by Jon Sharpe
The pitcher and the tray hit the floor with a crash. The maid’s hands flashed behind her and flashed out again, each holding a knife. She slashed at Samantha, who recoiled, and then she was around the bed in a crouch, still grinning her strange grin, her eyes alight with glee.
Fargo stabbed for his Colt but it wasn’t there. His gun belt was lying on the bed.
The holy terror in the maid’s uniform never said a word. She was all business, and her business was slaying him. Her knives weaved figure eights in the air.
“My pistol!” Fargo shouted to Sam but she was frozen in shock. He avoided a stab at his belly and a slash at his neck. He had to let go of his pants and they began to slide down his hips. Grabbing hold, he shifted to the right but went left. The feint saved his life.
The assassin lost her grin. She speared a knife at his chest and when he jerked aside lanced her other knife at his jugular.
Fargo flung himself back and collided with the wall. Inadvertently he had backed himself into a corner. He held on to his pants to keep them from falling and tried to spring past her but she was much too quick. He had to jerk back again to avoid having his throat cut from ear to ear.
“No!” Sam cried, and threw a pillow.
The assassin swatted it aside and came at Fargo again. He tried to grab her wrist and pain seared his upper arm. She had cut through the buckskin sleeve and drawn blood. Before she could skip out of reach he whipped a backhand that sent her staggering. Then, dropping to one knee, he plunged his hand into his boot and palmed the Arkansas toothpick. “Try me now, bitch.”
In she rushed, her knives streaking.
Fargo parried, countered, parried again. He unfurled, moving back as he rose, and nearly tripped over his pants. He had forgotten to hold them up and they were bunching around his legs. Clutching them, he barely deflected a cut at his eyes. She was skilled, this woman, perhaps the best knife fighter he ever went up against, and that was saying a lot.
“I’ll stop her!” Sam cried, and lunged for the Colt.
Once again the sister did her imitation of a jackrabbit. Whirling, she vaulted high in the air. Her foot slammed against Sam’s head, knocking Sam back. As lithely as a cat, she alighted on the balls of her feet poised to renew their combat.
Fargo had never encountered her like. He slashed at her legs, at her ribs, but it was like trying to cut a will-o’-the-wisp.
She grinned her strange grin again. She held the right blade out from her side, the left blade low in front of her.
Fargo went for her face but she hopped out of reach. Her knives flashed and his middle knuckle was opened. Not deep but it hurt like hell. He went high, going for her throat, only to have her prance out of reach.
A revolver boomed. Sam had his Colt and fired from a distance of only a few feet—and missed.
The assassin spun. She leaped onto the edge of the bed and did an acrobatic somersault. Her right leg described an arc and her shoe caught Samantha on the chin and sent Sam tumbling.
Fargo sought to bury the toothpick in her back. So what if she was a woman? She had tried several times now to kill him and that was several too many. But as fast as he was she proved faster. She was halfway to the door before he came around the end of the bed. She worked the latch and threw the door wide, then paused in the doorway to look back.
“My compliments,” she said.
Wondering what the hell she meant, Fargo dashed after her. It took barely two seconds for him to reached the doorway—yet the hallway was empty. He stood there with his arm stinging and his hand hurt and blood trickling from under his sleeve and summed up his sentiments with, “I’ll be damned.”
12
A search of the lodge from top to bottom turned up a discarded maid’s uniform in a pantry but there was no trace of the deadly woman who wore it. Samantha was furious. She ordered that the lodge be searched again. When Charles remarked that the servants had already gone over every square foot and another search was pointless, Samantha blistered his ears. Charles proved to be right, though: the assassin had disappeared.
Samantha called a family meeting in the dining room. She insisted that her brothers and her sister attend, along with their partners in the hunt. Theodore Pickleman eased into a chair across from Fargo.
“All of you have heard what happened,” Sam began. “My partner in the hunt tomorrow has been marked for murder. I’d like to know which of you is to blame for the attempts on his life.”
