by Jon Sharpe
Roland gave a start. “The next oldest. It’s almost as if the killer started with the youngest and was working his way up.”
Fargo hadn’t thought of that. “How long until we reach the hunting lodge?”
“Another hour and a half yet, maybe more. Why?”
They were about to go around a bend in the trail.
“Keep going,” Fargo said. “I’ll catch up.” He rode past the bend and promptly reined into the woods. A dozen yards in he drew rein. No one else had seen him break away. He sat and watched them file by, one by one until the last of the pack animals went past.
Fargo was alone. Silence fell but it didn’t last long. A jay shrieked and a robin broke into song and presently a doe and a fawn emerged from the greenery and crossed the trail farther down.
Fargo was acting on another hunch. Odds were, whoever shot Emmett wanted to add to the tally, in which case the killer might be stalking them. He stayed where he was as the minutes crawled on turtle’s feet. He was about convinced he had been wrong and was raising the reins when the Ovaro pricked its ears and turned its head toward the trail.
Around the bend came a rider. A middle-aged man of middling height who looked as if he never bathed and wore clothes that looked as if they had never been washed. He was chewing lustily and his cheek bulged, and a moment later he spat tobacco juice. He held a rifle by the barrel, the stock propped on his thigh.
This, then, was the killer. Fargo let him go by. He mentally counted to thirty, reined to the trail, and shadowed the shadower.
Fargo could have shot him. He could ambush him as the killer had ambushed them but he needed answers and the only way to get them was to take him alive.
Spitting tobacco every now and again, the man rode along as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Fargo stayed well back. At each turn he slowed and checked before riding on. A quarter of an hour went by. Half an hour. More. By Fargo’s reckoning they were near the hunting lodge. At the next bend he slowed again and warily risked a peek.
The man had stopped. Thirty yards away he sat his horse in the middle of the trail. For a few moments Fargo thought the man had heard him. Then it hit him—the killer was waiting for someone.
Reaching down, Fargo shucked the Henry. He quietly ratcheted a round into the chamber and swung down. Holding on to the reins, he led the Ovaro in among some oaks and tied the reins to a limb. Then, paralleling the trail, he crept forward. The killer had his back to him. It would be so easy to fix a bead between his shoulder blades and bring him crashing down.
The man’s sorrel stamped and the man twisted in the saddle.
Fargo froze. He was in a crouch in high weeds and hoped he blended in.
The man was staring back down the trail and had his head cocked to one side.
A second later Fargo heard the thud of hooves.
Around the bend came two more on horseback, a man and a woman. Both were young, no older than twenty-five, and wore matching riding outfits and polished boots. Both had brown hair and brown eyes. Both had oval faces, thin eyebrows and thin lips. Judging by how much alike they looked, Fargo took them for brother and sister. Neither wore a revolver that he could see, but from the saddle scabbard on each horse jutted the hardwood stock of a rifle.
Tobacco Man didn’t seem surprised or alarmed. He turned his mount sideways and leveled his Spencer and when they were ten feet out he said, “That’s close enough.”
The pair came to a stop. They glanced at one another and smiled.
“What’s so funny?” Tobacco Man demanded.
“We thought we made our wishes clear back in Hannibal, monsieur,” the young man said with an accent that made Fargo think of New Orleans, and the French Quarter.
“We told you that you were not to take a hand in this yet here you are,” the young woman chimed in.
Tobacco Man showed his yellow teeth in a sneer of contempt. “And I told you two that I don’t scare easy. You’re the ones who should stay out of it if you know what’s good for you.”
“We can’t do that,” the young man said.
“We’ve been paid,” the young woman said.
“So have me and my pard,” Tobacco Man said. “The difference being that one of us is on the inside, which gives us an edge.” He wagged the Spencer. “Were I you I’d light a shuck and forget this whole business.”
“We can’t do that,” the young man said again.
“A contract is a contract,” said the young woman.
