Hannibal Rising

by Jon Sharpe

  Fargo rubbed his sore jaw and pondered. It made no damn sense.

  “Maybe they saw you win big at the poker table and were out to help themselves to your poke,” Sweetpea said.

  “Could be.” Fargo had a hunch there was more to it. The pair had been as fiercely intent as starved wolves out to bring down a bull elk.

  “Let’s hope they don’t try again.”

  “Oh my,” Maude declared. “Wouldn’t that be positively awful?”

  2

  Hannibal, Missouri wasn’t the sleepy settlement Fargo remembered. It had grown into a bustling town of about three thousand people. Two sawmills provided the lumber for the buildings and sold boatloads more downriver. The four slaughterhouses did the same. Some folks complained about the constant squeals of the hogs being butchered but they were few. To most, those squeals were money in the bank and Hannibal was all about money.

  In addition to the sawmills and the slaughterhouses, there were over a dozen general stores—two that sold nothing but hardware—millineries for the ladies, not one but two newspapers, and churches galore. Hannibal had the railroad and a steamboat landing.

  It also had, to Fargo’s mild surprise, plenty of saloons. From the landing he made straight for the first one he saw, leading the Ovaro by the reins. He’d paid extra to have the stallion brought upriver and he imagined it was as glad as he was to be off the steamboat and to be able to move about again. He looped the reins around a hitch rail and sauntered into a whiskey den that put saloons west of the Mississippi to shame. An ornate mirror ran the length of the back wall. Overhead hung a chandelier that tinkled whenever the front door was opened. The floor was swept clean, the bar polished to a shine. The bartender had muttonchops thick enough to hide in and wore a white shirt with gold suspenders.

  Fargo paid for a bottle and retreated to a corner table. He filled his glass and gulped half, and smiled. He was about to gulp the rest when a two-legged mouse in a suit and bowler timidly approached and gave a slight bow. The man had small, deep-set eyes and no chin to speak of.

  “Excuse me, but would you be Mr. Fargo?”

  “Go away.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Skedaddle. Light a shuck. Leave me be. Scat. Take your pick but do it.” Fargo drained the glass.

  “You’re a bit of a grump.”

  Fargo refilled the glass and raised it. “Are you still here? You have nuisance written all over you and I want to relax a spell before I go see the gent who sent for me.”

  “Ah, yes, well.” The mouse drew himself up and squared his sloped shoulders. “Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Theodore Pickleman and I was . . .”

  In the act of swallowing, Fargo started to laugh and snorted whiskey out his nose. “Damn. Look at what you made me do.” He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Pickleman?”

  “I am afraid so, yes. I’m a lawyer and I’ve been . . .”

  Again Fargo cut him off. “I was right about you. If there are bigger nuisances than lawyers I have yet to meet them. Go away.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. You see, as I was saying, I represent the Clyborn family and I’m here at the request of the person who wants to hire you.”

  “Sam Clyborn? Why didn’t you say so?” Fargo fished the telegram from his pocket. “I was in Saint Louis when this reached me.” He unfolded it and read it again out loud. “Skye Fargo. Urgent you come immediately to Hannibal. Will pay two thousand dollars for your services.” He flicked it toward the lawyer. “It’s signed Sam Clyborn.”

  Pickleman picked up the telegram. “I know what it says. I’m the one who sent it.”

  “How did you know I was in Saint Louis?”

  “Sam read in the newspaper about how you were recuperating from a run-in with hostiles. Something about an arrow in your leg.”

  “I’m fond of Saint Louis,” Fargo admitted. “It has almost as many bawdy houses as Denver.” He chuckled and downed another half a glass and sat back. “Tell you what. Pull up a chair and you can tell me what Clyborn wants.”

  “I can’t. I’m under strict orders to fetch you straightaway. The Yancy was early for once or I’d have caught you at the landing. As it was, a couple named Harold and Maude pointed you out to me as you were going off up the street or I’d have missed you entirely.”

  “I aim to drink and eat before I go anywhere,” Fargo informed him.

