Backwoods Bloodbath

by Jon Sharpe

  Judge Harding was playing his part. “There has been an attack?” he asked, much more loudly than was warranted.

  “Yes, sir. Early this evening a family of four was butchered on a farm ten miles north of Springfield. It’s terrible. Just terrible. Like all the rest of the Sangamon River Monster’s handiwork.”

  “I’m sorry for the family, but the timing could not be more perfect,” Judge Harding said. “At last that madman has made a mistake we can capitalize on.”

  Winifred had a plump hand to her throat, holding her nightgown close. “You’re going after him, I take it, dearest?”

  “I must,” Judge Harding declared, “but I’m not going alone, so set your mind at rest.” He stabbed a finger at the butler. “Akuda, go wake Arthur and Fargo. Garvey, too, while you are at it.”

  Draypool leaned over the banister to holler, “We are already up, Oliver! Give us ten minutes and we will be ready to depart.” He beamed at Fargo. “Can you believe our luck? Your first night here and you will have a crack at the Monster.”

  “It’s too good to be true,” Fargo said.

  13

  It was called Old Woman Creek. A tributary of the Sangamon River, it was so far into the forest that few whites had ever set eyes on it. In recent months, though, a handful of hardy settlers had established homesteads on its grassy banks and were struggling to eke out an existence.

  The Sweeney family had been one of them. A burly father with features as rugged as the land he cleared, a mother stout of body and given to hanging crosses on every wall, a boy of fifteen, on the verge of manhood, and a girl of twelve, sweet and innocent and dressed in white.

  Their bodies had been left where they fell. As near as Fargo could reconstruct the sequence of events, the father had been chopping wood with his back to the forest and someone had slunk up behind him and caved in his skull. In falling, the man had reached for a rifle he had leaned against the woodpile, the instinctive, last act of a father wanting to protect his loved ones.

  The mother must have been watching out a window and seen her husband die. Her body lay a few yards outside the cabin, a pistol only inches from her right hand. She had been shot in the chest. Fargo picked up the pistol and examined it. None of the cartridges in the cylinder had been fired.

  The boy had rushed out to help them and been killed in the doorway, the top of his head blown off. Fargo had to step over the body to go inside.

  In a corner near the fireplace lay the girl. She had been stabbed, not shot. Stabbed repeatedly. Scarlet stains marked her white dress in front and in back, indicating the killer had continued to stab her after she fell. From the blood on her fingers and her torn fingernails, Fargo could determine that she had fought fiercely for her life.

  All the bodies had been mutilated. Their ears had been sliced off, and were missing. Trophies, apparently, as were random missing fingers and thumbs, and in the case of the mother, her nose. The father’s face had been kicked in. The son’s genitals were gone. Fargo had to turn away from the things done to the girl. Hideous things inflicted by a hideous mind.

  “What did I tell you?” Arthur Draypool said as Fargo walked toward the door. “The murderer is as vile a human being as ever existed.”

  Judge Harding nudged the boy’s body with his polished boot. “How can you call someone who could do this human? He’s a monster, and aptly named.”

  Fargo breathed deep of the humid air. It had taken them half a day to get there; the judge, Arthur Draypool, Avril and Zeck, the overseer, Garvey, the man called Layton who had brought word of the slaughter, and four others who had not said a single word the entire ride. Fargo had ridden near the front of the group, with Draypool and Harding, and had not had much of a chance to study the four who had been at the rear. He studied them now.

  They were cut from the same coarse cloth. Backwoodsmen, homespun and buckskins their attire. All but one wore badly scuffed boots or shoes. The last wore knee-high moccasins and was further different from the others in that he was completely clad in buckskins and wore a beaded buckskin bag slanted across his chest. The man had lived with Indians at one time, Fargo guessed, and had taken up some Indian ways.

