by Jon Sharpe
“Never.” Aaron took out a long, thin cigar, bit off the end, spat it out. The lucifer was bright in the bird-cry darkness. He inhaled smoke deeply and then exhaled it. “He always worked it around so that he had some excuse to kill the man. And nobody was about to challenge him. You don’t challenge my brother. Or maybe you’ve learned that already.”
Another long drag on the cigar. “And that isn’t all, Fargo. A couple of prostitutes visited his fishing cabin over the years and were never seen or heard from again.”
“No explanation?”
“None. Nobody really gives a damn when soiled doves vanish anyway. And also you come back to the same problem—who’s going to challenge Noah?”
“I hear his stepson is pretty honest.”
“Very honest. And a good lawman. But I convinced him to let the whole thing slide.”
“Hell,” Fargo said, “why would you do that?”
“Simple. I like the boy. Even with all my personal problems, I’ve always been more of a father to him than Noah ever was. I don’t want to see him get himself killed.”
“Your brother would kill his own stepson?”
“If he felt he needed to.”
The Trailsman had met many different kinds of people during his years of wandering through this noisy, vibrant country called America but he’d met only a very few who’d turn on their own blood kin. Aaron and Noah Tillman had to genuinely despise each other for Aaron to give him this kind of information. Or was Aaron simply using him? What if he was lying about Noah so that Fargo would go after him? It wouldn’t be the first time a weak man had tricked a surrogate into doing his work for him.
But Aaron was convincing enough that Fargo knew he’d have to investigate these allegations. People were disappearing and so far this was the first reasonable explanation he’d heard.
“Aren’t you afraid of your brother?” Fargo asked.
“Terrified of him.”
“Then why don’t you leave?”
Aaron sighed. “Because life is too easy for me here. I get drunk and he dries me out. And in the meantime, I get to live in a mansion, eat the best food available, and have servants wait on me hand and foot. I’m not exactly an honorable man, Mr. Fargo. I leech off my brother because it’s the only way I can keep myself in a steady supply of liquor. My visits to the hospitals are short enough. And then I come right back and start imbibing again. Free of charge. I drink only the best brands of liquor, too. And Noah pays for it.”
He paused. “But I can’t countenance murder—or whatever the hell’s going on with my brother. I need to find out what Noah has been up to all these years. And you can help me.”
Fargo nodded. “I’ll see what I can do, Aaron.” He gripped the reins tighter on his stallion and said, “You might think of moving out. Might do you some good to stand on your own two feet.”
Aaron said, “You sound like a preacher, Mr. Fargo.”
Fargo laughed. “Now that’s the one thing nobody’s ever accused me of before.”
He set off for town, his stallion loping along the moonlit road.
Aaron wasn’t sure why but the mansion seemed unnaturally quiet to him when he returned. If nothing else, the servants usually made noise as they prepared the house for bedtime. But not now.
He was headed up the vast, sweeping staircase when Manuel stepped from the shadows and said, “Mr. Tillman would like to see you, sir.”
Aaron, sensing the danger of the moment—something in the shadowed peek he’d gotten at Manuel’s face ahead alarmed him—tried to appear at ease. “You know, Manuel, my name is Mr. Tillman, too. That could get confusing sometimes.”
There were pets that belonged strictly to one member of the family. As a child, he’d spent so much time with a kitten named Buttons that the animal didn’t want to play with anybody but Aaron. It was like that with Manuel. He answered only to Noah. He had no other boss. The most anybody else got from him was cold obedience. But you could tell that he could barely tolerate you—unless you were the one and only Noah.
“Is he in the study?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
There had been times when he was drunk that he’d gotten abusive with Manuel. But not when he was sober. When he was sober, he treated Manuel as if he were the boss and Aaron the servant. Couldn’t help it. Manuel’s imperious manner always intimidated him.
Manuel slipped away, leaving Aaron to consider how to prepare himself for what he knew would be a confrontation with his brother. Had Noah discovered the three bottles of whiskey he had stolen from the basement? Had Noah received all the bills from his last binge at the whorehouse, when he’d sat naked with three whores and given them two thousand dollars to divide—two thousand dollars he’d had to borrow from the madame? You never knew what would piss Noah off. Sometimes he’d let some pretty outrageous things slide. Other times he’d jump all over him for practically nothing.
Aaron considered running away. He’d always known that some day Noah would no longer tolerate him. Would deal him with a very un-brotherly severity. Had Noah reached that point? Had Noah changed from his reluctant protector into his disgusted enemy? To run away . . . but where? And with what money? He’d be back begging at Noah’s door in no time. Always the same for Aaron—the boy-man who’d never grown up. The boy-man who’d always live at the mercy of his brother.
What did Noah want tonight?
Well, there was only one way to find out.
He walked down the stairs on legs that were now shaking. Patting his hair into place. Daubing at his sweaty face with a handkerchief. His stomach was sour, mean. Damn Noah anyway. Just once Aaron would like to put his brother through this kind of drill and see how he liked it.
Noah was standing in the center of his study when Aaron crossed the threshold. His smile was almost a smirk. “You’re a very sociable fellow, brother.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m told you followed Mr. Fargo when he left here.”
