by Jon Sharpe
Fargo scanned the forest: a mix of maple, oak and hickory. He was about to suggest they push on when he heard a faint cry to the south.
“Did you hear that?”
Nodding, Fargo stood. He listened but the seconds crawled by and the cry wasn’t repeated.
“Did it sound like a call for help?”
Fargo couldn’t say. It might have been. It might not. “Who else uses these woods besides your family?”
“Hardly a soul. Most people know this is private property.” Sam moved to the end of the rise. “We should go have a look.”
Fargo led. In over a hundred yards came out of the vegetation on the grassy bank of the creek. Here and there cottonwoods sprinkled the waterway, along with a few willows. “This have a name?”
“Clyborn Creek. My father named it after our family. It’s a tributary of Bear Creek.”
Fargo followed the bank west. The going was easier and they covered a lot of distance without seeing or hearing anyone.
“That water sure looks inviting.”
Fargo agreed. He stepped to the edge of a knee-deep pool, cupped his hand, and dipped it in.
“I used to play in this creek when I was a girl.” Samantha knelt beside him. “At least we don’t have to worry about going thirsty.”
Fargo sipped. Now all they had to do was find something so they wouldn’t go hungry. He went to dip his hand in again when from out of the undergrowth came a low moan.
“Someone is hurt,” Sam whispered.
Reaching up under his pant leg, Fargo palmed the Arkansas toothpick. On cat’s feet he crept toward a patch of briars.
Samantha stayed at his side.
Fargo hoped the moan would be repeated but all he heard was the breeze rustling the trees. He circled along the thorns and went only a few steps when he saw part of a leg and a man’s shoe poking out. From the way the grass was flattened and the briars broken and bent, it appeared the man had been heaved into them.
“Who is it?” Sam whispered, aghast.
Careful of the thorns, Fargo parted the branches. When he saw who it was, he quickly slid the toothpick under his belt, gripped the man’s ankles, and pulled him out.
“Oh God!” Sam exclaimed, her hand flying to her throat. “Charles!”
Someone had got at her brother with a knife. His face had been slashed, his throat sliced, his sleeves cut to ribbons where he had used his arms to try to ward off the weapon. He had also been stabbed in the chest and the belly.
“Charles! Charles!” Sam threw herself down beside him. She touched his face and his chest and stared in horror at the blood on her hands. “Who would do such a thing?”
Fargo had a good idea. He felt for a pulse. There was one but it was weak and erratic. It didn’t take a sawbones to know that Charles Clyborn wasn’t long for this world.
“We must do something,” Sam urged. “Run to the lodge and have them send for Dr. Williams in Hannibal. Hurry before it’s too late.”
“It already is.”
“What? No, no, you’re mistaken.” Tears welled in Sam’s eyes. She bent and gently touched his cheek. “Charles? Charles? Can you hear me? It’s Samantha.”
To Fargo’s surprise, Charles’s eyelids fluttered and opened. “Sam?” he croaked.
“Yes, Charles, yes.” Sam hugged him and kissed his chin.
“Don’t you worry. I’ll have you carried to the lodge and we’ll get Dr. Williams.”
Charles tried to speak, couldn’t, and tried again. “No,” he rasped hoarsely. “It wouldn’t do any good.”
“Don’t talk like that.” Sam clasped his hand in hers. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“It already has.” Charles coughed and a drop of blood trickled from a corner of his mouth. “Listen. I don’t have much time.”
“Oh, Charles,” Sam said, and sobbed.
“A woman did this to me. I never saw her before. She came out of the trees and I said hello and she drew a knife and attacked me. I tried to defend myself but”—Charles stopped and coughed more violently. His gaze rose to Fargo—“I think she was the one you told us about. The woman who attacked you in Sam’s bedroom.”
“I figured it had to be her or her brother.” Fargo scoured the surrounding greenery. “Where did she get to?”
“She tossed me into the pickers and walked off,” Charles related. “The strangest thing is, she never said a word the whole time.”
Fargo realized the female assassin could be watching them at that very moment. He kept his hand on the toothpick.