  Pickleman fidgeted and said, “I am sure Sam will have the cook prepare a meal for you. Bring your bottle if you wish but please accompany me or I will be in hot water.”

  “You sound scared.”

  “It’s not that so much,” the lawyer replied. “But when Sam wants something done, it had better be done the way Sam wants or there is hell to pay.”

  “Sounds like him and me won’t get along,” Fargo predicted.

  Pickleman uttered a strange sort of bark. “To the contrary. Based on what I’ve been able to learn about you and your proclivities, I’d say the two of you will hit it off.”

  “My what?” Fargo seemed to recollect hearing the word before but he would be damned if he could remember when or where.

  “Your fondness for whiskey and cards and—how shall I put this?—other things.” Pickleman clasped his hands. “Please. I’ll beg if I must. I can’t afford to have Sam switch to another attorney.”

  Fargo was loath to go. His stomach was growling and the whiskey they served here was damn good. “You need to learn to stand up for yourself.”

  “No one stands up to the Clyborns.”

  “There’s more than one?”

  “Oh, goodness, yes. There are six now that Thomas Senior has passed on. His wife died years ago. That leaves their four sons and two daughters. Sam is the oldest.”

  “Didn’t I see the name Clyborn on one of the general stores?”

  “That you did. Thomas was one of the first to settle here. He saw potential where others saw only wilderness. He realized that where Bear Creek flows into the Mississippi was the perfect spot for riverboats to put in. He started up the first sawmill, and the family still holds a controlling interest. He started up the first slaughterhouse, as well. I daresay half the businesses in Hannibal owe their existence to him.”

  “So the family is rich?”

  “Thomas’s net worth when he died was over ten million dollars. Yes, you heard right. Million. A sum to stagger the imagination, don’t you think?”

  It staggered Fargo’s. The most he ever had at any time in his life was ten thousand, which he promptly lost in a game of five card stud.

  “Now can we go?” Pickleman requested. “I have a carriage waiting. You can tie your horse to the back. The estate is about three miles south of town and we’ll want to reach it before nightfall.”

  “Afraid of the dark, are you?” Fargo poked fun.

  “If you read the Hannibal Journal you would understand. A scoundrel called Injun Joe has been terrorizing the territory. He is believed to be to blame for several murders and a score of robberies. I wouldn’t put it past him to stop our carriage and demand our money.”

  Fargo patted his Colt. “He’s welcome to try.”

  “Yes, I have heard you are uncommonly quick and accurate. But Injun Joe isn’t to be taken lightly. He shows no mercy and he has no remorse or he wouldn’t do the horrible deeds he does.”

  Fargo stood and used his foot to shove his chair back. “You can tell me more on the way out to the Clyborn place.”

  “You’re going then?” Pickleman lit up like a lamp. “I can’t thank you enough. I’m in your debt.”

  Fargo figured he might as well get it over with. He tucked the bottle under his arm and followed the lawyer out. The sun was poised on the western rim of the world and would soon relinquish its reign to the moon. He opened his saddlebags and slid the bottle in while Pickleman impatiently tapped a foot. “Where’s this carriage?”

  “Down the street.”

  Fargo unwrapped the reins and followed. It was close to the supper h
our. Shops and stores were closing or about to close and people were hurrying home. A lot of them, he noticed, stared at him as they went by. He thought maybe it was his buckskins. Everyone else was wearing either homespun or store-bought clothes. Then he realized he was the only one wearing a six-shooter.

  Suddenly a man blocked the lawyer’s way. He wore a suit and had a high, wide forehead and a long upturned nose. The lower half of his face was wreathed in a beard as neatly trimmed as Fargo’s. “Is it true what I’ve heard?”

  “How can I say when I don’t know what it is?” Pickleman responded.

  “You know very well what. I find it incredible bordering on the absurd. How could he do such a thing?”

  “Now, now. Don’t make more of it than there is.”

  “And don’t you make light of it. On second thought, I know perfectly well how he could do it, given his nature.”

  Fargo said, “Is there a problem?”

  “Not at all,” Pickleman said. “Where are my manners? Skye Fargo, I’d like you to meet Orion Clemens. He owns the Hannibal Journal.”