“You two are damned peculiar. You dress alike and you talk alike and I suspect you even think alike. It’s spooky.”
“Do you hear him, sister?”
“I hear him, brother.”
They laughed.
“That’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about,” Tobacco Man said. “Now get it through your heads that this is our job, not yours. My partner and me are locals. You two are from out of town. That gives him and me a better right.”
The young man put his left hand on his saddle horn and lowered his other hand to his side. “What a marvelous convolution of logic.”
“Isn’t it though?” his sister agreed.
“A what?” Tobacco Man said.
“When we saw you following Charles Clyborn around Hannibal we knew you were a competitor,” the brother said.
“We’re not being paid for you or your friend so we tried to persuade you and your friend to bow out,” added his sister.
Tobacco Man spat dark juice.
“It didn’t work,” the brother declared.
“No, it didn’t,” the sister echoed.
“So now you leave us no choice.”
“None at all.”
Tobacco Man raised his Spencer. “You prattle worse than biddy hens, the pair of you. Since you won’t listen, you’re the ones who leave me no choice. I’ll shoot you both dead if you don’t light a shuck. Be smart and make yourselves scarce in these parts.”
Once again the brother and sister glanced at one another and then at Tobacco Man.
“Did you know when you woke up this morning?” the brother asked.
“Did you feel it in any way?” from the sister.
“Know what?” Tobacco Man responded.
It was the sister who said, “Did you know that this was the day you were going to die?”
8
Fargo had stayed still and listened in the hope of learning who was behind the attempts on his life and the death of Emmett Clyborn. He suspected that the brother and sister were the same pair who attacked him on the Yancy. He hadn’t gotten a good look at their faces but it had to be them.
Suddenly the brother’s arm swept up and cold steel streaked from his hand.
Tobacco Man jerked the Spencer but he was much too slow. The knife caught him in the throat and blood burst in a geyser. Crying out, Tobacco Man clutched at the knife, only to have more scarlet spray from between his fingers. Somehow he stayed in the saddle and tenaciously tried to bring the Spencer to bear.
Fargo started to rise. He saw what happened next and could hardly credit his eyes.
The sister swung her horse in close to Tobacco Man’s. Placing both hands on the saddle, she whipped her leg up and around. Her foot caught Tobacco Man under the jaw and snapped his head back with an audible crack. She was so quick her leg was a blur.
Fargo had never seen the like. He charged onto the trail and raised the Henry but brother and sister were already flying into the trees. The sister looked back and saw him, and grinned. Fargo took aim, only to have the vegetation close around them before he could shoot. “Damn it.” He ran to Tobacco Man, who had toppled from the saddle and lay on his side, convulsing. A crimson pool was forming under him.
Kneeling, Fargo said, “Can you hear me? Can you talk?”
Tobacco Man went on quaking and shaking.
“It was you who shot Emmett, wasn’t it?” Fargo gripped his arm. “Who hired you and your partner?”
A strangled whine issued from Tobacco Man�
��s ravaged throat. He tried to speak but all that came out of his mouth was more blood.
“Who hired you?” Fargo asked again, and shook him.
The man looked up. His mouth moved but all he uttered were moans. Abruptly arching into a bow, Tobacco Man gave a last gasp and was still.
Fargo rose and kicked the ground. If not for the brother and sister, he would have had the information he wanted. He supposed he should be glad that one of the killers had been disposed of but he would much rather know who was behind it.
Once again hooves pounded and Fargo turned up the trail as Samantha and Charles Clyborn and two servants trotted into sight. They didn’t draw rein until they were practically on top of him.
“Who’s that?” were the first words out of Charles’s mouth.
“The man who shot your brother.”
Charles bent low. “I have a feeling I should know him from somewhere but I can’t remember where.”
“Of course you should,” Samantha said. “He lives on the outskirts of Hannibal. His name is Bucklin Anders. He got into trouble for poaching. The Hannibal Journal had the story.”
