ceremony when we give the money to the winner. My God, man, how can you have forgotten?”
“It’s not that,” Benton said. “It’s just that I’m terribly confused.”
“What is there to be confused about?” Deerforth demanded.
“I’ve already handed the money over.”
22
“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Senator Deerforth said. “You gave the money to Lacey Mayhare without my say-so?”
“Lacey Mayhare?” Benton said. “No, I gave the money to your overseer, Garvin Oster.”
“What?”
“I gave him the one hundred thousand,” Benton said, “as you instructed.”
Deerforth glanced in bewilderment at Fargo and then back at the bank president. “Explain, Mr. Benton, and explain quickly. Either you are incompetent or insane.”
Benton drew himself up to his full height. “I am neither, Marion. We’ve been friends too long for you to talk to me like that.”
“But my God, man, you gave Garvin the money?”
“He had a letter,” Benton said. “In your handwriting. Signed by you. Instructing me to give the money to him.”
“Letter? What letter?”
Benton went around his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a folded sheet. He gave it to Deerforth.
The senator read it aloud in a tone of disbelief. “ ‘Mr. Benton. This is to inform you there has been a change in plans. I have moved the ceremony from the bank to the Cosmopolitan. I do not have time to come over in person for the funds so I am sending Garvin. Please give the money to him and he will bring it to me. Most cordially, Marion Deerforth.’ ” Deerforth turned the paper over and looked at the other side and then read it again and when he looked up, he had a dazed expression. “This looks like my handwriting but it isn’t. It’s a forgery.”
“Are you saying you didn’t write that?”
“Do your ears work?” Deerforth angrily demanded. Controlling himself, he said, “I never changed anything. The ceremony is to be held here, not at the saloon.”
“I don’t understand,” Benton said.
“That makes two of us. Garvin has been with me for years. I trust him as I do my wife. What can he possibly have been thinking?”
To Fargo it seemed obvious but he kept it to himself as Deerforth proposed going to the saloon and Benton offered to come along. Fargo trailed after them, listening to them speculate, and marveled that a senator and a banker could be so thick between the ears.
No sooner did they stride through the batwings than Lacey Mayhare came over showing more teeth than a patent medicine salesman. “Here you are, at last,” she exclaimed. “Let’s get this over with. My hands are itching for my money.”
Senator Deerforth gazed about the saloon. “Garvin Oster isn’t here?”
“Your foreman or whatever he is?” Lacey said. “No, I haven’t seen him all day.”
Vin Creed joined them. He had a half empty bottle and appeared well on his way to getting drunk. “Let’s hear it for the winner,” he said, and raised the bottle to Lacey.
“Will you stop?” she snapped. “I won. Get over it, you big baby.”
“There is no God,” Creed said, and chugged.
“He’s been this way since you left,” Lacey told the senator. “I’ve heard of poor losers but he’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not the losing,” Creed said. “It’s losing to the likes of you.”
“I won’t be insulted,” Lacey said.
“Then you shouldn’t be a conniving bitch,” Creed said. He chuckled and drank.
“I don’t have time for this,” Senator Deerforth said. Brushing past them, he went to the bar. “Tom, has Garvin Oster been in here this morning?”
“Garvin hasn’t been in in days,” the bartender said.
“I’m going home,” Deerforth announced. “Garvin must have taken the money there.”
“Hold on,” Lacey said. “Your foreman has my money?”
“He’s my overseer and my right hand and my good friend,” Deerforth told her.
“That’s nice,” Lacey said, “but what is he doing with my money?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
“I’m going along. It’s my money.”
Benton wanted to go, too, and the three of them hastened out to the senator’s carriage.
Fargo climbed on the Ovaro and followed. As they neared the end of the main street, a zebra dun overtook the stallion.
“I decided to tag along,” Vin Creed said, and offered the bottle. “Care for a swig?”
Fargo allowed himself a swallow and passed the bottle back.
“How well do you know Garvin Oster?”
“Not well at all,” the gambler said. “I’ve seen him a few times and that’s it.” He swished the bottle. “I did hear he killed a man a long time ago, with his bare fists. Back before he came to work for the senator.” He looked at Fargo. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Could be,” Fargo said.
“I can’t wait to see the look on Mayhare’s face.”
When the carriage pulled up at the mansion, a servant came out to meet it, an older man with gray at the temples.
“James,” the senator greeted him, “where’s Garvin? I must speak with him immediately.”
“He’s not here, sir,” the servant said.
“He hasn’t come back from town?”
“Yes, he did, sir,” the servant answered. “But he left again about an hour ago.”
“With my money?” Lacey asked.