“How dare you blame one of us,” Tom indignantly replied.
“Who else?” Sam said. “The only people with anything to gain are sitting at this table.”
“Why have they only tried to kill your partner?” Roland wondered. “I know the forest better than he does and no attempt has been made on my life. For that matter, Cletus Brun has lived in these woods since he was born yet no one has tried to kill him, either.”
“Indeed,” Charlotte said. “What makes Fargo so special?”
Fargo had been asking himself the same thing. “Maybe it’s not me so much as your sister.”
“How’s that?” Samantha asked.
“It’s you they want to stop,” Fargo guessed. But why her more than any of the others was a mystery.
“You’re forgetting Emmett,” Roland said. “His death makes no sense at all.”
“Maybe it does,” Charles said, and glanced about sheepishly. “You see, there’s something I haven’t told any of you. Something that could explain why poor Emmett was shot.”
“We’re listening,” Sam said.
Charles cleared his throat. “Emmett confided in me that he might have seen Father bury the chest.”
The siblings all started talking at once. Tom pounded the table and demanded to know why Charles hadn’t said anything sooner.
“Because Emmett asked me to keep it secret,” Charles replied. “We were always close, the two of us, probably because we were born less than a year apart. The night before he was shot, he took me aside and told me that he had come out to the lodge one day to hunt grouse with Roland and saw Father go off through the woods carrying a shovel and a sack. Emmett was curious and followed him.”
“Dear God,” Charlotte said. “Emmett could easily have won.”
“Except he didn’t know what it was at the time,” Charles said, “and he couldn’t remember where he saw father bury the thing. He didn’t pay much attention and got out of there quickly, afraid Father would spot him.”
“Who else did Emmett tell?” Tom asked.
“No one, so far as I know.”
“Someone must have overheard,” Roland speculated. “But if that was the case, they had to know how important the chest is. And none of us knew that until this evening.”
Tom was glaring at Charles. “It took you long enough to enlighten us.”
“What are you implying?” Charles responded.
“Only that it’s strange you didn’t mention this earlier when Pickleman told us about the will.”
Charles came out of his chair. “I don’t like what you are implying. I loved Emmett as much as any of you. I would never harm him. As for wanting the inheritance, which of us doesn’t?”
Fargo had heard enough bickering to last a lifetime. Pushing his chair back, he made for the door. Samantha called to him but he shook his head. He didn’t stop until he was outside.
The sun was about to relinguish its reign. Vivid streaks of red, orange, and yellow splashed the western sky. Songbirds were in full throat and somewhere off in the trees a dove cooed.
Fargo strolled over to the stable. He checked on the Ovaro and was coming back out when a shadow fell across the center aisle, and him. Instinctively, he swooped his hand to his Colt.
“Hold on there, hoss. I’m friendly. Don’t shoot.”
“Show yourself.”
Cletus Brun stepped into view. He was cradling his rifle, and nodded in a friendly fashion.
“What the hell do you want?”
The big Missourian frowned. �
��I can’t say I care to be talked to that way.”
“I can’t say I care.”
“You don’t want to rile me. The last gent who did is crippled.”
“Who hired Anders and you?”
“I told you before I didn’t know Anders,” Brun said. “What will it take to get that though your head?”
“Bucklin Anders and you were working together. He shot Emmett. Someone else hired two other killers and they killed Bucklin Anders.” Fargo lowered his hand close to his Colt.
“Who hired you?”
“Where do you get these harebrained notions?”
“I figured out most of it,” Fargo said. It wasn’t hard. Anders had mentioned having a partner and Anders was a local. It stood to reason his partner was the same.
“You figured wrong. I wasn’t in cahoots with him.”
“Who hired you?”
“Are your ears plugged with wax?” Brun growled. “I’ve warned you and you refuse to listen. Don’t ask me that again, you hear?”
“Who hired you?”
“You are a hardheaded son of a bitch.” Brun started to turn and suddenly whipped around, swinging his rifle like a club.