“That was over a year ago,” Charles marveled. “How can you remember something so unimportant from that far back?”
“I remember everything.”
Charles turned to Fargo. “Congratulations. You’ve avenged my brother and saved the rest of us from a bullet in the back. You have my deepest gratitude.”
“Mine as well,” Samantha said.
Fargo started to tell them that he hadn’t killed Anders, that it had been the brother and sister who tried to kill him on the steamboat. But he didn’t. For a reason that even he couldn’t explain, he decided not to. Instead he said, “You came back to find me?”
Samantha nodded. “I noticed you were missing and asked Roland where you got to. He told me about you riding off the trail. It wasn’t hard to deduce what you were up to.”
“You took a risk riding back.” Fargo smiled up at her. “I didn’t know you cared all that much.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Samantha gave orders to the servants and they climbed down to tend to the body.
Fargo put a hand on her leg. “I’d like to repay you for being so concerned about me.”
“You’re incorrigible.” Samantha sniffed. “And I’ll thank you to take your fingers off my person.”
Chuckling, Fargo did as he was bid but he contrived to run his hand from her knee to her ankle before doing so. “Nice dress,” he said.
“I should shoot you.”
“I can’t help you in the hunt if I’m dead.”
Despite herself, Samantha chuckled. “I’m beginning to regret sending for you. Your reputation as a woman-chaser doesn’t do you justice. You’re worse than that. You’re a satyr. Part randy man and part randy goat.”
Charles had climbed down and was going through Bucklin Anders’s pockets. “My Lord, this man stinks. Didn’t he ever hear of lye soap and water?” He found a cowhide poke and opened the drawstring. “Will you look at this? There must be five hundred dollars or better.”
“Blood money,” Samantha guessed.
“He have any friends that you know of?” Fargo asked.
“I never met the man so I couldn’t say.”
“I have no doubt that if he did they are as big an offense to the human nose as he was,” Charles said. He pulled a handkerchief out and covered the lower half of his face. “This is the first instance I’ve come across where a man smells worse before he’s buried than he will after.”
“Quit exaggerating,” Samantha chided.
Fargo headed back down the trail to claim the Ovaro. The shadow he acquired this time had four legs and a tail with a lovely in blue on top. “Want something?”
“Can I trust you, Mr. Fargo?”
“Yes and no.”
“I’m serious.”
Fargo stopped and looked up at her. He had to squint against the glare of the sun. “So am I. Yes, you can trust me to do the best I can to help you in the hunt. No, you can’t trust me if we’re alone tonight.”
Samantha let out a sigh. “You never give up, do you? You latch on to a woman and pester her until she gives in.”
“No. I let her know I’m interested. The rest is up to her.”
“I’ve made it as plain as plain can be that I’m not interested. Why, then, do you persist in your advances?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You’re saying I don’t know my own mind?”
“I think you really want me but you’re pretending you don’t because that’s what you think a real lady would do.”
Lightning bolts danced in Samantha’s eyes. “Are you suggesting I’m not a lady?”
“You’re as ladylike as they come,” Fargo admitted. “Wanting a man doesn’t make you less of one. It makes you a woman.”
“Pardon my language but you confuse the hell out of me.”
“Good.” Fargo grinned and went into the woods. He unwrapped the reins from the oak branch and stepped into the stirrups. Truth to tell, he was enjoying his cat and mouse with Samantha. The more she resisted, the more he craved her. Something told him that if she gave in, he would be in for the time of his life.
Roland had stopped the caravan to wait for them. He told Fargo that he had wanted to come look for him but Samantha insisted he stay with the others. They got under way, and no sooner did Fargo rein into line than Tom and Cletus Brun were next to him.
“I hear you killed the man who shot my brother,” Tom said.
“His name was Anders,” Fargo hedged, and made it a point to glance out the corner of his eye at Cletus Brun. Sure enough, a scowl rippled across the hulking Missourian’s craggy face. “Ever hear of him?”