  They bristled with weapons: rifles, pistols, knives, tomahawks. Haughty in manner, they met his scrutiny with arrogant stares. Hard men who had lived hard lives and bowed to no one. That they had been waiting outside the judge’s house with Layton hinted to Fargo that they had arrived with him. He had assumed they were acquaintances of the slain family, but now he suspected otherwise. Backwoodsmen were a tough breed, but they were generally friendly. There was nothing friendly about these four.

  “Whenever you are ready to begin tracking,” Judge Harding urged, “by all means, get to it.”

  The clearing had been trampled. Someone—a lot of someones—had left a jumble of footprints, making it impossible to distinguish those of the Sangamon River Monster from the rest. Fargo mentioned as much to the judge and Draypool.

  “Blame neighbors and friends and the curious from the hamlet of Carne, about four miles east of here,” Harding said. “They were unaware I wanted the scene preserved. But don’t despair. Layton tells me he has found the Monster’s trail.” The judge crooked a finger and Layton came at a run. “Show him,” Harding commanded.

  The killer had headed northeast through the forest. His tracks were as plain as tracks could be, especially since he had made no effort to conceal them. That struck Fargo as peculiar. He knelt to examine a set in a patch of bare earth, reading them as other people read the print in books.

  The killer had big feet. He wore shoes, not boots or moccasins, which Fargo also found peculiar. According to Draypool and Harding, the Monster lived off in the deep woods somewhere, and men who did that invariably chose moccasins or boots over common shoes. The edges of the heels and sole were clearly defined, another peculiarity. It meant the shoes were fairly new, for the heels and soles had not worn down from prolonged use.

  Going by the depth of the prints, Fargo figured the killer weighed about the same as he did. The length of the killer’s stride was longer, though, which told Fargo the man had longer legs, which suggested the killer was taller than Fargo, and consequently slighter of build. Lean and lanky was how Fargo would describe him.

  “Well?” Arthur prompted.

  Fargo rose. Draypool and the judge and the others had come over and were waiting expectantly. “Well, what?”

  “Why are you dawdling? We hired you to track him, remember? Be on your way. Precious daylight is being squandered.”

  Turning toward the Ovaro, Fargo said, “When I find him I’ll take him alive. What you do after that is up to you.”

  “Hold on,” the judge said. “We want someone to go with you.”

  “No,” Fargo said.

  “Be reasonable.” From Draypool.

  “I work alone. I told you that.” Fargo rarely made exceptions. He took a step, but Arthur snagged his arm.

  “Hear us out. Is that too much to ask for ten thousand dollars?”

  “You’re squandering precious daylight,” Fargo reminded him.

  Judge Harding clenched his fists. “Be that as it may, as your employers we have a stake in the outcome, and the right to speak our minds.” He waved a fist in the direction of the log cabin. “As God is my witness, those will be the Monster’s last victims.”

  “We can’t leave anything to chance,” Draypool said. “What if something were to happen to you?” Fargo went to respond, and Draypool held up a hand. “I know, I know. You can take care of yourself. No one questions your ability. But accidents occur. Things don’t always go as we want them to go. If anything happened to you, how would we know? You might track the Monster to his lair and be unable to get word to us. Then all this will have been for naught.”

  Reluctantly, Fargo had to admit he had a point.

  “What we propose is this: Take one man with you. Just one.” Draypool pointed at Bill Layton. “He is to do whatever you ask of him at all times.
When you find where the killer is holed up, Layton will keep watch while you hurry and fetch us.” He smiled hopefully. “Isn’t that reasonable?”

  “I suppose,” Fargo said.

  That was when the man wearing the knee-high moccasins declared in a distinct Southern drawl, “It shouldn’t be Layton. It should be me.”

  “We want Layton,” Draypool said.

  “I’m better,” the man said. “Faster, stronger, the best damn shot you have. It’s a mistake to use him.”

  “We have been all through this,” Judge Harding interjected. “We need you with us. Bill is perfectly capable of doing what we require. He knows our wishes.”

  Layton nodded.

  “Suit yourselves,” the man in the knee-high moccasins said. “But don’t blame me if it doesn’t go as you hope.”