“I’ll see that she pays,” Sam said, tears trickling down her face. “I’ll see that she’s arrested and hung, so help me God.”
Charles hadn’t taken his eyes off Fargo. “Don’t let them get Sam. Please. They’ll do the same to her as they’ve done to me.”
“Not if I can help it,” Fargo vowed.
Charles smiled. “Thank you.” He tried to raised his hand to Sam but was too weak. “One last thing.”
“Don’t talk. Save your strength.”
“It’s important.” Charles took a long breath. “I found it.”
In her sorrow and confusion, Sam said, “Found what?”
“Where Father buried the chest.”
Sam gripped his shirt. “Did you dig it up? Did the woman who cut you take it with her?”
“No,” Charles said. “I was on my way—” He stopped and his eyes widened and he said, “I’ll be damned.”
And he was gone.
15
Samantha slumped over her brother’s body, buried her face in his shirt, and sobbed and sobbed.
Fargo didn’t intrude on her grief. His every sense alert, he hunkered with his back to an oak. He couldn’t shake the notion that the assassin was nearby, and half hoped she would attack them. Other than the cooing of a dove, the forest was uncommonly still, as if the wild things were holding their collective breaths waiting for the next explosion of violence.
Eventually Samantha stopped. Sniffing, she tenderly touched Charles’s cheek. “We must tell Theodore. The body should be taken to the lodge and kept safe until we can hold a funeral.”
“It might be best to leave him where he is until the hunt is over,” Fargo suggested
“We leave him out here that long and the coyotes and buzzards will get hold of him.”
“Not if we cover the body with tree limbs and brush.”
“Not on your life,” Samantha said.
Fargo understood her feelings but she wasn’t thinking straight. “Pickleman can’t call off the hunt. You heard him. Once it starts it can’t be stopped.”
Samantha spun. “Do you think I give a damn about my father and his insane will when my brother is lying here dead?”
“If you give up, whoever hired the woman who killed Charles will have gotten what they want.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“Is it? Emmett dead. Charles dead. You out of the way. Who would want that? Who stands to gain the most?” Fargo didn’t let her answer. “Tom, Roland, or Charlotte, that’s who.”
“I don’t believe it for an instant.”
“Think, damn it. One of your brothers or your sister had to hire Anders. One of them had to hire the other two assassins.”
“No,” Sam said, without much conviction. “There has to be another explanation.”
“Like hell. Face the truth,” Fargo bluntly declared. “Tom, Roland, or Charlotte. Two of those three are out to win the hunt no matter what it takes.”
“They wouldn’t do that.”
“Tell Charles.”
Samantha stared at her dead sibling and uttered a tiny whine of despair. Slumping, she covered her face with her hands. “Father, what in God’s name have you done to us?”
Fargo rose to comfort her, and froze. Two figures had emerged from the trees. They glared at him and he glared back. “Sam,” he said to warn her.
Sam lowered her arms. “Tom!” she exclaimed. “It’s Charles! He’s been mur
dered.”
“So I see.” Tom flicked a glance at the body. “It serves him right for being so pigheaded. I tried to talk him out of taking part but he wouldn’t listen. He was as greedy as the rest of us.”
“Oh, Tom,” Sam said.
“Don’t ‘Oh Tom’ me, damn you,” Tom spat. “Charles and I never got along well. Would you have me pretend different now that he’s dead?” He walked over and nudged the still form with his foot. “I can’t say as I’ll miss him much more than I miss Father, and I don’t miss Father at all.”
“How can you be so cold toward your own flesh and blood?”
“Oh, please,” Tom said in disdain. “I’m as unlike the rest of you as night from day. Father always suspected Mother was untrue to him, and to be frank, I tend to agree. For all we know, the stableman was my real father.”
Sam was on her feet, her fists balled. “Don’t you dare talk about Mother like that. Until the day she died she swore that you were hers and Father’s and no one else’s.”
Tom shrugged. “Tramps always make excuses.”
With a banshee cry, Samantha was on him. She punched at his face, at his eyes, and mouth. In her blind fury she missed more than she hit. Tom got his arms up to protect himself but was driven back. She clipped him on the temple and he staggered and might have fallen but Cletus Brun caught him and steadied him and then backhanded Sam.
