by Jon Sharpe
This close to Springfield, homesteads were everywhere. Fargo lost count of the number of cabins and small houses they passed.
Then they topped a rise, and below stood a dwelling worthy of a king. Three stories high, it covered half an acre. The ground floor was composed of stone and mortar, the upper stories of hewn logs. A carriage shed and various other outbuildings were scattered about neatly maintained grounds, which were surrounded by a wrought-iron fence.
“Whoever lives there must have a lot of money,” Fargo remarked.
“That he does.” Arthur Draypool grinned. “Judge Oliver Harding is the gentleman’s name, and he is doing us the singular honor of allowing us to stay at his home for the night.”
“You don’t say.” Fargo wondered if Harding had a daughter. “He wouldn’t happen to be another vigilante, would he?”
“Must you use that term? I find it most vulgar.” Draypool sniffed. “But, yes, he is a member of our secret group. He also contributed a large amount to your fee.”
“A judge who breaks the law when it suits him,” Fargo commented. “What would folks say?”
Draypool frowned. “He does it for the common good, to save innocent lives.”
“That’s as good an excuse as any.” Fargo was not sure why he was baiting Draypool. Maybe he was sick and tired of the whole secrecy business. Maybe it was resentment at how they were treating him. Or maybe it was both.
A wide gate barred entrance to the judge’s estate. Stone columns supported the gate, and from behind the column on the left stepped a hawk-faced man holding a rifle. “That’s far enough,” he said. He was staring at Fargo, suspicion imprinted on his features. Then the guard noticed Draypool, and immediately his attitude changed. “Mr. Draypool! I didn’t realize it was you, sir.”
“A pleasure to see you again, Gerald.”
Gerald gestured, and from behind the other stone column hastened another man to help him swing the heavy gate open.
Fargo let Draypool go ahead of him. Other guards were posted about the grounds, four that Fargo counted, with more probably out of sight. He wondered why the judge had a private little army.
Servants hurried out of the house to take the reins of their mounts and escort them indoors. All four wore brown uniforms with silver buttons. All four were black.
“And how are you, Akuda?” Draypool asked a fifth manservant, who waited by the front door.
“I am fine, sir. The judge has been expecting you, and your usual room is ready, as are rooms for these other gentlemen.”
“You are an excellent butler, Akuda.” Draypool smiled. “Someday I might take you away from Oliver.”
“The judge would not permit that, sir. As he likes to say, we are his property now and forever.”
Fargo had yet to meet Oliver Harding and already he did not think much of the man.
Draypool broke stride, and his face hardened in anger, but it was fleeting. He noticed Fargo watching him, and smiled at the butler. “Judge Harding has a marvelous sense of humor, does he not?”
“Certainly, sir,” Akuda said politely.
The interior radiated wealth. The judge had a taste for luxury and bought only the best money could buy. Thick carpet cushioned Fargo’s boots. He passed a marvelous painting of a waterfall and said, “Judges in Illinois must make more money than judges elsewhere.”
Draypool did not take offense. “Oliver comes from a very old, very respected, and very rich family. I have known him for many years, and he is as fine a human being as you will ever meet.”
Praise from a milksop, Fargo thought to himself, is not much praise at all. Aloud he said, “When do I get to meet him?”
“A good question,” Draypool said. “What say you, Akuda?”
“The judge will be home by seven, sir,” the butler answered. “Supper will be served promptly at seven thirty. If you require anything in the meantime, you have only to let me know.”
They came to stairs and climbed. The banister was mahogany, the steps polished to a sheen.
Draypool was admitted to the first bedroom they came to. Avril and Zeck had to share the next. That left the bedroom at the end of the hall for Fargo. It was as comfortably furnished as the rest of the house. He dropped his saddlebags and the Henry onto the four-poster bed as Akuda went to the window and opened the curtains.
“If there is anything you need, sir, anything at all, I am at your service.” He started for the doorway.