  Fargo noticed that Draypool was intimidated by the man, perhaps even a little afraid, and that Judge Harding, who kowtowed to no one, treated him with a degree of deference. There was more to this one than was apparent.

  “Layton it is, then,” Draypool said. Then, to Fargo, “Is there anything you require before you head out? Food? Ammo? Anything at all?”

  “I’m all set.” Fargo always lived off the land when he was on the go. His needs were few.

  “And you?” Draypool said to Layton.

  “I bought supplies just last week. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Excellent. Then off the two of you go. Remember, we want to catch the Monster before he strikes again. But you must not be so hasty that you lose him. There might not be another opportunity like this for many months.”

  “I won’t lose him,” Fargo vowed. Once he was on a manhunt, he never let up. The only time two-legged quarry had ever eluded him had been in New Mexico, and the quarry had been a Mimbres Apache. In Fargo’s opinion, Apaches were the best trackers anywhere, and were equally adept at shaking whoever attempted to track them.

  “We are counting on you,” Judge Harding said. “More than you can ever know.” In a rare display of emotion, he put a hand on Fargo’s shoulder. “A lot is riding on you, but I am confident you won’t disappoint us.”

  Fargo was glad to get out of there. He held the Ovaro to a walk in order to read the sign. He assumed the killer had a mount hidden in the woods, but after half a mile he came to the conclusion the man had been afoot. Exactly what Arthur Draypool had said the Monster would do.

  Except for slight deviations to avoid obstacles like logs and boulders, the killer’s course was a beeline toward some unknown destination. And from his stride, the Monster was in a hurry to get there, moving at a steady, tireless jog.

  Layton hung back, presumably in the belief that Fargo wanted nothing to do with him. But Fargo could talk and track at the same time, and there were questions that begged answers. “How long have you worked for Harding?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Seven years this—”

  Layton stopped, and Fargo could guess why. They wanted him to think Layton had just happened upon the massacre and rushed to inform the judge.

  “Did you ask how long have I known him?”

  “Worked for,” Fargo said.

  “Oh. I didn’t quite hear you. I’m not in the judge’s employ. I have a homestead near Carne, with a wife and five kids.”

  If Layton was married, Fargo was the queen of England. “Doesn’t it worry you, them alone with the killer on the loose?”

  “My wife has a good head on her shoulders, and can shoot the bull’s-eye out of a target at a hundred paces.”

  “You must want the killer caught as much as the judge and the rest of his vigilantes do,” Fargo remarked.

  “Don’t call them that. They are patriots. They do what is best for the common good with no thought of reward for themselves.”

  Once again, Fargo had the feeling Layton was repeating someone else’s comments. “You think highly of them.”

  “I think highly of the cause. I was born in these parts, but that doesn’t mean I can’t share their beliefs.”

  The undergrowth grew thicker. Fargo had to thread the Ovaro through it like a giant black-and-white needle through a green tapestry. Locusts droned in the trees. A pair of young squirrels scampered about in the leafy boughs. A blue jay shrieked and took swift wing.

  To Fargo, the sights and sounds of the wild were always a tonic. They filled him to overflowing with a sense of being alive. Some men were so soured on life they could not get the acid out of their system, but not Fargo. To him each day was a feast of new experiences waiting over the next horizon.

  “Mind if I ask you a question?” Layton broke a long silence.

  “Depends on what it is,” Fargo said, suddenly wary. He must not do or say anything that would give away the fact that he suspected he was being used as a tool by the Secessionist League.

  “Folks say you have killed more men than Samson. Is that true?”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.” Fargo reined to the left to go around blackberry bushes, with their sharp thorns.

  “I don’t mind that you’re a killer,” Layton said. “Hell, a lot of people have blood on their hands but keep it secret. I’ve killed once or twice myself.”

  “And here we are, tracking another killer,” Fargo said.

  “You can’t hardly compare him to us. He’s a butcher. He murders people for the fun of it. You and me, we only kill when we have to.”