Fargo was ready. He ducked and drew but as he cleared leather Brun’s foot slammed his wrist and the Colt was jarred from his grasp. He lunged for it but Brun’s rifle caught him on the shoulder, spinning him half around. He expected Brun to swing again and sidestepped, only to have a pair of arms twice the size of his own encircle his chest from behind.
“I’ve got you now, little man.”
Fargo struggled mightily as Brun lifted him off the ground and shook him as a bear might shake a hound. Fargo’s hat fell off. He tried to surge free but Brun’s arms were bands of iron.
“I warned you not to rile me.”
The pressure on Fargo’s chest grew worse. The stable swam. He’d swear his ribs were about to stave in. In desperation he drove the back of his head against the Missourian’s face. There was a crunch and a spurt of wet on his neck.
“Damn your hide!” Brun roared. “You’ve done busted my nose!”
Fargo rammed his head back again. Brun howled and spun and Fargo was sent stumbling. He smashed against a stall and sprawled onto his side, dazed. A black boot hooked down and agony lanced his ribs. Another blow flipped him onto his back. Struggling to stay conscious, he saw the boot rise over his face.
“I’m goin’ to stomp you to a pulp.”
Fargo drove his own boot up and in and caught Brun where it would hurt a man the most. The hulking slab of gristle and sinew cried out and stumbled, his hands over his groin.
Fargo made it to his hands and knees. He shook his head to clear it, saw Brun’s legs, and slammed into them. His intent was to bowl Brun over and in that he succeeded. What he hadn’t counted on was Brun falling on top of him.
Fargo was pinned. He sought to heave Brun off but it was like trying to heave an anvil. Brun growled and raised his big hands and wrapped them around Fargo’s throat.
“If I can’t stomp you I’ll strangle you.”
Fargo gripped Brun’s wrists and pushed but couldn’t budge them. He butted Brun in the face but all Brun did was grin and keep squeezing. Fargo’s breath was cut off. He sucked air into his nose but it did no good. He was on the verge of plunging into a black well when he did the only thing he could think of to do: he dug his thumbs into Brun’s eyes.
The Missourian howled. The pressure on Fargo’s throat slackened but not enough; Fargo gouged his thumbs deeper. Suddenly Brun had hold of his wrists and Fargo was jerked to his feet. He could breathe and he could see again. Blood was trickling from both of Brun’s eyes. Pits of hell, those eyes—filled with unbridled rage and undiluted hate.
“God damnyou!”
A knee as big as a sledge smashed Fargo in the sternum. He was hurled against the wall and fell into some straw. Groping to get his hands under him, he felt something hard under his right hand. The shape took a few seconds to register. He gripped it just as Brun gripped him by the shoulders and spun him around. Brun cocked a huge fist. “It ends now.”
“You’ve got that right.” Fargo swung the horseshoe. Metal thwucked on flesh and Brun staggered. Fargo hit him again, and a third time.
“Don’t,” Brun said. He was swaying. Scarlet oozed from his split temple as he held out a hand. “I’ve had enough.”
“You started it.” Fargo hit him so hard it hurt his own hand. The crash of Brun striking the ground sent a tingle down Fargo’s spine. He raised the horseshoe to strike once more but lowered his arm. He never could beat on someone once they were down.
Fargo cast the horseshoe aside and wiped his sleeve across his sweaty brow. He shuffled from the stable. Every muscle was sore. He was battered and bruised but he would live.
He hadn’t learned much. He still didn’t know which of the Clyborns had hired Brun and Anders. He still didn’t know which of them had hired the brother and sister. He suspected Tom guilty of the former, possibly Charlotte of the latter. But it could be any of them.
A pair of servants in purple walked by and gave him odd looks. One of them asked, “Are you all right, sir? If you don’t mind my saying, you look positively dreadful”
Fargo supposed he did. “Fine, thanks,” he said, and shuffled on, gaining strength as he went. When he reached the lodge he went straight to his room. He made sure to throw the bolt and as an added precaution propped the chair against the door.