“I’d like to know a few things,” Fargo said.
Akuda stopped. “What would they be, sir?”
“How long have you been a slave?”
The butler blinked. “All my life, sir, as was my father before me. Why do you ask?”
“The other servants—are they slaves as well?”
“Of course, sir,” Akuda said in a tone that suggested it should be obvious. “The judge has many more at the family plantation in Alabama. He only moved here about five years ago.”
“Do you know a man named Mayfair? Clyde Mayfair?”
“Yes, sir. He has stayed in this very house many times. He is a close friend of the judge’s and Mr. Draypool’s.”
“The blacks who work in Mayfair’s fields,” Fargo said. “Are they slaves, too?”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, you ask strange questions,” Akuda responded. “What else would they be? A lot of whites in Illinois own slaves, as do a lot of whites everywhere.”
“Don’t you want to be free?” Fargo asked. “To be your own man, and do as you please?”
Akuda let out a sigh. “Who would not? But I have learned not to yearn for that which we can never have. My dreams died when I was young.”
“What can you tell me about the vigilantes?”
“The what, sir? I am not sure I understand.”
“The group Draypool and the judge belong to,” Fargo said. “The people who have hired me.”
“The Secessionist League, sir? I know of no other group Judge Harding belongs to unless you count the club in Spring—” Akuda stopped. “Is something wrong, sir?”
The revelation had been like a slap to the face, causing Fargo to take an inadvertent step back. He remembered the so-called highwaymen, Frank Colter and Jim Sloane, and some of Sloane’s last words: But the government is on to you and the rest of the League. We won’t let you light the fuse.
“Sir?” Akuda said.
An awful feeling came over Fargo, a feeling that he had been played for a fool and had been one. “What can you tell me about the Sangamon River Monster?”
“The what, sir?”
“The killer who has been raiding homesteads for the past ten years. You must have heard of him.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I know of no such person. Springfield is a peaceful place. There has not been a killing in years.”
Fargo sat on the end of the bed and tucked his chin to his chest. He wished a tree were handy so he could beat his head against it.
“Is there anything else, sir?” Akuda inquired.
“No,” Fargo said. “You’ve been a great help.”
“I don’t rightly see how,” the butler said, and bowed as he backed out the door. He closed it after him.
Fargo’s mind was in a whirl. He had heard of the Secessionist League but did not know a lot about it. Still, he could guess at its purpose. A lot of Southern states were unhappy with the federal government and there was talk on everyone’s lips about the Southern states breaking away from the Union to form their own government. But what did the League want with him? Why had it gone to so much trouble to lure him to Illinois?
The longer Fargo pondered, the madder he became. He had been used, manipulated, led around like a bull with a ring in its nose. Fed lies and more lies. And all the while Arthur Draypool must have been chuckling as how easy he had been to dupe.
“The bastards,” Fargo said aloud. He thought again of Colter and Sloane and came to the conclusion that they must have been government men assigned to keep an eye on the
League. He hoped Colter had gotten away.
Fargo leaned back. A grim smile touched his lips. He would play along and see what happened. It was the only way to learn what the League was up to. Whatever it was, they would soon discover that baiting a wolf was dangerous.
A knock sounded. Standing, Fargo said gruffly, “Come in.” He was expecting Draypool, but it was a petite young woman in a maid’s outfit, a towel over her left arm.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir. Akuda says you need one of these.” She moved toward a washbasin on a stand in the corner.
Fargo’s interest perked. Her uniform hid a shapely body, evinced by the swell of her bosom and the sway of her hips. Her skin was a light coppery hue, her hair a velveteen black. Full lips in a perpetual pout complemented high cheekbones and alluring dark eyes. “Well, now,” Fargo said. “Do you have a name or should I just call you Miss Beautiful?”
The maid grinned. “I am called Belda, sir. I will keep your room clean during your stay and make your bed in the morning.” She placed the towel next to the basin and made to leave.