“I wouldn’t know about that, ma’am,” the servant said. “He left with Mrs. Deerforth.”
The senator looked as if he had been struck by lightning. “Virginia went with him?”
“Yes, s
ir. On horseback. She had her traveling bag and she appeared to be awful upset. I thought it strange but it wasn’t my place to say anything.”
“This can’t be,” Deerforth said. “Where’s Roselyn? Maybe she knows what is going on.”
“Why, she went with them, sir.”
The senator put both fists to his temples. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. What on earth is happening?”
“Seems to me,” Vin Creed said, “that it’s as plain as the nose on your face. Your right hand and good friend has stolen your money, your wife, and your kid.”
23
Fargo was in the kitchen having coffee when Marshal Moleen entered, his spurs jangling.
The lawman pulled out a chair and motioned at Maria and she brought a cup and the pot over. As she poured, Moleen pushed his hat back on his head and scratched his chin. “A hell of a mess.”
“And then some,” Fargo said.
“I’ve known Garvin pretty near twenty years, ever since he came to work for the senator.”
Fargo sensed that Moleen was leading up to something and let him ramble.
“Garvin hasn’t given anyone a lick of trouble in all that time. He’s not as rowdy as he used to be.”
“Rumor has it he killed a man,” Fargo said.
“He rode with a wild bunch when he was younger. The Grissom brothers. Ever heard of them?”
Fargo shook his head.
“As mean a brood as was ever born. They and several others, Garvin among them, thought they were the cocks of the roost. When they weren’t drunk they were getting drunk. They’d fight anyone at the drop of a feather and they’d drop the feather.”
“I’ve run into their kind,” Fargo said.
“Garvin wasn’t the worst of that outfit but he was in the thick of it. That rumor you mentioned? Garvin was sweet on a dance hall gal and one night this other feller danced with her and got rough when she wouldn’t let him take liberties.” Moleen swallowed coffee. “Garvin didn’t like it so he knocked the other feller down. Next thing, they were going at it with their fists. This other gent was almost as big as Garvin and from what I hear they tore that dance hall up. Broke tables, broke chairs, smashed a mirror. Finally Garvin hit him so hard, it broke the feller’s neck.”
Fargo imagined the brute strength it took to do something like that. “How is it you know all this?”
“I sniffed around. Looking out for the senator’s interests, you might say.”
“Deerforth kept Garvin on anyway?”
“The senator felt everyone deserves a second chance.” Moleen scowled. “And this is how Garvin repays him. I don’t know what to make of it except that Garvin has gone back to his bad ways.”
“Shouldn’t you be after him?”
“That’s why I came to see you. I’m organizing a posse and I’d like you to be part of it. From what folks say, you’re a damn good tracker.”
“The army thinks so.”
“You’ve scouted for them, I hear.” Moleen set his cup down. “What do you say? Are you in? Two deputies are coming along. So is the senator even though I advised against it. And Benton and that gambler and Lacey Mayhare.”
“A woman on a posse?”
“Miss Mayhare keeps saying as how it’s her money and the only way she’ll stay behind is if I throw her behind bars.”
“That sounds like Lacey.”
“So long as she does as I say and doesn’t get underfoot, we shouldn’t have a problem.” Moleen stood. “I need an answer. In or out?”
Fargo thought of Roselyn and how friendly she had been. “In,” he said.
“Good. Can you be ready to ride in half an hour?”
“I’m ready now.”
Moleen hitched at his belt. “Meet us out front. With a little luck we can settle this and be back here by this time tomorrow.” He jangled out.
Fargo figured to finish his coffee in peace but someone else came strolling in.
“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you,” Vin Creed said.
“I hear you’re going with the posse.”
Creed sat in the same chair the lawman had used. “Deerforth asked me to.”
“You’re no manhunter.”
“True,” Creed said. “But Deerforth asked for a personal favor and I can’t hardly say no. Not after how well he’s treated me at his poker tournaments.”
“What sort of favor?”
The gambler chuckled. “He took me aside and asked me to keep an eye on Lacey. Make sure she doesn’t get underfoot, as he put it.”
“Have you told her yet?”
“And have her bean me with a rock? No thank you. I’ll keep it to myself, and I’d be obliged if you’d do the same.”
“She won’t hear it from me,” Fargo promised.
Creed folded his arms on the table. “Tell me true. What do you make of all this?”
“I know I don’t think much of hombres who abduct little girls.”
“Roselyn’s not so little but I take your point. It doesn’t sit well with me, either.” Creed paused. “Say, you don’t suppose there’s a connection, do you?”
“With what?”