“That damned Manuel. Why can’t he mind his own business?”
“He’s minding my business. He thought I might be interested in why you followed Fargo.”
“I wanted to invite him to a party I’m having in town tomorrow night. On the Fourth of July.”
“He accepted your invitation, of course.”
“He said he’d think it over.”
Noah didn’t speak for a time. He just stood there looking at his brother. Aaron was surprised to find an expression of real hurt on his brother’s face. “I’ve taken care of you all of my life, brother. Every single day. I’ve bought you out of jail, I’ve paid off your gambling debts, I tried to wean you off the bottle by paying exorbitant rates at those hospitals you went to. And you’ve never shown me the slightest gratitude. Never a thank you. Never an offer to help me when I was having problems. Never even a friendly word.”
“I didn’t realize you were such a sensitive flower,” Aaron said, and instantly knew that he’d picked the wrong time for sarcasm.
Noah’s face tightened. The expression of hurt feelings shifted now into the more familiar one of cold contempt. “Luckily for me, I don’t give a damn anymore, Aaron. I don’t feel any obligation to protect you—especially since you’re doing everything you can to get me into trouble.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that you know damned well what Fargo was doing here. He wanted to know about the people who’ve gone missing around here. You’re just like my stepson. You’d both be happy to bring me down. And you see Fargo as the man to do it.”
There was a five-step difference separating the two men. Noah crossed it in swift, purposeful steps. Then, without feinting, without warning, he drove his fist so hard into Aaron’s stomach that the man was driven to his knees.
“Now, brother,” Noah said, “you’re going to tell me everything you’ve been able to figure out about my little island. I want to know exactly what Fargo knows.”
14
By the time he reached town, Fargo saw that some of the revelers had already taken to the main street. American flags, bunting, and banners festooned the street. A band consisting of an accordion, trombone, and fiddle played some pretty terrible dance music while drunks of both sexes careened and caromed through big, dramatic steps that looked more like wrestling than dancing.
Light was provided by a small bonfire overseen by a night deputy and his shotgun. You could have fun but not too much fun. Firelight played on the glazed, sweaty faces of the imbibers, giving their features mask-like qualities.
Just after dawn, this street would be jammed with wagons, buckboards, buggies, and men, women, and children of every kind. The state had entered the Union in 1836 and was proud of it.
Fargo went straight to his hotel. In the morning, he’d contact Liz Turner and share with her what he’d learned from Aaron.
He was one step into his room when a young, seductive female voice said, “No need to turn the lamp up, Mr. Fargo. I’m still on duty so this will have to be fast, I’m afraid.”
Now, how could you turn that down?
Even as he was dropping his trousers, she leaned forward and guided him to the bed with his rigid shaft, which she promptly began to stroke as if it were holy.
When he got on the bed and straddled her, she began to rub his massive tool against her breasts, her nipples coming erect instantly as her hips began to writhe and her throat fill with moans.
Only when her entire body was wracked with desire did she move his unbending rod down to the dark beauty between her legs. Once again, she teased both of them by running the tip of him up and down the lips of her sex. He began to moan as much as she did, sliding his huge arms under her small body and easing himself into her.
She’d wanted it fast and she got it fast, the two of them caught up as one in the play of their bodies. He surprised her by moving them both to the edge of the bed where she sat on his lap and began to bounce up and down on his shaft, biting his shoulder hard to suppress that animal scream yearning for freedom. But such a scream would only get her in trouble. Somebody might report her to the manager.
Fargo wanted to do his own screaming when he poured himself into her, her relentless grinding of his shaft causing him to have a moment that felt a little bit like dying—everything stopped—there was only the searing pleasure of their lust and the exquisite tautness of her buttocks in his hands.
As she was shuddering and falling into him, he blessed her nipples with a quick kiss, and she shuddered all the more.
Fargo had to give them credit. They’d worked out a pretty effective plan.
He woke to the sound of the revelers, wondering what time it was. The drinkers and the dancers were going to be completely spent by dawn. They’d spend the Fourth tending to hangovers instead of getting into the fun.
Darkness. The faint squeak of a doorknob in need of oil as it was turned to the right. Fargo slid his hand to the floor, where he kept his Colt. He filled his hand with it as he came up off the bed, waiting for his intruder.
A silhouette of a man in the tallest western hat Fargo had ever seen. Too bad the man wasn’t as slick at his hat. He came creeping in on cowboy boots with all the grace of an elephant turned ballerina. Always in sight thanks to the flickering sconce in the hall.
The intruder’s eyes obviously hadn’t adjusted to the darkness yet.
Fargo said, “Hand the gun over, mister.”
Fargo stepped out of the gloom and slapped the barrel of his Colt across the face of the startled, blinking man.
Since he resented being wakened from a sound sleep, Fargo swatted the man around for a time, hitting him on the jaw, knocking the wind out of him with a punch delivered straight to his sternum. He finished by taking the man’s fancy new six-shooter from him.
He was just busy enough that his mind didn’t quite register the other sound in the room. By the time he started to turn, it was too late.
A man was climbing through the window where there was a fire escape that ran from ground to roof. The man had had no problem.