Fargo stood in front of the mirror. He did look awful. He threw his hat on the bed and stripped off his buckskin shirt. His chest and arms were a welter of black-and-blue marks. He filled the basin with water from the pitcher and washed the grime from his face and the dirt from his hair.
Weariness seeped in. It had been a long, eventful day. It was early yet but he stretched out on the bed on his back with the Colt in his hand, and closed his eyes. He tried to sleep but his mind wouldn’t shut down. He reviewed all that had happened since he arrived. One fact was plainer than ever. He couldn’t trust any of them. The Clyborns, Cletus Brun, the brother and sister assassins—any of them might try to do him in.
It promised to be an interesting hunt.
Fargo placed his forearm over his eyes. He yawned and willed himself to relax. It hit him that he was under no obligation to stay. He could leave if he wanted. Take a day’s pay and forget the rest. His life was worth more than two thousand dollars. To him, at least.
He mulled it over and decided that no, he couldn’t go. He owed it to himself to see the hunt through. Too much had happened. He took it personal, the attempts on his life, and Brun trying to beat him senseless. He had never been one to turn the other cheek and he would be damned if he would start now.
Fargo started to drift off. A sound brought him out of himself, the faint scrape of the latch being tried. He opened his eyes. The latch was moving, but slowly. He swung his legs to the floor and crept to the door. He put his ear to it but couldn’t hear anything. As quietly as possible he moved the chair. He eased the bolt, gripped the latch, and flung the door wide.
No one was there.
Fargo stepped out and looked right and left. The hallway was empty. He wondered if it could have been his imagination, but no, he had seen the latch move.
Someone had tried to enter.
Backing into the room, he secured the latch and once again propped the chair against it. He also took the pitcher and placed it next to the chair’s leg so that if someone forced the door the racket would wake him from even the deepest sleep.
Voices from outside drew Fargo to the window. Tom and Charles were under a maple, arguing. Tom looked fit to punch his brother and was shaking his fist in Charles’s face. As Fargo looked on, Charles wheeled and walked away.
What a family, Fargo thought. He laid back down. He must be a glutton for punishment, he told himself, to go through all this when he didn’t have to.
Fargo recollected hearing that pride went before a fall. Maybe so, but he couldn’t look
at himself in the mirror if he quit.
One thing was certain. The two people who had died so far wouldn’t be the only ones. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in his mind that before the hunt was over more would be bucked out in gore.
Just so he wasn’t one of them.
13
Fargo was up early. He splashed water on his face and shrugged into his shirt, wincing from the bruises. Shoving his hat on his head, he went to strap on his gun belt, and remembered—no weapons were allowed. Reluctantly, he left the Colt on the bed. He left the Arkansas toothpick in its ankle sheath. No one knew he had it and he might need it before the twenty-four hours were up.
Fargo thought he would be the first outside but he was mistaken. Too much was at stake. They were all there, waiting for the shot that would start the hunt.
Tom and Cletus Brun were at the bottom of the steps and glared at him when he stepped into the rosy light of the chill dawn. Charlotte was nervously pacing, her cousin at her side. Apparently Amanda had changed her mind about taking part. Charles stood alone, wrapped in his thoughts. Roland was gazing over the woodland.
Samantha wore a coat. She greeted him with, “Good morning, Skye. I hope you slept well.”
“I wish.”
Sam looked around as if to be sure she wouldn’t be overheard and said, “It’s a shame we were interrupted yesterday. After this is over maybe we can take up where we left off.”
“Fargo was studying Cletus Brun. The big backwoodsman wasn’t wearing a revolver or a knife—that Fargo could see. But Brun’s clothes were loose and bulky and could easily conceal a weapon.
Sam stared in the direction Fargo was looking. “I heard about the fight. A servant found Mr. Brun lying in the stable. He refused to say what happened but we’ve all guessed. Tom was furious. He told Pickleman that you shouldn’t be allowed to take part in the hunt but Theodore said you hadn’t broken any of the rules.”