  For Fargo that was true. He was not so sure about Layton. “Killing is killing, some would say, and accuse us of being no better than the Monster.”

  “Nonsense!” Layton spat. “Anyone too stupid to see the difference deserves to have their throat slit.”

  Fargo could not help but grin.

  “It depends on why people kill,” Layton went on. “Their motive, as the judge calls it. He says that some motives are higher than others, and the highest of all is to kill for an honorable cause.”

  “Interesting notion,” Fargo said.

  “The judge is a great man. He has a vision for the future. One day soon that vision will come true and this country will be a better place.”

  “What kind of vision?”

  Perhaps aware he had said too much, Layton hesitated, then answered, “You should ask him. He’s a better talker than me.”

  “You admire him a lot, I gather?” Fargo trolled for information.

  “I admire the cause,” Layton said, and quickly amended, “That is, I believe in bringing murderers to justice.”

  Fargo thought of the Sweeney family, and the young girl crumpled in a corner of their cabin, her white dress stained scarlet from multiple stab wounds. “That makes two of us.”

  14

  The killer’s endurance was worthy of an Apache’s. Mile after mile through some of the heaviest vegetation Fargo had ever encountered, the man held to a remarkable pace. Many times Fargo had to dismount and lead the Ovaro by the reins. The press of growth demanded it.

  Layton did not say much. He always hung back and let Fargo lead, which was to be expected. But Fargo did not like having the man behind him. Now and again the skin on his back itched, and he would tell himself that he was being silly. Layton wouldn’t shoot him or do whatever the judge and Draypool had ordered him to do until they caught up to the Sangamon River Monster.

  Night found them no closer to their quarry. Fargo made camp in a small clearing. He kindled a fire and put coffee on to brew. Their meal consisted of pemmican on his part and jerky on Layton’s.

  They were sipping their first steaming cup when Layton cleared his throat and asked, “What’s it like out there?”

  Fargo knew what he meant but asked, “Out where?”

  “Out west. We hear so many stories. Are the Indians as fierce and bloodthirsty as everyone says?”

  “Some Indians,” Fargo said, “but no more so than some whites.”

  “They say you’ve lived with Indians.”

  “Who does?”

  Layton shrugged. “Oh, peop
le I’ve talked to in taverns and the like.”

  “People talk too damn much.” Fargo was in an irritable mood. It rankled him, being used.

  “Do they ever. But don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t hold it against you. I know another man who has lived with Indians. Some tribe down in Florida. He dresses like an Indian and acts half Indian all the time.”

  “This man have a name?” Fargo asked without really caring.

  “Hiram Trask. I doubt you have ever heard of him. He’s not anywhere near as famous as you are.”

  Fargo’s gut tightened. Could it be? he asked himself. “I have heard of him. He’s supposed to be a damn good tracker.”

  “One of the best,” Layton said. “Folks say he can track an ant across solid rock, but folks exaggerate.”

  “That they do,” Fargo agreed amiably. Then, as casually as possible, he blew on the coffee and said, “I’ve heard Trask is partial to knee-high moccasins.”

  Layton chuckled and said, “He wears the silly things all the time. Once in Georgia we went into a fancy restaurant with him wearing them and everyone stared—” Layton froze, his cup halfway to his mouth.

  “So that was Hiram Trask,” Fargo said. “Strange he didn’t introduce himself. Or that Draypool or Harding didn’t mention him.”

  “Hiram’s not much of a talker.” Layton tried to undo the damage. “And Mr. Draypool and the judge probably figured you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Understand what?” Fargo shammed. “That two trackers working together are better than one? Trask should be with us.”

  Beads of sweat had broken out on Layton’s brow. “Maybe the judge wants Hiram handy in case something happens to you.”

  “That could be.” Fargo enjoyed making him squirm. “Or it could be Trask is part of the League, like you and Draypool and the judge.”

  Layton paled and nearly dropped his tin cup. “The what?”

  “The Secessionist League. Why you went to all the trouble to hire me when you have Trask puzzles me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”