“Those two men who tried to kill you. What were their names again? Ranson and Jules? Do you reckon they were in cahoots with Garvin Oster?”
“Cahoots how?” Fargo said.
“I don’t know. It’s just strange that they try to buck you out in gore about the same time that Garvin helps himself to one hundred thousand dollars and the senator’s family.”
Fargo hadn’t even considered that but now that he did, he wondered if Creed might be on to something.
“Have you seen the two deputies?” the gambler asked.
“Not yet.”
“Green as grass,” Creed said. “Then we’ve got the senator and the banker and sweet little Lacey and me.” He laughed. “Out of all of us, the marshal and you are the only two who know what they’re doing.”
Fargo hadn’t considered that, either. “Hell,” he said.
“Yes sir,” Creed said, chuckling. “It will be a wonder if we don’t get ourselves killed.”
24
Fargo had to agree. As posses went, they were plumb ridiculous.
Apparently there was a reason Senator Deerforth took a carriage everywhere; he was the worst rider in Texas. He flopped. He bounced. He sat his saddle as if he were about to jump off it. And every time he drew rein, he hollered, “Whoa, boy, whoa.”
Banker Benton wasn’t much better. He didn’t flop or bounce but he was incapable of sitting a saddle straight. Either he leaned to one side or the other and his legs were always bent at odd angles.
Lacey Mayhare could ride better than both, and outbitch everybody. She wouldn’t stop complaining. About the heat. About the dust. About how her horse smelled of horse sweat. About how she was going to stick a dagger in Garvin Oster for stealing her money.
Vin Creed could ride, too. And drink like a fish. Whether it was because he lost the tournament or he was making up for lost time, every five minutes he sucked on one of the whiskey bottles he’d brought along.
The two deputies were as green as the gambler had claimed, but rode proud and tall and were eager to show what they were made of.
The posse was a mile out from the mansion when Fargo gigged the Ovaro up next to Marshal Moleen’s buttermilk. “You should send the four of them back.”
The lawman didn’t ask which four. “As much as I would like to, I can’t.”
“You’re wearing the badge.”
Moleen touched the tin pinned to his vest. “I won’t be for long if I make the senator and a bank president mad at me. They’re liable not to support me at the next election.”
“They can’t support you if they’re dead, either.”
“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Moleen said. “You do the tracking.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Fargo said.
“In fact,” the lawman continued, “it would help if you pushed on
ahead. You can cover twice as much ground as we can.”
“More than that.”
“Even better. And less chance of the senator and the banker coming to harm.”
“You’ll be able to follow me?”
“If you leave signs. Rocks to point the way and like that.”
Fargo frowned. Stopping to leave sign took time he’d rather not lose. And sometimes there wasn’t anything to leave a sign with—no rocks or tree limbs and the like. “I have a better idea. I’ll find them and bring them back to you.”
Now it was Marshal Moleen who frowned. “I’d rather you didn’t tangle with Garvin Oster alone.”
“I can handle him.”
“He’s tough, mister. Real tough.”
“He’s not the only one.” Fargo tapped his spurs and brought the Ovaro to a gallop.
In one respect they were in luck. Oster had struck off crosscountry instead of sticking to the roads. Not very smart on his part, Fargo reflected. On a road, tracks were mixed and jumbled with whoever and whatever went by before and after. On the open prairie, tracks stood out and were easy to follow. He reckoned he’d overtake the kidnapper and the ladies before an hour was out.
It bothered Fargo a little that they were holding to a walk. Oster should be riding like hell to get away. The man might be tough, as the marshal claimed, but he sure was dumb.
True to his prediction, in less than an hour Fargo spied stick riders on the horizon. He slowed and pondered. In open country he couldn’t get close without being spotted. Either he waited until nightfall or he said to hell with it and caught up to them. He decided not to wait. He figured Oster would be overconfident and let him ride right up.
Fargo goaded the stallion to a trot. He was anxious to get it over with and head back to town for a night of drinking and the company of a friendly dove. In the morning he would head north to the Teton country where he was to meet a trapper friend.
The stick figures had stopped.
Garvin Oster must have the eyes of a hawk, Fargo realized. He kept riding. He saw a stick figure separate from a stick horse and guessed that Oster had climbed down. Probably to wait for him. He kept riding. The man was overconfident, which would prove his undoing. There was a bright flash, as of the sun on metal, suggesting that Oster had shucked a rifle from his saddle scabbard. Fargo kept riding. He was too far off yet for any rifle to reach him except maybe a Sharps, and even if Oster owned one, it would take a damn good shot to hit him from half a mile off.