It was hard to say who was more shocked, Sam, who reeled in pain, or Tom, who tore loose of Brun and shouted, “Don’t hit her, you clod!”
“You’re payin’ me to protect you,” Brun said.
“From paid killers. The ones who killed my brothers. Not from my own sister. I thought I made that clear.”
By then Fargo reached them. He unleashed an uppercut that caught Brun full on the jaw and raised Brun onto the tips of his toes. Fargo landed a punch to the gut and another to the face. That would be enough to take most men down but it didn’t take down Cletus Brun. The big Missourian snarled, raised fists the size of hams, and waded in.
“This time there’s no holdin’ back,” he snarled.
That was fine by Fargo. He stood his ground and slugged it out. Knuckles grazed his cheek. A sledge slammed his shoulder. He flicked a jab, feinted, and drove his right fist into Brun’s midsection. Brun grunted and took a step back. Fargo blocked a forearm, pivoted, and drove his fist into Brun’s midsection a second time. Growling like an enraged bear, Cletus Brun flung his arms wide and sprang. Fargo was caught flat-footed. Before he could dodge he was enveloped in a bear hug and lifted off his feet.
“Now I have you, you son of a bitch.”
Sam and Tom were yelling but Fargo couldn’t hear what they were shouting for the roaring in his ears. He rammed his forehead at Brun’s nose but the hulking brute had learned from their first fight and jerked his face around so his cheek took the brunt.
“Not this time.”
Fargo’s chest was a mass of pain. Brun had nearly cracked his ribs before; this time he might just succeed. Lowering his chin to his chest, Fargo whipped his head at Brun’s chin. There was the crunch of teeth grinding together and wet drops spattered Fargo’s face.
A hand appeared, tugging at Brun’s arm. It was Samantha, shouting for Brun to let Fargo go. Tom ran up and pulled her away.
Fargo threw all his weight backward. He thought it would unbalance Brun and Brun would fall but the man’s legs were as stout as redwoods. All Brun did was stagger a couple of steps and right himself.
“Nice try.”
Brun grinned through the blood flecking his mouth, and tightened his hug. For Fargo, it was like having his chest caught in a massive vise. Bright dots pinwheeled before his eyes. His consciousness was fading. In desperation he did the only thing he could think of. He craned his neck and sank his teeth into Cletus Brun’s ear.
Brun howled like a gut-shot wolf. He snapped his head back and in doing so lost his earlobe.
Fargo hadn’t meant to bite it off. He tasted skin and blood and spit them out—into Brun’s face. Brun was livid. Letting go, he seized Fargo by the throat and gouged his thick fingers deep.
“I’m going to kill you! Do you hear me? You’re a dead man.”
Fargo grabbed both wrists and tried to tear Brun’s hands off but Brun was too strong. Once again bright lights sparkled like fireflies before Fargo’s eyes. He punched at Brun’s face, to no effect. He hit Brun in the stomach only to have Brun ignore the blows. Bit by bit the life was being strangled from him. It was do or die.
Fargo groped at his waist. His hand closed on the Arkansas toothpick.
Suddenly Samantha was there. She leaped on Brun’s back and raked her fingernails across his face—across his eyes. Brun roared and flung her off. His grip slackened. Not much, but enough that Fargo was able to wrench his arm free and slash Brun across the cheek.
Brun slammed Fargo to the ground and retreated several steps. He touched his face and stared at the fresh blood glistening on his fingertips. Then he slipped his hand under his loose-fitting homespun shirt and when the hand reappeared it held an antler-handled knife with a blade inches longer than the toothpick. He took a step, then glanced at Sam and Tom Clyborn.
“Stay out of this or I’ll kill you.”
Fargo was breathing hard. He crouched, and when Brun came at him, slid out of the way. Brun wheeled and swung. Fargo threw himself back to keep from being decapitated.
The Missourian liked to talk when he fought. “It’s you or me and it won’t be me,” he boasted.
Fargo sought to make him reckless by saying, “Come and try, you lump of lard.”