“I’ll make my own,” Fargo said, blocking her way. She stopped and looked up at him in frank appraisal.
“Is there something I can do for you, sir?”
“Stop calling me that,” Fargo replied. “I’m not like the rest of the men here.”
“If you say so, sir,” Belda said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have other work to attend to.” She moved to go around him.
“Wait,” Fargo requested, taking hold of her arm. “I’d like to get together later, the two of us, somewhere private.”
“I am not that kind of woman, sir,” Belda said severely, prying his fingers off. “Please excuse me.”
Fargo slid in front of her again. “It’s not what you think. I need someone who can keep their ears open for me.”
“I don’t see what use I can be.”
“Please,” Fargo said, clasping her hand in appeal. “Where and when can I meet you?”
Half a minute went by. Then Belda said quietly, “They will punish me if I am caught, but I will meet you here at eleven tonight. Leave the door open slightly so I can slip inside.”
“Thank you,” Fargo said as she hustled to the hall. He smiled and walked to the washbasin. The Secessionist League had a lot to answer for and he was just the gent to see that it did.
11
The dining room was as luxurious as the rest of the house. A long table able to seat two dozen guests filled the center. Globe lamps at regular intervals provided brilliant illumination. The night was warm, and several windows were open to admit air.
The butler came for Fargo at seven fifteen. Fargo had availed himself of the washbasin, rummaged in his saddlebags for a clean bandanna, and wiped the dust from his boots. He wore his gun belt.
Akuda arched an eyebrow as Fargo stepped from the room, and said respectfully, “If you will forgive my presumption, sir, you will not require your firearm at the dinner table.”
Fargo patted his holster. “I never go anywhere without it.”
“The judge might take offense,” Akuda said.
“You must have me confused with someone who gives a damn.” Fargo smiled to lessen the sting.
“The judge likes to have his way,” Akuda warned. “Trust me when I say he makes for a powerful enemy.”
“I bet a lot of his enemies are against slavery.” Fargo fished for information.
The butler broke stride, but only slightly. “The judge and his friends are very set in their beliefs.”
“A Yankee hater, is he?”
Akuda glanced the length of the hall, then said softly, “I should not discuss this with you, sir. The judge would be mad.”
“What is the worst he can do to you?” Fargo asked half jokingly. He figured it would be a harsh lecture and extra work.
“He can have me whipped, sir,” Akuda said, “and I would rather not go through that again, if you don’t mind. I still have the scars from the other times.”
Fargo envisioned the butler stripped to the waist, a whip biting into the flesh of his back. “Did the judge whip you himself?”
“Oh, no, sir, he would never sully his hands with someone else’s blood. Mr. Garvey, the overseer from the judge’s plantation, does the punishing.” Akuda’s frame seemed to tremble slightly. “You will meet him tonight.”
“The overseer is here?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Garvey comes up from Alabama every two or three months, sir, to consult with the judge. Sometimes he brings new staff for the house.”
“New slaves, you mean,” Fargo said.
Akuda nodded. “Or he takes those who have not been doing their jobs well enough to suit the judge back to Alabama to work in the fields.”
“He’s not the forgiving type, is he?”
Akuda uttered a laugh that was more like a bark. “Not at all, sir. The judge has a saying he is fond of.” He paused. “Spare the rod, spoil the black.”
Fargo tried to imagine what it must be like for the slaves, living in a constant state of fear, terrified to make a single mistake. “It’s not right,” he remarked, more to himself than the butler.
“There are a lot of things in this world that aren’t right, sir,” Akuda responded. “Things people shouldn’t do to one another but do.” They came to the stairs and he started down. “It makes me mad to this day that an accident of birth has made me what I am.”
“That’s natural.”
Akuda went on talking without seeming to hear. “You have no idea what blacks have to put up with. Whites look down their noses at us because of the color of our skin. They treat us like we are not human, as if we are animals to be herded together and worked as they please.”
“Not all whites think that way,” Fargo said.