  “How do you do?” Clemens offered his hand and looked Fargo up and down. “Fargo, did he say? By your attire I take you for a plainsman.” Clemens gave a slight start. “My word. You’re not by any chance the man they call the Trailsman? I’ve read about you, sir.”

  “Hell,” Fargo said.

  Clemens stared down his long nose at the lawyer. “This becomes more interesting by the moment. How does this rather famous gentleman fit into Tom Senior’s insane scheme?”

  “Insane scheme?” Fargo echoed.

  Pickleman waved a hand dismissively. “Pay no attention to our esteemed journalist, Mr. Fargo. He has newspapers to sell, after all.” He started to go around but Clemens again blocked his path. “Here now. Out of my way, if you please.”

  “Be reasonable, Theodore. I owe it to my readers. I already know about the hunt but not the exact rules and who is to oversee it.”

  “You won’t hear them from me.” Pickleman glanced about them and lowered his voice. “You’re the one who isn’t being reasonable. You know very well that an attorney can’t violate a client’s confidence. I’m sorry but you’ll have to dig up your dirt elsewhere.” He walked on.

  Fargo had caught the one word that might explain why he was sent for. “What was that about a hunt?”

  “All in due time, sir.”

  The carriage was actually a victoria, a luxurious model with a fold-down top and a scalloped floor. The driver wore a purple uniform and a high silk hat. He began to climb down.

  “That’s all right, James,” Pickleman told him. “I’ll climb in myself.”

  Fargo went around to the rear to tie the Ovaro. He wasn’t paying attention to the passersby and didn’t notice a man come up and stop.

  “What’s this, then?”

  “Hello, Marshal,” Pickleman said.

  The lawman was broad and square-jawed and wore his badge high on his vest. He wasn’t wearing a gun belt but there was a telltale bulge under his left arm. “You didn’t answer me.” He pointed at Fargo’s waist. “Explain to me why your friend is wearing a sidearm in violation of town ordinance?”

  “He just got off a steamboat.”

  “The Yancy was the last to dock and that was twenty minutes ago,” the lawman said gruffly. “I know every arrival and departure by heart.” His tone hardened. “And the firearm ordinance is clearly posted at the wharf.”

  Pickleman calmly introduced Fargo. “This is Dick Lamar, our marshal. As you can tell, he takes his duties seriously.”

  “Damn right I do.” Lamar held out his hand. “I’ll take the Colt, mister. You can have it back when you leave town.”

  “Sam wouldn’t like that,” Pickleman said.

  “How’s that again?”

  “Sam Clyborn sent for him. Certainly, take his revolver if you must but don’t blame me if Sam wants your head.” The lawyer smiled and said not unkindly, “Besides, as you can plainly see, we’re on our way out of town anyway so why not let him keep it? He’s only here for the weekend. Monday afternoon he is to take a steamboat back down the river to Saint Louis.”

  This was the first Fargo had heard of working only for two days. Here it was, almost Friday evening. What kind of hunt took that short a time and required someone with his particular skills? There had to be plenty of local hunters who knew the habits of the local wildlife.

  Marshal Lamar lowered his hand. “Very well. I’ll make an exception but just this once.” He stepped up to Pickleman. “Don’t think I do it out of fear, either. I’m the one person in Hannibal that Sam can’t lord it over and Sam knows it.” He wheeled on a boot heel. “Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”

  Pickleman leaned toward Fargo and said quietly, “You must excuse him. He’s been at odds with the Clyborn family now and again.”

  “Why?”

  “The marshal lives by the letter of the law and the Clyborns like to bend the law to suit them. But after all, that’s always been a prerogative of the rich and the powerful, hasn’t it?”

  Fargo didn’t answer. He shucked his Henry rifle from the saddle scabbard and climbed into the victoria. There was hardly a speck of dust anywhere and the leather had a nice smell. He settled back with the Henry across his lap.

  Pickleman stared at the rifle as if it might bite him. “I honestly doubt you’ll have need of your long gun.”

  “You’re the one who said he was worried about Injun Joe,” Fargo reminded him.