“Couple of ways we can do this, Fargo. Your way or my way.” He pointed a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun at Fargo. “Toss your gun onto the bed.”
Fargo recognized the voice of the white man who’d been with the Mexican yesterday morning. They’d taken Daisy.
The gunny who had come through the door was picking himself up and cursing. He’d just been humiliated and physically hurt in the process.
He staggered to the table and turned up the lamp.
“Name’s Ekert,” said the man with the shotgun. “Guess I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself yesterday.”
“Let’s get going,” said his partner. He was still nervous from the humiliation. A man like him preferred to think of himself as tough. That was the only thing he could claim to be. Smart, no. Cunning, no. Successful, no. But tough—damned tough. Except he wasn’t damned tough, was he? Not anymore, not in the eyes of Ekert, anyway.
“We’re taking a trip, Mr. Fargo.” Ekert glanced around the room suspiciously, as if expecting a leprechaun with a six-gun to be hiding somewhere.
“Same kind of trip you took Daisy on?”
“Believe it or not, nobody told the Mex to kill her,” Ekert said. “He was just supposed to keep her hidden ’till the boat came.”
The boat. Fargo thought about the island Aaron Tillman had alluded to. Maybe this was the fastest way to find out what was going on. Let himself become a captive of these two gunnies—given the fact that they had the drop on him didn’t leave him much choice, anyway—and see if that led him to the boat and the island.
“Get your clothes on,” Ekert said.
“You’re gonna be sorry you hit me,” said the other gunny.
Fargo dressed.
“I take it Noah sent you,” he said as he pulled on his boots.
“Who sent us is none of your business,” Ekert said.
“It’s gonna be a pleasure to pay you back,” the other gunny said.
“We don’t hurt him,” Ekert said. “The island, remember?”
“The Mexican was a lot tougher than this one,” Fargo said, smiling at the other gunny. “This one isn’t tough and he isn’t smart.”
Fargo saw an easy chance for escape. He could smash the lamp. He was close enough to the open window to dive through. In the darkness, Ekert wouldn’t be able to figure out what was going on until it was too late.
But as salty—not to mention crazy—Cap’n Bill had told him, the easiest way to get on the island was to have somebody kidnap him and take him there.
Well, here was his chance.
He buttoned his shirt, hefted his manhood to a more comfortable angle inside his breeches, and then said, “Let’s go, gentlemen.”
“What the hell’re you so happy about?” the other gunny asked.
“Well, hell, friend,” Fargo said. “It’s the Fourth of July. Why wouldn’t I be happy?”
“He sounds like he’s got somethin’ funny planned,” the other gunny said to Ekert.
“Shut up,” Ekert said.
They left the room by way of the fire escape.
15
Fargo was thrown into the back of a buckboard, marked by slivers in the wood of the wagon bed. He lay beneath a horse blanket that smelled of animal urine and hay. Ekert and the other gunny sat up front.
It was hot as hell, and his sweat added to the urine scent and the bouncing ride to make the trip miserable. Plus it made him need to piss. But he’d play hell getting them to stop and let him empty his bladder.
He was hoping they’d talk to each other, fill in a few details about where they were going and what their plans were. But they said nothing.
Fargo stared into the darkness.
Somehow, despite everything working against it, Fargo managed to drift into a light sleep.
He woke to find that the buckboard had pulled off to the side of the stage road.
“Wher
e are we?” he said.
“Don’t worry about it, Fargo,” Ekert said.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it, Fargo,” the other gunny said, sounding like a dumb little kid imitating his old man.
The silence returned.
After awhile the other gunny said, “They’re late.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, McGarth,” Ekert said sarcastically. “I’m sittin’ here with you, remember?”
“Who they bringin’ us?”
“I don’t know. All Manuel said was that we were to meet ’em here and they’d have somebody else for the boat.”
“Well, they’re late,” McGarth said.
Ekert sighed. “You say that one more time, McGarth, and I’m makin’ you walk.”
The silence again. Fargo had a few second thoughts about putting his fate in the hands of two idiots like these. What was to say McGarth wouldn’t say “screw it” and shoot him, anyway? Fargo had humiliated him, or that was how McGarth saw it, and it was obvious the man was eager to pay Fargo back.
After a long time, the clatter of an approaching wagon could be heard.
“About time,” McGarth said.
Fargo tried to sit up but the way they had lashed his wrists and ankles made it impossible to raise his head more than a few inches. But at least when he sat up this way, the blanket fell away and the air, hot as it was, smelled clean.
The buckboard pulled up alongside the wagon.
“How come you’re so late, Manuel?” McGarth said, sounding angry.
“I don’t answer to you,” Manuel sneered.
“Never mind him, Manuel. I thought maybe something went wrong.”
“Something did go wrong. My friend here managed to escape when we were loading him on the buckboard. He faked being unconscious. You’ll have to watch him carefully. He’s a wily one.”
“He ain’t gonna escape while I’m around,” McGarth said.
Manuel laughed. “You have a brave one with you, I see, Mr. Ekert.”
“If he was as good with his gun as he is with his mouth, he’d be a dangerous man,” Ekert laughed.