“Enough do,” Akuda said. “Enough to make our lives miserable. Enough that many of my kind would rather they had never been born.” They were almost to the bottom, and he leaned toward Fargo and pleaded, “Please, sir, not a word about our talk to anyone.”
“Don’t worry.” Fargo clapped him on the back. “They couldn’t pry it out of me with burning coals.”
Arthur Draypool was already at the table. So were three others. One was a human mountain dressed in an ill-fitting suit. Close to seven feet tall, he had short blond hair, a clipped yellow beard, and obsidian eyes that fixed on Fargo with baleful intensity. That would be Garvey, Fargo guessed.
Across from the overseer sat a plump woman in her middle years, her dress much too tight for her bulk, her bosom threatening to burst the fabric if she exhaled too strongly. She had a pumpkin head and tiny seed eyes. “Mr. Fargo,” she said, offering her pudgy hand. “I am Winifred Harding, the judge’s wife. I am sorry I was not here to greet you when you arrived, but I was in Springfield most of the day.”
Her skin was dry and smelled of powder. Fargo stepped past her to an empty chair. Across from him was the other new face, a woman only half as old as Winifred and not half as heavy, but otherwise the family resemblance was plain. “You must be the judge’s daughter.”
“Not quite. I am his niece,” she said in a sultry tone. “Darby Harding,” she introduced herself. “My father is the judge’s younger brother. I came up from the South with Mr. Garvey to pay my uncle a visit.”
Garvey grunted. “Heard a lot about you, mister.” He held out a hand the size of a bear paw. “Hope you turn out to be everything the judge and his friends expect.”
“The Sangamon River Monster is as good as caught,” Fargo said to gauge how they reacted. He received smiles and the sort of expressions professional gamblers wore when they were fleecing the gullible.
“I love a man with confidence,” Winifred Harding declared in a much friendlier tone than was warranted.
Fargo was more interested in the niece, who met his frank stare with one of her own. “How long are you staying?”
“For as long as my uncle needs me,” Darby said. “Uncle Oliver and I have always been close. I would do
anything for him.”
At that juncture, into the dining room marched their host. Harding was as plump as his wife except for his face, which had the hard, angular lines of a blacksmith’s anvil. He came around the table without so much as a nod of acknowledgment to anyone, including his wife. Akuda held out a chair for him and he sat in it as if sitting on a throne. “I trust I haven’t kept all of you waiting too long.”
“Not at all, Uncle,” Darby said.
“You are punctual, as always,” Winifred chorused. “And even if you were not, we would gladly wait.”
Fargo sensed a strange sort of competition between them. He focused on the judge, absorbing details: piercing brown eyes, black hair going to gray, an aura of authority that Fargo normally saw in military officers.
“Nonsense, my dear,” Oliver Harding declared. “It would be a poor host indeed who kept his guests waiting.” He was looking at his niece as he spoke. “My dearest Darby. How wonderfully you grace our table. It is a shame you don’t visit us more often.”
Winifred Harding squirmed in her chair like a worm squirming on a hook. “Yes, we always look forward to having you, my dear.”
The judge swiveled. “Arthur! I trust there were no difficulties on your trip. You must tell me everything over brandies later.”
Fargo could not resist. “We ran into a pair of outlaws on our way here. Or highwaymen, as you would call them.”
Oliver Harding became a stone statue. Then he said, with no trace of emotion whatsoever, “On behalf of the state of Illinois, I apologize. We are not yet as civilized as our brethren to the east. We have not yet tamed the wilder element among us.” He smiled without warmth. “And you, I take it, are the famous Trailsman. It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Winifred Harding said.
The judge clapped his hands, and at the signal, servants began filing in bearing food. Fargo filled his plate with venison, potatoes, green beans, and a thick slice of bread layered with butter. He did not have much of an appetite, but on the frontier he had learned to eat when he could because he never knew how long it would be between meals. Especially lavish meals like this one.