“Can’t say that I have, no.”
“How about your friend there?”
Brun’s head swiveled on a neck as thick as a bull’s. “I told you I’m not his friend. And I never heard of anyone called Anders, either.”
“He was a local.”
“So? I don’t know everybody in Hannibal,” Brun rumbled. “I keep to myself. I don’t like people all that much.”
“He was a hunter like you.”
“I just told you I didn’t know him. Are you calling me a liar?”
Fargo figured that now was as good a time as any to test his newest hunch. Casually placing his hand on his Colt, he said simply, “Yes.”
“Here now,” Tom said.
Cletus Brun surprised Fargo. He didn’t get mad or angry. All he said was, “What makes you think so?”
“He made mention of a partner he was working with,” Fargo revealed. “I think that partner was you.”
“Because I’m a local like he was? I suppose I might think the same if I was in your boots. But you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. I never partner up with anyone.”
“So you claim.”
Cletus rubbed his chin and said very deliberately, “You pile on the insults. Seems to me you’re askin’ for a poundin’ and I’m just the coon to oblige. Before this weekend is out I’m goin’ to bust your bones.”
“You’re welcome to try.”
“Here now,” Tom said again. “I won’t have talk like this, you hear me? Especially from you, Mr. Brun. I’m the one who hired you. To hunt for me, need I remind you? Not to indulge your violent tendencies.”
“My what?” the block of muscle said, and laughed. “You and your fancy words. A man sticks up for himself and he’s bein’ violent? It’s a good thing you’re payin’ me good money or I’d as soon pound you as him.”
“Enough of this,” Tom said. “Come with me.” He reined around and his giant doppelganger went with him.
After that Fargo was left alone, which suited him as he had a lot to work out in his head. The way he saw it, he had at least three killers to contend with: the brown-eyed brother and sister, and whomever Anders had been working with. There was also the matter of who hired them. Since it was unlikely the same person h
ired both the brother and sister and the locals, that meant two of the four Clyborns were out to gain the inheritance at any cost. But which two? Charlotte was young and innocent. Samantha seemed genuinely to care for her siblings. Roland didn’t seem the type. That left Tom, and Fargo wouldn’t put anything past him.
The upshot, Fargo reflected, was that he better be more on his guard than ever.
Presently they came out of the trees into a clearing several acres in extent. Not a natural clearing, a man-made one where every oak and maple and pine had been felled to use as lumber in the construction of the Clyborn hunting lodge.
Fargo expected it to be big since the Clyborns never did anything on a small scale and he wasn’t disappointed. The lodge covered two of the three acres. The logs had been precisely laid, the gaps chinked with Missouri clay. It looked sturdy enough to survive the apocalypse. At no doubt considerable expense, glass panes had been brought in and a custom door mounted. As at the mansion, there were a number of outbuildings, including a stable.
Samantha took charge, giving orders like a military commander. A small army of servants leaped to obey.
Not an hour after arriving, Fargo found himself in a spacious dining room at a long mahogany table, sipping piping hot coffee. Samantha had gone off to talk to the cook about supper. Tom had gone upstairs to unpack, taking Cletus Brun along. So had Charles with his friend from the club. Roland was outdoors. That left Charlotte and her cousin, Amanda, and Theodore Pickleman. The lawyer filled a china cup and sat next to the women.
“Well, my dears. At six this evening I will read the part of the will that explains the hunt, and who knows? It could be you, Charlotte, who inherits everything.”
“I doubt that very much,” Charlotte said. “I’m no hunter.”
“If you are the one, I hope you will continue to retain me as the family attorney. I have always been faithful and done as was asked of me to the best of my ability.”
“My father used to say you were a great help to him.”
“A great man, your father.” Pickleman raised his coffee cup in salute. “No one misses him more than I do.”
Fargo thought the lawyer was laying it on a little thick but since the lawyer had brought it up, he asked, “What do you stand to gain out of all this?”