It worked; Brun roared and attacked. His longer arms gave him an advantage. He could get in close but Fargo couldn’t. Fargo tried several times and was forced back.
“Stop it!” Tom Clyborn yelled. “Stop it or you’re fired!”
Apparently Brun didn’t care. He lanced his knife at Fargo’s face. Fargo ducked. He thrust his blade at Fargo’s heart. Fargo skipped out of reach. Brun took a long stride and cleaved the air to split Fargo’s skull and Fargo dodged and buried the toothpick to the hilt in Brun’s side.
Brun grunted and jerked away. The scarlet that spurted brought a cry of pain. He pressed his hand to the wound, the rage fading from his face.
“Damn you, little man.”
Fargo stayed in a crouch, the toothpick low at his side, blood dripping from the blade to the grass.
Brun moved his hand and more scarlet flowed. Swaying slightly, he covered the hole and said, “I’ve had enough. I’m leavin’.”
“Don’t expect to be paid,” Tom said.
Brun began to say something but stopped and looked at Fargo. “I’m goin’ for the sawbones. It’s over between you and me.” He dropped his knife and started to turn.
“No,” Fargo said.
Brun stopped. “You beat me. I’m bleedin’ to death. If I don’t hurry I might die.”
“Who hired you?”
Brun licked his thick lips. “Tom, there.”
“Who hired Anders and you,” Fargo clarified.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
Fargo moved in front of him, blocking his way. “You want to go on lying, you can go on bleeding, too.”
“Damn you.”
“Skye,” Sam said. “You don’t have any proof. Let him go or his death will be on your conscience.”
“I don’t have a conscience,” Fargo lied. But he wouldn’t lose sleep over Cletus Brun. If Brun died it was on Brun’s shoulders, not his.
“You heard her,” the big Missourian said. “You ain’t got any proof.”
“You’re not leaving until you tell me.”
Tom intervened, saying, “This is absurd. I hired Brun. No one else.”
“Stay out of this.”
Brun tried to go around but Fargo again barred his path.
“Get out of my way.”
“Who?”
“What makes you think you’re right?”
“Anders said he had a partner. You’re the only one who fits.”
“You’re guessin’.”
“It’s a good guess.”
Brun glanced at the knife he had dropped but didn’t try to pick it up. His side was stained and his fingers were covered with blood. “I don’t have time for this.”
“No, you don’t,” Fargo agreed. “Tell me and you can go for the doctor.”
“You don’t give an inch, do you?”
“Talk yourself to death if you want.”
“All right.” Brun swore some more, and looked at Tom and Sam. “It’s true. Bucklin Anders and me were hired to see that none of you got that chest. I was to work on the inside and Anders was to shadow us and pick some of you off whenever he could.”
“You miserable clod,” Tom said.
“Who hired you?” Samantha echoed Fargo. “Was it Roland or Charlotte? They are the only two not here.”
Brun grinned. “It will shock you, the one it is. You’d never have figured it in a million years.”
“It was Roland then?”
“I’ll tell you,” Brun said. “I’ll tell you and then I’m goin’ for the doc.” He paused, and opened his mouth.
At last, Fargo thought.
A shot boomed and a hole appeared in the center of Brun’s forehead. His head snapped back and his huge frame shuddered. He collapsed without an outcry and lay twitching.
Fargo dropped down. He expected more shots but there were none. Pushing up, he ran toward the spot where he thought the shot came from. He saw no one. He heard no one. The undergrowth was so thick that the shooter could be hiding ten feet away and be invisible. Thwarted, Fargo went back.
“Anything?” Tom asked.
Fargo shook his head.
“Wonderful. Whoever it was might kill one of us next.”
Samantha was by Charles, her head bowed in sorrow. “Whoever it is, they won’t stop until they have what they’re after. I’m afraid the worst is yet to come.”
So did Fargo.
16
Fargo was wiping the toothpick clean on Brun’s shirt when the underbrush rustled. He spun, thinking the killer was going to try and finish the job but it was Theodore Pickleman, sweaty from running and clutching his valise as if afraid he would drop it.