  James cracked his whip. With a slight jounce they were under way. They turned south at the next corner. Beyond the outskirts of town rose a sweep of densely wooded hills.

  “I’m only staying the weekend?” Fargo brought up.

  “Oh. Yes. I can confirm that much, at least. It’s not very long, I grant you, given how far you’ve come and how much you are being paid. But I think it’s safe to say you are in for one of the most interesting experiences of your life.”

  3

  All that was left of the sun was a golden arch. The woods on both sides of the road were mantled in spreading shadows. Soon twilight would descend and they still had miles to go.

  Theodore Pickleman was a talker. He prattled on about the glories of Hannibal, about how it was a hub of commerce, how it had grown by bounds the past decade, about the foresight of the man some considered the town’s founding father. “Yes, sir. Tom Clyborn was a visionary. He turned that vision into riches most men can only dream of.”

  Fargo listened with half an ear. He wished he had kept the bottle. He could use a drink. Folding his arm across his chest, he remarked, “Didn’t you tell me that creek we crossed is called Bear Creek?”

  “Yes. Once these woods teemed with black bears but now there are far fewer.” The lawyer gestured at the forest. “Tell me. What do you see?”

  Fargo wasn’t sure what he was getting at. “Trees?”

  Pickleman smiled smugly. “Indeed. You and I see trees. Not Tom Clyborn. He saw black walnut. Hickory. Ash. Sycamores. Maples. An entire logging industry there for the taking.”

  They had passed logging operations at the outskirts of Hannibal. Trees were being felled at a terrific rate. Fargo couldn’t help but reflect that as fast as the forest was being chopped down, in another twenty years there wouldn’t hardly be any forest left. He said as much.

  “So? That’s a long way off. The important thing is that we make money now.”

  “There’s more to life than money.”

  Pickleman tilted his head and studied Fargo as he might a new kind of bug.

  “Don’t let Sam hear you say that. To the Clyborns, money is everything. Power. Prestige. Luxury.” He patted the victoria’s seat. “As you can tell, they only buy the best. Which, by the by, is one of the reasons Sam saw fit to send for you.” He paused. “You are widely regarded as being the best there is at what you do. Is that true?”

  Fargo shrugged.

  “I see. You’re not one to brag.
But I hope for your sake it is. Sam will be most displeased if you’re not all it’s claimed you are.”

  Fargo remembered the comment about a hunt. “Has a bear been acting up? Is that why he sent for me?” So far as he knew, the only other meat-eaters that still roamed these hills and might pose a threat to people were cougars, but cougar attacks were rare.

  “Oh, goodness no.” Pickleman laughed and shook his head.

  “You’re not here to hunt wild game. Sam sent for you for a special purpose.”

  Fargo was fed up with being kept in the dark. He fished for information by saying, “Clyborn meant what he said about paying me two thousand dollars?”

  “A thousand a day for two days of your time, yes. Not bad when you consider that the yearly income for most people is about five hundred.”

  The lawyer lapsed into silence, for which Fargo was grateful. He closed his eyes and pulled his hat brim down. A little rest would do him good. He had been up most of the night with Sweetpea. He relived the feel of her lips on his, of her full mounds in his hands, her hard nipples against his palms. He’d like to be with her now, parting those silken thighs of hers and running his hand from her knees to her moist cleft. He felt himself stir and inwardly smiled.

  Unexpectedly, the victoria came to a stop.

  Fargo opened his eyes. The sun was gone and night was falling. The driver was in the act of lighting the two lamps, one on either side of the seat, that would illuminate their way in the dark.

  “Hurry it up, James,” Pickleman said. “We don’t want to keep Sam Clyborn waiting, do we?”

  “No, sir,” James replied. He had the first lamp lit and closed the glass. Turning to the second, he opened the glass and bent to light it. In the woods a rifle boomed and the back of the driver’s head exploded in a shower of hair and flesh and silk hat.

  Fargo was in motion before the sound of the shot died. It had come from the trees to the right; he went left, clearing the seat and the step and landing in a crouch with the victoria between him and the shooter.

  Theodore Pickleman was frozen in shock.